The taste of sweetness and something else

Liz and I went to Rosh Hashanah services this morning in Waterville. Although the congregation was small and we were unfamiliar with some of the new cantor's tunes, I enjoyed being inside the synagogue. During the past few years, while attending services in several different cities and countries, I have have come to recognize archetypes: an impeccably dressed elderly couple, obviously still in love; a middle-aged woman soaked in stifling perfume; the man with the aliyah who sings "Baruchu ess adonoy"; and the stranger always ready with hugs, kisses and good wishes, among others. These familiar people make a trip to any synagogue sweet.

Of course we can never recognize what is good in our lives without contrast. I was upset to find that on the "What is your favorite banned book?" bulletin board in Miller Library, today someone had posted the title Mein Kampf in large letters beneath another notecard that listed The Diary of Anne Frank. I asked a librarian about the issue, feeling unsure if my discomfort was actually grounds to halt someone else's freedom of speech, considering the board's theme. She made the decision to remove the card from the board herself. She folded it up and threw it in a trashcan beside her desk. "If someone really misses it, they can let the library know," she said. No matter where you are, it is always complicated to be Jewish, isn't it? In the spirit of the holidays, I forgive whomever wrote this title, though I am left wondering what exactly their intentions were.

L'shanah tovah to one and all, my Jewish and my non-Jewish friends. Have the sweetest of new years. The fall calls for a fresh start everywhere.

Maybe it depends on the restaurant

What would it be like to share a meal with a character played by Scarlett Johannson? She often amplifies her friends' worst traits, like Enid's self-imposed alienation in Ghostworld or Vicky's tired pragmatism in Vicky Cristina Barcelona, and guys always like her better. Also, she has this way of sending her friend's lives into a quiet tailspin from which they never quite recover. But she cares about her friends, too—and they always seem so much more interesting after she has shaken up their stale personae.

Whoa-etry

Tonight I heard Mark Halliday read his poetry in the Robinson Room, a small parlor inside Miller Library I had never known was there. The room is outlined by glass cases that house books with fragile canvas spines, the type of volumes a librarian prizes and won't let you approach if you're holding a pen. As soon as I walked in, I noticed that the light bulbs in the room gave off a strange yellow cast. Everyone inside looked as though they had been captured on Polaroid film. I swear—even neon North Faces were blanched to ambers and avocados in the soft glow. Maybe this is what the Robinson Room is for: to set the scene. After being introduced by a Colby professor, Halliday enumerated the activities that students could have chosen to do instead of attending his reading. Ping-pong. Intramural soccer. Studying. But you came to hear poetry, he said. How archaic.

My only brush with Halliday had been inside Billy Collins' anthologies, Poetry 180 and 180 More, and on the books' accompanying website. "Key to the Highway," I remember, reminded me of Collins' own style. Both drape nostalgia and magic around the steady shoulders of everyday habits. To tell you the truth, I think Billy does it better. But both poets make you want to capture your own humanness—to live, but also to observe yourself living—all the while laughing at yourself for being so self-important.

My favorite poem that Halliday read tonight was called, "Vim." I am probably breaking some copyright laws, but I've pasted the text below. I got it here, from Tupelo Press. Enjoy, quickly, before I am sued.

VIM

Some people just seem to exist, as opposed to live,
in a foggy drift. I am so glad that’s not me!

I am certainly so glad I have such thumping
zest for life. The way I dig into life
like a bowl of hot Texas chili with sour cream
and shredded sharp cheddar— I’m so glad

I have such a pulsing intuitive grasp
of how short and precious life is
and how we are impassioned clay
and each incredible diem is there to be carped

so therefore I skim speedingly over the waters of life
alert to every flick of fin
and super-ready to jab my osprey talons into
the flesh of whatever sensation swims my way
not fretting for a second about any other plump fish in the sea

and so for example when I see young couples
groobling moistly at each other’s burger-fed gamoofs
I certainly don’t waste my time with any type of envy,
I’m just like Yeah you kids go for it!—
Meanwhile I am going to listen to Let It Bleed LOUD
and totally rock out with all my teeth bared!
I figure I am at least as alive as Little Richard was in 1958
and it’s such a kick!

Does it get tiring?
Well, sure, occasionally,
but who cares? I embrace the fatigue,
I KISS it till it flips and becomes defiantly voracious vim
and when I read that line in Wallace Stevens
“being part is an exertion that declines”
I’m like What in heck is that old guy talking about?

This poem fits with one of my latest mantras:
If you're young and healthy, just enjoy it already.

Matters of the heart

Today I wore a tear-shaped gold locket that used to belong to my grandmother. While sitting in the library this morning I found myself idly flipping open the small metal door, daydreaming about whose miniature portrait I might one day put inside. (Pablo and Bob Saget both seemed like lovely choices.) I looked down inside the space meant for my beloved and found, to my disgust, a small colony of fungus growing inside the lower lip of the locket. How gross is that?

If I were feeling melodramatic, I might say this was a sign that if I don't proclaim my love for someone soon, my heart could also grow mossy with disuse. But I don't really feel that way. Instead I will tell you the truth: I sort of examined the tubular growths inside and then I thoroughly cleaned the whole necklace. Best to be practical about these matters.

Common Ground Fair: Unity, Maine

What? Every September, the Maine Organic Farmers and Gardners Association organizes the Common Ground Fair in Unity, Maine. MOFGA promotes sustainable agriculture and local food production, among several other delicious goals.

Who?
-Weathered Mainers
-Bearded AT hikers
-Local artists
-Nearby restaraunteurs
-Real tie-dyed hippies
-Ironically tie-dyed hipsters
-Toddling toddlers
-Swaddled infants
-Parents praying that their children will not ask to take home a llama
-College students
It promises? A small gift for the senses inside every booth.
Before you know it, all five are enlivened at once: a maple milkshake on your tongue, the smell of dried flowers wafting in the breeze, a handful of alpaca wool between your fingers, a dome of blue sky spotted overhead, and the sound of talking everywhere.

Surefire way to squeeze your brain

Glasses + headband

For any whom are interested (I guesstimate: 3±1 persons), I live inside the room in the background. Who said dorm rooms can't have gallery walls? I have been enjoying this space but it still needs some jujj, as my sister or Jonathan Adler might say. The spelling of this word is as enigmatic as its meaning, but I tried to Google it anyway for inspiration. I had little success. I should have known jujj would not easily be found on the Internet. It's much too ethereal for that.

In pictures

We begin with the rehearsal dinner...

...followed by preparation for the wedding...

...and finally the wedding day.

All thanks to Miss JM and Vanessa.

Dream a little dream

I haven't slept much this week, but every time I've woken up I've just finished some fantastically vivid dream. I looked up the most prominent symbols in a semi-Freudian Internet mumbo-jumbo dream dictionary. In alphabetical order:

1) Beard

To see a long beard in your dream, is representative of old age and insight, and wisdom.

I wonder if the converse is true. A man in my dream had a short red beard and he seemed stupid.

2) Drawers

To see drawers in your dream, signifies your inner and hidden state and being. So a disorderly drawer represents internal chaos and turmoil while an orderly drawer signifies order.

They looked neat enough, and very colorful, like something you'd find in a pre-school. Orderly childishness, that's what's inside me.

3) Sleeping

To dream that you are sleeping, denotes peace of mind. Alternatively, it may also mean that you are ignorant and not fully aware of the conditions and circumstances around you.

This one is awfully confusing, isn't it? But now that I think about it, I suppose I am peaceful because I am ignorant.

4) Wire

To see a wire in your dream, symbolizes your short but frequent journeys.

Fact! But why had this wire become detached from the plaster wall of my bedroom? No entries for "wall" or "plaster." I suppose a few symbols from our unconscious must be left sacred and mysterious.

Then comes marriage

My camera and computer batteries promptly died as soon as we arrived in Westchester this weekend, so I wasn't able to record and log the minutia of my sister Jessica's wedding like I had planned. Turns out that some things are better left unblogged. Sunday was beautiful, delicious, sunny, perfect. It was a blast to reunite with family and friends and meet the groom's relatives. Our clan has grown. I am deeply proud to call Josh an official member of our posse.

A toast to the newlyweds:

I was the first person in my family to meet Josh. I was nineteen and Jess had snuck me into one of her favorite bars in the West Village, which was hosting a low-key luau night. Although she and Josh had only been seeing each other for a short time, Jess wanted me to meet him. Together we came up with the text message: “I’m at Village. It’s a luau. Wear your bikini.” Only after Jess and Josh had been dating a year did Josh reveal to us that he had actually considered getting in costume.

Josh is the only man that Jessica has ever wanted me—or anyone in my family—to get to know. Although Jess is seven years older than I am, while we were growing up I always seemed to be the one who was more interested in boys. I was on a misguided quest to set her up with every young man I encountered. There was Yehuda, my Hebrew school teacher; Mr. Larson, my elementary school substitute; and Dan and Dan, both camp counselors. Looking back, I was not aiming high enough. I’m not surprised she wasn’t interested. But throughout my childhood, I always wondered whom Jessica was waiting for.

She knew what she was doing. My sister has always been a master of timing. Our mom tells the story that as a one year old, Jessica refused to crawl or even push herself up to sit. Instead, she would roll on her side from room to room. After a few months, our mom began to worry. She took Jess to the pediatrician, who failed to find a medical explanation for Jessica’s behavior. Then one day while our mom was quilting, she turned around to find Jessica striding confidently across the room. Rolling turned out not to be a harbinger of a larger problem, but the first indicator that Jessica wouldn’t do anything until she felt like it.

When Jessica invited Josh to join us that night in New York, I knew immediately that she must have had great faith in their relationship. When I met him, I realized why she had been biding her time. Josh was warm, funny, and brilliant—and Jessica even forgave him his quirks, like the weird metal skull ring he was wearing. I could see that they were already natural with one another. Jessica was making her characteristically deadpan, silly jokes, and Josh responded in kind. Over the past two years, they have remained comedic partners. Don’t even ask about the nicknames they call each other.

Both personally and professionally, Jessica has taught me the importance of patience. “Why waste your time?” she always asks me when I am caught in an unpleasant situation. More importantly, she’s also taught me how to recognize a sure thing when it comes along. Josh is someone with whom she shares values, business aspirations, interior design preferences, and a nasty sense of humor. He is, I think, her modern-day Prince Charming. He was certainly worth the wait.


(Photos thanks to Josh's friend, Keith. More to follow soon.)

First comes love

I am right now in a hotel room with plaid walls. I like them. How often do you actually feel affection toward the decor in a hotel room? If you're me, never. I am usually too busy worrying that the pillowcases will give me scabies. But, the real matter. My sister's wedding weekend has begun! It is off to a beautiful start. Tonight was she and her fiancé's auf ruf, or wedding blessing, at a synagogue on the East Side. She is so wonderful. We worked as a team to dodge kisses from older relatives and strangers all evening long. This is actually the first wedding that I have ever been to and I fully expect it to be the best. More tomorrow, because I am exhausted from sitting all day and drinking a margarita with dinner.

A rare foray into politics

As almost anyone liberal will tell you, the nomination of Sarah Palin as the Republican vice presidential candidate is insulting. It's as though John McCain typed "will appeal to religious Christians + NRA + mid-western soccer moms" into the search engine of a politician database, then, with a flourish, clicked on a check box labeled, "woman." It seems McCain never considered that undecided Hillary supporters might actually care about a politician's policies, not just her gender. Surely, though, this isn't really how Palin really came to be the presumptive nominee. After all, John McCain can't use a computer—someone else must have typed for him.

I am, like most women and most liberals I know, completely opposed to Palin's pro-life stance. Although I think that abortions must be carefully considered and not abused as a form of contraception, the notion of a country in which women cannot makes choices about their bodies and lives terrifies me. My respect for Palin has diminished as I learned of her inexperience, the untruths she has told about position on "the bridge to nowhere," and her ambivalence on the war in Iraq.

So far, the views I've expressed are entirely inline with every other one of Palin's critics. Strangely though, the part of Palin's existence that some find most offensive is the only one that leads me to admire her. I respect Sarah Palin for giving birth to her youngest son, Trig, who lives with Down Syndrome.


I usually like the quirky articles on the blog, "This Recording," but one I read today handled the life of Trig Palin particularly ignorantly. In the opening paragraph, the author writes, "Sarah Palin got pregnant for the fifth time at age 45, found out the fetus had Down Syndrome, and still popped it out. Am I supposed to respect her for that? I don’t." (The link in the quote is from the original article, and as you can see, refers readers to the Wikipedia entry on Down's. This is a great resource for those people who are so clueless that they have never even heard of Down Syndrome.) Perhaps I am missing some subtlety in the author's words, but I think that she is implying that women who know their child will be disabled, and carry their pregnancies to term, are disgraceful. You know what I think? I think that people who believe disabled children have no place in our society are the ones who deserve contempt.

The article meanders from the theory that Sarah Palin's daughter, Bristol, is Trig's mother, to a decrying of tokenism, to a personal fear that Roe v. Wade will be overturned. As I said, I agree with most every argument against Palin's viability as a vice president. The author demeans her own points, however, by using hideous terminology such as, "the Down Syndrome baby," "a retarded baby," and "mentally disabled baby." After expressing disgust for the mother, the author continues to insult the child as though it is what he deserves for having been born. Isn't she suggesting that if your child is less than perfect, you have no choice but to abort? By imploring women not to give birth to disabled children, isn't she degrading Roe v. Wade all by herself?

In my life, I have been indoctrinated with the importance of diversity. I've learned that it is important to include a large number of different races, religions, cultures, and socioeconomic brackets in order to be fair and gain a fresh perspective. Rarely, however, does anyone tout the necessity of diversity of physical abilities. If you're handicapped, you're different, and you probably belong somewhere else. Somewhere else might be another school, another apartment, or as the blogger from "This Recording" suggests—not on this planet at all.

Our media tends either to represent someone physically different as a token (that one kid in the BK Kids Club who uses a wheelchair), a savior (that angelic little boy on "Seventh Heaven"), or a freak (The Station Agent). I would argue that disabled people are among the most marginalized in the United States. I think that disdain for people with disabilities is, as I mentioned, born from ignorance. People should consider the importance of including those with disabilities. Infants born disabled deserve the same love, attention, and play as everyone else. They are both similar and wonderfully different than healthy children. Not only is ignorance of disability a result of media imagery, but also of fear. Feeling afraid of someone who has Down's Syndrome or uses Sign Language or walks with a limp, though, is not much different that fearing someone based on the color of their skin. And no liberal I know wants to be guilty of that.

One thing that sets disability apart from race or religion is the unique set of challenges it brings. It is every family's choice, or every woman's choice, whether or not she wants to give birth to a child who may have to struggle to stay alive. Hospital bills may not be within a family's budget or medical resources may be slim where they live. My own mother had an amniocentesis to determine if I would be born with Tay-Sachs disease. These are valid, personal considerations. Whatever a woman's choice is, it is her ability to decide that deserves to be protected.

My last concern about this author's attitude toward disability—other than its prevalence—is that it shows little insight into the nature of health. If, in her view, a child with Down Syndrome who will most live until middle age should not exist, then how would she treat a person who developed an illness or handicap during their life? On an episode of "This American Life," I remember Ira Glass saying that many lump people into the categories of "sick" and the "not sick," when they should instead consider them the "sick" and "not sick yet." As frightening as it is to admit, wellness is fragile. Wellness is fleeting. Therefore, as humans susceptible to illness and injury, I do not think we are in any position to disrespect someone else for giving birth to a disabled child.

This is not to say that Palin is an admirable mother. What kind of woman drags a four-month-old around the country while she campaigns?