I'm off to California on wednesday to stay with grandma in her santa cruz hippieville home. There's an endless amount of books on the Third Reich and capitalism, so I'll be busy. But really, when I booked this trip two months ago, it was because I was desperate to get away. Lately though, I have turned Crown Heights into my own little playground. I no longer need to leave, because I have everything I need right here. Friends to misbehave with. new acquaintances to have adventures with. an empty fridge with nothing but white wine. an empty freezer with nothing but vodka. and cupboards with truly nothing in them. I don't need food. I have a different kind of sustenance. I am running without guilt. It is gone. I can't decide if I am truly living, or slowly dying. Whatever it is, I can do it in Crown Heights as easily as California. Bon voyage kinderloch. I'll work on my tan and enjoy other greeneries northern California has to offer.
Facebook and all Profile pages, like the blogger one, have created this issue where you need to define yourself. It's like that scene in Fight Club when Edward Norton asks what dining set completes him. We have to decide. interests. quotes. activities. What if your interests are to just get through the day? The activity could be avoiding your family. You don't have any quotes because you don't read. Your favorite movies are Full Metal Jacket and the Shining. Basically, you're an unstable, angry creature who has to make up a profile to reflect an educated, well rounded person.
What does my blogger profile say? I'm interested in neo-nazis and drug induced novels. But where's the forum to explain the last 20 years and why I chose these particular films and books? I spent years in New Jersey aware that I was Jewish but really much more interested to know why Jews are hated rather than what being Jewish means. I met neo-nazis in my high school. One in particular struck me. He was obsessed with cleanliness. It doesn't matter that I've become frum and now know what being a Jew means. I haven't forgotten the confusion and intrigue while I spoke to this guy. He told me he was looking for something to believe in. We were never that different after all.
As far as drug induced hippie idealism, my grandmother is the inspiration for that. She lived in Berkeley (yeah Cherrio) and Santa Cruz. We spoke about Berkeley in the 60's, and I'm very much aware that I missed something spectacular. Nothing like that will ever happen in our country again. If I could be anywhere, I would have been there.
These facets to our existance end up as a one word explantions on our profile pages. That's all we are.
TRS- you told me to post more than every three weeks. I'm caving in to peer pressure. E-nice talking, but your hair is distracting. that comes from a place of caring. LE7-stay with us anytime. you're a pleasant guest Sarahbonne-can we pay rent? Can I smoke hookah in the house? If I mainline crystal meth can we still live together?
The actual post: Winning without dignity or grace is not winning. I know I've heard this in a movie, or read it, but its been on my mind all day. Really, I won't post anything unless its been on my mind all day. That means you know something about me, which is that I think too much. So, back to winning. I think this phrase..winning without dignity or grace is not winning...is aimed at women. It is important that a woman maintain a sense of grace, and not turn into an insensitive, uncaring, self- centered witch during the process of getting their conquest. Women suck. The conquest could be as minor as winning an argument or as major as winning a husband. But you can expect all the same tricks. Flaky, bitchy, mouthy, cliquey, judgmental. You pray you left middle school, but then it pops up, when you're 19, 23...when you thought you were way past this. Men have egos and competition, but their fight is not nearly so vindictive.
I will take sarahbonne's advice and fall in love with art, so it can never leave me, talk behind my back, trade friends and pretend I never existed. To this friend who finally got her conquest: Congratulations. Mazel tov. You have Disappointed more than I could ever imagine. I thought you were better than that. It was my mistake.
I've been thinking...actually I've been obsessing about wearing men's shorts. Everyday I wake up and try to figure out what skirt matches with what shirt and which tights and I can't stand it. I love those Abercrombie shorts for men. I want those. Not the ones for girls. But a MAN'S GARMENT. That's right. Those. But if I wear the shorts, in the city, away from all the chassidish prying eyes, that means I'm fry right? I'll break shabbos next. That means I've messed up the last 4 years of suffering and sacrifice. For what... convenience? Not having to coordinate an outfit? But why did I become frum in the first place? Honestly, the journey seems like a bad dream. I was seduced by a rabbi and an unspoken promise..that If I became frum, all the shit would stop. I would be a better person, have a purpose in life, do what G-d wants, have a real family. But its been four years worth of keeping shabbos, keeping kosher, tznius, davening, chitas, a year in semimary, 10 trips to the Ohel, not shaking men's hands even though it embarrassed me, not listening to music during the Omer, the list goes on and on and on. But how do I feel? Empty, spiritually void, frustrated. Sometimes I yell at You. Why did you do this to me? You wanted me to be observant that badly? Why do I feel depressed and angry if I'm doing what You want? Shouldn't I feel complete and loved and whole and special?
It's funny how everything I've worked for the last few years comes down to the flick of the light switch, the choice of a restaurant. I've included the picture of the shorts for a small dose of humor.
I am a lucky chick, because I have the security of living in my insular Chassidic community but the promise of escape to Manhattan. This is my sanity. I have the community here in the Heights- the kosher restaurants, the Shabbos families, my fellow brainwashed friends. But then once in a while... the escape. I run off to shop, to dilly dally, to various fun seeking places. Living in Brooklyn but running off to Manhattan is my personal Jesus Christ. I do love you Brooklyn- we can make each other laugh, enjoy each other's company, share the experience. But then we get bored, don't we? Our relationship gets dry and predictable. We start resenting each other for the situation we put ourselves in. We wanted this, didn't we? To live together-to make a home. So why do I need to leave you? I will go to Manhattan, my little guilty pleasure. But I promise, I will always come home to you.
Nine months ago, a new force entered my life. No, it wasn't a screaming child, but a mythical creature known as Sarah Bonne. She hails from Oregon, the hippie pot smoking liberal haven. She moved in with me and we have shared a basement in an insular chassidic community. The best time of my life, as far as excellent roommates go. We decorate the home, shop for tznius items, and fly off to weddings on a weekly basis. She is such an enjoyable roommate I have considered not getting married. What more do I need? I have someone to laugh at my jokes, someone to cry to at the end of a hard day. I lovingly remind her to turn the oven off, hours after the food has been cooked. Who needs morgages and dinners with in-laws when you have this much fun?