a kaddish for eichmann

Has anyone ever said kaddish for Eichmann? I had this argument tonight. Rh insisted that someone somewhere has mourned him. But that's not what I meant. I did not mean just a Mourner's Prayer. I meant a real live authentic kaddish. Maybe even with a minyan. And my thought was no. That it was very likely that no one on earth has ever said a kaddish for Eichmann.

Rh thought I was insane. That I was underestimating the power of forgiveness.

Forgiveness? This is Eichmann we're talking about.

Maybe Hanna Arendt came the closest. Not that she forgave. Not that she said kaddish. But in a sense she excused him. Said he operated 'unthinkingly' with no consideration of the effects for those targeted by his bureaucratic assignment. It was she, after all, who coined the term 'banality of evil' in reference to Eichmann.

I mean, think about Adolf Eichmann.

He was a mechanic at heart. A mechanic and a manager. Not a philospher. Not even a polemicist. He was good on order. As in 'following orders.' And, as he said in his trial, it wasn't just about following orders, but about following the law. So give him a break.

I was supposed to be at that trial.

It was late June, early July, 1961. Jerusalem. I was 13 at the time. Great Bat Mitzvah present, don't you think? Tickets to the Eichmann Trial? My parents were attending. Kids did not attend — but my mom worked like hell to get me those 2-day tickets. Only problem was that I was sicker than I'd ever been in my life, and had ended up curled up in a tight little ball for days, while they attended the trial. Jerusalem, it turns out, always makes me sick to my stomach.

And you might think it downright child abuse to want to take a kid to hear the proceedings of a trial on crimes against humanity. Genocide. But for her it was about being a witness to history. And witnessing firsthand the confrontation between the survivors of the Holocaust and the monster finally on trial.

I remember that I hadn't thought anything of attending. I took it for granted that I would go. After all, I'd been raised on the Holocaust. Grew up with the scars of bullet holes through the arms of my friends' moms. Saw the numbers tattooed on older people's arms. Saw photographs. Heard stories told firsthand. Heard the screams of parents during sleepover nights. Saw the yellow stars that had been preserved. Saw the Torah scrolls used as canvasses for crappy Nazi oil paintings of pastoral scenes. Mengele stories. I was raised on Kafka's Trial. Durrenmatt's Quarry — and after The Quarry nothing at all is scary.

I was supposed to be at that trial. But instead I had to make do with transcripts of the trial. Which you can find at the Nizkor Project website put out by the State of Israel's Ministry of Justice. The site includes the text of the Wannsee Protocols from January, 1942. Now that's something to read.

Imagine all of them sitting around the conference table at Wannsee. Sipping their tea, lunching on fancy china. Surrounded by the pristine snowy, wooded estate. Such beauty! All the while trying to figure out what to do with the Jews. Looking for the 'Final Solution.'

Eichmann's job was to find a way to get the Jews out of 'every sphere of life' of the German people. Out of 'every living space' of the German people.

He saw it as a transport issue.

At Wannsee they had lists. The number of Jews in every country targeted for expulsion. The final count, including Russia, was 11 million people.

A real headache for Eichmann.

The first idea was to ship 'em to Palestine. In 1939, Eichmann had been made head of the Office for Jewish Emigration, and had a number of Zionist contacts. Unfortunately, he was having trouble getting a visa to go to British Palestine to figure it out. The idea was to tax the Jews in Europe to pay the costs of deportation. By 1941 he was told essentially to forget all this emigration stuff; the Jews were to be exterminated. At Wannsee, a year later, it was determined definitively that the notion of 'accelerated emigration' was just too damned slow. Genocide was just a whole lot more efficient.

Lists were made up to work out bloodlines. What about those who are half Jewish? A quarter? Those married to Germans? Those who had little Jewish blood but 'looked' Jewish? Every category had to be documented.

And transport still had to be arranged — though now it would be to death camps. And Eichmann was in charge of all those trains that would carry them all to the gas chambers.

No wonder I was sick those days in Jerusalem.

But shouldn't we think about the early Eichmann? The Eichmann whose transport problem was British Palestine. Think about maybe a Michael Chabon novel of alternate histories. An Eichmann responsible single-handedly for the creation of a Jewish Homeland. It was, after all, all the same to him. Transport is transport. He had, after all, even met with an agent of the Haganah to talk transport. Think of the might-have-beens if only the British had given him that damned visa. Can we say a kaddish for that Eichmann?

Consider, just consider for a moment all the other unthinking banal bureaucrats of the world who get their kaddish.

kaddish in two-part harmony

I've been challenged to a kaddish a day — for an entire year. That year starts today, right now in fact. On this very line. I'm not sure this is a healthy thing to do, but maybe it's exactly the right way to work it through.

Bibbo tells me of the baths his babalawo prescribes. He's prescribed them to me as well, and I've written them down. Each on a scrap of paper I never find again. Magic! I've been writing on scraps of paper since I was a kid. Thinking I could hold on to an idea, thought or even person, if I've just committed them to written form. That they will be preserved. In such a way, at eight years old I invented the Genizah all by myself. Sacred words preserved, even if I can't ever find them again.

The idea of the baths is to wash 'it' all away — whatever 'it' happens to be. There are also the oils. And they do the opposite: they bring things to you. You let them soak right into your pores. I'm not sure if our kaddish in two-part harmony is more like the Ife baths washing the pain away, or more like the oils, letting them really soak in. Maybe, like a wave, it will be both, flowing in two directions.

Flowing between you and me. Through our fingertips. A responsive reading of sorts. Call and response. Though I'm not sure who's calling and who's responding. Did I call and you responded? No matter. This is all your fault.

And I'm going to accept the challenge on two conditions.

The first, is that we do not meet. Not face to face and not directly by phone. I don't mind a kaddish left on my answering machine. The voice of a horn. But not the voice of a voice.

The second condition is that this not become a tyranny, as in, oh shit, I have to write a kaddish meditation today, what a bummer. So the question is, can I write a kaddish (I'm calling it a kaddish meditation) coming from a place of love (yes, I just said that) or even anger — but not from a place of obligation.

Hers will be a daily kaddish on horn. Mine, right here, for the most part, in writing. But it won't always be right here. We're off to New Orleans shortly, for example. Some of these daily kaddish meditations likely will be transmitted by other means.

The whole enterprise is daunting. An integral transformative practice I was not expecting. But I do know how to do this. And I know how powerful it can be. Or it can be crap.

There's a third condition. And that, through kaddish, I do not fall in love with you. Not sure if there's anything you can do about that. Not sure if it's already too late. But I'm going to reaffirm right here, right now, that this is not about you or me. It's about the material at hand.

Let the kaddish begin.

what is it about musicians?

I was at the bookstore at the airport, and you know how much selection they have there, don't you. Close to nothing at all. Couldn't believe I was traveling without a book in my bag. But then again, the whole point of the trip was to go collect books, so it also made sense not to head out with one. This was SFO, however, and so I picked up volume something or other of lesbian erotica, right there at the airport. And as I read the tales, all I could think was, I could write this better.

And so I did. The one story I've ever written in my life.

And then I read it to her, when I got back in town. And it just blew her away.

what is it about musicians?

That's what it was called. And I thought about it tonight and tracked it down in a very old file still on my computer, but in dire need of translation to an updated Word file, and then reformatting and the like just to be able to read it.

But I didn't read it. The point was only that I found it. Only that it was a reminder of the hold musicians have had on me. Used to have on me. Not now, of course — I won't allow that trespass.

Because I've been on musician strike. A boycott of all things music. Especially musicians. Like an addict who finally says enough is enough — and seems to mean it. Like Alex in A Clockwork Orange being desensitized. Like a moth to the flame saying no!

I've had it with musicians.

No. The truth is, I've had it with myself around musicians. And the weird thing about that is that I've always been so careful and restrained.

I do not play.

I will not dance.

I met a Yoruba today who made me smile. He went to school not 20 miles from Ile Ife. He told me tales of the Oduduwa, the original ruler of the Yoruba. That his grandfather was chief of his village. His father declined, and so did he.

"I can't worship all those deities," he said. "I am a Christian."

But his face lit up at the mention of Ile Ife. It wasn't just the surprise at my bringing it up. I could watch him fill with joy and pride. We talked about the rhythms of the Orisha... and I was happy, just like that. Happy.

And there we were again, at the power of music and musicians. It's inescapable. And I'm still trying to escape.

I'm trying really hard here not to use the word 'seduction.'

But maybe there's no other word for it. The spirits entangle us through their rhythms. They wrap us up or make us writhe (or if we don't writhe, we write instead). Those rhythms that draw us, that suck us in, that drive us mad with desire — it's a visceral thing that cannot be resisted.

And here is me resisting hard — since I was a very small child. Knowing that the music is a trap. Entrapment. Maybe even a subspecies of rape.

You think I'm being overly dramatic here. I may well be. But hear me out. This is about loss of control. Losing our minds. Losing our souls. And something else enters us of its own volition, and doesn't let us go. With or without permission. You know what it's called. It's called possession.

And I'm afraid of being possessed.

I asked my new Yoruba friend about the Hauka, and if they still inhabited West Africa — but he had never heard of them. He suggested Googling them, which was pretty funny. Of course, I've tried. And I come up with Rouch and Stoller and not much more. I had heard that the Hauka had entered Brooklyn in the 1980s, but maybe that was wrong.

I don't like the Hauka rhythms — they're too annoyingly European. But that's the point isn't it? It's what happens when your (spirit) possessor is your (colonial) possessor. The music is just there to hook you, nothing more.

So, I wrote this beautiful story about how musicians can take over your body and soul. And you're powerless to resist their every move. And they tie you up with silken cords, and play you. And play you. And what could be more intoxicating than that voice, or the voice of their instrument? And your volition melts into the ether. And you're on the road, you've turned the corner into the other world, you've walked through the crossroads. You're lost on the other side.

How many visions did those damned musicians give me!

And here comes this seductress walking into my life. Another musician. And one who can write! And write the seduction of the music and musician. Who can articulate the power the musician has (or can have) — and articulate how the musician wields that power.

And offers me a taste!

And this is me saying no!

And running as far away as possible to not feel it. Not hear it.

I've been boycotting music like I've been boycotting humans altogether. The more drawn I am to their rhythms, the more dangerous they become. It's not that the music is bad. No, it's that it's powerful.

My favorites: Nusrat. Cheb Khaled. Rachid Taha. If I listen any more, I will fall right through this world into the other. And (at least for now) I can't afford to fall.

It's a form of imperialism. The imperialism of the soul.

It's a very hard thing to admit to being so thoroughly vulnerable to the sound of certain sounds. To admit to having put on this hard shell of resistance very much on purpose. Trying to keep the music at bay.

To those of you (which may well be most of the planet) for whom music is just that, music — or worse still, background music — well, I think that's great. For me, music is just never in the background. It's the primary thing happening, and when I hear it I can't do anything else but crawl inside it as it crawls inside me. I think most people are just fine with that. But these days I'm listening to nothing more harmful than NPR. Especially in this time of mourning.

So. Musician.
I cannot hear you play.
Not now.
It will shake me to the core, and I cannot take it.

Not ready for music. Not ready for musicians. Not ready to unleash a floodgate of either tears or joy. Not ready to let anything or anyone in until the heart is mended. I know, I know — they say that music's healing. But if you play me that Mourner's melody, you will surely possess me. And then you'll walk away. With my heart.

And then I'd have to write another story.

growing up on chicken little: having a 9/11 moment

Bad day. The empire's falling, and all that. It's not like this is anything new. A century from now historians will date it — here it begins... or rather, here it begins to end. The so-called 'American Century' — did it start to decline when Joe Mc Carthy cut his teeth in the Senate? With Johnson? Nixon? Reagan? Was there no American Century, after all — but just one disaster after another? But it makes me think...

A weird thing happened to me on the way to 9/11.

I was at the airport — yes airport — in Paris. CDG. That would be Charles deGaulle. It was late August, 2001, and I had to get back to the States in time to start Fall Semester. Just barely making it back on time. I took notes on this event, minute by minute. There was nothing else to do.

I was sleeping at the airport. Which doesn't mean I got any sleep. It just means that I had run out of money one night too soon, and left my favorite little place on the Rue Cujas (overlooking Le Tiers Mythes, my favorite bookstore in Paris). My bags were filled with books from l'Institut du Monde Arabe, a bunch of bookstores and publishers from around the corner on the Rue des Ecoles (l'Harmattan, Presence Africaine, le Livre Penseur...) but most especially Le Tiers Mythes, which magically always had exactly what I didn't know I was looking for, but there it was, with the proprietaire handing it to me, with his "take this, you need this..." Gotcha, every time.

So, I was hauling all these treasures around the airport from all my favorite bookstores. Not letting them go for a minute lest I lose track of them. Yah, obsessive. Guilty as charged.

And I wanted something to eat, so I dragged my bags downstairs to try to buy a sandwich. But the guy at the kiosk wouldn't sell me a sandwich cause all they had left was jambon/fromage. And I insisted that fine, that was okay with me, Mais non! He wouldn't sell me the treif. "C'est pas pour vous!" he scolded me. He was a conscientious Muslim.

So, I went back upstairs to the Gate and thought I'd sleep on the benches. When the Announcements started blaring about keeping track of your luggage or it would be confiscated.

And the gendarmes started wandering through with bayonets on the end of their rifles (or whatever they were), which seemed a bit excessive to me at CDG, don't you think?

And the Announcements got grouchier. Will the person who left a package in bla bla bla sitting area please come to claim it? And the gendarmes were heading my way. And the package was right next to me, not more than six feet away. And it was three in the morning, and there was hardly anyone else around.

I moved away from the package. The gendarmes closed in on it.

It was an old cardboard box, about 2' x 2' and had been taped clumsily. The gendarmes cordoned off the area despite the lack of people around, and by god, they shot the package! Right there in the Waiting Area. Not with the bayonets, but with something. And the package exploded.

With a teddy bear flying through the air. And bathroom towels. And underwear... and stuff like that.

And this woman came out of the restroom, holding the hand of a child. And it was quite obvious: it was just too damned hard to carry her cardboard box luggage and take her kid to the can all at the same time, at 3:00 AM when there was nobody around to bother her stuff.

And one of the gendarmes hauled her away.

And I went up to one of the gendarmes (still hauling around my duffle of books on wheels), and asked what was that about? Was that about the Israelis, I asked him, noticing at that time a sign for El Al nearby.

"Mais non!" he said, "that is about you." He switched to English.

"We are getting warnings all summer long about an attack on American carriers. And so we are watching. We are watching all the entire summer!" he said, glaring at me.

And I took notes on this, for some reason. What time I couldn't get a baguette jambon fromage. What time the Announcements started getting annoying. What time and how many bayonets. What time they blew up the teddy bear and towels. And what he said: Warnings. All. Summer. Long.

It was the end of August, 2001.

The airports in the States were quiet and lax and uneventful.

No bayonets. No frantic announcements. No blown up packages. Nothing at all.

I got home. Unpacked. Took a shower. And threw my notes away.

And didn't think the obvious question for another two weeks.

key moments in baby dyke awakenings

'Baby dyke' is just another stage of life, isn't it? It's just a question of how long it takes to get there, right?

What comes to mind, strangely enough, is spending time with old women in North Africa, especially after they'd been widowed. These were women who had never had a choice of whether or not to marry — let alone who to marry. The happiest women in the older set that I knew in the 1970s were those women in polygynous marriages. They were just fine, thank you, sharing (the burden) of one husband. Grateful as could be at not being stuck with him (and his mother) alone. The freedom felt by widows was not just palpable, it's visible even in photographs.

And the younger women (we're talking rural sector here) complained that polygyny had been outlawed. And therefore, they'd be stuck with some old geezer doing all the labor for him and his brood. They were not at all grateful for the 'liberation' from polygyny.

Not exactly baby-dykes, I agree. And I know that women are also sorrowful at the loss of a lifetime mate. But what I witnessed were women relieved from the burden of serving men. Content to be an elder themselves, served by their younger generation. And the unhappiest old woman I knew was being forced back into a marriage by her son. Long story. Hishma!

But in our country, and in urban life, surely it shouldn't take until widowhood to discover one's own gynephilia. But sometimes the signs are there and we just plain missed it.

Upon reflection, I think I've had five little moments of awakenings that I just clear somehow missed at the time. Not including obvious baby dyke moments like crushes. Or that feeling when getting strapped into a black leather corset for the very first time.

No, these moments were a bit more nuanced. Just a bit.

In chronological order:

the sonny-boy incident: Fifth or sixth grade. I was running back home after getting a 'pixie' haircut (that's what it was called at the time). Ran across the street without looking. And this man (who almost hit me with his car) hollered out his window, "Watch out, sonny!" And I was mortified. It downright scared the butch right outta me. Oh well. Think of all the years that coulda been different if I had risen to that occasion.


the Electra moment: The Greek film Electra came out in 1962. I was fourteen. My mom took me to UC Berkeley's Wheeler Auditorium to see it. And my jaw dropped. It was the moment that Irene Pappas, in an act of defiance and grief, finds a private corner and cuts off her long tresses, and is shorn, ready for mourning. A truly orgasmic moment in film making. But my own butch moment had already passed (see above), and instead I spent years trying to personify Pappas' Greek anguish. Mostly I practiced the intensity of her eyes. Failing miserably, of course. But I fell in love for the first time without even noticing.

the kd lang/cindy crawford Vanity Fair photo shoot: I was up skiing with family and friends. Staying back one afternoon to grade (yet another) set of exams. I had the whole condo to myself. Took a break in the middle of a set, and picked up some magazine lying around. Flipped it open. And almost fell to the floor. kd lang! I believe the correct contemporary expression would be OMG!

There's more, of course, but why go any further than kd lang?

My point is that there are these moments when we can choose to know ourselves, or choose to not read the signs. Or, I suppose, we can read the signs, and choose to change or not to change. Or we find ourselves waiting for the life cycle to come round and hand us a form of liberation (as older women do in North Africa). Or we never discover who we are or what we want.

And in some cultures or communities it is just plain too dangerous to display this kind of awakening. Too life-threatening. And so we hide. Or suppress. Or repress (which might be be the best option to live with under some circumstances).

And in other cultures or communities it's not too dangerous to awaken. And we find ourselves wide awake, with another new world to explore.

And why think about all this now?

It was a chance email from North Africa that sent my mind back so many decades ago. Thinking about what happened to the girl who dared wear pants, ride a bike, carry money — in a village where these acts were considered aberrant if not obscene for a teenage girl. It was downright cross-dressing. A form of transvestism there. The boys threw rocks at her. Shouted at her terrible insults of gender confusion ... But her father indulged her. She was one of the girls decidedly in favor of polygyny — so as not to be stuck entirely at a man's whim. And then her father did something no other father in the village had done.

He taught her a trade. And got her out of there.

And with this email, I thought of her. And these moments when we discover ourselves. These moments when we choose either to be or not be what it is we really are. And I thought of the courage it takes to not compromise. And I thought of Irene Pappas' defiant, smoldering eyes. And kd lang.

And I still think it's a life cycle thing. To declare ourselves (or not). And it just takes some of us a whole lot longer to get there.

war stories

We were holding kabbalah study group tonight at Beit Malkhut, and I don't know how it came up. But you know how study groups go — one topic leads to another.

We started with the Kaddish — the Mourner's Prayer — since all of us had something to mourn, and it was time to explore and see what we could ferret out. I was prepared to be thoroughly annoyed. Which is my initial mode in all these inquiries, especially when they have to do with prayer.

I have a problem with prayers.

What bugs me about them is that the melodies completely draw you in, especially when they slip into a minor key or something equally compelling for which I (who know nothing about music) have no language to describe. So there you are sucked in by the beauty of it — and so it works as ritual, and is very powerful, right?

But then you pick at it. What does this really mean?? The Kaddish is in Aramaic, not Hebrew, but it's pretty recognizable for the most part.

My rule in study group is, however, not to assume that we know what something means. Instead, we use our Gesenius Lexicon (which does include the Aramaic) and track down every form of every root until we uncover the mysteries imbedded in the text.

I had very low expectations. But that's what makes it so fun. That's what makes being a Pessimist so rewarding. With such low expectations, the discoveries become minor awe-inspiring miracles.

In English, the translations are sychophantic, repetitive and well, just plain cloying and annoying. There's gotta be more to it than that. Why all the glory, glory glory, going on and on about just how terrific our god is? And what's that got to do with mourning?

Turns out that the Kaddish began to be used for mourning in the 13th century during Crusades and pogroms, as a public affirmation of faith in the face of pogromic annihilation. That is, instead of using the Shma for that purpose. Thus, the Mourner's Kaddish was a public display of adherence to one's faith, and that's why it doesn't say one damned thing that might comfort someone's terrible loss.

The words in English are trite, not just repetitive. But looking them up, a vivid picture emerged. Not one of dying and death and loss, but of a joyous celebration. A wedding, if you will.

And god is the bridegroom. He is adorned with a special turban and set upon a special chair (or throne), and lifted into the air with great exaltation. It's a wedding celebration, joyous, and filled with laughter. Who's the bride? Well, we are. And our recitation binds our union. Our act of unification. And then there's the description of his tumescence (translated as 'might' and 'arising') — it's pretty heady stuff.

In other words, hidden in the Aramaic is an alternate tale that can be uncovered — showing that exultation, showing what form it takes.

Then I checked out Reb Schneerson.

Reb Schneerson says (in an address on the yahrtzeit of Isaac Luria, the Ari), that our remembrance should be filled with joy and laughter, and not be immersed in the sorrow of the day. Which verifies my own deconstruction of the Kaddish puzzle. For, says Reb Schneerson, for on that day, as we honor the Ari, his revelations open to us, and what should we do, but dance and laugh.

Wow, was he right.

He then goes on to say that when we take in this knowledge from those who have died before us, and as we celebrate their yahrtzeit, the revelations sink right into our very nefesh, deeper and deeper and imbed not just into our mind (sechel) but into our physical being. It burrows into our very brains, and creates more convolutions than previously existed.

It expands our cerebral cortex. It expands our brains.

In one fell swoop he goes from mourning, to kaddish to revelation, to increased brain capacity and power. Just like that.

Does the fact that I'm in shock make him wrong?

I mean, what can I say? He's the one who's been proclaimed the mashiach, after all. He's got his science down pat to back him up. Who am I to say he's wrong?

Maybe it was all the talk of Crusades and pogroms. Maybe talk of new knowledge. Dunno.

But out came one of my war stories, that I'd not told in quite a long time, and deserves its hearing right now, right here. A great story, really.

But by now it's late, and my eyes are closing of their own volition, and my head is threatening to crash down upon the keyboard without permission, and I can't possibly give the tale its due. And it just started raining, and got suddenly cold.

And so, I'll save it maybe for shabbes, and for the moment say goodnight. And savor the revelations we discovered in the kaddish. And that Reb Schneerson just maybe, maybe might be right.

yahrtzeit for the tzaddik

Do I still get to cry?

The first year ends, and I've been living the dying over and over. Actually, it all started two years ago with her. And I just couldn't get over it, and then, wham — the tzaddik is ill, the tzaddik is terminal, the tzaddik is gone.

I think it's time to pack up the tears, and see what I can do about the black circles under my eyes.

Narayan Singh Khalsa (aka Michael Lincoln) says that everything important about us is written on our faces. That someone astute can just look at us and know what we've done and what we've been through. And then he would tell us. Okay, it was always in his cryptic symbology, but once you got used to his languaging, he really did make sense.

But I never believed him. Until now.

I hit the wrong key on my keyboard last week and punched up the PhotoBooth thingy which I didn't know was there. So that led to a couple hours of wasted time playing with the function, only to discover that Narayan had been right all along.

Look at those eyes!

Grief!

Grief so embedded that I don't know how to undo it at all. A graven image of grief. The rest of the body speaks the same language, of course. But I can't stand going any further than the eyes. That's scary enough for the present.

So, I'm wondering. If I focus on changing this picture of the self, will the grief go away?

If I can find a 'happy-thought' —

If I can make the body not hurt —

If this, if that ... go to the gym, hike more miles each day... maybe become a vegetarian... then the face will change again, right? The body too?

But the grief doesn't go away, does it? The pit in my stomach? The emptiness carved deep inside me?

I've heard that expression, "you look like you've aged 10 years..." and now I know what it looks like.

Okay, so this is my self-indulgent thought on this yahrtzeit of my father's. Interesting that I'm not spending the time praising him, talking about how much I miss him, about his brilliance, his protection, his wisdom, his goodness. Pining. Moaning.

The tzaddik. The tzaddik is gone. He's not even in my dreams, anymore.

No, this is me talking about me, instead.

No, this is the old, chin up, shoulders back, stiff-upper-lip, suck it in, suck it up, get a hold of yourself, stop the crap, stop the whining, stop, STOP, STOP!!

Yahrtzeit. One year. The first year. The first visit to the cemetery. Deal with a stone, a plaque. Move my sister to rest with my dad. Get organized. Take care of business.

Say goodbye.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

I keep wondering if it's time to remember the living. To remember that I'm living. And not just in a nightmare of dealing with the aftermath.

No more self-indulgence.

This is what ritual was invented for. This is why we have something called Yahrtzeit. Why we light candles at prescribed times. Why we say Kaddish. Why saying Kaddish helps. Why hard-liner atheists have a rougher time of it than people who are calmed by ritual. Not that ritual has anything necessarily to do with belief. But they do seem to go hand in hand often enough.

What might be a good atheist ritual to ease the pain of loss? Surely there's some rational way of letting go the grief. And I'm not talking meds, here. Nor shrinks of any denomination. No. This is not pathology. It's just the life cycle.

Maybe what helps most is to turn my head eastward. To Brooklyn, of all places. To watching my kids thrive. So, okay kids, I'm facing your direction, more than I've done all year. I'm not placing this at your feet exactly, I just want you to help me laugh. I don't need grandchildren (god forbid). Just a little laughter.

Oh. And it's not all on you.

I've got work to do. Time to get back at it. My work. Not just everybody else's.

Okay bootstraps, this is me pulling, pulling hard...

Answer to question at top of page: Enough is enough. And I'll check in with a mirror a year from now and see what I've written upon my own face.