Monday, December 26, 2005

Conversation in Union Square

I might have liked to start by saying that it was a mild and clear evening, the stars visible even in the Manhattan sky, or that it was chilly and I had to zip up my jacket and keep my hand in my pockets, or something of that sort. But in truth I don’t remember what the evening was like. It was just an evening like any other, around the beginning of spring of last year. I do remember I was wearing a light spring jacket—my long Chasidic coat now reserved only for Shul, weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, or other such formal functions—and the zipper had gotten stuck on that day, but that’s of course of minor significance.

I had been scheduled to meet up in the city for dinner with a friend, but at the last minute, as I was on my way, he called to say he couldn’t come. I went ahead anyway, and ended up at Strand bookstore, browsing in the basement among the half-priced reviewed books. I probably spent about three hours there, until an employee found me sitting on a stack of books at the far side of the basement by the wall, and reminded me that it’s ten-thirty and they’re about to close. I wasn’t ready to head back home, so I took a stroll toward Union Square, just a couple blocks away. The scrolling marquee at Loews enticed me to go in for a movie. I considered it, but realized I wouldn’t get out till after midnight, which would’ve been a bit too late. It was then that I noticed a black man walking towards me.

“Shalom,” he said with a kind smile.

“Shalom,” I said, wondering about the fact that black men often greet me with that standard greeting from Modern Hebrew, hardly a language used by American Chasidim.

He wore a wool cap over another hat of some kind, his leather jacket buttoned tightly, and, if I remember correctly, he wore a scarf as well. His beard needed a shave, but that was hardly something that I, a Chasid with a full beard, could take issue with. But it did add to the clues that the man was probably homeless and wanted a handout.

“How are you this evening?” he asked hesitantly.

I sized him up as I responded that I was very well, thank you, and thought of how much cash I had in my pocket and whether I was in the right mood today for supporting a homeless man. All the arguments against giving to a homeless person passed through my mind: they just use it to buy drugs and alcohol; receiving handouts discouraged them from finding work; buy them a sandwich instead, just don’t give money; these people are just lazy, and they’re often frauds, and so on and so forth. I remembered all the past experiences with giving on the streets of New York City, from the guy who yelled after me, “I bet that was a penny,” after I dropped a quarter in his cup, to the genuinely talented street performers who had attracted a sizable crowd, and then singled me out while passing around the bucket with the loud announcement, “Oh, here’s a Jewish guy! Come on, you can do better than one buck!”

But for some reason none of those seemed appropriate just then. As the man launched into a story of how if he can just collect fifteen dollars there is this woman who would allow him the use of a room for a month, and how it would be a great help if I could contribute toward that end, I mindlessly removed my wallet and gave him a twenty. I had little patience for the story that he’d obviously rehearsed, and didn’t care for it. I assumed it wasn’t likely to be true anyway. But my reasoning at the moment went that, whether his story was true or not, if he stooped to begging he’s probably worse off than I am. I felt good about myself, feeling not only superior, but also generous and kind.

I had always been interested in people’s stories, and since I had nowhere in particular to be just then, I figured I’d chat him up a bit. After all, I gave him a twenty, so he owed me that much. What I really wanted to know was why he was homeless; what were his circumstances that he had no choice but to beg from strangers.

“Can I ask you a question, sir?” I asked. “Do you have a job?”

I didn’t mean to sound preachy or patronizing, but I really wanted to know why an able bodied man such as he was couldn’t find the means to earn a few dollars for his basic necessities.

“No, I don’t,” he said with a hint of embarrassment—but only a hint; he still maintained an air of dignity. “I’ve only arrived in New York three days ago from Mississippi. I was hoping to find a job in construction, but I haven’t found anything yet.”

He spoke slowly, as if reading from a script. At first it made me think that everything he said was part of something he’d rehearsed. But as we spoke I realized that was just his manner of speaking. I looked him over, observing his handsome face and lean physique, but most of all, his gentle manner, and wondered about his first-choice of occupation. He held his gloved hands against his chest, his fingers intertwined.

“Do you know anyone who might be able to use my services?” he asked in that slow gentle voice.

“I’m afraid not,” I said. “But I’ll keep my eyes open.”

He was sleeping at a shelter, he said. I forget now which one. He said it was very unpleasant, housing people who were unruly and often violent.

I was starting to genuinely like this man, so sincere, so human. But I couldn’t escape the thought that the fact that he was homeless made him different from me in a fundamental way. Perhaps he’s mentally ill, I thought, and it just doesn’t show because he’s just taken his medication. Or perhaps he’s an alcoholic, or a drug addict. But nothing about him suggested anything but a healthy person with a lucid and sober mind.

He went on to tell me that his name was Kevin, and he had very little family, just an elderly mother who was living in an old age home, which was run by their Christian community in his hometown, and who’d encouraged him to come to New York to find a better job. He was fifty, he said.

I don’t remember all the particulars of his story. Perhaps they weren’t very exciting, or happy, or miserable, or maybe we didn’t talk much about his particular circumstances. Because very soon we found ourselves talking about matters I never thought I’d be talking about with a homeless black man on the corner of Broadway and 14th street. We must have stood there for two hours discussing religion, music, books, humanity, and life. To the question of whether he’s a religious man, he said, “yes, but not of a particular religion.” And he was greatly surprised when I told him my own views on religion.

He was surprisingly well read. He knew a lot about history, had some general knowledge of science and the humanities, and he was passionate about music. Mostly jazz. Not so much the jazz you hear in clubs today, he said almost apologetically, but the great jazz players—and here he rattled off a dozen or so names, the only one I recognized was Miles Davis. Of course, his taste in music wasn’t so surprising, being that the origins of jazz were in blues and the African-American music from the south. I’d recently acquired a taste in jazz myself, albeit the more contemporary styles that fused it with the elements of rock music and pop sounds. But it felt wonderful to be discussing music with someone who had a deep and genuine appreciation for that universal language of the heart.

“I feel it was destiny that led me to meet you on this evening,” he said as we were getting ready to part. “This conversation has been very rewarding.”

I felt humbled and blessed to have been part of it, and I told him so. What I didn’t tell him was how ashamed I was of the unkind stereotype I held when he first came up to me.

“Again, if you should know about someone who might hire me, please do let me know. I can often be found in that Starbucks.” He pointed to the store over on 4th Avenue, which we could see from where we were. “It’s a place to sit down indoors, and the people are nice.”

As we parted, Kevin extended his hand. I leaned forward to give him a hug.

But I didn’t give him my phone number, or my address, or any other way for him to contact me. He was after all only a stranger, and a homeless one.

Months passed, spring turned into summer, and then came autumn, then winter. And through it all I’ve often thought of Kevin. Now, in the freezing cold I wonder whether he’s found a place to keep warm and get a hot meal. I wonder if he’s found a job. I’ve looked for him a few times at Starbucks and the surrounding areas, but I’ve never seen him. I scour the faces of those sitting around in the parks or on church stoop, and when I don’t find him I take it as a good sign. That he must have found someplace to call home, and is no longer wandering the streets, begging from strangers. I wish I had given him my phone number, or at least received from him some sort of contact info, perhaps a phone number of a relative who might know where to find him.

But it is now too late, and all I have is the memory of a wonderful conversation.

Monday, December 19, 2005

Journeys of Faith, Part III

(Continued from previous post: Journeys of Faith, Part II)

A peculiar mindset exists for the religiously-raised individual who comes to question his faith—at least the ones with whom I’ve come in contact: there is a tremendous need for certainty. Chasidim, and probably all others in the ultra-Orthodox world, are raised with a set of powerful beliefs that leaves no room for doubt or ambiguity. The origins of the universe are clear; life’s purpose is clear; and punishment in the afterlife for transgressions is so certain that its imagined experience has a real effect throughout one’s lifetime.

Naturally, then, when a Chasid is presented with challenges to his faith to the point that it makes sense to discard those beliefs, one of the greatest traumas through which he has to pass, is how to fill the vacuum of uncertainty. It’s not a simple matter of substituting non-belief for belief. For the Chasid there needs to be an alternate reality, one that can provide equal security about one’s purpose, and provide a plausible and satisfying description of how the universe and beyond functions, if it’s to take the place of traditional Judaism.

It has taken me years to finally accept that I will most likely never find those certain answers. And to be okay with that. That we do not know much about God, our mission on earth, or the afterlife, and we may quite likely never know--certainly not this side of the grave.

But then, what is to provide us with a sense of what we’re doing here and where we’re going? What is to guide us, to uplift us? What of morals? What of spirituality? Are we to while away our time with whatever pleasures we can find, believing that ultimately there is no greater purpose, all because it can’t be identified? Should we embrace a life of abject materialism and all-consuming hedonism, enjoying life to the max, since we’ve concluded we don’t know the answers anyhow?

I can’t say that I’ve found any real answers. But the fact that my heart doesn’t allow me to follow such a path, one lacking a spiritual component, tells me that deep within each of us there is something yearning to connect to something higher. I believe that we can use our intuition to follow our hearts. We should remember that science has absolutely no say in spiritual matters. We must not fear spirituality. We may sometimes feel that whatever can’t be proven scientifically isn’t worth speaking about. We might think it foolish, or superstitious. But that attitude is wrong. Because human beings, as rational as they try to be, will always have questions that science cannot address. We can’t be afraid of our feelings and our emotions. But we must be wary of declaring that we possess knowledge of absolute truth.

Ah, but you say that those voices in your heart are simply expressing a psychological need, the child within each of us longing for a parent figure to guide us, to love us, and for us to love in return? Maybe so. But I believe that that feeling is placed within each of us for a reason. I believe the search is more important than the ultimate answers. I believe that humans were meant to be searching; the search is not the means, it’s the end in itself. Whether one chooses a religion, any religion, or one chooses one of the spiritual paths of the Far East, or Spinoza’s Pantheism, or even a completely secular ideology such as Secular Humanism, it is all part of the search.

Of course, a common thread must run through any ideology: it must subscribe to a core of humanistic values, without which there can be no claim to a moral framework. The major religions, if at times abused and interpreted in a more particularistic and tribal sense, do contain that message. We must have the courage to expand that message to include all of humanity.

As for me, at heart I am still a chasid, and I suspect I always will be. I believe that we can lead meaningful religious lives if we so choose, while maintaining our awareness of its all too many flaws. The practices and rituals of our respective religions are the framework for us to live that life and it allows us to receive that fundamental message our religion is trying to convey. Of course, the historical narrative of the chosen religion may not be true in the strict historical sense. But that’s beside the point. Religious practice should be seen as a human expression, not as a divine commandment. So the historical narrative, while conveying an important message, is not history and shouldn’t be seen as such.

I see both classical Judaism and Chasidism as expressions of our entirely human understanding of what the universe is about. When we speak of God, we speak of some divine, mysterious being that we know in our heart exists, but we don’t know if he’s paying attention to us, or if he even cares. But we hope he does. We so badly hope that he does, that we sit around the table drinking l’chaim and speak of his love for us and our faith and trust in him. Like children lost in the woods, whose only hope is to comfort each other saying, our father surely knows where we are and he will soon find us and bring us to safety. Like people stranded on a desert island whose only comfort is to assure one another of the rescue team that will surely arrive soon. Without clinging to that faith, that shining ray of hope, life can become unbearable.

When we gather as a group at a Chasidishe sheves achim to sing Tzamah Lecha Nafshi, or we gather in the dark at Shalosh Seudos to sing Yedid Nefesh, we express our profound sense of distance from that source of life, that great unknowable being. It is a melancholy thought, and we are overcome by our hope and yearning to attach ourselves to something greater.

We might perhaps just all be living an illusion, thinking there’s something out there to which we can connect. But it is a sweet illusion, which gives us hope and strength. It allows us to connect to our fellow humans as well, and it makes us aware of the pettiness of so much that troubles us. Our lives are transformed, and the ride, whatever the destination, becomes a worthwhile one.

Sunday, December 18, 2005

Journeys of Faith, Part II

One of the major topics I’ve thought to have missed out upon in my absence was the Slifkin affair. For those of you who aren’t aware of the controversy, here’s a quick overview:

Nosson Slifkin, an ultra-Orthodox rabbi and nature-lover, wrote a number of books regarding wildlife and the natural sciences vis-à-vis the Torah and Judaism. In three of his books he attempts to synthesize statements in the Torah or their Talmudic or Midrashic interpretations with the conclusions of modern science that they seem to contradict.

The books had been out for a number of years when a group of book-vigilantes produced a ban signed by a handful of small-time rabbis who denounced the books as heresy. Of course, the bigger rabbis, not to be outdone by the smaller ones, jumped on the book-banning bandwagon. The public was instructed to have the books burned, and their author was to be prevented from participating in outreach efforts for Judaism, lest he contaminate the hearts and minds of those seeking to join the religious camp.

Most, if not all, of Slifkin’s ideas were based on concepts formulated by well-known and revered scholars and sages of previous generations. Without his books many Jews today, recognizing the absurdity of dismissing scientific conclusions simply because they contradict one’s faith, would find it very difficult to lead religiously observant lives. For those interested, all these arguments, and many more, have been dealt with exhaustively on Slifkin's own website, as well as Hirhurim, Godol Hador, and other sites (sorry, there are too many posts to link to the exact ones; best bet is to do a search for 'slifkin ban' on any of those sites), so I won’t go into that in detail.

But I realized soon after that even if I’d been blogging at the time, I probably wouldn’t have taken the affair very personally. For me the issues addressed by the book rarely contributed to my overall faith crisis. At a young age I had come to conclude that the theological issues to which science presents a challenge were mostly unimportant in the overall theology of Judaism. I was quite satisfied to believe that the sages were operating under faulty premises based on the science (if it can be called that) of their times. It didn’t make the sages of the Talmud any less distinguished in my mind. And, at least to me, science couldn’t say anything about the existence of God or his revealed word, which were the really important theological precepts.

I can still recall my thoughts from when I was a child, when we were forbidden to visit the Museum of Natural History. We were told it is a place “filled with the heresy of wicked men”. Most offensive to the religious sensibilities were the dinosaur exhibits. “Of course those bones are fake!” our teachers would tell us. “These idiots would have us believe that the bones are millions of years old. Well, we know that’s impossible, because the world is only 5750 years old!” the rabbi would say with a self-satisfied smirk. Well, in my mind, it was the teacher or rabbi who, if not exactly an idiot, was a bit of an ignoramus. For many reasons, I never felt those issues to jeopardize my devoutly religious beliefs, and I saw no reason why we should trust science to teach us how to do open-heart surgery, but not to tell us the age of the universe or what existed in prehistoric times. God created a complex world, I thought to myself, made all the more beautiful when we are awed by its amazing wonders and complexities.

The great challenge to my beliefs arrived only later, when I encountered the social sciences. At first, it was an interest in history and ancient civilizations that put the origins of religion and mythology in perspective. It was hard to overlook the similarities between civilizations in their quest to tap into the unknown sources of life, health, and happiness.

Through psychology I came to understand the deep yearning within humans for greater meaning in life, for a connection to something transcendent and eternal that could allay our discomfort over our mortality, and for some feeling of control through prayer and other devotional behaviors in the face of life’s uncertainties.

Sociology showed me that the development of our lifestyle was mostly a result of human processes, very little the result of a tradition handed down from Sinai or anywhere else.

Reading about archaeological discoveries, I was at first deeply disappointed but later came to accept the conspicuous lack of anything to corroborate the biblical accounts of even the later eras of the Davidic kingdoms in a united Israel, let alone signs of the Hebrews in Egypt or anything hinting at extraordinary miracles having occurred.

All the above came together, and slowly, progressively, made me reevaluate all that I’d been taught.

But then came the hardest part, the one I’m still struggling with. It is relatively easy to discern myth from fact, illusions of divine instruction from humanly-inspired objectives. But all that leaves you with is to reject the religion and traditions you’ve been brought up with. Making that your raison d'être is to define yourself by what you are not. It doesn’t provide the alternate framework for a meaningful life. It leaves an equal number of questions unanswered, and can throw you into a mind-numbing void, living life with no purpose, frightened and confused.

(Continued in the next post: Journeys of Faith, Part III)

Friday, December 16, 2005

Ali G... in Beard and Payess?!

Being a big fan of both Ali G, a/k/a Sasha Baron Cohen, and Curly Oxide, the Chasidishe bucher from Williamsburg who tried a stint as a rock performer, beard, payess, and all, this is indeed great news. Cohen will be playing the Curly Oxide character in the upcoming Paramount movie written by Tina Fey, “Curly Oxide and Vic Thrill”. For those who don’t know the story, you can listen to this episode of This American Life.

As those of us who know Curly know, nobody deserves a movie more than he does. But unfortunately, if what I’ve heard is true, they’re producing this against his wishes. I do hope he’s at least getting a chunk of change for this. If not, Curly, let us know and we’ll boycott the movie. After all, who’s going to watch this if not us Chasidim (on borrowed copies of DVDs, of course ::wink, wink::)?

In other news, Curly just got started with his new business, and we, of course, wish him only the very best and much success.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Friendly Neighbors

It isn't often that I chance into a Mikve on a regular weekday, so when I did have the opportunity for a quick dip on a recent Sunday morning it was rather pleasing. I happened to be in Shul for a relative's bris, and I didn't have much planned for the day, so I thought, why not? Although, since, as regulars will know, most Mikves are quite lacking in proper standards of hygiene, I was sort of lukewarm (forgive the pun) to the idea. But this one turned out surprisingly clean and the temperature was just right, nice and hot--which probably accounted for the cleanliness; most people were going to the adjoining pool, which was slightly cooler.

Of course, the main reason for going to the Mikve, at least for me, was for that wonderful Mikve shmiess you can't get anywhere else. News, gossip, sharp political analysis, general street-smart advice, it's all yours for only a dollar-fifty on a regular weekday (Fridays, three dollars; holiday eve, four). In recent years, I've had to make do with the HydePark forums, but you need the real thing every now and then.

Indeed, there was a serious discussion going on just as I descended the steps into the waters of the mikve, and I moved over to listen in. Since it wasn't in my regular shul, I didn't know the participants very well, so I stayed on the sidelines at first. Soon the discussion came around to the topic of the expansion of the Chasidic neighborhood.

“I hear the large house at the corner was put up for sale,” one man said while unrolling his very long beard, which had been tucked up in a knot. “Moishe Yitzchok got them to sell.”

“Oh, that's old news!” said another, scratching himself. “And it isn't Moishe Yitzchok's doing. I happen to know that his father-in-law's brother, who knows the goy well, was the one who convinced him.”

Azoi tzi azoi,” said the first, “they're leaving, and the chasidim are moving in, Burich Hashem. It won't be long," he said, shaking his head. He looked at me as if he'd been speaking to me all along. “It won't be long for the area to become one-hundred-percent Chasidish.”

A few murmurs were heard saying “Burich Hashem”, and the group fell silent. I took the opportunity for a dunk, and when I came up the discussion had already continued.

“You know the alte zoiker who lives in the red building?” said the guy with the long beard, which he was now combing with his fingers. “You know, the one who washes his car every shabbos morning--he's Jewish, by the way; oh, yes, I heard he came from a Chasidish family in Minkatch; that's probably why we're such a thorn in his side--anyway, I heard he's getting all the non-Chasidic neighbors together to strategize against the expansion of the Chasidim.”

Dismayed head-shakes all around. An older gentleman, his gray beard short but distinguished looking, looked over at us and nodded sagely. “It is a well-known halacha...”, he said. The group understood the rest. The Talmud says, it is a well known halacha that Esav hates Yakov, commonly understood by religious Jews to mean that anti-Semitism is so deeply ingrained in those who harbor it, that it is almost like second nature.

“They simply can't stand our success,” said long-beard. “It's simply envy. What, are we in their way? Do we bother them?”

“I don't know if it's envy,” I found myself interjecting, attempting a tone of hesitation that I hoped would portray me as simply trying to see both sides. “They feel their way of life is being threatened, and they’re afraid the character of the neighborhood is going to change."

All eyes turned toward me.

“But of course,” I added quickly so as not to seem completely out of whack with the consensus, “we have no choice. So we each do what we have to do.”

“How are they feeling threatened?” a few people asked in unison, perplexed.

“Well, they feel like we’re waiting for them to move, so they must feel that we’re not very friendly neighbors.”

“Who makes them feel that way?” the older gentleman said to me in a kindly voice, with a smile, as if he was talking to a child. “Nobody makes them feel that way. They feel that way, because that’s how they want to feel. They’re not happy we’re moving in. Is that our fault?”

I could’ve pointed out that moments before they all solemnly praised God for inspiring those neighbors to move. I could’ve pointed out that this attitude is surely not lost on the surrounding population, and it would be natural for them to resent it. But I didn’t. At times like these, when it is obvious my opinion will fall on deaf ears, I keep quiet. I think to myself, perhaps I’ve seen the other side enough. Perhaps it is now time to be a little more sympathetic toward my own.

Shoin gedavent?” the guy with the long beard asked as I got out of the Mikve. He was now rolling his beard back into a knot. He pointed to a side room with one hand while holding his beard up with the other. “M’shtelt zich yetzt Hoidi.”

Sunday, December 11, 2005

Lot and the Angels in Hipster Willi

Check this out! And for extra laughs read the comments there.

I'll leave the commentary and analysis to others.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Chasidim as Anthropology

Have you ever looked at a page, say, in a book or on a website or perhaps a bulletin board and had the feeling that you'd just seen your name or some other familiar word or phrase? You shake your head and think, did I just see my name somewhere? And then, especially if you're as obsessive-compulsives as I am, spend the next ten minutes trying to find what it was that caught your attention for that fleeting moment? Then you find it and it's just some similarly spelled name or phrase, or something of that sort. Well, that's been happening to me lately. A lot. I'm at Barnes and Noble checking the New Releases table, and I go, did I just see the words "Hasidic Rebel"? Ah, there it is. Oh, just another pile of books by Hella Winston. Whew! For a moment I thought somebody's finally written the book on me and my hidden life. But no, I guess that'll have to wait. And with Winston's book the talk-of-the-town, from the ultra-rebels to the ultra-apologists, this has been happening with increasing frequency.

But hey, I shouldn't complain. For listeners of Zev Brenner's radio show who have really sharp ears would've picked up that Ms. Winston was kind enough to mention me, oh, so briefly, at minute 43:27 of her interview with Zev. So, okay, no book, but I did get about a tenth of a second of real radio air time that wasn't part of a paid announcement.

The seeming ubiquity of the book, with all the Internet and print articles about it and the above mentioned radio show, finally drove me to go out and get it. I haven't finished reading it, so I'll save the comprehensive book review for another occasion. But my first impressions of the book itself were quite favorable. Certainly, Ms. Winston did quite an impressive job researching a universe that must have seemed so alien and unfriendly. And, for what I assume was meant as a doctoral dissertation, it’s an interesting read--not that I've read many dissertations, mind you; but I can't imagine curling up in bed with too many in that category. Then again, it's a work on sociology, which by definition involves examining people and their behaviors, a favorite pastime for professionals and lay people alike.

But there’s also a bothersome aspect to the book, and this is one area in which I share the sentiments of the average Chasid. It is hard to escape the feeling that we, as subjects of sociological studies and journalism projects, are being reduced to anthropological curiosities.

At times I wonder, would the academic or journalist have thought to befriend a Chasidic individual if he or she hadn’t first come in contact with one during the course of his or her work? Would one have invited a Chasidic acquaintance to join him for a beer, or to be his jogging partner? True, one might argue, and not unreasonably, that Chasidim just don’t give the impression that they’re interested in such gestures. But it’s hard to escape the feeling that outsiders look at Chasidim and see them as something other than normal humans. Besides, they might be surprised at the number of Chasidim who’d welcome an activity refreshingly different from the usual. And that’s what’s so frustrating about the academics who suddenly discover that Chasidim “are so much like the rest of us”.

A young friend of mine, who was raised in a typical Chasidic household but has by now left the frum world, told me he was recruited a few years ago, while still living as a chasid, for participation in an artistic project with a strong anthropological focus. His participation represented simply who he was: a chasid.

This friend had very much hoped to establish a friendship with those working on the project, and through them come to experience a little of the outside world. To his surprise, almost all of those, while always kind and couteous, seemed unready to see him as a friend. Ironically, only an individual on the periphery, a sort of crew member, who had little interest in the project or in its subject matter but was only functioning in a technical capacity, saw him simply as a human being and made his acquaintance based simply on mutual interests.

I am sure, or at least I’d hope, that Ms. Winston now has come to know many of the book’s subjects as friends. And of course, since I don’t know her, I wouldn’t make any judgment about her previous attitudes; as far as I know, she may have adored Chasidim for as long as she can remember and always wanted to be friends with them. But my point is that as interesting as Chasidim are as subjects for academia, and as much as endeavors such as these lead those involved to believe they’re genuinely interested in the human aspects, it would be refreshing to see just a genuine interest by outsiders toward members of the Chasidic community. An interest that is not necessarily going to result in a controversial book or a sensational piece of journalism. Just an interest for humanity’s sake. Is that too much to ask?

Monday, December 05, 2005

Knock, knock, knocking...

It’s a little over two years since I last posted, and something strange has happened: I finally got over my procrastination and I'm back to writing. Okay, it wasn't strictly procrastination; I've really been very busy. A demanding boss, equally demanding kids, hobbies, socializing, and, of course, thinking up new radical and rebellious ideas left me little time for concentrating my thoughts for the keyboard. Throughout this time, contrary to the rumors that I've been outed or feared being caught, I simply didn't have the time or energy to write. Regular readers from the past might remember the lively activity in the comments sections. Unable to resist participating in every one of those discussions, I was left drained.

But I'm back now. I can't say for how long or whether it will even go beyond this post. But I'm determined to give it another shot. I have decided on a few limitations, though, to help keep my sanity: I won't be answering as many emails as I had in the past; I won't be so heavily participating in the comments; and, most important of all, I will force myself to take an extended break after three or four months, after which I will re-examine whether or not to resume writing.

I’d love to put on humble airs, and say that I hope some people still remember this blog. But heck, who am I kidding? This was one of the first of its kind (at least in English; Katle Kanye’s masterful Yiddish writing preceded mine by a few years), and I still come across mention of it in various fora. But neither can I deny that many new blogs have come since (and some already gone), a number of them by authors whose writing skill has raised the bar and provides stiff competition for anyone attempting to join the ranks. In that respect I’m a newcomer, and I am grateful for the kindness of readers who find something fresh in my writings, and are perhaps tempted to revisit.

I will not be promoting the blog, as a low-key presence suits me just fine. A handful of appreciative readers is all I seek. Of course, should a wider audience find the writing appealing, or the ideas innovative and thought-provoking, I would be most gratified.

I have a number of topics under my bieber hit waiting to be formulated and further dissected by those interested. So please stay tuned. Hopefully, it won’t be long in coming.