Deityblog

I can't believe it's been over two years already since my aunt,
Enid Dame, feminist midrashic poet and all-around tzadeket,
went on to better worlds. For more.

Breathe in.
The strength to breathe in you.
Your still, small voice containing the intensity of realities as yet unfound.

Beginning at Malchut--consciousness of majesty in you, pride and spirit.
You knew it wasn't going to be easy to the anti-heroine in a world so easy to dismiss.
You fought. And the battles never ended, would never end.

Breathe in. Breathe up and into Yesod--foundation.
Legacy from your parents, from a dynasty that began with Lilith and becomes ever more eternal the more it is felt--Netzach.
And Hod, the splendor that balances where we come from with where we're going.
But we never truly go.

Breathe in Binah--intuition.
The internal energy that moved you, the link between you and me and always.
I wanted to express how much I knew, I wanted to know more.
You sent me books about Jewish women--maybe you thought I was repressed.

You are--inspiration--Chochma, the external intelligence that penetrates, that reverberates, renews.
I am left with your creations, and the Daat--intimacy, that binds me to you forever, to understanding you now as I never did then.

Further, breathing into Chesed--the air flowing through rivers of kindness, of generosity, of giving spirit.
Echoing how much you gave--beyond the limits of Gevurah, brought together in the Tiferet of the integrated you.

Enid Dame. My Aunt Enid.
Poet, dreamer, and madwoman.
Lover of justice, of ideas, of my grandparents, of creation and cats.
Now united with Keter--the crown of holiness that transcends all branches of being.

I breathe you all in, and I am staggered by your fullness.
You are Yetta Sarah bat Tova Shaindel, Aleha L'Shalom.
You are.
At your last breath, the sefirot you embodied were released.
Now it is our lifelong task to reflect them back up to you,
With love.

Ah.....isn't this much better?

if you visit here, you have to leave a comment--come on people--Rosie the Riveter in tefillin? A play? I'm getting better here, and I want some damn feedback from the 5 people who ever read this. I can demand that of you, and I'm doing it. Don't make me tell you again.

I'm waiting.

20 Plays in 90 Minutes
Join us for an eclectic, unique one-page play review to name a shomer shabbat theater company.
I'm doing some acting, writing, and directing for this noble effort, co-sponsored by Jewschool and YourSpark.com.
To get an idea, here are some sample titles of pieces included in the review:
A Match Made In...
Sarah Lieberman, Meet Jesus
Strange Worship
Elijah in Central Park
Confession...
and much more.

Baltimore performance: Sunday, January 8. Meyerhoff Arts Center, Goucher College. $5. 3 pm. More info, contact Itta: iengland@hotmail.com

NYC performance: Sunday, January 15. Chabad Loft, 182 5th Ave (btw. 2nd & 23rd), 2nd floor. $5. 6 pm. More info, contact Yishai: allisvain@gmail.com

c/o Danya + Mobius

It's for an upcoming one-page play festival that I'm doing some directing, acting, and apparently writing for.

A Match Made in…..
A girl a guy sit side by side facing the audience. Halfway through, they turn to one another.

GUY: So I’m back in town for a few days, and my mom tells me about this girl she wants me to go out with. Such a Jewish mom, always trying to set me up, but whatever, she means well. So this girl sounds good, she’s about my age—23, which is a little young to start dating seriously, in my opinion, but whatever. My mom says she’s religious. Hey, that’s fine. We can go to shul and light candles on Friday night. It’ll be nice. You can get kosher Taco Bell, right?
GIRL: Everyone seems to think that because I’m 23 and not married, it’s never going to happen. Apparently I’m “damaged goods.” They tell me about this guy who’s a bit modern, but nice and relatives with a good family. Whatever, fine, I said, I’ll go if it’ll make you stop talking about how hopelessly single I am.
GUY: So I call her up, and she sounds nice on the phone. She wants to meet me in the lobby of some hotel. This seems a little forward to me, especially for a religious girl, but hey, I’m going to say no?
GIRL: We meet at the hotel, and he tries to throw me off by offering to shake hands. So he’s got a good sense of humor.
GUY: When she comes in, she totally blows off my handshake, which was weird. But I can tell from the start this girl is pure class. With those pointy shoes and everything. (turns to her) So, what do you do?
GIRL: I’m an occupational therapist. But I’d be willing to stay at home for a few years when the kids are young.
GUY: Okay, whoa, a little too much information there.
GIRL: So, where did you go in Israel?
GUY: Israel? Oh, that was fun. I went a few years ago, did the usual stuff…Masada, the Western Wall, the Dead Sea. Did you go to Israel too?
GIRL: Yeah. Michlala. (to audience) I liked how he kept joking, showing the hypocrisy of the high-powered shidduch system. I hope he didn’t think I was being totally nerdy.
GUY: So, um…
GIRL: I think you should know that I don’t wear denim skirts.
GUY: Excuse me?
GIRL: Yeah. They’re just too modern for me. So tell me--what about movies?
GUY: Personally, I’m a big fan of the Rocky series. But then, there’s also Lord of the Rings. And Spaceballs! Come on, tell me you don’t like Spaceballs.
(awkward pause)
GIRL: Well, I guess that answers my question.
GUY: So….you want to….head upstairs?
GIRL: What’s upstairs?
GUY: You tell me—it was your idea to meet here.
GIRL: What are you saying?
GUY: What? Nothing. I just thought--(gestures upstairs, turns head, we can see he’s not wearing a kipah. GIRL gasps audibly.)
GIRL: You—you’re not—
GUY: What? What did I say?
GIRL: You’re not frum!
GUY: From where?
GIRL (starts to cry): Oh, I just can’t believe this.
GUY: No, don’t cry. I’m really sorry, I just don’t know what I did.
GIRL: It’s nothing personal. I just can’t believe they thought I would want to marry you. I need to leave—now.
GUY: Marry me? Whoa, hold on a minute there. Who said anything about marriage? What the hell is going on? I gotta get out of here. Is this how you religious people do things? Marriage on the first date?
GIRL: Is this how you people do things? “Going upstairs”?? Jerk!
GUY: Psycho!
GIRL: I’m leaving!
GUY: Have a nice life!

(They both turn and stomp toward the exits, then pause and turn.)

GUY: So, I’ll call you?
GIRL: I’d like that.


END.

i'm not (yet) addicted, but myspace sure is fun.

This kid over here looks like Al Franken.
Only two bathrooms on the whole train, and no cafe service.
Fifteen college freshmen flank me on all sides.
Homeward at the end of Thanksgiving weekend.
Thanks giving way to loathing at the week ahead.
Responsibilities, uncomfortabilities, drudgery of a computer screen and forced smiles.
I work at a non-profit. It puts the non in.
We do theater for social change, like
the change in our teen audience's faces when we change their lives.
Somewhere between boredom and pity.

a kid says "where my ticket?"
Holy crap, where is this kid's ticket?
I look up--what's going on? Did one of these kids just say my name?
I like them, I wish I had had friends like them when I was in college.
They're nerdy and quirky and funny and cool. I can tell.
From across the aisle, I'm an excellent judge of character--
it's when I get to know you that I change my mind.

He found his ticket. God bless him, Little Al Franken.
I wonder where these kids go to school. What they're majoring in,
if they're happy.
If I would've been happy if my dreams of a normal college experience hadn't been abandoned and aborted by logistics and the logic of necessary evils.
My mind wanters on, musing over nonexistent roommates and a dorm life that failed to materialize.

I wonder if these kids like themselves,
and curse myself for being across the aisle from perfect post-adolescence,
careened into adulthood without taking a breath to be more stupid,
teenage, free.

Now I have to care about too many things.
I work in non-profit. I write grants.
I go to meetings.
I'll never own an Ipod Nano.

This knowledge hurts. When did I go from almost being one of these kids to being the weirdo adult writing bad poetry about them from across the aisle?

It's humiliating.
It's demoralizing.
It makes me dread the future.
I feel old and washed up at 22, because I couldn't afford the dorm and commuted to campus, because I fell in love and got married at 21, because I'm obsessed with my cats and cleaning out the goddamn refrigerator.
I'm old! I'm a 22 year old yuppie, I'm a never-was-has-been surrounded by people who take themselves too seriously.

I'm history.

I close my eyes. Open them.
Al Franken is staring at me. We grin at what the skinny kid with the pseudo-cool ripped jeans just said:
"I don't want to worry about social networking when I'm enjoying my football."

Al and I crack up. It's a beautiful moment.
Bottled water gets up my nose.
he puts the earpiece of his Ipod back in,
and I settle into my pseudo-adult sleep,
glad I don't have a paper due, ever.
Glad I can reach across the aisle once in awhile,
and that I have no business calling myself an adult.