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Freud Turns 150, Takes Seat on Bay Area Couch
By JOSH RICHMAN May 12, 2006
Taken from the Jewish Forward
SAN FRANCISCO — Sometimes a sesquicentennial is just a sesquicentennial.
And then sometimes it's a three-month-long series of movies, lectures and discussions, as it has been with the Jewish Community Center of San Francisco's "FreudFest," commemorating the 150th anniversary of the birth of the father of psychoanalysis.
A few-dozen staffers and members gathered in the JCC's three-story, sky-lit atrium May 5 to have some spice cake and sing their best wishes ("Happy birthday, dear Sigmund...") while perusing a selection of gifts for sale: Freudian slippers, "Freudian Sips" coffee mugs, Freudian slips adhesive notes, even Freud finger puppets (don't ask).
For the record, the cake was not shaped like a cigar, although cigars were present.
Yet such levity is but a small part of FreudFest, arguably the most extensive commemoration of Freud organized by any institution in the country so far this year. The program has offered more than 40 events examining the vast impact that Freudian concepts of the unconscious mind and psychosexual development have had on politics, business, literature, popular culture and other fields, not to mention mental health. Almost 67 years after his death, Freud looms large over 20th- and 21st-century thinking, and FreudFest has sought to explore how.
"It's a Freudian approach to Freud, which means we are projecting onto Freud things that we associate with him as a means of jumping off onto other things," said Rabbi Yoel Kahn, director of the JCC's Taube Center for Jewish Life. Kahn is a key organizer of FreudFest. "We had to stop just because of what we could afford, what we could organize. There were 101 other things we could have done."
The Society for Humanistic Judaism also has commemorated the anniversary of Freud's birth with lectures, discussions and ceremonies in congregations across the United States and Canada. The society's biennial conference last month in Cambridge, Mass., featured speeches by Catherine Reef, author of "Sigmund Freud: Pioneer of the Mind," and by noted San Francisco author and editor Al Averbach, who delivered a talk titled "All in the Family: Freud, Moses, Monotheism."
According to the society's executive director, M. Bonnie Cousens, large, enthusiastic crowds attended both speeches.
Much like Albert Einstein, whom the society celebrated in 2005, Freud is "somebody in history who has had not only an impact on us as humanists and as Jews, but on the world," Cousens said. "You see tremendous changes their ideas have made to the way we live our lives today. And if humanistic Judaism had existed in their world, we believe both would have embraced it."
Freud's focus on the individual and rejection of a supreme being makes him a timeless hero to humanists, Cousens said. "In a time when people clearly revolved around religious belief, he was prepared to stand up and say this might not be a valid system.
"But he then went further and developed this whole psychological system that so much of our current philosophy of psychology is built on. It has impacted our lives in so many ways and so many directions."
Freud's secular Judaism might have influenced him more than we — or he — could know, Kahn said. Though he described himself as a "completely godless Jew," Freud self-identified culturally as Jewish; he was, for example, an active member of B'nai B'rith.
Kahn suggested that any resistance Freud may have met in academia because of his heritage would have motivated him to push his work in new, groundbreaking directions — a pattern seen with Jewish inventors and thinkers down through the ages.
In fact, Freud once wrote to a colleague: "In my opinion, we as Jews, if we want to cooperate with other people, must develop a little masochism and be prepared to endure a certain amount of injustice. There is no other way. You may be sure that if I were called Oberhuber my new ideas would, despite all the other factors, have met with far less resistance."
Freud's work, his heritage and his influence were among the many themes that played out during FreudFest at the JCC in San Francisco.
Stanford biology and neurology professor Robert Sapolsky has lectured on the biology of individuality — how to make sense of behavior in the context of brains, genes and hormones. Psychologist and author Wendy Mogel spoke about using Jewish teachings to raise self-reliant, optimistic, grateful children in a nervous world. University of Chicago philosophy professor Jonathan Lear discussed Freud's critique of religion and the challenge of religious commitment in the 21st century.
The JCC screened such movies as "Secrets of a Soul," G.W. Pabst's 1926 expressionist film about a professor whose murderous nightmares and phobia of knives lead him to psychoanalysis, as well as Alfred Hitchcock's 1945 classic, "Spellbound," in which Ingrid Bergman plays a devoted therapist uncovering repressed memories from an amnesiac (Gregory Peck).
Author Vivian Gornick came to discuss the influence of psychoanalysis on her work, especially her acclaimed memoir "Fierce Attachments." San Francisco cantor and international vocal performer Sharon Jan Bernstein hosted "A Session at the Yiddish Piano Bar" featuring rare Yiddish songs on Freudian themes of loss, fantasy, mothers, pleasure, repression and sexual desire.
"We never expected the success we've had with this," said Lenore Naxon, director of the JCC's Eugene & Elinor Friend Center for the Arts, describing events that were planned for 15 but attracted 120.
Wendy Bear, director of the JCC's Richard & Rhoda Goldman Center for Adult Living & Learning, said she's not surprised. "It just resonates with the broader community," Bear said. "We did a lot of outreach, not just to the Jewish community but to a lot of different communities."
Part of that outreach was to community partners who helped organize some of the events, including the San Francisco Psychoanalytic Institute and Society, the University of California at San Francisco, the California Academy of Sciences, the San Francisco Jewish Film Festival, Jewish Family & Children's Service, Congregation Emanu-El and the Bureau of Jewish Education's Jewish Community Library.
And the best and biggest may be yet to come. Although Freud's birthday was May 6 — hence the celebration in the JCC's atrium ñ FreudFest actually will culminate with a full day of events Sunday, May 21. Keynoting with a talk on "Why Freud Haunts Us" will be California College of the Arts President Michael Roth, curator of a Freud exhibit several years ago that visited New York, Vienna, Los Angeles, São Paulo, Brazil, and Chicago. It was that earlier exhibit, organized by the Library of Congress, that inspired Kahn and others to start organizing FreudFest more than a year ago.
Other events scheduled for May 21 include Emory University's Sander Gilman speaking on "Freud's Nose Job: How the Jews Invented the Psyche," and Ira Glass — host and producer of National Public Radio's "This American Life" — in conversation with author and humorist David Rakoff on "The Talking Cure," an evening of Freudian themes. Kahn said the Glass/Rakoff event sold out quite some time ago.
"'This American Life' is the most Freudian radio show I can imagine — it's free association in the best possible productive way," Kahn said, noting that he, Glass and Rakoff have something in common: All their mothers were psychologists or psychiatrists.
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** Did you know that "Freud" is German for happiness/joy.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Monday, May 08, 2006
Freud Lives On
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This article was taken from Jewish World Review. www.JewishWorldReview.com
Man of our dreams
By Meghan Daum
Sigmund Freud was born 150 years ago Saturday. So, how do you and your mother feel about that?
Did you feel a strange electrical charge between your id, ego and superego Saturday? Interpreting the previous night's dreams with a little more gusto? Is the toaster looking especially fetching right about now, causing you to wonder if your polymorphous perversity extends to kitchen appliances?
Fear not. There's an explanation for all this subliminal activity. Saturday was the 150th birthday of Sigmund Freud, the sex-obsessed, Oedipal-complexed "father of psychoanalysis." Don't bother sending a card now, your unconscious mind already did that for you (and wouldn't you like to know what it wrote?).
Sure, certain feminists have always hated Freud for viewing women as deformed males. And, granted, he may have come up with the whole oral fixation concept as a way of rationalizing his 25-cigar-a-day habit, to which he remained committed even after having his malignant jaw removed ("rationalizing," by the way, is a Freudian concept, as is the line "sometimes a cigar is just a cigar" — though perhaps not when you eventually die of cancer).
But there can be no denying that when it comes to the way modern Westerners perceive ourselves, Freud was and is a very big deal.
If not for the contributions of the Shrinkus ex Machina, we would have been deprived of many of the ideas of Kafka and Proust, a great deal of the comedy of Woody Allen and possibly the entire career of Madonna. Freud, after all, is responsible for the modern concept of ego. Without ego, baby boomers would be identifiable only by their passports, and the state of California might not be here at all. Most disturbing, "Like a Virgin" would never have been written.
If you don't believe me, imagine a day without Freud. It would be like a day without immigrants, except with even more hassles because we would have no primal excuse for road rage, no occasion to blame our parents for our failed relationships and no chance to curse the anxieties brought on by our genitals.
We wouldn't even be able to conduct a conversation. Imagine fretting about work or dissecting a relationship without talking about defense mechanisms or repression.
How could we get out of bed in the morning without taking comfort in the fact that hitting the snooze button four times was simply a function of the id, and that those recurring dreams about freight trains have to do with our sexual prowess rather than … freight trains? Moreover, how could we justify gum chewing? Instead of being orally fixated, we'd have to admit we're just rude.
ALL THIS MEANS that a century and a half after his birth, Freud may be in the peculiar position of being both absurdly popular and not altogether recognizable. His legacy has become a manifestation of the very psychodynamics he defined: We often bandy his terms about without even realizing where they come from.
How else to explain the ubiquity of the term "anal," which is imparted by sneering teenagers as well as fastidious owners of muscle cars, many of whom wouldn't know Freud from Dr. Phil? How else to understand our obsession with Freudian slips, the pointing out of which has become tantamount to excusing ourselves after we sneeze?
In this sense, Freud is everywhere. He's in Hollywood story meetings where executives and writers gnash their teeth over "what drives the character." He's in courtrooms as attorneys search for criminal motives. He is, above all, in romantic relationships, where he looms over candlelit tables like a ghoulish chaperon.
No first date is complete without a subtle inquiry into the co-dater's relationship with the opposite-sex parent. No potential partner can be evaluated without considering the magnitude of his Oedipal complex (order of mother on speed dial), her penis envy (size of paycheck) and, most important, both parties' capacities for denial (willingness to overlook poor table manners, bad grammar or affinity for Celine Dion — at least temporarily).
All this might sound like little more than the mundane detritus of contemporary life; the lazy, nonspecific vernacular that allows us to believe we're being self-reflective when we're actually just speaking in cliches. But it's also Freud's legacy in action, the side of the couch to which most of us now tend to gravitate.
Traditional Freudian analysis (the kind that involves daily orations about childhood trauma with little input from the doctor, except a hefty bill), has been eclipsed by more user-friendly counsel (the kind where your therapist reminds you about the Barney's Warehouse sale).
We'd do well to raise a glass — or a cigar — to Dr. Freud. Without him, we wouldn't be in denial, we'd be in denial of our denial.
And that would require some serious therapy.
This article was taken from Jewish World Review. www.JewishWorldReview.com
Man of our dreams
By Meghan Daum
Sigmund Freud was born 150 years ago Saturday. So, how do you and your mother feel about that?
Did you feel a strange electrical charge between your id, ego and superego Saturday? Interpreting the previous night's dreams with a little more gusto? Is the toaster looking especially fetching right about now, causing you to wonder if your polymorphous perversity extends to kitchen appliances?
Fear not. There's an explanation for all this subliminal activity. Saturday was the 150th birthday of Sigmund Freud, the sex-obsessed, Oedipal-complexed "father of psychoanalysis." Don't bother sending a card now, your unconscious mind already did that for you (and wouldn't you like to know what it wrote?).
Sure, certain feminists have always hated Freud for viewing women as deformed males. And, granted, he may have come up with the whole oral fixation concept as a way of rationalizing his 25-cigar-a-day habit, to which he remained committed even after having his malignant jaw removed ("rationalizing," by the way, is a Freudian concept, as is the line "sometimes a cigar is just a cigar" — though perhaps not when you eventually die of cancer).
But there can be no denying that when it comes to the way modern Westerners perceive ourselves, Freud was and is a very big deal.
If not for the contributions of the Shrinkus ex Machina, we would have been deprived of many of the ideas of Kafka and Proust, a great deal of the comedy of Woody Allen and possibly the entire career of Madonna. Freud, after all, is responsible for the modern concept of ego. Without ego, baby boomers would be identifiable only by their passports, and the state of California might not be here at all. Most disturbing, "Like a Virgin" would never have been written.
If you don't believe me, imagine a day without Freud. It would be like a day without immigrants, except with even more hassles because we would have no primal excuse for road rage, no occasion to blame our parents for our failed relationships and no chance to curse the anxieties brought on by our genitals.
We wouldn't even be able to conduct a conversation. Imagine fretting about work or dissecting a relationship without talking about defense mechanisms or repression.
How could we get out of bed in the morning without taking comfort in the fact that hitting the snooze button four times was simply a function of the id, and that those recurring dreams about freight trains have to do with our sexual prowess rather than … freight trains? Moreover, how could we justify gum chewing? Instead of being orally fixated, we'd have to admit we're just rude.
ALL THIS MEANS that a century and a half after his birth, Freud may be in the peculiar position of being both absurdly popular and not altogether recognizable. His legacy has become a manifestation of the very psychodynamics he defined: We often bandy his terms about without even realizing where they come from.
How else to explain the ubiquity of the term "anal," which is imparted by sneering teenagers as well as fastidious owners of muscle cars, many of whom wouldn't know Freud from Dr. Phil? How else to understand our obsession with Freudian slips, the pointing out of which has become tantamount to excusing ourselves after we sneeze?
In this sense, Freud is everywhere. He's in Hollywood story meetings where executives and writers gnash their teeth over "what drives the character." He's in courtrooms as attorneys search for criminal motives. He is, above all, in romantic relationships, where he looms over candlelit tables like a ghoulish chaperon.
No first date is complete without a subtle inquiry into the co-dater's relationship with the opposite-sex parent. No potential partner can be evaluated without considering the magnitude of his Oedipal complex (order of mother on speed dial), her penis envy (size of paycheck) and, most important, both parties' capacities for denial (willingness to overlook poor table manners, bad grammar or affinity for Celine Dion — at least temporarily).
All this might sound like little more than the mundane detritus of contemporary life; the lazy, nonspecific vernacular that allows us to believe we're being self-reflective when we're actually just speaking in cliches. But it's also Freud's legacy in action, the side of the couch to which most of us now tend to gravitate.
Traditional Freudian analysis (the kind that involves daily orations about childhood trauma with little input from the doctor, except a hefty bill), has been eclipsed by more user-friendly counsel (the kind where your therapist reminds you about the Barney's Warehouse sale).
We'd do well to raise a glass — or a cigar — to Dr. Freud. Without him, we wouldn't be in denial, we'd be in denial of our denial.
And that would require some serious therapy.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Candle Consultants Wanted...or UP IN SMOKE!**
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Do you burn scented candles? Do you know 5 people who burn scented candles?
New natural wax/gourmet Candle Company is looking for distributors in your area. Our cleaner burning gourmet candles are a hit in the US and Canada.
We will teach you our “smell and sell” technique.
Training and support provided. Get started for less than $50.
Compensation: Earn up to 50% profit on retail sales
This was an ad on www.craigslist.com. Can you imagine applying for such a sales job? C'mon, how many people would get to learn the secret of the "smell and sell" technique? That alone is a drawing card.
Candles are popular items once again. I first got a scented candle for a birthday present when I was about 12. It was a cherry scented red candle that had a very cute holder that it sat in. Once in a while I'd want to light it, but if so, I couldn't enjoy its fragrance in my bedroom, but had to move the candle into the kitchen, where it was reasonably safer.
And these days, there's even a Candle of the Month Club. Hey, that's some special membership to have...not everyone has the privilege of saying, "I'm a member of the Candle of the Month Club in good standing."
Candle of the Month Club
Join the Candle-of-the-Month Club and each month you'll receive a new and unique selection of beautiful, richly scented candles guaranteed to impress even the most selective candle lover. We offer 3, 6, and 12-month clubs; a Candle of the Season Club with exquisite candles each Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter; and ongoing monthly clubs.
Order now and you’ll receive:
• Richly scented, premium candles delivered every month!
• Candle lovers newsletter with every shipment!
• FREE SHIPPING every month!
• Personalized gift announcement!
• 100% satisfaction guaranteed!
• Hassle Free - Our experts choose all monthly selections!
Give the Perfect Gift
Give the gift that keeps on giving!
The Candle of the Month Club is the perfect gift for any candle lover!
Only Premium, Highly-Scented Candles
Each month we feature only distinctive, highly scented candles with wonderful aromas and all natural ingredients. We pride ourselves in selecting only the best-of-the-best and you’ll notice the difference in every month.
100% Satisfaction Guaranteed
Your purchase is 100% unconditionally guaranteed. If for any reason you are ever unhappy with our service, you can cancel at any time– no questions asked!
I especially like that line: Give the gift that keeps on giving.
So people, why not take your pick: be a candle consultant, in turn becoming a candle connoisseur, or if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, and become a member of that in-group of candle-burning, candle-sniffing folks.
Mmmm, honey-berry, anyone? How about cinnamon spice? Can I hear it for lovely lavender...?
** Some more subtitles I thought of:
---You Light Up My Life
---Candle in the Wind
---C'mon, Baby, Light My Fire
--- An Old Flame Can't Hold a Candle to You (yes, this is really a country-western song title...a BAD song title)
---Burn that Candle (a Bill Haley composition)
And on top of those song titles, I found a winning one in the Eurovision Song Contest by Israel's Sarit Hadad. Here are the lyrics -- Hebrew and English -- to "Light a Candle":
Lif'amim nidme she'ein tikva
Vehakol nir'e kol kach afel velo yadu'a
Haprachim od lo parchu bagan ubasade
Uba'erev rak maka haru'ach
Az Bo'u venadlik beyachad ner, ner
Light a candle
Light a candle with me
A thousand candles in the dark
Will open our hearts
Light a candle
Light a candle with me
A thousand candles in the dark
Will open our hearts
Lif'amim nir'e sheHamachar
Lo yavi kol nechama labechi velatza'ar
Vehalaila Ha'aroch nimshach bli havtacha
Veha'afela chada kata'ar Az Bo'u venadlik beyachad ner, ner
Light a candle
Light a candle with me
A thousand candles in the dark
Will open our hearts
Light a candle
Light a candle with me
A thousand candles in the dark
Will open our hearts
Light all the candles
Let's light the candles everywhere
Just look at me and take my hand
The heat of love will grow again
Light a candle
Light a candle with me
A thousand candles in the dark
Will open our hearts
Light a candle
Light a candle with me
A thousand candles in the dark
Will open our hearts
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Pass My Dog a Tissue
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There's a saying: "You sneeze on the truth." I sneezed a few times as I was typing the title of this post. Does that mean anything?
I think Max has allergies. Sure he's always scratching near his ear, or worse, in his netherworld. But I don't mean that he has dermatitis (but yes, dogs do suffer from it), but I think he has a type of hay fever, some allergy to pollen or ragweed or whatever else shoots up from the earth when spring announces its arrival.
I tend to sneeze in sequences of 5; my sneezes are rather different, 'cause most people don't recognize them as sneezes -- "Was that a cough or a sneeze?" "A sneeze." "Okay, then bless you." (Listen, people, I need all the blessings I can get; you can bless me for a cough or a sneeze, makes no difference!)
Max sneezes in sequences of 5 too. But he's got those cute, doggie sneezes, and believe it or not, when I hear them, I say, "Bless you." Just habit, I guess.
We just came in from a brief walk and playtime in the yard, and whaddaya know, Max started to sneeze. He comes in from his nighttime walkabout, and whaddaya know, he sneezes!
What exactly, is this pup allergic to? The bark on trees, perhaps dogwood trees or Douglas furs (had to modify spelling a bit to keep with the theme, you understand!). We don't live near a marsh, so it can't be cattails that's got his nose itchin' and twitchin'. And there are no paw paw flowering trees around here. Or nuttail oak trees.
I can imagine giving my dog Flonase (TM) to cleanse his nasal passages, and having to feed him antihistamines to ward off the effects of springtime and Mother Nature.
Oh, and I musn't forget having to tote around Canine Cleanex wherever we go. Nu, so you think I can market doggie tissues under that brand name? C'mon, people, sneeze on the truth...and I'll bless you!
Friday, April 28, 2006
Urban Tumbleweed: A Poem
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This poem was written in early December 2004, while I was driving to work. (yes, at the red lights and stop signs, I wrote my catch phrases and polished them later; I've even written a children's picture book manuscript in that same way)
urban tumbleweed
plastic bags.
yellow...white...green
bearing logos of corner fruit markets,
designer gift shops and wholesome bakeries
toss about on the gray asphalt
or fly up in the air,
some clipping themselves on
naked tree branches
to pose as
brightly colored flags
flapping in the wind.
others --
they float high...and higher,
balloons without strings,
to the recycling station
in the sky.
This poem was written in early December 2004, while I was driving to work. (yes, at the red lights and stop signs, I wrote my catch phrases and polished them later; I've even written a children's picture book manuscript in that same way)
urban tumbleweed
plastic bags.
yellow...white...green
bearing logos of corner fruit markets,
designer gift shops and wholesome bakeries
toss about on the gray asphalt
or fly up in the air,
some clipping themselves on
naked tree branches
to pose as
brightly colored flags
flapping in the wind.
others --
they float high...and higher,
balloons without strings,
to the recycling station
in the sky.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Something from SLATE Magazine
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The following article was reprinted in our weekend newspaper, and I thought it was wonderful! Apparently, you can link to an audio version of this; click on the title of my post.
This Is My Last Entry: Why I Shut Down My Blog
By Sarah Hepola
Posted Wednesday, April 19, 2006, at 12:24 PM ET
One morning last month, I woke early, finished a book I'd been reading, and shut down my blog. I had kept the blog for nearly five years, using it as a repository for personal anecdotes, travelogues, and the occasional flight of fiction—all of which I hoped, eventually, might lead to a novel. And then, somewhere between the bedsheets and 6 a.m., I realized something: Blogging wasn't helping me write; it was keeping me from it.
I had come to this realization before, but the moment would pass, and I would find myself percolating with small, quotidian stories that I wanted to share: This funny thing happened on the subway; you'll never believe what so-and-so said. Not revelations by any means, but I live alone, and blogging was a way to vent the daily ups and downs that might otherwise be told to the cat. Also, I couldn't help but notice—even the cat couldn't help but notice—the growing number of successful bloggers-turned-novelists. They were sexy, dishy women with pseudonyms, Wonkette and Opinionista, like they were dispatching from behind enemy lines. I was starting to feel like the only one left in the blogosphere without a book deal.
Actually, agents and editors had contacted me before, based on my blog as well as the writing I did for an online magazine called TheMorningNews.org. At the time, I was living in Dallas, and to be e-mailed by an actual New York agent felt like the 21st-century equivalent of being discovered at the mall. The e-mails were flattering, but, ultimately, they all asked the same annoying question: Have you written a book? Apparently, this was a requirement. When I told them I hadn't, they moved on to the next blogger with potential, and I was left back in the mall where they'd found me, riffling through the sale at Hot Topic.
That is not a complaint. The arrival of such correspondence far exceeded my expectations when I started the blog in 2001, back when the word blog was still something you had to ease into conversation, like an obscure scientific term. I started the site at the beginning of a four-month trip to South America. I told only a handful of people, and the privacy of the blog—the illusion of privacy, that is—was the best thing I'd done for my writing since shelving the thesaurus.
Just prior to that, I'd been writing for an alt-weekly in Austin, Texas. What began as a great job had curdled into an anxiety nightmare. I would burn to write a certain profile and then, deadline looming, I would stare at the computer as another beautiful Saturday ticked away. I can remember crossing the street one night and thinking, absently, "If I got run over by a car, I wouldn't have to finish that story!" Don't get me wrong—I didn't want to die. I just wanted a really long extension. Thus my decision to leave the job. Thus my journey to the southern hemisphere. Thus the blog that I started, thinking no one would read it and secretly hoping they would. The blog was the perfect bluff for a self-conscious writer like me who yearned for the spotlight and then squinted in its glare. When I needed to pretend that people were reading, I could. When I needed to pretend that nobody was reading, I could. (For this reason, I never checked the reader stats on my blog, unlike most of my friends, who check it as regularly as their e-mail.)
Eventually, I began enjoying my writing again. I stopped worrying about deadlines, audience, editors, letters to the editor, all the stuff that had smothered me before. I was writing so fast that I didn't have time to double-think my sentence structure or my opinions. What came out was sloppier but also funnier and more honest. I started getting e-mails from people I'd never met, and they were actually encouraging. (At the paper, it seemed like most e-mails from strangers begin with a variant of "Hey, dumbass.") I continued blogging for years, through cities and jobs and relationships, and though the blog entries never amounted to much, they always gave me a fleeting joy, like conquering some small feat—opening a very difficult, tightly sealed jar—even when no one is around to see it.
And yet every once in a while those agents would check in, to ask how that book was coming. And the book wasn't coming, and wasn't coming, and I became one of those people who talk about a book but never write it. At times, I started to feel that jokes and scenarios and turns of phrase were my capital, and that my capital was limited, and each blog entry was scattering more of it to the wind, pissing away precious dollars and cents in the form of punch lines I could never use again, not without feeling like a hack. You know: "How sad. She stole that line from her own blog."
Blogging had been the ideal run-up to a novel, but it had also become a major distraction. I would sit down to start on my novel only to come up with five different blog entries. I thought of them as a little something-something to whet the palate—because it was easier, more immediately satisfying, because I could write it, and post it, and people would say nice things about it, and I could go to bed feeling satisfied. But then I would wake feeling less than accomplished because a blog wasn't a whole story told from beginning to end. I had shelves lined with other people's prose while my best efforts were buried on a Web site somewhere, underneath a lot of blah-blah about American Idol and my kitty cat.
I suspect I'll come back to blogging eventually. It will be something I quit on occasion, like whiskey and melted cheese, when the negative effects outweigh the benefits. Practically every blogger I know has taken their site down at some point—for personal reasons, for business reasons, for boredom reasons. It's no different from the way we have to turn off our cell phones or stop checking e-mail so that we can actually focus on something. As much as I loved writing online, it's a relief writing offline: taking time to let a story unspool, to massage a sentence over an afternoon's walk, to stew for days—weeks, even—on a plot line. What a modern luxury. Now, if I could just turn off the TV, I think I could finally get started.
Sarah Hepola is a freelance writer living in Brooklyn, New York.
The following article was reprinted in our weekend newspaper, and I thought it was wonderful! Apparently, you can link to an audio version of this; click on the title of my post.
This Is My Last Entry: Why I Shut Down My Blog
By Sarah Hepola
Posted Wednesday, April 19, 2006, at 12:24 PM ET
One morning last month, I woke early, finished a book I'd been reading, and shut down my blog. I had kept the blog for nearly five years, using it as a repository for personal anecdotes, travelogues, and the occasional flight of fiction—all of which I hoped, eventually, might lead to a novel. And then, somewhere between the bedsheets and 6 a.m., I realized something: Blogging wasn't helping me write; it was keeping me from it.
I had come to this realization before, but the moment would pass, and I would find myself percolating with small, quotidian stories that I wanted to share: This funny thing happened on the subway; you'll never believe what so-and-so said. Not revelations by any means, but I live alone, and blogging was a way to vent the daily ups and downs that might otherwise be told to the cat. Also, I couldn't help but notice—even the cat couldn't help but notice—the growing number of successful bloggers-turned-novelists. They were sexy, dishy women with pseudonyms, Wonkette and Opinionista, like they were dispatching from behind enemy lines. I was starting to feel like the only one left in the blogosphere without a book deal.
Actually, agents and editors had contacted me before, based on my blog as well as the writing I did for an online magazine called TheMorningNews.org. At the time, I was living in Dallas, and to be e-mailed by an actual New York agent felt like the 21st-century equivalent of being discovered at the mall. The e-mails were flattering, but, ultimately, they all asked the same annoying question: Have you written a book? Apparently, this was a requirement. When I told them I hadn't, they moved on to the next blogger with potential, and I was left back in the mall where they'd found me, riffling through the sale at Hot Topic.
That is not a complaint. The arrival of such correspondence far exceeded my expectations when I started the blog in 2001, back when the word blog was still something you had to ease into conversation, like an obscure scientific term. I started the site at the beginning of a four-month trip to South America. I told only a handful of people, and the privacy of the blog—the illusion of privacy, that is—was the best thing I'd done for my writing since shelving the thesaurus.
Just prior to that, I'd been writing for an alt-weekly in Austin, Texas. What began as a great job had curdled into an anxiety nightmare. I would burn to write a certain profile and then, deadline looming, I would stare at the computer as another beautiful Saturday ticked away. I can remember crossing the street one night and thinking, absently, "If I got run over by a car, I wouldn't have to finish that story!" Don't get me wrong—I didn't want to die. I just wanted a really long extension. Thus my decision to leave the job. Thus my journey to the southern hemisphere. Thus the blog that I started, thinking no one would read it and secretly hoping they would. The blog was the perfect bluff for a self-conscious writer like me who yearned for the spotlight and then squinted in its glare. When I needed to pretend that people were reading, I could. When I needed to pretend that nobody was reading, I could. (For this reason, I never checked the reader stats on my blog, unlike most of my friends, who check it as regularly as their e-mail.)
Eventually, I began enjoying my writing again. I stopped worrying about deadlines, audience, editors, letters to the editor, all the stuff that had smothered me before. I was writing so fast that I didn't have time to double-think my sentence structure or my opinions. What came out was sloppier but also funnier and more honest. I started getting e-mails from people I'd never met, and they were actually encouraging. (At the paper, it seemed like most e-mails from strangers begin with a variant of "Hey, dumbass.") I continued blogging for years, through cities and jobs and relationships, and though the blog entries never amounted to much, they always gave me a fleeting joy, like conquering some small feat—opening a very difficult, tightly sealed jar—even when no one is around to see it.
And yet every once in a while those agents would check in, to ask how that book was coming. And the book wasn't coming, and wasn't coming, and I became one of those people who talk about a book but never write it. At times, I started to feel that jokes and scenarios and turns of phrase were my capital, and that my capital was limited, and each blog entry was scattering more of it to the wind, pissing away precious dollars and cents in the form of punch lines I could never use again, not without feeling like a hack. You know: "How sad. She stole that line from her own blog."
Blogging had been the ideal run-up to a novel, but it had also become a major distraction. I would sit down to start on my novel only to come up with five different blog entries. I thought of them as a little something-something to whet the palate—because it was easier, more immediately satisfying, because I could write it, and post it, and people would say nice things about it, and I could go to bed feeling satisfied. But then I would wake feeling less than accomplished because a blog wasn't a whole story told from beginning to end. I had shelves lined with other people's prose while my best efforts were buried on a Web site somewhere, underneath a lot of blah-blah about American Idol and my kitty cat.
I suspect I'll come back to blogging eventually. It will be something I quit on occasion, like whiskey and melted cheese, when the negative effects outweigh the benefits. Practically every blogger I know has taken their site down at some point—for personal reasons, for business reasons, for boredom reasons. It's no different from the way we have to turn off our cell phones or stop checking e-mail so that we can actually focus on something. As much as I loved writing online, it's a relief writing offline: taking time to let a story unspool, to massage a sentence over an afternoon's walk, to stew for days—weeks, even—on a plot line. What a modern luxury. Now, if I could just turn off the TV, I think I could finally get started.
Sarah Hepola is a freelance writer living in Brooklyn, New York.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Yom Hashoah (A Day of Remembrance)
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I have written countless poems and fiction pieces over the years that have to do with the Holocaust. I wrote the following poem a few years ago, and thought it was fitting to share it with you today.
The Colors of My Rainbow
i.
A sunset.
Crimson sky
splattered with magenta
and hints of orange.
Then haze.
Smoke clouds rise,
then hover above,
obliterating beauty,
obliterating life.
ii.
The sky.
Cloudless.
Blue.
Like the techelet
of the tallit,
and the single blue thread
of the tzitzit.
A lone bird
flies overhead,
calling out for its mate.
iii.
A meadow.
Green.
The color of roots,
rebirth and regrowth.
Its sweet-smelling grasses
wave and beckon in the breeze.
iv.
Bright smiles.
Silly giggles.
Hushed whispers.
Gleeful shouts.
The aged man turns
to the children at his side
and says softly,
“Let me share with you
the colors of my rainbow…”
I have written countless poems and fiction pieces over the years that have to do with the Holocaust. I wrote the following poem a few years ago, and thought it was fitting to share it with you today.
The Colors of My Rainbow
i.
A sunset.
Crimson sky
splattered with magenta
and hints of orange.
Then haze.
Smoke clouds rise,
then hover above,
obliterating beauty,
obliterating life.
ii.
The sky.
Cloudless.
Blue.
Like the techelet
of the tallit,
and the single blue thread
of the tzitzit.
A lone bird
flies overhead,
calling out for its mate.
iii.
A meadow.
Green.
The color of roots,
rebirth and regrowth.
Its sweet-smelling grasses
wave and beckon in the breeze.
iv.
Bright smiles.
Silly giggles.
Hushed whispers.
Gleeful shouts.
The aged man turns
to the children at his side
and says softly,
“Let me share with you
the colors of my rainbow…”
Monday, April 24, 2006
(A) Eh to (Z) Zed Meme
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Nobody sent this meme to me, but I like it, so I sent it to myself!
Accent: Depends who you're asking. People always tell me I have one. They think I'm from Boston or New York or Montreal. I definitely pick up accents very easily, though.
Booze: I typically don't drink, but if I do, I like sweet drinks: Kahlua & Cream; a Golden Cadillac; drinks that taste like a milkshake but offer just a bit more OOMPH!
Chore I Hate: Cleaning the oven. (even though it's self-cleaning)
Dogs/Cats: Last year we had Tyson, a pug. This year we have Max, a Shih-Poo.
Essential Electronics: Alarm clock-radio; my computer.
Favorite Perfume/Cologne: Beautiful; Carolina Herrera; Nocturne
Gold & Silver: Gold, but I also like very contemporary and artistically designed silver.
Hometown: Toronto (but I own a Swiss passport that links me to Basel, Switzerland, too)
Insomnia: N-E-V-E-R (watch, tonight I'll suffer from it!)
Job Title:Recently unemployed copy editor.
Kids: Three.
Living Arrangements: Homeowner; single-family home
Most Admired Trait: My sincerity. (no, really...!)
Number of Sexual Partners: Only Dr. Ruth knows the answer to that one.
Overnight Hospital Stays: Yes, I've had a few. (and no, that's not the answer to the previous question!!)
Phobia: I'm afraid to say.
Quote:"I wish for you the dearest things..."
Religion: Jewish.
Siblings: 2 brothers.
Time I Usually Wake Up: 6:30 am
Unusual Talent: I analyze people rather succinctly and accurately.
Vegetable I Refuse To Eat: I love veggies.
Worst Habit: Often jumping right into a conversation without any lead-in to let the other person know what the hell I'm talking about. I also have a bad habit of not completing a thought 'cause I go off on a tangent when I'm talking. And then I forget my original intent of the point I was making.
X-Rays: Y not?
Yummy Foods I Make: Veggie (leek-broccoli) soup. Sweet-and sour meatballs. Matzoh balls. Caesar salad.
Zodiac Sign:Virgo/Libra. Yes, I'm a bit of both...a virgin that's harmonious!
Nobody sent this meme to me, but I like it, so I sent it to myself!
Accent: Depends who you're asking. People always tell me I have one. They think I'm from Boston or New York or Montreal. I definitely pick up accents very easily, though.
Booze: I typically don't drink, but if I do, I like sweet drinks: Kahlua & Cream; a Golden Cadillac; drinks that taste like a milkshake but offer just a bit more OOMPH!
Chore I Hate: Cleaning the oven. (even though it's self-cleaning)
Dogs/Cats: Last year we had Tyson, a pug. This year we have Max, a Shih-Poo.
Essential Electronics: Alarm clock-radio; my computer.
Favorite Perfume/Cologne: Beautiful; Carolina Herrera; Nocturne
Gold & Silver: Gold, but I also like very contemporary and artistically designed silver.
Hometown: Toronto (but I own a Swiss passport that links me to Basel, Switzerland, too)
Insomnia: N-E-V-E-R (watch, tonight I'll suffer from it!)
Job Title:Recently unemployed copy editor.
Kids: Three.
Living Arrangements: Homeowner; single-family home
Most Admired Trait: My sincerity. (no, really...!)
Number of Sexual Partners: Only Dr. Ruth knows the answer to that one.
Overnight Hospital Stays: Yes, I've had a few. (and no, that's not the answer to the previous question!!)
Phobia: I'm afraid to say.
Quote:"I wish for you the dearest things..."
Religion: Jewish.
Siblings: 2 brothers.
Time I Usually Wake Up: 6:30 am
Unusual Talent: I analyze people rather succinctly and accurately.
Vegetable I Refuse To Eat: I love veggies.
Worst Habit: Often jumping right into a conversation without any lead-in to let the other person know what the hell I'm talking about. I also have a bad habit of not completing a thought 'cause I go off on a tangent when I'm talking. And then I forget my original intent of the point I was making.
X-Rays: Y not?
Yummy Foods I Make: Veggie (leek-broccoli) soup. Sweet-and sour meatballs. Matzoh balls. Caesar salad.
Zodiac Sign:Virgo/Libra. Yes, I'm a bit of both...a virgin that's harmonious!
Monday, April 17, 2006
POSTscript
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When I posted and said that the romance with my job had fizzled after so many years, I was talking in wordplay.
I made my post sound rather vague and perhaps misleading...intentionally. Of course, having worked in the publishing world for so many years, and dealing primarily with romance fiction, my metaphors were intentional, too. Yes, the romance had fizzled out, and yes there was a lot of "It's not you, it's me" going on, but it wasn't I who walked out the door; I was shown the door.
Okay, there was some mutual dealings going on -- I didn't really want to be there anymore...it showed in my slipping work habits in the past several months...so they didn't want me.
I'd already wanted to be out of that romance bubble a long time ago, but continued to float along...and on that Tuesday, April 4, the bubble burst.
Now, I have to be honest here; I owe nobody any kind of explanation, but I want you to be aware of something...
My habit of staying up very late and blogging or e-mailing newfound blogger friends certainly did not help my concentration on my job. At first, I was handling it, and then during the day, the lack of sleep made me restless and not as alert as I could've/should've been.
Yes, I really had had my fill of this job for the last l...o....n....g while, but if you were to chart my performance trends turning downward, you'd see a direct correlation between the time I began to seriously blog and the time I was shown the door.
People have often said that blogging is not our life; no, it's not, but it has become a major aspect of mine. Maybe it was a factor in helping to close the door on my longtime job, but it has also opened many a door for me, business-wise, friendship-wise, and even creativity-wise. And I have a feeling that there are still a number of doors that are just waiting to be opened...
When I posted and said that the romance with my job had fizzled after so many years, I was talking in wordplay.
I made my post sound rather vague and perhaps misleading...intentionally. Of course, having worked in the publishing world for so many years, and dealing primarily with romance fiction, my metaphors were intentional, too. Yes, the romance had fizzled out, and yes there was a lot of "It's not you, it's me" going on, but it wasn't I who walked out the door; I was shown the door.
Okay, there was some mutual dealings going on -- I didn't really want to be there anymore...it showed in my slipping work habits in the past several months...so they didn't want me.
I'd already wanted to be out of that romance bubble a long time ago, but continued to float along...and on that Tuesday, April 4, the bubble burst.
Now, I have to be honest here; I owe nobody any kind of explanation, but I want you to be aware of something...
My habit of staying up very late and blogging or e-mailing newfound blogger friends certainly did not help my concentration on my job. At first, I was handling it, and then during the day, the lack of sleep made me restless and not as alert as I could've/should've been.
Yes, I really had had my fill of this job for the last l...o....n....g while, but if you were to chart my performance trends turning downward, you'd see a direct correlation between the time I began to seriously blog and the time I was shown the door.
People have often said that blogging is not our life; no, it's not, but it has become a major aspect of mine. Maybe it was a factor in helping to close the door on my longtime job, but it has also opened many a door for me, business-wise, friendship-wise, and even creativity-wise. And I have a feeling that there are still a number of doors that are just waiting to be opened...
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Passover... The Circle of Life
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Passover is one of those "family" holidays -- eat, drink, sing, read, sleep, eat, drink, sing, read, sleep...and somewhere in the scenario is synagogue and visiting...oh, of course, and MORE EATING.
But Passover is one of those "family" holidays that is based on memory. As we sit in our homes conducting seders and hosting guests, or sit as guests at other seders in other homes, we remember.
We remember the story of the Exodus, and in reading the Haggadah, are retelling the story. Okay, not all of us are actually old enough to remember the actual Exodus, but some of us feel like we were there...or there are so many people who have experienced their own personal exodus--within their families, within their countries and culture.
We remember the seders of years past -- the grandparents and long-gone relatives and the customs they upheld; the sights, sounds and tastes of our seders of yesteryear.
And oftentimes, we remember to give thanks when and if we are all together again for seder. My father and mother joined us for the second seder. A month ago, my father lay in a hospital bed, and we thought it was the end of of him, or at least as we know him. People all over blogland and beyond were praying for his well-being.
When my father and mother arrived on Thursday night at our home, and my father began to climb the many stairs that lead up to my front door, I was elated. I called out that my father should say a "Shehecheyanu"; I knew that I was saying a silent one and meaning it. I was more than thankful that my father and mother were able to join us yet again for seder, that my father was able to partake in the rituals and read portions of the Haggadah to us in his 1920's cheder Hebrew. It was I as a child who would laugh at his foreign-to-me Hebrew pronounciation; it was now my daughter who was laughing at his pronounciation. It was now my two sons who were finding funny-sounding words when they were reading from the Haggadah, and laughing hysterically at the same spots in the Haggadah on both seder nights. And it was me, remembering how I did the same as a child.
Seder = order.
Order = details.
Details = memory.
Memory = family.
Family = holidays.
Holidays = eating.
Eating + Family + Drinking + Reading + Sleeping + Synagogue (repeat) = Passover.
The Circle of Life.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Aha...Foiled Again!
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Hey, don't Passover me,
do lend me an eye
'cause if you don't, might just mean
I'll have to start to cry...
*******************************
...so you had a bad day
the knaidels didn't rise
onion juice is
in your eyes...
*******************************
Red, red wine
goes to my head
imagine, in lieu of one
there are now four cups instead...
*************************************
Day-o, day, day day-o
daylight come and me wanna go
back to sleep
(after all, our seders ran very late last night)...
********************************************
Once again I reiterate: Happy Passover to blogging friends near and far. Enjoy your families, enjoy your friends, enjoy your congregations, enjoy your experience -- as if you came out of Egypt, like your forefathers did.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Seder for Bloggers
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I have "met" so many new people in the past year-plus of blogging. We are a multi-colored band of people, with varied beliefs, various levels of belief, but our differences make our interactions that much more interesting, that much more unexpected at times.
I propose that we have a Pesach seder for bloggers. In a recent personal correspondence with Danny Miller, he said, "Too bad we can't have a bloggers' seder!"
Danny, is it too bad? Who says it can't be done? It can...
I recommend we have a cyberspace seder...somehow -- and I know some of us will need to use a Shabbos goy to do this -- we all link up from our own homes or wherever else we're having a seder and combine our efforts.
Okay, so a cyberspace seder is not an original idea. Temple Emanuel in NYC already had the idea. And I'm sure there are bloggers out there who are, in fact, hosting bloggers' seders.
Seder = order. Okay, so with bloggers galore around the world all vying for "airtime", perhaps there won't be so much order, but wouldn't it be nice if perhaps:
A Simple Jew would make kiddush.
Ezzie, together with baby Elianna, would sing "Ma Nishtana," the Four Questions, and Cruisin' Mom who, although is 50 in years, is truly 12 years old at heart, would sing it at the same time. (okay, all Orthodox men would have to cover their ears)
When it comes to talking about the four sons, Robert Avrech would read about the wise son.
Any wicked son takers?
Jack could read about the simple son. And no doubt, in his recitation, he'd throw Cleveland in there somehow -- where it talks about G-d taking out of Egypt with a strong hand and freeing us from being slaves. I think he'd add "Cleveland" in there! AND he'd stick Stacey in there, too, ie. freed Stacey from being a slave!
And Jeremiah could read about the son who doesn't yet understand enough to ask questions.
The Ten Plagues could be read by TenLiKoach...just because "ten" is also in her blog's name.
Everybody, everywhere, would sing "Dayenu" together, and we could add a phrase about "If Hashem had given us computers, but had not made us bloggers, it would have been enough for us! If Hashem had made us bloggers, but had not made our cyberpaths cross, it would have been enough for us!"
In general, we would each read from the Haggadah in the language of our choice: American English, Queen's English, Hebrew, Swiss-German, etc. Everyone would take a turn reading from the Haggadah as we worked our way around the room -- um, I mean globe. And if anyone needed any translations, we'd have Sophia on hand to help you out.
And new niggunim/tunes would be taught to us by PsychoToddler and Life of Rubin.
We would, of course, have further discussions given on certain points that we are reading...with some jokes and wonderful stories thrown in for good measure.
And we have a couple of fine doctors who, during the course of the meal, would talk about matzah and how to avoid a backup problem; and eggs, and how to avoid high cholesterol. And their friend Ralphie who would talk about garden sheds and raccoons, and window screens and whales vs. dolphins.
And of course, there would be a kids' table -- many of us bloggers do have children. And there'd be a dogs' table. And a sweet table, open for dessert. (Sweettooth120, why can't I link to you anymore?)
And speaking about dessert, could you imagine the menu that a cyberspace, international seder like ours would have? I'll tell you what, I'll be responsible for the matzoh balls and the gefilte fish. Everyone else, it's a potluck seder...
So, people...this year our seder will be in cyberspace. Next Year in Jerusalem!
Wishing you all a very happy, healthy (& Kosher) Passover. Chag Pesach Kasher v'Sameyach.
I have "met" so many new people in the past year-plus of blogging. We are a multi-colored band of people, with varied beliefs, various levels of belief, but our differences make our interactions that much more interesting, that much more unexpected at times.
I propose that we have a Pesach seder for bloggers. In a recent personal correspondence with Danny Miller, he said, "Too bad we can't have a bloggers' seder!"
Danny, is it too bad? Who says it can't be done? It can...
I recommend we have a cyberspace seder...somehow -- and I know some of us will need to use a Shabbos goy to do this -- we all link up from our own homes or wherever else we're having a seder and combine our efforts.
Okay, so a cyberspace seder is not an original idea. Temple Emanuel in NYC already had the idea. And I'm sure there are bloggers out there who are, in fact, hosting bloggers' seders.
Seder = order. Okay, so with bloggers galore around the world all vying for "airtime", perhaps there won't be so much order, but wouldn't it be nice if perhaps:
A Simple Jew would make kiddush.
Ezzie, together with baby Elianna, would sing "Ma Nishtana," the Four Questions, and Cruisin' Mom who, although is 50 in years, is truly 12 years old at heart, would sing it at the same time. (okay, all Orthodox men would have to cover their ears)
When it comes to talking about the four sons, Robert Avrech would read about the wise son.
Any wicked son takers?
Jack could read about the simple son. And no doubt, in his recitation, he'd throw Cleveland in there somehow -- where it talks about G-d taking out of Egypt with a strong hand and freeing us from being slaves. I think he'd add "Cleveland" in there! AND he'd stick Stacey in there, too, ie. freed Stacey from being a slave!
And Jeremiah could read about the son who doesn't yet understand enough to ask questions.
The Ten Plagues could be read by TenLiKoach...just because "ten" is also in her blog's name.
Everybody, everywhere, would sing "Dayenu" together, and we could add a phrase about "If Hashem had given us computers, but had not made us bloggers, it would have been enough for us! If Hashem had made us bloggers, but had not made our cyberpaths cross, it would have been enough for us!"
In general, we would each read from the Haggadah in the language of our choice: American English, Queen's English, Hebrew, Swiss-German, etc. Everyone would take a turn reading from the Haggadah as we worked our way around the room -- um, I mean globe. And if anyone needed any translations, we'd have Sophia on hand to help you out.
And new niggunim/tunes would be taught to us by PsychoToddler and Life of Rubin.
We would, of course, have further discussions given on certain points that we are reading...with some jokes and wonderful stories thrown in for good measure.
And we have a couple of fine doctors who, during the course of the meal, would talk about matzah and how to avoid a backup problem; and eggs, and how to avoid high cholesterol. And their friend Ralphie who would talk about garden sheds and raccoons, and window screens and whales vs. dolphins.
And of course, there would be a kids' table -- many of us bloggers do have children. And there'd be a dogs' table. And a sweet table, open for dessert. (Sweettooth120, why can't I link to you anymore?)
And speaking about dessert, could you imagine the menu that a cyberspace, international seder like ours would have? I'll tell you what, I'll be responsible for the matzoh balls and the gefilte fish. Everyone else, it's a potluck seder...
So, people...this year our seder will be in cyberspace. Next Year in Jerusalem!
Wishing you all a very happy, healthy (& Kosher) Passover. Chag Pesach Kasher v'Sameyach.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Rest. Think. Write.
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Those were my friend Robert Avrech's words to me. He gave me that advice when I told him that the romance with my company had fizzled out and we'd broken up. I guess there was some of "it's not you, it's me" that led to the breakup. Oh, well, the relationship was nice enough for the most part, as long as it lasted -- 18+ years.
I took Robert's advice.
I was really tired yesterday evening, so I rested.
I've been thinking about the breakup.
And I'm writing about it in this post.
******
You will note that the accompanying photo has really nothing to do with this post. I just saw it and it made me smile.
I will therefore want to make an addendum to Robert's advice and thus this post's title:
Rest. Think. Write. Smile.
Monday, April 03, 2006
The Hebrew Kid Rides Again
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Tomorrow is April 4.
Tomorrow, Robert Avrech, half of the publishing team behind Seraphic Press, will have his debut novel, The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden, re-released in paperback form.
Okay, I'm biased. I like this book. I've written about this book before. I'm writing about it again.
Seek it out for yourself. Seek it out to give as a gift. Seek it out...just because.
It's a captivating story -- featuring some great writing from a Hollywood screenwriter-- that endears itself to its readers, both young and old.
Buy it. Read it. Talk about it.
Ariel and Lozen will thank you. Mama and Papa will thank you. And Karen and Robert will thank you.
Tomorrow is April 4.
Tomorrow, Robert Avrech, half of the publishing team behind Seraphic Press, will have his debut novel, The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden, re-released in paperback form.
Okay, I'm biased. I like this book. I've written about this book before. I'm writing about it again.
Seek it out for yourself. Seek it out to give as a gift. Seek it out...just because.
It's a captivating story -- featuring some great writing from a Hollywood screenwriter-- that endears itself to its readers, both young and old.
Buy it. Read it. Talk about it.
Ariel and Lozen will thank you. Mama and Papa will thank you. And Karen and Robert will thank you.
QUiNn cUmMiNgs
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Quinn Cummings. Two words.
Former child star. Presently a mom. And businesswoman.
And funny, funny gal.
Drop in to say hello to "the goodbye girl." After all, she's part of the [blogging] "family."
Quinn Cummings. Two words.
Former child star. Presently a mom. And businesswoman.
And funny, funny gal.
Drop in to say hello to "the goodbye girl." After all, she's part of the [blogging] "family."
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Ya Ya Yiddish!!
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I LOVE YIDDISH.
There, I've said it.
Interestingly enough, I've always thought it to be the most beautiful language in the world because of our cultural history that is translated through its vocabulary. A vocabulary that cannot, in fact, always be translated to English. Some of the words and expressions work in this Germanic/Hebrew mother tongue, but one grasps for the words in English with which to define.
And believe me when I say "Lost in Translation" means much more than an offbeat film title featuring Bill Murray.
Not too long ago I worked on a freelance project -- a book featuring Yiddish curses. OY, OY, and a triple OY. To think that people in the old country -- and new! -- actually threw around some of these wonderful witty sayings is beyond me. Here is a sampling of some of the types of curses people threw/still throw around.
My father, who comes from shtetl-town Poland, hadn't even heard some of the expressions that I questioned him about. He explained that many would be 1) either REALLY old and not in use anymore or 2) they were particular to regions and not widely used
When I surf the Net or seek particular info, I often stumble upon wonderful Web sites that I normally wouldn't read about or hear about.
Tonight, lucky me discovered this site -- and as I was doing other computer work, I listened to bits and pieces of offered radio programs, listed in the GEMS column. I was smiling the whole time.
For me, it's a world gone by that's being depicted. The language has survived, but many of its people have not, which is bittersweet.
Please take a moment to check out the Yiddish Radio Project. Just tell them your Yiddishe Mama sent you...
And for those inquiring minds...no, I never learned Yiddish; my knowledge is pretty good, but it's based on what I've picked up while listening to others speak it. When I open my mouth to speak what I think is German or Swiss, I'm told it's Yiddish I'm speaking.
The Times, They Are A-Changin', aka Spring Forward
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Hope you all remembered to walk around your house or your apartment and change your clocks...one hour ahead. Don't forget to do the same on your wristwatches and in your cars!
It's after 2:00 a.m. in Toronto -- that's 3:00 a.m. NEW TIME. I'd better get to sleep....
Sitcom City
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I really never watch TV anymore...I'm busy with other things, namely family life -- and computer life. And I know that TV is not what it once was. Reality show after reality show permeate the channels.
Who needs reality TV when...you have real life to contend with? Watch A Birth Story or A Wedding Story or Life in the E.R. Such are reality stories worth watching.
Give me back the sitcoms of my early (1960's) childhood! Okay, today I would deem them VERY STUPID for the most part, but remember, I was innocent then, and almost anything made me laugh.
So for old times' sake, I'm gonna name-drop a bit. See if you remember these...
Petticoat Junction
The Beverly Hillbillies
Green Acres
The Mothers-in-Law
Gilligan's Island
My Three Sons
The Monkees
Hogan's Heroes
I Dream of Jeannie
The Courtship of Eddie's Father
Julia
Bridget Loves Bernie
That Girl!
Bewitched
My Favorite Martian
Gomer Pyle
Andy of Mayberry
The Munsters
I Love Lucy
I really never watch TV anymore...I'm busy with other things, namely family life -- and computer life. And I know that TV is not what it once was. Reality show after reality show permeate the channels.
Who needs reality TV when...you have real life to contend with? Watch A Birth Story or A Wedding Story or Life in the E.R. Such are reality stories worth watching.
Give me back the sitcoms of my early (1960's) childhood! Okay, today I would deem them VERY STUPID for the most part, but remember, I was innocent then, and almost anything made me laugh.
So for old times' sake, I'm gonna name-drop a bit. See if you remember these...
Petticoat Junction
The Beverly Hillbillies
Green Acres
The Mothers-in-Law
Gilligan's Island
My Three Sons
The Monkees
Hogan's Heroes
I Dream of Jeannie
The Courtship of Eddie's Father
Julia
Bridget Loves Bernie
That Girl!
Bewitched
My Favorite Martian
Gomer Pyle
Andy of Mayberry
The Munsters
I Love Lucy
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