Winter Musings: Am K'shay Choref

“…. I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity…"
(W. Wordsworth 1770-1850, from Lines Composed A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey, 1798)

If you happen to be in the Detroit Area and traveling along Telegraph Rd. on any given Saturday morning, let’s say around 5:00 am, you’d likely see some idiot standing along the side of the road with a thermos in hand, sipping what you would suspect to be whiskey, but is, in fact, 100% Colombian coffee. That idiot is none other than me (look for the gray beret.) On a typical winter weekend morning, for example, I will get up out of bed (or more likely off the sofa), don a fleece-lined jogging suit, wrap a trench coat over that, and walk the mile or so to the corner 7-11 for my daily caffeine fix. I have a new coffee machine in the kitchen and a dependable car in the driveway, but that’s not the point. It’s not about the coffee.

Yeah. I know. I’m a long way off from what’s commonly considered as normal. So what else is new? Though I would rather not have to subsist under such wintry conditions on a permanent or even consistent basis, the occasional severe Arctic blast does little to subdue my normal level of Bohemian enthusiasm. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t like to downhill or cross-country ski, snowmobile, ice-fish, hunt, nor do I plan on climbing Mt. Everest. I’m not the kind of person to seek out super-human tests of mettle or physical endurance, though I have had to run Nature’s gauntlet a few times in the past (with limited success I might add.) That’s not my thing. I just like the feel of Nature at its relatively most intense, though perhaps if only for just a little while. It is enough for me to watch it from within and I have no intention of deliberately trying to fight it.

There are many reasons that I enjoy winter. I like the feel of the cold wind on my face, the ice that builds up in my beard, the fresh cool air in my lungs, the way that everything has to slow down just a little bit, and how the snow muffles the din of city life. I really like the intense cold because those are the days I get the world to myself, since 95% of our local populace stays tucked away inside their homes, drinking hot chocolate (with marshmallows and peppermint schnapps if they’re smart) and wishing for summertime to hurry up and defrost the planet. Extreme weather also tends to bring out those few likeminded lunatics who actually and truly enjoy this kind of weather. The only people you catch outdoors in a blizzard (or any other storm), without a practical or purposeful reason, are those who simply enjoy the feel of it, and on rare occasions I find someone just as mentally unbalanced as I am to stand out in the middle of it and make conversation. Since there are less than a few of such characters in my neighborhood, the streets remain relatively quiet in the early hours; at least more so than usual.

Crime goes way down in the winter, too; the criminals don’t like the cold. My father o’h used to say that there are two times of year when the city is generally safe, the coldest part of winter and the hottest part of summer. “The shkutzim don’t leave the house in winter, and don’t leave the porch in the summer”, he used to say. The cold, snow, wind, and ice also remind me of how so many others, human and animal, live their entire lives under these harsh conditions and fare quite well. It gives us insight into what is viable and what is not. Winter is also the resting period for much of Nature, saving its energy and gathering strength for the impending springtime, like a weightlifter taking deep, relaxing breaths before a competition.

Most importantly, my morning march for coffee in the bitter cold reconnects me with literature and history. The bodily sensations that accompany winter’s barbarity bring to mind the novels of Jack London or the poetry of Robert Service, and I catch myself following Dr. Zhivago across the Siberian Taiga. I think about the defeated legions of Napoleon’s Grand Armée, battered and beaten by the cruel Russian Winter, trudging through waist-deep snow and frozen mud in an attempt to escape their vengeance-bent Slavic pursuers. One shudders to think how horrible that experience must have been; to not have adequate clothing, to not have shelter or warmth, to witness your friends and comrades dying all around you, and to be dogged every step of the way on your retreat by a people who thrive in the conditions that are now hampering the route to home and its long awaited comforts. I am in sympathy with the dissident exiled to the Soviet Gulag, the Jew transported to a frozen death in an unheated cattle car, and the refugee seeking shelter along icy roads covered with the debris of destruction and war. I am reminded of stories from the Alte Chasidim who would cut holes in the thick ice to have a mikvah, or those who sought out sufferingand penance by rolling themselves in snow and ice. I think about the first fatal expeditions to the North and South poles, and those who died ascending the highest peaks. Yeah. That’s what I think about when I am knee-deep in blowing snow and sub-freezing temperatures sipping a 20 oz. cup of 7-11’s finest brew. It’s an opportunity to see history from its most human perspective, and no longer as arbitrary or meaningless dates and places.

All this refrigerated musing eventually leads into a thankfulness and gratitude for not having yet endured those types of hardships that, no doubt, would make any time of year, no matter how temperate the climate, unbearable. For now, I can loiter at this lonely bus stop and watch snowplows, a lone jogger, and the occasional stray dog passing by on it’s way to somewhere else, while knowing full well that in an hour or so I will be able to crawl back into my own cozy berth in relative safety and comfort.

I am again reminded never to lose sight of mankind’s apparent fetish with extremes, be it suffering, war, atrocity, sport, pleasure, or glory, and if a little walk in the wintertime is enough to remind us of how insane things can become when left unchecked, then maybe more of us should be drinking our coffee in a snowstorm. If nothing else, all this pondering of the cold provides a useful distraction from the cold.

“I have often said, and oftener think, that this world is a comedy for those who think, and a tragedy for those who feel.” (Sir Robert Walpole 1717-1797)

Book Review: Recollections & Letters of Robert E. Lee

Compiled by Capt. Robert. E. Lee. ISBN 0-914427-66-0 (Konecky & Konecky)

“It is well that war is so terrible – lest we should grow too fond of it.” (To James Longstreet, 1862)

You are probably wondering at this point what on Earth possessed me to read (and review) a book on a dead Confederate general. Why would any Jew be interested in that? Well, if you don’t know me by now, then you better read more of this blog. I have a wide range of interests, and one of those is the history of the Antebellum and Confederate South.

My interest in Southern history was first piqued in my late teens when I came across a Jewish Publication Society book called “They Were Jews.” The subjects of this anthology were famous Jewish personalities from all walks of life, and one of those notable Israelites was Judah P. Benjamin, a lawyer considered by both Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee to be the “brains” of the Confederacy. In fact, Benjamin was responsible for finance and diplomatic ventures; no small task for an emerging nation at war. There were several other Jews serving in the Confederate government as well. In light of what we are commonly taught about pre-war southern bigotry, this was an amazing piece of information. This was my entry into the fascinating world of Southern American history. (I have also read many of the writings of Jefferson Davis, and would have to quit my job to find time for all of them.)

My intent is not to write a biography of General Lee; there are enough of those already. This collection of writings and letters was compiled by his son, Captain Robert E., and shows a side of the ‘Old Man’ that most history texts don’t have time to offer. We see from his letters devotion to family, to principle, critical thinking skills, his desire for peace over war, reconciliation, sympathy, and kindness. A man comes into view who is not merely a great military strategist, but a kind husband, loving father, and erudite classical scholar; the warrior being the least of what General Lee wished for himself, being ever reluctant to engage in confrontation when diplomacy and kind words could solve a crisis through amicable agreement.

There are parts where General Lee reminisces about an old dog or horse that he is reminded of in a daydream. There are pieces of nostalgia that bring tears to one’s eyes reading them, and others that make you laugh out loud. The quality of his writing is a prose unmatched by many who deem themselves masterful poets. The General’s wide range of interests and communications are quite amazing. Many of those within Lee’s wide circle were also persons of character, learning, and principle.

I also felt something in common with the General that I did not expect. He and I share a favorite book, and he, too, kept a copy with him on his travels. It seems that the General was fond of ‘Thoughts of Marcus Aurelius’, and was editing a translation for an English philosophy professor. The General’s letters are often laced with Latin phrases, so bring a dictionary.

It has been said that Robert E. Lee was the true ‘gentleman soldier’. I have no doubt that much is true. From his personal letters, however, we now know him as much, much more.

This is a good read only if you have the interest beforehand. It can get tedious reading other people’s letters, so if you are going to try, take a few breaks from it along the way. This book offers both a more comprehensive picture of the man and the times in which he lived. A must read for American history enthusiasts.

My Sadness

Farmer At Sunset (Van Gogh)

“Even Time, the Father of All, cannot undo what has been done, whether right or wrong.” (Pindar 518-438 BC, from Olympian Odes)

ראיתי, את-כל-המעשים, שנעשו, תחת השמש; והנה הכול הבל, ורעות רוח

מעוות, לא-יוכל לתקון; וחסרון, לא-יוכל להימנות

(Ecclesiastes 1:14-15) “I have seen all the goings-on under the sun and all is futile and fleeting. A twisted thing that cannot be straightened and missing things that cannot be replaced.”

As many know, I was divorced 15 years ago, and went through many life-changes since that time, both emotionally, physically, and mentally. I was not the model husband, nor was she the model wife. We fought a lot. It was too much to be comfortable, too much to allow the kids to be raised in it, and too much for even friends to bear. I had hoped for a peaceful split, so my kids wouldn’t be raised in home with that kind of tension. So much for good intentions. Her revenge upon me was to estrange me from my own children. That has been her single-minded purpose for the last decade and a half, and she has been wonderfully successful in this endeavor.

There is a certain amount of distance that develops between fathers and children in any divorce, let alone one where one parent actively pursues a course of action, both at home and in the court system, with the intention of maintaining and widening that rift. I wish I were the only man on the planet to know this pain, but I am not. There are thousands of fathers like me, who even when winning their rights in court, cannot make good on them in reality. Most of us are not the type of men who would force visitation upon a child who is reluctant to have it. We seldom get to ask the child’s opinion anyhow, as he/she is carefully ensconced behind bolted doors, unopened birthday gifts, and blocked e mails.

My son was recently engaged. He is living in Har Nof, and his kallah is also from that neighborhood. Not that anyone actually called me to give me a ‘Mazel Tov’. I found out when doing the usual Google search for his name, and it took me to a website where the engagement was posted. I sent a brief message congratulating the Chussen and Kallah. Within twelve hours, I received a notification from the website that I was being cited for abuse and my posts would be removed and my membership to the site rescinded forthwith. I’m not mad at them, and I know who was behind it. This incident brings up old pain and reminds me that nothing has changed.

My ex-wife is a liar and a witch. She has everyone fooled. She has this ability to make others feel so sorry for her, poor nebbishe that she is, that she gains the sympathy and assistance of everyone who knows her. My ex-wife, to this day, claims that I stalk her and the children (they are all grown now and live far away from me), have paid no child support, and that I have threatened her on numerous occasions. During the earlier years of our divorce, I was visited by the local police on several occasions, being accused of kidnapping my own children from her home. The police would come in, search my home or office, ask me a few questions, and then find out that she had them all along. I have tolerated the lies and loss of my children’s love long enough. What can I do? Nothing.

My ex-wife has been under treatment for paranoid schizophrenia and delusional episodes for several years now. She is currently taking Resperdol, which is an anti-psychotic drug. She has undergone long periods of hospitalization for psychiatric problems, has refused to bathe for extended periods, claims to suffer from seizures, and has a state provided housekeeper to do her housework. The funny part is, bad as we had it when we were married, she was never THAT bad! One would think, that if I were the cause of her misery and degradation, that once I was gone all her problems would miraculously vanish! But they only got worse. I think the world is getting little peek at what I had to endure for six years.

If you are wondering how I know about her condition, I’ll tell you. I have friends in many places and I have access to a great deal of information. Mostly though, bits and pieces comes through in her protracted attempts to sue me for one thing or another, and her refusal to show up in a courtroom because (get this) her doctor says that my presence alone will cause her to have seizures. She has also told her doctors that I sexually abused her during our marriage. Proof? Who needs that? I have long ago discovered that proof and evidence are of little consequences when sympathies hold sway. It is something that I have grown used to. After years of court dates and thousands of dollars, I can do no more but accept it. They are grown now and fighting it at this point is moot.

The worst part is not that she turned my children against me. She’s mad, clinically mad (so she claims.) She took it a step further by cutting them of from their uncles, aunts, cousins, and their grandmother and great-grandmother o’h, who has been nothing but kind to her and the children. For shame! Her fear is being exposed for who she really is; a viper with a very bad sheytl. I have held my tongue for many, many years.

My ex-wife lives and now owns what used to be my father’s (o’h) home. She has never paid a dime toward the upkeep of that house either. She buys/leases a new car every year and has not worked a day in ten years. She collects all sorts of benefits from the state and county she resides in for her ‘condition’ (good fake job), and still receives $234.00 per week in child support for my daughter who is still in high school, though over 18 years of age. None of this matters. I’m not mad at her, I’m frustrated with a world that doesn’t see through her nonsense. I’m frustrated with a world that allowed her to defame a good young man in a court of law, make a Chilul HaShem doing it, and then reward her for her misdeeds.

Now my ex-wife portrays herself as martyr and tzadekes, too. At one point, I went to a Bais Din to resolve the visitation issue, since I thought that they, of all people, would understand my position. I also thought that she wouldn’t have the chutzpah to defy the advice of a Rov. I was wrong. Again. The Bais Din invited both of us to a meeting. I sat across form her and her brothers (the same one’s who have threatened to kill me should I try to see my children), and she agreed to allow me regular visitation at the Bais Din’s request. The Rabbonim were more familiar with this kind of problem than they prefer to be. Once outside the room, however, she changed her mind and told me, in no uncertain terms, that it would be her life’s work to keep me from my children. She’s done a smash-up job.

I’m really hurting inside. I’m not as strong, Stoic, or Taoist as one might imagine me to be from my writing; at least not when it comes to the rejection of my own children, my knowing the reasons why, and my inability to anything about it. At best, I’ve been coping for all these years. I was raised thinking that the ‘truth always prevails’, the ‘truth is simple’, and that ‘time heals all wounds’. Those dictums are only true for those that believe them to be. Life, for others, remains a cesspool of agony that feeds off anger, hate, non-forgiveness, fear, and greed. Let them have it I say. I want no part of it. I just want them to know my side of the story and give me the chance to be a father, in any way, shape, or form. None have ever risen to my defense, and I have, for the most part, even stopped coming to my own.

You are wondering at this point “How could this be? How could someone tell such lies and get away with it? There must have been something to her claims!” You’d be right for asking the question. If it were a normal, everyday sort of psychologically stable American couple that divorced, and the woman brought up specious claims of ‘whatever’, one would have to assume that maybe something was not right. I’ve seen those cases, too. In my case, however, one can tell ‘beginning from the end’ of the matter; fifteen years later, and still the venom of days gone by rages strong in her. One is very naïve indeed to imagine that truth gets sorted out in courtrooms. At best they make expedient guesses, playing it safe for fear of wasting too much of their own precious time, seldom considering the consequences of their own laziness.

I don’t think anyone can really know how much this hurts me. It’s not meant as an insult to others who feel pain. I know others can and do empathize. My pain is not only that they may forever hate me and fear me, but that I am not even getting the chance to vindicate myself, or to have any closure within.

The greatest lesson learned from this, and the greatest teaching I can offer anyone, is to LISTEN to the other side of the story before rushing to judgments. Those who admit their shortcomings should not be condemned for the greater sins they have not committed, but seen rather as human and fallible as we all are wont to be. I have been condemned without trial or evidence, and in such a limbo I may remain forever. I am just a man.

Blogs of Interest

“No matter how this may shock mankind, the duty of philosophy is to say everything.” (Marquis De Sade 1740-1814)

“Skeptical scrutiny is the means, in both science and religion, by which deep thoughts can be winnowed from deep nonsense.” (Carl Sagan, Time Magazine 1980)

Ok. Here is an updated list of blogs that I visit regularly, enjoy reading, and comment on when time allows. Much thanks to both the authors and commentors on these sites for their effort and ideas.

Hassid & Heretic

The Shaigetz

Yoinoson Schrieber

Mis-Nagid

Also A Chussid

The Chabad Skeptic

Ben Chorin

This list will be reposted and updated monthly. I don't review or critique the blogs of others. My interest in their ideas is enough said. Some of my fellow bloggers do some absolutely awesome writing, bringing up topics and ideas that I might not otherwise be prompted to write on myself. Much thanks!

Hell's Malachim

שמואל א פרק יז

וייצא איש-הביניים ממחנות פלשתים, גולית שמו מגת: גובהו, שש אמות וזרת

When I was 14 years old, I had a chavrusa who was working in a frumme day camp in Milwaukee, and since I wasn’t doing very much otherwise, I thought it would be a good idea to get away from my father AND escape the stifling NY summer heat by heading off to the Midwest for some fun and free time to sit and learn in a quiet setting. Besides, my train fare, room, board, and meals would all be provided by the camp. Kashrus was guaranteed.

After a grueling day of herding dozens of little stuck up brats just like ourselves, we counselors needed a way to unwind from the mental strain of looking in the mirror all day. Some of us sat and learned, some of us took up weightlifting, and others thought that sight-seeing around Milwaukee, out of ear and eyeshot of parents would be the thing to do. Most of us did a little of a lot of different things to cut loose. I don’t remember Milwaukee being much of a tourist attraction, and I certainly don’t recall anything out of the ordinary occurring during my summer there. That is, however, with one glaring exception.

One Motzei Shabbos (Saturday night) after Melave Malka, five of us decided to pile into the camp bus and drive over to North Ave., having no idea where we would go or what we would be doing. None of us had a driver’s license at the time either. For those unfamiliar with Milwaukee, North Ave. is the divider between the north and south half of the city. At the time, North Ave. was home to bowling alleys, small offices, some lower income residences, and motorcycle clubs. I don’t know what it looks like today.

Driving along North Ave. at around midnight, we were really looking for somewhere to be or something to do, having lots of energy and not much money. We noticed a bowling alley that offered all-night open bowling (something I still enjoy), so we stopped, piled out of the bus, proceeded to order up two open lanes with bowling shoes, and the quest for the perfect fitting bowling ball began in earnest.

Being a yeshiva/chasidishe bochur and growing up somewhat cloistered or preoccupied, though not really a bad thing in and of itself, has one sometimes problematic side-effect. One might fail to notice some very important things that are going on in one’s immediate surroundings, and may not become aware these happenings until it is too late. Our little venture into late night bowling in Milwaukee turned into just such a situation.

Most bowling alleys have bars in them where patrons can drink while waiting their turn to bowl. (Drinking doesn’t help my bowling, but it helps how I deal with my bowling when I’m not bowling well.) This bowling alley was no exception and though the lanes were free from other bowlers, there were perhaps a dozen or so ‘Cossacks’ at the bar laughing and having a good time. The part that went unnoticed by me was the one ‘Cossack’ who was carefully watching us from the time we entered the bar.

(I use the term ‘Cossack’ because my father o’h used to use that term when referring to very large, unshaven, white goyim. It’s how he remembered them from the Alte Heim.)

If you are a Yiddel in full levush (attire), or even just an average orthodox kid in a dress shirt and a yarmulke, you will get noticed and eyeballed when traveling the Midwest, especially at around 12:30 a.m. in an empty bowling alley in Milwaukee. It’s no big deal. You get used to the reactions and stares of other people. In this case however, I should have been more aware of the glances we were receiving, but shrugged them off to the above mentioned rationalization. The likelihood of us being attacked by anti-Semites never came to mind. All I wanted to do was bowl. All else was meaningless.

About half way through the first game one of our chevra, Chaim B., noticed one of the ‘Cossacks’ walking over from the bar area toward the lanes we were occupying. Since there was no one else in the bowling alley, this meant that he was coming for us! “Shloyme! Der sheygitz kimmt!” I turned around and Chaim was painfully right. This mountain of a human being, covered in tattooes, faded leather, and various insignia (Swastika included) was fast approaching. This was the same ‘Cossack’ that had been watching us as we came into the bowling alley. Two words came to mind at that very moment, “Oh Shit.”

I don’t remember thinking about what to do or formulating a plan of action. I told my chaverim to stay put while I talked to the ‘Cossack.’ I strode up to meet him and it felt like Dovid and Golyas all over again, except I had no rocks and no sling. I would have to do battle with a handshake, a smile, and a pair of ill-fitting bowling shoes if it came to that. As kids, we see all adults as physically imposing, but this Cossack was HUGE, even by Biblical standards, and we yeshiva kids were used to paying a token to ride things that big, not confront them in bowling alleys far from home in the middle of the night.

The Cossack extended his over-large hand to me and said “Shalom Aleychem. My name is Shmuel!” I was so shocked that I couldn’t even respond! He began telling me about his going to cheder as a child, his grandmother lighting Shabbos Licht, and how he loved walking to shul with her. There was this massive and imposing member of the Hell’s Angels, eyes swollen with tears of joy, telling us stories of his childhood and how much he missed it and his grandmother as well. His Yiddish was good, too. He told us that he never imagined that here, of all places, he would run into a reminder of his happier times and childhood days. This was why we had caught his attention. Here, this giant of a man sat, saying the same Viduy(not literally), that I was getting ready to say myself not 5 minutes earlier.

I asked him only one question; how it was that he could be Jewish and wear a swastika. He told me that for the Hell’s Angels it doesn’t have the same meaning as for the Nazis (yimach shemam), but out of respect for us, he removed it for the few minutes we talked. It seems there are various insignia and ‘colors’ that bikers wear to differentiate themselves from other biker clubs. It’s much like the way you can tell Chasidim apart by the subtle differences in levush. The ‘Cossack’ thanked us, went back to his buddies at the bar, and we, relieved to live another day, went back to our bowling. I regret now not asking him more details about his life. I wish I had more to tell about this man.

I learned that night that there really is no way to corrupt a Yiddishe Neshamele. We have our apikorsim, our chachomim, our batlanim, and our own faults and doubts, but deep down, we are who we are, no matter what the outside looks like to others. Sure, one can still judge the book by its cover, but the book might be in Yiddish and if you don’t open it, you’ll never know how the story began, how it ended, or what beautiful things happened along the way.

Commitment

Marc Chagall (The Blue Violinist)

“An uncommitted life isn’t worth living. We need tough-minded thinkers, gadflies, doubters. Doubt is an angel, not a devil: it assumes an order of truth.” (Marshall Fishwick)

Is heresy is purely an intellectual venture? Maybe some people are just born rebellious or with the type of minds that rely on cynicism, skepticism, and see through to the core of something (or just think they do.) In a sense, our Chinuch creates this, since we are taught in Chedorim, Yeshivos, and Kollelim to see pain as pleasure and black as white. Our whole primary education is based on the world being false, tempting, and testing; a thing which requires restraint to overcome and a critical eye to recognize for what it really is. Perhaps the groundwork for Apikorsis is borne out of the fundamentals of Yiddishkeit itself.

Yiddishkeit claims, at its foundation, to encourage questions, but NOT questioning. Questions about Torah are the sign of a Talmid Chocham or Tzadik eager to understand the deeper meanings of Torah, and how they are applied. Yet, that is where the questioning ceases. Questions of the religion are another category altogether. One transforms from Tzadik to Apikores merely by swapping out one preposition for another. It is sometimes subtle, but always a dangerous affair.

How can we know when to shut off this Chakira that we are taught to apply? Our Melamdim and Rabbonim make their livings teaching us to discern between kosher und treife, tumah vetaharah, mutar ve ossur, and other important distinctions, giving us the tools and skills necessary to make these critical judgments on our own, but don’t teach us how to turn it off! Faithful who become heretics, and I think this is my issue, are like soldiers that are trained to spot and kill a powerful enemy, but when sent out into the world, their training, having affected them so deeply and so powerfully, could not be controlled by those who trained them. Everyone becomes the ‘enemy.’ I am trained to face this enemy on the street, in the shul, and in the mirror. Do they think that I can just shut it off or simply ignore the method of Chakira that they taught me? That they told me was the single way to discern Emmes from Sheker?

I am beginning to think that maybe true apikorsis can ONLY come from Emunah and Lomdus. (Maybe the Chazon Ish was right?) I don’t define Emunah only as faith. That’s wimpy. Emunah is the applied commitment to an ideal, and is better defined as a degree of Mesiras Nefesh. In Yiddish we call it ‘ibergegebenkeit.’ This is the deep emotional impetus that drives one to love Torah and Mitzvos, and the Lomdus is the method by which we learn to love and how to love. Yiddishkeit wasn’t just a lifestyle for us. It was our Tochen, our raison d’etre; the Derech by which we were taught to view the world and everything in it, in a critical and direct manner, and could not be simply shut off or restrained. It manifests itself in the need for personal integrity and accountability. One could not live with oneself knowing the principles were being violated.

It is very much akin to the dedicated police detective who is trained to see and prosecute criminal activity, but is asked to ignore such behavior when it he finds it among his fellow officers. Sorry, no can do. It’s that damned ‘ibergegebenkeit’ again. I cannot be expected to apply the criteria in one place and ignore it in another.

Inspirations

In The News: Damsel in Distress?

“"Prostitution degrades, among women, only the unfortunate ones to whose lot it falls, and even these not at all to the extent that is commonly believed. On the other hand, it degrades the character of the whole world of men.”" (Frederich Engels 1820-1895, from The Origin of the Family)

Amongst the many ridiculous items floating about the Detroit news scene is the maybe-soon-to-finally-end saga of Melvin ‘Butch’ Hollowell, a local attorney, Democratic political operative and one-time candidate for Michigan Secretary of State. He is a partner in one of the city’s most prestigious law firms and garners both popularity and respect from his political and professional peers. I’ve heard him speak on several occasions and feel that he is intelligent and compassionate in his political views. He got my vote.

This whole fiasco began a few months back, when Mr. Hollowell was arrested for (allegedly) soliciting a prostitute within walking distance of his posh Palmer Woods home, which he currently shares with his wife. For those unfamiliar with Detroit, Palmer Woods is the upscale neighborhood within the city limits and boasts many of Detroit’s elite as its denizens. The homes are enormous, well maintained, and along with extra patrols from the local precinct, there is a private security force that keeps watch on the subdivision. There is an exclusive golf course and tennis courts within its limits. Let’s put it this way. I couldn’t afford to live there, and if I did actually move in, my neighbors would move to have me evicted. I don’t fit in.

Palmer Woods hosts the beautiful Palmer Park, which, as many know, borders on one side the main thoroughfare of the city, known as Woodward Ave. Palmer Park, in spite of its lush greenery and wide jogging paths, provides an open workspace to a dazzling array of prostitutes; some female, some male, some white, some black, and others of various types that I dare not venture to guess their gender, ethnicity, or species. They come in all shapes and flavors, and are not shy about plying their trade either by day or at night. It is no secret that if one looking for quick sex along Woodward Ave., that Palmer Park is the place to cruise. This was the setting in which Mr. Hollowell was arrested some few months back, while stopping to speak with a white female (and alleged prostitute) near the park.

Don’t get me wrong. I have no problem with prostitution as a career choice. (I don’t think I could earn much at it, but that shouldn’t preclude others from trying.) In a world where we freely exchange goods or money for all kinds of services, I see no moral difference between money for sex and money for mowing the lawn. If a woman, man, or other are truly sovereign over their own person, then they should also have the right to sell the use of that person as they wish, be it for moving furniture, preparing tax returns, or oral sex. That does NOT mean, however, that I am blind to or ignore the negative consequences that generally accompany the sex trades wherever they are practiced. Before I would ever advocate legalizing the profession, the issues of health and community safety must be carefully addressed.

When I first read the story of Mr. Hollowell’s arrest I was rather shocked. Here was an educated, politically savvy, successful, and well-heeled professional black man caught up in something obviously staged or blown out of proportion due solely to his public notoriety. I was prepared to hustle myself up to Mr. Hollowell’s defense. This, in my initial estimation, was clearly another instance of entrapment by the sneaky, ever money-hungry local vice squad. That desire to rescue Mr. Hollowell from this heinous miscarriage of justice, however, lasted only as long as it took me to finish reading the second paragraph of the article, where Mr. Hollowell claims that he thought the woman (a white woman provocatively dressed at night in a predominantly black neighborhood already crawling with hookers) was in serious distress and he was just stopping to lend her the same sort of assistance that any good citizen would offer. Yeah right. I just about peed myself from laughing when I read that! The image of Mr. Hollowell using this excuse on Mrs. Hollowell came to mind, and I felt no more inclined to believe that line of bullshit than I imagined she would. C’mon. How many guys have tried THAT one before already? I was a more than a little disgusted, thinking that Mr. Hollowell is so naïve regarding others, as to assume that people don’t see through such an obviously lame and tired-out alibi.

Then I thought that maybe I was being too harsh on the poor fellow. Perhaps, even after all those years of driving by the dozens or hundreds of prostitutes that walked the open streets just a few short blocks from his home, he never really learned how to distinguish a real honest-to-goodness prostitute from an average woman in real distress. It is a possibility, and I therefore thought, perhaps for the benefit of Mr. Hollowell (to prevent his future attempts at random acts of kindness from backfiring), and for our own understanding, that I would provide some helpful information to assist one in making the necessary determination. My work takes me into all parts of the city and on my drive home (for entertainment purposes only, mind you) I often count the number of ‘working girls’ along Telegraph Rd. I know one when I see one. I thought Mr. Hollowell did, too.

Here are a few easy guidelines everyone needs to follow before stopping to assist a woman who appears to be in distress.

The woman in genuine distress will:

a. Not be smiling at everybody who drives past

b. Not be more than 6 blocks from her car (if she owns one)

c. Not usually be wearing thigh-high vinyl boots, a low cut top, and heavy makeup

d. Not greet you with “hey baby” or “what ya lookin’for?” or “what ya into?”

e. Not be standing in the same spot for 6 hours, five days in a row

f. Not be waving her arms AND her hips when flagging down passing motorists

g. Not instruct you to meet her around back in 10 minutes

The arrest of Mr. Hollowell was eventually rescinded as were the charges against him. It must be nice to have powerful political connections and money to speak on your behalf. I don’t know any of the details, however, but I suspect the county thought that it just wasn’t worth all the effort. A ‘John’ will seldom do serious jail time; the whole game is to seize the John’s vehicle and collect the $900.00 fee for the impound lot, and Mr. Hollowell has already paid that much and more. In any event, society, his friends, his employers, the police, and even the voters may give him a pass on this one, but Mrs. Hollowell may not be so gracious and forgiving. In either case, Mr. Hollowell and everyone else should now know how, thanks to those simple guidelines, to tell the difference between hookers and true damsels in distress.

Court TV

“A dissent in a court of last resort is an appeal to the brooding spirit of the law, to the intelligence of a later day, when a later decision may possibly correct the error into which the dissenting judge himself believes the court to have been betrayed.” Charles Evans Hughes (1862-1948)

Normally, after a long day of seemingly exhausting and never-ending labor, I arrive home at about 8:00 pm depending on road conditions. The first order of business is always the cats. After a few short moments of blissful master/slave reunion (we know who the slave is), they then swagger off to whatever it was that kept them occupied for the x number of hours while I was at work, and I become once again forgotten until mealtime or a door requires opening. I toss some leftovers in the microwave (sometimes forget them there), shuck my blue-collar rags, slip into something more comfortable (use your imagination if you dare), and finally settle down for a few hours of blogging and browsing on the Internet. On those nights where the writer’s block is even worse than my arthritis, I feign an honest attempt at watching television, a generally futile endeavor; seeking quality entertainment/programming in world that panders to the very lowest common denominator. Just finding something worthwhile to watch is a ‘reality’ show in and of itself.

Most of the time, out of sheer boredom or insomnia, I will impatiently flip from channel to channel hoping to at least to catch something remotely (pun intended) interesting. On the rarest of evenings and quite by accident, I stumble onto a program that stimulates me enough to keep me watching. Last night was just such an occasion. Appearing before me, magically delivered into my very own humble abode via digital satellite, were two of the pre-eminent Jurists of our time, together in one room, debating issues of law! I about wet myself with delight! It was a rare opportunity to listen and learn, and I took full advantage of it. Thank you C-Span!

The guests of honor were Justices Antonin Scalia and Stephen Breyer of the US Supreme Court. The venue was the American University in Washington D.C., where an informal debate and question/answer session was moderated by one of its law professors. The topic du jour pertained to issues of international concern in conjunction with US Court decisions, and whether or not legal decisions of other nations should be considered when deciding/interpreting American law. In light of recent developments in the ‘war’ on terror, and changes in security policies, this topic is of major importance.

Justice Antonin Scalia has always intrigued me (not just because he’s an Italian without mob connections) due to his aura of aloofness and the gruffness with which he is portrayed. As you probably know already, I am a Leftist (albeit a reasonable one) and I read underground news sources. Though I do not consider them arbiters of any specific truths (no more than the mainstream media), they at least bring up subject matter you will not find in the commercially driven press. One of those ‘hot’ topics is anything and everything about the Honorable Justice Scalia. He is the enemy of all things good and pure to the Left.

Justice Scalia is depicted in ‘alternative’ circles in caricature, as an overbearing throwback reminiscent of Salem Witch Trial judges who, in his spare time, runs naked through bear-infested forests hunting grizzly with his bare hands. Funny as the image may be, it is far from any reality. Justice Scalia is a very engaging speaker, is quite personable, is obviously intelligent enough to make it to the highest judicial body of the land, and I think he deserves to be there. (If I didn’t already know his name, I would have guessed his ethnicity from his mannerisms.) He is NOT, however, concerned with emotions and/or political agendas when making decisions and rendering opinions, much to the dismay of some and, I’m sure, also to the satisfaction of others. He has a much simpler view of things than pure politics permits.

Justice Scalia calls himself an ‘Originalist’. This means that his view of the Constitution is premised upon what the authors of that original document intended. Justice Scalia views the interpretation of and possible changes to the original document according to the letter and context of what the Founders envisioned in their time. There is great merit to this viewpoint. I agree that when it comes to Habeas Corpus, Miranda, and other basic civil liberties/restrictions that it behooves us to continue in that same spirit of freedom and liberty to protect ourselves from the unreasonable and overbearing government intrusion into our lives. On the other hand, global issues, similar to those discussed at this forum, were not necessarily considered in the Framers intent, since the framers wished to distance themselves from Europe and the governing style of their former masters. This ‘originalism’ was the predominant attitude of the Supreme Courts until about sixty years ago. American jurists like Oliver Wendell Holmes were ‘originalists.’ Justice Scalia follows in their footsteps during a time when few other jurists of his stature are willing to admit doing so.

The impetus for departure from this ‘originalism’ came about after the close of World War II. The Post Second World War era sparked an increase in global law enforcement, humanitarian concerns, communications, commerce, and travel. This meant that people would be taking their issues across jurisdictions, thus introducing new courts to problems heretofore yet unseen in those venues. The sharp and sudden rise in technology, patent applications, copyrights, and the rapidly changing borders necessitated newer applications for old laws and the need for newer interpretations to cope with a wider range of issues. In this respect, it is hard to imagine the Originalist having any substantive input, but he does, AND Scalia’s point on this is well founded.

Judges, in Scalia’s opinion, are NOT to create new laws from the bench or consider the laws of other nations or jurisdictions when deciding Constitutional issues. Changes in the law are made by legislators and may come as a result of precedents within American Courts, even lower ones. Originalists do not view the Constitution or law as static, per se, but feel that they can only work with what is written in context of what the Framers may have foreseen. Agree or disagree, it IS an honest and consistent outlook. In a democratic society, changes must come from the people, NOT from the bench. The judge is in the role of making sure the people’s decisions are within the bounds of the Constitution. Allowing judge’s to impose legislation on their own, without the checks and balances, would become a double-edged sword of Damocles that no one, Left, Right, or Centrist would be happy with for long.

If I could find a human being more unlike Justice Scalia in demeanor, it would be Justice Stephen Breyer. Justice Breyer appeared so laid back on the dais that I thought he was asleep. I half-expected the moderator to reach over and nudge Mr. Breyer back into consciousness. Make no mistake in assessing Justice Breyer’s relaxed and easy manner; there is a fun, often self-deprecating, good humored and passionate man under that soft-spoken and mufflered exterior. His legal sense of direction is no less profound than is his personage.

Where Justice Scalia appears as a cut and dry, no-bones-about-him in-your-face sort of jurist, Justice Breyer is a very thoughtful and deliberate man who sees the law as both principle, as Justice Scalia does, AND as human. To the latter, Breyer seems to place more emphasis, and due to this emphasis, the differences between these men become much larger than their personas. If you ask Justice Scalia for a legal opinion, you will get a direct answer. Ask the same question of Justice Breyer and you will also receive an answer, but only after he thinks it over. Scalia works from a set formula, and Breyer from a dynamic human perspective. They are of equal importance when it comes to Constitutional interpretation.

Justice Breyer sees the law as a dynamic relationship between all parties involved. Legal systems reflect cultures and as cultures grow and change so does the way we implement and interpret that law. A solution for 100 people may not provide the same level of benefit when applied to 100,000. Laws that once governed homogenous societies cannot always take into account the diversity that arrives from distant shores. It is for this reason that Justice Breyer is more open to hearing what foreign courts have decided on major issues. He doesn’t see the point of separating people and their ideas merely by geography when we are all having a similar human experience in equal measure, with only the minute details being slightly different. Justice Breyer, of course, agrees with Justice Scalia that we should in no way consider foreign opinions legally binding, but at the very least we should consult the opinions of foreign jurists when these same issues appear before our courts. I strongly agree with Justice Breyer on this point.

So kids? What have we learned today?

1) Justice Scalia is not such a bad guy after all (but I’m still not going bear hunting with him).

2) Justice Breyer has a personality (believe it or not).

3) If you ever make it to the Supreme Court (I don’t mean when your last death-row appeal fails), you’ll probably have to read the opinions of a judge in Zimbabwe to do your job properly.

4)Shlomo has found at least one thing worth watching this week. If this keeps up, he may never leave the house!

Always try to find out what others are thinking and why, even when you know ahead of time that you will be in disagreement. You would be surprised how much respect you can develop for an enemy, especially one endowed with principles and intelligence.

Much thanks to C-Span!

Socialism

Diego Rivera (1934)

“When the accumulation of wealth is no longer of high social importance, there will be great changes in the code of morals. We shall be able to rid ourselves of many of the pseudo-moral principles which have hag-ridden us for two hundred years, by which we have exalted some of the most distasteful of human qualities into the position of highest virtues.” (John Maynard Keynes: from Essays of Persuasion, 1931)

(This article is also part of a thread of conversation in Hassid & Heretic. Many thanks to Reb Streimele for bringing the topic back.)

Once upon a time we had slavery. During that period, we also had free labor, but from the outside, one couldn’t really tell them apart. At least the slave, being property of the owner, would receive enough care to keep him working and healthy. The free worker, however, was NOT the responsibility of the man he labored for, had no benefit from him, and was summarily replaced without warning or concern if he could not meet the standard, either because of infirmity or work-related injury. The robber–barons of the day invented ingenious and devious ways to get the wages they paid out back into company coffers. I think we all remember the inflated prices at company stores and wages paid in coupons. We all remember the horrid photos of children working in deplorable conditions with no benefits and low wages. This is where we are headed. Again.

If you have a weekend to spend with your family, employer paid health care, vacation time, work safety regulations, maternity leave, Worker's compensation, Social security, and unemployment; thank a Socialist. The Socialist movement in the US boasted over 3 million members in the 1920s, and their efforts made what we have today possible. This is not about taking away the right to wealth, the right to earn, or the right to do business. It is about demanding that every person be afforded basic benefits due to them by virtue of their humanity alone. We do not oppose wealth, but the ruthless and unrestricted pursuit of it, where the simple kindnesses are forgotten and lives are bought and sold over fractions of a percentage point in profits.

The system of Corporate Greedism that fought those ‘anti-American’ ideals 100 years ago is taking another stab at it today, and in many states their efforts have proven successful; successful for themselves and their friends perhaps, but there remains no measure of success for the average person. If these obvious facts of life are somehow slipping by you unnoticed, or you simply have chosen to ignore them, explain to me then how you can call yourself moral and ethical while promoting a system that puts its economic boot-heel down on the person who needs a hand up, or justifies using the backs of the poor as step-ladders. These bastards have the gall to BLAME the poor for society’s problems, too, ignoring their own shameless conduct, hiding under reams of legalese and wrapping it in an American flag. The true Whore of Babylon.

The American political scene is turning OBSCENE in what it wishes to foist upon the people; attacking public education, Social Security, Welfare, and other good things that help others. Our tax burden isn't going down at all, the money is being redirected from the public sector into the private. Why? Greed! Nothing but plain, unmitigated selfishness. The enemies of the people are in power right now, finding ways to enrich their cronies with our tax dollars. How much money is raised for getting elected to office? Could that money not be spent saving our social programs? The world has gone insane! The proposed privatization of Social Security will ensure that Wall Street, already rocked by decades and decades of fraud and scandalous ethical breeches, will have its filthy hands in our nation’s most crucial safety net. We are giving them the license to steal. And they will.

Some will complain about the unnamed and faceless person who has abused the system and will demand it to end because it allows for fraud, but when they NEED that same system, i.e. their own SSI benefit, they wail and moan about how little they get. If the casual abuse of a system is reason enough to end it then I say we end Capitalism right now!! I am close to a very wealthy family, anti-socialists as you can imagine. Their life is ALL about business, and despite that they are really nice people to be around. The grandfather is a millionaire a couple of times over, and yet grumbles when his Social Security check is few days late coming in the mail. This same fellow bought a car costing $50k and then protested because his Medicare didn’t cover 20% of his prescriptions! THAT, my friends, is insanity, but it defines the mentality of the hypocritical right wing capitalists, who deride a system that dares to help faceless and nameless others, and in the same breath screams ‘bloody murder’ when that same system doesn’t give them everything they want gratis, even when they don’t need it or can afford it on their own.

American Jews, the Orthodox especially, have become increasingly ME ME ME. Whilst talking about how selfish it is of me to think for myself and not follow their religious values, they march proudly to the ballot boxes and elect those who promise more tax breaks for the already rich and less programs/assistance for those in our nation who haven’t the resources to make ends meet. I smell a rat. There is something twisted about a world that offers free luxury cars to those who can easily afford them, and yet refuses to subsidize the working man’s bus fare; the same worker whose sweat and labor made that luxury automobile possible. For Shame!

Socialism is based upon a simple theme: “There is enough for everyone's need, but NOT everyone's greed.” It's about sharing resources. Sharing requires management. Maybe you don't like to be 'forced' to share. That is the usual response and it's a valid one. Yet, either way, you are going to pay taxes, you are going to follow someone's rules, and you’re going to participate in one system or another. Maybe you'll do well enough to never need public assistance (I hope that is true), but if you ever do, or you have a loved one that does, you will then be very happy such a system exists.

There are many different forms of socialism and communism, and none of them are 100% good ideas, but I'm ok with 90%, or even 75%, because that is to me still 100% better than the GREEDISM that American politics promotes. The problems of society CAN be traced back to money; the theft or the lack of it. Money does not buy happiness, but it does provide the means to escape/mitigate so many of life's little problems before they become big ones. The poor man is no more or less moral than the rich man, but if the rich man contracts an STD or the flu, he takes his insurance card and goes to the doctor. Where does the poor man go without health care? Right now he can go to most county offices and take care of it, but those funds are being cut, too; all in the name of free enterprise and the American Way. The immoral rich man is just as perverse as the immoral poor one. They can, however, bury their shame under mounds of cash, so all is forgiven. The rest of us will, however, carry the burden of the poor man’s downfall as his problems fan out into the rest of society.

You have to wonder why the greatest minds of science, philosophy, literature, and history have advocated one form of socialism or another. It is not surprising that those who see the connectivity and continuity of all things know the need for balanced management and compassion. The greater mind has the wider and more inclusive focus.

“So long as the increased wealth which modern progress brings goes but to build up great fortunes, to increase luxury and to make sharper the contrast between the House of Have and the House of Want, progress is not real and cannot be permanent.” (Henry George, American Economist: from Progress and Poverty, 1897)

“Socialism is the abolition of human self-alienation, the return of man as a real human being.” (Erich Fromm, Psychologist: from Marx’s Concept of Man, 1961)

I believe that a nation which promotes itself as benevolent and compassionate should, once and for all, live up to that noble principle. Socialism is the means and method by which those same values can be manifest. Trusting the current system into the hands of those who profit from it has proven to be a misguided and disastrous fiscal boondoggle. It is time to get the fox out of the henhouse for good.

Inner City Wildlife

Silo The Black

I think that I could turn and live with animals,
They are so placid and self contained.
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God.
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania
Of owning things.
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived
Thousands of years ago.
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.
(Walt Whitman 1819-1892, from “I Sit and Look Out”)

I have been around animals much of my life. I learned to love them as a child in my Bubbe’s (o'h) home in Crown Heights, where she would feed the dozens of stray cats and dogs that roamed the alleys behind Carroll St. During my days away in yeshiva and during my marriage, I did not have much occasion to be around wildlife (unless you count Israelis.) The axe-wife, holding to the normative orthodox position on pet ownership, was not predisposed to sharing her home with tumadike zachin. (I think that’s why she divorced me, too.) To the orthodox Jew, if it can’t be eaten or made into Kodesh, then who needs it? If every other species on the planet were to disappear, it would matter little to them.

I have also experienced close encounters with bison, bear, wolves, and moose. (I’ll leave these for another post.) I also enjoy horseback riding, and when atop a fine stallion or mare, you truly feel what it means to behold a powerful and elegant creature. There is no art that can capture the true feel of nature in its rawness and power. You have to see it yourself to know it. Important note: Try not to fall OFF nature or get trampled BY one of its members while kvelling over its grandeur; that really tends to kill the moment.

My love for all things animal is further enhanced by my sense of compassion and my understanding of the science behind life; how our natural destiny is inexorably linked to theirs. I behold the incessant urban sprawl and rampant over-development extending cities further and further out into an already shrinking countryside, eating up the habitats of many species of birds, mammals, insects, and others too numerous to list. We have deer running through the suburbs, being hit by cars, and dying of starvation and tuberculosis. I have seen small deer in the park behind my home and I live in Detroit proper. The worst insult to Nature is that so many of us refuse to share our space with them, chasing them from our yards, our attics, and our garages, without ever considering what we have already taken from them.

My neighbors, mostly rednecks and shvartzas, are not as enlightened as I would like them to be either, and I’m hoping they relocate to Ekveldt or Yenne Veldt soon. They are nice enough, but overall, poor white folk and most black folk consider any animal other than their own dumb-ass ill mannered dogs (Rottweilers and Pitbulls) to be for food or target practice, and show absolutely no compassion/respect for anything that they can shoot at and can’t return fire. If I were a raccoon, opossum, or skunk I would high-tail myself right out of Detroit altogether. (Probably not a bad idea for humans either.) I attended a wedding reception held at a very nice banquet club in the city. It was a fairly swank affair (I had to go out and buy a tie for it). One of the bride’s relatives, a middle-aged Fred Sanford look-alike, brought a fully dressed and cooked opossum to the dinner! So, in the middle of the buffet sat this mound of grey flesh-and-bone road-kill, specially grilled by one of the locals for my culinary pleasure. The gentleman took great pride in telling everyone (who would listen) of his finding this metziah during one of his morning strolls around the ‘hood’. Others began to share their ‘varmit-killing’ stories, too, and I had to politely excuse myself before I went ‘PETA’ on them.

On the other hand, Detroit can be an attractive destination if you are a rodent on the run. There are plenty of abandoned homes, offices, garages, abandoned automobiles, and unkempt parks and alleyways to find shelter in, providing these fine, upscale accommodations are not already fully occupied by crackheads or wanted fugitives. The denizens of this fair city are very generous with their garbage, too, leaving mounds of it wherever they think it convenient. You’d be amazed at the amount of crap that lower income people buy, hoard, and summarily discard. It’s a disposable world for them, I suppose. It’s sad and angering, but it’s what we made them to be. Many of the poor don’t have the mind or money for quality, and even if they do, don’t have the means to shlepp it with them when they move or when some other tragedy occurs that prevents them from holding onto what little they have. There isn’t any wealth in what they own; it’s just stuff.

My home, small as it may be, is a haven for anything furry or feathered that needs a meal. My neighbors complain, but I don’t care. (They think I’m crazy enough to be dangerous, and that kind of fear is far better than any security system on the market.) The crawl-space under my home and the skirting around my deck provide good shelter from rain and snow, and each winter opossum, raccoon, and skunk find temporary relief from the vagaries of urban mammalian life. We have taken so much from them over the centuries that I feel obligated to give back to them, in whatever small way that I can; be it a place to keep warm for the night, escape from a dog, or some food. Anything I don’t eat myself, gets thrown out into the yard, be it chicken bones, steak bones, leftover salad, bread, etc., and it ALL gets eaten by something. I also put out cat and dog food, bird seed, and sunflower seed. The kitchen is always open and the bowls are seldom empty.

The only creatures I have actually allowed to move into my home are cats. One of them, Princess the Calico, was reputed to have belonged to the previous owners of this home, and simply returned from wherever it was she went to reclaim her territory. The other, Silo the Black, just showed up one day, got his back scratched, and mooched some catnip from a big pushover (me), purred once or twice and never left. There was a raccoon that would come into the kitchen every so often, but Camo hasn’t been around since last autumn. Willie, the opossum, is the current inhabitant of the crawl space. He comes out in the very late night hours to eat and heads right back under the house when he’s done. I keep a litter box outside under the awning so that cats, when escaping the snow or rain will use it, instead of just doing their ‘business’ right on the deck. I have seen Willie in the litter box, too. (Maybe it’s the cat food?) The cats don’t seem to mind him or any other creatures either. I see Silo coming out of that same hole in the skirting all the time. The various types of furry things are probably used to each other now. They see eye to eye. Literally.

Squirrels are really obnoxious little mamzerim. Cute, but horribly obnoxious. There are one or two of these megalomaniacs that frequent my living space and DEMAND food! I remember one instance when unloading groceries from the car, that one of them jumped into the bag and began tearing at a loaf of bread! I shooed him off the bag and he then turned at me, chattered, and stomped his front paws on the ground in anger before walking off. They will come up to window and tap on it with their nails. Who do they think they are? Cats? Squirrels also never forget where their last meal came from (kind of like an ex-shvugger of mine), and are so familiar with Princess that I have caught them chasing each other around the yard or up into trees. Princess NEVER plays with other cats. I don’t think that animals exhibit the same prejudices or divisions among other animals like we do. They avoid threats, pay little or no attention to anything that doesn’t immediately affect them, and are sometimes willing to strike up a new game with a stranger. I might try that philosophy someday soon myself.

I have a couple of bird feeders, too, and the usual assortment of cardinals, robins, sparrows, and other birds native to the upper Midwest peck and poke at the seed and grain, sometimes competing for a good seat at the trough. The numbers recently have been way down since the West Nile outbreak and if I see a crow at all, it is a very special occasion indeed. Princess is an excellent bird-hunter, and the feeders provide her with a non-ending supply of things to stare down and patiently stalk. When she came in one day with a medium sized crow in her mouth, proud as I was over her accomplishment, I was worried because crows aren’t known to be susceptible to predation by housecats, so this bird must have been very weak or sick. A few days later, Princess became lethargic and listless, and after another expensive visit to the veterinarian, she was put on antibiotics and eventually recovered. If you haven’t experienced a challenge in your life yet, try giving Princess a pill to swallow. I keep an old pair of extra thick oven-mitts handy for just such an occasion. I think she has forgiven me. Or maybe not.

Silo, and the other hand, is NOT what you would call a successful predator. Coupled with, and perhaps surpassed by, his reluctance to overexert himself, is his inability to defend himself from the more aggressive cats that he mixes with. What makes this even weirder is that Silo has enormous teeth and claws for a cat his size, but won’t use them on anything other than my hand, some clothing (when we wrestle), or the back of my office chair. Losing fights is costly, and he loses badly. He’s just too much of a sweety-boy, and even Princess bullies him around when she wants, though I have caught him tormenting her on occasion. (You go boy!)

Some of my lesser-brained neighbors attempt to artificially enhance their own self image or create their own uniqueness by owning exotic or unusual pets. These could be iguanas, tarantulas, pythons, and alligators. Some idiots have housed tigers! Ferrets, however, seem to be the most popular of the exotic sorts, and let’s face it, those damned weasels are very cute. They are also very mischievous and sneaky, especially for the three hours a day when they aren’t asleep. My neighbors, the ones with the highly pornographic case of Tourette’s Syndrome, have a ferret who managed to get up into MY house on one occasion. Imagine sitting at your desk while surfing the web, and out of the corner of your eye you catch something slinking past along the baseboard, and not knowing what it is or where it came from. It took a while to coax this ferret out of from under my bed, but like his semi-lobotomized owners, he was easily hypnotized by small, worthless shiny objects haphazardly strewn about the room, and emerged from hiding anxious to gather the eye-catching booty.

We have confiscated much too much from those that preceded humanity on this Earth. I’m not saying that we should forcibly remove ourselves from the places we are now, but we should at least STOP new development, redevelop what have already let go of, and reconsider a better plan for everyone and everything involved. Building and paving and paving and building cannot go on forever. Besides, where are all these people coming from to buy these new homes in Ekveldt anyway? I, too, might have considered purchasing a home out there at one time, but, thanks to Wal-Mart, greedy land developers, and cities seeking surplus tax revenues, the Fustelandt of yesterday is rapidly becoming the Farhrshtuptegasse of tomorrow. I suggest that if you are seeking peace and quiet, that you stay put in the city. At the current rate of attrition, it should be pretty close to empty in a few years. I yearn for that day.

There are a zillion stories to tell about my experiences with Nature, and I could go on and on (and will in another thread), but I’d like to hear YOUR stories and opinions, too. If you like to comment, and I hope you do, feel free to share them here.

Peace!

Practical Taoism: Non-Action & Empty-Mind

Yen Si (Taoist 'Immortal')

(Lao Tzu circa 500BC, from the Tao Te Ching)

The non-action of the wise man is not inaction.
It is not studied. It is not shaken by anything.
The sage is quiet because he is not moved,
Not because he wills to be quiet.

Still water is like glass.
You can look in it and see yourself clearly.
It is a perfect level;
A carpenter could use it.
How much moreso the liquid within man?

The core of the wise man is tranquil.
It reflects the universe around him as
The glass of everything.
Emptiness, stillness, tranquility, tastelessness,
Silence, non-action: this is the level of nature.

This is perfect Tao. People find rest here.
Resting, they are empty.
Silence and non-action are the root of all things.

There has been a good deal of misunderstanding as to what non-action or non-doing really means. I would say it comes down the adage “you can’t really listen while you are talking”. Life is the never-ending balance of motion to rest, and how can we realize the motion if we have never rested?

Non-action means appropriate action, an action which is not forced or out of synch with the surroundings. If I were to say what Taoism embodied in a practical sense more than anything else it would be the synchronization of the whole man, internal and external, with his experiential world, a world that he must LISTEN to before acting in accordance with. The reflection of this glass is the listening process. Man is the sum of his influences and environment, and that world is a mirror of the man who looks out onto it. To know the truth of ourselves is to know the truth of the universe.

Action is action UPON. Non-action is acting WITH. It is called non-action because the flow of ones doing is so embedded within the surrounding landscape in such a natural way that is isn’t evident to the observer that anything has really been done! This is why some call the Taoists lazy. They seldom appear to do anything! Taoists also don’t meditate in the same way others do. Thinking about non-thinking is still thinking, and acting UPON the brain rather than WITH the brain.

Taoist meditation is about emptying the effort of the mind into something that flows so naturally, lest say a talent or sport, that one forgets one has a mind! This is Taoist harmony. No forcing, no visible effort. You forget about time and space without any effort. In this harmony there are no breaks in the continuum between action and thought, because there really is no awareness of thought at all.

We may have had this happen to us. We are gardening (this is where I happily lose my effort-mind), and someone walks by and praises you for all your hard work. Gardening is definitely hard work, my back says so anyway, but you wonder what the hell they are talking about! This wasn’t hard at all. In fact, I enjoy it so much that I hardly remember doing it! Let alone suffering from it!

The best side effects of non-action and the non-effort mind are flexibility. If I am put into a situation that requires some ingenuity, and I begin to apply the Effort-Mind rather than the Empty-Mind, I will begin to search for answer outside the situation without any reference to the situation. The Empty-mind is not no-mind, it’s ‘in-synch’ mind, in coordination with what is in front of me, and finds the solution within the problem itself. This is referred to as the WU WEI, or the Uncarved Block.

The beauty of Taoism is that we ALL have experienced this empty-mind or non-action, though most likely without realizing it. We cannot DO anything to attain it, but rather NOT do the things that hinder it. Empty mind is the natural state of things, the squirrel does not fret about finding nuts; it just goes out and finds them. Too much explanation will kill even the best idea. If you don’t know what I mean, stop thinking about it and it will come to you while doing something else. This may have something to do with why when one falls asleep with a question one wakes up with an answer. When one ceases to impose thinking UPON the mind, then and only then can one think WITH mind.

Non-action and empty mind also help one lose their judgmentalism. One loses the sense of coulda, woulda, and shoulda, both regarding self and others. Guilt, vengeance, and doubt are but a few of the harmful traits that flow from the need to act UPON something. This is seen by man seeking to overcome nature and impose his will upon it and other human beings, leading to horrible suffering. “Mind over matter” they say, but that means that one isn’t considering the ‘matter’ at all, only ones desire to bend or break it to an arbitrary will.

Living/being is like any other skill or talent. We have to think about how it works, and then how we are going to do it. Yet, once we are doing it, we still spend way too much effort-mind thinking about it! If I am shooting a basketball, once I am proficient at shooting the ball, I don’t have to relearn the entire game all over again each time I play. I just play, that’s all.

Lao Tzu says more on the subject:

The master leads
By emptying people’s minds
And filling their cores
By weakening their ambition and toughening their
Resolve.
He helps people lose everything
They know, everything they desire, and creates confusion
In those who think that they know.

Practice not-doing and everything will fall into place.

Book Reviews: The True Story of Hansel and Gretel

Author: Louise Murphy ISBN 0-14-200307-7

As a Jewish kid, I grew up hearing and reading nothing but Holocaust and other persecution based stories of woe and heroism in the face of death. Jewish history cannot be told without it, and that very same history has shaped who we are as Jews today. So as you can imagine, when someone suggested that I read yet another book based on the Holocaust, I was somewhat skeptical as to its informational and entertainment value.

This, however, is not a book about Jews fighting to survive the camps or the ghettos, though some of that is part of this book. Its focus is the heroism and sacrifice of those Poles who fought and defied the Nazis throughout the war. The story is centered around two Jewish children reluctantly abandoned by their parents on the run from the Nazis, having escaped the Bialystok Ghetto, who are then subsequently taken in by well-meaning and kind hearted Poles in the deep forest.

I liked the realism of this book. In a subtle, yet very direct manner, Murphy expresses the very real and very natural emotions of war-torn Nazi-occupied villagers. There are traitors, collaborators, lovers, and unexpected heroes. She is descriptive enough in her writing that she makes you feel part of the story, but she leaves no doubt as to the outcome. There is no happy ending for our heroine, the mysterious Magda, and though the reuniting of the children with their father is a bit far-fetched, you are not disappointed when it happens. Murphy even gets the attitudes of German soldiers, in reference to their hatred and distrust of their SS counterparts, absolutely right. Her characters, minus the SS lunatic, are perfectly normal people coping, best as they can, in terribly difficult circumstances.

This is not a children’s book. There is graphic violence and sexuality, but not over-the-top, and all in context of the storyline. This book is not a long read either, and should take you probably three or four good reading days to finish. I liked it very much.

Part of what I look for in a good book are lines from the story or dialogue that stand out and say something more than the story, and in many ways bring the characters to life. Here is one from this book that touched me.

(from page17)

Gretel couldn’t think of an answer. She stared at the hut and saw another piece of bread and then another on the boards. “Why do you put bread on your house?”

“The birds feed on it.”

“That’s wasteful.” Gretel frowned at her.

“Wasting a little shows you believe in tomorrow.”