Patient Family

Vinegar and Ketchup wait patiently for Fries to be Ready.

It was my Bar Mitzvah 37 years ago – 1973. 

It was held in Kitchener, Ontario and went on for about three weeks. It did because I am the son of a Rabbi and we celebrated that rights of passage in a very big way. I am the only son of a rabbi.

The moment I remember best was when Marilyn Monroe walked through the doors of the synagogue. She was dressed in a modest forest green suit, to the knee and wearing slender light green pumps.

She was alone and I wasn’t sure if it was her. She had said she would attend and knowing that her schedule was likely the busiest in the world it didn’t seem likely. But she did.

She seemed so contained.

Marilyn walked down the side aisle of the synagogue, the one farthest away from me. She found a seat at the end of the pew and kept her eyes low. The synagogue was empty, other than she and I, so there was no threat to her humility, whatsoever.

I continued reading my portion of the Torah, Ba’midabar - about the counting of the Jewish soldiers in the dessert and how soon the B’nai Yisrael would enter Israel.

Once I was done, had lifted the Torah, wrapped it and put it away in the ark I announced aloud  I would take a few minute break so all those not in attendance could do the same. I walked down the stairs, descended the bima, and made my way over to Marilyn.

She had a siddur (prayer book) in her hands and seemed to reading a particular lamentation.  I sat next to her and smiled. She didn’t say anything but reached over and took my hand. Every so quietly she whispered, “Mazel tov Mr. Bar Mitzvah man. Mazel tov.”

My friend turned to me and I could see she wasn’t wearing any makeup. Marilyn was resoundingly beautiful. “You did a fine job reading the Torah,” she spoke. “I couldn’t hear one mistake.” 

We both laughed, for how could Marilyn detect a mistake. I don’t believe she knew the notes of the Torah – the Trope as it is called.

Marilyn  Monroe reached into her golden bag, the size of a pillbox, and pulled out a gift. It was wrapped in bar mitzvah wrapping - the type that says “It’s your Bar Mitzvah…it’s your Bar Mitzvah…it’s your Bar Mitzvah” over and over again – as if I could have forgotten.

Marilyn handed it to me. Her finger nails were chewed. I saw a hangnail on Marilyn’s Monroe’s index finger.

It was clear my guest was about to leave. As she positioned herself to do so, I smelled a strong waft of her perfume. It made me close my eyes because it was the subtle type that makes it way through your nostrils, passed your brain and down to your soul - and  of course being a 13 year old, to my genitalia.

Marilyn saw me sitting that way and she kissed my cheek.

She knew I had to get back to the bima as nobody was waiting and seemed agitated about the length of the break.

“I love you”she said and I always will.”

My eyes remained closed. After a few moments I know longer smelled Marilyn. I was sitting on the bench alone. It was then I felt a tap on my shoulder and heard the sexton’s – Mrs. Browns voice: ”Avrum go. It’s the only time you’ll have such a day.” And she smiled at me, this old lady did, and touched my hand.

I opened my eyes and saw hundreds of people laughing and sitting silently. 

After I had sung the final song – Adon Olam, and had shaken hands with thousands of people, I found a moment in the small cave behind the bima. There I sat and unwrapped the gift from Marilyn.

I was never great with wrapping paper so the Bar Mitzvah words ripped all over the  place…Ba zvah……a tzvah….all over the floor. I would scoop it up later and put it in my pocket for my personal archives.

Marilyn had given me a pen, a 24 carrot Cross pen. Written on it were the words, “Mazel tov on your Bar Mitvah, Love Marilyn”.

I sat there for a few minutes with my eyes closed smelling her perfume in my mind. I knew then and I know today that the greatest thing about my Bar Mitzvah was when Marilyn walked through the doors of the shul.

I didn’t think she’d come but she did and for that I will always be grateful. Mazel tov.

Here is Wilson.   He is the soccer ball Tom Hank’s character, Chuck, befriends in the movie Cast Aways. Chuck embraces Wilson as if he were real and when a wave sweeps him away Chuck risks his life to save the soccer ball.

This morning my Son and I went on a Passover Hike. My Boy found a stick which was ordinary, small with three branches, and he picked it up. He asked me if we could keep the stick and I said sure. He then said, “his name is Perry”.

Throughout the rest of our walk Perry stayed with us. Sometimes he would jab me in the eye and other times he would lay down and take a rest on his back. My Little One  would also stick him in the earth so he could take a pooh.

My Son took to the stick like Chuck took to the soccer ball.

In a man’s mind, particularly someone who is so alone, it is a small leap to befriend a soccer ball. Chuck recognized Wilson as being real. In a little  boy’s mine that same leap happens but it’s much easier and seamless. It is, because reality and fantasty crossover in a toddler’s mind so that a stick becomes very real and takes on a character.  There is still a spiritual/mystical aura inside little people that accompanies them from birth – that keeps them closer to God, until the day arrives when they become full fledged citizens of this world and the Almighty seperates from them, and they live a  life not knowing fully if he/she really ever  existed.

When my Boy is walking through the park with me he sees faces in stumps and bushes – as I did when  I was little; as I do often today. That part of nature can speak, can say hello. I’ll hear them talking – my Son and a twig, and the conversation can be a vibrant one.

That same dynamic happened with Chuck and Wilson. They became pals and Chuck was less lonely. Loneliness can gobble you up. So Chuck’s soul did him a favor and turned a leather ball  into a companion.  Makes sense. I think the quiet in Chuck’s life reverted him back to a time when infinite possibility existed, and a ball could be a friend and a pebble could talk.

We were once  little like my Boy so our minds were like  that.  They have  since changed and we can barely remember when we were like that. But we were. Wilson remembers and so does Perry.

It was in those days when we were friends with stones, rocks, stumps, bushes and branches. I miss my friends.

(read the Cast Away Script….interesting!)

http://www.script-o-rama.com/movie_scripts/c/cast-away-script-screenplay.html

EXT.  OCEAN – DAY – LATER

The sky clears.  The waves are still big.  The fish are back.
And then come the sharks, cutting through the water.  Chuck
can’t get up to get his spear, he just has to watch as blood
darkens the water.

And then the sharks are gone.

Chuck comes to his knees slowly, then a big wave hits.
Wilson is swept into the ocean!

For a moment Chuck is uncomprehending.  He watches as Wilson
slowly floats away.

                     CHUCK
          Please, no sharks.

Then he dives in to the water!  Swims frantically after
Wilson.

Wilson floats away from him.  He swims, but he’s so weak.
Finally he gets to Wilson.  He reaches out, but only pushes
the ball farther away.

It bobs on the waves.  Chuck treads water, exhausted.

Where is the raft?

                     CHUCK
          Jesus.  Jesus.  Jesus.

Then he turns back the other way.  The raft has drifted by
him.  He can go after Wilson, or he can go after the raft.

                     CHUCK
          Shit!  Wilson!

He swims toward the raft, barely moving.  No matter how hard
he swims, the raft seems to recede from him.

Finally he reaches it, hangs on the side, breathing hard,
choking, crying.

He struggles to pull himself on board.

But he is weak, so weak.  He can’t do it.

Summoning some primitive reserve of strength, he tries again.
This time he slides on.

He lies on the raft, panting.

Then with all his strength he pulls himself to his feet,
holds on to the mast, scans the ocean for Wilson.

                     CHUCK
          Wilson!

Nothing but waves.

This is too much.  Chuck starts to cry.

EXT.  RAFT – DAY – LATER

Chuck takes a swallow of water, washes it around in his
mouth, then swallows.  With his wet tongue he licks his
cracked lips.

The sun breaks through the clouds.

With what strength he has left, Chuck raises the canopy,
fastens it.

He sits in the meager shade, his head between his knees.

Closes his eyes.  Just for a minute.

I have a friend we call Dirt, and I love him so when I see this picture it reminds me of him, but more so this pic conjures up the sweet idea that dirt is something that can be loved. And who in this entire world of ours is going to love dirt…..well that would be children. 

Personally though I have always celebrated being a mess, stained with paints (from my art), or walking around with grass and dirt stuck to my elbow from a fall. I am a worm so it would see for I can’t imagine they would have any complaints about dirt, quite the opposite. What would be a slithery day without dirt for a worm but really just a dry, cement convention for ants or beetles?

When was the last time you played in dirt, picked it up and let it run through your fingers, got smudged with it? Why does there come a time in our lives when we distance ourselves from dirt, in fact we start calling it earth because dirt sounds too messy and far be it from us to go to the office with garden stains all over our Versace suit.

….uhu, I get it. That’s why seniors become gardeners!! Yes, so they can play in the dirt once again.

Now it is not surprising at all why God put Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. He wanted them to know about dirt because it is there where all life begins. From dirt we come….to dirt we go.

Dirthead!

This is a picture of freedom. This recreational vehicle (RV) plugs into electricity wherever it goes. It has a few beds, a stove, a refrigerator and a place to eat. It has storage and might even have a shower.

Writers have written about their RV trips and solitary men have found a change of life under a tree, somewhere in Wisconsin, far far away from home, while sleeping in a hammock attached to their mobile home and a tree. Check  out  “Travels w ith Charley” by John Steinbeck. Not his best book by far, but fun. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Travels_With_Charley:_In_Search_of_America

Watch couples in RVs driving by you on the expressway. There facial structure is relaxed and you guess that they have anywhere to go and need to be there anytime. What are their troubles? The plumbing gets clogged in the RV. The day is long so it will be hard to sleep early so that they can get the vehicle on the road early in the morning.

I have dreamed long and hard about taking an RV trip  across America with the dog I do not have and a friend – whom I will likely find awful by the time we reach Ohio, and he/she find me boring or annoying.

But by the time we hit Tennessee all will be good again. Have you dreamed of an RV trip? What did it look like? Who was along for the road? What did your RV have in it?

I once went to an RV show at the Toronto Exhibition. Yes I did and I would go again. I don’t know how to fix an axle though.

There is a point where a person begins to look more dead than alive. This picture reflects that. This elderly man’s mouth is open in a way that a dead person’s mouth might hang. I have seen that. His eyes look somewhat hollow too and his general look is one of lifelissness.

When a person approaches their demise they recognize it internally – at least older people seem too – and they begin to turn into an individual who is preparing for that actual moment. As your face adjusts according to what you are doing – let’s say celebrating a birthday, your eyes would be wide open with glee in them – so too has this man’s.

I often can detect ’death on the doorstep’ in people’s eyes or face. And  then when they die I am not suprised. While this is not always the case (my aunt is 92 and was supposed to have died a half dozen times; once I actually read her the Jewish equivalent to ‘last rights’) it generally is.

This picture illicits cloudiness. What is that? It reflects age and older age. What is that?

People often seem to be a bit more dead than alive when they approach that  ever so mystical moment. What are your experiences that way?

How vile and despicable war seems to me! I would rather be hacked to pieces than take part in such an abominable business - Albert Einstein

I am a father. This is my child. I am a man. I am he.

To wonder what it looks like when the the soul is seeping out of your body, stare at this picture. Herein is a man called Daddy whose love lies morto in his hands.

To consider what death is like in its ugliest form, concentrate on this image. No, on this reality. This boy has gone to God. He has left our ugly earth. Shame on you, his soul cries, with all the other murdered. Shame on you for killing me, a child, for what? For coins and silk. For what?

In the background buildings are up in smoke. This is war. I cannot imagine the humiliation war dumps on people. It is horrendous. It is horrible. It is ugly. It is black with soot in it. War looks like limbs strewn across a field and eyes burned out from gas. It is a very dead mother clutching her lifeless child, macheted to death. She has no breasts any longer. War is you out of control, locked in chains, yelling for someone to hear. That would be us. We who are not at war, at all.

Vomit. Throw up. Puke until there is nothing left. That is war. See above and puke whatever is  left again. War has been with us forever just as seeds have. Make it simple. Why don’t we stop war? Why don’t we start peace?

Make it simpler. If we were kings and emperors and presidents would we know how to make friends and keep them? If not, war is inevitable. Ask yourself if you know how to make up with your friends and enemies. If not, consider that you would launch a war if you were in charge.

I lost a brother-in-law to murder. That same situation is repeated everyday thousands of times in our world. Throughout the year millions of times. My sister suffers so much as do her children, as do their cousins, as does the community, as does……..

Multiply that by millions. How much suffering in the world can we bear? When will we stop war with our own raw fists, so that they open and we then shake hands? When?

History teaches us that men and nations behave wisely once they have exhausted all other alternatives. ~Abba Eban (Israeli Statesman)

This is a picture of an ant hill. A guy is showing you how big it is, pretending he can fit inside.

This picture, to me, is somewhat empty in nature. When I see these two insect shelters I am overwhelmed by the ability of this little tiny entity to produce such a complex structure, complete with infrastructure and tunnels. But something about this photo is completely not inspiring.

It is like a post card and I can’t ever remember one that was inspiring.  Warm? Yes.  But not inspiring. So that is this picture in a nutshell. If I never see it again, I’ll  be fine. But what it represents – the absolute genius of nature through the guise of an ant — uh, that is true beauty.

Your thoughts?

You know this picture is tragic. What you see is cut off  heads, albeit of fish, but they are indeed severed, bloody with hollowed eyes and a very subtle look (that one needs to know to look for) reflecting a deep sense of hurt at being killed. One gets the sense the fish are saying, “oy, I’m so sad to be leaving this earth. Good bye.”

Images mean  so much because they not only illiict a message but stay in your brain to be superimosed over other things you see. Images are forever.

This head fish picture shows a very sad, dangerous, ugly side of personkind. These could just as well been human heads. And indeed there are many examples of piles of skulls and/or severed heads all over the internet.

I get know joy from this picture. When I try to think of the culinary value of fish heads; the tastiness people speak of, maybe then, for a short while I am consumed by the picture. Maybe then but only for a little bit do I see it in a different light.

Fish heads. Fish dead. Yummy or Dangerous? What do you think?

I look at this picture and I see a young woman who is very beautiful with a look  of gentleness and kindnesss. And then I see the food and it looks so seductive. The picture works together and in shifts. It is a lovely, wholesome, appetizing picture. What do you think?

Consider that the two kissing are background, and the single handmaiden is foreground. What then does the picture appear to be about?

What does he make you feel?

Pooma

The Marx Brothers!!

1 Impossible Thing Before Breakfast

What is she thinking about? Looking At? Are you in this picture?