Erev Pesach

Erev Pesach...I'm totally unprepared, completely chametzdich. But this yontif is always special because in this time my Father assumed a quiet dignity that his family tried to take from him for marrying my mother. My Father became a "JEW" again, renewed himself through cooking.

We would walk together down the block from our West End Avenue apartment to the fish mongers. I cannot recall the man's name but his shop was 3 steps up. We walked in and my father always dealt with the owner who wore a black rubber apron and towered over a long wooden plank covered with blood and fish muck. We were always greeted warmly, his mallet raised high and a big smile. He knew why we had come.   My father selected his whitefish and pike after looking over the glistening fish laid out over crisp cold ice.

Father made his order...20 lbs of chopped fish, leave the bones and heads in a separate bag and grind onions into the fish. Since it was a big job including a number of fish, it would be delivered later. When the knock came at our back door where deliveries were made, father placed the bag into the freezer. A heavy plastic bag filled with sweet smelling fish and onions, it took up most of the freezer. Freezer compartments in the 1950s and 60s were usually small boxes inside the fridgerator with a small plastic door.

While the fish began to chill to near freezing, father prepared 2 very large stock pots with water, the fish bones and onion skins and slice onions. They took along time to reach boiling so I watched him putter around the kitchen absorbed in his work in total silence.
He brought out a wood bowl that was only used for making gefilte fish. It seemed like the largest bowl in the world. He had a hand chopper which he would use after removing the plastic bag of fish from the freezer. And he began his magic....

The fish was emptied into the bowl, he chopped at the icy crystallized fish, adding one egg after another until at least were worked into the fish. He added sugar, a lot of salt and even more black pepper and then washed his hands. I would bring a small bowl of cold water so he could begin his work. He used a serving spoon to scoop large quenelle shaped balls into his wet hands and pat them from palm to palm before slipping them into the simmering water scented by leaves of onion skins. He stuffed the heads last and laid them gently on top. We had so much fish cooking the entire 7th floor smell of the richness of the broth. He would tell me, never use carp, they eat all the garbage in the ocean. He also never used fillers like matzah meal. He didn't have to because he learned from his mother that freezing the fish and cooking it in slushy state kept it snowy white, flecked with pepper and pristinely sweet.

Sometimes I would go into the frigerator and just grab a fist full of fish, a single ball would fill my hand, and nibble at it slowly.
The broth from cooking was jellied from all the bones and heads. The eyeballs would turn opaque and bounce around at the bottom of the pots my mother was expected to clean and she always came in afterwards and complained how her stove was awash with sticky fish stock, onion skins that splashed over and that fish smell that brought flies buzzing at the kitchen screen.

He would hand me $20 and tell me "give this to your mother for cleaning up." And then he sat, curiously content and silent in the late afternoon sun streaming onto the blue pile rug in the living room. His pesach was complete. We would likely have guests of my mother sister who also married a Jewish man, a milliner that worked in my father's building in the Garment District. He would try to explain to everyone at the table all the items on the seder plate, but all these were secondary, mainly because in the privacy of his thoughts for a brief few hours my father had gone home, cooking with people I would never meet or know.

The Walls

Watched Mr. Obama look 'casual' with his jacket slung over his should as he disembarked from his jet in Israel, I'm reminded of the admonition that one should always hold the snake by its head, for it will always attempt to land a lethal bite.

Israel is now viewed by outside media as a country the size of New Jersey (small) with all borders aligning Arab countries having fences...actually a fence is lacking in the magnitude of these structures-high, cemented, razor wired, thermo sensored--shutting out and keeping in.

Why shit, I'm done the same thing in my own apt!!! It's a bitch out there and I've created a safe haven in 2.5 rooms, albeit I lack razor wire and other sophisticated technology so keep out the tunnel rats. For Jews, that's what its come down to, Us vs The World. I know this, have known this since my divorce in '05.
Having married an Egyptian translator (of my own writing) and extended all the generous benefits this country offers to residents of american citizens, I put up with 3 years of being smacked, punched, told what to do, being asked to hand over my paycheck, received unannounced office visits while working, was taken on his 2 hr translation jobs after coming home from my own 9 hour job and commute...you get the idea.

When a person is dying for water or has lived too long in abject misery, even an opportunity to change their life can be so overwhelming they wind up sabotaging themselves. Or I could blame it on his youth or my being older (no it wasn't a sex thing--I actually thought since I wanted to marry to avoid dying alone, I would accept his proposal) or I could blame the internet since he discovered the unfettered manner one could play online and then make play time/real time by meeting up with the women he talked to all night while I tried most futilie to sleep as the screen flickered...but I accept it was all my fault for being stupid and needy. The point here was...no matter all the money spent to make his residency happen, his flights, my trips, the fees, his living expenses in america, all were for naught when I finally and belated filed for divorce...he compared me to the Jewish woman who poisoned his Prophet, he refused to eat anything further I cooked and called me a filthy Jew. For the record, I shower daily.

I'm intellectualling arguing within about how long american Jews can watch and live from afar as life in Israel become more precarious for our families, friends and those who laid down their lives previously to prevent another Holocaust...because it seems the clock is ticking once again.

Thoughts on writing

How we measure the worth of language or the worth of the writer seems to be whether a person acquires the acknowledgement and recognition of peers. That recognition coming in the form of being published, winning awards. I think back to my own teachers, award winning poets who were nurtured by older award winning poets, who had their poetry published in volumes of their own and in collections, taught in respected universities and it is as if they never existed...so far and long ago are their voices.

If my Google upgrade upsets you

I upgraded my Google status which links everyone I know to my blog--if you do not want to be connected, please dont blast me with angry comments, just delete me or block anything from me. I appreciate your understanding, there actually are folks that did ask for this upgrade because following my blog had been a problem due to an older formatt I was using. Thank you

Tabula Rasa

My brain is a slate where everything is blank when I need my wits about me the most. What part of the brain tells you one thing when that little internal voice is saying the opposite? Its like a double front of enemies doing sabotage. Too oblique?
I see a doctor in one complex and getting to her office each time is extremely difficult. In the 2 years I've been seeing her, although I've made mention of the difficulty climbing a very steep hill 2 blocks long with a cane, no one has ever mentioned a short cut.

It is cold and raining since last night. We expected snow and then icy rain, making the streets slippery. I cannot afford a fall on ice. With one hip replacement and other joints that dislocate very easily, I decided to cancel my appointment this morning. But asking for a reschedule meant at least 6 weeks-so I decided to make the trip since doctor is trying to get my sugar levels down. This doctor equates sugar levels with bad eating/discipline and is threatening insulin. I do not want insulin. I was using a wonderful medication that is now prohibitively expensive, but I purchased a batch after raiding my pension for the money and my sugar wass down to a near normal level.

What DOES make my sugar rise is stress. Its as if I've lost all means of coping with stress. Stress raises my sugar, brings on fatigue, chills and finally a total collapse which should set in, shortly-all the signs began last Fri.

So I call for a taxi, to avoid the HILL in the icy rain and tell the driver the address. But it was the wrong address, my doctor was in another building. I've made this mistake 3x now, but this morning it cost me $13 in taxi money, made me 30 minutes late because it took an hour for the taxi to arrive, although I gave myself an extra hour even if it meant sitting and waiting in her office and so I arrived too late to be seen. It was like de j'a vu all over again--how many times can one idiot make the same mistake? Obviously at least 3x.

I had laid out all my paperwork she wanted to see, had everything with me--I know me well enough to over prepare and leave early. How my brain could outstmart me with such surety to take me to the wrong building and miss this appt, I dont know. Maybe I just didnt want to be there and blew it subconsciously? A woman took me aside to give me clear directions on how to avoid the HILL problem in the future. So simple and yet PA is so closeted that outsiders like me are presumed to know everything and if not, well too bad. Maybe if I had yelled I'm a Steelers fan or wore Steeler's fan gear I would have had better help earlier.

Even better and perhaps more interesting is my taxi driver wanted to discuss the end of the world---it started out with a brief comment on global warming and he asked me what were my thoughts regarding the signs about The End Times. Held captive in the back of the taxi, I received a private gospel lesson from this man from Old/New/ Testaments, the Book of Solomon, Tehillim and trying to be nice I didn't want to throw the door open mid sentence as he rattled on while we were parked in front of the WRONG building.

Years ago I would have exploded, slammed something, smashed or broken something or pounded my head in a frustrated rage, I can't muster that anymore-I'm convinced of my own either stupidity or intentional desire to self sabotage, its such a deep sense of being defeated. I used to get confused even coming out of a subway station in NYC, sometimes walking half a block in the wrong direction until I realized a wrong turn was made-no sense of direction whatsoever.

And each incident like this makes me realize that when The End of the World does arrive, or all those guns and ammo that is being bought up for some unnamed war inside the US by its own citizens, that I'm a goner. Just close the windows and wait to die, me and the cats. Now writing this makes me understand why I am so fearful being outside, alone outside and the feeling of safety in being inside my tiny apartment. Man cave? Ha. Kitty cave plus one.

Around Town...

Currently dealing with a recurring series of symptoms, the most debilitating being a fatigue that is so overwhelming I had 2 days of dishes in the sink, the rugs need vaccuuming and all I crave is to sleep. Its not depression 'sleep' its a literal inability to remain awake. So I did bits of this and that (forced myelf to wash dishes by leaning on the sink for support) and laid down as needed, which was to the delight of both cats who prefer me to hang out with them in the bedroom.

This is a really tiny apartment but with Mr. B unable to jump now, he comes in whining his meows wanting me in his space, either next to his bed patting him gently or he sleeps under my bed. Since its Irish Day in a town that is oblivious of its Jews, I expected a day of relative silence.

But no....around 2pm, neighbor's mother called and asked me to join her for coffee at the cafe where her daughter works on weekends. She likes to pull me along on excursions like this or ask me to call her daughter instead of doing it herself. I've  always refuses since its her passive aggressive manipulation of her daughter, but since it was only coffee, I accepted, planning to keep the evening short.

She got lost and in making a wrong turn we drove through a neighborhood that was clearly a once thriving Jewish community. In the few blocks we drove through there were at least 3 large synagogues; one had been repurposed into a Charter School, another was boarded up, a third was a shul style building, more modest without stained glass or high buttresses and structures, also closed with a For Sale sign. Many of the houses on these blocks were also boarded up, dilapidated and the few residents that were walking around were clearly, clearly not Jewish. So....I wondered had they all fled to the Jewish enclave where I was told to move into when I first thought of coming to PA? Had that generation died out and their children moved elsewhere? What of the edict that a synagogue may not be sold for non Jewish purposes?

Then I thought, who are you to wonder on such things, when lighting Friday night candles eludes you?  But there was a sense of long lost history that came in a rush of images that were not mine, but of crowds that seemed familiar and familial.

The woman who was driving had been telling me her pastor had prayed and did a laying of hands on her bad leg along with his wife and another couple, to give her 'healing'. I really do feel she wants to get me to come over to her way of living or thinking, but it isn't happening ever.  She said after 2 weeks she finally was pain free after sleeping after the laying on of hands, and felt because of her faith she had been granted a miracle. She is never direct in her statements, but always makes note of my physical state and then launches into her faith based born again religion...it was disorienting because my visceral reaction was to the repurposed lives of buildings that once were the center of simchas and sorrows. She talked right past my comment on what I was seeing. I had to refocus and come back into the car, with whom I sat and understand that such matters are of no consequence to non Jews.

I read earlier today that Cossacks are being trained in Russia. The photo showed them in Cossack attire learning to use whips. The government is training a police force of Cossacks to enforce rules in communities that get out of hand or challenge the government.
I am watching all the signs...the signs obvious as this and more subtle...the buying up of  guns and ammo all over the US. Obama suddenly announcing it'll be at least another 12 months before Iran has a nuclear bomb-notably this announcement comes days before he travels to see Netanyahu in Israel.
China hacks us at will, wants to buy a controlling share of the GM building and supposedly Social Security etc will be nationalized as well as private pensions to pay for the Treasury Bills that China no longer buys to bolster our economy--even Americans haven't been buying Treasury bills, so that  income has dried up for the government.  Stating these facts to my children is a waste of  breath, they live as if Life is to be taken one week/day at a time, the future is too dark to even engage with...or maybe mother is too dark to engage with.

Thinking, it may be sooner than later, that aliyah might be the only exit to stay alive or be willing to die by the sword.

Life revises all

The subject line of my blog should be revised to reflect the current state of religious affairs....former chassidische maydle is now a year older, not much wiser and after a nervous breakdown from the complicated grief study, entered long term therapy with a female LCSW who uses various psychodynamic techniques, meaning we work hard but there's more feedback from her than the usual grunts and uh huh....

She doesn't tape or take notes, it is amazing that she remembers the cesspool of information I've been providing as we sort out my relationship with my mother--or lack thereof. And the more we work, the more 'visitations' I get from my mother in dreams. The last person in the world or nether world I want contact with, particularly due to her aversion to clothes, keeps showing up.

I've gone from a tentative, sketchy form of practicing Judaism to almost none at all. Its been months since I've bentched licht or prayed. Its not like I disbelieve what Chabad taught me, however the amount of guilt/grief/sadness attached to practicing without a network of support/shul/friends seemed like living in a vacuum. But then even living in Crown Heights felt the same for me, an outsider looking in on a world that I wanted to be a genuine part of, not a charity case as my family turned out to be for the Rebbe.

There were many months in this past year when hours of weeping, uncontrolled weeping overwhelmed me. All I needed was to see someone in distress, in person or television, and the faucets began to run. In a final desperate move to get myself under control, someething even tehillim couldn't do, I arranged to meet with a top PA psychiatrist. He has me on an antipsychotic at bedtime.  I probably needed this med for years. 

Medical issues continue to keep me limited in outside activities-I remain only capable of spacing housework, grocery shopping, doctor visits, caring for the cats, interaction with my children before I'm hit with severe fatigue, chills, feverishness. This level of fatigue is so powerful, I can't even stomach food, I just wait to crawl into bed at night to rest. Reading is a task and I love to read.

I have a neighbor upstairs whose mother decided to befriend me...woe is me. She popped in last week, "You have a visitor!" and then sat on my couch for 5 FIVE hours, talking about her 2 ex husbands, her version of christianity (its a patchwork quilt of gobbeldy gook)
Even when I left the room to feed the cats, she was still talking. I remain silent and then get cross examined about what I'm thinking since I try not to feed into her psycho babbling--I finally told her I can't take hours of such conversation or interaction, its completely draining for me. Like talking to a wall. I've tried constructive feedback and no feedback, she just needs to talk and uses me as a receptacle. Next time I'm not expecting anyone, I simply wont answer a knock on my door, period.

Mr. B's teeth continue to deteriorate, he also appears to have arthrtis now in his hind quarters. He gets one baby aspirin when he's clearly in distress and I bought steps for him to reach his bed where he spends much of his time or looking out the window. I want to buy another set of steps to place near my bed so he can come up like he once did, during the night to cuddle.

Little B is a fat sweetie pie, who loves to be sung to--he falls asleep at the sound of my voice singing him 2-3 songs he recognizes as his music. He continues to eat oatgrass that I grow to settle his tummy and help his bowels.

I'm currently finishing Mrs. Dora Saint (aka Miss Read) entire genre of books, only books I haven't read are her christmas tales. The small countryside community is similar to the stetel mentality of crown heights minus the vitriol, where people look out for one another and in the end, things work out. There's no child abuse, molestation and the rare lush or miscreant is a public exception, not the rule. Another time...another era my children will never know the peace that once existed.