Happy 5767

The temple is the same as I always remembered it. The service is the same as I always remembered it. Quite frankly these memories of it all being the same are the same as I remembered it. It’s a two and half or three-hour service depending on how long the Rabbi’s sermon is.
Everyone looks the same as I scan over the sanctuary; the older members seem ageless to me because they have always looked this old although I know that they have aged just as many years as I have. I am wearing the same kind of suit my parents buy for me every time I grow out of my old one but for some reason I have never bought dress shoes or socks. So every year as the family is in the frantic rush to look nice and get to temple on time before the good seats are taken I have to borrow socks and shoes from my dad.
We always find seats as close to the front as possible and sit in the same order: me, mom, Jay and dad. This used to be so that my mom could keep an eye on my brother and I when we were younger, now anything else just doesn’t feel right.
My dad has a very nice singing voice but doesn’t always join in for the singing parts of the service he usually just hums along. My brother never sings. He never wants to be here anyways. I sing sometimes and like to believe that I get more of my singing voice from my dad than my mom. Mom likes to sing the loudest. She sings with all her heart and not a clue about how tone deaf she is. No one every stops or corrects her, I have actually grown to enjoy it and even though I cringe once and a while I know I would probably miss it if she ever took singing lessons and changed her tone.
So that’s where I am this year and probably where I will be next year, in Temple on Rosh Hashanah sitting in the front row with a mother who can’t sing, wearing socks that don’t belong to me and having the strongest sense of déjà vu.

112 Brooklyn

There is a house on the corner, a big, bland box of a house that is really quite forgettable. I mean to say that this house is only forgettable from the outside; beyond the front walkway strewn with cigarette butts and through the door that is perpetually locked and squeezing past the bikes perched atop the landing is a short stairway into a different experience; a very memorable one in fact.

The basement was a world onto itself; a small cramped flat with barely enough space for four bedrooms a kitchen, cramped bathroom and a living room. It was humid and hot in the summer and freezing in the winter. It was so cold in the winter we would turn the oven on to bake and leave the door open to heat the house, this in turn meant that for one delicious winter there were always pies warming in the oven. The house leaked when it rained, mold grew in the corners of all the rooms, the walls had holes in them (which was our own fault as we spent many hours mastering the art of darts and then throwing knives) but none of that mattered. Everyone wanted to be there and despite the glaring shortcoming of the physical house, the mentality and atmosphere made it a home to many.

We stayed up all night talking and spent all day sleeping. Tea was always being brewed and shisha was always being cooked up. Pizza boxes and Chinese delivery piled up on the coffee table and chocolate runs were a regular event. There were more video game systems than rent paying tenants, swords as well…

The basement in this house became a nefarious playground of sorts, the grass was always greener down there and the butterflies were usually yellow. There were many unmentionable things done to and by many people who wish to remain unmentioned…and many more stories than I could possible mention here.

I’m not going to try and recount the entirety of what went down in the basement; I only had my own experience of it. If you spent time in the basement of 112 you should know what I am talking about and you can fill in the rest of the stories for yourself.

Bon Voyage

I met the most amazing French girl.

She is the funniest French girl I know. She is the smartest French Girl I know. She is by far and away the prettiest french girl I know. She is the most caring, adventurous, lovable French girl I know. to be honest she is the only French girl I know but still.

We shared the joys of pepperoni pizza and red wine. She taught me my favorite french word "tonnerre" and I, in turn, used it to torment her. I taught her how to rollerblade, she's really good now. We listened to great music and smoked too many cigarettes, we drank (sometimes too much) but always looked out for each other. We played foozball, a lot, and even though I hate to lose, her French victory dance always made losing a fun experience. We danced a lot, sometimes to be funny, sometimes to have fun. We stayed up all night talking and bouncing around the room on E always reminding the other one to drink water or go to the bathroom.

We all teased her for being French, sometimes just for the sake of doing it. Not a single day went by when we couldn't make some wise crack about her surrendering or having an accent or living off wine and cheese...

She thought Hamilton was a wonderful place, a city worth crossing the ocean for...twice and we all loved her for that.

We'll miss you smile and your laugh, your sleepy look in the morning, well it was rarely seen in the morning more like 3 in the afternoon. I'll miss the way you get so excited and happy when you get a present, jumping up and down clapping your hands and giggling.

I hope you find nothing but happines and beautiful things in the future, and maybe a thunderstorm or two on the way ;)

There will never be another french girl like you.

Bon voyage Magali Darras.

Torn from a book of my thoughts on a page without a date

Because glory is fleeting and passion is consuming.

Art is the desire to consume passion. To absorb it and leave it for the world in a timeless form.

I compose the most beautiful thoughts on the backs of my eyelids. Etched out of darkenss and illuminated by my dreams I am taunted with these visions of art. Sometimes I can only see clearly when my eyes are shut. Sometimes I only live in my sleep.