Apples and Honey and a Good New Year!

I fell ill for about two hours, so Riva and I (and Kimberley!) celebrated Rosh Hashanah at home.


She got serious with her preparations.


This was my first encounter with what seems to be the most ridiculous (but taken seriously by many) invention: the honey spoon.


If you look at this picture long enough, you can play fun perspective games. Enjoy!

p.s. Boston is truly the land of the free: So far, I received a free bus ride from New York to Boston PLUS a free brow wax.

p.p.s. My story is officially online.

p.p.p.s. Thanks, Polarchip for the edited blog banner!

p.p.p.p.s. Happy Rosh Hashanah!

Cambridge, a perfectly predictable town

Now that Sandra is trying to ease into the intensive academic rigors of graduate school, I have one more reason to visit my home away from home (Cambridge). I miss being in school, but it's also refreshing to be back in Boston without the grad school pressure.

I've been wondering if a sabbatical in Boston might not help with my stress. Questions that arise include but are not limited to: Could I be happy here? Would I find other artists to befriend? Would I end up reliving my college years? Is Boston that much more affordable than New York or would I be moving to a city that I like a lot less and spending just as much money?

It's so good to be in a place I know and around the people who know me best, but how long would I live here before growing bored?

No need for life-changing decisions this weekend. Instead I will say that we are having a fabulous time eating, drinking, doing the usual amount of roaming around, and venturing out to quirky local events like the Fluff Festival.

If it's not on the blog, it didn't happen

Riva's report on breakfast: b-side lounge for brunch. Riva arrives a half an hour late because she got distracted. Gili and Matt order the same breakfast. Sandra is not a vegan. Kimberley is a vegan. Connie still wrestles.












































































Gili's report on study time: Riva and Sandra have equal amounts A.D.D. (Riva's additional report: "and brilliance"). Gili is good at everything. Matty (not to be confused with Matt M.) no longer wears hemp pants.

Barack's Brisket is Beyond

No need for threats. My bubbie's got Barack's back.

Donate to The Great Schlep here.

trying to not overthink it, but still thinking it over

And then today was a little bit better. I had a moment of appreciation for the free organic meals I eat for breakfast and lunch. Plus, I bought tap shoes for my class tomorrow night!

I cried a little on the subway when I listened to: Hold On To Me by Cowboy Junkies

Grieving comes with intense mood swings. Am I the last to know this?

"Escapee's Glee"

Death has done something to me. I have a way of turning everything inward, of making each situation about myself. I’m not proud. I’ve been hesitant to write about how self-reflective I’ve been since my Zaddie’s death because shouldn’t I be solely focusing on what a wonderful person he was? This train of thought has been looping through my mind, so I figured I might as well commit it to the blog and let myself get a full night’s rest (again, selfish purposes).

Tonight I read an article in the NYT Magazine addressing some of the questions that keep me from sleeping.

What am I saying? I'm zooming in on the near future, using my digital-macro function to examine each pixel.

Spending a week in the Midwest surrounded by so much unconditional love and community shook me up. I flew back to New York, but not without pleading with my family not to make me go (as if my family has ever "made me" do anything).

I thought I loved living in New York. It’s a hard city, but I'm a fighter, someone who thrives under pressure. And maybe I do love New York. Maybe I’ve hit the first roadblock and if I’m patient, I’ll get past it. I am getting too old to pull another geographic. But I have never been known for my patience.

I’m post-MFA and left with the fear that I'm moving away from all that I love. (Too dramatic? Maybe.)

My desires are the same:

A daily dose of writing time (where time loses relevance, at least for a while); time for reading; surrounding myself with friends and family; time to practice Aikido, swim, and bicycle; the opportunity to start another line of my family with a strong, mature, and supportive partner; and the opportunity to not hate my job, which may mean living somewhere financially feasible so that my job does not have to take up so much of my life and take away from my other desires.

When I arrived home last night, I jumped on my bed for a half an hour and then I crashed. Stefanie, who wrote me a beautiful condolence card, said that during a time of grieving, it's important to be extra patient and kind to myself. My emotions are all mixed up and I’m waiting to land, to have some clear sense of where I’m headed. I wish I could follow Stefanie’s advice and be patient; I know she’s right.

Jumping through hoops for stardom

One of the coordinators of National Geographic/Genographic fame visited me in my Astoria abode this afternoon. (Look! He's a lefty, too!) The good folks of the Genographic Project are searching for starlets for their documentary.

Here he is on the phone with my mother, who was explaining my Bubbie's genealogy.

Even though he already knows the results of my lineage, the coordinator-- who will remain anonymous-- wouldn't budge when I tried to coax the results out of him. I have to wait for the Big Reveal, which takes place mid-October.

He asked lots of tough questions, especially about goals for my blog. Writing on this thing is just habit, at this point. I would love for my blog to be highlighted on the documentary, but I'm not sure it's relevant. (I wish I was better at marketing myself-- maybe that's one of my goals?)

The crew is trying to avoid adding too many people of the same demographic to the film, so I'm hoping I'm not too generic for television. It probably didn't help that he knew people who attended college with me.

the fam

I don't remember the last time all of my family was in the same place; this was Zaddie's final gift to us.


That's Bubbie. (The matriarch.)


My parents.


Kimberley and me.


Mom, Bonnie, and Kimberley.


Darwin!


Climbing around the creek near Bubbie and Zaddie's house. (Yes, I'm wearing the same clothes every day.)

I've loved being in Zaddie's community. People have come out of the woodwork to remember him with my family. I'm having a secret desire to escape to Duluth, to shack up with Bubbs for a few months and write non-stop until winter passes.


In other news, but sort of related, The Genographic Project has contacted me! I'm meeting with two of the documentray coordinators this coming week to see if I'm suitable for their production. Could I really be a star?

Saying goodbye

Zaddie; his best friend, Uncle Steve; Mom; Bubbie; me; and Kimberley in Duluth.


Me, Bubbie, Zaddie, and Kimberley on a day trip in Florida. He loved to spoil Kimberley and me, though he never considered it spoiling.


He worked twelve and thirteen hour days to support his family. He loved work and though he didn't earn a lot of money, he never complained. He knew every customer's name, their partner and children's names, what they did for a living, where they lived, and he always remembered what they had spoken about the last time they came to the store. Here he is at Peter Pan.


A truck barreled down the hill and into my Zaddie's dry cleaning business, Peter Pan. (Years later, when I lived in Minneapolis with Jen and Vanya, he let us borrow his car after I melted the hood on Vanya's car. Jen totalled Zaddie's car and he didn't even get angry at us.)


Zaddie and me at Kimberley's Bat-Mitzvah.


Mom and Uncle Steve at dinner the other night.


Yesterday was the funeral and burial for Zaddie. Rabbi Amy and Kimberley gave beautiful eulogies. I told Rabbi Amy about the letter Zaddie wrote to me when I lived in San Francisco. Rabbi Amy, who is a lesbian, had just gotten pregnant. Zaddie wrote, "Rabbi Amy is pregnant with someone's sperm." I cherish that letter, his endless wonder and love. Zaddie always accepted everyone; he treated the people I dated (women, transmen, whomever) with dignity and as though they were part of our family.


His body is resting in a perfect place, overlooking a lake and a field.


He was buried in the same cemetery as my Bubbie's parents.


This week we found out that Zaddie was awarded five medals, including the Bronze and Silver Medals, in WWII for bravery. He never wanted to talk about the war. All we knew was that he had been a Prisoner of War and had escaped from the Germans, but his modesty and his belief in peace and positivity kept him from telling us much more.


I celebrated Zaddie's life by playing on the rocks on Lake Superior.


He wanted me to play and to be happy.


He called me his beautiful monkey.


I know he's inside of all of us.