Break for a conversation:
At an art gallery in Jerusalem, I am captivated by a statue of Jesus wrought in jagged, black metal. It’s an angry Jesus, frustrated, his eyes, lids heavy with disappointment. And resignation, he will always know too much, be haunted by his prescience, misunderstood by those who claim to be his friends.
Next to me, gazing at the sculpture, is a pretty girl, a bit younger than I am – maybe 18. She looks as if she's in a quandary. Biting her lip, deep in thought. She turns to me, and asks tentatively if I am Jewish.
We chat. She is here with a youth group, I tell her a little about my trip. And when I confirm that I am Jewish, she asks,
“What does the Jewish god look like?”
I take this to be a serious theological question.
“Well, Genesis says that God made humankind in his image. So that could be mean that there’s a god that looks very much like you or I somewhere, or you could take that to mean something more symbolic – in his image, like with his complexity, or with his ability to create,” – I’m riffing with my limited knowledge.
“Jesus was a hunk,” she says.
In her hand is a post-card of a blonde, beatific Jesus that she seems to be comparing to the more slender, Sephardic-faced interpretation in the gallery. In her post-card, Jesus is rather athletic looking beneath his loose white robe. Very quarterback-esque. I have not seen anyone who looks quite like that Jesus around here.
“Jesus was probably not a hunk, I say with holy condescension. Jesus was probably starving and really skinny.”
“He wasn’t starving, he had a big meal at the last supper. And people gave him food all the time when he was walking around preaching and suntanned. He had to have been good looking to get such a following. At first, you know before they realized he had something important to say. At first he was just good looking. Like Ronald Reagan.”
“I don’t know,” I counter, “The Jewish people are into this guy the Messiach now, and he is definitely not a stud."
“But the Jewish people didn’t follow Jesus. Maybe they only follow ugly people.”
“Yes, I say, maybe they killed Jesus because they were jealous of his good looks.”
“The Jews are a jealous people,” she says, “always wanting what others have – just look at Israel.”
Repelled and delighted, I want to take this girl with me on my travels, in order to have the constant benefit of her insight.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Friday, September 7, 2007
Scaredy Cat Lost in the Holy Land, Part One
The Muslim Quarter of Old Jerusalem. I’d been told not to go. The Israeli’s that I talked to eschewed the area, exercising a long-cultivated mistrust of the people there. It was implied that I wouldn’t be welcome, that it was dangerous, and already I was developing a tickling fear, the spoiling bias of us and them.
The Damascus Gate, the entrance to the Muslim Quarter, is a maw of stone. But there is little to fear in the currency exchange booth that stands center. Nor in the stalls of cheap belts, cell phones, and men’s underwear and or even in the corridor packed, sweaty and dim. If you have money to spend, then you’re welcome. The danger, as I discovered, is artful, woven into the price of the rugs and disguised by the ingratiating smiles of the weary locals.
It would be misleading not to adopt the Israeli terminology – Arab (which here includes those merchants in the Muslim quarter of Old Jerusalem and in the Arab-Israeli cities of Bethany, or in Bethlehem, Jericho, Nabulus or Ramallah in the West Bank). It’s important not to mask the distinction with political correctness – as I came to understand for both Israelis and Arab-Israelis, this word is a checkpoint to prejudice on both sides.
The labyrinth of Old Jerusalem forks and twists, tightening its tendril alleys around innocent visitors. The market corridors are breathless spaces, spilling over with quotidian goods for the locals packed into the apartments above, and cheap tourist trinkets that vary little from stall to stall. Most shops are many-denominational in their wares – chintzy crucifixes, and tallith that hang from the walls with the rugs. Merchants are quick to gauge your persuasion and hock accordingly. Hookahs crowd the floors, ones as tall as my shoulder, copper tea and coffee sets are polished raw, and strange papery dresses hang stiffly from the ceiling, shifting in the rare breeze.
For awhile, I stood to the side, watching women and their young daughters scour through piles of headscarves, children’s backpacks and racks of the all-covering smock-like coats, popular among the observant. While I never saw a female merchant, the women were not shy about interacting with men. Shaking the goods in the shopkeepers’ faces, flinging them down with distaste, stomping off, scowling back.
Not what I expected. A mall. Next to the prison where Jesus was kept. A mall stretching to the Kotel, surrounding the Dome of the Rock, the monasteries, and yeshivas, and ancient mosques – this holy place. Where desperate supplicants plead for help, and the devout prostrate themselves on the rocks where Jesus bled. This is no cathedral. No hollow, muffled place where people trip along the edges hesitant and attentive, make their peace and go. People live here, loudly in all the mess and meanness of survival. Reverence when you find it is frenzied and raw. And yet, beyond the malls, tucked into the quiet, residential alleys are schools and daycares and hidden places of worship. I could turn a corner and find myself in an empty stone alley echoing with the call to prayer.
Someone could loose their sanity here, I think.
Lonely Planet in hand, it's my goal to follow the Six Stations of the Cross – the path Jesus took to his crucifixion – later dramatized with glee to a score by Andrew Lloyd Webber in Norman Jewison's Jesus Christ Superstar, which I watched in preparation for this trip. The monks trudge this path on their knees every Friday and I had gotten up early to follow them but, it turns out I was actually there on a Sunday and this is where the confusion began. I had misplaced two days in the timeless limbo of traveling.
He was standing under one of the few street signs marking the Villa De La Rosa, sweating in the shade. There was nothing interesting about him. No warning signs. A clean polo shirt and jeans – tourist friendly apparel - a professional. Later I would know to look for the security badges that mark the official guides – he didn’t have one.
“Girl! Pretty girl! Miss! Looking for the Stations of the Cross! Miss!” It only takes a moment’s hesitation, a pause in your step, an instant of accidental eye contact, a sigh. Then they’re on you. Merchants and would be tour guides, anyone out for a dime, they have honed the skill of reading weakness. They are practiced tradesmen. I don’t just say this poetically, these guys have it figured out.
“I can see you are lost, why you ignore me?” he demands, “I can help.”
“I uh.”
“No it’s fine. I will take you to the Stations, you want to see, yes?”
“Um.”
“We just go up there.” He points into a mess of people, in the direction I just came. “Stations impossible to find. No signs, this place.”
This lack of signage I have discovered for myself.
“No, that’s okay, I, uh.”
“I am the guide for the fifth station. Here.”
He notices my hesitation.
“Three men you know. American. Pass by me. Yesterday. I call out to them, they ignore me. I see them walk in a circle, once, twice. Three times they walk in circle. I say again, hello, can I help? I just try to help. I just try to help. Finally the men stop. They are hot, they are so hot and lost. I say, why you ignore me, three times you go by, I call you. I want to help. They say, we thought you want money. I hate hear about money! Always about money. I say no. I want to help. You hurt my heart, you ignore me, I say. And the men say, no I sorry, I didn’t mean to. I say, is it because I am Arab? They say no, no. But it’s too late. My heart is hurt. They think all about is money. I tell them, has nothing to do with money. I want to help, I say, you lost, I want to help. I live here. This is my city. So I show them around, beautiful things. But why they ignored me? Why, why is this? You need help. I help. I show you the six stations, come, come it will be easier.”
I didn’t want to be prejudiced. I didn’t want to be one of them. And so on behalf of all liberal Americans and exhausted tourists, I went.
To be continued...
S.C.
The Damascus Gate, the entrance to the Muslim Quarter, is a maw of stone. But there is little to fear in the currency exchange booth that stands center. Nor in the stalls of cheap belts, cell phones, and men’s underwear and or even in the corridor packed, sweaty and dim. If you have money to spend, then you’re welcome. The danger, as I discovered, is artful, woven into the price of the rugs and disguised by the ingratiating smiles of the weary locals.
It would be misleading not to adopt the Israeli terminology – Arab (which here includes those merchants in the Muslim quarter of Old Jerusalem and in the Arab-Israeli cities of Bethany, or in Bethlehem, Jericho, Nabulus or Ramallah in the West Bank). It’s important not to mask the distinction with political correctness – as I came to understand for both Israelis and Arab-Israelis, this word is a checkpoint to prejudice on both sides.
The labyrinth of Old Jerusalem forks and twists, tightening its tendril alleys around innocent visitors. The market corridors are breathless spaces, spilling over with quotidian goods for the locals packed into the apartments above, and cheap tourist trinkets that vary little from stall to stall. Most shops are many-denominational in their wares – chintzy crucifixes, and tallith that hang from the walls with the rugs. Merchants are quick to gauge your persuasion and hock accordingly. Hookahs crowd the floors, ones as tall as my shoulder, copper tea and coffee sets are polished raw, and strange papery dresses hang stiffly from the ceiling, shifting in the rare breeze.
For awhile, I stood to the side, watching women and their young daughters scour through piles of headscarves, children’s backpacks and racks of the all-covering smock-like coats, popular among the observant. While I never saw a female merchant, the women were not shy about interacting with men. Shaking the goods in the shopkeepers’ faces, flinging them down with distaste, stomping off, scowling back.
Not what I expected. A mall. Next to the prison where Jesus was kept. A mall stretching to the Kotel, surrounding the Dome of the Rock, the monasteries, and yeshivas, and ancient mosques – this holy place. Where desperate supplicants plead for help, and the devout prostrate themselves on the rocks where Jesus bled. This is no cathedral. No hollow, muffled place where people trip along the edges hesitant and attentive, make their peace and go. People live here, loudly in all the mess and meanness of survival. Reverence when you find it is frenzied and raw. And yet, beyond the malls, tucked into the quiet, residential alleys are schools and daycares and hidden places of worship. I could turn a corner and find myself in an empty stone alley echoing with the call to prayer.
Someone could loose their sanity here, I think.
Lonely Planet in hand, it's my goal to follow the Six Stations of the Cross – the path Jesus took to his crucifixion – later dramatized with glee to a score by Andrew Lloyd Webber in Norman Jewison's Jesus Christ Superstar, which I watched in preparation for this trip. The monks trudge this path on their knees every Friday and I had gotten up early to follow them but, it turns out I was actually there on a Sunday and this is where the confusion began. I had misplaced two days in the timeless limbo of traveling.
He was standing under one of the few street signs marking the Villa De La Rosa, sweating in the shade. There was nothing interesting about him. No warning signs. A clean polo shirt and jeans – tourist friendly apparel - a professional. Later I would know to look for the security badges that mark the official guides – he didn’t have one.
“Girl! Pretty girl! Miss! Looking for the Stations of the Cross! Miss!” It only takes a moment’s hesitation, a pause in your step, an instant of accidental eye contact, a sigh. Then they’re on you. Merchants and would be tour guides, anyone out for a dime, they have honed the skill of reading weakness. They are practiced tradesmen. I don’t just say this poetically, these guys have it figured out.
“I can see you are lost, why you ignore me?” he demands, “I can help.”
“I uh.”
“No it’s fine. I will take you to the Stations, you want to see, yes?”
“Um.”
“We just go up there.” He points into a mess of people, in the direction I just came. “Stations impossible to find. No signs, this place.”
This lack of signage I have discovered for myself.
“No, that’s okay, I, uh.”
“I am the guide for the fifth station. Here.”
He notices my hesitation.
“Three men you know. American. Pass by me. Yesterday. I call out to them, they ignore me. I see them walk in a circle, once, twice. Three times they walk in circle. I say again, hello, can I help? I just try to help. I just try to help. Finally the men stop. They are hot, they are so hot and lost. I say, why you ignore me, three times you go by, I call you. I want to help. They say, we thought you want money. I hate hear about money! Always about money. I say no. I want to help. You hurt my heart, you ignore me, I say. And the men say, no I sorry, I didn’t mean to. I say, is it because I am Arab? They say no, no. But it’s too late. My heart is hurt. They think all about is money. I tell them, has nothing to do with money. I want to help, I say, you lost, I want to help. I live here. This is my city. So I show them around, beautiful things. But why they ignored me? Why, why is this? You need help. I help. I show you the six stations, come, come it will be easier.”
I didn’t want to be prejudiced. I didn’t want to be one of them. And so on behalf of all liberal Americans and exhausted tourists, I went.
To be continued...
S.C.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Scaredy Cat On the Loose in the West Bank
The Old City Jerusalem is a maze of market stalls, its labriynth corridors winding in a dizzying route made even more bewildering in the pentrating heat. In the dense heart of the Muslim quarter a tourist can become disoriented then consumed. It was in this state, only just passed through the Damascus Gate (and feeling rather intrepid) that I hestitantly accepted the hospitality of a Palestinan gentleman guide who was lounging in the shade afront the 5th station of the Cross. Having failed to find stations 1 - 4 on my self guided tour I was, I guess, easily persuaded by Victor's seemingly benign offer to lead me back to the stations I'd missed. How I ended up nearly penniless in Ramallah is still somewhat of a blur to me.
Stay tuned to see if S.C. can traverse the several remaining checkpoints safely back to the Holy Land.
Stay tuned to see if S.C. can traverse the several remaining checkpoints safely back to the Holy Land.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Steal a Wallet, Buy A Donut
After my wallet was stolen from the Farmer’s Market in Tompkins Square, I found a Visa charge that the thief slipped in before I could cancel the card: $3.85 Dunkin Donuts.
It was one of those teasingly hot days in early spring and I was thinking ahead to the joys of what I considered My New York summer: dollar gelato in Carroll Gardens, trapeze lessons on Chelsea Pier, movies in Bryant Park and naked homeless in Tompkins Square, odd pets, methadone freaks, junk fairs and fresh fish at 4am and Puerto Rican men with boom boxes tied to their bicycles and lusty humid nights where I could try every bar because its warm enough to walk and the strawberry smoke from hidden hookah gardens tints the glossy eyes of thin, beautiful women. In New York, for those three disgustingly hot months, there is love and sex and sweat and food everywhere, except in my apartment where usually there is only sweat.
After four years in the East Village, I felt I had the city down. I’d learned some tricks. Recycling: windows can be washed with dollar store Windex and last week’s Village Voice without the carbon leaving streaks. Old issues of The New Yorker are good for a single girl to stack into a step stool for hanging artwork salvaged from the trash next door, but the New Yorkers have to be closed because the political articles are like quicksand. Nature: Roaches come in many sizes and keep running even after you’ve saturated them and everything in their path with Raid. Socializing: If you accidentally make eye contact with the older man who’s chuckling to himself at the coffee shop, he will want to talk to you.
So when I walked out of my little studio on 3rd and A that morning, I was feeling pretty good about my status as a New Yorker. Only a week before, my favorite dinner reopened as a cellular phone store, so I considered myself practically a native.
As a recent college graduate from NYU, and a former midwestern Kroger’s and Osco shopper, my ritual Sundays at the neighborhood farmer’s market made me feel citified and self-sufficient. “Look, that girl carries her own canvas bag, and knows how to choose a ripe cantaloupe.” And there I was, my eyes shut in a moment of serious melon sniffing, my canvas bag wide open on the table beside me. When I’d finally chosen, and was juggling the fruit, a basket of organic cherry tomatoes and an apple juice, I reached into the bag for my wallet. I wonder if the thief was watching at the moment my face fell along with my confidence? Could he see the vulnerability take its place?
I skulked through the stalls hoping to catch the villian using my wallet. I pictured a badass in dark glasses with a handlebar mustache lurking near the potted ferns – waiting for me, his perfect target, a young woman obliviously ensconced in her New York City dream. The only person with a handlebar mustache I saw was a hipster guy with his girlfriend. He was also wearing a pink leather holster.
On Monday, the charge at Dunkin Donuts showed up on my account. The day before, I felt violated and enraged. The culprit made off with my new wallet (the only souvenir from my first trip abroad, to Italy, where I was not pick-pocketed once) and $60.00, more money than I usually carry, as the Farmer’s Market is cash only. Confronted by this singular, measly levy, I felt only pity for the very poor soul, so hungry that he went to the nearest fast food joint that takes credit cards to get this tiny, sugary pittance. An adult Oliver. This seemed a very sad thing; a wallet was stolen and a hungry person got a donut.
I feel for the thief who uses a stolen credit card to buy $3.85 worth of breakfast at Dunkin Donuts. Why not get the bakers dozen for an even $5.00? Why not try an organic apple right there at the market? I wondered what kind of donut the thief chose, and was there coffee too, perhaps with extra sugar. Did he get decaf? Unlikely.
To reassert myself as a savvy New Yorker, I sauntered over to the Dunkin Donuts to check out the scene. I was familiar with the garbage can on the corner in front of the store and was optimistic that the thief took the money and credit card but tossed the wallet in that trashcan. I'd already checked the ones around the crime scene.
The trashcan was daunting; overflowing and there were flies. The late afternoon sun was blazing. First Avenue was crowded. I stared into the can, but if my wallet were in there, it would be buried deep because the charge was made the day before. I stared so hard at that garbage as I considered my options that a young man stopped behind me to stare as well. I call this the New York domino effect.
"I think my wallet's in there," I explained.
"Why?" he said.
Would my reasoning sound as clever to someone else? I told him the whole story, hoping this curious stranger would help me dig through the trash.
"Huh," he said. "Goodluck." And walked away.
Bracing myself for something that would definitely be gross and probably futile, I donned the winter gloves that I'd brought and started digging.
I am sorry to say, I did not get very far. I barely skimmed the top. I had nowhere to put the trash once I’d taken it out and it was piling up conspicuously around me. Some things were drippy. The knit gloves were destroyed. I couldn’t go any farther with the plan, and felt unjustly defeated by the thief and the trash bin at Sixth Street and First Avenue.
As a last ditch effort, I stormed the Dunkin Donuts counter hoping the thief had, with a little nourishment, found the error of his ways and given the wallet to lost and found. The young woman at the counter said no, but was happy to call the clerk from the previous morning. She asked, was I sure I left it there?
I launched into the story again, the wallet stolen from the farmer's market and the charge from that particular Dunkin Donuts. She was incredulous that the thief would use a stolen credit for a $3.85 breakfast.
"It almost makes you want to pity the person," I sniffed.
"Nah," she said, "Dude probably just came here first to see if it worked before he went to Circuit City."
It was one of those teasingly hot days in early spring and I was thinking ahead to the joys of what I considered My New York summer: dollar gelato in Carroll Gardens, trapeze lessons on Chelsea Pier, movies in Bryant Park and naked homeless in Tompkins Square, odd pets, methadone freaks, junk fairs and fresh fish at 4am and Puerto Rican men with boom boxes tied to their bicycles and lusty humid nights where I could try every bar because its warm enough to walk and the strawberry smoke from hidden hookah gardens tints the glossy eyes of thin, beautiful women. In New York, for those three disgustingly hot months, there is love and sex and sweat and food everywhere, except in my apartment where usually there is only sweat.
After four years in the East Village, I felt I had the city down. I’d learned some tricks. Recycling: windows can be washed with dollar store Windex and last week’s Village Voice without the carbon leaving streaks. Old issues of The New Yorker are good for a single girl to stack into a step stool for hanging artwork salvaged from the trash next door, but the New Yorkers have to be closed because the political articles are like quicksand. Nature: Roaches come in many sizes and keep running even after you’ve saturated them and everything in their path with Raid. Socializing: If you accidentally make eye contact with the older man who’s chuckling to himself at the coffee shop, he will want to talk to you.
So when I walked out of my little studio on 3rd and A that morning, I was feeling pretty good about my status as a New Yorker. Only a week before, my favorite dinner reopened as a cellular phone store, so I considered myself practically a native.
As a recent college graduate from NYU, and a former midwestern Kroger’s and Osco shopper, my ritual Sundays at the neighborhood farmer’s market made me feel citified and self-sufficient. “Look, that girl carries her own canvas bag, and knows how to choose a ripe cantaloupe.” And there I was, my eyes shut in a moment of serious melon sniffing, my canvas bag wide open on the table beside me. When I’d finally chosen, and was juggling the fruit, a basket of organic cherry tomatoes and an apple juice, I reached into the bag for my wallet. I wonder if the thief was watching at the moment my face fell along with my confidence? Could he see the vulnerability take its place?
I skulked through the stalls hoping to catch the villian using my wallet. I pictured a badass in dark glasses with a handlebar mustache lurking near the potted ferns – waiting for me, his perfect target, a young woman obliviously ensconced in her New York City dream. The only person with a handlebar mustache I saw was a hipster guy with his girlfriend. He was also wearing a pink leather holster.
On Monday, the charge at Dunkin Donuts showed up on my account. The day before, I felt violated and enraged. The culprit made off with my new wallet (the only souvenir from my first trip abroad, to Italy, where I was not pick-pocketed once) and $60.00, more money than I usually carry, as the Farmer’s Market is cash only. Confronted by this singular, measly levy, I felt only pity for the very poor soul, so hungry that he went to the nearest fast food joint that takes credit cards to get this tiny, sugary pittance. An adult Oliver. This seemed a very sad thing; a wallet was stolen and a hungry person got a donut.
I feel for the thief who uses a stolen credit card to buy $3.85 worth of breakfast at Dunkin Donuts. Why not get the bakers dozen for an even $5.00? Why not try an organic apple right there at the market? I wondered what kind of donut the thief chose, and was there coffee too, perhaps with extra sugar. Did he get decaf? Unlikely.
To reassert myself as a savvy New Yorker, I sauntered over to the Dunkin Donuts to check out the scene. I was familiar with the garbage can on the corner in front of the store and was optimistic that the thief took the money and credit card but tossed the wallet in that trashcan. I'd already checked the ones around the crime scene.
The trashcan was daunting; overflowing and there were flies. The late afternoon sun was blazing. First Avenue was crowded. I stared into the can, but if my wallet were in there, it would be buried deep because the charge was made the day before. I stared so hard at that garbage as I considered my options that a young man stopped behind me to stare as well. I call this the New York domino effect.
"I think my wallet's in there," I explained.
"Why?" he said.
Would my reasoning sound as clever to someone else? I told him the whole story, hoping this curious stranger would help me dig through the trash.
"Huh," he said. "Goodluck." And walked away.
Bracing myself for something that would definitely be gross and probably futile, I donned the winter gloves that I'd brought and started digging.
I am sorry to say, I did not get very far. I barely skimmed the top. I had nowhere to put the trash once I’d taken it out and it was piling up conspicuously around me. Some things were drippy. The knit gloves were destroyed. I couldn’t go any farther with the plan, and felt unjustly defeated by the thief and the trash bin at Sixth Street and First Avenue.
As a last ditch effort, I stormed the Dunkin Donuts counter hoping the thief had, with a little nourishment, found the error of his ways and given the wallet to lost and found. The young woman at the counter said no, but was happy to call the clerk from the previous morning. She asked, was I sure I left it there?
I launched into the story again, the wallet stolen from the farmer's market and the charge from that particular Dunkin Donuts. She was incredulous that the thief would use a stolen credit for a $3.85 breakfast.
"It almost makes you want to pity the person," I sniffed.
"Nah," she said, "Dude probably just came here first to see if it worked before he went to Circuit City."
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Heat and Jesus
Today I am a coffee shop philanthropist, donating my dollars to the continuation of bad local art and strong coffee that comes in white dime store mugs. For my money I get motorcycle exhaust, skateboards and panhandlers. On my feet, one of two new pairs of shoes from the flea market, a brand new, pre-used, me.
The East Village streets are empty, but the parks have become campgrounds for dredlocked lovers and the air has a hint of ash and mj. The summer belongs to the real New Yorkers. The ones that can't or don't want to leave the city. The ones that are satisfied to sweat. The summer sufferers get New York's real Gambian Gold; dollar gelato in the Italian neighborhoods in Brooklyn, trapeze lessons on the west side pier, out door movies and naked homeless, odd pets, methadone freaks, junk fairs and fresh fish at 4am and music and Puerto Ricans and lusty humid nights where you can try every bar cause its warm enough to walk and the strawberry smoke from hidden hookah gardens tints the glossy eyes of thin, beautiful women. The subways under the ice-cold movie theatres make the seats vibrate. Standing on first avenue you can see up and down the entire city. There is love and sex and sweat and food everywhere, except in my apartment where there is only sweat.
A white pigeon waddled into a café. It took a stroll around, studied the dessert case, checked out the scene and finding it lacking, strolled out with the haughty indifference of any East Villager.
The pigeon came back later; it couldn't find any place better I guess. It spent a little time at each table, picking up crumbs and gossip, clearly a busy body and a moocher. Since it was a nonpaying customer, the management eventually picked it up and escorted it out.
Lots of Christians visit New York in the summer. It's on the missionary route, like Sodom. Next stop Manhattan. They come with their gray, Champion tee-shirts, their Umbros and high-waisted khakis, blonde hair in soccer mom bobs, huge smiles. I watched a group set up a play area at the park for the local kids. I just knew they weren't from New York. They were too…happy. And it occurred to me, they must be Christian and Christians from out of town no less, because I'm not sure even New York Christians are as happy as Midwestern Christians. Maybe New Yorkers are just unhappy, but more likely they are unhappy because they are heathens. I have never considered New Yorkers to be a depressed people, but compared to these radiating, middle state Christians, we all look like we should be on wilbrutran.
All the Christians I meet are happy. I met some in line for a Broadway show, the woman's son had just been in a devastating car accident and was terribly maimed, her mother was an out of work, alcoholic, diabetic with no legs, but God saved her, and they're all totally thrilled. My cousins in Iowa, the kindest people you could meet, Born Again Christians and they're happy, and so nice even to Jews and gay people who they think are going to hell.
This group in the park, it turns out, were from Atlanta. They had pizza and were handing out tracts and had organized games. The local kids, mostly Blacks and Hispanics, really participated and enjoyed themselves. So here they were proselytizing, but also feeding kids and showing them a good time. I did wonder if the soccer moms, behind their sincerity and smiles, looked down at the ethnic city mothers with thongs peeping half moon-like from their low riders. Christians might be happy, but they don't wear thongs. Ah! Maybe that's why they're so happy.
So I see all these happy Christians, most of the Christians I meet, all of them radiantly happy, that I've started to wonder if maybe Jesus really is behind it all. Does accepting Jesus as your personal savior make you a happier person? Is that what this is all about? Do they know something I don't? It's not impossible. A friend who was once a bible thumper told me that Jesus, or rather the way he played out in her youth groups and bible study, gave her low self esteem and a nagging sense that she was supposed to be happy but wasn't. She's an atheist now so maybe she hadn't really accepted Jesus whole-heartedly after all. She wasn't a true believer, and that's why she wasn't happy. I have considered converting. I would have to get my teeth whitened if I'm going to start smiling like they do. With this new Christian pop, even the music is not so horribly bad.
But I think these Christians are happy not because of Jesus, but because they are blonde. Something in that blonde beingess, that celestial Midwestern blondness makes them happier. They made Jesus blonde, all the angles are blonde (ever seen a red head angel, even brunette angels are very rare). Who came up with the phrase "blondes have more fun"? Jesus did. It's in the New Testament. Maybe I don't have to convert to Christianity to be impossibly happy, I just have to convert to Clairol.
Also, I think this idea of Jesus as your "personal savior" sounds very 1990's. Has that always been the company line? It's so me-oriented. Personal Savior, Personal Trainer, Personal Dietician. Who is Jesus in the 2000s? Does he mind that I'm paying too much for rent? Who is he kidding with that 'I died for your sins?' There are men and women dying in Iraq all the time for our sins. Do you think Jesus would get his long golden locks Japanese straightened like I have? Would Jesus spare a dime, or a cigarette for those homeless by choice kids in Thompkins Park? Wouldn't he know better?
The East Village streets are empty, but the parks have become campgrounds for dredlocked lovers and the air has a hint of ash and mj. The summer belongs to the real New Yorkers. The ones that can't or don't want to leave the city. The ones that are satisfied to sweat. The summer sufferers get New York's real Gambian Gold; dollar gelato in the Italian neighborhoods in Brooklyn, trapeze lessons on the west side pier, out door movies and naked homeless, odd pets, methadone freaks, junk fairs and fresh fish at 4am and music and Puerto Ricans and lusty humid nights where you can try every bar cause its warm enough to walk and the strawberry smoke from hidden hookah gardens tints the glossy eyes of thin, beautiful women. The subways under the ice-cold movie theatres make the seats vibrate. Standing on first avenue you can see up and down the entire city. There is love and sex and sweat and food everywhere, except in my apartment where there is only sweat.
A white pigeon waddled into a café. It took a stroll around, studied the dessert case, checked out the scene and finding it lacking, strolled out with the haughty indifference of any East Villager.
The pigeon came back later; it couldn't find any place better I guess. It spent a little time at each table, picking up crumbs and gossip, clearly a busy body and a moocher. Since it was a nonpaying customer, the management eventually picked it up and escorted it out.
Lots of Christians visit New York in the summer. It's on the missionary route, like Sodom. Next stop Manhattan. They come with their gray, Champion tee-shirts, their Umbros and high-waisted khakis, blonde hair in soccer mom bobs, huge smiles. I watched a group set up a play area at the park for the local kids. I just knew they weren't from New York. They were too…happy. And it occurred to me, they must be Christian and Christians from out of town no less, because I'm not sure even New York Christians are as happy as Midwestern Christians. Maybe New Yorkers are just unhappy, but more likely they are unhappy because they are heathens. I have never considered New Yorkers to be a depressed people, but compared to these radiating, middle state Christians, we all look like we should be on wilbrutran.
All the Christians I meet are happy. I met some in line for a Broadway show, the woman's son had just been in a devastating car accident and was terribly maimed, her mother was an out of work, alcoholic, diabetic with no legs, but God saved her, and they're all totally thrilled. My cousins in Iowa, the kindest people you could meet, Born Again Christians and they're happy, and so nice even to Jews and gay people who they think are going to hell.
This group in the park, it turns out, were from Atlanta. They had pizza and were handing out tracts and had organized games. The local kids, mostly Blacks and Hispanics, really participated and enjoyed themselves. So here they were proselytizing, but also feeding kids and showing them a good time. I did wonder if the soccer moms, behind their sincerity and smiles, looked down at the ethnic city mothers with thongs peeping half moon-like from their low riders. Christians might be happy, but they don't wear thongs. Ah! Maybe that's why they're so happy.
So I see all these happy Christians, most of the Christians I meet, all of them radiantly happy, that I've started to wonder if maybe Jesus really is behind it all. Does accepting Jesus as your personal savior make you a happier person? Is that what this is all about? Do they know something I don't? It's not impossible. A friend who was once a bible thumper told me that Jesus, or rather the way he played out in her youth groups and bible study, gave her low self esteem and a nagging sense that she was supposed to be happy but wasn't. She's an atheist now so maybe she hadn't really accepted Jesus whole-heartedly after all. She wasn't a true believer, and that's why she wasn't happy. I have considered converting. I would have to get my teeth whitened if I'm going to start smiling like they do. With this new Christian pop, even the music is not so horribly bad.
But I think these Christians are happy not because of Jesus, but because they are blonde. Something in that blonde beingess, that celestial Midwestern blondness makes them happier. They made Jesus blonde, all the angles are blonde (ever seen a red head angel, even brunette angels are very rare). Who came up with the phrase "blondes have more fun"? Jesus did. It's in the New Testament. Maybe I don't have to convert to Christianity to be impossibly happy, I just have to convert to Clairol.
Also, I think this idea of Jesus as your "personal savior" sounds very 1990's. Has that always been the company line? It's so me-oriented. Personal Savior, Personal Trainer, Personal Dietician. Who is Jesus in the 2000s? Does he mind that I'm paying too much for rent? Who is he kidding with that 'I died for your sins?' There are men and women dying in Iraq all the time for our sins. Do you think Jesus would get his long golden locks Japanese straightened like I have? Would Jesus spare a dime, or a cigarette for those homeless by choice kids in Thompkins Park? Wouldn't he know better?
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Disaster Film Live
When a pipe exploded in New York City’s midtown, sending a national park sized scalding geyser of steam, rusted silt and rocks hundreds of feet into air, trains below Grand Central station sped past the 42nd street stop, and the shuttle between Central and Times Square halted mid-ride and back peddled to where it came. Passengers were herded out in an emergency evacuation.
On the crowded subway platforms people were panicked. Even the businessmen looked harried and uncertain. Mothers frantically tugged at their children. There was no information, just a tired, nervous, stampede.
Outside the station, steam billowed into the sky like smoke and people burst into tears at the sight of it. On their commute only moments earlier, passengers flipped through AM New York where an article discussed the government analysis that the threat of terror is higher now then ever. When trains jerked in unplanned stops and passengers rushed out to find a column of steam skyscraper high, there could be no other conclusion - the terrorists had struck.
So much so is terrorism in the public zeitgeist that young adult books these days discuss dirty bombs, nuclear bombs, suicide bombs – publishers must consider these relevant topics for a demographic coming of age Post 9/11. A few years ago, I was struck by an art exhibit that showed the crayon drawings of children in Palestinian refugee camps – stick figures with guns, clouds of smoke – that was their playground - and it surprised me that children could intuit so much. Even in the states, where the daily threat is considerably less severe, children are not left unaware.
A.O. Scott’s review of the frothy Hairspray remake, suggests that the triumph of youth culture, the optimistic, belief that the future will improve on the present, is possibly outdated. What do you think, do we really no longer believe that the future will be a better place – or are we just passing through a morbid phase like sixteen year old goths?
And let me just say...how freaky is it that you could be walking along and the street would erupt beneath you - more grist for the diaster film genre.
On the crowded subway platforms people were panicked. Even the businessmen looked harried and uncertain. Mothers frantically tugged at their children. There was no information, just a tired, nervous, stampede.
Outside the station, steam billowed into the sky like smoke and people burst into tears at the sight of it. On their commute only moments earlier, passengers flipped through AM New York where an article discussed the government analysis that the threat of terror is higher now then ever. When trains jerked in unplanned stops and passengers rushed out to find a column of steam skyscraper high, there could be no other conclusion - the terrorists had struck.
So much so is terrorism in the public zeitgeist that young adult books these days discuss dirty bombs, nuclear bombs, suicide bombs – publishers must consider these relevant topics for a demographic coming of age Post 9/11. A few years ago, I was struck by an art exhibit that showed the crayon drawings of children in Palestinian refugee camps – stick figures with guns, clouds of smoke – that was their playground - and it surprised me that children could intuit so much. Even in the states, where the daily threat is considerably less severe, children are not left unaware.
A.O. Scott’s review of the frothy Hairspray remake, suggests that the triumph of youth culture, the optimistic, belief that the future will improve on the present, is possibly outdated. What do you think, do we really no longer believe that the future will be a better place – or are we just passing through a morbid phase like sixteen year old goths?
And let me just say...how freaky is it that you could be walking along and the street would erupt beneath you - more grist for the diaster film genre.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Politics in the year 2032
From Buffoon to Bureaucrat, looking back to the MySpace years.
High school Model United Nations students and college poly-sci majors scurrying importantly to and fro their Capital Hill internships, will retreat to their dorms this weekend to upload pics of themselves naked, lock-jawed faces rigid with ecstasy, you tubing what will next Monday seem like subversively funny sketch comedy but may in twenty years ruin their run for public office. Or will it?
One might imagine that as less and less is private, the standards of propriety we hold for our public officials will have to come down. Already we’ve got Obama, the hipster’s Kennedy, hoping that his coke and marijuana days, ‘yes I inhaled, that was kind of the point,” reaches young voters who are at this minute doping, uploading, and bemoaning Iran’s nuclear enrichment program.
On the flip side, we might in the near future have a bevy of candidates too boring and prurient to have considered posting a lewd joke, who’s pals never hired them a hooker, and to whom 'going down' means a drop in the polls. Should possible candidates, now in grade school, start restricting their Internet shenanigans? Then again, the candidates for the coming election are jumping off the wagon to admit they were once users of illegal substances. Does the public want a candidate, smarter, tougher, classier, more ethical than we or is it okay to vote for that guy who video tapes himself stun-gunning his friends on you tube? He’s sort of funny.
Also interesting – While there are thousands of intelligent, dedicated soldiers in the armed forces, it’s widely known that to a large degree, the army draws its ranks from young men and women serving in lieu of being able to afford higher education, kids desperate to flee poor home situations and returning from extended tours in greater and greater trauma. Will military service be a point gainer in future elections, and what kind of candidates can we expect to come out of today’s war – the exhausted, oft demoralized forces in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the WWIII that is hot on our heels?
This is all assuming the Mayan prophesy of Apocalypse of 2012 - much disscussed on the radio show Coast to Coast AM with George Noory and in the New York Times Magazine's fabulous feature 'Final Days'- doesn't end the world or destroy the Internet. Disaster scenarios for 2012, include hurricanes, earthquakes and volcanic eruptions caused by solar storms, cracks forming in the earth’s magnetic field and mass extinctions brought on by nuclear winter.
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/07/01/magazine/01world-t.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1
However, José Arguelles organizer of the Harmonic Convergence in 1992 and the author of a number of esoteric books about the Mayan cosmos believes that: “The post-2012 world will be a world of universal telepathy.” In 1993, he claims to have received a new prophecy in Hawaii, and has been calling himself Valum Votan, Closer of the Cycle. “We’ll be literally living in a new time,” Arguelles said, “by a 13-month, 28-day synchronometer that will facilitate our telepathy by keeping us in harmony with everything all the time. There will be a lot fewer of us, with simple lifestyles, solar technology, garden culture and lots of telepathic communication.”
As for the many who “have not evolved spiritually enough to know that there are other dimensions of reality,” Arguelles predicts they will be taken away in “silver ships.”
Huh.
I wonder if telepathy will be better than You Tube.
Yours,
Scaredy Cat
High school Model United Nations students and college poly-sci majors scurrying importantly to and fro their Capital Hill internships, will retreat to their dorms this weekend to upload pics of themselves naked, lock-jawed faces rigid with ecstasy, you tubing what will next Monday seem like subversively funny sketch comedy but may in twenty years ruin their run for public office. Or will it?
One might imagine that as less and less is private, the standards of propriety we hold for our public officials will have to come down. Already we’ve got Obama, the hipster’s Kennedy, hoping that his coke and marijuana days, ‘yes I inhaled, that was kind of the point,” reaches young voters who are at this minute doping, uploading, and bemoaning Iran’s nuclear enrichment program.
On the flip side, we might in the near future have a bevy of candidates too boring and prurient to have considered posting a lewd joke, who’s pals never hired them a hooker, and to whom 'going down' means a drop in the polls. Should possible candidates, now in grade school, start restricting their Internet shenanigans? Then again, the candidates for the coming election are jumping off the wagon to admit they were once users of illegal substances. Does the public want a candidate, smarter, tougher, classier, more ethical than we or is it okay to vote for that guy who video tapes himself stun-gunning his friends on you tube? He’s sort of funny.
Also interesting – While there are thousands of intelligent, dedicated soldiers in the armed forces, it’s widely known that to a large degree, the army draws its ranks from young men and women serving in lieu of being able to afford higher education, kids desperate to flee poor home situations and returning from extended tours in greater and greater trauma. Will military service be a point gainer in future elections, and what kind of candidates can we expect to come out of today’s war – the exhausted, oft demoralized forces in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the WWIII that is hot on our heels?
This is all assuming the Mayan prophesy of Apocalypse of 2012 - much disscussed on the radio show Coast to Coast AM with George Noory and in the New York Times Magazine's fabulous feature 'Final Days'- doesn't end the world or destroy the Internet. Disaster scenarios for 2012, include hurricanes, earthquakes and volcanic eruptions caused by solar storms, cracks forming in the earth’s magnetic field and mass extinctions brought on by nuclear winter.
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/07/01/magazine/01world-t.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1
However, José Arguelles organizer of the Harmonic Convergence in 1992 and the author of a number of esoteric books about the Mayan cosmos believes that: “The post-2012 world will be a world of universal telepathy.” In 1993, he claims to have received a new prophecy in Hawaii, and has been calling himself Valum Votan, Closer of the Cycle. “We’ll be literally living in a new time,” Arguelles said, “by a 13-month, 28-day synchronometer that will facilitate our telepathy by keeping us in harmony with everything all the time. There will be a lot fewer of us, with simple lifestyles, solar technology, garden culture and lots of telepathic communication.”
As for the many who “have not evolved spiritually enough to know that there are other dimensions of reality,” Arguelles predicts they will be taken away in “silver ships.”
Huh.
I wonder if telepathy will be better than You Tube.
Yours,
Scaredy Cat
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