Dare to be a fashion don't.

Do you ever wonder if you're followed around by the fashion police?

Recently, I discovered that in order to clothe myself properly, I'd have to journey back through the cedar-closet Narnia that is my past. (Really, the cedar closet has all my old books -- makes you wonder which I value more.)

I've tried to put on the things I love, but they hang on me. Kind of like I ditched about eight years of time without making compensation for the present fashions. You can, (no, really) go back; you can go home again to your old wardrobe, but if you don't make allowances for the shoulder pads and longer hems, you're going to look a bit (just a tad) odd when you walk out the door.

I recommend taking a good, long look in the mirror before attempting to leave with these items:

1. Tapestry vests. I don't have the one I love most -- mostly because it was my sister's and at some point she reclaimed it. I do, however, have my 3x tapestry vest from 1990, still hanging neatly in the spare closet upstairs. It's beautiful. Goes great over t-shirts with only slightly-out-of-style acid-washed jeans. (And I can never, ever take it downstairs until it's really back in style.)

2. Quilted blazers. I kept this blazer because I swore it would always be in style. It's acid-green with black stitches, front pockets (oh, if you think I'll post a picture of it, well, I might, but not today) and even quilted arms. Looks beautiful with black, narrow-ankle pants -- that went out and then back in style.

3. A wedding dress in navy blue. Okay, so I'm not Ms. Havisham and I don't wander around in my wedding dress, but the gorgeous blue cocktail dress with beaded bolero jacket would be wonderful for several events. I swear it's not dated. But for some reason, I can't bring myself to wear it so I've put it away for a rest of perfect retirement. (You really have to read Dickens to appreciate that reference.)

4. (Oh, I've got more) argyle socks from high school. You'll laugh, but I actually still have socks from third grade -- red acrylic knee-highs that I sometimes wore with my Brownie uniform. I didn't have orange socks. Close. They still fit. Some things are worth keeping.

5. Madonna-star-dangle earrings. (These JUST broke.) I haven't worn them out of the house, but I kept these 1988 darlings on the OFF CHANCE that they'd come back into style. I loved these -- wore them out on dates to the movies in Windsor, Ontario, Canada and then on into my heyday as a j-school student in Toronto. I put them on after a certain shopping expedition with my eldest daughter -- I thought they were still pretty hip after what I saw SHE was willing to wear. And then, they broke. For $5, I think I got a pretty good value.

The things I wish I still had, that would rock my new campus life as a professional:

1. Boy Blazer from a private school in Toronto in the 40's. (Gone the way of all things.)

2. Batik lavender hand-print t-shirt (I WILL find a photo of that shirt)

3. Pleated-waist jeans (with unseen elastic in the back -- buffet pants of the MC Hammer variety)

4. Saddle shoes -- why didn't they become the mainstream?

That's my list for the day. I like lists. Keeps the clothing in line as I save it for posterity.

Now, where did I put that slip I bought back in 1992?

--Naomi

Happy unbirthday to me.

I think I've written that before (look up). The thing is, I've actually got 364 chances to write that very phrase, so really, if I repeat myself, I only make myself look more detail-oriented as I keep track of the days that have absolutely nothing to do with the day of my birth.

People think I'm funny. I think I'm rushing through time and have only the briefest moment for a comment or two before the wind hustles me off to the next adventure. It's really strange having a mystical take on life. Is it a sign?

If you think it is.

A few months ago I got this amazing new job -- only a tiny little drive (oh, about the same time it would take to shop for all my groceries and schlep them home again) each morning and each night. It's a great place to work, but in the meantime, I've got two hours every single weekday to sit and think and sit and think and sometimes

avoid a deer.

(It's a really rural area up here in the wilds of MI.)

So I sing-song my way down the highway, and then I sing-song my way home. It's gotten to the point that I've used up most of my CD collection and have gotten way, way off track to my eldest daughter's CD. (She is 11 years old.) I like two of the songs, and can stand two more. There are about 18 other songs that are unlistenable, unprintable and unmentionable.

Some days I question my sanity, but I can't fast-forward the drive like I fast-forward the horrible bee-bop lyrics of a pre-teen vampire fiend gone horribly awry.

So what do I think about? This and that. My mind wanders over the flat landscape, now scattered with red and orange and brown. I think about the wonders that befall me, and how I managed to find the best opportunity the farthest away, time and time again. It's like I'm looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but I set my own boundaries too far off and end up at the horizon when really I thought the rainbow ended somewhere down at the end of the block.

Just a bit farther now. Any second, now.

Sometimes I wish I could tell jokes. Sometimes I wish I could tell stories. I think about bringing a recorder with me, because it's somewhat hard to take notes (but not impossible -- don't tell the cops) while driving in a straight line. I have all these great ideas, but then when I get home I'm exhausted and all my energy that drove me back south and east escapes through my gas tank and my exhaust pipe and

I'm spent.

I spent three years (since before I started my blog) working on my own -- even when I worked for other people. Now I'm part of a team. Sometimes I miss the silence. (It's quiet at the office, but I've got a million masters to answer to -- okay, about 20,000 students.)

Well, at least that inspires me for a song on the ride home -- ironic as it is.

Enjoy the silence.

--Naomi

Get back to work.

Sometimes I wonder whether I'm running some kind of daydream clearing house on my lunch hour around here.

Why, recently, have I been writing such interesting stories? Because I'm inspired. Because I'm hopeful. Because in the end, all I wanted to do was donate my good will to the Universe.

Um, be careful what you wish for, because apparently, I have a retort to my Thick as a Brick blog entry.

Look, sometimes I play stupid. But not usually in my blog posts. I try to be thoughtful, but when I have another inspiration that the angel in question isn't happy with my story, I can't help but be intrigued enough to publish his response. (Note: Long quotes -- I'm doing the best I can, Michael J., so if I misquote you, feel free to "dream" yourself in and respond again.)

So I had another daydream that the archangel without wings known as Michael (Michael J., he said to say, so I'm correcting his name) took issue with me and had a message for my readers.

"This is what we wanted to say in your blog – we are HERE, we are NOT waiting for tomorrow and the angels themselves want to help us become who we are, just as you said," he said to me earlier.

"I want everyone to know that we are all under great perils from ourselves at every moment and that the greatest danger is to be not who we are, but who we think we are. Honesty is the best policy. You can write this however you want, but I want you to be yourself, and not thick as a brick, although I think you were just being playful and not playing stupid."

And since it's my blog, here's my message back (I do question my daydreams. Wouldn't any journalist?) I wasn't playing stupid. I was sincere. My questions were honest ones -- but you have to admit, the details were incredibly colorful. That's what makes the dream funny.

It's the funny dreams I remember -- because if there's no laughter I know they're not for me.

--Naomi

The fast train from Moscow.

Today is a history lesson. I'll try and keep it brief.

My mother's family has a long tradition of crazy tales about how our family came to be. We lived outside of Moscow, and in the small village of Tolochin, Russia, over 100 years ago. Our family name was Kazdan.

These are our stories.

My great grandmother Rose had a birth father named Label. Label was drafted into the Russian army. Needless to say, he didn't want to go. The Russian army wasn't the most hospitable place for Jews at that time, so Label developed a plan to get out of serving.

He'd drink vinegar.

Not knowing the exact dosage of said liquid, he figured he'd drink enough to make himself sick, then when the army had declined his service, he'd get better and live his life.

Unfortunately, and strangely, we tell this with the fatalistic Jewish sense of humor of that time, Label was a bit of a klutz. A schlemiel -- not to put it badly, but the man didn't finish medical school, much less start it. He drank the vinegar, and unfortunately had too much and died, leaving his wife, Leah, and small daughter, Rose, alone in the world.

Leah remarried Mr. Mayer, as he was called, and he adopted my great grandma Rose. (I'm named for her in Hebrew; hopefully she's not insulted that I'm telling these stories.)

So my great grandma Rose became Rose Mayer. When it was time for her marriage, her family called upon cousins in Moscow. My soon-to-be great grandfather Israel came from a very learned family; possibly full of rabbis. Unfortunately, the records were all burned in the pogroms there, so we have only our oral history to go on, and some beautiful black-and-white portraits without names on the back.

This arranged marriage to her second cousin went well. I have a beautiful portrait of my great grandparents (in my memory, possibly in a relative's attic) in their bathing suits (20's style) with a background of the beach. They look adorably happy and giggly. I'd like to think they had a great marriage. They had seven children -- two children in Russia who didn't survive, one who came with them to the United States in 1904 and four more beautiful children, including my grandma Tillie, once they arrived.

According to my family, there were several relatives who crossed the Atlantic Ocean in search of a better life where our rooftops weren't full of fiddlers and fire didn't touch our sheets. My great grandparents eventually moved from New York City to Detroit, Michigan and opened up a paint and wallpaper store in that city, making a nice life for themselves and pushing their sons to become doctors (all four of them) and my grandmother to become a fantastic teacher in the Oak Park, MI school district.

My grandmother married my grandpa Harry on February 12, 1933. It was the middle of the Depression, and the story goes that they had a lovely wedding, a beautiful night and then they went to work the next morning. No honeymoon -- money was tight.

My great grandparents put my grandfather through dental school so that he'd have a good life. They lived with my great grandmother for a long time, sharing a flat in a two-story home with my great-aunt Josephine and great Uncle Sam, with their six children. My grandfather once said he wasn't very crazy about living with my great-grandmother, as he never, ever won an argument with my grandmother. The older generation was looking on.

When my grandfather went to war in 1943, my mother was only 18 months old. There's a photo of him in uniform outside the house. My great grandmother was on the steps in the background, watching. My great grandmother helped raise my uncle, my mother and eventually my aunt, after she was born -- probably (she says with a wink) about nine months after he returned from London, England.

My grandfather served there and saw his cousins, the Steermans, who emigrated there from Latvia probably about the same time we all left the old country. His family is even more lively in history. His mother, who divorced her husband, became a caterer around the turn of the century in Michigan. She told him that some of the rabbis (or at least one) would steal her chickens. I have no proof.

He also mentioned once that he knew the Purple Gang. You know, if I'd been older and in journalism school, I might have had the courage to ask for that story, but he shuddered when he mentioned the prohibition-based, rum-running mafia and then never said another word about them. Makes you think he knew more than he said.

My grandfather went to art school via correspondence in his forties -- he collected a series of books from the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. He gave me those before he passed away. They are my treasure; full of full-color plates (paintings) of the works of the masters. He was the one person who said, you know, if you don't like journalism school, it's okay to try something else. Don't worry about changing your mind.

Good advice that luckily I never needed to take. He passed away when I was 20. My sister was in Israel for the summer so my mother didn't tell her; we knew it was coming, but I always wondered if she knew it happened. I went home and cried. He was the one person I always sat next to in the den of their house while he smoked his pipe. That place on the sofa was known as "my spot." Emphasis on MY.

Our family names the next generation from the ones before -- only the ones who've passed away, since we are Ashkenazi Jews and that is our tradition. So my aunt Ellen is named for Leah, my grandmother for a favorite cousin, Tila, long passed (Chaya to giver her long life as well), my mother, well, for someone I'm sure, and me for my great-grandmother Rose. My cousin Daryl is named for Label, and we hope this all goes well. My sister and I both named our first daughters after my grandmother (only I named her for her nickname, ChaiTilah, because my Aunt Molly gave that to her when she was young.) I named my other two little ones for Mountain Boy's grandmother, Josephine, although she didn't have a formal Hebrew name so I just translated it and inserted it into the naming certificate. Baby Boy is named for my father's father, Mordechai. Although Mordy Munn seemed kind of rude in English, so we chose not to use it literally in this language.

(I'm quite merciful that way.)

It's funny how on my mother's side we've been here over a century, but with my father, we've only been here a little more than 60 years. Different perspectives, but the side with the Russian point of view (my grandmother's language of secrets -- she never learned) always dances, even when we're crying. Something about joy in small amounts, no matter what the occasion.

-- Naomi

Thick as a Brick.

But your new shoes are worn at the heels
and your suntan does rapidly peel
and your wise men don't know how it feels
to be thick as a brick.
--Jethro Tull, “Thick as a Brick” (Part 1)

One day I had a daydream that I went upstairs to a small, plain white office and had an official visit with God.

I didn’t realize it was him.

After all, Jews typically don’t believe that you can just find yourself on the way to visit your own Deity, and that he’ll be sitting at a run-down metal and melamine desk, with nothing but a pencil and paper (filled with notes) sitting on it. A metal chair was in front of the desk, on an angle. Cream-colored cushions with small rips on the seams awaited my presence.

I sat down, and gazed upon a gentleman wearing a white rabbi’s robe. He had dark curly hair, and a gentle smile. He glanced up at me.

I gaped. “Um, why do you look like this boy I used to know back in fifth grade named Kevin?” I asked.

He grinned, leaned forward with both elbows on the desk, his hands caressing his face, and blinked rapidly at me.

“I don’t know, Naomi, why do I look like that person?”

And, well, I knew at that moment exactly why he looked like he did.

And I figured he knew too, so I didn’t say anything.

“Where is this place?” I asked him.

(And I’ll paraphrase this next part to make a point)

“This is Olam-HaBa-ah, the World to Come, Naomi,” he said.

“You mean this really exists?”

And then another angel came over, but he was shorter and wearing a dark colored shirt and black jeans.

(Black cars do look better in the shade.)

He sat in my lap. I’m not kidding – dude/angel sat. In. My. Lap.

And he placed his right elbow on the desk, as we were seated on an angle, and gave the man at the desk the same flirty expression, blinking and grinning at him several times.

“You mean to tell me,” the dark angel said to the man at the desk, “that other people don’t believe this exists?”

I laughed. And then I was back at my own desk, my computer in front of me, with a strange, sinking feeling that all was not exactly as it seemed.

***
Apparently, God isn’t the only protagonist in my daydreams.

Yesterday I had another one, except this time I was in a rather plush floral easy chair on a slight recline in a relatively nice office.

Do angels have offices? Can’t they telecommute from the beach, or the park?

Only this time, I was staring down the archangel Michael.

I think.

Michael, it turns out, looked like a man about my height, with the strongest eyes that flashed laughter, not lightning.

He offered me a drink.

And as I reached out to take a sip out of the yellow-green Tupperware (do they sell this there too?) highball cup, I noticed that I was looking a little out of date.

“Why am I wearing my white cotton sweater from my 20th birthday party at Ryerson in Toronto?” I asked.

Michael laughed. I think I amuse Heaven.

“Naomi,” he said, and he had the most beautiful, mellifluous voice, “why do you think you’re wearing that sweater?”

And I knew, and he knew, you know, what this was all about, so of course, being the journalist/dreamer I am, I asked another question.

“Can you all do this or are you someone else?”

“I can do it too,” he said with a grin. “I’m just that good.”

So says an archangel.

And it wasn’t that I could see the details, or the faces, or feel the cotton on my skin. It was that I could feel the emotions and the love that were in those things, those people from my past.

So says a journalist.

“Can you take a sip?” asked Michael.

“Do you have a straw?” I countered.

Suddenly there was a white straw in my cup. No little paper on the end – God and Michael must live in Canada, where sanitary expertise has a different standard.

I took a sip. It wasn’t what I expected.

“Do they have Mountain Dew in Heaven?” I asked.

“Does it taste like that? What does it taste like?” Michael asked.

Maybe he just pulled it out of his hat, but branding obviously isn’t a strong suit up/over there.

I took another sip. “Hmm, more like 7-Up,” I replied.

(My apologies to all the soda-pop companies, but remember, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.)

“Did it tell you anything?” Michael asked.

“Was it supposed to?” I replied.

“Sometimes it leaves a message,” he said. He seemed confused, and so did I. I’d never heard of a soft drink with voicemail.

I thought about it, but honestly, if there was something there, it wasn’t a message I could immediately understand (other than fight cavities with toothpaste). Like a strange song with little chimes that you hear on the wind one day, and you want to follow it, but you can’t quite find the direction and the streets don’t go there, anyway.

“It’s not the kind of message that I understand right away,” I said to the archangel without wings (at the moment) who dispensed carbonated ideas in a comfy chair.

“You should’ve known immediately,” he said to me.

“But I don’t.”

“Are you sure you’re Michael?” I asked him.

“Are you sure you’re Naomi?” he asked me in return.

And I made him a gift – since it was my daydream, anyway. I made a bright red rose appear on the desk (I think it was God’s desk – this is why I question whose office I really visited) and I brought down upon it a beautiful clear glass vase – upside down, to protect the rose.

Michael looked at the rose, under glass, but he hadn’t read The Little Prince (I highly recommend it) and didn’t understand why I was the rose, nor who was the glass.
“I know who you are, Naomi.”

And I was back in the real world, wondering if I knew the same.

Shabbat Shalom.

-- Naomi

Working for the Angel of Death, Day Two (II)

Continued…

It was windy when I emerged from the elevator – for some reason it led me down and right outside. I swear it runs on some kind of inside-out angle.

Even in Heaven the wind can blow the sun away. The clouds danced in front and I stood in the shade of a very tall building and watched the sky move.

Down and under then over and then in.

Or so the Angel of Death said.

I’m sure someone has the wings to take flight and make a short run of this. But that’s not me. I had on the nicest sneakers I could find. Little pocket on one side of the right shoe with a key inside. I hadn’t had to use it – nice thing about where I was staying was that it was always open.

I could hear the direction before I could see it. Crowds of people off to the right, into a sunny spot in the cobbled road. I turned and followed the brilliant gold flashes of light into a marketplace full of tapestries and gilt-covered tent poles.

Brilliant blue coverlets shot through with silver thread were billowing into the street. Oranges and lemons in rough boxes – I could smell them on the warmish breeze.

Almost too beautiful to see. I could see why the Angel of Death kept his office so austere. So little distraction after all the synergy.

As I walked toward the crowds, I passed under a stone bridge. The rounded archways were made of something far older than I ever was. I hadn’t really had time to take the tourist’s view of the city of Angels, but now was a good time, apparently.

There must’ve been bells near the bridge, because something jingled a little as I passed. I turned to look, and a golden eagle almost flew in my face. Startled, but not scared, I stepped back to let an old grey-bearded man pass. He carried old scrolls, bound together with a velvet belt. The cover was off – I’d seen a Torah in temple before, but the bells and birds were still on the wooden handles, all metal and ringing and true.

The man swayed, and stopped to look at me. I stopped and looked back at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said with a small smile. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s okay,” I said, shuffling a little. “That’s a beautiful pair of eagles on the Torah.”

He lit up like the sun. “They are, aren’t they?”

“Do they sing?” I asked.

“Only through my mouth,” he said. “Next time you visit this place, listen for my voice and you’ll hear what the eagles have to say.”

I thought about that for a moment, but he had nothing further to say and with a happy nod he wandered past me, satisfied.

I kept walking into the market. More stalls – but how could anyone sell anything? Curious, I approached another vendor. Little silver boxes sat on a table. They had something like cinnamon inside – they had to, or the woman who sold them used the spice as perfume.

She looked up at me with the deepest eyes – brown and soft and good. I thought of my own little eyes and wondered if mine looked that happy, ever.

“Um, are these boxes for sale?” I asked.

“Would you like to buy one?” The woman replied with her own question.

“I’m not sure,” I said. I reached out to touch one, hesitated as I looked for her approval. She smiled, nodded and pushed one forward. I picked it up, heavier than I imagined. Scrollwork as delicate as fairy wings along the sides. There were hinges on the back, so I opened it.

There was nothing inside. It felt heavier than it should be.

“Are you sure there’s nothing inside?” I asked the woman. And her face also lit up like the sun.

“Surely there’s something there,” she said as she held out her hand for it. I placed it in her open palm and she turned the box this way and that, looking closely. Her eyes narrowed a bit, then she suddenly turned it upside down and shook it.

The inner bottom fell out. I felt dizzy for a moment. But then the music started playing.

The thing about music in Heaven is that it doesn’t stay in one place. Not quite whole or quarter notes but beats of air rose up around the two of us, swirling around the table, then up into the sky. Not quite out of reach, but definitely not in my ears.

“Do you like music, Mira?” The woman asked with a gentle laugh.

“How do you know my name? And yes, I do so love music,” I said.

"Everyone knows you, Mira, we all heard about your new position and couldn’t help but be excited to welcome a new friend here.”

The woman reached over to the box, and shut it quietly. It made no snap as it closed, but the music faded away. I was almost sad when it disappeared.

She handed me the box.

“This is for you, Mira,” she said. Her hands clasped around mine as I held the little beautiful piece of silver soul in my grip.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry, but you didn’t answer my question. Can people purchase things in this place?”

She looked at me for a beat. “Everything here is freely given, Mira. Now, I have something else for you to take with you, where did I put it?”

She beat the little rugs around the foot of the table while I waited, wondering. Finally she pulled up something that looked like a magnifying glass, only the inner circle of the ring had more panes than the outer edges.

“Now this, this, my Mira, is something for your Rav.”

I raised one eyebrow. “For the Rav?”

“Yes, please. Give this to him when you return, Mira. And tell him that I sent it with my compliments on his most excellent selection.”

“How shall I tell him you are called?”

“My name is Deborah.”

And the air buzzed for a minute, but I didn’t get it so I didn’t say anything.

“Thank you,” I said, and turned to go deeper into the way – but the way was now empty and Deborah was the only table there. Where did all the noise go? Away with the wings, I gathered.

“Go on, shoo now,” Deborah said as she packed up her things. “Don’t be late coming back from your errand!”

My back was already turned. I hesitated, then decided that approximately one million angels knew only a zillion things more than I ever would. Not that I was any angel.

I pulled out my little wrinkled piece of paper that I’d scribbled on with pencil before I left, and checked to see if I’d finished. Nope.

Down and under then over and then in.

I think. The pencil was smudged. Hard to follow exactly. I decided that in meant back, because honestly, I was finished.

I turned back the short distance, back under the bridge, but first through the now empty square. I could feel the tall towers but there were no shadows. Back upstairs.

It was raining outside the window of the Angel of Death. I could hear the pitter patter of the drops when I got back to the doorway.

But it felt cozy on the inside.

“I brought you a little something, Rav,” I said to my teacher (who was really my boss) as I crossed tentatively into the doorway.

“Oh! Isn’t that nice, Mira. Come in,” he said with a wave of his hand toward himself.

I walked over to the desk and pulled out the relatively unusual magnifying glass and placed it gently before him on his dark-wood desk. The gray daylight outside didn’t make the glass sparkle like it did in the marketplace.

The Angel of Death picked it up and looked at it closely. He put his face to the glass, and for a moment as I stared back, all I saw were multiple eyes. The funny thing was – I knew I’d see many reflections, but not that each eye would be a different color.

All staring back at me.

“Thank you, Mira,” he said, amused with some inner knowing. “This is a most interesting find. Who gave it to you?”

“Deborah,” I said. “Why does the air around her buzz?”

He looked down at me, slightly. Being so tall had its advantages, but I didn’t think he meant anything by it.

“What if, Mira, your thoughts flew so fast they left your mind? Would they flutter like butterflies? Or would they drift like leaves? Maybe Deborah is full of bees.”

“I hope she likes honey,” I said before I could stop myself.

And that was the first time I heard the Angel of Death laugh. I felt it more than heard, almost like silent rainbows flashing and a gentle sting as his humor poked me.

“Anyway, she gave me a box, too. It’s really pretty, but when the bottom dropped out the music filled up the marketplace. I think it scared the eagles away.”

At that he stopped laughing, and held out his hand the exact same way, palm up. I reached into my pocket and placed the little silver box in his hand. He shook it gently next to his ear, and looked back at me.

“Did you hear the sea?”

“No.”

“Did you hear bells?”

“No.”

“Well then, what did you hear?”

“My heart.”

The Angel of Death put his hand on his heart. He thought. “What did it sound like?”

I had to think about this. “A rush of wind on the inside going upwards. Is that wrong?”

“No. Of course it isn’t. Music is what you make of it, here, Mira. Did you follow it?”

“I came back here.”

The Angel smiled, and looked away for a split second. “Then you did.”

***

Working for the Angel of Death: Day Two

Day Two

I came back to the office of the Angel of Death the next day. Ready for action, or at least what masqueraded for that effect.

It was quiet as I walked in. The lights were off. Strange, never noticed that before. I looked around on the walls for a light switch.

Nothing.

The rear office had lights on. I could hear a faint rustling, as if the Angel of Death was turning in his chair. Thinking it might be a good idea to ask about having proper illumination for my own desk, I stepped forward onto the muted carpet, draped in shadow, and then realized that after my little statement yesterday, I was probably in charge of all desk lighting from now on.

See, yesterday I told the Angel of Death, my Rav (which means teacher), that my name is really not Mira – it’s Meira, which means “she who illuminates.”

Big Mouth Mira.

So, rather than going through the dark into the light, I thought about another way.

And failed.

“Good morning, Mira,” said the Angel of Death from his office. Still couldn’t see him. Gingerly, I stepped another step forward.

“Good morning, Rav,” I said to the lighter air farther on. “It’s very dark in here today.”

“Yes, it is,” said the Angel of Death. I could almost feel the glow of his smile.

I took a deep breath.

“Um, is there a way to turn the lights on in the office out here? I didn’t see a switch on the wall,” I said.

“Well, Mira, where would the switch be?”

“On the wall?” I said again, thinking I must not have gotten the idea across in the previous sentence.

“Check again and let me know if you find it. I’m having problems with the displacement of my ordinary things today. You seem to be good at finding a solution,” he said, and apparently with more rustling returned to his work.

The walls looked dim and blank. I felt them – they did have a texture. Almost like stucco, raised swirls of white on white. My hand bumped over the edges, but I couldn’t feel any obvious metal or plastic edge of a switch plate.

I would’ve drawn a solution, but the pencil was someplace far in the gloom. The shadows in the corners loomed a bit closer, and I paused.

There were no windows in my section. The Angel of Death, of course, had a window. I’m not sure what scene it looked out onto since I didn’t spend much time there yesterday. Some kind of cityscape. We were several floors above ground – at least today. I suspected that no matter which button I pressed on the elevator wall each morning the car would rise in its own good direction.

Button. Do light switches have to look like switches?

I felt around again on the cool wall. Dry, not moist at all. Apparently this was a solidly built structure and had no leaks. Excellent – I never did like extra water in my workday.

I moved my hands around in a circular motion – maybe I could feel along the wall and find something that felt like a light. But as I moved around, slightly to the right, the wall got warmer. Just a little. I moved my hand again, further up and to the right, and the wall was warmer again.

I swirled my hand in a small motion, then expanded it as I realized that the wall was getting warmer under my fingers. Just fingertips, then, in a circle – a loop de loop curly-cue around and around.

And then the lights started coming on.

I didn’t stop except for a brief glimpse at the ceiling – never noticed it yesterday, as I was busy with my filing.

It was cloudy at the top of the room.

The clouds weren’t painted.

Real clouds near the ceiling, just floating there, as if hanging out in an office was just the thing to do. They moved away from one corner as I swished and swirled my fingers around the wall. I started to tap the wall at the same time, as if I was playing “Morning has Broken” on an invisible vertical piano.

And suddenly the lights were on. And I heard a little trumpet from inside the filing closet at the far wall, blaring a small horn.

The Angel of Death walked to the edge of the door frame. Tall, dark and somewhat beautiful (okay, very,) he gripped the top of the dark wood frame, looked at me and said,

“And it was evening and it was morning, Day Two, Mira. Good work. I have an errand for you to run, when you have a moment.”

Good thing I found my walking shoes the night before.

To Be Continued…

I never ask.

I pray regularly -- every Friday night, whether I need it or not.

Sometimes at other times; sometimes I forget until I light the Shabbat candles on top of my stove. The kitchen looks so comforting at dusk. Pink in my evening.

I light them, and I say the blessing that is really a repetition of a commandment to kindle the lights of our Sabbath. But I usually add a little something extra.

I pray for opportunity.

I'm one of those strange people who never, ever, prays for a new sofa. I don't pray for a specific job, or a new car, or a shiny bauble to appear on my doorstep.

I know better.

Ever since I took an amateur psych test while not doing my calculus homework in summer school (full credit, of course, she says), I knew better than to think of my life as spoon-fed anything.

My friend Leslie asked me to define something one day during that class -- "there is a tree with a key hanging from it. Describe the key."

The key in my imagination was a large, old-fashioned gold key, almost like it would unlock a castle door. It was hanging from a burgundy velvet ribbon.

"What do you do with the key?"

And y'know -- I almost didn't say it. I mean, the key wasn't mine -- just hanging there in the shaded forest of tall, tall trees. Could've been meant for someone else. Someone could be coming round the path anytime now, just waiting to grab it back. Maybe it was for his house.

But I took it anyway. Guiltily, I tucked it into my imaginary pocket.

And other than facing down the big, angry black dog, seeing my love as a small pot of jam, my future as a person-size mason jar of fireflies, and attempting to climb the very slippery and mossy enormous wall of death (I needed a rope to see over the other side, and trust me, the unicorns, rainbows and Barbie castle were well worth the view) it was quite

uneventful.

But something stuck. And when I got older and was in my own house -- or even a little before, I realized that a)I still feel guilty sometimes about the opportunities I receive and b)I shouldn't feel that way.

I pray for opportunity so that I can be faster, smarter, better. I figure no one is going to deliver my destiny on a golden platter. But then I wonder, just a little, when I consider all the good things in my life. It's a strange thought to think that I'm limiting someone else by taking my own steps.

Love is infinite. I never worry that I'm taking love away. But some years have been so lean, and yet I still felt like I was taking something from someone else even when I needed so much.

Resourcefulness is a two-sided coin. When you think no one will rescue you, you take the key. I never thought to shout out into the forest -- hey! Does this belong to anyone? Does anyone want to show me where this key goes?

I never ask.

I think about that, lately. I wonder why I pray to just see opportunity so that I can take it. It's active in the taking, but so passive in the observation. There's more to making a life than just keeping an eye on hanging keys. And, I don't always have the right pockets anymore. Something about those parachute pants went the way of all things.

And when I do think to ask, it's Shabbat, and we're not supposed to ask God for anything then. Maybe subtly, but not up front. Only a blessing -- not a sofa.

What would I ask for, I wonder, if I remembered to pray on a weeknight?

Happy Monday.

--Naomi

Ready for Lunch

“Thélete na eínai éna gévma, í na fáte éna gévma?” -- Greek

One day I sat down in a sunny place and told myself a story. It wasn’t a story about a sunny day.

In fact, it was quite the opposite. Someone very wise once told me that in order to discover the hidden places within us; we should simply make up the details and consider the job done. Not that we need to prescreen the lies in our lives – merely that the things that move unseen around us may actually be ready to give us true gifts if we’re willing to tell the tale ourselves.

This is that tale.

In a faraway place, a stone tower, really, I decided to take my lunch underground. No windows in this bone cold room. Only a small fire in a grate, and three blackened workmen gathered round, warming their hands and preparing a small meal for themselves.

I hesitated to sit by them – they seemed quiet and willing to only be part of themselves. But for once in my life, I wanted to meet different people and make conversation instead of dining in the corner of the prettiest crystal (as in breaking-glass) ballroom.

The men noticed me. They gestured with gnarled hands, long bent from labor, to sit across from them, but near the fire. “Sit, sit,” one man said. Shorter than the others, but thinner with a smile that flashed white teeth in the firelight.

I sat gingerly on a plank. There was no food here, other than what the workmen brought. We watched each other across the flames, smiling slightly. No challenge issued. Another man offered his bread toward me, but after I refused once he continued eating.

We sat companionably for a while, and I wondered what I would learn from chatting with the men who worked so hard to keep the tower warm. I was willing to wait for my lunch, just to see what happened.

The men finished eating. They wiped their mouths, roughly but not harshly, and leered at me a little – ready for some fun. I wasn’t sure what they were up to.

“So, little one, do you want to eat a meal, or be a meal?” The smallest one asked me.

“Why?” I asked.

The second man gestured to the wall they leaned against. They moved away from it as he tapped on the stone. Suddenly, the stones separated to reveal a wooden door hidden beneath. He opened it, and I could see the iron chains and planks of a dumbwaiter. There was nothing on it, but it cast a shadow into the shaft, as the light from the flames of a large fire lit the scene from far below.

“We see you’re hungry,” the third man said. “We’ll find out soon how much.”

The first man jumped up lightly and stood right at the door, gesturing. “Your ride awaits, m’Lady. You have only to choose.”

I had the distinct impression that I wasn’t going anywhere except into the dumbwaiter.

“Eat a meal or be a meal?” I asked.

“Yes. Choose.”

I looked at the dumbwaiter, sitting on the echoes of flames.

“Down.”

The small man gasped, holding his chest in shock. “Down,” he cried. “Are you sure?”

I smiled calmly. “Absolutely.”

“Well then,” he said, “here is your ride to dinner. Hopefully you’ll taste wonderful – I do so like young ladies, boiled,” he continued, laughing.

That did not comfort me.

I got up, dusted myself off a little, and went over to the dumbwaiter. I sat on the planks. The second man made sure I’d fit, and as he grasped the chains, he whispered, “it’s a hot ride down – careful to jump before the flames hit your bottom.”

I held my breath as they lowered me down. The flames grew higher, and the more the chains squeaked with the men’s efforts, the hotter the seat of my trousers became. Down, down, down, and then, almost near the bottom, the chains leaped and the planks bounced me off the dumbwaiter. I fell forward, into a large rock-faced kitchen lit by the enormous hearth that shot the flames back up into the tower.

I was surely a meal in waiting.

“You might as well get up, now that you took the long way ‘round,” said the cook as she threw around pots and spoons in some dinnerly dance. I crept up meekly to the counter, rough-hewn logs bigger around than I was, and sat on a stool to see the scene around me.

“Am I a meal now?” I asked her. She turned her back to me, wide with effort and age, and though she shook a little, her mirth was barely audible.

“Not since you came downstairs. Ah, but upstairs, now then, you would’ve been served,” she said. “Boiled and spoiled and oiled, I imagine.”

“But whose dinner?” I asked.

“The prince. He loves to try a new dish every now and then. Lucky you, though, your free ride will get you dinner another day.”

The cook said nothing more, until suddenly a large clay dish full of the best-smelling food in the world was thrown before me. It didn’t spill. I waited for an invitation, but none came. It seemed to be my food – it was right in front of me. Then again, she might have missed.

No harm in one bite, I imagined. Incredible. Hot, roasted good things fried in oil that slid down my throat. Better not to ask too deeply into what it was.

But I did have to invent my own knife to serve myself.

--Naomi

Working for the Angel of Death -- Part 2

(Continued...)

I looked down at my hands – no wand. But strangely enough, there on the middle of the desk when I turned around to ponder my lack of equipment, lay a beautifully un-chewed pencil.

That’s how I knew it absolutely wasn’t mine.

Supple and golden yellow, and sharpened to just the right point.

I wondered. Should I use it?

Sounds like a curious question, but honestly, in my first day on this job, I didn’t want to appear untrustworthy. And, considering my location, I knew, just knew, there wasn’t anything like a free lunch in this part of town.

Eh. I shrugged. All things considered, I could work off the debt. I took it in hand, and began conducting my own personal internal musical score while I considered what type of magic I’d need.

Up and down in the air – in the silence and the white. Like directing the clouds, almost.

Until I started walking and the sparkles followed me.

Never having been chased by golden sparks in the air, I was a bit nervous and made my way toward the door. I wasn’t sure how far they’d follow me down the hall – perhaps all the way to the washroom?

I didn’t get that far. Well, I didn’t mean to get that far. I just walked, conducting, and suddenly realized that the way my movements were waving in the air that the shimmers could be directed like my own mystical etch-a-sketch.

But apparently the solution closet didn’t need to be found at all.

It needed to be drawn.

I could already see the outline of something, so I started filling in the edges. A little bit of door here, a bit of handle there, and suddenly I had the nicest vision of a somewhat translucent closet door in the middle of the air somewhere slightly displaced from the edge of the office. Inside, of course.

The vision of solutions filling my head suddenly became more solid. The door materialized, and although I realized as I pulled on the golden handle that I’d forgotten hinges, apparently the things-that-go-poof-in-the-day remembered and nothing came off in my hands as it squeaked open. Just a tiny squeak, as if the universe said, “ah-ha!”

And then I saw what lay inside the solution closet.

Of all things, an order desk.

With a tiny bell, shiny and silver and brand new, waiting to be rung – just off to my right. A little Dutch door was the counter, in the same dark wood as the shelves at the other end of the room.
I pressed on the bell and it dinged in echoed harmony. A choir of secretaries couldn’t have done it better.

“May I help you?” A voice said in the distance. Strange, there didn’t seem to be much other than the counter and the bell inside the closet. Where did the voice come from?

“Well,” I muttered quietly, “I could use a bit of help with a solution. Is this the solution closet?”

“Drawn and quartered,” the voice said, as a little imp rose up from under the door. “Sorry, dearie, I was just rearranging my things down here – hopefully I didn’t startle you. What do you need?”

“I’m having some trouble alphabetizing these files. Do you have a solution?”

“That’s a larger question than I realized. Assistants, these days,” the imp continued, making notes on a sudden poof of pink smoke that turned into an order form. “Always asking for the large things, when really all I can stock are the smaller questions.”

“Well, I suppose I could ask a smaller question,” I said, eyeing the imp carefully. He stopped writing. I should be more cautious about help from strange closet ordering stations, anyway.

“What is it, then, please?”

“What letter do I start with?”

And the imp smiled a smile so wide that I thought his lips would burst. Blue skin around his piercing eyes wrinkled into the most synergistic joy.

“Don’t start at the beginning, dearie, if you know what’s good for you. It’s too far back and you’ll never get there. But if you start at the end, you miss all the good things. Pick somewhere else, and carry on from there.”

“Why?”

“Too large a question, I’m afraid,” the imp said. “Just work your way through. Do your best – and you know, you can always draw another solution when you need one.”

I almost thanked him. But then again, I should’ve known better.

The imp reached outward and pulled the door shut. Show over, the sparkles flared up one more time and like fireflies on the wind, blew away.

Where does the wind go on the inside?

Having found the solution, or at least where it was kept, I made my way back to the bookshelf. I placed the pencil to the right, and went back to my new desk and carried the pile of files back over to the shelves. After I placed them higher so I could sort, I began the arduous task of being somewhat nosy and searching for some way to make them make sense.

But there really was no way, since I couldn’t read them. Except, one of the files broke free of the others when I was restacking and sorting and almost spilled onto the floor. Somehow, I caught it in mid-air, slightly ajar.

My name was on the inside, but with one additional letter.

M-E-I-R-A.

The page was rimmed with gold leaf. Beautiful vines clung to the edges, curling and winding around. Smaller purple violets blossomed forth from the vines, and the letters in my name clung to the flowers like the ink wanted company while it dried.

Meira. And underneath, a small definition of who I was supposed to be.

She who illuminates.

Apparently, when one works for the Angel of Death, and files for a living, one may find the very file of who we really are.

I had other pages, but the cover intrigued me so much that I decided to file it in the front so I could look at it later.

Once I placed it into the first green binder, top right shelf, it started to fall into place.

I filed myself under B. For Beginning.

***
The Angel of Death was just finishing his own quill-scratching for the day when I placed the last manila folder gently onto the bookshelf. He did glance at me from time to time, but other than a small smile once in a while, we worked together and yet apart in silence. The whitest, most pale silence yet peaceful.

The bookshelves disappeared into the wall once I turned away.

The Angel of Death looked up at me from across the way.

“Well? All finished then? Did you figure out how the system works?” He asked.

“I seem to have managed, Rav,” I said to him with a smile. “I really liked the file with my name in it.”

“Did you?” He asked again, but it wasn’t really a question. He put his hands forward, together, on the desk and leaned toward me. “Tell me, Mira, which letter did you end up starting the system with? I’ll need to know if you find another position.”

“B.”

“B?” He grinned. “Didn’t want to start with the first letter of your own name?”

“That seemed too obvious,” I said to him, tilting my head slightly. “It’s not all about me, is it?”

“Did you read the file?”

“No, actually, I got too lost in the cover art but I figured I’d better start in the beginning, anyway.”

The Angel of Death actually looked right at me, then. Such a sharp, piercing gaze.

“B,” he said.

I looked at him and my smile grew wider. There was a gentle breeze in the office suddenly, as if a window had opened to the outside. Cool.

“B,” I said.

“Well, then, now that you’ve found the beginning, I suppose you might want to come back and continue on through,” he said to me, although he looked slightly nervous at the prospect. But I think he actually might be nervous that I wouldn’t, rather than that I would.

“I’d love to stay on for a while, if you’ll have me, Rav.” I said to him.

“Then here you are, Mira, here you are.”

(I would say, The End, but maybe in time it'll be the beginning. Who knows how many files are really in the letter A?)

A long short story.

Working for the Angel of Death


“Well, I’m sure you’ll be able to find your desk,” the little demon said as he showed me around the office. Nervous, my first day and all.

Beautiful office, really. White walls, pure as driven snow. Brilliant pot lights in the ceiling gave off a glow of angelic glory undefined by reason. White carpet – no stains. Imagine that. Nothing like the hell I imagined I was going to as I made my way through the underground tube, around the river to my new workplace.

“Isn’t there something I should know before I start?” I asked, wondering if I could find my way around the big office – comprised of my small desk, which was left undecorated just for me, and the inner office with more plush carpet and a big, black leather chair that I could just see the corner of from my vantage point.

“Well,” the little demon said, examining his long finger nails closely for a moment, “I suppose I could let you in on a tiny little secret.”

“Yes?”

“If you’re having a spot of trouble, any time of the day, I’d check out the solution closet, if I were you.”

“What? Where is it?”

The demon smiled, but only slightly, and looked up at me. “That was the tiny little secret.”

“What was?”

“That there’s a solution closet.”

Then I realized that the closet wasn’t quite located anywhere near me. “Oh.”

The demon picked up his things, consisting of a very large overcoat, a very small briefcase, and a medium-sized rubber duck. “I’ll be off then, duckie,” he said with a chuckle. “Worst of luck to you.”

And suddenly with a swoop of shadow, he was gone.

Big sigh.

I looked around. This wasn’t what I’d planned. I thought, upon expiring somewhat early, due to circumstances that were OF COURSE beyond my control, that I’d have just a bit of pitchfork action, then on with the suffering.

I had no idea that suffering for eternity consisted of a desk job with the Angel of Death.

Apparently the Hellion Temp Agency knew what they were doing. They said this was the absolute worst punishment they could come up with, and I just knew that they were right.

I looked down at my pointed heels. The shoes ached a bit, having not been broken in at all. Some little agent had picked me up straight away at the weigh station, after finding out that the scales of justice were just a bit broken that day, sighing and moaning his fate of having to get me proper clothes for the position.

And yes, all malls are located in Hell.

You want to know how I know? Oh, I shouldn’t go there, but what they hey? I just got my first demotion and I’m so thrilled – NOTHING WAS IN MY SIZE.

But apparently, space is limited in Heaven these days, so the angels and demons live and work together now. I suppose that I was sent to work in the low-rent district. But everything looked fine to me.

I sat down in my too-short chair, with my too-tight shoes, my slightly too-big skirt (but only in the waistband), my too tight top (and you know that of course there are no safety pins in the world that can contain my rack of lamb) and looked for a pen and a pad of paper, so that I could take notes in chicken scrawl for my fab new boss.

And then the Angel of Death walked in.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

Then I looked at the floor.

The Angel of Death was the most attractive man I’d ever seen.

He rubbed his hands together and smiled. I continued looking at the floor, but the sparkle from his teeth only added to the glare.

“Well, now, my dear, cat got your tongue? Up with you so I can have a good look at you,” he said gleefully. Way, way too happy to see a temp in a new position on her first day in the afterlife.

I stood up, slowly, and looked up at him. It was going to be a long day.

“Hello then, I’m the Angel of Death. I’ll be your superior for the next little while, and I’ll try and make your life as easy as possible.”

“Oh! That’s fantastic. I’m Mira. Nice to meet you.” I held out my hand. And the Angel of Death took it gently, turned it over, frowned just a tiny bit, and gave it back to me.

“That’s odd. Haven’t you been permanently assigned to someone yet? I thought you were just filling in until your position was open.”

“Well, er, no,” I started, nervously. “I didn’t realize that I was going to be assigned right away. Seems like I got off to my new end on the wrong foot.”

He looked into my eyes, bending over to stare straight at me. The smile left his face, a little, but I saw the strangest twinkle in his eyes. Very tall, but not unkind.

“I’m not the Devil, Mira,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

“Okay.”

He cleared his throat a little and stood back. “Well, let’s just get to work then, and I’ll check on your assignment in a little while. Probably a bit of lost paper work, I imagine.”

“How can I help you?”

“Well, first off, I could use some assistance with this pile of files I’ve been meaning to put away.” And the Angel of Death waved his hand and the wall in front of me opened. Dark wooden bookshelves with large Kelly-green binders full of papers lined the place where the whitest pale used to be.

He walked over to the other side of my desk – could’ve sworn it was nothing but edge and carpet, but suddenly there was a stack of manila folders waiting for their proper place – on the shelf, apparently.

The Angel of Death picked up one of the manila folders. Thick, with yellow sticky notes peeking out from the edges. Worn at the side, like someone had chewed the tips off in a fit of pique. He looked closely at the name, almost like he needed bifocals – apparently Hell doesn’t have a LensCraftsmen, either.

“This one seems ready to be put away, Mira. Do you think you could examine the shelves, and file the proper placement? It’s all alphabetical, so I’m sure you won’t have any trouble,” he said, now facing the dark wood. I watched the back of his head, his hair shifting slightly under the lights. Highights in a color I couldn’t imagine. He gently placed the file on my desk.

Then I was back in reality. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll get right on it.”

“See that you do. I’ll be in my office if you need anything. Oh, and welcome,” he said as almost an afterthought, and he walked away and I could hear the smallest ruffle as he sat down at his large, dark desk and began working on something that apparently required an inkwell and a feather.

I picked up the file he’d left on my desk.

It was blank.

How could I file something that had no name or title?

Considering my situation, that it was only my first five minutes on the job, and that I didn’t want to appear helpless, I looked around, and decided the only thing to do was break confidentiality and look inside to find a name. Perhaps I could make a label, too, while I was at it, although I did notice that the Angel of Death didn’t prefer computers. Perhaps I’d have to shovel coal later, too, to keep the place warm.

But somehow I didn’t think so.

Just a bit nervous with my fingers cooled – I timidly opened the file.

Lots of note pages filled with scribble. Doodles on the side – funny drawings of strange animals and people, sometimes strange geometric shapes. No runes, or swear words – in fact, when I tried to read the notes to find something to file it under, the words just didn’t make sense.

He did say it was alphabetical, didn’t he?

Humming a bit under my breath, which I’m known to do in certain situations involving utter, well, not confusion, but simple misunderstanding, I walked the folder over to the bookshelves. I placed it gingerly in a blank space along one shelf, and pulled out a binder. Perhaps there was guidance on the shelves themselves.

The binder was lighter than it looked. I thought it was full – but when I tugged on it to pull it out, I could feel the weight of it was no more than one purchased at the store, still wrapped in clear plastic. It smelled new, too.

I opened it. There was one piece of paper inside. One little slice of the work of the Angel of Death. Just a few words on it, with no apparent reason.

I didn’t want to ask for help. There must be some way to find order out of this tiny microscopic chaos, I thought to myself. I could hear the Angel of Death shuffling papers in his office. I froze at the shelves.

“How’s it coming along, then, Mira?” he asked. He sounded calm. If only he knew. “Everything going well out there?” He got up out of his chair and came to the doorway.

“Oh, just fine, Sir. Oh! Sorry, do you have a proper title – I don’t know what to call you.”

The Angel of Death looked me over – up and down. He put his hand up to his chin, and thought of a bit, considering.

“Are you comfortable with my first name?”

I gulped.

He sighed. “Rav will do, Mira. It’s the proper title, after all. I am a teacher, even in the worst of times.”

“Yes, Rav.”

He clapped his hands. “Well, then, back to work.” And he went back to his desk, almost in a flash of light. I’d never seen an angel move that fast.

Alone again. I looked at the shelves, eyeing them over, thinking about a possible solution. I could reorder them all to my liking, but I wasn’t sure if I was going to stay. Something less permanent, then.

Walking away from the shelves with the manila folder in hand, now warm to my touch, I wandered back to the desk and took a long look at the office. There wasn’t much to look at. But I remembered the little demon’s words – the solution closet. Supposedly, I could’ve asked for that too, but I’m not that dependent on conventional solutions.

I wondered if waving my imaginary magic wand would do anything to locate the closet.

To Be Continued ...

One-line poem.

Tis of thee I sing.

(Not much time to contribute, but I thought of this in the middle of nowhere on a sunny day while looking up at the sky on the fifth of July -- better late than never, God.)

--Naomi

You can't make me.

"Screaming is for when you have nothing better to do."
--"Everything I need to know about life I learned from reading Anita Blake. (Laurell K. Hamilton)

So I'm screaming my way down River Road one day this week, wondering about why I'd play Blasphemous Rumours on a beautiful sunny day.

Why scream? I have nothing better to do. Maybe I like the perspective it gives me -- a wandering Doppler effect of agony inside a shiny blue mommy van.

You can't make me.

I don't have to.

I don't have to write in my blog. Sometimes I do, but being in search of (in many ways, spiritually and employment-wise) means living the Leonard Nimoy PhD school of philosophy.

I don't have to scrub my floor with a stiff brush and dish soap.

I don't have to read the books I reserved at the library.

I don't have to deliver a bag of clothes and food at the mission instead of Goodwill.

I don't have to clean my room.

I don't have to eat vegetables.

I don't have to finish what I start.

You can't make me, anyway.

What are you going to do, sue me for kitchen malpractice?

Maybe.

What happens when we live by the code of only doing what we have to do? What happens when we only complete the work that others start? What happens when you're only peeing (pishing) on fires instead of burning them out?

Hot coals, my friend, hot coals. I'm sitting on them and my tuchas (read behind) is burning.

I'm listening to "Rebel Yell." Why? I wanted something out of character. I wanted to write against the grain. But what happens is that I learn more about the struggle against myself. I'm writing against my better will. (Not judgement.) So I change the song, to increase the force of the pressure against me.

Now I'm aggravated. Fine. You can't make me listen to something I'd like. (Well, I like it, but not that much. It's the horn section that pisses me off currently.)

Why make the effort? Why bother? What's the point, anyway?

(I thought we were here to learn courage, honesty, but then again, that wasn't my mission -- trust, patience and self-acceptance are mine alone today it seems.)

The point is, (she says with a wry grin) is that some things just need to be done. Not for your own personal satisfaction, but then again, who knows what you'll learn by completing (so far) a good soul scrubbing?

Why bathe? (asks my eldest)

Why clean my room? (asks the middle?)

I want baba. (says the baby.) Where'd the ball go? (he also says, cutie that he is.)

I want my Mommy. Sometimes I want my Mummy, but I'm into other cultures at the moment, and don't have time to unwrap the past.

You can't make me, anyway. Which probably means it's time for more library books that you can't make me read, food that you can't make me eat, and a journey of a lifetime that you can't make me complete.

Except that secretly, I want to.

--Naomi

Breakdance.

I went to my high-school spaghetti fundraiser for our upcoming reunion this fall. Last week, the sun was shining, it was a beautiful, warm day, and for the first time in many years I was home in Windsor, Ontario (yours to discover) for a happy occasion. I met my friend, Sandy, at Vincent Massey Secondary School and realized when I walked in the door that incredibly --

I missed my school.

Which is really, really strange, because, get this -- I still have nightmares that I haven't finished Grade 13 and I'm missing one more course. Of course, during my nightmare, I can't find my schedule, nor the office, and I'm wandering the halls (not naked, mind you, nor during a tornado) trying desperately to find out why, at 40 or 41 years old, I'm still not a high-school graduate.

Fun, eh?

So in prepping for my 2.5 hour journey south, I was looking up old Stang articles I wrote as a reporter, then editor for my infamous high-school paper. I found one, my first one published -- waaaaayyyy back in 1984. I was 15, it was my first year on the school paper, and I was so proud to be able to write and be published.

In honour of that occasion, here's my ancient (yet still amusing) article.

Breakdance

They seem harmless enough as they pay to get into Massey's dances, but don't let those cute outfits and flash colours fool you. They mean business and we (sigh) know it. These are the break dancers. But why do they do it?

Breakdancing started in the inner city; a solution for the gang fights. Now, instead of a duel with knives, they turned, twisted, and flipped around to prove that their gang was THE BEST. Eventually this form of competition moved from the city to the suburbs. It turned into a neat way to impress your family and friends. What a change of objective!

The break dancers of Windsor come in all shapes and sizes, ranging from small children to adults who should know better. The teenagers are the ones who invade Massey, though. They lay low for about an hour or so, to give a false sense of security, and of course, to get the best spot on the floor. Then it begins. At first the beat of the music rattles your brain, but as vision clears you see people sliding, crawling and generally jumping around. These are just the spectators. As you look inward you see ...

...In the centre ring, these joint-shifters are doing things I wouldn't make my worst enemy do! Flips, turns, arms and legs in the air, and hands where normally the feet should go. Isn't that dangerous, you ask? Of course. But who can resist all that attention you get while almost breaking your back doing the suicide move? Oh, and that head spin! He couldn't have hurt himself much -- as his brains are at the posterior end of his body! Really, to have the guts to do that.

Breakdancing, the new fad, has been accepted by the general public as normal (what else could they do?) Therefore, it is not unusual to see breakdancing downtown, at the mall, or even the street with the most people.

So the next time you see a breakdancer doing his thing, ask yourself: is there really something to be gained by this? Yes or no, I think we'll all have to agree; variety is the spice of life. Can't we tolerate them just a little longer?

--Naomi Gumprich, Nov. 2, 1984 Massey Stang