Telling people that they sound like they “are losing their mind” or “are a crazy person” really is not considerate. The number of times people have told me things like this continues to grow. Those who do this most often are college students or other people near my age (and usually do it with regard to a question I ask, an offbeat joke I make, the way I laugh, some experience that I do not share, my being hyper, etc.). Asking me if I am high also belongs on the list of questions or suggestions that I wish people would not pose to me.

Maybe you mean that I am unusual or fun and are using this in a positive sense? Or maybe you are insulting me? And what if I were experiencing psychosis (psychosis, by the way, is a symptom, not a specific illness, and ‘insane’ is not a classification usually applied in professional settings)? What good use can tagging me with the terms “crazy” or “loony” truly serve? We all have delusional thoughts sometimes. You probably interact with many wonderful people who, unbeknownst to you, experience some level of psychosis due to a major mental health disorder (and those who noticeably experience it are equally wonderful). When you say these things, do you perhaps mean that you think I am peculiar? that you are annoyed with me? that you want to see if I am okay? that you do not understand me? that you are curious about the way that I am? Why not then say those things instead of resorting to the highly ambiguous “crazy” and related popular terms? Employing more direct language may prompt you to be more deliberate and allow clearer communication. If your thought process does ultimately contain something mean-spirited, then please tell it like you mean it or do not tell it at all.

I understand that my behavior often seems strange (to varying degrees) in comparison to that of your average acquaintance. I accept that I am seen as “quirky” by many who know me (just please do not use that in a derogatory way). I know that how I see and think does not match the average mode of perception. I know that I tend to have intense emotional reactions, misunderstand situations, be neurotic (I do mean neurotic), and struggle with things that may seem small. I am different, and I am wonderful. I am not wonderful merely for being different - that is not what I am saying. I am wonderful because I, as a human being, am an amazing creature. So are you. I am also “different”. -- And, not or. And, not because. And. -- I used to repeat that “everyone is ‘weird’, therefore everyone is ‘normal’.” We all have variations. Sometimes these variations are very common, and sometimes they stand out. Self-labelling as “weird” has probably been one of my defense mechanisms against the words of others. Though this could be healthy in some ways, I am wary of slipping into submitting to negative ideas and ignoring the fact that what people say does matter. People can choose what they say, but maybe I am not giving them the chance to see that they could choose a more preferable option.

When you say these things to me, I feel alienated, disparaged and saddened. I feel a need to radically change myself in order to be acceptable (adjusting one’s behavior to be appropriate for a situation is good, but attempting to effect radical change of self simply to fit in is unhealthy). I lose trust in you, and this affects my ability to relate to you. I want to relate to you.

A poem in remembrance

A massacre
Life and death and the dance goes on
An angry hand reached up
And tore
Vibrant leaves
From a swaying tree
Flinging fears and grief
Out into a world, into a country, into a city
Shards of glass littering the ground
As bullets pierced through the flesh
Of those who rushed to protect their neighbors
Like a battle-scarred Magen David
Forming a shield for Israel’s children
While urgent prayers
Intervened in celebrations
Peace - shattered
On a day of peace
A bottle fills with tears again
Life and death and the song goes on
We are brothers
We are all brothers
Why must we lack in love

_ _ _

In memory of the people who were murdered 10/27/2018 in their Pittsburgh synagogue (may their memories be a blessing) and in honor of the law enforcement officers who risked their lives.
_ _ _

If you feel tweaked or hurt by the way I wrote what I wrote, please: 1) pause and ask yourself why, 2) understand that I mean nothing hurtful or offensive, 3) know that I have compassion for you, 4) recognize that this is the way that I was able to express my own feelings in learning of and processing something very difficult, 5) acknowledge that some things are naturally painful.

(If there is an issue with me potentially paying too much attention to only one thing: Right now this event in particular has affected me emotionally. I know that many other terrible and tragic things have been occurring. Planes have crashed, floods have devastated, bombings have destroyed homes, people are starving … So many in the world are experiencing hardship and heavy grief.)

Я люблю смотреть в ночное небо
И наблюдать миллионы звёзд.
Сегодня оранжевая точка
На горизонте - Марс.

The weather is beautiful today. Flowers are blooming, leaves are unfurling, birds are singing, the sun is shining on my face, and ants are eating the piece of cantaloupe that a three-year-old girl dropped in the grass.

_______________________________________

~ Poetry (the poetic) does not need to be in verses.

A teeny verse from last night's intermission:

You are standing so close to me
That I can smell the alcohol on your breath.
I wonder if it has affected your sense of boundaries
Or if you always come within this many steps.

Yom HaShoah Thoughts, 5778 (2018), from stream of consciousness poeming

Remember the casualties of war. Remember attempts to wipe out entire peoples; the murder of Jews, Roma, and others; the oppression of minorities. Remember T4. Remember.

I cannot go to a Yom HaShoah observance today, but I wrote this:
________________________________________

What is life? What is horror?
What does it mean for either to be over?
We cannot say exactly when a life is gone
But we can count so many lives ended.
A horror can be behind you
While the experience and pain live on.

The world turns a blind eye to suffering,
Or perhaps its eyes are blind from the start,
Or myopic, and it needs a pair of spectacles.
What person, who, can fully see something
Enormous as human experience and life,
So huge that the smallest portion fills the gaze?
We can hardly see at all.
"How could such a thing exist?", we said and say
About the death factories,
We say "it's impossible", "inhuman",
Yet it lies within us all.

We are all human, and often we seem to
Strive to forget, to dissociate
From the state of reality, we say
"Barbarian", "monstrous",
When, really, it is "human".
So very human.
Not alone what it means
To be human
But part of our capacity,
Together with our kinder facets.
Even a conscience needs a guide, a basis,
Our sensibilities
Do not exist in a void.

A victim is not intrinsically innocent or pure,
A perpetrator not automatically evil at the core.
There is no clear division
Between "bad" people and "good",
And even some "bad" people
Are a victim of their own crime.
Lifting victims above the heights of criticism
Sinking perpetrators with the deepest insults
Does humankind no ultimate service,
It entrenches us where we are
In an internal battle in which
We are both "us" and "them",
Two in every one.

We treat death and the circumstances of death
As if they solidify the identity of the individual,
Though opinions in history change even then
- He was a hero, but then
- He really acted as a selfish pig
Under the guise of a hero, and then
- No, he was indeed a hero,
Flawed as he may have been.
If only our changing perceptions
Always brought us closer to the Truth.

Who am I? To whom belong
The horrors and beauties in my soul?
Human.
Horrors that become either unspeakable
Or mundane.
And beauties that somehow
Always transcend, no matter
How often their occurrence.
You have no excuse, we are all the same.
Human.
Life will not lose its value,
Regardless of how much you kill.
But, one day, depending on your choice,
All that horror could be left to you.

Whatever it means to be human,
To be bad or good,
To be a victim, hero,
To know or not know,
Still gives us a choice
For compassion, for sorrow.
To stand ready to forgive,
Or at least see
The humanity, the human,
Within a tarnished life,
To exercise understanding and
Understand our own faults,
To become careful in what we do with
Our own humanity,
To weep over the massacred
And weep over the twisted end
Of the promise of the slayer.
So much is lost in both, by both.
Life is a many-way stream,
No simple two-way street.

One name, one image,
One superficial capture, becomes
Our definition of an entire person,
Becomes categorical.
We say "a Hitler", but who knows
Everything about Hitler?
What does it accomplish
To reduce someone to someone else
Who has already been reduced
To an image or a phrase?
Some things we can know,
And some of our assumptions
Debase the value of our knowledge.
What does knowing do?

I love you, you are human.
I love you, yet I can be horrified
By the horrors you enact.
I love you.

I love you,
Lost and orphaned children,
Young people
Whose future abruptly derailed,
Elders
Whose wisdom is lost,
Survivors
Whose scars fester,
New generations
Who grew up with a legacy of strain,
I love you.

And what is love?
It is seeing the purpose in you,
Wanting to see it realized,
And know it will bear fruit.
You have always had it,
But it is your choice
With it what you will do.

11.IV.2018
SHL.
(Possibly to be subject to edits in the future. I had another version but misplaced it.)
(I had edits and misplaced them.)

Love and Hatred

Hatred is the idea or action upon an idea such that the world should not accommodate the needs and desires of both another person and yourself. Love is giving up a part of your world for the sake of something better.

Reflections on the color yellow while picking flowers - a poem from May 2017

The color Yellow
Seems only to belong
On Flowers and Stones
Birds and Butterflies -
Nothing Man owns
Except some Garments and Beads
But even in a Rainbow
My Eyes cannot seem to believe
The color Yellow
Where it goes
Is meant to be

24.V.2017
SHL.

Светлая Луна/Bright Moon (bilingual poem)

Светлая Луна, светлая Луна,                                      30.XI.2017
Свети на меня!
Звёзды, мерцающие в чёрной ночи,
Улыбайтесь мне в пути.

Я хочу, я хочу, но я не могу;
Я хочу летать - но продолжаю тонуть.

Светлая Луна, светлая Луна,
Унеси меня в небо!
Подними меня своими сияющими лучами
И позволь мне купаться в твоём сиянии.

Светлая Луна, светлая Луна, позволь мне сиять как ты,
Светлая Луна, светлая Луна, позволь мне сиять как ты!

Яркая! Свободная! Жемчужина мира!

Светлая Луна, светлая Луна,
Свети на меня.

* * *

Bright Moon, bright Moon,                                                            11/30/2017
Shine upon me!
Stars, twinkling in the black of night,
Smile upon my way.

I want to, I want to, but I cannot;
I want to fly - but I keep on sinking.

Bright Moon, bright Moon,
Bring me to the sky!
Raise me in your shining rays
And let me bask in your radiance.

Bright Moon, bright Moon, let me shine like you,
Bright Moon, bright Moon, let me shine like you!

Bright! Free! Pearl of the world!

Bright Moon, bright Moon,
Shine upon me.




SHL.

A time poem, 7.II.2018

Time was moving slowly today

More words packed into longer minutes

Snowflakes flurrying down the frigid air

Speeding to the ground in the corner of a glance

And floating softly when followed in their path

Breath, conscious, heartbeat striking on

A strange stillness in a sound and image storm

Drowsiness and static thoughts trying to understand

The impact of snowflakes like thunder on the ground

Struck by spearheaded crystals

Only a soft murmur of the air reaching my ears

Time was moving slowly today 
The world seemed awesome and beautiful today

 

   

7.II.2018

SHL. 
Written on a snowy, bright day in class.

A ponderous hippopotamus sits pondering a preponderance of ponds.

Birds fly overhead.

Moments - Sketches in Humanity ◈ 2. remembering ...

Moments - Sketches in Humanity ◈ 2.  remembering ...


Sunday, October 8th, 2017. This bright autumn day we strolled down to the creek at the fording place where the road runs through a small stream. A few of us waded into it and I walked through the water on the wet stones, enjoying the sound of the lapping and rushing water, the glistening ripples and smooth sheets, the wind and the turning leaves. In the midst of the flowing water stood a small thicket of shrubs, trees and grasses.

After a moment of hesitation I chose to walk out toward it, trying to keep my balance on the slippery riverbed.

I stood. I tried to decide where to put my hands; first I let them down by my sides and then I softly held them together in front of me by overlapping my fingertips. I looked for a while toward the edge of the thicket and the water surrounding it and wondered if anyone was watching. I could feel the sunshine. I thought and I felt and I prayed. I closed my eyes. I prayed for a family and I prayed for myself. I pictured a day nearly a decade ago when I was twelve years old. It was a day full of sadness like all days, but this sadness touched me in a collision between lives I did not know and my own.

 

September seven years ago I begged my dad to take a walk with me to this part of the creek after he took care of his bee hives. It was one of my favorite places to be and explore and to search for rocks. The water was lower then, and we could make our way across the fording place to the thicket of shrubs and sandy dirt in the middle without much difficulty. It felt like an adventure, as small a river as it was, climbing across branches and stones and tall grasses in search of what we could not see, to find little treasures. We found an old soccer ball floating in a recess in the grasses. My dad lifted it out of the water and we turned to go back to our side of the stream. I had gotten glasses in the last year or two but my eyes were not weak enough yet that I needed to wear them constantly. I was not wearing them now.

 

It took a long time for me to realize how deeply that day affected me, that it had truly been traumatic, that whatever strange disturbance I felt about it was a legitimate upset and pain and that I was hurt, that I was not merely imagining that something was wrong. I had told myself it should not be a big deal, that I felt disturbed (if I even did) only because other people might think I should be. How was I supposed to respond? Was I supposed to be sad, to be in pain? Was I selfish? silly? Did I just want attention? Did I feel, or only imagine that I felt? Was I numb, or simply unaffected? What kind of person was I depending on which of those things being true?

 

It was a Friday. September 17th, 2010. His name was Ryan Pattrick*. I thought he was a log resting in the water with my myopic and distracted child’s eyes. I never got close enough again to the dark shape in the stream to see this man whose son had just turned a year old, whose wife expected him to soon be home, whose tackle box was sitting further up toward the main bank as the only sign of life I saw other than the black car parked where the dirt road meets the stream, the only sign I saw of a 29-year life that had ended less than an hour before.

 

I had faced death before, but not in quite the same way as that day at the stream. I had been to so many funerals, memorial services and burials as a child, for people my parents or friends or community knew, and at most of them I had been tired, disinterested, and fidgety, not feeling much but trying not to hurt anyone. Some of the people whose services I attended I knew nothing or almost nothing of. When the person was close to a friend I felt so awkward, not knowing how to act appropriately, whether to act normally in a childlike way or somehow try to offer comfort. I certainly did not want to just ignore. When I was much younger I had some preoccupation with death and the people I knew who had died. Death has been a common subject on my melancholic mind. The death of my dad’s mother at the end of 2010 led to lasting tears, heartbreak and frustration, and the services I went to after my grandmother’s death almost invariably led to unstoppable tears - even if I did not know the individual I knew the pain. A few years after that, funerals started feeling more the way they used to again, more disconnected.

I am not responsible for who lives or dies. It was not my father’s fault or mine that we were not there three quarters of an hour earlier when a man taking an afternoon fishing trip alone had a seizure and drowned. What if … what if. Life is so fragile, so awfully tenuous.

 

I felt guilty.

 

It is not my fault.

 

There is nothing he could have done.

 

Two men in a commercial truck happened by a while after my dad made the discovery, not realizing that the road turned into a stream. My dad did not have a phone. He told them there was a body in the water and asked if they could call for help. They were afraid, afraid of this sudden confrontation with the unknown and death. After the call they quickly drove away but we stayed. My dad tried to decide if he should try to pull the body out. Was it too late? Would it only cause trouble? In the end he decided to wait. The state police came with a very nice woman investigator. I sat in my dad’s car, parked on one side of the road, across from the black car. My dad disappeared around the corner toward the stream with the police and I did not see him for a while. I think someone asked if I was okay or needed anything. I think someone might have said poor girl, but I do not clearly remember. The window was cracked open and I heard a man say that there was a bottle of pills in the black car and he wondered if it could be a suicide. It was a long time in that car. I felt a strange flustered, excited sensation, some twinges in my stomach, questioning what was going on, why were they not coming back yet? When they did come back the investigator said it was too late to do anything when we found him. She told us we could call her if we needed to talk.

 

I felt so guilty. So often there had been empty cars parked there in the past with no one around. When we went to explore that day I saw a pretty tackle box and no owner. I had inherited in the past belongings left behind and the mind of this child jumped excitedly to whether I could take it home. I think we decided to leave it there for a while and see. That was before the thicket, before the soccer ball, before the moment when I heard something wrong in my father’s voice and I was ushered to the riverbank and the car, before the curiosity, before the confusion, and before the last seven years. That tackle box I wanted - it belonged to a dead man. I wanted to own something and that thing had been owned by someone else, and if he were not dead he would still own it. How could I be so selfish? I felt stabbed through my heart. I felt as if I had killed.

 

Somehow that soccer ball made it home with us. There were so many feelings, foggy sensations, struggles with processing the pain, that I said nothing about it until years later. Whenever I saw that soccer ball in the yard I felt dreadful inside. I did not want to touch it at all. I pictured it floating in the same water as that dark, lifeless form. I felt the guilt and horror at myself. One day I managed finally to explain that it bothered me, and we did not keep it anymore. For a while I kept newspaper clippings about that day in my desk, one saying a body had been found and another saying it had been identified. I never told anyone and I felt embarrassed about it. The drowning was ruled an accidental death, two words that spark confusion and tears whenever I think about what they mean and they remind me that there is so much sorrow in the world. It seems like such a cruel phrase.

 

A few years after that day when we found the dead man I was swimming at a different place in the same creek, at the park, and I found some animal bones in the water. I had seen bones like this many times before, mostly in the woods, from deer hunting. I could not leave them there. I did not want to touch them and I did not want to climb up the shore without them, so I carried them up, cringing at their touch all the way. Some of my friends laughed or made faces and asked what on earth I was doing with those gross bones. I could not answer. How could I say? They were deer bones and I could not help but think of human bones, even though the body had not been left in the water forever. They were dead bones and they were in water. I was upset. I was there with my mother and when my dad stopped by he confirmed their origin. I did not even explain what I was feeling then. I told myself I was silly, that I must be making up whatever I was feeling, that I should not really be caring about some animal bones. I could not even explain it to myself.

 

Today when I turned back towards the group on the bank I did not feel like I needed to cry, but as I waded closer the tears began. I cried softly. I was not ashamed.

 

My second grandmother died last year. Since her death many of my feelings have surfaced again in a new perspective or with new intensity. I feel things that I do not expect to feel at times I do not expect to feel them. Memories came back, seven-year-old confusions, unaddressed wounds. I recognized that my struggles are legitimate even if the feelings and the situations do not make sense and they never do. I do not need to know what I am feeling or how in order to be feeling it.

 

I used to walk to the fording place often. I still walked there after that, but tended to avoid it, memories like shadows lurking in the corner of my eye. Sometimes now when I reached the water and I saw an unattended car I felt darkness inside, I felt fear. Walking there with friends brought the memories and the tension.

 

There was a murmur of peace today as I stood and remembered in silence. This place was not only the place where death crossed my life, but the beautiful scene of the present and from my childhood. It is not wrong to have sadness and joy at the same time. Remembering and moving on are partners, and the way forward is often wet with tears.

* * *

 

Pain is significant and powerful and real but is not the origin of significance and power and reality. I have come to see that, though the pain of grief is great, grieving can be strikingly beautiful when in it comes recognition of the weight of human connection.

________________________________________________________

*Names have been altered for the sake of privacy.

Writing completed December 31, 2017. SHL.

This sketch belongs to a collection in progress called Moments - Sketches in Humanity. Sketch 1 has not yet been released. ◈