Unlike Mr. Cantor, the substitute teacher, who obsessively popped "Tums" into a large, loose-lipped, spittle filled mouth, and loudly blew shiny missiles from his mucous filled nose into thin, brown paper towels of the type found in public bathrooms- consequently laying them flat out to dry on the small, hissing radiator while we continued to shiver in the heatless room albiet now with the image of snot-encased "tissues" imprinted forever on our childish third eyes- Mrs. Herskovitz, the regular teacher, inspired rather than grossed us out. But even the revolting machinations of the Tum sucker proved instructional in our own youthful quest for survival. For as soon as creepy Cantor turned his back, however briefly, if only to plant an overly large aleph, bet or gimmel on the rickety, standup blackboard that swayed on its skinny legs with each tap of the chalk, mayhem and bravado spontaneously ensued behind the teacher’s back. And it was exactly during one of these miniscule though significant respites from formal instruction that I learned from Mikey Kaplan the following precious truth: you could run your fingers- nay, the whole tiny hand!- stealthily through eight lit Hanuka candles in one fell swoop and not die or at least be partially immolated, providing you did this insane act of risk taking sure and fast. You would be fine. You would have cheated the grim reaper and eluded painful disfigurement as well. The worst you could expect would be the residue of a little soot on your small knuckles. This too could become a story, one you could tell your children and grandchildren. . . .
Friday, February 22, 2013
A Story About Storytelling, Part Two
From "A Storyteller's Story"
Unlike Mr. Cantor, the substitute teacher, who obsessively popped "Tums" into a large, loose-lipped, spittle filled mouth, and loudly blew shiny missiles from his mucous filled nose into thin, brown paper towels of the type found in public bathrooms- consequently laying them flat out to dry on the small, hissing radiator while we continued to shiver in the heatless room albiet now with the image of snot-encased "tissues" imprinted forever on our childish third eyes- Mrs. Herskovitz, the regular teacher, inspired rather than grossed us out. But even the revolting machinations of the Tum sucker proved instructional in our own youthful quest for survival. For as soon as creepy Cantor turned his back, however briefly, if only to plant an overly large aleph, bet or gimmel on the rickety, standup blackboard that swayed on its skinny legs with each tap of the chalk, mayhem and bravado spontaneously ensued behind the teacher’s back. And it was exactly during one of these miniscule though significant respites from formal instruction that I learned from Mikey Kaplan the following precious truth: you could run your fingers- nay, the whole tiny hand!- stealthily through eight lit Hanuka candles in one fell swoop and not die or at least be partially immolated, providing you did this insane act of risk taking sure and fast. You would be fine. You would have cheated the grim reaper and eluded painful disfigurement as well. The worst you could expect would be the residue of a little soot on your small knuckles. This too could become a story, one you could tell your children and grandchildren. . . .
Unlike Mr. Cantor, the substitute teacher, who obsessively popped "Tums" into a large, loose-lipped, spittle filled mouth, and loudly blew shiny missiles from his mucous filled nose into thin, brown paper towels of the type found in public bathrooms- consequently laying them flat out to dry on the small, hissing radiator while we continued to shiver in the heatless room albiet now with the image of snot-encased "tissues" imprinted forever on our childish third eyes- Mrs. Herskovitz, the regular teacher, inspired rather than grossed us out. But even the revolting machinations of the Tum sucker proved instructional in our own youthful quest for survival. For as soon as creepy Cantor turned his back, however briefly, if only to plant an overly large aleph, bet or gimmel on the rickety, standup blackboard that swayed on its skinny legs with each tap of the chalk, mayhem and bravado spontaneously ensued behind the teacher’s back. And it was exactly during one of these miniscule though significant respites from formal instruction that I learned from Mikey Kaplan the following precious truth: you could run your fingers- nay, the whole tiny hand!- stealthily through eight lit Hanuka candles in one fell swoop and not die or at least be partially immolated, providing you did this insane act of risk taking sure and fast. You would be fine. You would have cheated the grim reaper and eluded painful disfigurement as well. The worst you could expect would be the residue of a little soot on your small knuckles. This too could become a story, one you could tell your children and grandchildren. . . .
Friday, February 15, 2013
A Story About Storytelling
From "A Storyteller's Story"
Be all that “truth” as it may, this epic tale of survival still touches a nerve several millenia from its inception, and denial of the ultimate horror still is nurtured from the early years onward through storytelling and various, small acts of defiance. As a curious little girl of seven for example, shivering away at a small desk in a freezing South Bronx storefront. . . I and my fellow bi-lingual first generation students were mesmerized by Mrs. Herskovitz’s stories. . . .
People don’t just die. Sometimes they simply disappear, from sight, sound, memory, occasionally to resurface in the form of a question. Did Jean Arthur actually make it to the millennium? When exactly did Mary Pickford expire? How is it possible that so-and-so's obituary is in today’s paper- didn’t he die years ago? And why would anyone want to google away the day in hopes of contacting a childhood classmate from the previous century if not to hold onto a simpler, more youthful past? In truth, can anyone fully grasp the idea of annihilation and still remain sane?
These thoughts never fail to remind of the tragedy of Gilgamesh, a story I once attempted to teach to a few brighter than average though equally lackadaisical and similarly doomed high school seniors. . . .Generally considered the first literary “hero” of record, this ancient king from Mesopotamia -a reputed demigod- is the center of a story related in cuneiform, a myth rediscovered in the late nineteenth century on zillions of fragments of stone chards, a heroic recounting reappearing several millennia after it was first ambitiously embedded into chapters hard as rock by unknown authors. The narrative was translated and re-assembled into quasi tablets by various modern scholars working over a period of decades, during which time some of the translators themselves were “no more”- or alternately, passed on, left the world, ceased to exist, in plain language, were lost to life. In the end, only the story and its fanciful characters achieved immortality, through the telling.
These thoughts never fail to remind of the tragedy of Gilgamesh, a story I once attempted to teach to a few brighter than average though equally lackadaisical and similarly doomed high school seniors. . . .Generally considered the first literary “hero” of record, this ancient king from Mesopotamia -a reputed demigod- is the center of a story related in cuneiform, a myth rediscovered in the late nineteenth century on zillions of fragments of stone chards, a heroic recounting reappearing several millennia after it was first ambitiously embedded into chapters hard as rock by unknown authors. The narrative was translated and re-assembled into quasi tablets by various modern scholars working over a period of decades, during which time some of the translators themselves were “no more”- or alternately, passed on, left the world, ceased to exist, in plain language, were lost to life. In the end, only the story and its fanciful characters achieved immortality, through the telling.
As the plot starts to reveal itself it appears that the hero Gilgamesh’s amazingly naïve tragedy lies in his obdurate refusal to accept the sudden realization that we all die. He is availed of this gruesome fact of mortality somewhat late in life, not as a child, but as an adult who loses his closest friend, an all-too-human alter ego known as Enkidu, after a rather nasty skirmish with a dragon-like monster, who in a brilliant flash of early onomatapoeia is named Humbaba.The hero's ensuing quest consequently becomes eternal life- a spurious journey, needless to say, and this king of Ur comes across some four thousand years later as a rather primitive soul. Come on now, every six year old whose gold fish has met with a bad end realizes the inexorable Fact of Life. But in truth guys, Gilga’s existential angst raises an essential question: Why bother doing your homework if all comes to naught? That unpleasant bevy of boring term papers, book reports, math equations, tedious science experiments, artfully devised crib sheets. . . In short, the students thus were motivated to read on until the very end. The answer to the story’s existential question incidentally, the moment of truth at the end of the quest, turns out to be equally simplistic: eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow. . . leading to the inevitable thought that looking back at all our yesterdays, you really have to wonder how far we've come.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Valentine Fantasy
From "An Internal Affair"
Can one find true love later in life?
It is said that as we grow older our social circles diminish and our calendars begin to look increasingly empty. What complete balderdash! My dance card, I can assure you, is full on both sides. I have appointments several times a week with various doctors and practitioners of the medical arts. These assignations also require that I dress for the occasion, lest they think I am a naive, ill turned out ignoramus or worse, an uninformed partner in health that they can cavalierly throw on the dung heap of rhesus monkey experimentation, or ply me with maintenance drugs from their pals at Big Pharma while I dumbly acquiesce just to keep the relationship going. Hey, I was not born yesterday, far from it alas . . . . I prepare for these meetings with the utmost care to my clothes, hair and make-up. I aim to exude the sophistication of a mature woman who knows exactly what she wants and is willing to co-pay for it- perhaps not a long term commitment, but definitely companionship. Despite all this, I am still alone.
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