Category: prose

How to be bad at something (or: what I’ve learned from playing guitar)

When I started playing guitar in November, I feel like I unlocked a new source of joy. 

At age 30, It’s my first instrument. And even though I’ve been singing along, dancing, and incessantly sharing my favorite music for as long as I can remember, nothing can really compare to that first strum in a music store in Jaffa, feeling the sound resonate in my bones. Being the reason that beautiful sorcery happened and being in it all at once.

Here’s the thing, though: I’m not particularly coordinated. I’ve discovered that holding down fretboard strings with one hand *while* strumming with the other hand *while* singing is an evil form of multitasking. Then my hands are fairly small and it turns out my left pinkie has never worked a day in its life, which makes some attempts at chord shapes feel like a sinister game of Twister.

I’ve often been tempted to scream, exasperated, into the abyss. To rail against bad guitar playing everywhere, to bend my guitar skills to my will. To be good enough, right now.

It sounds, a bit, like “AGHHH.”

And yet. The chord I resent now is not the chord I resented two weeks ago. The brain is elastic in ways I never fully appreciated. So gradually, as I work through something like a new chord progression or song intro, I’m realizing (light as a thought bubble floating above my head):

Frustration doesn’t work.

Frustration shoves me forward, but only while throwing jacks in my path.

When “good enough” is my goal, it slows me down.

All the while, I’ve noticed what moves me forward instead: taking a deep breath, and laughing. Choosing to play songs that make me awe at the creativity and artistry of humans. I practice again, and again, and again. And magically, that song intro starts to flow. That song intro helps me zoom in in an overwhelming world.

Then I move on to the verse and start from 0 again. This time, knowing what it looks like to achieve that magic fluency, and what it takes to get there.

During my first lesson, my teacher watched my hands and said calmly, “Your brain moves really fast, but you don’t trust yourself.”

Of course he was right. He’s a very good teacher, by the way, if anyone needs one in Tel Aviv. And even though I knew I struggled with that brain/trust battle before, guitar has given me a whole new instrument to navigate it.

It’s not that I trust myself to play perfectly now. But I’ve gotten better at reminding myself to be playful when I’m tempted toward the aforementioned abyss, to take a breath and soften any frustration that only holds me back;

honing a sense of awe and joy that helps me let go of control;

and trusting myself to practice over and over again until I’ve gotten it right, laughing with myself until I’m proud of the chorus, until I’m proud of the bridge, until I’m gearing up to play the whole song together. 

Listen, to be honest, I’m still quite bad at guitar. I haven’t exactly reached Madison Square Garden (yet). But I do often call my friends to serenade them, and their completely unbiased opinion is that the joy is infectious.

I’m learning this is a life well played.

nodding terms

Hey there.

Who have I been these past 7 years?

Whoever I was, there was a chance I was never going to be able to access her again. The server for my blog crashed a few months ago, and along with it could have gone a ton of writing that was my lifeblood, my fingerprints of the moment, my access to who I’ve been.

Spoilers: I got the writing back. Breathe. It’s all here now. Feel free to dig it up and make merciless fun of my melodrama (whether it’s from 2011 or 2018). Compliments and other comments are welcome too! While I can’t guarantee I won’t delete anything, I will try to be kinder to my writing.

But imagine. Put yourself in the shoes of me with a crashed blog. It’s been a strange 7 years, and I’m finding myself less and less capable of accessing who I was before now. It’s been deleted, all that writing, and I don’t know whether I’ll ever be able to access it again. My roots, my past, the stuff I’ve forgotten and I don’t know how, because it’s me, it’s all me.

Which of my past selves did I care to preserve? I wouldn’t destroy any of them voluntarily, the same way I can’t throw out the ribbons I get with gifts or receipts from a night of adventure, the same way they might be useful someday. I can’t quash their potential. But what if they’re taken from me? The server crashed, my oldest blog posts might all be gone, the ribbons and the papers are in a potentially fatal fire. Do I go in to save them?

Continue reading →

traffic

Through a window, behind cars zipping by, the clouds haze over the trees and paint the sky like a tea bag in water. Mountains almost disappear in the distance. One grain field appears, a muted yellow, everything beside me softened by the clouds. I sit on a beaten-up velour bus seat behind a curtain that I can’t manage to close. If I tried, I’d probably succeed. But I leave it slightly so that it gapes open even more when we turn, a half-open door reminding me as the vehicles brake and go and I pretend to care about wasted time: soak in all that’s out there waiting for you.

Hair not quite dry from the shower this morning, at the cusp of the afternoon, I live here now.

Today I have time for traffic.

the fourth generation

My great grandfather arrived in America in the late 19th century. Likely as he took a sigh of escape from Polish pogroms, he started to hear explosions. He ran to the train ticket office, put all his money on the counter, and told the clerk in broken English to send him on the next train he could afford.

It was the Fourth of July, the explosions were celebratory fireworks, and he had arrived on Boston Harbor. The clerk gave him a ticket to Worcester, MA, where he was taken in by the local rabbi and met my great grandmother. Then came my grandfather, my mother, and then me. All of us experienced what it means to be Jewish and American.

My great grandfather became a baker and started a chain with his newfound freedom: Liberty Bakeries. My mom’s earliest memory is watching her grandfather braid challah for his American business, swiftly and deftly. Both of my maternal great grandfathers served in the American Army in World War I and my grandfather would grow up and serve in the American Navy in World War II, subsequently attending three American universities on the GI Bill then taking over the family business. He and my grandmother raised their family of six in a beautiful home in Springfield, MA, not far from Worcester. They returned to religious observance as their children came home with crafts and practices from their Jewish day school. Their lives were filled with Jewish discovery and nurturing communities.

When all of my grandparents’ children had moved out of Springfield, my grandfather announced that he wanted their next home to be in Israel. Plans changed, and with a vague hope that the grandchildren would move to Israel eventually, they moved to a warm Jewish community in Maryland instead. Recently, my grandfather’s health began to decline and the kids began whispering about the burial plots that my grandparents had bought in Springfield. My grandmother spoke up. He should be buried in Israel, she said. They both should. He always wanted his home to be in Israel, and now it will be. My grandfather is buried in Beit Shemesh, Israel, and has been visited many times by his two grandsons who have moved as he hoped.

My siblings, my cousins, and I grew up in a country of independence, with a remarkable, long lasting freedom as Jews to live meaningful and full Jewish lives. My great grandfather started his career in this country thinking he still needed to run away. Further generations’ America, though complicated and often rife with contradictions, gave us the option to stay. If we go, we go willingly. If we stay, we may join our country’s institutions, businesses, and culture without compromising our religious identities.

I don’t think I fully grasped how lucky I am to be a Jew in America right now until last year. Continue reading →

sensation and perception

**Inspired by the dedication and bios in my psychology textbook. Names have been changed.**

Dedicated to my friend and colleague Drew Johnson

-Jeffrey B. Isaacs[1]

Most people thought Jeff and Drew both resented titles, but neither Jeff nor Drew ever saw it that way.

“The thing is,” Jeff once tried to explain at his East Campus suite’s party in the ‘80s, “that what we see is never truly as we see it. We go through life calling things as we perceive them, not acknowledging, for example, the work of our eyes nor tricks of light!” The Barnard student he was talking at nodded. Jeff noticed her aqua-lined, hazel-flecked eyes dart above his shoulder to the guy behind him. “So when we call someone ‘friend,’ for example, we know that that’s true from our point of view, but not necessarily from both sides. That other person may not agree. That’s the best metaphor I can think of…” Jeff smiled. “As an English major, maybe you’d be able to do better?”

She made eye contact with Jeff and smiled politely back, as if to say, “Yes, I could do better than a young Steve Buscemi doppelganger.”

Drew’s luck was not much better at the University of Washington. His eye contact was always deemed creepy. Drew tended to shrug it off – he saw no reason to settle down in college anyway.

By the time both Jeff and Drew had acquired their respective undergraduate degrees, they both chose to pursue a PhD at the University of Michigan. Jeff joked to his acquaintances that instead of experimenting in college, he chose to pursue a graduate degree in experimental psychology. Drew could not make this joke because he did indeed study experimental psychology in college, although he had made variations of this joke in the past.

Between Jeff and Drew, the joke totaled two well-meaning chuckles and one well-meaning smirk.

Drew was neither short nor tall. His hair was light brown then, and he had much more of it, although he never let it grow too long. He was intensely thoughtful though rarely quiet. His irises were grey when he wore his grey shirts, and blue when he wore his blue shirts. When he wore his black suit with a white shirt, his iris pigmentation was anybody’s guess.

Drew wore the suit to make a good impression on his potential roommate and mostly so that he would have something to talk about regarding perception. Allison had said this guy studied engineering and psychology, but Drew decided to skip the research on robots and rely on their common ground.

The two met in a café on Bonisteel Blvd. Both noticed that the other smelled of awkward, hotel-brand, “spring fresh” body wash. Jeff had decided to wear his brain tie, the blue one with the inaccurate but charming map of the cerebral cortex.

“Hello,” said Drew, extending his hand. “I’m Drew. Pleasure to meet you.” Continue reading →

stories from the underground

This piece was part of a project I did for a UCL class on the history of the book. I wanted to explore how much people’s lives impact the texts they annotate — I also annotated a book of poems from the London Underground as the characters I created. Spelling and grammar were according to the Brits. Here are some of my favourite stories from the project:

Story 2: Tim Robbins

Tim hoped the reflection in the Tube doors wasn’t accurate. Was his tie really so crooked? Should he have put on a tie to begin with?

His flat mate, Stan, had told him not to. Said he’d look like a business wanker. ‘But I am a business wanker’, Tim insisted. Stan said he saw no reason to have her learn that on the first date.

Jessa had said the tie was a good move. It made him look ‘So cute!’ she said, though apparently not cute enough for Jessa.

Cologne was probably a bad move as well. Jessa said this girl works in a gallery in Brixton. Do girls who work in Brixton like cologne?

Tim wasn’t sweating but he felt like he was. He felt his tie tightening around his neck as the car filled up at Waterloo. The Banker Wanker, that’s what this girl will call him when she talks to Jessa. Jessa will just laugh and say, ‘He’s so cute, though!’

Tim pulled at his tie. Is cute meant to be an insult nowadays?

He took a drink from his water bottle, and of course it went down the wrong pipe. A stranger with blue hair asked if he was okay. Her voice was a bit soft, kind of like Jessa’s. Tim caught his breath. ‘Yeah, I’m er, I’m fine’, he said, closing his water bottle. He looked down. ‘Hey’, he said, ‘does this tie make me look like a banker wanker?’

The stranger laughed. ‘Maybe a bit, but in an okay way. It’s kind of cute’. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small white leaflet (‘Well of course she’s crazy’, Tim figured) and said ‘Hey, would you mind helping me out with something?’

Continue reading →

the girl

5ish o clock in Spoon in Edinburgh, Scotland.

Lights dimmed, wood tables, rose saucers, light jazz, and leather sofas.

3 friends, 4 pots, no pot.

Warmed by the bittersweet blood orange tea, the scotch whiskey tour from before, and the sun through the hills. Adventuring (the way I want) and soaking in (the way I need). Sitting in Spoon and writing like Rowling. Taking off my oversized dad sweater, keeping it nearby.

All the while, knowing there was magic written here. Knowing that right now — right now — is how I want to be.

last night: 5220

Last Night.

Hey, what would you do if you knew you only had one more night in your house?

I would sit on my couch in the living room and light a fire in the fireplace, cozying up with a good book or my homework as my mom works on the couch across from me. There would be snow outside and I would have just come inside from playing in it. I would look outside at the tracks I made and measure how much snow has fallen based on the clean pile on the porch table that looks kind of like a huge cake.

I would make Wacky Mac and invite over all of my friends, the ones who are off living their lives in Israel or doing grown up things.

I would turn around the couches and pull down the screen and host a movie night. It would be Star Wars, maybe. Or maybe Miracle. I’d forget that I never actually liked the movies and remember that I loved the movie nights.

I would light the Chanukah candles by the windowsill and look onto the street and press my nose against the window to distinguish between what was outside and what was reflecting from inside.

I would sit in my den at the little plastic table as Fievel: An American Tale played for the fifth time, and I would color a really great picture for my babysitter who left three years ago.

I would go under the covers of my babysitter’s bed and watch PBS on her crinkly TV, home sick from school.

I would sit at the kitchen table in my pajamas as the sun streamed through the windows, basking in the rays and feeling the ice cold tile floor on my feet. I would sit there until the rain started, until I could hear it against the windows on the ceiling.

I would sneak down to the kitchen for a nighttime snack of crackers, or maybe an apple with cheese.

I would sit on the kitchen island counter with my cousin and friends and crack the marble all over again. It would be an accident, because we’re not the types to be able to crack a counter. It would follow a great night. Continue reading →

stel

Stel didn’t know what was down there, and she didn’t know if she ever would. She just knew it was magical.

Every night when it would get dark, these shining lights would come out. Small, shining lights that glimmered, that twinkled especially when you stared at them for long enough. Clusters, small and large; some so small they could be a speck on her glasses, some so huge that she was sure there was life down there. There must have been life down there. Or was it just a sprinkling of light?

The others would believe her, probably, if she had told them. But if she told them about the lights she’d have to tell them about sneaking out down to sit on the clouds. Well, not sitting, per se. Whenever she tried to sit on them she slipped and part of the cloud fell through. She had taken to floating on the clouds to avoid that, but sometimes she forgot.

Sometimes she imagined voices in the lights. Sometimes she heard music, rhythms and sounds so smooth she couldn’t help but close her eyes and hum along. At times, she could swear the lights moved, but for the most part they stayed the same… and Stel couldn’t tell what shape they formed. She decided it kind of looked like a cloud. At least it looked like the clouds she had seen.

She probably shouldn’t have encountered that many clouds either. The others didn’t need to know.

She dreamed, sometimes, of going down there. Of dancing with the lights, of meeting their master. Maybe one time she would slip through the cloud and let herself fall.

meeting etgar

(It feels like a disservice to be writing this in English, but that’s where I am at this point, so it’ll have to do)

I met Etgar Keret in June 2014, when I was in Israel for my brother’s wedding and then to work for the summer. It was one of those happy-go-lucky days in Jerusalem—the sun was shining, the shuk vendors were shouting at full volume, and there was no war going on (yet). Things felt right as I walked into the small bookstore at the end of Emek Refaim St.

It was time for me to read a book in Hebrew.

A full twelve months had passed since my gap year at Nishmat (an Israeli seminary in Jerusalem), and my Hebrew was getting (how you say?) rusty. I am a Hebrew-speaking Jew at my core, but also at my core is my identity as a writer. My ability to express myself in English helps me clarify what I think and who I am, both to others and to myself. Meanwhile, my Hebrew skills were borderline decent, considering thirteen years of Hebrew education. By my gap year, I was able to get by in a cab or order food. But Nishmat was a time to discuss, to discover through exchanges of language and delving into texts. I had plenty to say and plenty to delve into.

I opened my mouth, racked my brain, and hoped something came out in Hebrew that made sense.

It didn’t.

Or at the very least, I hoped, I’d understand what was going on.

I didn’t.

Continue reading →