No, what I refer to is much more insidious. Jenn and I have given into the seductive muse of plopping our daughter in front of a movie for a few minutes each day ... alright, up to an hour ... okay, sometimes the entire film--for a modicum of uninterrupted peace. Z. stares at the computer screen from the comfort of her counter top chair with the concentrated focus of a baby zombie. If I come home from a long day at work and a film is on, she barely looks up, maybe a quick glance (Oh, hi) before returning to the movie. Sometimes I lean my head over so my face is directly in front of hers.
"No, really Zinnia," I say. "No need to get up. It is merely I--the person who is half responsible for bringing you into the world, freshly returned from seeing 12 clients today so you can enjoy--"
At such times, she simply cranes her head a little farther over so her zombie eyes miss none of the action. I find this quite disturbing even while I gratefully welcome the respite.
But what is Z watching that has her so in its thrall? Zinnie loves, absolutely LOVES to zone out to the film about a master swordsman--er, swordskitty--who made a brief appearance in Shrek II. I am talking, of course (and please read in your sexiest Antonio Banderas voice) about the kitty known by many names: Chupacabra, The Furry Lover, Frisky Two Times, The Ginger Hit Man, but he is best known as Puss ... (dramatic pause) ... In Boots!!! (Spanish: "Gato con Botas"). Z. loves almost every thing about this film, save for the part where Puss is thrown into prison. Before he is tossed in the clink, the prison guard arches an eyebrow and confiscates Puss's cat nip.
"Hee, hee," he says coughing uncomfortably into his paw. "It is for my glacoma."
The Furry Lover ends up sharing a cell with Jack (as in "the Beanstalk"), now an old, bearded letch who hoots and catcalls as he watches Puss lick one of his paws.
Z's favorite part (and ours) is Frisky Two Times' Tuesday Night Dance fight with a mysterious masked kitty whom Puss first believes to be his arch rival, but finds out later she really his (spoiler alert) female love interest!!!
Jenn and/or I have seen this movie no less than 20-30 times, and can recite most of the lines by heart.
I smell something ... familiar, something ... dangerous, something ... breakfasty.
But I don't have any baby muffins!
Show him the golden eggs.
When we go our separate ways, maybe we can go our separate ways ... together.
I am not proud that we plop our daughter down in front of a screen, but not terribly embarrassed or concerned either. It is a nice respite from the reality of a being who needs one's attention during nearly every waking moment. We will cut her off and regulate as we go along. Or she will do it herself, as she did tonight by giving me the "All done" American Sign Language sign to indicate she was ready to get down and play. Good girl.
* * *
Below, I have taken the liberty of posting a few more photos, as well a brief excerpt from an unfinished novel (two and a half years and counting), and what I consider to be a promising start, or at least a promising idea, for another novel. I hope, of course, that by shining the glaring light of public attention onto my unfinished masterpieces, I will be sparked into, at long last, working past my writer's block and finally complete the suckers.
I want to take this opportunity to thank the reader(s) for the time and energy you put into reading any and/or all of this blog. I think fondly of these 6o+ plus entries as my Blue Period, (blue, of course, connoting the color of the line that appears on Z's diaper when they are soaked). I feel a need to expand my repertoire to include other topics ... or perhaps no topics at all. For the time being, i have run out of things to say. Famous last words, I know, but true for now.
In any event, here ya go:
Zinnia in Puss in Boots buckler hat getting braced for battle.
Zinnie laughing, not, as it would appear, from being tickled by her papa's chest hair.
A father's love.
Jenny-Wenny focusing on writing a card.
(Note to reader: She loves being called Jenny-Wenny.)
Exhausted, heartfelt, loving mother.
This followed caring for a sick baby and then dealing with her own bout of the crud.
This followed caring for a sick baby and then dealing with her own bout of the crud.
Papa watching Puss-in-Boots with Zin-Zin (left) on her little pink bench.
Bye for now.
Intro to (working title) "Saints and Psychopaths."
Baruch Hashem, I have been instructed by the Heavenly Father to write down my story
for the benefit of all beings. He has informed me through my meditations that my time
left on earth will be limited in nature, but that there will be many, many beings that will
gain from my experiences. When the Father says frog, the question isn't whether to jump,
but only how high. He wants me to write, so I write. I write to you, dear reader, with
instructions for your awakening and aggrandizement. Read 'em, my friends, but do not
weep. Your day will come…if it hasn't already.
I was born with pure awareness, Baruch Hashem, an already conscious intellect in the
tender body of a baby, third eye wide open and winking at the Universe even while the
drool from my tiny lips coated the nipple of my mother's bosom. My senses were
limited by my earthly age, but my heart and mind were already singing the praises of
human kind, blessing the nurses in the maternity ward with each glance, every coo, my
very farts a sacred breeze for humanity to drink deep. Think about it, dear reader—to
have the consciousness of a fully developed, highly spiritual avatar contained in the
limited mobility of a baby's body. Ba-lech, I say. Ba-lech Hashem.
My father—Morty Rosenblatt (May his soul be perpetually fed on the freshest of lox
and the smoothest cream cheese)—owned and ran a Laundromat/dry cleaners called
"Morty's Kosher Cleaning." He was short, balding, and pudgy, and with a constant smile
always dancing across the canvass of his overly round face. He had a penchant for
leisurewear and a keen interest in mystical texts, baseball, and dancing. To look at him,
one wouldn't be able to tell that this short, stocky, balding Jew could cut a mean rug, but
3 nights a week Morty could be found at one of several of the local dance studios dancing
ballroom, swing, and salsa, and even became respectable at Hip-Hop. The kids did not
know what to make of this pudgy middle-aged man who came to their class full on in
baggy pants, an Iverson jersey, and a huge Jewish Chai necklace flipping and flapping
around as he angrily gesticulated around the floor. He told the kids to call him, "Ram
Shackle," but he sensed he made them uncomfortable and dropped out so they could
enjoy themselves.
Baruch Hashem, Morty met my mother, Davidka (may her hips be graced with perpetual
slimness) at one of the larger swing dance clubs in the city. At the time her name was
Parker Wainright Tisdale. She was wearing a floral pattern, mid-length blond hair that
curled upwards at her shoulder, and stood half-a-head above the circle of friends in whose
center she was standing. From what Morty could see, she had a striking figure, an easy
laugh, and an a lively glimmer in her eye. Elegance! Elegance is what she had. A natural,
effortless grace and a surety to her eye that belied quiet amusement and an excited interest
in life. She had that…that something.
Morty looked on as she turned down a number of requests to dance with a mirthful smile,
and she continued to watch the other dancers while her girlfriends tittered away. She was
all of 20 years-old and in the school of education at CMU. Morty knew there was no
earthly reason why she should say yes to his invitation and therefore, he had nothing to
lose. He approached the flock and cleared his throat. All conversation stopped, and the
girls turned to him in amused judgment. He tilted his head back slightly to look into my
mother's face and smiled a warm and completely unguarded smile. He reached out a
pudgy hand towards her without saying a word, and under the shocked, frozen smirks of
the gaggle of girls, and without so much as speaking a word, she took it. The two were
inseparable for the rest of the night, my father smoothly, strongly leading this goddess
around the floor while he, with great skill, avoided poking her impressive bosom with his
chin. They danced as if they had been together for life times, which Baruch Hashem, the
Father (May His Glory be a constant pebble in the shoes of the wicked) has informed me
is actually the case.
Ah, Hashem Baruch, it is impossible to say how these things happen except but for
God's grace. One can go back a number of generations and track how this person met that
person, how a friend of a friend introduced a certain boy to a certain girl which in turn led
to a blossoming of love, a burst of sex, sperm crashing against ovum--an in utero microdrama--
wiggling, waggling, until one out of millions finally penetrates forming … the next
generation. It seems so unlikely that any of us exist, there can be only one explanation:
The Father wills it, The Mother wills it, He/She/They will it, and the already stunning
and luminescent soul within the baby wills it too.
My mother and father, much against the desire of both families, were married within 6
months, which is how long it took for mother to finish her conversion classes, change her
name, and immerse herself into the cold, sacred waters of the mikvah. For love, for love,
aaahhhh, Baruch Hashem, we do it all for love.
for the benefit of all beings. He has informed me through my meditations that my time
left on earth will be limited in nature, but that there will be many, many beings that will
gain from my experiences. When the Father says frog, the question isn't whether to jump,
but only how high. He wants me to write, so I write. I write to you, dear reader, with
instructions for your awakening and aggrandizement. Read 'em, my friends, but do not
weep. Your day will come…if it hasn't already.
I was born with pure awareness, Baruch Hashem, an already conscious intellect in the
tender body of a baby, third eye wide open and winking at the Universe even while the
drool from my tiny lips coated the nipple of my mother's bosom. My senses were
limited by my earthly age, but my heart and mind were already singing the praises of
human kind, blessing the nurses in the maternity ward with each glance, every coo, my
very farts a sacred breeze for humanity to drink deep. Think about it, dear reader—to
have the consciousness of a fully developed, highly spiritual avatar contained in the
limited mobility of a baby's body. Ba-lech, I say. Ba-lech Hashem.
My father—Morty Rosenblatt (May his soul be perpetually fed on the freshest of lox
and the smoothest cream cheese)—owned and ran a Laundromat/dry cleaners called
"Morty's Kosher Cleaning." He was short, balding, and pudgy, and with a constant smile
always dancing across the canvass of his overly round face. He had a penchant for
leisurewear and a keen interest in mystical texts, baseball, and dancing. To look at him,
one wouldn't be able to tell that this short, stocky, balding Jew could cut a mean rug, but
3 nights a week Morty could be found at one of several of the local dance studios dancing
ballroom, swing, and salsa, and even became respectable at Hip-Hop. The kids did not
know what to make of this pudgy middle-aged man who came to their class full on in
baggy pants, an Iverson jersey, and a huge Jewish Chai necklace flipping and flapping
around as he angrily gesticulated around the floor. He told the kids to call him, "Ram
Shackle," but he sensed he made them uncomfortable and dropped out so they could
enjoy themselves.
Baruch Hashem, Morty met my mother, Davidka (may her hips be graced with perpetual
slimness) at one of the larger swing dance clubs in the city. At the time her name was
Parker Wainright Tisdale. She was wearing a floral pattern, mid-length blond hair that
curled upwards at her shoulder, and stood half-a-head above the circle of friends in whose
center she was standing. From what Morty could see, she had a striking figure, an easy
laugh, and an a lively glimmer in her eye. Elegance! Elegance is what she had. A natural,
effortless grace and a surety to her eye that belied quiet amusement and an excited interest
in life. She had that…that something.
Morty looked on as she turned down a number of requests to dance with a mirthful smile,
and she continued to watch the other dancers while her girlfriends tittered away. She was
all of 20 years-old and in the school of education at CMU. Morty knew there was no
earthly reason why she should say yes to his invitation and therefore, he had nothing to
lose. He approached the flock and cleared his throat. All conversation stopped, and the
girls turned to him in amused judgment. He tilted his head back slightly to look into my
mother's face and smiled a warm and completely unguarded smile. He reached out a
pudgy hand towards her without saying a word, and under the shocked, frozen smirks of
the gaggle of girls, and without so much as speaking a word, she took it. The two were
inseparable for the rest of the night, my father smoothly, strongly leading this goddess
around the floor while he, with great skill, avoided poking her impressive bosom with his
chin. They danced as if they had been together for life times, which Baruch Hashem, the
Father (May His Glory be a constant pebble in the shoes of the wicked) has informed me
is actually the case.
Ah, Hashem Baruch, it is impossible to say how these things happen except but for
God's grace. One can go back a number of generations and track how this person met that
person, how a friend of a friend introduced a certain boy to a certain girl which in turn led
to a blossoming of love, a burst of sex, sperm crashing against ovum--an in utero microdrama--
wiggling, waggling, until one out of millions finally penetrates forming … the next
generation. It seems so unlikely that any of us exist, there can be only one explanation:
The Father wills it, The Mother wills it, He/She/They will it, and the already stunning
and luminescent soul within the baby wills it too.
My mother and father, much against the desire of both families, were married within 6
months, which is how long it took for mother to finish her conversion classes, change her
name, and immerse herself into the cold, sacred waters of the mikvah. For love, for love,
aaahhhh, Baruch Hashem, we do it all for love.
Hell On Earth
Prologue
Two hundred
fifty billion eons ago, God created boredom. He was bored, in other words, as
He had been His own best company since time immemorial. Until recently this had
been enough, but since time was an illusion and a man-made construct, it meant
that God had always been alone.
Universes
rose and fell. Galactic civilizations blipped into existence and just as
quickly perished and were forgotten. Yet even the greatest of these empires
realized they were not separate from God's eminence and thus existed only to
reflect His glory. In that respect, God wasn't the only one who knew boredom.
It wasn't
that He didn't enjoy being the Creator of All—He loved it. But, then again, He
had no choice. He loved all things equally and filled every crevice, every
corner, every aspect of the universe with His loving presence. Even God’s own
boredom He loved with ecstatic, exquisite unconditionality. To have even a
single drop of God in one’s being was to overflow with His presence, and
everything in existence had at least one drop. Sometimes two.
Of late,
however, the Creator was feeling a little unchallenged, so He came up with a
game. He withdrew a part of Himself from existence, in essence pulling back the
un-pull-backable, in order to create a spiritual vacuum to allow for the
illusion of separateness to blossom. And into one tiny, insignificant corner of
this vacuum, He inserted a planet—Earth—and populated it with human beings and
an assortment of other living things.
And God saw
it was good, or at least pretty damned amusing.
Yet before
long, humanity, apparently intent on creating vast
hellish realms both inside and outside their own minds, had turned everything
it came into contact with quite to crap. In a mere twenty millennium, human
beings went from being hairy, long-armed, hunch-backed apes to jealous,
warmongering, greedy, upright apes.
It became
clear to God that moral turpitude was part-and-parcel of the human condition,
and though it was literally impossible to shock or surprise the Omniscient
Creator of All, if such a thing were possible, He might have cocked His eyebrow an atom or two
to learn of the seemingly bottomless human capacity for flagellating behavior.
For His
part, God found His children infinitely adorable, and since He so loved them,
the Creator felt obliged to accommodate their wishes. Thus, He created Lucifer
to send down to Earth specifically to gum up the works. He did this because it
had become apparent that His most beloved creations had a deep-seated need to
punish both themselves and each other. And if God’s children wanted a place
where sinners would suffer eternal torment, then so be it. He loved them that much.
The first
Lucifer started his career as an angel named Murray. He had been an archangel
and humble servant of God since the beginning of time. When Murray descended to
take his seat on the dark throne, he
was, contrary to an abundance of topside mythology, merely following orders.
At the
time, angels had no free will or sense of separation from the Father and were
completely entwined with His will. So when God asked Murray to go down to open
up Hell (".
. .and spare no expense!"), the angel threw himself at
the foot of God's seat and wailed in protest, and threw himself at the foot of God's
seat, pounding his head on the cool white marble floor.
The
Creator, wondering if he noticeding
several molecules of hesitation in the archangel demeanor,
decided to investigate.
"Murray,"
God thundered compassionately, "I sense something is wrong. What is it, my
son?"
"I
don't want to go,” he cried Murray.
“What about Michael? He's not busy. Why not send him down? And what
about—"
"The
choice is not yours," God chided lovingly, “but I tell you what . .
."
And with
those words, the first Lucifer found himself basking in the sun of free will.
“Well,"
said the angel, rising from the ground and removing a bit of lint from his
lapel. “Guess I'll be off."
"I
want you to be very tempting, Murray."
"Oh,
don't you worry," the angel said with a mischievous glimmer.
"And
don't forget to make those punishments hurt. This seems very important to them.
Especially the Catholics."
"Consider
it done," the angel said.
“From now
on you shall be known as Lucifer.”
“Yeah,
yeah, yeah,” Murray said, inspecting his nails.
"Write
me me," God said in a worried,
parental tone.
The angel
rolled his eyes.
"Just
kidding. Let me know if there's anything you need."
"Well,”
said the newly crowned Lucifer looking at God from the corners
of his eyes, “there is one little thing,"
"Name
it, my son."
"I
want godlike powers to create the kind of hell you would be proud of. Give me
the ability to conjure up demons, minotaurs, medusas, and anything else I damn
well please so I can torment and tempt your creations into committing the most
malevolent, perverted, heinous acts imaginable. "
"Yours.
Anything else?"
"Well,
since you askSay," said Lucifer, raking a long
fingernail across one of the claw feet of God's diamond throne. "This sure
is a nice chair you've got here. Would you mind terribly
if I—"
And in a
flash, down he went.
