My friend has been blogging for years now. She blogs extensively, writing about her thoughts, dreams, encounters, loves, likes, loathes, friends, family, and general experiences. Yet whenever I found myself depending wholly on her writing, I never felt like it was enough. I missed her when I read it, wishing I could be near her again, in spite of the information her superior writing afforded.
This year I rejoined her, eager to see for myself what her inspirations were, specifically the people to whom she dedicated post after post. I found myself drawn to the magic and mystery of what she wrote about, accutely feeling her same passionate emotions.
It was odd, though. I knew things about people I had never met before. It was as though they were celebrities, and I was entering their hidden world, becoming one of them but still a gaping fan waiting to be trained. Worse, I realized, I had been reading about them as though they were characters in a book. Characters like the princesses of fairy tales, the bullies of teen trash, the victims in mystery novels. I felt the same way about these people as I do towards the fictional readings I think about constantly, close to them because an experienced artist acted as my reliable portal into their personalities. Only here it's different. I used to yearn to meet the characters in books and movies, to know them on my own terms and understand them as no one else could. Now that I can meet them, I cannot - they are not to be torn apart and picked at, or oggled and wished for. They are real in every sense of the word. I may love them in my own way from having glimpsed their true colors through the eyes of my friend, but in no way can I reach that level the way I think I can when I read her blog. I suppose this is non-fiction in its essence: the reader being allowed into the minds and hearts of others, via the writer - the only one allowed to delve into them as such.
So though I may not be able to handle it anymore, it is an excellent experience. Enjoy .... curiousjew.blogspot.com

There is not one person in my family that I can safely say lives in moderation. We always seem to somehow end up in extremes, be it in opinions, religion, politics, substances, or emotions. (I like to say that even the men are drama queens.) One of my missions for this year is to learn to walk the golden mean, to be able to accept certain things and reject others, to have opportunities that I don't necessarily take. I believe it is possible; others have managed, and I refuse to allow genetics to dictate my life course to me. I guess it's all a matter of self-discipline at some point, but I'm sure there's another way ...

apathy

One of the days in the past blurry, sickness-infested week or two my Hebrew teacher was talking about how war brings about some measure of apathy with regards to the horrors. In passing, she made reference to a debate that goes on about whether this is a weakness or strength. Being a relatively apathetic person myself - though with strong opinions always, of course - I value any kind of emotion and see it here especially as a form of loss in the humanity of the situation to allow yourself to become accustomed. However, having lived in Israel during the Intefada at the turn of the century, I have to say that in spite of it all, there really is no other way to deal with something of such magnitude. At some point what it came down to was waking up every morning to more news of bombings. The question, rather than "Was there anyone hurt?" became instead "Was anyone I know hit?" Within a year of coming back to America I watched my sister speaking to a former classmate over the phone, trying to identify in her memory one of the recent victims in her school. She burst into tears when she finally figured it out. Dreamed about the girl afterwards, too. Apathy's a tricky thing; you never know what'll burst through the wall, and when it does it's ten times as bad as what you remembered.

I was inspired, so I wrote. In an amazing feat unparalleled in the past few months, I even finished the piece. So I sent to my sister, who had been satisfactorily critical of a former piece I had shown her.

She had the same criticism as last time.

I am depressed and suspect that I am not nearly as good a writer as I thought I was.

Unfortunately, I have had several times where I met a person a precious few times before they quit this world and moved on to the next. I try and try to understand why it was that I needed to meet them, those few insignificant meetings, and then the sudden announcement out of the blue. This week was one such situation, when I called my father to ask him a question and he told me that his good friend's son had been found dead after ODing. I just don't get it.

Admittedly, the year is well under way and all modes of settling in should be over and done. But being me, I am still trying to find the exact niche that I fit into in all this. It usually takes awhile, especially because of how dependent I am on first impressions. No matter how many times it turns out that the person I thought was cool, smart, fun to be around etc. etc. was really a bore and insincere to boot, I keep relying on the dream I had of their personality when I first laid eyes on them. I guess since summer camp is so short there's a kind of mentality where the short time frame helps you to overlook the annoying idiosyncrasies and bond immediately with the nearest you have to a best friend. I usually give myself two weeks in any six week program to find the confidantes I need to make a summer memorable. School, of course, is a whole other playing field where you don't have to worry about lost opportunities so much as lost experiences. Friends are more recyclable, because there are so many people and there's so much time.
Anyhow, tonight was one such excursion. I found myself unwilling to partake in vying for anyone's attention, to draw them to speak to me; I had had enough wishing to be that someone just barely attainable to me, if I keep trying hard enough and manage to keep the good humor coming. So I walked alone a bit during the trek between Brookdale and the general Times Square area (ya gotta love Jamba Juice being open til 1). Anyhow, it was good to know that at the end of the night I still felt like I had a good time with the group I was with, even if I wasn't entirely in my comfort zone.

I saw "Across the Universe" late last night with my friend. The long and the short of it is that this is the reason people make movies.
And Eddie Izzard was in it, which just elevates its awesomeness by about 50%. So it's currently at an appreciation viewing of 150%.