“In The Bedroom” (my first published piece)

I am reluctant to declare the bedroom as a space carved out for sleep. Dormancy is just the edge of it. Dormancy is the time in which we can escape without having to explain why or how or what motivates us. It is an ephemeral time of twiddling thumbs before making conscious, concerted movements into the bounty of existence.

So what is this room? Into what are we entering when we sluggishly draw our feet across the threshold? It is a peculiar safe haven. We disrobe here. We love here. We lay defenseless here. We pray here. We indulge here. We timorously expose ourselves without a second question here. And we give into the unremitting parts of ourselves; we listen to ourselves here. We give ourselves the scarce opportunity to settle into who we are. It is only when we unburden ourselves — purses on their handles, shoes on their racks, dinner divided into containers, invasive forms of communication powered off, our outward personas diminished into honesty — that we allow ourselves to experience the silence of our space. Our rooms, much like all of the objects we interact with, are a function of ourselves. Our rooms are a tangible extension with which we can mediate the clamoring of thought with the oppressive, although prepossessing, tug to live in a world where we view others with unquestionably clarity yet mar our own tenderness.

Our rooms are where we lay with our faces to the ceiling, our ears to the window listening to the chittering of no-name morning birds, our hearts quivering our ribs, our breath even and slow. We take the moment to reclaim the parts of ourselves we hid under the mat- tress. We shed and prepare and draft and create until we can erect ourselves into who we irrefutably are. We march forward, over the threshold, unaware that with each step we lose parts of ourselves. Bit by bit. It is only when we come home that we find the pieces we lost. We collect those shards into the creases of our arms, quietly enter our space, lock the door, spread the pieces on the floor and look at ourselves.

Jewish Currents, Vol. 66, No. 1 (662) Summer/Autumn 2011, page 75.

Thank you again to the editor, Lawrence Busch, for giving me such an opportunity. I will always remember your generosity.

The Inconceivable Truth About Fingers in the Sky (An excerpt from a story I’ve been adding to for 3 years)

Life presents itself in multitudes — the quarrels with a lover are just the consequence of a history of quarrels, a history of misunderstandings regarding how genuine a feeling may have been, the strain of distance upon the memory, or perhaps the lies told, for the sake of preservation, that never quite equaled their debilitating gravity in substance. The wars that erupted only to unleash the barbarity of mans’ soul. And men persisted under the moniker of honor, with respect to the mother nation that praised him for his courage, but could only award that selfless valor with a pin if he returned, an inscription on a wall if he did not. The memories preserved in works of art, the timelessness of folding the top corner of a page, feeling of pages caressing finger tips, flapping back and forth when hurried by the wind, the words that tied up emotions so neatly, explored the intensity of our hunger to extend beyond ourselves and grapple with the enormity of this tireless place (commonly referred to as home) that is so successful (as brilliant as an overbearing mother) in keeping our desires within the boundaries of our toy rooms. And we humbly stay within the walls of this space and this time until we are ousted, forced to tremble before the dark eyes of infinity and beg for mercy — not for what we have done but, alas! for what we haven’t. And for the first time, drawing her hands together, squeezing until there was no power left, she grew frightened.