True Feet

There is a custom among some Jews to eat foods made from feet on our Sabbath. Okay that sounds gross, but fellow earthlings (and mom), please, let us open our minds to the cultures of the world...

Right then, as we were. So feet. Not human feet mind you. Maybe chicken feet, or cow feet. Some time back I was in Switzerland and had some jelly made from cow hoofs. It was pretty darn good.

One of the reasons given (in the big book of reasons that I've been skimming through) is that Shabbos is the day of truth. All week long we're involved in the world, a world which covers over G-d and makes it sometimes hard to remember and live the truth. But on Shabbos we are able to remove ourselves a bit and look at the big picture.

Now here comes the cool part. The way falseness gets its sustenance is from having a veneer of truth. No one believes straight up lies, there has to be some sort of truth woven in, usually from the part that matters least. The end so to speak. Well not the end end. That is usually a summary. Almost the end. The Hebrew word for falseness is "Sheker", as such:

Notice how it's made up of 3 of the last 4 letters of the Hebrew Alphabet (Aleph Bet), namely, Kuf, Reish, and Shin.

Truth on the other hand is “Emes”, as such:

There is Alef (the first letter), Mem (the middle letter), and Tuf (the last). For truth is always true, be it at the beginning, the middle or the end. Now or later, here and there.

“What does that have to do with feet?” you ask. Sheesh, I’m getting there, just because this is the internet, doesn’t mean I have to be brief.

Another aspect of the falseness, is that while it may look imposing and impressive, it’s quite easy to knock over. In Hebrew there is an expression “it doesn’t have legs”. If you look at the first word, all the letters are precarious. Perfectly balanced on a web of deceit, just one breath of truth and all those letters come crashing down. “Emes”, truth, on the other hand “has legs”. Each letter is firmly placed on a plateau of time-tested axioms, principles, and good ol’e facts.

And that’s why we eat feet on Shabbos. Truth, Legs, Feet, Sabbath. You got it.

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In our recent move and the life-changes that have come along with it, I’ve been working hard at making sure the truths in my life stay in the foreground. It’s easy to forget why we do the things we do, and to get lost in those things themselves. It’s how many of us just keep on doing what’s done, instead of asking why at each junction. And it’s what I’m been trying to fight.

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In an entirely unrelated vein, here are some photos of the truly lovely family.

Peace, love, and sautéed, sustainably-harvested, organic chicken feet.

This is their “don’t make me get my shotgun from my pickup truck” face.

Nondeligousnoeroduls and other such Maladies

A post in four acts.

Act one.

It has been presented to me (by myself) that all of my writing has been of the non-fictional sort. There have been some close-calls and quasi-fiction, but non of the hard core cow-jump-over-the-moon type (which I'm still convinced that while being classified as fiction,t he author didn't intend it to be). The fixing of such egregiousness is in order. And shall be presented as such. So here is my short story. Titled:

Nondeligousnoeroduls and other such Maladies

"Dude that is NOT a word" exclaimed the newt, "you just wrote whatever popped into your head. I bet you can't even pronounce it."

The newt was a slimy sort. He was 35, or maybe 25, no one really knew. I doubt anyone actually cared. He was as uncomfortable in public as he was in private. The amphibian was the first name put forth, but being that it wasn't so much that he was comfortable in all situations rather it was that neither was better, it was decided that the amphibian was too complimentary.

"Oh, it is. Definitely is. And it's pronounced "Nonderoduls", the "ligousnoer" is silent. Which may seem odd at first, but it's quite genius. It refers to a rare illness of which the main symptom is the use of extra words and syllables. Not like, like, or other words which serve some sort of purpose. More like "that is totally unnecessary", or "I am so stoked" or "there are way too many exclamations points!!!!!"". McPeabody was getting quite animated at this point. "It's actually a conceptual onomatopoeia."

"Okay, totes whatevs." Wanting to sound modern and hip, the Newt had spent the past week on some sort of slang website, trying to fit in with the cool kids.

The Newt went to bed that night in a strangely animated state. Something during the day clicked, ticked, charged, fired, or whatever happens to neurons in the brain. There was a nebulous future forming, with hints of blueberry, a meaty finish, and intense, yet subtle, tannins.

Dreams of extra limbs in shining places, over-iced water, and gluten-free gluten.

McPeabody didn't sleep much that nigh, his mind racing with all sorts of new word ideas and their respective marketability.

You see, McPeabody loved many things, but above all he loved monetizing useless ideas. Somehow finding a use, or at least an audience that might be convinced of a use, for what could be classified as "bollocks" was just the sort of cynical pleasure McPeabody lived for.

McPeabody had a first name, or at least it was common opinion that he did, but it had long fallen out of use.

And although McPeabody was loved and his company sought after (after all, he was quick with words, and although everyone knew he was most probably lying, there was always some lingering doubt about the possible veracity of his strange findings), the fake world he lived him precluded him of any close friends. The type that would care enough to know his name.

The sun, breaking through the broken blinds like blind bull, blustering about. Okay enough B's. Basically the day dawned. McPeabody was drifting off (it wasn't his broken blinds being broken into), and the Newt was slamming the snooze button. Unfortunately, in order to engage the time-wasting invention, he had to swipe and then lightly tap (with extreme dexterity, the kind half sleeping newts don't possess) the snooze button. His nebulous dreams growing ever more so with every ding and dong and beep and bloop, he fumbled around for a pen and paper, and starting writing:

"Last night I dreamed a dream. And I am now writing it down", the Newt always started his conversations with telling people that he was talking.

He continued, skimping a bit on his usual introductions, "it was about a...

To be continued. Maybe. (I need to figure out a dream sufficiently worthy of being written down.)

Act two:

As you may have figured by now. There is absolutely no point to this story.

However the existence of this story has three.

1. I really enjoy this kind of writing. Now if I can only find an actual plot, I might have a fighting chance.

And more importantly, 2. Photography, like words, has a language. Where the written word have nouns and verbs, syntax, flow, subjects and such, photography has lines and curves, colors and tones, flow, subjects and such. But the most beautiful combinations of words, without a story to tell, is just that, a glorification of the body, without any soul. Photos tell stories, and random photos of pretty things, fanciful compositions, and masterful reflections, are all just random sentences or even paragraphs. They may the prettiest little paragraph your eyes have ever seen. But without an overarching plot, or even better, a subject behind the plot (in a way that Anna Kerenina is not (just) a book about a wayward woman, or The Alchemist is not (just) about a dude who turns stuff into gold), it's pointless, dead.

3. Fiction is amazing in the sense that one could write about himself, or certain aspects of himself, in a completely candid and studious way (and then, if one is read enough, he could watch the critics argue if the author is talking about himself or not). I need to explore this more.

4. I have a lot more to say on the subject but need to clarify my thoughts (and words). So this isn't a point. Just a random paragraph.

Act three:

I'm contemplating splitting up my blog in two. One photo heavy with recent work, stories, news, whatever. And another for my ramblings, especially for those not photography related. I'd love to hear your thoughts about that, or other ideas you may have. I feel that many come for photos and get turned off my this mountain of words (and vice versa).

Act four:

January, Febraur, Mar, Ap, M, these months keep on getting shorter. Sometime last year (right before Passover) I decided that I was going to develop all my black and white film myself (instead of sending them off to a lab). A. To save money and B. I wanted more control (and to learn the process).

Well it took me 9 months to actually start, and by then I had a backload of over 70 rolls. And while I've been slowly decreasing that pile, I'm still shooting and developing current work so it's going to take me some time. There's film from Shlomo's birth that still hasn't seen the light of day (well it has for about 1/15 of a second).

I've wanted to post the "best of 2013" for, well, ever since 2014 started, and haven't really shared much personal work since that best-of post was so imminent. Which it obviously wasn't.

So here are some photos from a trip to Idyllwild in early January (from which I still have some film to develop…).

Enjoy.

Peace, harmony, and gluten-free quinoa brownies.

Oh right, and I made meself a new website. It’s still under construction and will be closed intermittently between 6/2014 and 9/2016 (you’ll only get that if you drive a lot). Let me know how you like it and if there are any bugs, quirks, oddities, or wormholes. Pretty please.

  

The Belkinators

I'm tired. And I just drank a 24 ounce Rockstar energy drink (aka poison).

Why subject myself to such a chemical invasion, you may ask (spell check wanted to change that to saki, hmmmm)? Well it has been brought to my attention that my last few posts have been, well, a bit morose. A bit sad. Even boring. I don't like boring. Boring is boring.

My favorite post (from a writing perspective) was typed on an iPad (annoying would be an understatement), while being in stage 5 exhaustion (on a made up scale without defined parameters), and under the neuron firing, stomach churning, nerve shaking effects of some sort of coffee/Rockstar combo.

I don't want to die. Dying sucks. In the past 30 years and 4 months I've existed as a body/soul combo outside of my momma's belly, there were three times I could have died (obviously not including every second of every day that an alien could have zapped me, or a really large elephant could have fallen on me from a passing airplane). First time I was 2 and some crazy dude kidnapped me and tried to take me to the desert. He took a wrong turn, found his way to Mexico, ran a red light, was chased by some poli?ia, had his tires shot out, and ended up in some Mexican jail.

The third time was when I was swiped by a truck on the 110 and spun across three lanes hit the center divider and ended up safely on the left shoulder.

The second time (and this is the point. Yay!) was towards the end of August 2002. Back when my email address was draebehtykreb@yahoo.com (until it was hacked and shut down a few years later after logging in at some internet cafe (remember those?) whose homepage was aljazeera.com), and my AIM handle was puffkdragon (I made both of those accounts that summer). We (the counselors) were up all night and day for the past week. The days were of course spent by use counseloring, the nights by us making these elaborate constructions depicting either how many days were left to this great camp (to paraphrase the annoying, yet remarkably addicting song we were belting out constantly), or some other clever contraption for the kids to remember. In retrospect we should have just slept, but we were young and probably drunk. Thursday was Knott's Berry Farm day. Which is basically a Six Flags for those too lazy or poor to drive out to an actual Six Flags. Being all sleep deprived and such, and still needing to stay up until 6 AM making some sort of rock sculpture (followed by an insane alcohol+exhaustion induced moon dance (I don't actually recall if we were clothed or not)) two quadruple espressos and 6 red bulls sounded like a wonderful idea. Coupled with the mandatory quota of Millers Genuine Draft (thank G-d my tastes have evolved since then), the next day had me flat out on the grass, contemplating calling 911 every couple of minutes. My heart was doing double speed, skipping beats, and doing all sorts of trickery. I didn't call 911, and thank G-d I didn't die. Notwithstanding my taurine induced grass kissing, that summer was the first time I met Estee, so overall it was quite a success. But I did stay away from energy drinks for a very long time, and still only use them when I absolutely have to (usually driving home from the cow farm at hours of the morning that really shouldn't exist).

Yet since I enjoy writing, and my most interesting writing seems to come about while being under some sort of mental irregularity, I'm trying to induce such states. Legally.

This monologue didn't end here. It ended up wandering into some oddly serious pastures, and that was against the rules, so I just chopped out the rest (it meandered into some incoherent mashup of capitalism, advertising, social media, moral, blah blah blah). I have muzzled my fingers against those tempting fields. This time. But in my delicate trappings down over-thinking lane, I did decide to head back to social media. I may do another post about why, for now suffice it to say that I miss my friends out in the cloud, and unless I am going to do some hardcore alternate marketing, ignoring all the potential clients eyes out there seems a bit naive.

Experiment failed. Exhaustion + energy drink has been ruled out as a harbinger of good writing. Maybe I'll have to apply to jury duty again. Or some other situation in which I have nothing else to do besides write.

My site is undergoing some overhauling, and I'm contemplating breaking up my blog into two; a more photo-centric one, and a journal (or whoever I end up calling it) as a home for my rambling mind. Theoretically I would either have to link this somehow to the photos below (which would be quite a stretch) or put in some sort of break symbol (maybe a /// or a *** ) and write a bit about the photos. But I'm going to do neither and just plaster the photos below. As such:

Serendipitously, this was shot on their one year anniversary. Check out their wedding, and then check out Yossi's ridiculously awesome design skills.