Far Away from Home (surrealism continued)

Far From Home
by I.M. Acher

        Hillel and Shammai were the greatest Zen Masters of their day.  Students used to come from all over the world to learn from them.  Shammai had the higher IQ of the two, and his academy was more prestigious; Hillel, however, was more open-minded and willing to educate all who entered his doors.

          A student walked into Shammai’s academy.  He asked “Rabbi, how can I find inner peace?”  The master asked the student to pass him a candlestick holder.  The student passed the master his candlestick holder.  The master asked the student to turn around.  The student turned around.  The master then forcefully smacked the student upside his head.  “There,” said the master, “do you feel it now?”  The student walked out of Shammai’s academy and never returned.

          The same student stepped into Hillel's academy.  He asked him “Rabbi, how can I find inner peace?”  The master asked him to pass him a candlestick holder—one with a lit candle.  The student hesitated, scared that the master would smack him.  The master then said “watch me very closely.”  He then blew out the candle.  “And that,” the master said “is how you find inner peace. Everything else is overpriced snake oil.  Now go in peace.

                                                                                                                            

          Jonah woke up the next morning.  Just like every other morning.  It was 10:00AM.  He had no job.  He had nowhere to go.  The leftover pizza in his fridge was beginning to go stale.  He was almost out of money to buy some more food.

          And yet, the fish-man he dreamed of bade him to go to Ninvus.

          I mean where is Ninvus anyway?  Perhaps had he paid attention during social studies class, he would have remembered. 

          But as he turned over, he saw a clean looking slip of paper on his nightstand.  It was the one slip of paper that didn’t have food or beer stains all over it. 

          The slip of paper was a boat ticket to Ninvus.  He doesn’t know how that ticket got there, or how he even paid for it.  But he figured he had nothing to lose staying in Nod.  Might as well take a vacation in Ninvus.

                                                                                                                            

          The fish-man got the ticket for Jonah.  How the ticket made its way to Jonah’s nightstand is a mystery.  After all, the fish-man doesn’t have prehensility.  Also, since when do fish-men have money?  I guess we are just going to have to suspend our disbeliefs for this one and assume that the fish-man was capable of some form of magic that we can’t possibly explain.

                                                                                                                            

          The wharf of East Eden.  Some say that Eden was once Shangri-La (before there even was Shangri-La).  If Eden ever was anything close to paradisiacal, those days were long gone. 

          Never would you find a more wretched hive of buggery.  See, Eden was a place where everyone did “the right thing”—or at least what The Master said the right thing was.  But they never questioned The Master.  They devoutly followed His words.  And the Master did not reciprocate.

          He promised them a good life

          He promised them pleasure

          He promised he’d kill the Leviathan and they’d feast on his flesh

          He promised that one day they’d never have to do work again

          He promised the world, he delivered a goose egg.

          This is why I would never live in Eden.  I would never fit in.  I have never met The Master.  I’m not even sure if The Master is real.  But given their blind faith in The Master, He is very real to them.  And I could never suffer a neighborhood where people don’t think for themselves.

                                                                                                                            

          Jonah arrived at the wharf.  He had one ticket to Ninvus.  But he didn’t even want to go to Ninvus.  He didn’t want to be in Eden to begin with. 

          He went to a local bar.  But this was Eden, so the bars did not serve alcohol.  Not that The Master ever literally said not to drink alcohol.  But his followers still managed to find ways to make it verboten. 

          So he sat at that bar, sober, pensive, and wanting to get a fix.  But nowhere to get a fix in East Eden. 

          Jonah just wanted to go home.

                                                                                                                            

          The fish-man should have known that Jonah was not going to go to Ninvus.  For a fish-man with a lot of foresight, the fish-man sure seemed to miss plenty of important details.

                                                                                                                            

          Hillel was walking by a river with some students.  He saw a skull floating by.

          “See that skull?”  the master asked.  “That man drowned because he drowned someone else.  And the person he drowned also drowned someone else  And the person who drowned him will also be drowned.”

          Most of the students stroked their beards and nodded in acquiescence. 

          One student was not satisfied. 

          Little Doubting Tommy asked the Master “and who started the vicious cycle?”

          The Patient Master responded “No one.  The cycle is about as old as the great deluge itself, where many myriads of myriads drowned.”

          “But Master,” said Tommy, “a watch does not wind itself.”

          The Master stroked his beard.  “Son, that is because you have not seen the most perfect watch ever made, so perfect it does not need human hands to wind it, it never needs repair, and it never runs out.”

          Doubting Tommy still wasn’t sold.  “Master, where can you find such a watch?”

          The Master shouted “fool, do not question the wonders of the world.  When you have seen the things I have seen, you may begin to formulate your questions correctly.”

          Doubting Tommy coolly responded “but sir, have you ever seen such a watch?”

          Nonplussed, The Master said “no I have not.  But if you have enough faith, it just might be real.”

          But Doubting Thomas was not finished.  “And when will the cycle end?”

          To this, The Master said “it never will.  One day, there will be no one left to drown. And then, it will be too late.”

I Never Did Post About Nechemya Weberman

         This post is in honor of Faigy Mayer.  Three years ago, I attended the sentencing for Nechemya Weberman.  Faigy asked me how it went.  I promised her a full report.  I never wrote it.  Here it is, I know Faigy will never read it.  But here it is.


                   Tensions were high.  I got to the courthouse bright and early.  I looked around me and I saw a very mixed crowd.  Behind me was a man with a yarmulke reading Likutei Mohoran (the teachings of Rebbe Nachman of Breslov); he was reading them and reciting the words silently, like a mantra.  In front of me was a long-haired man reading a physics book.  I thought I recognized him from Facebook, but I didn't say a word.  I was not here to socialize.  Across from me, I saw members of the media gearing up, preparing for the sentencing.  I saw a group of people who all seemed to know each other hanging around the media presence.  They were having a friendly chat with each other.  I sat there quietly, waiting for us to be called in.

                   The wait was long.  Finally, the doors were opened.  We were slowly herded into the room.  It was so crowded, that they eventually closed the doors and stopped letting people in.  My seat was toward the back.  It was so crowded, there was barely any room for everyone.  A very irate marshal began to speak.  He warned us that if we left, we would not be allowed back in.  We were to shut off all electronics; any violators would be immediately removed from the courtroom and be prosecuted.  The media was especially instructed to not photograph the plaintiff.

                   The judge was running late.  In the meantime, I got into a conversation with the woman sitting next to me.  She was a third-year law school student.  I could tell by the crucifix on her necklace that she was not Jewish.  She confirmed for me that she was Armenian Orthodox.  Her interest in the subject was because she had interned a few summer's ago in family court's child abuse division.  During her internship, the case of Yudi Kolko violating his parole.  I was familiar with the case, so I discussed it with her.  This case made her very interested in the subject of rabbis who are accused of molesting children, so she had been following this trial.

                 It was a cold winter day, but the courtroom was so crowded, that we were all sweating bullets.  Tensions were building higher and higher.  Nechemya Weberman had been found guilty of all charges.  This was the sentencing.  We were all excited to see how the court would handle it.  The judge was running almost an hour late when the irate marshal came out again.  He demanded total silence and decorum during the proceedings.  He must have been warmed about what a circus this could potentially be.

                  "All rise!"  Finally, the judge came.  There was barely any room to rise without bumping into anyone.  But we all rose.

                  Weberman was led in by a marshal.  He was wearing an orange jumpsuit and was in handcuffs.  I might have caught a few hisses as he entered; but most of us took the warning for decorum seriously.

                   It began.  The plaintiff was given a chance to speak.  She stood up.  This was my first time laying eyes on the plaintiff.  She was tall, blonde, willowy, young, sweet looking, but clearly robbed of her innocence long ago.  I am still moved to tears when I picture her face that day.

                   She faced the gallery.  She read a letter that she wrote.  In that letter, she delineated how Weberman had ruined her life.  Her life was in shambles.  She and her (recently married) husband had to move out of two different communities because of the shame--that she was suing Weberman--and for their safety.  She still gets nightmares when she thinks about what he did.  She can't even look at herself in the mirror anymore.  She pictures the hot wax he would pour on her (apparently making her reenact scenes in porn films).  She still hates her body.  She still hates herself.

                   Her prose was absolutely heart rending.  The more she read, the more her voice began to crack.  She still stood her ground.  She still read.  But then, she began to burst into tears.  She continued to talk about how no amount of therapy will be able to completely cure her.  As her speech crescendoed, she turned to Weberman and implored him "how do you live with yourself?"

                    Nechemya Weberman had his back to me, so I could not see his face.  But from what I could see, he appeared rather stoic.  The rest of the room was clearly moved.  Even the judge appeared to be holding back some tears.

                   After the plaintiff finished, the judge asked Weberman if he would like to respond.  He tersely answered "no," possibly on his lawyer's advice.  After all that, not even an apology?  I was incredulous.  But from the looks of most of the people surrounding me, I wasn't alone.  Many people looked like they wanted to smack him.

                   The lawyer spoke in the most professional manner possible.  He expressed his qualms with the way the trial was handled--all on the testimony of one girl.  I don't remember most of what he said.  I only remember that he closed off his statement by saying that his client maintains his innocence, and his client plans on appealing.  A shockwave went through the gallery.  Even the judge looked moved by his temerity.  If decorum didn't prohibit it, I would have asked the lady sitting next to me "have you ever wondered what the word 'chutzpah' means?  You just witnessed the epitome of it."

                    The judge then handed down the sentence.  I don't remember the breakdown.  I remember that it all added up to 103 years.  Quite hefty.  What Weberman did was so egrigious, that the judge was clearly trying to use him as an example (as was the beleaguered DA Charles Hynes, whom many of us thought was too soft on Hassidic abusers).  The judge capped off his sentence with a very harsh reprimand for Weberman, and he gave his blessing to the plaintiff, wishing her well in her recovery and her life.

                     I left the courtroom fraught with emotion.  On the one hand, justice had been served.  On the other hand, Weberman had clearly not learned his lesson.  He would be spending the rest of his life in jail.  But he was clearly not sorry.  And the community that gave him asylum wasn't either.  I saw this whole thing as a good start.  We have a long way to go, but at least we got a good start.

Surrealistic Fiction Continued

Closer to My Comfort Zone

By I.M. Acher

 

          Know this. 

          There are over 7 billion people on this Earth. 

          Let us assume that everyone has free will.  When you need to make a decision, you usually have at least three different choices to consider.  If that decision involves another human, then that decision is compounded by at least another three.  Let us compound that by every choice that every human makes every day.  Let us further compound that by the things that affect our lives, directly or indirectly. 

          Now let us assume there is a higher intellect that somehow facilitates these actions.  That being’s hands must be pretty full.

          Let’s assume said being doesn’t exist?  After all, these words did not put themselves on this computer screen.

          Chew on this:  your universe is not the only one that exists.  Our minds are only wired to think that it is.  It’s probably better that our minds cannot think four-dimensionally.  If we could, our world would probably like watching a scrambled premium cable channel. 

 

Jonah in the Land of Nod.

 

          Laundry day. 

          Jonah doesn’t know what got him to go downstairs and use the laundry room.  He hadn’t used the laundry room in over a year.  Come and think of it, he wasn’t even sure if those machines even worked. 

          Cleanliness is godliness, his mother said.  Happiness is a clean pair of underwear, he said.  He hadn’t been happy in weeks.

          He watched as his clothes swirled around in the washing machine.  He could see his vintage Deep Purple t-shirt swirling around.  That shirt was so worn, it’s a miracle that one wash didn’t make it unravel.

          His fingers were stained with grease from his fried calamari and half-a-pack of American Spirit.  Maybe he should have washed his hands. 

          Or maybe, he should not have woken up that morning…

          Go to Ninvus, North of Gehena.  And tell them THE END IS NIGH.

          Jonah just stared at the fish-man.  “Whoa,” he said.  “You really dialed that creep factor up to 11.” 

          His head was still reeling from that sonic boom the fish-man sent into his head.  And he was scared of the fish-man inflicting further pain unto him.

          Go to Ninvus, said the fish-man.  And tell them THE END IS NIGH.

          “Yeah yeah,” said Jonah, “I heard you the first time.  What are you going to do to them?”

          Me?  Nothing!  I’m just a messenger. 

          “If you’re a messenger, why do you need me to tell them anything?”

          If a telepathic anthropomorphic fish walked into your city with a message of doom, would you heed his warning?

          “Well let’s see.  I have one of those talking to me now, and I am not compelled to listen to him…”

          Exactly! said the fish-man.  Then what chance do I have with a whole city?

The fish-man’s Achilles’ heel was the act of persuasion.

          As a young fish-man, the fish-man was bless/cursed with the gift of blarney.  That meant he loved to talk.  But most of the words out of his mouth were empty and did not actually accomplish their intended goals.

          How very unfortunate.  If words are symbolic representatives of synthetic ideas, you would think that one who represents one as important as The Master would be better at saying what he means and meaning what he says.

          “But why me?” asked Jonah.  “Out of all the orators in the world, what could I possibly possess that makes me worthy of such a stupid mission?”

          Because out of all the derelicts in the Land of Nod, you are the one that the least amount of people would miss if you failed.  You have no friends, no family, no job, no future prospect of accomplishing anything important, basically no good traits whatsoever.  Which is exactly why you are the ideal candidate for such a mission.

          “Then how could I possibly convince an entire city to listen to me?”

          Who said anything about convincing?

          “So in other words, you are setting me up for failure.”

          Well, uh, yes.

          Jonah scratched his head and considered the fish-man for a moment.  Then he stuck up his middle finger and said “well consider this my answer.  Go.fuck.yourself!”

          It was actually the fish-man’s dream to be able to gratify himself.

          Jonah never really gave much thought to the prospect.  After all, he wasn’t really the adventurous type; that included sexual endeavors. 

          Perhaps the kinkiest thought that ever entered Jonah’s mind was what kind of tube sock would make the worst condom ever.  It is for this reason that Jonah did not have many sexually intimate experiences in his life.

          These are the words of the fish-man.

          Free will is just an illusion.  But so is determinism. 

          You don’t really control your own actions.  But neither does a higher intelligence.

          The universe is a collection of forces.  These forces are static and dynamic at the same time.  There are definite rules they follow.  But even the world’s biggest supercomputer could never parse all the variables, constants, and operations involved with these forces.

          It is therefore inconceivable that we will ever know anything with complete certainty.

          Science and religion are both human attempts to understand the universe.  They are both equally frivolous.  Both have aided and abetted human conquest of its environment.  They once were two heads of the same coin.  But as science became more methodological, it also became more dogmatic.  And as religion began to disguise its dogma with logic, the lines became more and more muddled.

          In the end, neither side was any closer to the truth.

          I used to think that I understood the truth.

          But thanks to the fish-man, I realized that in fact, there is no truth.  There is only perception and those who are too obtuse to use theirs.

My first crack at surrealist fiction in a while ::Trigger Warning::

Journey Outside My Comfort Zone

By I.M. Acher.

 

          Sunday Morning, 10:00 AM, Land of Nod, East of Gehena.

 

          Before you read this, just remember one thing.  You are but a glimmer in the eyes of a non-sentient Universe that doesn’t give two shits about you.  You are the incidental byproduct of a bunch of stardust that coalesced and over a long period (by our frame of reference) caused us to believe ourselves to be sentient.  You are nothing.  There is no deeper meaning to life, the universe, or anything.  You just exist. 

          Is it too late for a trigger warning?

         

          The Day Jonah Stepped Out of His Own Mind:

 

          It was the words of the dopamine-imbalance in Jonah’s brain. 

          On that Sunday, like any other Sunday, unlike any future Sunday, but definitely like every previous Sunday he had ever experienced before.

          He was lying in bed.  His room was a dusty cornucopia of books he never got around to reading, posters of various death metal bands, various dirty t-shirts and boxer shorts that hadn’t been washed in weeks, as well as empty 22-oz bottles of cheap malt liquor. 

          He gazed up at the poster of Ozzy Osbourne hitchhiking, holding up a sign that says “Hell.”  Blasting on his alarm clock speaker was “Ace of Spades” by Motörhead.  Just the song he needed; after last night, his liver was dancing the bachata.

          But what even happened last night?

          And how did he even get back into his bed?

          He was neither man nor fish.  Hell, for all I know, he was probably not even of this astral plane.

          He did not move his mouth.  He spoke.

          “Jonah, get up.  Go to the City of Ninvus, North of Gehena.”

          Gehena!  Now it was all making sense.

          One does not just walk into Gehena.  Even people who have business in Gehena do not just walk into Gehena.

          I’ve been to Gehena several times.  I would tell you what it was like.  But you know how the old saying goes—what goes in Gehena stays in Gehena.

          Growing up, I was told that Gehena was a firepit.  I was told that it was a place where you will burn forever.  It is a place full of sinners and other people who pissed off the Master.

          Ladies and Gentlemen, if only Gehena was only that, then perhaps I would be able to bear it.  You see, there is no Master.  And given the capricious rules He expects people to follow, I would much rather spend eternity with those who broke those rules than in that other place—the city in the clouds which supposes eternal bliss.

          No, Gehena is not a place that’s bad because of pain and suffering.

          Gehena is a place that contains everything the mind can ask for.  Except nobody can afford Gehena. 

          Nobody.

          Jonah, the fish-man said.  Jonah.  Can you hear me?

          “I’m not sure,” said Jonah.  “You see, hearing usually entails using one’s auricular processes.  But you’re not exactly making a sound wave, so I’m not sure if what I’m doing right now is considered hearing.”

          At that point, the fish-man sent the telepathic equivalent of a sonic boom into Jonah’s head.  It gave Jonah a migraine that still gives him chills unto this day.

          Don’t be fatuous! The fish-man shouted (or the telepathic version of shouting.  If the Dalai Lama shits in the woods and nobody hears him, is he still a Homo Sapien?

          Jonah had to think about that one for a second.  He then retorted “and what do you know about human excretory functions?  And what are you anyway?”

          I am a figment of your chemically-imbalanced mind.  But that’s neither here nor there.  I am here to help you cross over.

          Aw man, Jonah thought.  Why can’t I go back to thinking pink elephants?

          The pink elephant was the mortal enemy of the fish-man. 

          The fish-man hated pachyderms of all varieties, whether extant or extinct.  In his nightmares, he was brutally raped and trampled by a livid wooly mammoth. 

          How a mammoth could successfully penetrate a fish does not make any sense.  But this is Gehena.  And very little about Gehena makes any sense. 

          I’m just here to help you cross over the fish-man said.

          “Cross over to where?” Jonah asked.

          Outside of your mind.

 

          Jonah coughed.  “Am I in the Matrix?”

          What’s the Matrix? Asked the fish-man.

          “The Matrix, you know, The Wachowski Brothers, ‘I know kung-fu’, what if I told you that Morpheus never actually used the words ‘what if I told you…’?”

          Ah, said the fish-man, yes.  Worst.Movie.Ever.

          “Said no one ever!” Jonah was beginning to lose patience.

          Enough!  I did not come to discuss the pseudophilosophical musings of popular cinematic clichés.  Now listen closely. 

 

Leave your cares behind
come with us and find
the pleasures of a journey to the center of the mind

Come along if you care
Come along if you dare
Take a ride to the land inside of your mind

Beyond the seas of thought
beyond the realm of what
across the streams of hopes and dreams
where things are really not

Come along if you care
come along if you dare
take a ride to the land
inside of your mind….

--Ted Nugent

          The fish-man parted with one last thought.

          Know this.  The entire sum of your existence can be summed up by our meeting here. 

          We met here for no reason.  You just happened to be sitting on this park bench when I was here.  We had a chance encounter.  I decided to speak to you.  That was a chance encounter too. 

          If you choose to take up my mission and go to Ninvus, the consequences will be inconsequential for the world at large.  Nobody outside of your small circle of friends and family will care whether or not you get back.  Even you, the reader, will put this down and forget you ever read it.  Nobody will give it a second thought.

          Your birth was completely meaningless.  Your death will also be completely meaningless.  You will leave no kids behind.  You will have no legacy.  And nobody will tell your story.

          And you have no soul to reap the fruits of your actions.  There is no higher plane.  There is no karma.  There is no Shambhala.  There is no Valhalla.  And even if those places did exist, I’d be bored to tears in all of them.

          So whether or not you choose to listen to me, you have nothing to gain or lose.  And you, the reader, should not get too invested in this story either.

And what is this comfort zone Jonah was trying to step out of? 

If you haven’t figured it out yet, it’s time for you to step out of your comfort zone.

          Stay tuned for part II.

Happy Sunday, December 6th

          I’m not that offended by Hannukah.  But I’m not going to celebrate it either.

          The Hannukah of my childhood was Christmas’ diminutive, less comely illegitimate sibling.  Any time one turned on the TV, all one saw was Christmas specials, carols, sales, and all sorts of things marketing an image of a holiday full of cheer, giving, and family.

          I’m not going to lie.  Hannukah was a fun holiday.  We got to spin a dreidel.  We would gamble for chocolate coins.  We got to eat latkes and jelly donuts.  And we got to light a menorah and sing some songs.  But Ma’oz Tzur had nothing on “Carol of the Bells” or “Silent Night.” 

          As a kid, we learned that the Maccabees were the great heroes of a miraculous war that chased the Hellenistic Selucids out of Judea.  We also learned about oil that lasted 8-days instead of 1. 

          As an adult, I learned that this miracle of the oil is only mentioned in passing in the gemara, very briefly; nowhere else is it mentioned beforehand.  And the war against the Selucids was not that miraculous.  It’s a very fascinating story, and the Maccabees certainly did have a lot of luck on their side.  But they also had the fact that the Selucids then were getting attacked on the Parthian front, so they had to recall troops from Judea to fortify that front.  We also have various military alliances (Egypt, Rome, et al).  It was a complex story, much of which most Jews don’t even know the half of.  Most Jews aren’t even aware that in the end, the Hellenists won, as demonstrated by the fact that the next generation of Hasmoneans started to have Greek names such as Hyrcanus, Menelaus, et al. 

          Hannukah celebrates a nice idea of the underdog defeating the big bully.  I have nothing against that.  But I have little use these days for holy days of any kind.  While I may take advantage of some sales, and I may have Chinese dinner this December 24^th (we shall see), I will not be lighting any fires near my window this year.

"All Who Go Do Not Return", a review.

One of the most highly anticipated memoirs in the OTD-sphere, All Who Go Do Not Return is a memoir by celebrated blogger, heretic, and all around righteous dude Shulem Deen.  For many years, Shulem has been a fixture in the nouveau-boho-exChusid scene, which auxiliarly includes formerly-Modernishes such as me.

My first exposure to Shulem was an article in the Village Voice, The Sharer of Secrets.  This was in the summer of 2003.  I was working a McJob working a concession stand at Giant's Stadium for a Bruce Springsteen concert.  The last bus to my parents' house had already departed, so I had to find a ride into the city.  Since it was past midnight, and there would be no more buses back to New Jersey until at least 8am, I was stuck in Midtown Manhattan with nothing to do for 5 hours.  So I took a Village Voice (because it was free), walked over to the Hudson River, sat on a bench, and started reading.

Up to that point, I had very little first-hand exposure to the Hassidic underground.  I had one friend, Steve, who was a senior at MTA.  Steve used to be a Satmar Hassid, but for some reason, his parents sent him to MTA (which is Modernishe).  One summer, Steve got an internship at a Goyyishe firm, and everything went downhill: the payyos came off, he was now smoking weed, when he wore a yarmulke it was no longer a big velvet one, and he no longer kept Shabbos.  Steve once told me that the Satmars were constantly calling him, begging him to come back, and several times even threatened to drive over to Washington Heights to abduct him and force him to daven with them.  Steve still deftly evaded them.

Other than that, I had never actually met a bona fide Hassidic Rebel.  When I read this article, I discovered that Steve was not alone.  There were others who were Hassidic and no longer believed.  Only Steve was still in high school and surrounded by Modern Orthodox Jews, so he had an easier way out.  The people described in the article were still completely clandestine.  The article inspired me so much, that when I got home, I looked up Hassidic Rebel.  I found it intriguing.  After reading a few posts, it was clear to me that Hassidic Rebel was a very well read, energetic man who was not content to be cloistered in whatever Shtetl he hailed from.

After a spell, I didn't give Hassidic Rebel much more thought.  But over the years, I was more and more exposed to the Hassidic Underground.  Half a year later, I was working a job at NYU.  An old friend of mine, Sholom, was a regular customer there.  One day, Sholom brought in a girl named Malky.  Malky was a student at Hunter College who was doing a project with Hassidim who wanted out.  She called it "Footsteps".  At the time, Footsteps was just an experimental project.  Both she and Sholom were former Lubavitchers.  But she promised me that at her meetups, there were former Satmars, and other more hardcore Hassidim, whose stories were completely gut-wrenching.  So Sholom asked me if I wanted to check this Footsteps out.

I regret now that I never did.  Though I am glad to see that Foortsteps has since become a tour de force.  Many of my current acquaintances have at some point passed through their doors and been aided in one way or another: whether it's getting a GED, applying to college, applying for benefits, improving English, or merely support.  Although I myself am not a member of Footsteps, I still laud this wonderful organization.

In about 2011, I joined the OTD Facebook group.  Here, I was finally exposed to a cadre of ex-Hareidim.  Some still had fake names like Rachmuna Litzlon or Fence Sitter, Others were already out in the open.  Through this group I made many contacts with people all across the formerly-frum spectrum.  Some were flaming Atheists; some were merely Orthoprax; some simply became Conservative, Reform, Reconstructionist, Renewal/Revivial, et al.  But all in one way or another no longer believed in the Yiddishkeit they were nourished with.

Shulem Deen was one name I would sporadically come across in the group.  Once in a while, someone would post a link to a blog called "Unpious", which contained literary posts by ex-Hassidim.  But one day, while drunk at an OTD meetup, someone told me that Shulem Deen was Unpious and formerly Hassidic Rebel.  Yes, I had heard all three names:  Shulem Deen, Unpious, and Hassidic Rebel.  But at that moment, though I was completely soused, I somehow retained that all three were the same entity.

I first met Shulem in the flesh at a protest against the "Asifah."  The Asifah was a huge gathering at CitiField to warn people of the dangers of the internet.  Some OTDers and sympathizers threw together a protest for what they thought was the real issue at large--molestation.  For years, this issue was swept under the rug in the Hareidi community.  Because Jews are supposedly forbidden to report each other to secular authorities, these issues are supposed to be handled internally.  But many times, they are not.  And so, we were trying to protest this issue.  They complain about the evils of the internet, but they don't realize that there are much bigger fish to gefilte in their communities.

After that, I met Shulem several more times.  He always impressed me not only with his erudition, but also his unique perspective about the world.  I knew from reading his blogs that he was extremely well read.  But even his blogs barely exhibited the breadth and depth of his knowledge.  For example, I brought up JB Soloveichik for the sake of argument.  I explained that Soloveichik was a man who was completely versed in secular philosophy but had no problem also being frum.  His system was a Hegelian synthesis of the profane and the religious.  What I did not expect was that Shulem had perused "Halachik Man," and was able to systematically explain why it did nothing for him.  If someone were to ask Shulem why he went from one extreme (Skver) to another (Atheist), he had quite the educated reason.

Coming into the book, I knew bits and pieces of Shulem's story.  For example, I was there the night he discovered that his oldest daughter was getting married and he wasn't invited.  I remember the blog post, recounting the time he was coerced into rescinding custody of his children, limiting him to several times a year.  An abridged version of that post made its way into his memoir.  It was a tearjerker moment.  But at this point, Shulem seemed to have "accepted his lot".  Like Elisha ben Abuyah riding off into the sunset saying "All may repent except for Acher", his melancholy manner that night definitely undercut his usually stoic demeanor.

Shulem's memoir is not just another OTD story.  To say that Shulem is a master of his craft with a unique voice would be comparable to saying Bill Gates is wealthy.  I especially enjoy how accessible he makes it.  He is not abashed in explaining scandals, the Va'ad Hatznius,  the politics of his world, and what the Rebbe was really like:
-  The Va'ad Hatznius is a group that is so clandestine, that I like to joke "The first rule of the Va'ad Hatznius is you do not talk about the Va'ad Hatznius.  The second rule of the Va'ad Hatznius is you do not talk about the Va'ad Hatznius."  Several parts of his story brought up the perpetual fears Hassidim had of this Va'ad Hatznius and what happened when they came for you.  Think of it as the kosher version of Men in Black.
-  The Rebbe.  An elusive character.  I knew that Rebbe:Hassidim :: Pope:Catholic.  But what I got from Shulem's story was that for many, the Rebbe was actually just another unimpressive old man with a big beard and a pimp streiml.  To a Hassid, the four corners of the world converge around teh Rebbe.  But to a skeptic, one would ask if he's really as pious as the stories say he is.  The Skverer Rebbe was no exception.

Shulem's story will make you laugh.  Shulem's story will make you cry.  But most importantly, Shulem's story will draw you in.  As one who was raised Orthodox, I was more than intimately familiar with many of the references.  However, I can't help but wonder how this story would read to one who was not raised religious.  I think it would be readable.  He does, after most Hebrew/Aramaic/Yiddish phrases provide an English translation (where the context does not make the meaning obvious).  I wonder if years down the line, it will be as readable.  I am reminded of the time I took The New Annotated H.P. Lovecraft from the library.  Even without the annotations, his writing was readable.  But the annotations brought the work to life.  I felt like maybe if I lived in his time, in his place, I would not need the annotations, it would all make sense to me.  Shulem's world is close enough to mine that I could make sense of most of it on my own.  I wonder if future readers are going to need an annotated version to make sense of his world.  But whether or not they will, even unannotated, his words speak very loudly and lucidly.

What's the difference between ignorance and apathy?

Opinions are like assholes:  everybody has one, and many times they smell like crap.

Having opinions is good.  But it's when the opinion becomes belief systems that they really begin to stink.

The one thing I miss about having beliefs was being part of a set community.  Wherever I went, I could get a free meal for Sabbath.  I could walk into a group of 9-or-more adult males and pray together with them, no questions asked.  I felt like I was part of something good, something big.

Politically, I am like Cain in the land of Nod.  Over the years I have become more liberal.  But I am not a liberal.  Over the years I've come to appreciate Marx.  But I am not a Marxist.  Over the years I still cannot understand the appeal of libertarianism (except legalizing everything).  Even though I call myself an Atheist, I can't stand many Atheists I meet.  And it's not just the stigma that gets attached with Atheism.  When did Atheism become such an ugly word anyway?

When I was young, I hoped for the messiah. Now, I say that even if there was a messiah, if he came he'd probably leave shaking his head.  People would spend too much time arguing, and it would really piss him off.

I used to believe in America.  I still love America.  America, like a mercurial borderline-personality spouse I love, even though I know she's bad for me.  America has so much good in her; yet she's also done so much wrong.  I can't stand when people talk smack about America, not even when they are in the right.  

I used to believe in Israel.  The liberal in me is not allowed to like Israel.  The Jewish blood in me is not allowed to hate Israel.  I can criticize her, that's what my people do best.  Any opinion I have on Israel, no matter how milquetoast, is likely to piss someone off.  So for now, Israel is like that eccentric alcoholic uncle who the kids all loved, the adults all hated, used to be real cool, got crazy when he got older, and most probably was an abuser, but I still have fond memories of him.

I never really believed in Palestine.  The humanist in me wants to.  The pragmatist in me can't see a reason why.  I wish I understood Palestine.  As a kid I was told there was nothing to understand.  As an adult, I realized that I didn't understand jack squat.  Tautologous?  Naturally.  I get pissed off when people say there's no such thing as Palestine.  I get pissed off when people say Israel doesn't have the right to exist.  I ask myself at what cost Israel needs to defend itself?  

I believe in the power of love.  I believe in the power of rock and roll.  I've seen firsthand music soothing the savage animus.  There is almost nothing that can't be cured by a good Dead show, Floyd album, or even an etude or two.   I still believe that a bad concert is better than a good day at work. 

I do not believe for one second that the US Government did not know where Osama bin Laden was hiding out all of these years.  I'm sorry, but that just doesn't make any sense.

I do not believe in an omnipotent, omniscient, benevolent being in the sky.  I am willing to consider a higher power.  Perhaps energy.  But if God can microwave a burrito so hot that He can't eat it, he could show his face to us once in a while; and it wouldn't make us all die.  

I never really believed in Karma.  Never really made sense to me.  Karma is also one of the most misused loan words in the English language.  It doesn't just mean "you get what you deserve."  There's a lot more to Karma than that.

I do believe there are consequences to our actions, sometimes not plainly obvious.  But if they can't be replicated in a lab or somehow reproduced, what good are they?

I hate arguments based on semantical disagreements.  But I still get into them quite often.

I especially loathe heteronormativity.  I believe that everyone is somewhere in the middle, but few are actually at one extreme or the other.  Yes, that includes me.  That includes you too.  No, I have not done the research.  

Some opinions should not be made public.  I have many that may never see the light of day.