Forest of Trees

When I was younger I wanted to be an artist. I painted for four years as a young teen and went to an art studio for lessons on focus, depth, shading, and mediums; I preferred acrylics because they were safe. I began to look at the girls painting around me and soon began to hate my pieces. How did they bend the petals like that? How did they get the water to shimmer like that? How did they create a silhouette? I kept asking myself “How do they DO that!?” I was only twelve and expected to be able to recreate magazine photos like the older girls in the group. One day I just quit and ran a black brush across my canvases. Later on, I was told that I was a passive aggressive artist and I never spoke to that person again.

Now, I can all but glare at this piece (above).

Like a child, I'm conflicted. I hate it and still get lost in it. The surrounding trees stand like kings. The trunks of their ancestors, all covered in a thick lustrous emerald, lie at their feet and protect them from the cold ground which they now govern. Their roots wrap gently around the foothills, calling them out and leading the way around them. But they are restless; arcing forward to lead the winding path through the forest and over the hills to a small open meadow of untouched grasses and small fragrant wild flowers. Branches and leaves create a titanic evergreen canopy, both shielding and untrustworthy; beams of light shine against the bark that clings to their trunks and glow gold. They are inviting me to follow them deeper and deeper and to lie on the cool bed of grass for a mid-day slumber under the soft green sky. They fight for my attention, each tree larger, brighter in color, and more silent than the last, and wait patiently to tell the cool and affectionate breeze their secrets. The shades of green that encompass the moss sing without the need of voices as their barely audible sounds tell tales of a lonely peace.

I remember walking though the Museum of Modern Art in New York City and seeing a huge fifty foot canvas hanging from the wall, with all these red velvet ropes around it. I remember walking closer to it to get a glimpse of what could have been so brilliant that there was a need for ropes, only to see that the entire canvas was blank except for a thin barely-there beige line that was painted on one side. I also remember wanting to throw something at it because what was so special. I could do that.

But when I look at this painting, I can only wonder if those trees still stand where they are. Has time finally ravaged them, shifting the surroundings in the most cruelly subtle of ways? Maybe I can imagine them one hundred years from now.

The trees, though still tall, grow weak and hollow as they try to act as they did in their youth. They still arc toward the meadow but the path is now wild and beaten, and made invisible by tall grass and stiff roots. Beams of light still shine against the bark that tries so desperately to cling to the trunks, and not as effortlessly as it had once done, thought they still glow gold. They still invite me to follow them deeper and deeper, although their memory has faded and cannot lead me the whole way. They are still inviting me to slumber under the one thing that has not changed, the soft green sky, though the bed is now cold and hard. The shades of green are now darker and grin at me devilish smile and angled eyes.

I lift up my brush.

Utz Kind of A Funny Story

I sashayed the bag lightly. I never put my hand inside the bag. I could only touch one of the chips at a time and use only my thumb and first finger. I analyzed each individual chip, looking at every square inch. With delicate and rapid licks I licked off all the sour cream flavor, except for the part my fingers covered. I reviewed my work, and then bit off a tiny bit at a time, sometimes taking ten to fifteen nibbles per chip.

I never knew someone was watching me, reporting in to my mother. Mrs. Sperling taught the Alef class at Hebrew School, but that was last year. What is she doing still squirreling away secrets about me to my mother?

“Four bags of chips?” Mom was mad… or worried. Sometimes I couldn’t tell the difference.

Was it four? I don’t remember four… just the chips.

“Sydney! How many bags of chips did you have?”

“I don’t know.” I knew.

Just then my brother walked in. He doesn’t have to go to Hebrew School anymore because he got kicked out and had to get private lessons with the Rabbi. But then the Rabbi mysteriously “let” the Cantor take over because “that was his job.”

“I’m going to start calling you ‘Four Bag Fatso,’” my brother laughed. My mom gave him a light zetz in the arm. He stopped laughing.

“Shut up! I did not eat four bags of chips!” All of a sudden I became very aware of that fourth bag of chips that I stashed in my book bag.

“Sydney,” my mother started again. “You cannot have four bags of chips. Do you hear me?”

“Yes! Can I go up to my room now?” I grabbed my book bag and ran up stairs.

I made sure that my mom and brother were still down stairs. Just the sound of opening the last bag of chips made my mouth water. I curled up in my bed, making sure to hide the bag under my blanket in case one of them walked by.

I sashay the bag lightly. I never put my hand inside the bag. I can only touch one of the chips at a time and use only my thumb and first finger. I analyze each individual chip, looking at every square inch. With delicate and rapid licks I lick off all the sour cream flavor, except for the part my fingers cover. I review my work, and then bite off a tiny bit at a time, sometimes taking ten to fifteen nibbles per chip.

This is why I don't wear flip-flops

You’ve never ridden a train until you’ve been on one in New York City. It’s sweltering hot. You can’t keep your balance because the train car jerks more violently than a bumper car. The man standing next to you can’t keep his hands to himself. You can’t quite identify that smell. You see mice run across someone’s foot. Your arm goes numb and there is nowhere else to hold on. And god-forbid you have an oversized bag with you and you need to get off the train in a hurry. You can’t scream “excuse me” loud enough for people to move. By the time you’re out of the station, you’ve absorbed the mixture of musk and stale perfume to your jacket… and your wallet is missing.

Just when you think you’ve seen the largest rat in the world scurry over your boot, something else catches your eye… and it’s bigger. Whether you’ve lived in the city a day, six years, or your whole life the curiosity is just too much. You go over and investigate. It’s bigger alright, and it’s got a tail! But maybe it’s one of those knitted animal book bags or hats, so you inch closer. It’s dark and under the seat so you bend down to see an opossum breathing at you. Now you’ve identified the smell, but are you happy about it? Was it a rat or did THAT thing really touch your shoe? Just when New York thought it had seen it all, it was the first recorded opossum to ride the D train from Coney Island to Manhattan.

It’s not uncommon to see an occasional raccoon or bird and it is certainly not uncommon to see a rat or two or ten.

General curator of the Bronx Zoo, Patrick Thomas, commented on this tumultuous occasion, “It might have been drawn to the train by heat, or the smell of food.”

In order to remove this wandering marsupial the entire train had to be evacuated and so ensued a 27 minute service delay. Police officers, who soon called for the aid of animal control, eventually shoed the disgruntled opossum from the train with much snarling and baring of teeth by the nomadic critter.

* * * *

This was adapted from the January 18th New York Times article entitled, "Seen It All On Subway? Look Under This Seat," by Michael M. Grynbaum.

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/01/18/nyregion/in-brooklyn-suspicious-passenger-with-a-tail.html

The Skirt from Hell

I hate shopping. I can’t really remember my last shopping trip because I passed out in the dressing room at Macy’s. But not the pretty five-floored Macy’s in New York City where a sales person might rush to get you a bottle of seven dollar water and a cold towel. No, I was semi-conscious in the Kings Plaza Mall in Brooklyn. No one brought me water, and no one helped my mother when she asked for one.

A person can only take so much before getting seriously overheated from the heat lamps they call light bulbs, and depressed when nothing you try on fits! It’s truly unbelievable. Once, an overtly flamboyant male sales associate at a Banana Republic told me that I shouldn’t continue to shop there because I was trying to “match THIS with THAT.” I was twelve…and he snapped at me! Then, there is always the lovely fact that clothing stores barely carry anything above a size six. I was forced to shop at Old Navy until a few years ago when I finally decided that I just didn’t give a shit and I’d fork over the fifty dollars for a pair at the Gap.

With that said, this is where the ethereal and mystical skirt comes in. I was shopping for an outfit for my younger cousins Bar Mitzvah. My mother and I went to Kings Plaza where I was to pass out. Annoyed from my attitude, she dragged me all the way to the Five Towns where all the Lubavitch and Orthodox live. Needless to say there were limited styles and colors to choose from; most of the women and girls wear black and cover their knees and elbows. I was pulled and pushed into four stores, all more sterile than the previous. I was also getting more and more listless, tired, and uninterested which also set my mother off some more and continued this disastrous cycle.

Somehow I had found this spandex-like material skirt that was black (surprise, surprise) and tiered. I was put off because only girls from New Jersey wore tiered anything and I HATED people from Jersey as my experiences from sleep-a-way camp had taught me. Now I’m a reformed Jersey hater, but this was my feeling at the time. Stores were closing for Shabbos so I only made it out with skirt; no shoes and no top.

I wore the skirt to the Bar Mitzvah. I wore the skirt to a birthday party. I wore the skirt to my Lacrosse Team dinner. I wore the skirt to my high school graduation. I wore the skirt to my brother’s college graduation. I wore the skirt to Passover Seder’s. I wore the skirt to a college party. I have now owned the skirt for eleven years. I have tried countless times to get rid of it and much to my dismay, whenever I threw it in the trash; it magically reappeared in my closet. But, then I’d end up wearing it again to another function.

It still hangs in my closet. In fact, I’m glaring at it right now. It’s like Chucky- it just won’t die.