but he is an ear)
08 February 2011
the musician
(after i drew this someone pointed out that this musician has no ears,
but he is an ear)
but he is an ear)
14 September 2010
The Journal of Fox and Ilyse (excerpt)
[Written while pet-sitting my friend Lisa's dog Fox when I was a 20-something in 1985. All my friends were out of town that summer. It was just Fox and Ilyse. Although the whole story was just a exercise inspired by boredom for me, Fox proved to be a great story teller and a deep philosopher.]
Henry called ... from Artist Utopia in Massachusetts. Among other little anecdotes, he described the three-legged dog that chases people through the graveyard, persisting until he's been outrun. Ilyse thought this story would amuse Fox.
"Oh, among us dogs that's a very old tale. My Great Aunt Fido told it to me as a bedtime story when I was a puppy."
Ilyse raised an eyebrow. "Come off it, Fox -- Great Aunt Fido? Isn't that a boy dog's name?"
"Just keep in mind that it wasn't a dog who named her. There's no accounting for human folly," said Fox, who despite her lack of training, was not as dumb as she looked. "And Henry doesn't know the whole story. Let me tell you what Aunt Fido told me."
"That's the whole story?" Ilyse felt there should be more to it. "What kind of ending is that?"
"I'm glad Aunt Fido isn't around to hear you say that," Fox reprimanded. "A story never ends, you know, you just leave off telling it at some point. A dog would never ask such a question."
Ilyse was properly contrite, and took Fox for a bonus walk to make up for her human ignorance.
(c) 2010, ilyse na'omi kazar
Henry called ... from Artist Utopia in Massachusetts. Among other little anecdotes, he described the three-legged dog that chases people through the graveyard, persisting until he's been outrun. Ilyse thought this story would amuse Fox.
"Oh, among us dogs that's a very old tale. My Great Aunt Fido told it to me as a bedtime story when I was a puppy."
Ilyse raised an eyebrow. "Come off it, Fox -- Great Aunt Fido? Isn't that a boy dog's name?"
"Just keep in mind that it wasn't a dog who named her. There's no accounting for human folly," said Fox, who despite her lack of training, was not as dumb as she looked. "And Henry doesn't know the whole story. Let me tell you what Aunt Fido told me."
...
The three-legged dog gave vicious chase to every passerby. He could not be won over. One had no choice but to outrun his snarling, limping attack.
He liked no human save one, his master. The dog, however, disdained living in the house, staying outdoors instead to stand guard over their terrain.
His master, on the other hand, was warm, witty and generous. The neighbors paid him frequent visits, willing to race the dog to his door in order to enjoy his company. One had no choice but to like the man.
Of course, were it not for the dog, there's no telling about the man.
...
"That's the whole story?" Ilyse felt there should be more to it. "What kind of ending is that?"
"I'm glad Aunt Fido isn't around to hear you say that," Fox reprimanded. "A story never ends, you know, you just leave off telling it at some point. A dog would never ask such a question."
Ilyse was properly contrite, and took Fox for a bonus walk to make up for her human ignorance.
(c) 2010, ilyse na'omi kazar
19 July 2010
bus ride / the mother
wheels rolling forward, her mind rolls back
to a suburban foyer
the eyes of a skinny child commit to memory the floor tile pattern
while bent over with pants dropped down,
having learned to practice a strange silent stillness under the rubber hose.
she hears the musical pitch of the slicing of air.
the slicing of air.
the slicing of air.
behind them a screen door opens, shuts,
the voice of the father:
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
turning up eyes to see
his hand grab the striking wrist.
the girl runs upstairs and
in the absence of inquiries
upholds the dutiful silence.
the raised highway licks a bruise on this landscape
like green welts on the back of a thigh.
(c) ilyse kazar, 2010
to a suburban foyer
the eyes of a skinny child commit to memory the floor tile pattern
while bent over with pants dropped down,
having learned to practice a strange silent stillness under the rubber hose.
she hears the musical pitch of the slicing of air.
the slicing of air.
the slicing of air.
behind them a screen door opens, shuts,
the voice of the father:
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
turning up eyes to see
his hand grab the striking wrist.
the girl runs upstairs and
in the absence of inquiries
upholds the dutiful silence.
the raised highway licks a bruise on this landscape
like green welts on the back of a thigh.
(c) ilyse kazar, 2010
10 November 2009
Wood Stone Water and Flesh
dreamt in early 1990 at age 32 ... reproduced here is the first half of the dream, because some friends who have asked for this publication will be mostly interested in the part about the church and Jesus. I still remember my surprise when I awoke, to think I had had such a Jesus-themed dream, having been raised a Jew, and then thinking about Jung's theory of the mass subconscious. I have maybe a hundred more dreams written down. A Jungian would have a field day.
I had agreed to apartment-sit for a woman named Sylvia. Sylvia was an aging, or late-middle-aged, successful attorney. She was very observant, the kind who could size a person up at a glance. Very serious, but not without a certain droll humor.
Sylvia was going on a trip. Her apartment was located uptown where my mother's is [my mother died in 2002], but the interior seemed more like a country cottage. Dark wood was the most persistent motif, covering even the walls. Mullioned windows let sun into the kitchen. The other rooms were dark, and the whole place spoke of an intellectual inhabitant, comfortable with herself and not afraid to combine the rustic with the urbanity of her life.
Like my mother, she kept houseplants which I was to water. However, they were rather unruly, of free foliage, spilling around the sunny kitchen windows, unlike my mother's plants carefully arranged in the living room under a Gro-lite.
So I packed some things for Claire [aged 2 when I had this dream] and myself and we took up a short residence in Sylvia's apartment.
I had to run downtown again every couple of days, maybe to feed my cats, or pick up more clothes for the baby. But I don't remember actually being in my apartment.
On one of these forays downtown, I was walking across 7th Street on my return trip to Sylvia's, and just in front of St. George's Ukrainian Catholic church I noticed a fragment of a wooden statue which had been put out on the curb, perhaps by a church janitor, as trash. I recognized it as something very old and important. I looked closer and saw that it was the severed lower legs of some medieval mythological figure, which perhaps had adorned the exterior of a building. The two thin, bird-like legs were fused, carved from one piece of wood with no space between them, and had formed the pedestal of the missing upper parts of the statue. I believe the legs were severed below the knee, yet somehow I knew the missing knees had been bony and protruding. The feet were splayed and duck-like, with four webbed toes on each, and formed what would have been the base of the statue.
[some day I'll scan in my little drawing here]
The wood may have been painted once, but no color remained. It was aged and cracked, centuries old.
A black limousine pulled up to the curb and two priests stepped out. One of them was trim, middle-aged, with black, slightly grizzled hair.
I turned to him and said, "You know, this is from a Gremlin."
"I know," he agreed.
"I'm on my way somewhere now, and I can't carry this with me. But I don't want to leave it as trash. Can I store it inside the church?"
He granted me permission to bring the wooden fragment inside.
I carried the piece of statue up the church steps, through a large door and into the shadows under a colonnade that bordered on a large, landscaped, sunlit church courtyard. The floor under this very tall colonnade was made of cobblestones. I heard water running somewhere nearby; perhaps there was a small stream or fountain in the yard.
I found a spot at the base of one of the columns where I thought the fragment of the Gremlin would be out of the way. I was trying to be considerate of the church and of those who worked or worshiped there. I leaned the fragment against the column, but when I looked up I saw Jesus hanging on a cross attached to the column above me.
This crucifix was supposedly only stone statuary belonging to the church, the priests walking by saw a statue of Jesus, but I could see that THIS WAS THE FLESH-AND-BLOOD JESUS HANGING ON THE CROSS. More priests walked by, oblivious! Jesus looked sad beyond words, because his real message was not being heard, and the man that he had been, the things he had said and done, were being so misquoted, misused and misunderstood. The very people who made him their religious figurehead could not see him at all.
These priests -- who pretend to be closer to God than mere worldly men, who pretend to intervene and speak to God on behalf of the followers of their "flock", who would have their followers believe that Jesus was the only living Son of God and that Jesus wanted to be worshiped as God rather than teach their congregants that Jesus realized his own Godhead and sought to help us realize the Godhead in each of us, these priests who act as though they own the copyright on Truth -- these priests did not even recognize the real Jesus right in front of them!
But I stayed mum. I didn't have much time, and I thought if these men could not see, then they are not supposed to see, and they are not able to see. Also, they were letting me retain custody (only because they failed to recognize its worth) of this important piece of wooden mythology, and, moreover, they had granted me permission to store it in their church until I could recover it later. So, out of a desire not to insult or anger them, and, more than this, out of respect for the living Jesus on the cross, I moved the Gremlin to a different spot, and continued on my way back uptown to Sylvia's apartment.
I had agreed to apartment-sit for a woman named Sylvia. Sylvia was an aging, or late-middle-aged, successful attorney. She was very observant, the kind who could size a person up at a glance. Very serious, but not without a certain droll humor.
Sylvia was going on a trip. Her apartment was located uptown where my mother's is [my mother died in 2002], but the interior seemed more like a country cottage. Dark wood was the most persistent motif, covering even the walls. Mullioned windows let sun into the kitchen. The other rooms were dark, and the whole place spoke of an intellectual inhabitant, comfortable with herself and not afraid to combine the rustic with the urbanity of her life.
Like my mother, she kept houseplants which I was to water. However, they were rather unruly, of free foliage, spilling around the sunny kitchen windows, unlike my mother's plants carefully arranged in the living room under a Gro-lite.
So I packed some things for Claire [aged 2 when I had this dream] and myself and we took up a short residence in Sylvia's apartment.
I had to run downtown again every couple of days, maybe to feed my cats, or pick up more clothes for the baby. But I don't remember actually being in my apartment.
On one of these forays downtown, I was walking across 7th Street on my return trip to Sylvia's, and just in front of St. George's Ukrainian Catholic church I noticed a fragment of a wooden statue which had been put out on the curb, perhaps by a church janitor, as trash. I recognized it as something very old and important. I looked closer and saw that it was the severed lower legs of some medieval mythological figure, which perhaps had adorned the exterior of a building. The two thin, bird-like legs were fused, carved from one piece of wood with no space between them, and had formed the pedestal of the missing upper parts of the statue. I believe the legs were severed below the knee, yet somehow I knew the missing knees had been bony and protruding. The feet were splayed and duck-like, with four webbed toes on each, and formed what would have been the base of the statue.
[some day I'll scan in my little drawing here]
The wood may have been painted once, but no color remained. It was aged and cracked, centuries old.
A black limousine pulled up to the curb and two priests stepped out. One of them was trim, middle-aged, with black, slightly grizzled hair.
I turned to him and said, "You know, this is from a Gremlin."
"I know," he agreed.
"I'm on my way somewhere now, and I can't carry this with me. But I don't want to leave it as trash. Can I store it inside the church?"
He granted me permission to bring the wooden fragment inside.
I carried the piece of statue up the church steps, through a large door and into the shadows under a colonnade that bordered on a large, landscaped, sunlit church courtyard. The floor under this very tall colonnade was made of cobblestones. I heard water running somewhere nearby; perhaps there was a small stream or fountain in the yard.
I found a spot at the base of one of the columns where I thought the fragment of the Gremlin would be out of the way. I was trying to be considerate of the church and of those who worked or worshiped there. I leaned the fragment against the column, but when I looked up I saw Jesus hanging on a cross attached to the column above me.
This crucifix was supposedly only stone statuary belonging to the church, the priests walking by saw a statue of Jesus, but I could see that THIS WAS THE FLESH-AND-BLOOD JESUS HANGING ON THE CROSS. More priests walked by, oblivious! Jesus looked sad beyond words, because his real message was not being heard, and the man that he had been, the things he had said and done, were being so misquoted, misused and misunderstood. The very people who made him their religious figurehead could not see him at all.
These priests -- who pretend to be closer to God than mere worldly men, who pretend to intervene and speak to God on behalf of the followers of their "flock", who would have their followers believe that Jesus was the only living Son of God and that Jesus wanted to be worshiped as God rather than teach their congregants that Jesus realized his own Godhead and sought to help us realize the Godhead in each of us, these priests who act as though they own the copyright on Truth -- these priests did not even recognize the real Jesus right in front of them!
But I stayed mum. I didn't have much time, and I thought if these men could not see, then they are not supposed to see, and they are not able to see. Also, they were letting me retain custody (only because they failed to recognize its worth) of this important piece of wooden mythology, and, moreover, they had granted me permission to store it in their church until I could recover it later. So, out of a desire not to insult or anger them, and, more than this, out of respect for the living Jesus on the cross, I moved the Gremlin to a different spot, and continued on my way back uptown to Sylvia's apartment.
02 November 2009
31 October 2009
Riches in the Dark
In a box marked "Halloween" many years ago, lie Baron Samedi, a skeletal man and woman dancing to mariachi on a Day of the Dead tin piece, a strand of pumpkin lights from the 99 Cent Store, an iron black-cat candle holder, and other items of death and darkness.
Blessed Samhain, I see on a friend's Facebook page. Samhain, the older holiday, way before there were K-marts, TVs, cheap store-bought costumes or Christianized culture. Samhain, summer's end, the onset of the dark, the Celtic new year. The time to celebrate the end of harvest, hunker down for the cold season, light a bonfire, toss an apple peel and contemplate our future, look back to connect with our ancestors.
Ancestors. Do they hover around in some sort of after-life? Or -- contrary to our narrow and linear view of Time -- does everything that ever existed or will exist actually take place all at once, giving us more access than we are disposed to admit we have to the beings who lived in the "past" and the "future"? Or are we simply not as separate and distinct as we like to think we are and other beings past, present and future live in us and flow through us? I wouldn't know. But I do know: "I can feel them."
More than that, I "talk" with them. They have helped me heal. They have come to me in my dreams with critical aid and information. My mother and I are terrific friends now, beginning a year or two after she died seven years ago. My father, 32 years later, still pops in, "Always standing behind my left shoulder, so real that I feel like if I turn around fast enough I would see him," a phrase I've wrapped in quotes because I remember my shock the day my mother said those words to me, when I had been experiencing the very same thing (right down to his being behind my left shoulder). My grandmother Dora, encouraging patience. My grandmother Helen, urging me to get up off my ass. My grandfather Louis, helping me find the balance between freedom and responsibility.
Did I make all this up? Sure, in the same way we make up everything about our life and our world. We choose our yarns, sit down together, and knit our own stories into the continuous fabric that we call History. Then we write about it and teach it as though History is some sort of standalone Fact. History is what we have created!! The strands that "were" knitted by my parents, by their parents as young immigrants, by their parents in their shtetls shops and fields, by their parents in the desert, their parents in slavery, their parents in caves and tents, all those strands are still here somewhere in my sweater. My sweater connects to your sweater. It connects to a Celt stirring an iron pot, an Iroquois sitting on the floor of a council tent, a lone archer stalking her food by moonlight, a poet contemplating his crossing of the river by the Brooklyn ferry. It connects to my great-grandchildren, to an action taken by someone a millenium from now that was set in motion by something I said or created or did -- some stitches I added -- this year.
I take the box, cross out Halloween and write: "Samhain". I will unwrap and pin up these invitations to my ancestors. And to yours. And to the future we are inventing. Come in, all of you, put your feet up, let's mingle.
A wonderful Samhain, full of mystery and wisdom and guidance and music and feasts of all kinds. May we all spend some months connecting with those who have passed over, and those who will come after, preparing alone and together to get it right as we invent our future.
Blessed Samhain, I see on a friend's Facebook page. Samhain, the older holiday, way before there were K-marts, TVs, cheap store-bought costumes or Christianized culture. Samhain, summer's end, the onset of the dark, the Celtic new year. The time to celebrate the end of harvest, hunker down for the cold season, light a bonfire, toss an apple peel and contemplate our future, look back to connect with our ancestors.
Ancestors. Do they hover around in some sort of after-life? Or -- contrary to our narrow and linear view of Time -- does everything that ever existed or will exist actually take place all at once, giving us more access than we are disposed to admit we have to the beings who lived in the "past" and the "future"? Or are we simply not as separate and distinct as we like to think we are and other beings past, present and future live in us and flow through us? I wouldn't know. But I do know: "I can feel them."
More than that, I "talk" with them. They have helped me heal. They have come to me in my dreams with critical aid and information. My mother and I are terrific friends now, beginning a year or two after she died seven years ago. My father, 32 years later, still pops in, "Always standing behind my left shoulder, so real that I feel like if I turn around fast enough I would see him," a phrase I've wrapped in quotes because I remember my shock the day my mother said those words to me, when I had been experiencing the very same thing (right down to his being behind my left shoulder). My grandmother Dora, encouraging patience. My grandmother Helen, urging me to get up off my ass. My grandfather Louis, helping me find the balance between freedom and responsibility.
Did I make all this up? Sure, in the same way we make up everything about our life and our world. We choose our yarns, sit down together, and knit our own stories into the continuous fabric that we call History. Then we write about it and teach it as though History is some sort of standalone Fact. History is what we have created!! The strands that "were" knitted by my parents, by their parents as young immigrants, by their parents in their shtetls shops and fields, by their parents in the desert, their parents in slavery, their parents in caves and tents, all those strands are still here somewhere in my sweater. My sweater connects to your sweater. It connects to a Celt stirring an iron pot, an Iroquois sitting on the floor of a council tent, a lone archer stalking her food by moonlight, a poet contemplating his crossing of the river by the Brooklyn ferry. It connects to my great-grandchildren, to an action taken by someone a millenium from now that was set in motion by something I said or created or did -- some stitches I added -- this year.
I take the box, cross out Halloween and write: "Samhain". I will unwrap and pin up these invitations to my ancestors. And to yours. And to the future we are inventing. Come in, all of you, put your feet up, let's mingle.
A wonderful Samhain, full of mystery and wisdom and guidance and music and feasts of all kinds. May we all spend some months connecting with those who have passed over, and those who will come after, preparing alone and together to get it right as we invent our future.
10 November 2005
everything is possible
"Reality is the disbelief that everything is possible."
These are the words in my head this morning, in my godhead's voice, and I'm finding it very disturbing at the same time that it is liberating. Is it dangerous to think that there is no reality except what we make up or hear, and believe?
I had been contemplating my "flying" (more like "floating" magic carpet style) dreams and "going through walls" (melding through them to the other side with zero effort) dreams when I was very small. And the fact that my mom told me when she came home from giving birth to my sister and walked into the backyard, "It was like you flew. You didn't jump, you didn't run, you were suddenly across the yard and in my arms." I then remembered watching my dad fly, really fly as in "levitate off the ground and move through the air at great speed" down a flight of maybe 10 steps when someone told him his mother had fallen. I then remembered a book I love (please read it some day, when on a vacation is best ... it's a 2 or 3 or 4 day book depending on how addictively you read it) called "Montgomery's Children" by Richard Perry (maybe out of print but still obtainable used, at least) in which one character flies and the author ruminates over the African American belief that their people knew how to fly ...
then came the words:
"The ability to fly or go through walls is simply the suspension of disbelief"
and then came the broader and more emphatic and set-everything-on-end kind of statement at the very top of this message
this was after attempting to find good information on Elijah the Prophet (who some say was an earlier manifestation of the Christ/Buddha) but I need better sources ... elijah was a wizard who could split a river open by touching it with his cloak, make food appear, and was carried to heaven in style in a fiery chariot when it was time to leave....
These are the words in my head this morning, in my godhead's voice, and I'm finding it very disturbing at the same time that it is liberating. Is it dangerous to think that there is no reality except what we make up or hear, and believe?
I had been contemplating my "flying" (more like "floating" magic carpet style) dreams and "going through walls" (melding through them to the other side with zero effort) dreams when I was very small. And the fact that my mom told me when she came home from giving birth to my sister and walked into the backyard, "It was like you flew. You didn't jump, you didn't run, you were suddenly across the yard and in my arms." I then remembered watching my dad fly, really fly as in "levitate off the ground and move through the air at great speed" down a flight of maybe 10 steps when someone told him his mother had fallen. I then remembered a book I love (please read it some day, when on a vacation is best ... it's a 2 or 3 or 4 day book depending on how addictively you read it) called "Montgomery's Children" by Richard Perry (maybe out of print but still obtainable used, at least) in which one character flies and the author ruminates over the African American belief that their people knew how to fly ...
then came the words:
"The ability to fly or go through walls is simply the suspension of disbelief"
and then came the broader and more emphatic and set-everything-on-end kind of statement at the very top of this message
this was after attempting to find good information on Elijah the Prophet (who some say was an earlier manifestation of the Christ/Buddha) but I need better sources ... elijah was a wizard who could split a river open by touching it with his cloak, make food appear, and was carried to heaven in style in a fiery chariot when it was time to leave....
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