The Day You Had To Be In The Jail-house To Be Free

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Profound and Stupid

Or: the Jewish brothers and the Muslim brothers make the prayers together

The trip to the jail-house is a profound and stupid activity that I had devoted myself to though I had received almost no support and felt entirely on my own. I had no idea what I was doing but what I was learning cracked me open and brought me close to the reasons I was in this whole thing from the beginning.

I had made the two hour trip to the prison house where I had been assured [e-mail] that the auxiliary chaplain would meet me at the prison house since I had visited there only one time previously and did not yet know the set-up. I wasn’t sure I was approved to visit this particular prison, though I had e-mailed also the head chaplain in the capital.

I didn’t hear back but I made the trip anyway. When I arrived at the prison, I parked illegally and much closer than I did the first time I visited, having been advised by the heavily tattooed guard who buzzed me in and out. The staff at this prison house were extremely kind to me the first time I visited, there was a chaplain to meet me and he escorted me to the chapel, and the inmates themselves escorted me out and I had the sense they were protecting me, the reasons for which would clarify several years later.

This time there was no one to welcome me. The tattooed guard who buzzed me in didn’t recognize the name of the auxiliary chaplain. “There is no auxiliary chaplain,” she said definitively. “What is it with the Jews?” she asked me. “Used to be everyone wanted Islam, now they’re into Jews.” She buzzed me through. “Go upstairs and get your squawk box [personal alarm gizmo] and some keys. You’re on your own today.”

The prison is built like a camp out of depression era limestone that was mined from the area during the WPA, I believe. It has an interesting look from the outside, the textures of the wild limestone set within the formalism of brick, it is really quite beautiful from the outside anyway — a series of buildings surrounding a large open perpendicular space which is referred to as the yard.

I walked up the stairs to a window with bars and an opening on the bottom to push through the supplies from the room behind. In that room are alarms and radios and large circles of keys that open, I assumed, the various classic locks that kept muscular control over the structure.

I had my ID card that signified I was qualified to visit four prisons that had Jewish inmates who were eager to welcome me to their institutions. My ID is a plastic card with my picture and a clip that I put on my pocket and take off when I show it to the various gate-guards who must open several very heavy metal doors to get me into the depths of the institutions.

I stuck my head into the opening of the window with the bars and the sets of keys and squawk boxes, radios, etc. and said to the uniformed guard, “I’m going to the chapel.” I recalled that the chapel was at the far end of the yard because I remembered that the accompanied stroll back to the metal doors last visit was a long walk.

“You want keys?” the guard asked me. “Ok,” I said.

“You got tags?” he asked.

“No.” Tags were small metal cut-outs that you leave in the barred room in exchange for keys and radios and such.

“Go make a copy of your ID.”

I went walking down the hall until I saw a copy machine in an office and I walked in and made a copy of my ID card.

I returned and passed the copy of my ID card to the uniformed guard behind the bars and I saw him hang it on a hook and he passed through the hole in the bars a whole ring of keys, at least forty keys, and a squawk box.

“Thanks,” I walked away with the keys. I was on my own.

I exited out to the yard through one of the doors that move slowly and opened by showing my ID. I was alone in the yard. I stuffed the keys in one pocket of my jacket and the squawk box in the other.

I strode to the rear of the yard and walked into an open door where a group of men where taking off or putting on their clothes, I think it was a gym.

“Are you looking for the chapel?” I surely did not look like an inmate (they have uniforms and generally wear bright orange knit hats).

“Yes.”

A guy took me outside the locker room and pointed me to the building next door.

It was locked up tight but I had the keys. I started going through them one after another, this was a large door and I began with the largest keys. I opened it.

Inside I found a light. Every single room was locked inside. I found the room I was in the last time, a larger room with some tables and a chalkboard, some instruments and a little stage, obviously a place where several groups share prayer and study privileges. I found the key to that room too. Now I was inside and I was alone.

I had learned at another institution I visit that if I opened the door, people tended to wander in. I made sure the outer door was open and within a few minutes an inmate came in and sat next to me, staring straight ahead at the altar/platform in front of us.

“Mario,” he said by way of introduction.

“James,” I said.

He asked me who I was and I told him.

“Rabbi.”

He told me how he had discovered the Hebrew Bible in a cell when he was first incarcerated. He told me he read it through, cover to cover.

We talked some about that and I told him a story at the level of all-over-God, God everywhere.

“I’m with you,” he said.

He knew what a Rabbi was and he then told me his whole story, from the age of sixteen to the present, which I imagine was about fifteen years. It was a tender story, clear and full of details, well parsed for meaning and a good sense of where it would go when he left this institution. He wanted to return to the small town he came from and he planned to go to College and I believed him.

Another guy came in and he greeted me in a rather formal, well rehearsed way. “I won’t ask how you are doing – for that is a question and I may not know you well enough to ask you a question. I will not inquire what’s new as that is empty and meaningless and meant only to break the ice and engage in small talk. I will simply bless you in the way of my tradition. . .” and he switched to Arabic and quoted some of the holy Koran, which I was familiar with. I know some Arabic blessings and introductions, so I responded in kind. I will call him Yasin.

He didn’t seem to know Mario so I introduced them. One of the Jewish inmates saw the door open from across the yard and he joined us, he didn’t know Mario either or Yasin though he had seen them around. I introduced them.

We began to engage in a little circle of dialogue. Yasin left soon, and returned about five minutes later with a few other guys. “You’re the rabbi!” he said, “I should have known!” He must have asked around outside the chapel who is the guy with the not-orange hat in the chapel waiting for people to arrive.

There were two other individuals affiliated with the Jewish group who were present the first time I was there but absent this time. I asked about them.

“Transferred,” one of the Jewish guys, Jacob, told me.

“Transferred?”

“They were sent to a smaller camp.” It was in part their letters to me that brought me to that camp in the first place.

Now there weren’t enough of them left in this camp to meet on the Sabbath. The prison rule is that a religious group and its rights are defined by half a minyan — five members — since the two had been sent away they only had three by my count.

“The Muslim brothers will join your group,” Yasin said, “we’ll be here every Saturday and we’ll show you how to go about getting what you want.” Yasin knew a lot, it seemed, about working the prison system. “The Muslim brothers and the Jewish brothers will make the prayers together,” Yasin said, “you’ll have a group this Saturday and every Saturday.”

It was getting close to the time that I was supposed to leave. I asked the Jewish brothers and the Muslim brothers which way was east. Yasin showed me the corner where the Muslim brothers faced east.

“Come with me,” I said, “quick,” because there were some other people starting to come into the room looking as if they were the next group.

We went into the corner facing east and I opened up my hands and sung out pretty and slow the holy blessing from the Priests in the book of Numbers (6:23-27):

Ye-va-re-che-cha Adonai ve-yish-me-re-cha.
May God bless you and protect you.
Ya-eir Adonai pa-nav ei-le-cha vi-chu-ne-ka.
May God’s face shine to you and be gracious to you.
Yi-sa Adonai pa-nav ei-le-cha ve-ya-seim le-cha sha-lom.
May God’s face always be lifted to you and give you peace.

As I was singing, I explained there is no partial, no individual, no incomplete – every single instance opens up onto the universal, and every partial resolves in the whole — everywhere God dwells is whole, quoting the Zohar.

I said something about salaam, shalom, or shleimut, wholeness, integration. To bless is to dip below and reach above, the root below and the root above, the b’reikhah the pool of blessings — the wild chute that whisks you into the root above — to the All, shleimut, to be blessed with a sense of everything. Like Abraham our father in Genesis 24:1, to be blessed with everything and to live in a larger space than the separate self — the isolated, the un-integrated, the broken, the incomplete.

By this time the Christian brothers were coming in, they were the next group, the room was filling up behind us and some of them were watching us.

Their leader came over to me and asked, “what is that you are singing?”

I told him basically the same things I told the Jewish and the Muslim brothers. He was holding my picture on my ID card that I had copied to get the keys.

“You’re the rabbi,” he said, “you’re supposed to give me the keys.”

So I gave the Christian brother the ring of keys, he seemed to know what he was doing, and I asked him for my picture just in case they inquired on the way out.

The Jewish brothers and the Muslim brothers escorted me through the yard, on the way Yasin scribbled something on a piece of paper, we talked animatedly until I realized I was alone. There is a certain line they cannot pass and they were standing quietly on the other side until I turned around mid-thought and realized where they were.

I thanked them and told them I would be back in two weeks. “We’ll be here,” said the Muslim brothers, “all of us.” Yasin gave me the paper he was writing on.

This is what was written on the paper Yasin had given me:

Brother, your presence here is engulfed with the love of forgiveness. Please do what you can for all in this community.

It’s always a hard trip to the jail-house, profound and stupid and I could have missed it, I could have missed the whole thing. When no one would support the project, I could have pulled out. When I got to the jail-house I could have not taken those keys, I could have turned around and gone home. I could have returned the keys when there was no one to meet me, I could have missed the entire drama. Instead, I showed up, watched something profound and stupid unfold into something profound.

rabbi james stone goodman

Hard and Easy

7394A_21 -- Sylvester on "Bugs Bunny" -- 8/9/73 Tracking #7394 A sleeping Sylvester. Must Credit: ABC Photo Archives/1960 Warner Bros. Pictures, Inc.]

Shalvah Journal
Big Tent #53
So Hard It’s Easy

Rabbi James Goodman organizes a recovery support group called Shalvah (Shalvah means serenity in Hebrew) that emerged out of an earlier effort started by Rose Mass and Rabbi G in 1981. Shalvah presently meets twice a week. It is bundled with two other programs, Positive Jewish Attention to Mental Illness-Mental Health and Jewish Prison Outreach because the borders are elusive.

He thinks it’s time to tell the stories. Confidentiality does not mean secrecy. Secrecy is part of the problem. He’s asking everyone he knows for help, because it’s time. He feels like his community is asleep and the stakes are too high to be quiet.

#freethestories

A room full of difficult stories almost none polite most of them protected in their freedom to disclose by the principle of confidentiality. Confidentiality does not mean secrecy. Secrecy is now part of the problem. What to do. It’s the same principle that applies to the discourse at the meetings: Tell your truth but be discreet. It’s a civilized discourse about unsavory pasts and alterable experiences. Regrets and falling down and getting up and on with it. I am transforming by being present.

Breath, air, let it move through, share, be economical with language, above all — listen. In our space a roomful of stories if articulated too much might scare the beejeezus out of someone. Don’t be scared, this is the safest room in town. Everyone says that.

In this room are stories of degradation and pain, descent and most often the hidden movement of ascent present in every story in some hidden or expressed way. We stay with our experience, strength, and hope. If it sounds hard, it is and it’s do-able. It’s life saving and healing and revealing and a release from the confines of what has become too narrow for us: Our former selves. Too small for us now. We do not cure, we transcend.

Our response to the challenges of our lives: We grow.

Thus the spiritual basis of our discourse, it’s not so much about God as it is about the ascendance of this or that over Self-full-ness. It’s not-god. There is a God, it is not-me. That’s as close as we get to a God concept. It’s not theology, it’s story telling for adults. This is my story, it has features of descent, it has features of ascent. It leaves the residue of hope. Jakob J my teacher of theology — you would be proud. I often quote you from one of our first classes: Think of theology as story-telling for adults.

We tell stories. A lot of the stories are gruesome. Most of them are funny. If we haven’t had one when we came in, we all acquire a sense of humor. We learn to laugh. This may one of the most important lessons of the group: Tell the truth but find the funny in it. I suppose funny is a form of detachment, some sort of Buddhistic disengagement with the heaviness of our own tales.

Yeah it’s heavy and true and brutal and we carried around a lot of weight for probably a long time, how good it feels to free it up with laughter. Accept and release. How is it that what might have killed us now makes us laugh? Exactly.

The strange algebra of what we do with talk and experience and breath and communication and truth-telling and real life responses to real life challenges.

We grow. We laugh. We tell some cautious truth. We disengage. We are serious and happy. We glimpse the possibility of a better life and we work toward it. Toward: Another good description of our process. A lot of Toward and How, less What. People do not generally give advice. No one will solve your life for you.

We have lost people, we have found people. We have found more people than we have lost but we do not forget that we lose people too. Beneath the laughter is serious business. I think of it this way: We are sitting in a circle around God. Sitting next to each other on the circle are tears and laughter. They are always in proximity. All of us sitting attentive, one eye laughing one eye crying.

That’s the easy part. We meet twice a week. Drama erupts, lives change, the eclipsing of former ways of being present in every meeting. Every meeting like a chapter in a drama of ascent and descent, the systole and diastole of hyper-awareness. It’s a wonder to witness.

The hard part is outside the room. How to take what we learn in our safety and make it real in the expanded circles of our lives. How to live in community. We talk about that. The goal is not talk, the goal is to live.

Epilog:

What to do with those who want to help? What to do about those who are reluctant to help? Example: We get a couple of bucks from the Jewish Federation of St. Louis that we mostly give back to advertising to the St. Louis Jewish Light. This year, the Jewish Federation trimmed down that money. Are they serious? Read the newspapers. We’re living an epidemic. Time to wake up.
#freethestories
#tooslowJFedStL

I Prefer the Spelling Pewk Or: Pukes and Wolverines and War Over

I Prefer The Spelling Pewk
Or: Pukes and Wolverines and the War Over Toledo
Puke: Etymology: 1600, probably of imitative origin (cf. German spucken to spit, Latin spuere); first recorded in the Seven Ages of Man speech in Shakespeare’s As You Like It.
At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
— As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7
n.
U.S. colloquial meaning native of Missouri (1835) might be a different word, of unknown origin.
Bartlett (1859) has: A nickname for a native of Missouri as the second sense of puke (n.), the first being: A mean, contemptible fellow. The association of the state nickname with the vomit word is at least from 1858, and folk etymology talks of the old state literally vomiting forth immigrants to California. A Biblical syntax.

That the land not vomit you out when you defile it as it vomited out the nation before you. –Lev.18:28

I was not born here but I live in the puke. I’m a puke. I was a Wolverine. Once a Wolverine I suppose always a Wolverine.

But a puke — not a proud moniker however construed.

I don’t know what a Wolverine is. Hold on I’m calling the New York Public Library
where librarians still answer the phone in the Reference Room.

She asked first if I was asking about the comic book character, Wolverine.
No I said, the animal, a person born in Michigan, Ah she said, I went to the University of Michigan so I guess I’m a Wolverine though I was not born in the State.

I went to the University of Michigan also! I said with too much Excitement, and I was BORN in Michigan so I am a Wolverine. What the hell is it?

Hold on, she said, don’t go away. We can get at this chick chock.

She came back. Wolverines in the wild haven’t been sighted in Michigan since the early 1800s she said. Until recently. Ohio-ans started calling people from Michigan wolverines around the time of the State’s war over Toledo. In 1835. The Ohio-ans thought the people of Michigan were fierce fighters.

Whoa. There was a war over Toledo? Have you ever been to Toledo?

No, she said. Hold again please?

Back. It gets better. There’s a science teacher up in the thumb of Michigan that claimed he spotted the first wolverine in the wild since the early 1800s, that was 2004, tracked it, and he wrote a book about it! There was someone else speaking behind her in the room where she sat on Fifth Avenue in New York City, where the two lions are named Patience and Fortitude.

He’s a Wolverine too, she said, referring to the guy in on the story now in the background, the College connection.

She continued. The teacher’s name is Jeff Ford, the book The Lone Wolverine and he spotted the Wolverine in this kind of bog called the Minden City Swamp he set up a camera and after 371 days he got a picture of the animal. Wow. It took him over a year to get a picture. He worked so hard at tracking the animal he developed a heart condition but he got the picture and continued to track the animal until it was found dead in 2010. Obsession. The Department of Natural Resources determined the wolverine (a she wolverine) died of natural causes, probably a heart attack.

There’s something deep in this story about obsession and an over-the-divide mysticism between human and animal, I mused. Inwardly. She told me the wolverine was stuffed and shown around the state. The theory is she came in over a frozen Great Lake from Canada. Jeff Ford never gave her a name. Purposely.

What was the war over Toledo? I had her attention.

Hold on, she said. Back. Also called the Michigan-Ohio War, 1835-1836. They were arguing over a strip of land between Michigan and Ohio when Michigan was about to become a State. There was one battle where the two state militias lined up on opposite sides of the Maumee River and somebody fired up into the air, there was a compromise and Michigan ceded the Toledo strip of land to Ohio. Michigan got most of the Upper Peninsula. Michigan thought it was a bad deal until copper and iron were discovered up there.

Wow. Thanks. What a story. I did puppet shows in Toledo I said where I met a coven of witches it scared the hell out of me. Didn’t know the state story.

Ha, I think we all live in the state of curiosity, said the reference librarian. Thank you for calling. Anything else I can do for you?

What We Do

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What We Do

Shalvah Journal
Thursday, Aug. 18

We have a schedule of speakers for three weeks out of the month. The first week of the month we practice a form of meditation or prayer or do some inner work with music and poetry. The other weeks we begin with a speaker, the speaker speaks for twenty minutes or so, and the rest of the hour is given to spontaneous sharing from the group.

This is the first time she has spoken in our group. She was urged to do so by her sister who also attends the group and it’s clear she has more experience with such groups than does her (older) sister who signed up to speak tonight.

The speaker tonight has been a loyal attendee to the group but has not spoken much, she comes and listens, and I think everyone in the room recognizes the look of someone searching and not sure whether this is the correct location for her search. Does she belong — this is the question that appears on her face at every meeting though she has not spoken much about it.

She went bold and signed up to speak. It was not an easy gesture for her. She came to the meeting this night wearing the drama of vulnerability on her face, she had a small sheaf of notes she pulled out, I had to write it out she said by way of explanation, it’s the only way for me. That’s fine, I said, you know the meeting is an hour long. I’ll stay within the limits, she said, maybe missing maybe not missing the joke. She was nervous.

I sat next to her and there were some announcements and discussion, I moved to her talk as soon as I could as I imagined it was agonizing for her to wait. She launched, reading her notes clearly and with good voice, articulating what she had written that was carefully thought through.

It was a rough story, she opened with a sense of herself she was taught from her parents that was brutal and devastating for a little girl to have heard early on in her life. It was a theme that continued throughout her talk with the details of failed and failing relationships, bad choices, disappointments, and also the sense of the few joys of her life easier to remember partially because they were in the minority of her experience.

Five, ten minutes into her talk I admit I was thinking uh oh, this could be a difficult thing for her and for many of those in the room, some who might not relate to some of the particular details of her life that she emphasized. It wasn’t what we usually talked about when we talked in our group. She knew this and prefaced her talk with I’m not sure I belong here and I don’t know how familiar this will be to anyone else in the room. Ten minutes into her talk I wasn’t sure myself. Plus there were four or five new people that night and they had no sense that this was not our usual meeting. There is no usual meeting; sometimes I forget that and we’ve been doing this a long time.

Then she came to the denouement I’ll call it, of what she gave over that evening. The last chapter. In the last chapter, the last eight nine ten minutes of her talk she went right to the heart of the matter.

She spoke about the emptiness within that she felt was behind many of her poor choices in life, her responsibility for missing some of the elusive happiness or meaning she pursued in her story, she talked about that space within that drove her that brought her to this meeting that she feels she is touching is touched when she comes to the group.

She spent the last seven, eight, ten minutes of her talk sitting in front of that need within that space into which we stuff substances food people love success whatever it is we are chasing that is in partial recompense for the inner strength or prosperity the inner life we feel is deficient, wounded, absent, emptied out; this the center of the deal we do at the meeting.

I felt the room spring to life. When she was done, every comment was right to the heart of the matter where she had landed, confirming her presence in exactly the right place, everyone who spoke sat in that inside place with her. I live there too they said and thanked her or congratulated her or embraced her for the courage of taking us all with her because we are all familiar with that place and when she visits there we all visit there and it helps us make the trip and make it home in a more whole-some way than the old journey of defeatism and negativity sadness and despair. Everyone who spoke was familiar with that place. Everyone seemed to be switched on by her talk.

The other quality of the comments was the complete generosity of spirit that erupted from the group that night. The comments were true and personal and perceptive and they were also generous. I was moved by both her courage to be that vulnerable and the generosity of the group to intuitively give over a truth to her that was so profound it could make a significant change in her life. That night. That one night. It felt that large to me.

There were also some difficult comments going around the room, necessary and no surprise to many of us in the group, but the hard material of truth-telling and getting up and on with it, full disclosure, vulnerability in the extreme, we’re all doing the best we can and for many of us it starts with truth-telling stark and painful but better than the alternative. There was that too.

Real life. Every meeting real life. People often ask me what do you do at those meetings? We don’t talk about drugs or alcohol or other substances that much; we talk about inside things. Difficult things. The meeting is called Shalvah. Shalvah means serenity in Hebrew. There is no formula, few rules, just a couple of guidelines. You want to know what we talk about? Read these pieces. It’s time to tell the stories.

james stone goodman
#freethestories

I Prefer Pewk Or: Pukes and Wolverines and War Over Toledo

I Prefer The Spelling Pewk
Or: Pukes and Wolverines and the War Over Toledo

wolverine in michigan

Puke: Etymology: 1600, probably of imitative origin (cf. German spucken to spit, Latin spuere); first recorded in the Seven Ages of Man speech in Shakespeare’s As You Like It.
At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
— As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7
n.
U.S. colloquial meaning native of Missouri (1835) might be a different word, of unknown origin.
Bartlett (1859) has: A nickname for a native of Missouri as the second sense of puke (n.), the first being: A mean, contemptible fellow. The association of the state nickname with the vomit word is at least from 1858, and folk etymology talks of the old state literally vomiting forth immigrants to California. A Biblical syntax.

That the land not vomit you out when you defile it as it vomited out the nation before you. –Lev.18:28

I was not born here but I live in the puke. I’m a puke. I was a Wolverine. Once a Wolverine I suppose always a Wolverine.

But a puke — not a proud moniker however construed.

I don’t know what a Wolverine is. Hold on I’m calling the New York Public Library where librarians still answer the phone in the Reference Room.

She asked first if I was asking about the comic book character, Wolverine. No I said, the animal, a person born in Michigan. Ah, she said, I went to the University of Michigan so I guess I’m a Wolverine though I was not born in the State.

I went to the University of Michigan also! I said with too much Excitement, and I was BORN in Michigan so I am certainly a Wolverine. What the hell is it?

Hold on, she said, don’t go away. We can get at this chick chock.

Back. Wolverines in the wild haven’t been sighted in Michigan since the early 1800s she said. Until recently. Ohio-ans started calling people from Michigan wolverines around the time of the State’s war over Toledo. In 1835. The Ohio-ans thought the people of Michigan were fierce fighters.

Whoa. There was a war over Toledo? Have you ever been to Toledo?

No, she said. Hold again please?

Back. It gets better. There’s a science teacher up in the thumb of Michigan that claimed he spotted the first wolverine in the wild since the early 1800s, that was 2004, tracked it, and he wrote a book about it! There was someone else speaking behind her in the room where she sat on Fifth Avenue in New York City, where the two lions are named Patience and Fortitude.

He’s a Wolverine too, she said, referring to the guy in on the story now in the background, the College connection.

She continued. The teacher’s name is Jeff Ford, the book The Lone Wolverine and he spotted the Wolverine in this kind of bog called the Minden City Swamp. He set up a camera and after 371 days he got a picture of the animal. Wow. It took him over a year to get a picture. He worked so hard at tracking the animal he developed a heart condition but he got the picture and continued to track the animal until it was found dead in 2010. Obsession. The Department of Natural Resources determined the wolverine (a she wolverine by the way) died of natural causes, probably a heart attack.

There’s something deep in this story about obsession and an over-the-divide mysticism between human and animal, I mused. Inwardly.

She told me the wolverine was stuffed and shown around the state. The theory is she came in over a frozen Great Lake from Canada. Jeff Ford never gave her a name.

What was the war over Toledo? I asked.

Hold on, she said. Back. Also called the Michigan-Ohio War, 1835-1836. They were arguing over a strip of land between Michigan and Ohio when Michigan was about to become a State. There was one battle where the two state militias lined up on opposite sides of the Maumee River and somebody fired up into the air, there was a compromise and Michigan ceded the Toledo strip of land to Ohio. Michigan got most of the Upper Peninsula. Michigan thought it was a bad deal until copper and iron were discovered up there.

Wow. Thanks. What a story. I did puppet shows in Toledo I said where I met a coven of witches it scared the hell out of me.

Charming, said the reference librarian. Thank for you calling. Always willing to help and thank you for the introduction to these glorious subjects. Anything else I can do for you?

jsg.usa

Orensanz

Gig Tonight
Early 21st Century

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Linda showed up at the end of the gig and asked if I wanted to go on an adventure.

Where to?

The oldest synagogue in New York City, someone bought it and turned it into a foundation and an artist’s studio. [she exaggerates but who cares]

Sounds great.

It’s way downtown, way down on the lower East Side, she said, below the letters [Avenues A,B,C]. We took cabs. Jake the bass player came too, and Judah from Brooklyn, and Daniel the artist.

We found the street, carrying all our instruments, in the middle of the block, dark, set back behind a black metal gate. It certainly looks like a synagogue but it reads The Orensanz Foundation. What the heck is Orensanz. . . I mumbled.

The name of the two brothers who bought it, Linda said.

Standing out in front of its dark exterior on Norfolk street, waiting for someone to answer the buzzer, I was as cold as I have ever been in my entire life. No gloves, I hate it when my hands get cold. I felt as if I were standing naked on an ice flow. It was February, New York City, but it felt like February, Rejkavik. The temperature had plummeted forty degrees from afternoon to night that particular day, and my bones froze standing out in front of the Orensanz Foundation, midnight, after the gig on Fourteenth Street. We stood waiting on the street, in the dark, for someone to come from somewhere within the labyrinth of the dark edifice looming above us. Open the door.

There were handwritten notes attached to the gate: ring loud, I am within. Ring ring, no response, climbing he was through a series of ascending palaces of subterranean mist to reach land-level.

Ring ring. A light from within, a door opened and silhouetted in the doorway a man with a natty thin-brim hat. Cardigan sweater. Scarf.

He opened the front door, come into my office, he said. His office was to the right as we entered. I peeped to the left into the large empty room, the synagogue I guessed, it was dark but I could see a shadowy presence and its three story ascent in the darkness. On top a luminescent dome that glowed cerulean blue in the dark.

His accent was a combination of Latino, eastern European, Pee Wee’s Funhouse, I thought it was completely contrived and someone’s private joke. It sounded like one of my accents. In his office, large industrial space heaters hanging from the ceiling. Pictures on the walls of Sarah Jessica Parker’s wedding, who Mr. Orensanz referred to several times as one of his finest moments as landlord. I gathered he rented the space out to parties for New York’s hip elite. Poof Daddy was here last night. Poof Daddy was here last night, he said twice, great party. MTV loves it here.

Joke? I looked at Linda. No joke, Linda looked back at me. Joke? I looked at Judah. I have no idea, Judah looked back at me, shrugging his shoulders. Joke? I looked at Jake the bass player. Good joke, Jake looked back at me, great joke, fabulous joke.

Orensanz was describing his brother’s sculpture, for which the synagogue was purchased in order to house his studio.

Where is your brother now?

Paris. He went back to naming the celebrities who were having parties in his synagogue.

I snuck out of the office and into the dark synagogue to the left. The floors were wood and not refinished, as were the columns that ran the length of the room in two parallel rows. The columns were carved out of small facets in shapes that looked like fine tile-work, but it was not ceramic, it was wood, small carved facets of color carved out of the wood pillars. I realized that the entire ceiling and upper walls were formed out of these colorful miniaturized facets. The colors – magenta, scarlet, purple, yellow, and the dome a shimmering blue like God’s holy eyes.

There was no heat at all in the synagogue space. I unpacked my guitar and sat down on the steps that led up to the bimah. I began to play. First I played a couple of serpentine Ladino melodies, I switched to some oud-inspired improvisations, the notes of my instrument ascending slowly up into the dome space and raising a holy sweet savor to God’s nose, ears, eyes. For the second time that night, I began the love songs that make up the slow-hand Havdalah ceremony that I had recently learned for just these occasions, and by now the group who had been huddling in the office had followed the sound and wandered into the synagogue.

Mr. Orensanz the brother switched on a bank of what looked like make-up lights that ran in a row above the columns along two side walls and the rear wall of the synagogue. Not too much light, but enough to note the floors, the walls, the columns, the facets were original and not reconditioned, original structures, the empty floor a rough parquet unfinished, whose footprints?

Daniel the artist was examining the columns and the collusion of colors in the facets around the room. Everyone was walking slowly examining the shadowy recesses. Jake the bass player unpacked his instrument, sat down next to me, and began to accompany my playing.

I started to sing in Ladino again, a medieval Spanish garnished with Hebrew, Turkish, Greek, Arabic. I sang love songs, sad songs of longing, songs of exile, and I noticed that Mr. Orensanz was standing near one of the columns to my right, weeping at the sound of his ancestral language and the music of longing.

Soon everyone stopped wandering around the room and stood stationary, each in place, like players on a big game board, lit not-lit by the light casting shadows, faces dark.

I sang and they listened this way for forty five minutes. No longer did I notice the temperature, it was cold but we raised a fire in our rooted souls, the sound rose through the dome and into the space where the music rested. We sang and played into the shadows for forty five minutes.

When we finished, we quietly filed out into the New York City night, a hush having fallen over all of us, including Mr. Orensanz, who asked if I would like to record in his synagogue. Poof Daddy.

On the street, I began to freeze up again. I had no idea where we were, but several blocks later we came to the celebrated Katz’s delicatessen. We took a ticket and went and sat in the cavernous dining room, next to a table of young musicians recently come in no doubt from their own show, in black leather, studs, chains, tattoos and piercings.

One of them glanced at me carrying my instruments. Gig tonight? he asked.

Yeah, I said, great gig. You?

Me too, he said, nodding his head up and down. We smiled at each other. Later, I watched him walk out the front door and disappear like a raven into the night.

James Stone Goodman
United States of America

Al Orensanz passed away in New York City, on Saturday, July 23, 2016.

Af Tsu Lokhes/In Spite Of: Story #51 Big Tent

thumb lebowski

Story #51
Big Tent

In Spite Of: Af Tsu Lokhes

The day I wrote the piece #50 in the series Big Tent, June 20, 2013, describing a slice of the meeting the night before just a moment out of an hour of moments not to say too much respecting confidentiality to the maximum, I think I captured a sense of the life-saving nature of what we discuss when we convene on Thursday evenings. I wrote the piece late Thursday night only several hours after the Shalvah Recovery from Addictions meeting, submitted it to the blog site set up by my community to feature events and ideas etc. of the locals. I have a blog on that site, and I submitted my account of the Thursday night meeting the next day, Friday, the day after another heavy Thursday night session. It was fresh.

On that Thursday I decided to start a journal of the evening session, something written to capture a bit of what we do on Thursday nights that has been so healing for so long. I write about everything, I thought, I ought to write about this too. Besides, I had made a formal request for funding from my community after having been approached by the new CEO of the institutional mechanism asking me for it.

I write a journal of my prison experiences, I write about the mental illness project, I should write about the Shalvah recovery meeting we have been running in one form or another, almost continuously, since I came to this town in 1981. So I started to keep the journal, the first entry was that Thursday, that night, June 20, 2013.

The next day I was scheduled to have a phone conversation, I should note here, with the official CEO who represents my community and who contacted me about ways in which the community mechanism might support the program. I told him I would need him to see the program through the bureaucracy in which he works, make a case for it however that is done I don’t know, and whatever materials I could provide him I would do to the best of my abilities.

Of course they have a right to ask what is it that we do on Thursday nights. I invited them to come and see; I am sure I can get the permission of the participants for you to come because they all know the life-saving significance of the Thursday evening group [note: the group has much expanded since then, is now meeting twice a week, welcoming new people almost every week and we have discussed going to a third night] and I believe the group would compromise its anonymity/confidentiality to further the notion not for the sake of themselves but for the sake of others in our community and beyond whom we could be helping.

And if those who hold the purse strings did not want or could not attend any of our meetings, I could always refer them to my writings, and through the accounts anyone could discern a good sense of what we do on Thursday nights we call Shalvah (serenity).

He had given me a load of directions by which I could provide him for what he called a logic model (I had no idea what a logic model was) that he could then take into the place where he works.

He came back at me with a load of more requests, I had provided the information for the logic model as he requested, now he was asking for a metric (another notion I wasn’t familiar with, I have not been trained in these matters). I thought I included a metric with which to evaluate in the logic model we submitted (love this language), and by then I noticed that the vocabulary had shifted from how can I help you to how can this not happen, an elucidation of all the reasons why it would be impossible for his organization to support my efforts. I have experience with this kind of shift in language. I am sensitive to it; I’ve been at this a long time.

A few days after this conversation, one of the great leaders of our community passed away. He had been in the very position of the individuals I was now dealing with; I knew that his way was the way of activism. If he saw a need, his attitude was how are we going to do this, what I call the af tsu lokhes approach, a great Yiddish phrase that has the sense of in spite of — with an attitude. It’s a useful expression without an exact equivalent in English, a sense of: you think I can’t do what? I’m going to do it in spite of all obstacles and with more punch. Just because. I could feel the difference in the individuals I spoke with on the phone; there was no af tsu lokhes attitude.

The man we would soon be burying was a force in our community, and my experience with him was deep. When we started the addictions outreach, he was as a matter of fact in the same position as the individuals I was now speaking with in the early days of our program. These teachings were not lost on me; a week and a half later at his funeral I felt the need of such individuals now and what a loss to our community such a spirit is. Where are they when we need them?

I am searching everywhere for those af tsu lokhes individuals, who see a problem and all the difficulties attendant to relieving suffering, but enter with the attitude: Let’s do this thing, let’s make this happen, let’s do some good. Obstacles? Let’s go around them.

There’s a story my teacher used to tell. When there’s an obstacle in the road, you don’t sit down, unpack a table, have lunch. You build. Around it.

james stone goodman

Inner Point of Truth

star of david gemstone

From the Legend of the Thirty Six

Rav said, all the ends have passed, and the matter depends only on transformation and good deeds. But Shmuel said, it’s enough for the mourner to stand in mourning.

— Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 97b

I knew that my heart had opened to all suffering with these pictures, these stories, these dreams, these possible and impossible ideas that had emerged over the course of this study. I had felt the exchange of cliché for deeper notions, like the argument in the Talmud, through the willingness to stand in our grief, to weep the world well, we had moved into a place that released us from the failure of our own wisdom to sustain. I felt the release of inadequate ideas to justify suffering, it was not because of this or because of that that we grieve, we have only to be with our sadness, to sit with our suffering, to weep the world well, in order to survive.

What we do is to stand here, because we are lured to the light by the fancy that we wait for this, we wait for that, we do not give up, and we are sustained by all that is unseen. We yearn for it.

Rabbi R told me that it was said that Bar Yochai’s right eye used to smile and his left eye was sad. He also quoted a passage in the Zohar, one half of my heart is happy and the other half is crying.

I met with H to show her the pictures. “I like the stories,” she said, “especially the last one.” The last one was about the nature of the righteous person, the tzaddik: a person who is the agent for revealing the hidden. Something happens around the tzaddik, whether the tzaddik is conscious of that or not, it doesn’t matter. It only matters that the tzaddik makes something happen.

“The tzaddik is the one who is able to connect with the world the way it is, and to raise something up that is beyond the world,” I said.

Then H looked at the photographs. Afterwards, we sat down at a small table in the gallery space as if we were having coffee in Vienna, and she told me this story:

In 1980, I went back to Europe. I visited the place where my parents were held. It was a small place on the eastern border of France. I was walking just across the road from the camp. They were buried along that road. There were 1200 graves along that road, and I visited them all. I thought: no one else might ever come here.

Just before I left, I looked down and I saw a rock, I felt as if it were calling to me, so I picked it up. I started picking up a rock from every site we visited. I took them all home and I often took them out when I spoke about the trip.

One day I was showing the rock, the first one I picked up, and a girl said, “look – do you see what it is?”

No, I hadn’t noticed. I turned it over and it formed a perfect star of David, etched on the underside, filled with calcium deposits.

I took it to a geologist to see if someone had carved it or whether it was – you know – nature. The geologist told me it was nature. It had been buried deep and a great upheavel had pushed it up, maybe it settled in water, but it’s natural.

It was Shabbat Naso, the three-fold blessing from Bemidbar, culminating in “may God’s face be lifted up to you and give you peace.” The Sefas Emes brings that shalom/peace is shleimut/wholeness; the inner point of truth. A tiny point or a single moment contains the infinite fullness and joy of Godliness. The micro version of Everything, the attention paid to the detail of the individual, the lone tzaddik, the moment, the singular act, the story, through which the whole world passes. It was Bar Yochai believing, after opposing the Romans, after hiding in a cave for thirteen years, after all that he came to believe that if he could only celebrate two Sabbaths properly, the world would be redeemed. Or that he and his son were the two who received the presence of God. Maybe the only two.

jsg.usa

Happy Birthday Bob

Highway 61

Prelude:

I brought my pal Todd to my town to exhibit his show “The Legend of the Thirty Six” and do some concerts and teachings in the room where we hung the show. It was thirty six photographs, inspired by the legend of the lamed-vav-nik and the influence of the artist Ben-Zion on my pal Todd.

We found a way to hang the show in a tasty round room in the shul just as you enter the building that was outfitted with a system we brought from Minnesota that I saw used in museums that does not necessitate pounding into walls to hang framed pictures. On this, the first installation, we hired a fellow who knew the system and had installed it at the Art Museum.

He needed a helper, I was told. I can help him, I said, thinking to minimize the budget. I was told it would take one whole day. Ok, how about next Tuesday? Tuesday is good, he will meet you there.

I showed up Tuesday morning prepared to work. He was thin in overalls some simple tools hanging off a belt long hair tied in a tail angular face baseball cap. He didn’t speak. We went to work, he demonstrating how to help (it took four hands) and we went at it until about 4:00 PM. I’m naturally quiet, he was silent the entire day. Until the end.

We got the exhibit hung. It was like a day mediation, requiring some concentration just enough to pass the time well but not too much that interfered with dreaming. I worked all day respecting the silence and figured this was the deal until just before we were done, within the last hour of the work-day, between four and five PM he turned to me and said, “so – are you going?”

“Going where?”

“Dylan.”

“Ah. Well. I hadn’t thought about it. Where?”

“Cape Girardeau. Good. It’s a small field house. He’s doing small venues.”

“When?”

He told me a date in April. April! It was February when we had the conversation.

“I’ve never seen him,” I said.

“Gotta go.”

That was all the conversation we had. So I went home and bought some tickets. I bought four, thinking I would take my daughter and a couple of her friends. What the heck, I had never seen Bob Dylan live, though I used to sneak away from Detroit when I was fourteen, fifteen years old and steal off to New York City to inhale the music of the Village scene. I didn’t tell anybody where I was going and I went several times. In those days, I saw Dylan hanging around the Village, wearing a Mad Hatter’s hat he was known for, someone squiring him around in a convertible Corvette (from Detroit, I know cars). It was 1963, 64, I didn’t know much but I loved music and saw some great things in the clubs at the time: Gerde’s Folk City, Dave Van Ronk, Richie Havens, Dylan on the street but not in the club. It was time.

I Go To See Bob Dylan

I went to see Bob Dylan for the first time in 2001. Cape Girardeau, Missouri. I pronounced it the French way. It was in a field house, seven thousand seats. All my friends said, why do you want to go see Dylan? Someone told me he mumbles and can’t remember his songs.

I had never seen him, never saw him perform anyway, I saw him a long time before when I was hanging out in Greenwich Village. I was a kid.

In 2001 I took my daughter and two of her friends. We got seats on the second level. The concert was called for seven thirty. I had no idea how far away Cape Girardeau was, but we arrived at seven fifteen, made the will call window by seven twenty, in our seats by seven thirty, the concert begun at seven thirty two.

Nice stage, a small field house, we were on the second level, first row, good lighting, simple stage.

They began with amplified acoustic instruments, and switched back and forth during the evening between Stratocasters and amplified acoustic Gibsons and Martins. The bass player too alternated between the double bass and the electric bass. The lead guitarist doubled on mandolin, pedal steel guitar, and violin.

It was a basic rock and roll configuration: Dylan plus two guitars, bass, drums. Good guitar players, adequate not fancy bass, same with drums. Everyone solid, not fancy. The big surprise was that Dylan played most of the leads. Not flashy but adequate. The lead guitar was a good multi-instrumentalist: guitars, mandolin, pedal steel guitar, violin, everything he played tastefully. Still, Dylan was out front in every tune with his guitar, swiveling his legs in an Oklahoma oilman suit black with a white stripe down the side, black T-shape string tie, and a great pair of extravagant two-tone (black and white) cowboy boots. He played the leads in every song, picking out his small melodies carefully with the neck of the guitar pointed toward the ground, the expression on his face unmoved.

I was mesmerized that he dominated the music of his band. I had to get a look at him, I wanted to see his face and see exactly what he was doing on the guitar. “I’ll be right back,” I said to Sarika, and bounded down the bleachers to the ground floor. There was no separation between the second level and the ground level, as there is in the field house in my town. You can just walk down.

I ran down. Then once on the main floor I walked down the aisle next to the center section of the floor seats right up to the stage. I stood next to a guy who was sitting quietly, intently watching the show that was happening not ten feet from him. It was a pleasant place to watch, not directly in front of the speakers so the sound was not overwhelming. I crouched down so I would not obstruct anyone’s view, and I gazed up at the holy man, now so close I felt as if I could reach up and touch his guitar.

He was indeed playing all the leads, adequately, but not at all like the flashy standard that is set for the common rock and roll screaming lead. His leads were more rhythmic, a little labored, not very interesting harmonically, but always within the simple chord changes. He had been practicing.

He had a look of concentration on his face. He was not making contact, eye or otherwise, with his audience, but he was focused on the music.

He looked to me like a holy man. Small, a little grizzled, unsmiling but not unfriendly, concentrating on the material and the new role that he was taking in his own music: soloist, lead player, improvisational instrumentalist, with a stylized singing that made sense, lower registers than his former rasp, with more authority and confidence in his vocals than I had ever heard before. It was a much higher musical standard than I had expected.

After watching him for about three tunes in the place by the stage where I didn’t belong, the man sitting quietly next to me, a plain looking fellow dressed in casual golf clothes, short sandy hair, looked at me and said over the crowd, “I’ve been following him around for thirty five years. This is the best concert I’ve ever seen.”

Why he chose me to tell that to, I don’t know. It was clear that he needed to say it to somebody. I watched him for much of the rest of the show. He was alone, he didn’t move, he didn’t talk to anyone, he sat and watched as if he was observing science.

I went back to get Sarika and her friends. I wanted her to see what I was seeing. “Follow me,” I said to them, “don’t look back and don’t talk to anybody,” and I went bounding down the bleachers again to the main floor.

We ended up in the same place. The girls huddled next to my confidant, and I found a liberated seat across the aisle where I sat quietly, like him, and watched the rest of the concert. The standard did not altar, the entire concert was clean and straight ahead and competent and the only words the holy man spoke was “this is my band, the best in the land” and introduced them one by one as they were playing.

I don’t like concerts in large public places. I never have, so I have not seen many musical shows in arenas and theaters where great concerts have been staged. I like music in small rooms, living rooms even, theaters at the largest.

But this night was beautiful and important for me. I couldn’t avoid some sense of pride in a hero of my generation having made the transition to the next generation with authority, creativity, and confidence. Also, there was something of the original lyricism of Bob Dylan still in this 2001 version. I recalled all the impossible dreams and lyrical seduction of his music and folk poetry, and a measure of the original promise of his form of critique and commitment returned to me as I sat there listening to the songs. I suppose every generation has a music that takes you back to your youth. I sat there in the field house, Cape Girardeau, 2001, understanding the words even of the songs I didn’t know but more importantly I remembered what they were about.

I could not avoid also the lift that watching Bob Dylan gave to my own small but serious musical aspirations. At the turn of 2001, I had made a vow to play more music, make more concerts, produce a series of CDs, and tour with my music, stories, and teachings. I was not at all sure why this had become important to me, but it had, and I was doing it.

Sometimes late at night, after a gig, and I am dragging my equipment back to my car, I laugh at myself. Now I have the picture of the holy man, working out on Tangled Up In Blue, in that great suit and swiveling cowboy boots and that will help me not look back.

The last thing that was wonderful about the concert was to share this with my daughter and her friends. In the car on the way home, we talked about the concert, about Bob Dylan, about what he was for me and what he is for them, what we each heard in his music, and it was the same thing. I told them the stories of how I came to hear Bob Dylan when I was their age. They told me the same stories, different time, different characters, and then they fell asleep.

We sailed through the clear, fresh Missouri night on a journey of secret destinations, the next stop also wonderful.

Next: Truck Stop.

The Divide or Not Show Business

Momma

The Continental Divide
Gigs pt. 3

Ft. Collins, Colorado

For my Mother

Barbara told me to check out the Continental Divide. “David wanted to see it, after he got sick. So we did. We got there any way we could — we begged, borrowed — we got there.”

She told me the story on the phone. I was a silent for a while.

“When I see it?” I said like a teen-ager. “When I see it, I’ll stop and remember when you saw it, you and David, I’ll pause for a moment, and remember your story.”

“That’s perfect,” said Barbara, “that’s just the right thing.”

A couple of days later I was sitting in Denver, behind a floor to ceiling window view of the Rocky Mountains in the distance.

“Is that the Continental Divide?” I asked my host.

“Over that way, but that’s not it. Those are the foothills.”

“What is the Continental Divide anyway.”

“You’ll have to ask Harold,” Harold was out.

I sent an e-mail to my friend Josh, eleven years old, asking him to find out what the Continental Divide is. I had a sense that it was a matter of the highest seriousness.

I left Denver late in the afternoon for the drive up to Fort Collins and the first gig of three nights. This was to be the biggest gig of my newly launched career, three consecutive nights in front of large crowds at the big Jewish conference, a scoodle of other performers occupying the same niche that I was wiggling into, maybe some old friends from school days twenty years ago.

I was looking forward to making the joke that only I understand and is no joke: when asked “where have you been?” I can say, “I’ve been practicing.” Very funny.

Daughter D. wasn’t feeling well so I left her in Denver with her aunt and drove up the highway towards Fort Collins. I saw on the map that Fort Collins looked to be about an hour north, straight shot.

Once outside of Denver, the road straightened out, completely straight, 75 miles an hour all the way to Fort Collins on the way to Wyoming. Never been to Wyoming. On my left was the Rocky Mountains, the foothills anyway, on my right the Great Plains of the United States of America. I was sailing up the borderline.

I reached the cutoff to Fort Collins and I was expecting a single intersection, a marquis with my name on it. Fort Collins is much larger than I expected. I drove around the University a bit and realized that I had no idea where the gig was. I had no contact person, no phone number, no location; I knew nothing about where the gig was to take place. I had an abbreviation of a small theater somewhere on the campus of the University, that’s it.

I found someone who worked maintenance for the University (he was wearing a uniform) I asked him about the abbreviation and he had no idea what I was talking about. I found a map of the campus and I searched the map for something that resembled the abbreviation of the room and I found nothing.

I drove around the campus some more and contemplated the notion that I may have come all this way to drive around Fort Collins Colorado never to find the location of the gig. I was there and not there. It was a predicament that I had to share.

My mother would have gotten such a kick out of this, I thought. I imagined calling her and she laughing her deep belly laugh at how ridiculous my life had become to be driving around the campus in Fort Collins Colorado looking for the location of the biggest gig in my new career.

What a good plan I have made to follow my dream to Colorado, forgetting to take with me the location of the event. God we could laugh at this, but my mother had been gone ten years now still I heard her voice laughing with me as I went over what I would have told her in my head. How I missed her, driving around the campus in Fort Collins Colorado; I ached to talk to her and it felt so good.

I kept driving until I saw something familiar. I saw a truck, a truck with a large rear compartment, what we used to call a bread truck, sitting in a big parking lot somewhere within the campus. On the truck was written “mikveh” advertising the mitzvah of mikveh and inviting all to come into the truck and purify. Apparently the truck had been outfitted for a ritual bath; the license plates were from New York.

At least it was familiar. I knocked on the back door of the truck and a slight older man with payes and black hat, white shirt, black pants opened the door and looked at me with eyes light and soft like my own.

“I’m supposed to perform for the Jewish conference tonight but I don’t know where it is. Music in a theater I think. Can you help me?”

“To play music?” he said also like a teen-ager his voice drifting up to a higher register at the end of each sentence, “to play music you must have the proper intention,” he said eyes to eyes. “Of course I can help you, come in.”

I entered the truck and he spoke of the purifying living waters of the mikveh and invited me in. What the heck, I was ruined. I took off my clothes and dunked myself in the waters, said the holy prayers, and spent a time in silence forgetting my predicament. When I was through, he took me outside the truck and pointed to the building in front of us. He brushed my wet hair back with his hands. “In there,” he said.

I thanked him and went into the building and found the location of the gig in no time.

It would be after midnight until it was time for me to perform; they had scheduled way too many people on the show. Before me were three girls from Florida who sang songs with spiritual themes and bare midriffs. Most of the music sounded trivial and treacly sentimental to me, bubbies and zaydies, and an occasional ba ba bom. I felt out of place.

I played the oud and sang a holy song of the eastern Mediterranean. The twenty or so people left in the audience looked confused or asleep. On the way home, two AM, zooming down the borderline with the foothills of the Rocky Mountains to my right, the great plains of the United States of America to my left, I felt several degrees of ridiculousness over my new life.

I stopped at the truck stop to get a cup of coffee. “Hey,” I said to a few fellas hanging around the cash register, “where’s the continental divide?”

“Over there,” one of them said, pointing toward the Rocky Mountains.

“What is the continental divide anyway,” I asked.

“Separates west from east,” an old timer said, “on that side the water drains west, on this side the water drains east. It’s the separation between east and west.”

Yes, that’s it. The Divide. I called Barbara on my cell phone, hurtling down the borderline, looking at the Rocky Mountains in the distance:

“Barbara, I’m there. The continental divide. I’m there. It’s exactly where I live.”

Next: I perform with the Spice Girls

James Stone Goodman
United States of America

Fort Collins Day Two
Gigs pt. 4

The first gigs were disappointing. Too many people on the show; by the time they got to me, it was past midnight and everyone had left. It was two AM before I hit the road for the return ride from Fort Collins to Denver.

Loved the ride nonetheless. To the right, the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, to the left the Great Plains of the United States of America. Straight shot, seventy five miles per hour, top down on the rented convertible, cup of dark coffee from the truck stop, all the way back to Denver.

D. was sleeping when I returned. I whispered to her, “it wasn’t so good tonight D. Came a long way for a lousy show in front of twenty people. Show business. But I found the Continental Divide.” I explained to her its significance as I now knew it.

Next night, D. was not feeling well so I started for Fort Collins before the afternoon traffic rush to prepare myself for night two of disappointment. I had two shows that night.

Top down, the Rocky Mountain foothills to my left now, the Great Plains of the United States of America to my right. I am in love with America. As I drove north up the Interstate, straight shot zoom seventy five miles per hour top down, I saw a billboard for the Brighton Feed and Hat Store. The right hat, that’s exactly what I needed to redeem these gigs.

I got off the Interstate and drove about five miles toward Brighton Colorado where I found the Brighton Hat and Feed Store on the other side of the main street, downtown sleepy sleepy Brighton the great American West.

I entered and announced to the sales clerk my mission: I am a spiritual pilgrim come from far-away to the seam of the Rocky Mountains and the Great Plains of America with my songs of holy waiting en route to Fort Collins Colorado where last night at one AM myself and my audience were lulled to sleep by my own and other uninspired offerings.

I need a hat, I told them. The right hat.

They went to work with earnestness. There were five, six sales clerks opening every hat box in the store and dressing me up in front of the head and shoulders mirror as if I was Waylon Jennings off the road on a coffee stop for the great northern tour.

“Yep, that’s it,” announced the hat clerk. “This is the one.”

I stood in front of the mirror with a large rolled Western straw hat on my head like I had been transformed. I looked at myself for a minute, two minutes, and I knew that this was the one. This was exactly the hat I needed.

I placed the hat on my head and everyone in the store came out in front, waving goodbye to me as I sailed off into the Colorado sun, towards the Rocky Mountains and the Continental Divide.

I stopped at Wendy’s for a hot coffee black and with the top still down I returned to the straight shot borderline north 75 miles per hour the Rocky Mountains to my left the Great Plains of the United States of America to my right, my big straw hat down around my ears so it wouldn’t fly off, I felt good, good in the car with my hat on the way to my two gigs, the Continental Divide, the Rocky Mountains, the Great Plains, I am in love with America all of it.

I arrived at the gig parking lot. No mikveh. I spied Jeff, who was organizing both shows for the night. “Jeff!” I jumped in with Jeff and we went together in his car to the two rehearsals for the evening shows.

Jeff worked hard to bring these two gigs off nicely and I helped him as much as I could. Jeff recorded a tune that I had given him some years ago, an Adon Olam the story of which I have written in another piece (“the story of Akbar and Adon Olam”) and he promised me a copy of the recording. I had never heard him do it and Jeff loved the piece.

He loved it so much that he had placed it as the closing tune of the first gig. Everyone was going to sing it. We set up the first gig with enough time to sit back in the audience and wait for evening.

Consuelo showed up with brochures and CDs. Consuelo came down from New Mexico, she sang Ladino songs that she learned from a rabbi in the mountains of northern New Mexico. She was descended from Spanish conversos, Jews who hid their identities after the threat of the Spanish Inquisition, came to the New World and rediscovered their Jewish roots centuries later. “There are many like me,” Consuelo said.

Consuelo had some fabulous songs, which she claimed were from the defunct Jewish community of Cairo. I was familiar with the texts of the songs but not the tunes. The tunes were stunning. I was mesmerized by Consuelo’s tunes. They were killing me softly.

We all sat in a circle on the stage area and planned the order of our performances, one after another. There was a teen-aged girl group from south Florida, they were arguing with their parents who seemed to be their managers. They sang show tunes with spiritual themes. There were a few cantors, myself, Consuelo and a hand drummer that belonged to her community in New Mexico who played like an angel.

I ended with the Adon Olam and everybody joined in behind me. Soon I was singing without playing at all there was so much backup, I was singing the holy Adon Olam that Jeff loved so much with my hands my body and Consuelo and her drummer had jumped up and grabbed an adjacent microphone.

Consuelo howled into the microphone like a flamenco cantare gone mad, everyone entered the holy Adon Olam in their own way and I saw the room come to life. The audience was singing, some were crying, everyone got up and on their feet and when the concert was over I got to make the joke again, several times, “who are you? Where have you been?”

“I’ve been practicing. I am no one.”

A rabbi came up to me with a blank piece of paper. “My daughter wants your autograph.”

“Excuse me?”

“My daughter, she wants your autograph.”

I wrote my name on the paper, not sure whether he was making a joke out of me or what, and I added in Hebrew “I love you with all my broken heart.”

The entire audience followed me across campus to the second gig. I was leading a group of strangers across the Colorado State University campus to my next gig. “I’m going with him,” they said.

The room was stacked for me so the second gig was equally wonderful. The audience howled and cheered as I sang a holy song of peace from deep within my source. If prayer and song could make peace it would have happened that night.

I stood outside in the parking lot at midnight as I was loading my instruments into my car for the ride back to Denver, my rolled straw still on my head, talking to one of my pals from school twenty years ago who had come to see me perform.

“I’ve been practicing,” I said to him, to the moon, to the stars.

I rolled down the top of the convertible, pulled the straw down around my ears for the ride home. I stopped at the Quick Stop for a hot black cup of mud and headed down the straight shot Interstate towards Denver, on my right the Rocky Mountains, the Continental Divide, to my left the Great Plains how I love the United States of America though I myself live on the borderline I live on the elusive divide between East and West I was wondering on the ride down whether it exists at all this place where I think I live. Just then I know it does, it does exist, I am living there.

On the CD player I fired up Consuelo’s CD with a very tasty oud player, I unpacked my cellular phone and called everyone I knew to describe, the best I could, one of the greatest working nights of my life. Not show business, ceremony.

I couldn’t wait to get back to Denver hoping D. was up so I could tell her the whole story.

She’s up.

“D.” I whispered,

“D. . .”

“I was a hit.”

close up with hat

James Stone Goodman
United States of America