of beauty and rage
As I type this, I’m on the red-themed Metro-North out of New Haven, bound for Grand Central. As Mom has chosen to fill the free time that attends an empty nest with work, she has spent the weekend in the hospital, engaging the human monstrosity, as one is wont to do on Mother’s Day. Still fresh in my mind are the magnificent fight scenes from Captain America: Civil War, a movie 9-months pregnant with fan-service. I now feel liberated to read all of the think-pieces and hot-takes that have proliferated since its release.
Amber and I inhaled burgers at Prime 16, a burger and beer joint of sorts, immediately prior to the movie. And joked about the absurdly named beers, whose monikers flashed on a screen behind me. Just above Amber’s head was a framed drawing, a chubby-cheeked “Blondie”-style face, colored red, with a tongue-sticking out. With the words “Le Monstre” emblazoned above. This prompted a story about my time in Provence as a high schooler and the family I lived with and how the matriarch’s grand-daughter would eye me, avidly, at the beginning of every dinner and, just before we would begin, would whisper hungrily, “le massacre commence.” Indeed, by the end of our meal, there was no trace of the Siracha bacon burger I’d ordered nor of the fries, except for a small slice of tomato-wedge that had managed to escape and tell the tale of the battle that was lost that day.
The previous day was spent in repose binge-watching back-episodes of Veep and ordering in Thai food, after which she baked brownies, much to both our delight.
The evening of my arrival was, I believe, the day that London elected Sadiq Khan to be its mayor, history being made at the ballot box. At work, there is no shortage of Muslims and one in particular with whom I’ve had the privilege of growing close has become the other half of a swiftly strengthening friendship. I’d participated in Lent, albeit in limited fashion, earlier this year, and the topic of Ramadan had passed through our conversation. I expressed interest, at which moment this woman’s face began to glow. But later that evening, in New Haven, at my best friend’s home, she and her fiancé invited me to Shabbat and, kneeling before the candles she had lit, we sang the prayers, after which she remarked I was a quick learner.
It’s become my habit of late to pass every such reaching into a new thing beneath the microscope, and in this instance, it does not escape notice that each venturing into a religious practice not my own has been a path traced along the verdant landscape of an affection between me and another woman. Granted, there are quite a few other inputs regarding my interest in and entrance into the plains and valleys of Islamic tradition. And, as a result of many friendships, I’ve very often brushed up against the practice of Jewish rituals. There was a time, a long time ago, a lifetime ago in fact, when the thought of conversion, full-on religious conversion, held strong and frightening appeal. It no longer does, for a number of reasons, not the least of which is a buttressing of my own faith by the trials and tribulations that have attended the interim between then and now. But perhaps this increased confidence in my own grounding has stripped the fear away from what engaging in the practices and traditions of other religions might entail. There’s a common place that the desire comes from, a familiar pit, and it is perhaps heresy to suggest that ritual is ritual is ritual. But both Judaism and Islam have become fascinations of mine and I recognize that there’s this massive project of self-improvement and self-actualization that powers these tentative voyages. Underneath it all is the same reasoning that allows me to consider boxing as a semi-religious outing, or a weekend in New Haven with a woman who saved my life.
Amber and I inhaled burgers at Prime 16, a burger and beer joint of sorts, immediately prior to the movie. And joked about the absurdly named beers, whose monikers flashed on a screen behind me. Just above Amber’s head was a framed drawing, a chubby-cheeked “Blondie”-style face, colored red, with a tongue-sticking out. With the words “Le Monstre” emblazoned above. This prompted a story about my time in Provence as a high schooler and the family I lived with and how the matriarch’s grand-daughter would eye me, avidly, at the beginning of every dinner and, just before we would begin, would whisper hungrily, “le massacre commence.” Indeed, by the end of our meal, there was no trace of the Siracha bacon burger I’d ordered nor of the fries, except for a small slice of tomato-wedge that had managed to escape and tell the tale of the battle that was lost that day.
The previous day was spent in repose binge-watching back-episodes of Veep and ordering in Thai food, after which she baked brownies, much to both our delight.
The evening of my arrival was, I believe, the day that London elected Sadiq Khan to be its mayor, history being made at the ballot box. At work, there is no shortage of Muslims and one in particular with whom I’ve had the privilege of growing close has become the other half of a swiftly strengthening friendship. I’d participated in Lent, albeit in limited fashion, earlier this year, and the topic of Ramadan had passed through our conversation. I expressed interest, at which moment this woman’s face began to glow. But later that evening, in New Haven, at my best friend’s home, she and her fiancé invited me to Shabbat and, kneeling before the candles she had lit, we sang the prayers, after which she remarked I was a quick learner.
It’s become my habit of late to pass every such reaching into a new thing beneath the microscope, and in this instance, it does not escape notice that each venturing into a religious practice not my own has been a path traced along the verdant landscape of an affection between me and another woman. Granted, there are quite a few other inputs regarding my interest in and entrance into the plains and valleys of Islamic tradition. And, as a result of many friendships, I’ve very often brushed up against the practice of Jewish rituals. There was a time, a long time ago, a lifetime ago in fact, when the thought of conversion, full-on religious conversion, held strong and frightening appeal. It no longer does, for a number of reasons, not the least of which is a buttressing of my own faith by the trials and tribulations that have attended the interim between then and now. But perhaps this increased confidence in my own grounding has stripped the fear away from what engaging in the practices and traditions of other religions might entail. There’s a common place that the desire comes from, a familiar pit, and it is perhaps heresy to suggest that ritual is ritual is ritual. But both Judaism and Islam have become fascinations of mine and I recognize that there’s this massive project of self-improvement and self-actualization that powers these tentative voyages. Underneath it all is the same reasoning that allows me to consider boxing as a semi-religious outing, or a weekend in New Haven with a woman who saved my life.