Absolved, remitted, cancelled

Yom Kippur begins at sundown tonight and continues until dusk tomorrow. It’s the culmination of the Days of Awe in the Jewish calendar, and the time for a sort of moral Spring cleaning—the Day of Atonement, when you’re meant to rummage through your behavior over the previous year, acknowledge your shortcomings with respect to your fellow humans, apologize (to those they’ve trespassed against and to God) and resolve to do better.

Then—having cleared the slate, so to speak—you’re good to go for another year.

Well, the deal is that God opens the Book of Life on Rosh Hashanah and inscribes your name in it, but doesn’t close-and-seal it until the end of Yom Kippur. You have those ten Days of Awe to get your ducks in a row.

In recent times, people have taken to issuing blanket apologies for transgressions, presumably in the hope that anyone who’s actually suffered at their hands will happen by at the time the apology emerged, and will catch it in passing. And, of course, SoMe has amplified this impersonalization of what should be a very personal act of contrition.

I have never subscribed to the one-size-fits-all approach to giving or receiving apologies, but that’s just me. I mean—in the Roman Catholic Sacrament of Reconciliation, we’re meant to hawk up actual things we’ve done, say them out loud to the confessor and accept the penance we’re given. (Toughest priest I ever knew wouldn’t give you any generic Hail Marys or Our Fathers; no, no. If I’d been pissed off at my family, he’d tell me to go back and be specially nice to them. Killed me, he did.)

Protestants generally have no truck with confession and atonement. That may be because, being based on the teachings of John Calvin, they’re guided by the tenets of Predestination: God decided long before your birth whether you’re saved or damned, and nothing you can do here will change that. Therefore there’s not much point in calling out your transgressions, or promising to make amends—you’re headed where God sends you.

(Okay—there’s a lot of talk in some fundamentalist circles about repentance and forgiveness. But that seems largely to apply to Republican elected officials and some preachers who’ve been caught doing something that they can’t wriggle out of on account of the video and the forensic evidence. I take no notice of this.)

But I digress. This post is about Yom Kippur and the mindful inventory of one’s transgressions with a view to amending one’s trajectory in the New Year.

In synagogues and communities around the world just before sundown tonight, someone will be singing “Kol Nidre”, a call from the Ashkenazi tradition of Judaism. It’s a mixture of Aramaic and Hebrew, declaring null any oaths or commitments made to God from one Yom Kippur to the next, and asking for pardon for shortcomings in fulfilling those vows. The idea, as I understand it, is to mitigate the sin of failing to fulfill a vow that might have been made rashly. (It also annulled any vows associated with forced conversion to Christianity, which was a thing for a long time.)

Both Al Jolson and Neil Diamond sang “Kol Nidre” in their appearances in The Jazz Singer (1927 and 1980, respectively). Johnny Mathis and Perry Como have also recorded it, which seems passing odd to me. But I’m giving you Cantor Julia Kadrain of the Central Synagogue (a Reform shul in Midtown Manhattan) leading it for Yom Kippur 5776 (nine years ago).

May your name be sealed in the Book of Life.

 

©2024 Bas Bleu

 

 

Spores, music and food

These may be the last of the mushrooms for the season. They’re beside the W&OD Trail, a location where I’ve seen their ilk in the past.

This one reminds me of the little guy in "Tea", the Chinese dance in The Nutcracker, as depicted in Fantasia.

Dunno why, but I’m thinking about risotto. Mushroom risotto.

 

  

©2024 Bas Bleu

 

 

Cookiewise

So, there’s this chain of specialty bakeries called Crumbl Cookies. They have a store near me in the People’s Republic, in a nothing-but-eateries section of a local shopping center. I noticed it because it’s next to the place I patronize for kabob.

Last year I had a conversation about it with my physical therapist—I just don’t get how making one single thing can be the basis of a successful business model. (I also don’t get the lasting power of Nothing Bundt Cake, except they may have an advantage in corporate catering.) She said she’d tried them, and they were acceptable. But I’ve still never got round to going in to check them out.

A couple of weeks ago I got a fancy for the lamb and chicken kabob platter, so I trotted over to the shopping center and noticed this:

I wondered if they were going out of business, or maybe had a super big sale going on. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a place that is entirely takeout this full, outside of maybe a Massachusetts ice cream parlor in July. And as I waited for my combo platter, I watched people streaming by with pink boxes—some quite wide and maybe an inch tall, and some the size of a box that would hold a couple of cupcakes.

Well, The Washington Post got wind of the raging phenomenon and decided to review the product. Turns out they didn’t much like it—too sweet and tending to be underbaked. Evidently that’s because of their size; by the time the edges are done and headed toward burning, the centers are still near-raw.  

But here’s the kicker: the cookies cost $6. Each.

Nope.

 

 

 

 

©2024 Bas Bleu

 

At last

Well, I saw my first one in the wild.

Not even impressed enough to veer 20 meters off the W&OD Trail to get a closer look.

Also—it was at a cheap-ass 7-ELEVEN wannabe. Whatever class it has is all low.

Hope he's not insured with GEICO.

 

 

 

 

©2024 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: brilliance

In these crazy times, we none of us are assured of anything. Aside from human-induced climate-related natural disasters, we’re surrounded by two major kinetic wars; worldwide cyber crime aimed at crippling infrastructure, healthcare and communications; the global rise of right-wing authoritarianism; and a presidential election here that pits a proven upholder of the Constitution against a convicted felon whose campaign relies on unprecedented lying and incitement to violence to support winning at all costs.

The costs to be paid by everyone but him.

Plus—I’m still being chewed to shreds by bloody mosquitos. In October.

My point is—no matter how battened down we think our lives are, we’re all one layoff, one aneurysm, one rogue Waymo or one batshit crazy True Believer away from everything turning upside down. So I’ve taken to trying to focus on the things around me—in whatever format they might appear—that remind me of the grace and blessings that do exist, even if they’re ephemeral.

Today it’s the hibiscus that my neighbor planted. (Y’all know how I love hibiscus.)

She gets actual sun (unlike my yard), and she recently set out a bunch of plants and shrubs, including these stunners. I don’t know where hibiscus originated, but these guys remind me of the colors or Mexico, or the Little India neighborhood of Singapore. Just in-your-face look-at-me vibrant hues. You just have to smile when you see them.

Today I’m grateful for my neighbor, her garden and these beauties. How could I not be?

 

©2024 Bas Bleu

As I lay dying

Today’s earworm has to be from Kris Kristofferson, who died Saturday at age 88.

Son of a career Air Force officer, Kristofferson earned a degree in English at Pomona College, where he also played football and boxed. (I have to frame this by telling you that Pomona plays in the same athletic league as Cal Tech. But still…) He won a Rhodes Scholarship to Merton College, Oxford, where he studied (among other literature) the poetry of William Blake.

You may or may not know this, but while a Rhodes Scholarship is an academic honor, you also have to be an athlete; it was founded by that Muscular Christian White Nationalist Cecil Rhodes, who definitely believed in mens sana in corpore sano.

He left Oxford to take a commission in the U.S. Army, where he flew helicopters in Germany. That made his parents happy, but when the Army proposed his next assignment as teaching English literature at West Point, he resigned his commission and moved to Nashville.

It was time for him to live his life as a poet.

His family disowned him.

Kristofferson came on the country music scene in the 60s. Though that’s not really my jam, his songs resonate deeply. They’re largely about fleeting relationships that nevertheless provide a bright, if short, light. They are also deeply sensual. Like the opening verse from “Help Me Make It Through the Night”:

“Take the ribbon from your hair     
“Shake it loose and let it fall
“Layin’ soft upon my skin
“Like the shadows on the wall.”

Whoo-ee, that is some hot stuff right there.

Kristofferson’s biggest hit was probably “Me and Bobby McGee”, written in 1970. I first heard it sung by Gordon Lightfoot, and Janis Joplin went No. 1 on the chart with her posthumously released cover that same year. I confess that for the past week I’ve been stuck on “With those windshield wipers slappin’ time and Bobby clappin’ hands, We finally sung up every song that driver knew.”

“Bobby McGee” gave us the catchphrase “Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose; nothin’ ain’t worth nothin’, but it’s free.” If you look, you can find the threads of Blake in Kristofferson’s work.

As with JD Souther last week, there’s so much to choose from with Kristofferson. But I’m going with “Loving Her Was Easier”. He was an amazing balladeer, and there's a whole lot of Blake in the imagery.

 

©2024 Bas Bleu

 

Never too early

Welp, folks—here we are:

But I guess if you were stocking up on Christmas décor in Costco early last month, you’ll want to book your light hangers now.

 

 

©2024 Bas Bleu

 

As the year turns

Jews around the world will gather with families and friends at sundown tonight to welcome in the year 5785. Rosh Hashanah begins with the call of the shofar at a synagogue service, and continues with a meal that traditionally includes a round challah (symbolizing the circle of life) and apples dipped in honey (for a sweet year).

It also marks the ten Days of Awe, when Jews reflect upon the past year and consider what they might have done better. The Days end with Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, when Jews acknowledge the wrongs of the previous year and ask forgiveness—from both the person(s) they’ve wronged and from God.

As I’ve written before, I think it’s a custom that pretty much everyone could benefit from. Most Christians pay lip service (literally) to the notion of atonement when they recite that passage of the Lord’s Prayer that goes, “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” But there are a shedload of Christians who run through that whole prayer without giving it much thought. They also run through their lives the same way.

That may be true of Jews at the High Holy Days, too. But I think that taking entire days out of your life and devoting them to thoughts of enumerating your transgressions and asking forgiveness (as well as accepting others’ apologies) tends to focus the mind.

A lot has happened in this world since the start of year 5784. Much of it appalling. At time of writing, that includes Iran launching ballistic missiles on Israel. Let’s all of us—Jew and gentile alike—see if we can’t do better this time around. I wish all my Jewish friends (whether in Herndon, New York or on a cruise somewhere in the world) L'Shanah Tovah.

  

©2024 Bas Bleu

 

Birthday boy

Former president Jimmy Carter is celebrating his birthday today. It’s his 100^th. He’s the first US president to live to this age and may be the only argument I know of against the dictum that the good die young.

(The Carter Center)

Because there can’t be a sentient being on earth who does not recognize that Carter is a good man.* Perhaps not the best president (although he did have to contend with the Reagan campaign’s ratfucking him in cahoots with the Iranians holding 53 American citizens hostage), yet he still brought Israel and Egypt together in the Camp David Accords (for which Menachim Begin and Anwar al-Sadat won the Nobel Peace Prize), developed a national energy policy and pardoned Vietnam War draft dodgers.

Post-presidency, Carter blossomed into an elder statesman, a humanitarian and a force for peace around the world. He himself won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2002, for the work done through his Carter Center. He’s a Christian in ways tens of thousands of evangelical fundamentalists cannot fathom: he follows the teachings of Christ.

And he had the most amazing, loving marriage to Rosalyn, which lasted for 77 years, until her death last year. I feared for him when she died, because they seemed so indelibly unified; I thought he would follow her soon after.

But he revealed a while ago that he intends to live long enough to cast his vote for Kamala Harris for president and so far he’s holding out. (I thought of him last week when I voted—one of my reasons for seizing the moment was that I no longer have to worry about being hit by a bus and missing out on my chance to do the same.) If he hasn’t already filled out his mail-in ballot, early voting in Georgia begins on the 15^th. I’d like him to hold on for at least Harris’s inauguration, but if he and the Almighty have something worked out between them, it’s got my full support. 

Happy birthday, Jimmy. Many, many happy returns.

 *Yes, I know the Kleptocrat uses Carter as a punchline; I said sentient.

 

©2024 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: Change of plan

Yeah—I had a plan for early voting.

I was going to put on one of my Women’s March tee-shirts and the pearls I haven’t worn since I left Korea in the last century, go over to the North County Government Center and cast my ballot for the electors committed to Kamala Harris and Tim Walz for president and vice president.

It was going to be a whole thing.

Then last Wednesday around noon, I was scrambling around my freezer trying to find something for dinner. It was a drizzly day, on the cool side, and I’m a little bit tired of my all-salads-all-the-time summer diet. So I pulled out a salmon fillet. Then I remembered: I don’t have any more lime butter, and I don’t have a lime to make more.

Okay—put the salmon back and took out a cod fillet. Then I remembered: I used up all the spinach and broccolini, so no veg.

So I put back the cod and pulled out a chicken breast. I could have <sigh> another Greek salad. About the 12,347^th such I’ve had in the past three months.

Fine.

I messed about the house for some time until I just decided—screw it, I’ll go get some spinach. Grabbed the car key and my wallet and headed out to Trader Joe.

(You have to understand: I don’t much like going out in the afternoon, and going to Trader Joe’s any time later than about 1000 is to immerse yourself in a special kind of chaos, particularly in the parking lot with all the SUVs. But I wanted spinach, damnit.)

Made a quick pass in the produce section, grabbing spinach, broccolini and arugula and hoofed it to my car.

NCGC isn’t on my normal route home, but it wasn’t out of my way, so I thought I’d swing by to see how voting was going. Early voting in Virginia began 20 September, and there were long lines at voting stations across the Commonwealth. I don’t like lines.

Well, like I said—it was a kind of dismal day, so I suppose many people decided it wasn’t a good day to wait in line—there was no line visible outside the entrance.

I had a choice—did I wait for a time when I could Deploy My Plan, or did I vote?

I parked the car near these and went in.

It took a little longer than usual because the machine that counts your vote didn’t like the first ballot I submitted. (In addition to the presidential vote, we had congressional and senatorial candidates to choose. TBH, I’m rather disinclined to vote for someone who’s held office since time began; but this particular incumbent does seem to be taking his job seriously, so I did mark the circle next to his name.) But in total it was less than 10 minutes out of my day, and that’s a good investment, I say.

(BTW: ballots in Virginia are printed in English, Spanish and Viet. I love that this no doubt eats the lunch of every MAGAt. Also--the Commonwealth leaflet on voting arrived in my snailmailbox on Saturday; more than a week after voting commenced. God damned confederates.)

Then I went home and had cod and about half a bag of spinach for dinner. Washed down with a glass of champagne.

So that’s my gratitude: my civic duty is done, my voice has been heard and if a bus hits me any time in the future, I can did happy knowing that I lived long enough to vote against the Kleptocrat three times. This time I hop it scotches the snake.

 

 

©2024 Bas Bleu 

 

 

©2024 Bas Bleu