Deep Fried Words for the Squeamish

I work in a town of antiquated, closed-minded Judaica scholars and their families, and I sell them the exotic dish of sushi. Blossom rolls, goldengate rolls, crayola rolls, etcetera, etcetera. The executive chef deep fries a lot of the dishes so the queasy consumer can avoid the monumental challenge of consuming raw fish. And I am a deep sea diver.

The kinds of characters that flit through the door include but are not limited to: short hasids, fat litvaks, and sephardim in business suits and running shoes. There are uphats, downhats, wide-brimmed hats, crushed hats, and no hats at all. Large velvety yarmulkas that surround the entire head, flimsy cotton ones that are pointy at the top, ones with little beads sewn in with tiny pebbles flown in from the Land of Israel, and small colored suede ones that are barely noticeable especially on tall hulking modern orthodox men in polo shirts. Jews are definitely a funny bunch, written about, fantasized about, pillaged, raped, scorned, scoffed at, laughed at, leered at, and lusted after. Boys come in are on their way back to yeshivas in Jerusalem, girls come in pregnant with curiosity and ambition to mother great leaders of the Jewish People or at least simple men of faith.

There is no longer anything like a simple faith. I know I need an elegant solution for my perpetually questioning, seeking, tormented, delighted, deluded, realistic, fantastically unstructured mind. Spontaneity pours out of my pores, routine and habit describe my every act, and surprised at the continuation of time, linear or sidereal, I behoove myself to react to it by suspending its sway over me and where I stand. Yes it seems to be headed that way, chicken without a head, backseat of a car with gentle bespectacled scholar with fair hair, mischievous eyes and a mystical tract clasped to his heart and mind. All the experiences add up after a while and get misplaced in compartments of the brain, to be brought back to life by some unexplained mechanisms at the most sporadic, random intervals. The barrage of images overwhelms the senses, as does the fact that overwhelmed is the default state of most men these days. Yes, the strong will prevail, and the weak will wilt. The meek shall perish, and the headline seekers will remain forever. The clash of civilizations will never end, as my need to learn how to type. Televisioning is signaling its relinquishing of relevance to teleology. Words remain words for the remainder of their meaning. Sentences begin to break and chafe against each other, recalling books that were written and read long ago, inhabiting places in people’s minds for a lifetime. I was taught that long ago an aphorism, a teaching, a lesson could be sufficient and last with a person for a lifetime. Now teachings last as long as they are not understood, maybe appearing at a far in the future undisclosed date as understanding. Wisdom comes and goes unnoticed among the masses or even among those who know. Doctors of psychiatry, believers of a god, spiritual masters, explain to troubled young men sitting on rooftops blasted out of their brains with shock and awe of and from life, that everything they know will be forgotten. No one’s fault but the design of the mind. Teachings stay submerged, comprehension appears seldomly, often not at the time that it’s needed most. Contradictory sayings and thoughts are pulled out of pockets, and great glory comes to no one who can bear its true import. I’m accused of being a seeker of renown as if everybody isn’t their momma’s boy. Withstanding bouts of madness without being mad, or being mad at the madness and extinguishing it with normal emotions. Ablutions are shunned, offerings are rebuffed, prayers are returned to sender, accounts receivable, payable, closed out. Is this for you or is this for me? I rear my rear end, ugly head, tight end wide receiver. Descending into pits of free time and untenable thoughts and untenable life situations, and it’s all about the new lines of coffee makers, drip drop and ten dollar lattes and meetings in the park and caterwauling grammarians and self-conscious seething and unbalanced postures and monogamous leanings. Go ahead try to finish the thought. And the calls keep coming in, piling up, phone lines owned and ported through voice IP systems and cascading style sheets and inessentials, extranea. Astringent as stringent solvent, make me a lenient lentil soup. And it’s all factored in.

Fear of risks are for conscientious folk, not for those who live in the fast lane, especially those who drive 135 on the parkway and cause dear passenger friends to weep. Weaving in and out of poetry and prose, the waking life comes to a shuddering halt until the typing commences to cause head to ache, and refuge is found in a cup of tea and milk. The stories that come into sushi express roll up to the counter, telling their tell all telltale hasidic folk tales.