moooooving on.
For a while, i've preferred quietly bowing out to dramatic public announcements, not wanting to endlessly retire like an aging rock band. But now, a solid three years into the exciting creation and invitation of theis forum into being, i'm stepping down formally, from any inolvement with 7fatcow, unconvinced that it exists at all.
No bitterness. Dissapointment would imply expectations, and all my hopes and expectations for this blog where satisfied right away, constantly, along with all my concerns and suspicions, re: the inevitably difficult nature of True Expression and Engagement. That was understood from the beginning to be OK. Sometimes, when you talk with people, a lot of bullshit comes out as cushion for any insight and genuine heart-of-self that might be revealed, and that condition was understood from the beginning: along with the genius in our wider community of not-quite-ex/not-quite-ohs is a multitude of protective layer of ego and dogma; of noise and principle, of assumption and of flawed language, furious at the implication that it must be probed to be understood. That's OK, as much as any of the troublesome nature of our world is to be called OK, it's part of who we have been, and how we have expressed.
All that said, it's boring now, because maybe we've gone as far as any of us wanted to go. One of our founding members has moved beyond interest in the conversation here, as a funner life beckoned where the wit was expresseable and the company close enough that trying to blog in a noise filled room of cheesy links and ironically repressive vulgarity became uncompelling, especially once the Twitter and Facebook Status update was given unto us, to let the impulse sound more immediately, without need for context, or consensus. And so, the chance to say just a few things here was all he needed.
Another founding member has tried to give up so many times, and the clamor of each dramtic farewell, combined with the unelaborated links and occasional disavowels of entire identities for fear of Who May Be Listening, and Who May Be Judged along with him, often prevented the depth of his insight from being expressed. He erased all his posts, psuedonym after psudonym, and tried to convince somebody that he was somebody, and not actually somebody. And in that noise, his genius is silenced, and a certain unconfrontational decadence tried to grow around him; alas, woe unto those who think their sacrifices will provide security, money, or love.
And around that, behind that, so much genius was expressed. Zoroastro/IslamoYid's and Atgate231's Scholarship, Class and Humor, Shitalpin's withering and ultimately humanist hot/cold sarcasm-masking-authenticity, Hashemsucksdick's marriage of post-religious concience and artistry, Mohammed's strange and shocking form of concience, Anivaho's Mercurial genius to let words permute into sublime association (even as any conceit towards divine synchronicty was despaired of) Yalhak's Majestic magnimamity and wholeness of vision/purity of impurity of perspective (along with the lucid clarity of Yesod, Aisav, and the other maaminim he brought) and the writers we never even really identified, who bought so much class, genius, and perfect kvetchery to the conversation (who was Hiavrom anyway? he was brilliant! I hope he's OK.)
All the Neo-Nazis who stopped by to let us now what was going on, all the feminists and fetishists, all the excited Chabadskers, all the grieving relatives– so much got circulated, and maybe so little was heard, who knows? who knows. Who knows how much we ever hear from each other that we weren't ready to chap. But I feel like a lot of rare expression and relative taboo was aired here, and i'm really proud of that. As proud as one can be of something that one just let happen.
All the martyrs and all the victims; all the heroes and all the wimps. All the Faggotry and all the ugly, ugly Charedi shock-porn. All the piety and simple faith. Everything but the bullshit, and the noise, and the hiding of ourselves inside of our conceptions. It really has been a great ride, and I can only pray that some of this survivesinto the annals ofHistory, the story of how the Jewish Problem was, if only for a moment, touched upon, if not successfully adressed, from within, rather than just from without. God bless you all, to move on, and see how easy it is just to start up a crazy fucking conversation in this great, wide future of accessible interests, may we one day merit to see it to it's end.
Shana Tov, and i'll see you at the Jubilee
Yoseph Leib,
AKA Yhosephus,
AKA the guy that fucked your sister, back when she was still cute.
Judaism.com
September 16th, 2009 at 7:38 am
Come on people, lets get this site cooking again.
September 16th, 2009 at 2:48 pm
Time for tchias ha maesim.
September 16th, 2009 at 6:04 pm
FOR THE COWS: A Poem
God? You asked me who you are.
“Who do people say I am?” you said.
Both horse and plough, you are, I said.
Both tiller and the fields you till, you are
to me who counts the numbers on the beast,
and is both least and most.
Jeezus! Listen to that old fart boast.
I tell you this in confidence:
I’ve warned him; yes, I have.
You must behave,
I’ve said,
and let the dead consume their dead, I’ve said.
But does he listen? No.
He only stares ahead and says to me
(or whatever he is staring at I cannot see)
“Will it snow?
I like the snow.”
I’m tired now. But sleep eludes me
more and more these days
and nights, too,
and what falls between.
When the voice from underneath the bed has said
“You are dying, Jew;
if not already dead.”
And what am I to do?
What am I to say?
What am I to do or say
to silence the speaker speaking under the bed?
To keep him under the bed? Or off the bed?
Shall I say,
“Leave me and go haunt the dead?”
Or, “Don’t mistake me for the dead?”
But there’s no mistake:
we are already dead,
or dieing.
Except the ones whom I admire, who keep on trying,
who keep on searching for desire
in the night dark,
the bedroom dark,
the bed dark,
behind the eyelids dark.
Trying. trying. trying.
While the rest of us are dieing. dieing. dieing
in the dark,
the night dark,
the bedroom dark,
the bed dark,
behind the eyelids dark.
– Yalhak
February 12, 2007
September 16th, 2009 at 6:08 pm
as always,,,,,,,love,,,,,,,yesod
September 18th, 2009 at 6:13 pm
I was at a sprint store trying to get my computer to talk to my blackberry and vice versa when the conversation meandered to a CSI episode where somebody sold his identity on the internet and I wanted tojoin in and tell them I had just been to a BBQ where somebody sold their afterlife but then realized that instead of ingratiating myself I would’ve just revealed I was from a different planet. Here’s to being from different planets.
Yalhak, really loved your poem if the site wasn’t dead I would’ve posted it.
Good night mrs. calabash, wherever you are.
September 21st, 2009 at 12:01 am
bwahahahaha mark. yeah it’s one thing to sell your soul…your afterlife, that’s a certain breed of wackery.
this post was obnoxious and mildly offensive…which i guess means the site lives on. i do think that self reflection does kill the cat. in which case, this post belongs in the afterlife, it was so painfully reflective.
as we get older the memories pile on. makes you want to just light ‘em up like a bonfire.
September 21st, 2009 at 8:45 am
Mark,
That’s ok. It was posted on 7fc when I originally wrote it, some two years ago. I repost it here more as a requiem for a dear friend than anything else.
Yalhak
September 22nd, 2009 at 12:23 pm
Yalhak, I wanted to ask you, if you were descendant of Shabtai Tzvi or Yakov Frank?
September 24th, 2009 at 6:31 pm
Shach,
No. Not a descendant of either, but I doubt anyone alive today is.
Yalhak
September 26th, 2009 at 8:47 pm
Dear Reb Yakov HaKohain,
You might not be a descendant, but the voice continues on. B’H!
October 21st, 2009 at 7:24 am
…and to all you jacob-frank worshiping perverts, who secretly wish to turn cholent into a disgusting leil seder right on top of the mountain of cigarette butts littering that filthy floor