American Perversity

Today is the 31^st of May 2003. It is the Shabbat, and at exactly 08:30 I began to write. The streets are relatively quiet; there is a relaxed calm. So many of my fellow Angelenos, fellow Americans, fellow world travelers, have altered their weekly routines to catch up on rest and sleep in or sleep off or maybe even sleep over.

A life of prepositions, we try to find our place in the world. 

Around we go, next to nothingness under pressure, overextended, inside out, beyond reach, behind the concept, in deep shit, out of control; and some of these locations are literal and others figurative. But figuring it all out is literally half the battle; knowing who you are and your position in life – king or pawn, rook or knight, bishop or queen – is half the game; adapting and modifying, bending and breaking – the rules – is the other.

 Would you like half-and-half with your coffee? And as the raging bull steam-rolled toward the objective the crowd screamed “Olay,” as the blood of life – the matador’s that is – shot profusely onto the bull, over the bull and into the bull, as man and beast became one, sacrificing for one another in a game of life.  A bunch of bullshit, you might think, but I guess that depends on how you play the game. And if, for that matter, you’re really a player at all, as you sit in the stands in boxes or bleachers and drink your coffee. Aulait!  “Shabbat Shalom!”

I write “Shabbat Shalom” a lot and I want to make sure you remember from previous chapters the essence of the word “Shalom,” which could mean “hello” or “goodbye.” If the Beatles sang in Hebrew their song that examines the paradox of goodbyes and hellos, wouldn’t it sound pretty cool? Instead of the conflict created by “hello and goodbye,” instead it could be, “You say Shalom and I say Shalom.  Shalom, Shalom-- I don’t know why you say Shalom, I say Shalom.”

Anyway, “Shabbat” means Saturday, the Sabbath, “sabado,” and in fact the true seventh day, and therefore the true day of rest. Rest in peace, right?  Let’s hope; and that is the third meaning of Shalom: “peace.” And on this last day of May, the day after the real Memorial Day, I ask you, “Do we ever give peace a chance?”

Perhaps to us – especially Americans and our Israeli brothers and sisters, as well ... the concept of peace is captivating, but for many of us this is the essence of the predicament; we don’t want to be held captive.  We don’t want to be domesticated, we don’t want to play by the rules; no, in fact many of us like a good fight. We like seeing the bull win once in a while, and we like to hunt. It is in our nature.

 So one of the most daring games we play, where the rules and engagement are often murky, is the game of war – hunters and hunted, fighting each other, fighting ourselves, fighting domestication. And it seems impossible to imagine, giving peace a chance, as you drive by in your Beatle, past the Dakota and toward ground zero, listening to how stern everyone’s become, feeling sluggish rather than bullish, but the Yankees are playing tonight and ain’t nobody gonna’ drop a bomb on the Bronx. Yeah, Baby, take me out to the ball game . . .