I spent most of last night holed up in a steamy, stain-glass enclosed asylum, repenting and wiggling my skirt down. I had eaten far more than I should have in hopes that it would tide me over until 7:47 tonight, when what feels like the-slowest-fast-known-to-man will be called to a close, and I will gorge on whatever's closest. It's just about 5:00 pm, and I've broken my fast with an Americano and seven chocolate chips. Doesn't count. (Does it?)
Yes, Yom Kippur is supposed to be the holiest of holies, the one day where we get to say, 'shit, sorry about that, pal...' and all is forgotten. As a kid, it was a day off school. Now, taking the day off could mean a deadline missed or a mark forfeited. Like most things that take on greater significance as you get older, this tradition (I hesitate to say holiday) is no exception.
Without my family to force me, or grandparents to guilt me, I went to shul of my own accord - to take stock of my own actions, all for myself. In my most opaque tights, I stood for hours, and sat for seconds, in one of the most beautiful sanctuaries I've seen. And there, for the first time (because my mom wasn't there to whisper with me), I really, truly reflected on my many magnificent misdeeds.
Slighted my peers? Yes. Disrespected my parents? Yes. Lied? If I said no, I'd be guilty of that, too. Felt envy? Yes. Gossiped? Read on. Experienced a burning, fiery, insatiable need for revenge? Yes, yes, and yes. Eaten swine? Yes, once, but it didn't mean anything, I swear.
This list could go on, but I'll save the catharsis for my moleskine. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, ticking off an imaginary list of wrong-doings, and when I opened them, everyone around me continued to beat their chests with a closed, white-knuckled fist – in the symbolic Jewish customary way, not in the 'Celine Dion Live from Vegas' kinda way. It felt... important.
We are supposed to go to an open body of water and toss bits of bread into a moving stream. This is called Tashlich, and it's a practice that is supposed to represent a physical purging, releasing and then washing away of our sins. Today I put some stale melba toast into the toilet and flushed it. You can't be a good person all the time, but you can try.
It's been a big year. Big changes, with big achievements and disappointments to match. On (real) New Years, I made a few resolutions that I sort of bit the dick on. Lucky for me, I get a second go at a new beginning. I only hope that my complex-carb contraventions get lost in the sewage, and don't kill my plumbing.
As it turns out, dressing 'surrealist' is pretty dada-difficult. No one melted clocks to their clothing, but someone did carry a birdcage. At Salvador Darling we celebrated a darling of our very own in the most Man Ray kinda way, with bubbles and Brandy (songs) and whatever was left after the house red ran out, which was early, and for the first time, no fault of our own.