Wet Woollen Wonders

I normally don't put up pictures of myself and referring to my Halloween costume so late after the actual event borders on attention-whoredom, but I hadn't had a chance to comment yet. And as I need to post today and I haven't totally worked out what happened yesterday in my head, I figured today would be as good as any.

See, most of this costume is not mine. The socks, Aberdeen shirt, and Aye, Jimmy hat all belong to my brother. But the kilt... well, the kilt's all mine.

Why I spent $80 on a kilt that I'll rarely be able to wear is hard for even me to explain. That is my tartan (albeit of the hunting family) and that is my clan pin on the lower left-hand side, but the chances of me finding a reason to go to class in this are very far in between. And, dammit, wool is itchy. The last wool scarf I bought is still hanging-- unused-- in my closet because I can't bring myself to put it around my sensitive neck.

Although, wool does smell nice when wet. Kind of like a clean barnyard animal. But that's besides the point.

I think the reason I spent so much money was because I was coming to the end of my stay in Scotland. It was my last day in Edinburgh. For the year. And I stood in the midst of the Edinburgh Woolen Mill, cash on my debit card, and the soon-to-be-mine kilt.

Oh, the temptation was too much. I usually don't get too into retail therapy, but leaving the place I had called my home for five months sort of pushed my reserve out of the window.

I miss the rain that was never too cold or too warm. I miss all those damn sheep. I miss Hamish the Hairy Coo. I miss the unintelligible accents. I miss the lochs. I miss those damn hard assignments. I miss my little room. I miss the amazing highland water. I miss the wonderful public transportation. I miss the year-round, preternatural green. I miss Scotland.

My only recourse: spritz some water on my woollen kilt and breathe in deeply, then dream of my adopted home.

K.

Sky High

In reality, I probably should be in bed, healing before I have to work at the Eagles game later today, but such is my determination to do this NaBloPoMo thing right that I am dizzily sitting up typing this post.

Because my brain cells are currently firing at a very low level, I decided that I needed to find a prompt. So, here it is:

If I Had a Super Power-- from 55 More Blog Posts I Hope You Write

Okay, so mine is a pretty common one: I'd like to fly.

I think one of the reasons that I took up swimming when I was a kid was because it was the closest thing I thought I would ever get to actually soaring through the air. When you sink to about a foot off the bottom of the pool and just glide, it's easy to pretend that you're looking down at the ground. The lane markers become remarkably straight rivers, the tiles city grid maps. You can hang on to this fantasy for as long as you hold your breath. Then you need to surrender to your burning lungs and burst through the surface. The freezing air on your skin and the shouts of a public pool remind you that you aren't flying after all.

Sometimes I dream of flying. It's fun for a while, but then I suffer from what I call the Hitchhiker's Guide Syndrome-- namely, if you think about it too much, you start to plummet. I glide for a while, but then I begin wondering exactly how I am moving. Do I have some sort of jet propulsion in the soles of my feet? Am I being pushed by air currents? If I move my arms breaststroke-style, can I go faster? All the while I am steadily losing altitude.

It bothers me sometimes. Why can't I just enjoy flight and give up on the science of the whole thing?

Maybe next time I have this dream, I will concentrate on how fluffy the clouds look from this angle or count the number of bald heads I see from above. Anything to keep flying.

K.

In a Burst of Uncreativity...

One of the reasons I get so cranky at school is because I'm without my cranky little featherball, Tookie. My apartment doesn't allow pets and I think a parakeet would be very difficult to hide.

So, in honor of the little guy who chews on my hands makes and me smile even when I feel like I'm going to throw up, this post is for him.

(Apologies for phoning it in today-- still not feeling well.)









K.

Oh, For the Love of G-D!

Seriously, I don't know what's wrong with my body this week. Wednesday night was spent heaving over a toilet bowl; last night I managed to sleep for about half an hour sideways on my twin bed, feet dangling off one end and head hanging in a trashcan off the other. I got to see the sun rise, a privilege I would have immediately given up for just three more hours of sleep.

There used to be a time when my sick days were often spent like those Victorian ladies with the vapors-- in bed with toast and plenty of parental sympathy. As I get older, I get sick in far more disgusting ways. To top it off, I'm alone.

While it's no fun revisiting your dinner, it's even less fun to do it when there is no one to stroke your back and keep your hair from a horrible fate. It just makes you feel worse.

Luckily for me, I do have a chance to go home this weekend, but I'm a little scared to do it in my condition. The last time I was on a train while ill, an entire carriage-load of Glasgow-bound commuters thought that I was an irresponsible drunk with a hangover. I sacrificed my favorite sweatshirt to hide the evidence. So it's fair to say that I'm slightly worried.

So now, to sleep-- hopefully. We'll see if my poor body can handle the train ride later.

K.

PS. Oh, that picture that I put up is disgusting, but strangely apt.

When Stupid Trivia is Awesome

(Ooh, bad language ahead.)

During Poetry Workshop today, our professor assigned our fourth and final poem. The goal was to adopt another persona and write from that point of view. For an example, she gave us the story of Medusa and Athena and instructed us to write from Medusa's point of view.

For those who don't know the story, Medusa was once one of the most beautiful women in the land and soon attracted the attentions of Poseidon, god of the seas. The two did some naughty things in Athena's temple, sending the goddess into a rage. In revenge, she turned Medusa into the monster we all know today.

Here's what I wrote:

"The Mistress of the Western Gates," they call me.
A term of appeasement used only when my eyes are open
and my hair is alive.
Asleep, I am the monster, the horror,
the hated of the Lady of Wisdom.
Athena, that gray-eyed bitch, who guards her virtue
with lance and shield, must surely have gazed in jealousy
as I was loved by the King of Tides.
The thought that she chokes down her ambrosia alone,
with only her flea-bitten owl for company,
keeps my vitals pulsing and my teeth sharp.

Hard for you to believe, I'm sure, but I was quite a dork back in the day. I used to spend quite a bit of time reading Greek myths and studying up on Greek gods. Athena, for her interesting patronage of both wisdom and war, was my absolute favorite. So when it came time to write this, I had a ton of trivia to pull out. I felt a little bad about it-- it takes a lot of studying to know that Athena was gray-eyed or one of the three goddesses who didn't procreate with freakin' everything around them.

One of those few times dumb knowledge comes in handy.

K.

PS. Happy NaBloPoMo to y'all. And happy NaNoWriMo as well!

Kate is a Liar (again!)

Right, so I mentioned that I had joined NaNoWriMo the other day. The more I think about it, the more I believe that there is no way I can possibly get this done this year. I have papers out the wahzoo and I have Thanksgiving vacation on Chincoteague Island, VA. Whether I'll have internet at that point, I don't know, but I know that I won't have time to write 2,000 words a day during my vacation. I mean, I'll try it, but I honestly don't think that it will happen.

So I've decided I'll at least keep myself writing in a second way with NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month. Why this month should be different from all other months, I don't know, but I think that having two different types of impetus to keep writing.

Or maybe I'm just a serial website joiner. Hey, could be.

K.

What You Can Do

While puttering around my traditional blogosphere route, I came upon yesterday's post by Irina over at The IgNoble Experiment. Irina muses a little over the war and mentions that a fellow blogger, The Bow-Tied Blogger's Thomas, was now in Iraq. One of her commenters mentioned that it was all very well to say "Support the troops," but what can we specifically do? That got me thinking, so I've been searching a little while for ways to show your support, not for the war itself, but the troops.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that I am firmly undecided on anything and everything. Both sides of the congressional aisle anger me almost everyday and I have within drawn from politics in general. However, my views on the war are pretty set. My goal here is not to sway anyone in any direction. It is my opinion that the troops should not suffer the anger we direct at our government. As I said on Irina's blog, you cannot blame the cogs for the mistakes of the machinist. All I want to do it to bring some options to your attention so you can make your own decisions on how you wish to show your support.

Soldiers' Angels- This organization sends letters and packages to soldiers overseas, most of whom don't have anyone to write to them. If you have the funds, you can adopt a soldier with the understanding that you will send him/her a letter per week and at least one care package per month. I particularly like this organization because, when I was a camper, I adored letters and packages. It made me feel like someone was thinking about me. I can't imagine what a letter must mean to a kid so far from home.

Injured Marine Semper Fi Fund- Donating money to this charity will provide financial assistance to marines and sailors suffering from injuries or life-threatening illnesses. Money will also go to help pay for specialized equipment, such as handicap vans and modifications to homes.

AnySoldier.com- This is much like Soldiers' Angels, but without the commitment. The organizations have contacts within the army who distribute packages and letters to those who don't receive mail. There is also AnyMarine.com, AnySailor.com, AnyAirman.com, and AnyCoastGuard.com.

National Military Family Association- With a monetary gift to the NMFA, you can send a child of a deployed soldier to camp, help soldiers' spouses get scholarships for college, or many other forms of assistance. The NMFA can apparently also use volunteers to work at the headquarters. So if you have the time and money, this is a worthy cause.

The Fisher House™ Program- This organization provides comfortable homes near military and VA hospitals so that family can always be nearby to a person in need.

Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund- Money donated to this organization will go to support the families of fallen soldiers. The money recently went to a state-of-the-art medical center in Texas.

Jewish War Veterans of the United States- JWV is running the SOS Programs, which sends care packages to Jewish servicemen and servicewomen . The packages are distributed by the chaplain attached to the unit.

Alright, there are a bunch of charities to show your support for our troops overseas and at home. Please, if you have any other charities that you'd like me to mention, leave a comment and I will post it.

K.

Haveil Havalim #138

It's been a while since I've linked to this, but here is that world famous Haveil Havalim back on this blog again.

Huzzah!

K.

Proving My Point From the Last Post

While I'm a real fan of this video, the some 1,000 comments to it make me seethe. And really, it is from both sides. Read them, if you have the stomach for it.

The only way to have peace is to listen, which I don't think has been done on a large scale. If listening doesn't work, then I don't know what will.

Damn, now I need a hug.

K.

clipped from www.youtube.com

My Demonic Quarterly Review

[It's been a couple of weeks since I was on the receiving end of two anti-Jewish slurs, targeted at my aversion to spend from my dwindling coffers. From friends, I'll take it; from nearly-complete strangers, expect a quite rage. And thus I began to formulate a satire based on what some people must think my life is like. Here it is. Enjoy.]

I arrived home from class the other day just in time for my quarterly progress review. This was made clear by the whiff of sulfur that charged out of my apartment when I opened the door, the eerie music dominated by minor chords thundering out of my stereo, and the small demon perched on my kitchen counter, fussing with my toaster.

"Oh, is it that time already?" I asked, dropping my bookbag and flipping off the radio (66.6 YHELL FM, if you're inclined to listen). The demon looked up.

"It will be if this toast ever makes an appearance." He determinedly jammed a knife into the slits, absorbing the corresponding electric shock with a frisson of pleasure.

I peered over his thin shoulders. "You people made the thing."

"Doesn't mean that we can figure it out, though, does it?" The demon threw the knife down with a sigh and sprang from the countertop. "Look, I have very little time and quite a bit of paperwork, so I think we should get started." With that, he clamored on to my futon, poofing a pair of reading glasses on to his crooked nose and a legal pad into his claws.

"Sure."

"And take off that ridiculous disguise." He glanced down over his glasses with distaste. "It gives me the creeps."

"Alright." Shrugging, I slid my thumbs beneath my blonde wig, letting my springy locks jut forth, giving me that surprised, wind-tunnel look. The demon watched as I carefully pulled my blue contacts from my eyes, the cute nose prosthetic from my own hooked proboscis, and set them both in their corresponding cases.

"Is all that absolutely necessary?"

"To blend in, sure." I fluffed up my mousy hair then went to stand in front of him. "Well."

"Well," he repeated. "Well, I suppose we should start this off officially." He stood up on the couch, bring him up about to my clavicle. We performed the traditional salute: a few hip-swivels, some lyrics from a death metal song, that sort of thing. Then we both sat and got down to work.

"Look, I must be frank, here," the demon began. "My lord Satan (blessed be He) has been very displeased by the work you people have been doing up here."

"Has He?"

"Indeed. He figures that with so many of you infiltrating high levels of government and economics and entertainment, something must be happening." He consulted his notes. "And, to a certain extent, it has. Those of you in the White House have been doing a marvelous job. And He does have an entire Middle Eastern nation doing His bidding as we speak. But there are some of you who just aren't pulling your weight." The demon gave me a pointed look.

"I've been doing some things."

"'Some things.' 'Some things' is not enough to keep you on the payroll."

"I've always defended Israel."

"Not good enough," the demon said.

"Just the other week, two people accused me of being cheap. I'm keeping up the stereotype."

"Are you?" He lifted an eyebrow. "I know you've been passing pennies on the street, yet you haven't picked them up. Do you call that 'keeping up the stereotype?'"

"I suppose not."

"And," his reedy voice rose an octave, "are you aware that there are currently two dimes just sitting on your bathroom floor?"

"Yes." I frowned. "But I thought that if it were in my bathroom, it would--"

"No! Invest them in high interest accounts! Did you learn nothing during orientation?" I cast my gaze downward. He continued. "Look, I have a list here of what your ancestors used to do in His great name. Have you poisoned a well recently?"

"No."

"Kidnapped any Christian babies?"

"No."

"But you've had chances, haven't you"

"Yeah."

"Hmm." His skin tone darkened to a deep scarlet. "Used the blood of the righteous to make Passover matzahs?"

"No. I went to Israel for Passover, though? Doesn't that count for anything?"

"Fine, I'll put a check there. Have you desecrated any holy water?"

"No."

"Spat on communion wafers?"

"No."

"Given the middle finger to any sort of Christian establishment?"

I started. "My ancestors used to do that?"

"No, but I thought I would throw you a bone." The demon raised his eyebrow again. "Well, have you?"

"Not strictly Christian institutions, no."

"Lent any money and charged a outrageous interest on it?"

"No." The demon threw down his pad in disgust.

"Do you see what I'm talking about? People like you are mooching off the Demonic Funds Department and sending Hell into a recessionary spiral! You should be out there, doing what you all were bred for, instead of spending our hard-earned money on trinkets like fake noses." He waved a claw in the direction of my discarded disguise. "Plenty of your people use their actual noses and still manage to do their jobs!"

I could feel the tears welling up and knew that my nose was being to run. I sniffed hard.

"Oh, by Lucifer's leathery wings, don't cry! Crying never helps!" The demon glared impotently as I began to sob in great, mucousy bursts. "Look, just stop-- I'll give you a satisfactory mark for this quarter if you'll just quit it." He scribbled something down on his pad, then poofed it out of existence. "Just try to do better. Kick a kid wearing a cross, trip a nun, steal money from a church's tithing basket. Anything! I don't want to have to fire you. You'll not find a better gig than this and the health benefits are just awful when you start playing for the other team."

I gave him a watery smile, nodded, and wiped my eyes with the back of my hands. The demon sighed with relief.

"There, that's better." He stood up, struggling for balance as his hooves sunk into my futon. "I'll see you next quarter. And I'll probably not be so lenient. I'm going to have Him on my tail as it is." He gave me an abbreviated salute, then, in a puff of sulfur, disappeared.

I sat for a moment, then got up, grabbing my industrial-strength Febreeze. A great grin broke out over my face, banishing my tears back into their ducts to be used for labor. Good ol' demons and their weakness for crying women.

Who said I wasn't evil?

NaNoWri Oh No!

Seriously, what possessed me to sign up for this when I clearly do not have any time? Or idea. Or plot.

I barely have enough time to study, work, do anything in this blog, or eat, much less write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. Oh well, I supposed that the NaNoWriMo people aren't going to come after me with torches and pitchforks if I'm unable to finish.

But maybe they'll haunt my dreams. :(

K.

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Just Say No to Braveheart

Lost Worlds - The History Channel - History.com

Instead of watching my usual brain-rotting shows, I flipped to the always awesome History Channel. A flash of the familiar Stirling Castle, the sound of melodic Scottish accents, and I'm suddenly sitting flush to the TV, happily identifying landmarks of the city I lived in for five months. It would be harder to find a happier person at that point.

Until I saw the title of the episode...

"The Scotland of Braveheart"

"Oooooh, no," I breathed, pressing the heels of my hands to my mouth. "No, History Channel, no!"

But yes. Braveheart. Referring to William Wallace. Dear G-d.

For anyone that has ever spent time in Scotland, you know that only peddlers of tourist trinkets relate the Mel Gibson William Wallace to the true William Wallace. You'll find shot glasses with a be-kilted and be-woaded Wallace, which only those who came to Scotland after seeing "Braveheart" buy. As any tour guide or historian will tell you, Wallace was actually a lowland Scot (represent, woot!)-- an aristocrat, in fact-- who probably never wore a kilt a day in his life.

And he was not called Braveheart.

In fact, it's said that the term arose in reference to Robert the Bruce. It was Bruce's dream to go on crusade, but he never got the chance. Instead, after his death, his heart was cut out of his body and taken on the next trip south to the Holy Lady. It is said that during one pitched battle, the man carrying Bruce's heart threw it into the midst of the fight, inspiring the men to victory. It was then that Robert the Bruce was referred to as "Braveheart."

Not Wallace. Bruce.

So it's really getting on my nerves that this show constantly refers to Wallace by that erroneous name. Not only that, they showed the wooden sculpture that sits in front of the Wallace Memorial. The artist gave Wallace the face of Mel Gibson and the kilt and mace that appeared in the movie. Stirling residents were not pleased and someone even went so far as to knock off the statue's nose. The statue now sits behind a ten-foot high fence. "Frrrrreedom" indeed.

All of this rage is not to say that I have a lack of respect for Wallace. I actually am rather impressed by his fighting prowess and height (judging by his sword, people believe that he must have been about 6 foot something, huge for that time period... Gibson is a wee person compared to him). However, I am realistic. I know that he was no highland hero, I know that he wasn't that much of a strategist (Andrew Murray, anyone?), and I certainly know that "Braveheart" is merely entertainment and nothing more.

But seriously, History Channel? Stop calling him Braveheart. I mean it.

K.

Accidentally X-posted to The Write Links.

Catching Up

Having become jaded and impatient with news, news media, current events, 24-hour news channels, and the like, I have spent several weeks away from anything that might possibly be happening outside of my apartment and my university campus. Really, the only news that I have gotten from the world is that the Phillies got into the play-offs, but that's only because I live near Philly. That, and that the Phillies were declared the losingest team of all time at the beginning of the season. It's alot to live down.

It seems, though, that I have been losing track of things. I missed the whole Myanmar/Burma thing, the Jena 6 issue, and the incident with independent contractors in Iraq. It's very unlike me. If you had spoken to me freshman through junior years of college, I could have conversed with anyone about anything. Renaissance woman, you know. Right now, all I can tell you is that Britney Spears lost the custody of her children. Not really world-changing news.

So I decided to putter around the Internet for a little to catch up on the news. This is the stuff that I find interesting:

A scandalous character takes his final bow - CNN.com

So this is the end of the famous Nathan Zuckerman, who has acted as Philip Roth's literary counterpart for 25 years. :(

Oh well, perhaps it will lead to more strange plots in the future.

US senators slam lack of Arab support for Mideast conference

You're damned if you do, you're damned if you don't. This bears watching, I think.

K.

Trying Not to Have a Cow (, Dude)

"Campus Speak"- New York Times

I found this article off of the always amusing Best Week Ever blog. The entry featuring it was so ridiculous that I just had to follow the link, which shows how interested I was, as my computer has been running very slowly lately.

Just like trying to explain humor, analyzing slang is a futile practice. Many people have tried to put both subjects into erudite academic articles and come out sounding like complete idiots. When it comes to slang, describing the college lingo casts university students in a light that is not very flattering. Not to sound arrogant, but take me for example. I'm a fourth-year English major who has studied literature from Chaucer to Roth and everything in between. I'm able to communicate with some scions of academia, perhaps not at the same level, but with some degree of proficiency. Yet, you'll find me using words like "chillax," "fauxhawk," and "sketchy/shady."

This is just a reminder to those that would take this article as another sign of my generation's sad future, remember your own slang, yes? I'm sure that your parents were appalled when you came home with an unorthodox vocabulary, whether you said "the bee's knees" or "far out" or "yuppie."

See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya.

K.

You Poor People

There are several things that I wanted to write, but I've found that my brain refuses to concentrate. I can see myself writing something incredibly ridiculous (and perhaps I already have), so I'm just going to post a super rough draft of a poem from my Poetry Workshop 1 class.

We were supposed to create a poem using the specialized language of some animal. That may sound odd, but you're essentially supposed to use the language and point of view of whatever animal you chose to focus on. Also, we were supposed to include anaphora (in this case, a repetitive invocation).

I chose to honor the common mallard. So, here it is.

Pleading for the Mallard

Let the mallard remain ignorant of his undistinguished features.
He blends into the verdant forest of heads, the fertile soil of bodies.
Since his fledgling years, trailing his mother like a strand of weed
caught on a heron’s leg, he’s only concerned himself with the bouquet
of marsh mud and the fluid pressure between his toes.

Let the mallard remain ignorant of his lack of grace.
Compared to the strides of the egret, his waddle is clumsy;
compared to the flight of the eagle, his hold on the sky is precarious.
But his plump body rolls with the waves as he tips,
feet paddling the air, to harvest the bottom-dwelling grasses.

Let the mallard remain ignorant of his place in the universe.
He doesn’t know that his curly-tailed brethren
dabble around city parks, across oceans,
and in golf course water hazards.
Cattailed shores and briny pools form his continents and seas.

Yep, there it is. Still in rough draft form, but feel free to critique.

Hopefully, I'll never have to offend your eyes with my horrendous poetry again. :)

K.

The Penitent Man Kneels Before G-d: A Yom Kippur Review

(Get the quote? You would be surprised how many people don't.)

The Dream

This year, I felt that it might be slightly more meaningful Yom Kippur if I didn't shlep my laptop home. Of course, a great deal of laziness factored into it, but the result was the same. Instead of puttering around on the web while those mighty gates were slowly swinging shut, I decided to take a nap between services. The best way to avoid the pangs of hunger is to sleep through them.

Or so I thought.

I've been looking on-line, but I haven't found anything that tells me about the affect of hunger upon a person's dreams. For my part, my stomach drove me into one of those dreams that seems so real that you actually wake up twice: one in your dream, once in real life. In my dream, I had awoken from my nap and wandered around my dead aunt's house, getting terribly lost in the twisting hallways. As I walked, things would appear to me and then disappear. I can't remember what they were, but I know that I mentally collapsed. Because of my confusion and terror, I hid in a bathroom and avoided going to the (dream) afternoon Yom Kippur service. Then, improbably, I decided to order from Pizza Hut.

I woke up at that point.

It really was a "what-the-hell?!" moment and I tried to ponder it as I quickly dressed for the (real) afternoon Yom Kippur service. I don't really believe in the meaning of dreams; they are just your brain replaying history and adding some of its own commentary in the process. But it still didn't keep me from thinking about it all through services and most of the break fast.

Was it just a yearning for Pizza Hut? Why would my brain keep me from going to services on one of the most important holy days of the year? Why was I in my deceased aunt's house? So many mysteries.

The Tears

My rabbi has held his post at my temple for about 35 years, which is an extremely long time for a notoriously wander-lusty profession. He has been there for all of my early Jewish life events: my naming, my kindergarten consecration, my bat mitzvah, and my confirmation. He has refused to directly answer my philosophical questions (a plus, if you know me), comforted me during the deaths in my family, and offered advice during my many existential meltdowns. He, forever and always, has my respect.

I knew this was coming, but I guess it didn't really hit me until the Kol Nidre service. He's finally retiring.

I think his leaving will be a turning point in my relationship with my congregation. It was his influence that truly kept me anchored to my hometown and my temple. There are two congregations in my college town, but instead of attending them, I sometimes walk down to Saint Agnes, the local Catholic church, and sit through a service. I suppose I would rather spend time in a space radically out of my realm than spend my Saturdays comparing some strange rabbi to mine. I would rather admire the beauty of the church than sit in some other synagogue's austereness.

But I have to get over that now.

There will be a new rabbi. He will be close to my age. He will probably not last more than two or three years. I might as well make a clean break of it.

Change makes me cry. But perhaps the tears will cleanse.

K.

Famous Fish in a Very Small Pond

Last year, I participated in my rabbi's brainchild concocted to get more people to come to the Yom Kippur afternoon service. Basically, five other people and I wrote five minute speeches detailing exactly why we were Jews. It seems to be gaining in popularity, so the rabbi is getting what he wanted. However, my participation seems to have yielded an interesting opportunity.

I believe it was two weeks ago that I got a message from my mother saying that one of our local papers was doing a piece about the people who spoke at the service last year. So I called the reporter and did my thing-- and by my thing, I mean that I babbled for about fifteen minutes to a total stranger about things that I normally keep to myself. Cringe.

So, anyway, the article came out today, complete with a picture of yours truly sitting with a handful of shwarma in the Parisian Jewish quarter. Two of my fellow speakers also responded, so it wasn't a "Kate Show," which keeps my community from thinking that I'm totally egotistical.

Here's a bit of the article. You can find my section of the article and picture by clicking on the link.

Time for reflection: Why they are Jews
Jewish holidays are a time to think about faith.

By
MELISSA NANN BURKE
Daily Record/Sunday News

A month of reflection, Elul, precedes the Jewish High Holy Days. Again this year, Rabbi Irwin N. Goldenberg has asked a diverse group at Temple Beth Israel to reflect on what it means to be Jewish.

The group will speak during a 3 p.m. Yom Kippur service Saturday in York Township.

Among the lay people who spoke last fall were an immigrant, a college student and a secular Jew...

You can find the rest of it on the York Daily Record website or by the link.


K.

Kate is a Big, Fat Liar

So, remember when I promised that I would write from Scotland? And remember when I said that I would post pictures? And remember how I never keep a promise?

It's that time of year again-- the time of year when I feel guilty about abandoning my blog, wonder how the bloggers whose entries I used to haunt like the cyber ghost I am are doing, and just want to take a stab at being a responsible citizen of the blogging community again. My impetus this time is my Writing and Computers class that I'm taking strictly for the credits. Suddenly, I'm forced to look at different blogs, to read books written about blogs, to ponder the significance of blogs and blog-like writings throughout history. Eye-opening, I assure you. It's making me miss what I was once a part of. I'm such a sentimental ass.

And thus the prodigal daughter returns.

K.

Whose Blog is This Anyway?

Well hey there!

I'm an awful person for not updating, I know, but I've been ill for about half the time I've been here and working my ass off the other half. But, I have been thinking about y'all. I just wanted to direct you guys to my travel blog in case you were curious about my travels. I decided that separate blogs for this sort of thing would be best because I'm not keen on my family hanging around this blog. Some things should remain private... or at least anonymous. I'll still be writing here, but direct travel experience will on the other one.

Hope to see you guys there!

K.

Finally Found a Computer...

I just want to let everyone know that I'm doing fine and I will post when I have settled down in Stirling for good. This nomadic lifestyle is not condusive for regular blogging-- not that I did much of that anyway. :)

K.