burns the fire

May 16, 2013

Dr. Feelgood

Filed under: activism,Humanity,Jews,Life & Death,Love & Happiness,soul,spirituality — Burns the Fire @ 10:19 am
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I’m going to die.

One day, and whether I like it or not, I won’t have a choice. Neither will you, your best friend or your worst enemy. If we could invest in the inevitability, we’d all be rich. The problem is; dying isn’t sexy and it doesn’t sell, while fear, denial and escapism is the defining hustle of our time. Di-agnosis? Death needs a makeover, a re-brand, stat!

Enter Dr. Michael Dworkind. He’s the dude you want by your side when your time is up. After our heart-to-pounding-heart, I’m good to go. A renowned family physician and global peace activist, Michael is a passionate Palliative Care pioneer who believes, above all, in life before death. A child of holocaust survivors who almost checked out twice (back-packing in the Sahara and the time his car hugged a tree), this unstoppable JewBu came to the dying biz honestly and with a hopeful vision for the terminally ill: the possibility of a good death. Can you imagine?

Alive at 29,321ft on Kilimanjaro, Tanzania

Alive at 29,321ft on Kilimanjaro, Tanzania

As Michael says, death is just a split-second in time. Everything that comes before it- is life. And it is quality of life that he and his crack, multi-disciplinary team celebrate on the PC ward at the Montreal Jewish General Hospital. What happens there is healing through dying. Compassion. Finding closure, forgiveness, acceptance; saying thank you and goodbye. People get body/mind/soul care, creative outlets and the knowledge they won’t be abandoned or overly burdened by pain. One young golden boy famously referred to his last months on the ward as the best time of his life. Healing is an everyday phenomenon.

It can be very joyful. Michael smiles. My hunch is his food tastes better, he cries and sings more than most, and dances into the wee hours of every day. As he tells his medical students, some of whom he hopes to recruit: Life is a chronic disease. It’s terminal and it’s sexually transmitted. He knows he has them if they laugh.

Dr. Feelgood cycles every day, every season to Palliative Care.

Dr. Feelgood cycles every day, every season to Palliative Care.

Now, if you’re smiling, tell me: how you would like to die?

The good doctor writes, too: Creating Hope in a Hopeless Situation

Wherever you are, sign up for a version of Michael’s pet project: The Living Will and Mandate, and enjoy the day.

Click here to see Dr. Feelgood re-posted on Montreal’s culti online magazine The Rover. Show them some love!

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Burns the Fire can’t stop blogging about life and death. Here’s just a few…

Life or Death      Life or Death 2        Born to be Wild   All Living Things   All Living Things2

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GOOD NEWS FLASH: Hyperbole and A Half is back to astound us with one of the most affecting looks at depression I have ever seen. Join me and her legions of fans who rejoice that she’s alive!

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My Divine Readers: I publish a new post every ten days, give or take. If you’d like to read more, please subscribe by clicking- FOLLOW BLOG BY EMAIL on the side-bar and make sure to send back the confirm-email you’ll receive  (check your JUNK box). 

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May 2, 2013

Trees Talk to Me

Filed under: Animals & Nature,Humanity,Humor,Life & Death,spirituality,Writing & Literature — Burns the Fire @ 12:15 pm
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I met Zazie at the park on the first sun-baked day of spring. I was ablaze. I had an idea for a story and needed to share it with someone who could really take the heat. Zazie is wild, a free-thinker, her own person. I spilled the title first: Trees Talk to Me, but before I could say another word, she snorted and retorted with scientific certainty: trees don’t talk, B. I was taken aback, but countered brilliantly: yes, they do. She shook her head and smiled exactly like my husband when I first told him. Heat stung my cheeks, I argued, you’re six years old, how do you know? Zazie shook her head and repeated, trees… don’t… talk. She caught my fluster and stared me down. Her eyes rolled. Her tongue stuck out of her mouth.

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I felt my feet sink into the earth and knew then that it was time to expand the universe and blow her educated mind. I suggested she listen for herself, and pointed a few feet away. A towering 150 year-old Maple had been following our conversation with interest. It smiled, but only I could see. Zazie slipped her tongue back in her mouth and sauntered over. Imagine how many kids have told this tree their most secret secrets, I said provocatively. The Maple grunted his approval. Zazie gulped and looked back at me. Closer, I said. Nervously, she touched the tree and inched her way in, fingers whispering over its ancient bark. The Maple sighed. Birds twittered in the sky. Closer. Zazie leaned in. I could swear I saw her lips move.

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Without warning, her arms burst open and wrapped around the Maple’s trunk and she hugged him tightly to her pounding chest. Her eyes squeezed shut and I could feel the power of her wish. Talk to me. I knew then that her resolve was broken, that Zazie’s heart and mind had opened wide. The birds tweeted her name through the branches. The sun winked down at her from the sky. Only now would she hear what she needed to know.

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GOOD NEWS FLASH: I’m not scared of clowns anymore as I have met Le Clown in the flesh; the glorious, notorious web wiz who loves us all as he kicks our asses and reminds us to stay connected…to  each other. Blush, flog, he mentioned me in a post about our online personas and deconstructing fear. Yow!

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My Divine Readers: I publish a new post every ten days or so. If you’d like to read more, please subscribe by clicking- FOLLOW BLOG BY EMAIL on the side-bar and make sure to send back the confirm-email you’ll receive  (check your JUNK box, in case). 

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April 17, 2013

MAKE ART, NOT WAR: Meet Etgar Keret

Filed under: Humanity,Humor,Jews,Pop Culture,Writing & Literature — Burns the Fire @ 12:51 pm
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I could be the only Montreal Jew I know who has avoided ‘going home’ to Israel, despite dangling freebie trips and subsidized holocaust-to-the-holy-land tours. It’s true I was a crack child-fundraiser for the Israeli dream, but I didn’t want to fall for a soldier (let alone be one) and burn my fire in the pit of uber-nationalism*, no matter the crazy-making history that inspired it. Instead, I dedicated myself to the creation of art, diving into the fear and glory of the human heart. I am far from alone.

'Etgar Keret' by Moshe Shai

‘Etgar Keret’ by Moshe Shai

Meet Etgar Keret; Israel’s rock-star writer and prize-winning filmmaker with the undeniable holocaust pedigree, who smacks our fleshy cards on the table with his wild-haired stories and emo-essays that are perfect for the wee-attention span of the internet age, as they get to the point, to the aching heart of the matter but fast. I am hankering to meet this non-politico provocateur and self-proclaimed lousy soldier who describes his wife as ‘smart’, but I will be dancing the hora in the City of Jews (Miami) while Keret is prancing through Montreal as it springs to life on April 21, with the English-language release of his latest collection of earthly delights, Suddenly, a Knock on the Door.

Etgar agreed to meet me on the page:

What are the first words you ever wrote?  I love my brother. But that’s because my older brother, who had taught me how to write, made me write them.

What’s your writing routine?  There is no routine. I only write when a story comes.

Do you like your own writing?  Hey, I’m my stories’ dad. If I won’t like them who will?

What does being Jewish mean to you? I can’t answer this one without using my hands. 

What scares you the most? Losing people who are close to me. 

Do books have a future?  Stories have a future. The form is less important than the essential truth that people will always want to tell and to hear stories.

What’s your next project?  I’m just finishing a children’s book called “long haired cat-boy cub”

If you could smoke a doob with another writer, who would it be? Oh, I’ve already smoked with him but I’m too discreet to tell.

If you couldn’t be a writer, what would you be?  Sad.

What would you title the story of your life? Yearning burning hemorrhoids.

Yow.

*Not to say that all Israelis are war-mongers. So very many are not.

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Etgar Keret will heat up the stage at Montreal’s literary bonfire, the Blue Metropolis Festival on April 21, and sit cozy at the Jewish Public Library. Please go bask in his dark/light… for me.

Canadian Tour Info: April 18 to 21, 2013: Toronto, Ottawa, Montreal

April 18th  Toronto- University of Toronto Centre for Jewish Studies: Multiple events: Film Screening, Comic Jam, Public Lecture (FREE, Open to the public)

Centre for Jewish Studies- A Day With Etgar Keret (#keretjam)

April 20th  Ottawa- Writers Festival: On Stage Conversation with Montreal’s own Jonathan Goldstein (FREE to $22, Open to the public)

April 21st Montreal- Blue Metropolis: On Stage Interview, Author Talk (FREE / $15, Open to the public)

April 21st Montreal- Jewish Public Library: An Evening with Etgar Keret.

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FYI, Etgar Keret is a regular contributor to the fantabulous ‘This American Life’. Just sayin’.

Check out ‘Make Art, Not War’ re-posted on Montreal’s Rover!

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Here’s some more stuff I’ve blogged about writers who are Jews, too. Ok, Philip Roth. Wait! And Lena Dunham, representing half-Jews everywhere.

I Love Jew, Philip Roth

The Truth and Everything but

Go (HBO), Girls

The Truth and Nothing but

Dearly Beloved Readers! I’m trying to focus on quality over quantity, so I publish a new post every ten days or so. If you’d like to read more, please subscribe by clicking- FOLLOW BLOG BY EMAIL on the side-bar and make sure to send back the confirm-email you’ll receive  (check your JUNK box, in case). 

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March 27, 2013

Puppy Love 5: I am not alone

Filed under: Animals,Life & Death,Love & Happiness,People — Burns the Fire @ 2:44 pm
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My eyes met Sgnieszka’s as she sat on a park bench under a tree last summer. I went bananas for the pooch and fell hard for her old man, too.

Sgniezka's Eyes

They took me home to meet Eddy’s longtime sweetheart Junya and yanked me into their triangle of love. We got right down to business; chug-a-lugging tea and popping sweets on the terrasse. They dropped the amazing stories of their lives into my lap while Sgniezka digested, after a cookie and a crap on the floor at our feet.

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Despite a daily battle with acute asthma, June takes care of Eddy. Since his stroke, he speaks and moves in a slow-motion dance that tests the patience of true love. June takes it as it comes. My elderly pals have taught me that there is no time like the present, and in their case, no time for anything but.

I go see Eddy on the first day of spring. I want to help but he won’t let me. I watch him inch his way towards me, slippers scuffing the floor. Time is running out. His mind is pared down to its core. He looks into my eyes and says one word. Change. I nod.

Sgniezka is dead. I nod again. I know. Eddy and June put her to sleep in a winter storm. Our eyes lock and he doesn’t blink. My heart cracks. I know what’s coming. I got the news when Eddy’s son in-law left me a comment on this blog. I wished it was spam but I knew it wasn’t.

Junya is dead. In his thick Polish accent, Eddy tells me. I lost my wife. I nod, I touch his arm. The clock ticks. His mind skips. He looks into my eyes for a long time.

EddysEyes

When June was alive, she would speak on Eddy’s behalf. Now, he speaks for himself. Eddy knows he’s lucky because their daughters, son in-law and grandson are close by. I’m a lucky man, he says over and over, I am not alone.

A new-born puppy yelps and stirs in Eddy’s lap. Lalka. His daughter knew he needed a friend. When the snow melts, he will take her to his park bench under the tree. Lalka settles into Eddy’s arms and licks his heart clean.

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R.I.P. Wladyslawa Rolicz. Your love lives on.

R.I.P. Wladyslawa Rolicz. Your love lives on.

‘I am not alone’ is the 5th part of a series on the adventures of my triangle of love. Enjoy the others and let me know what you feel…

Part 1: Puppy Love, Part 2: The Resurrection, Part 3: Never Say Die, Part 4: C’est La Vie

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Dear Readers! I’m trying to focus on quality over quantity, so I publish a new post every ten days or so. If you’d like to read more, please subscribe by clicking- FOLLOW BLOG BY EMAIL on the right-hand side-bar and make sure to send back the confirm-email you’ll receive  (check your JUNK box, in case). 

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March 14, 2013

Born to be Wild

Filed under: Humanity,Life & Death,Love & Happiness,parenting,Pop Culture — Burns the Fire @ 11:46 am
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There’s a spankin’ new babe in Brooklyn whose sweet stink and brute bawl is kicking my ass off the death train, showing me what it means to be alive.

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His songsmith Daddy swears the 1970’s band Little Feat are the bomb that stopped the war, so his parents named him LOWELL after the wee-footed vocalist, guitarist extraordinaire. No pressure, but this kid has fingers made for plucking your heart out of a string and a howl that will rock you in the middle of the night.

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My man Lowell was born BANG on time, driving the beat with his bombshell accountant Mum who checked into hospital just as Lowell’s blues-grubbing Grandpa clapped for joy in a cab from Laguardia, and his mind-bending Granny flew in from Oz to reunite the band. All this, after a finger-lickin’, banjo-pickin’ shotgun wedding in Tribeca. These gorgeous, deep soul people, my peeps, know how to put on a show.

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Lowell. A song in our hearts. A cry that makes the hipsters of Williamsburg lose their cool. A never-ending party of new-born love, fierce forever love that shatters and heals us, destroys and awakens us, Lowell! Banging our chests to the boom of your drum, the blast of your horn, a piercing shout to bust it out and let it go, people! Like me, be fearless, wild and free.

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Pix courtesy of the Family. Wedding photo by Michael Falco. 

Readers! I’m trying to focus on quality over quantity, so I publish a new post every ten days or so. If you’re in, all you have to do to subscribe is click- FOLLOW BLOG BY EMAIL on the right-hand column of this page and make sure to send back the confirm-email you’ll receive  (check your JUNK box, in case). 

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February 21, 2013

Life or Death, 2

Filed under: Humanity,Life & Death,Love & Happiness,Love & Sex — Burns the Fire @ 1:53 pm
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I keep seeing him in the hospital-bed, after he jumped an eight-foot fence BANG on the concrete, smashing the shit out of his knee, elbow and pride. I keep seeing him after the week-long queue to the hours-long operation, with the bright lights and duelling surgeons. After the wild pain, the crazy drugs.

I blew into his hospital room with Naomi, the love of his life on my arm. Mike was bare-chested on the white-sheets, clean-shaven, cracking wise in the sun, happy as a good man can be. His left arm and right leg were swaddled, blinding white. He looked like a new-born. At 52.

He jumped fences so he could play on the train-tracks with his cousin.

Mikey jumped fences so he could play on the train-tracks with his cousin.

He grabbed his shirt when he saw me but I wanted it to stay off. Life was laid bare in that hospital room, down to the bone. I fucked up, he told me, but I’m getting over it. He apologized for crying three times in as many hours. I’m so happy to be alive.

Before he met Naomi, Mike’s biggest dream was to be a Dad, and he was a great one. He divorced young and took care of his three priceless kids, no alimony. Love jammed their home, but at some point, he wanted more.

I slipped him a stash of my homemade chocolate-chip cookies. I was clueless he didn’t like sweets but he ate one gamely, staggered by its greatness, and told me a top-drawer love-story when I asked.

Mike met Naomi 13 years ago through an old-school telephone dating service. Every minute cost and he was about to hang up when he heard her voice. She was laughing. They spoke for two solid-gold hours, then agreed to meet at a café. He got there early and sat in his car, pissing in his pants, scared witless, and was about to drive off when he remembered that he felt really good with her on the phone. When she walked into the café, she was wearing a soft-brown hat with long, floppy ears. He was hooked.

out of the closetlittle lamb

(The floppy ear-hat got lost, but she had others)

We rocked with laughter in that hospital room. Naomi sat at the foot of Mike’s bed, rubbing his feet. I couldn’t keep my eyes off either one of them. Their heat lit up the room.

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Click here to read the first part of this story: Love or Death, 1.

westmount park datedesk photo

R.I.P. Mike, in our hearts or somewhere we can’t see.

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Dear Readers, I’m trying to focus on quality over quantity, so I publish a new post every ten days or so. If you’re in, all you have to do to subscribe is click- FOLLOW BLOG BY EMAIL on the right-hand column of this page and make sure to send back the confirm-email you’ll receive  (check your JUNK box, in case). 

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February 11, 2013

One Billion Rise

Filed under: activism,Humanity,Life & Death,Pop Culture — Burns the Fire @ 11:55 am
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There is a trauma that stabs my gut every time I wake up to hear the news of another inconceivable crime against women. The voices of my sisters, dead or alive, rise in my throat in a chorus of suffering, fear and rage. Mothers, daughters, sisters, girlfriends, wives: one in three women will be beaten or raped in her lifetime.

There is a trauma that poisons my mind every time I see another image that exploits and promotes the abuse, torture and murder of women. As a screenwriter, I cannot count how many times have I have been encouraged to pen amongst the most lucrative of scripts: The Woman in Peril. That’s entertainment. I often wonder what has changed.

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There is a trauma that scars my self-love every time  I see a compulsively thin or surgically modified body starved for love and whole food. And I’m not talking Third World.

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There is a trauma that stains my privileged life in the West because my advantage is pure luck and my freedom is skin-deep. When, in varying degrees, my sisters all over the planet are subjugated and enslaved, how can I possibly feel free? Can you?

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American playwright and global activist Eve Ensler’s luck ran out when her father raped her. So this feminist super-hero took her pain and fury and transformed it into art and activism, from the Vagina Monologues (translated into 48 languages and performed in over 140 countries), to the creation of V-Day; a global activist movement to end violence against women and girls.

Out of this- One Billion Rising was born- an international campaign that will peak this V-Day February 14th, 2013, as women (and yes, men) all over the world defy the injustice; strike, dance, rise up and demand change. One Billion Rising is crack PR; raising public awareness, helping to transform how men see and treat women, and how we see and treat ourselves. All together now, let’s spread the word.

Click here for a list of events in your area, or create your own. I’ll be dancing my ass off with friends in my living room. What are you doing this Valentine’s Day?

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Photo of Eve Ensler by Brigitte Lacombe

Click here and take the One Billion Rising Pledge.

Click here to see this post on the front-page of Montreal’s arts-happy online mag- The Rover! 

Two Burns the Fire related posts:

Hear Me Roar                  Vagina Dialogues

More posts about the joy of dance!

Love and Dance               Set Yourself Free           Dulcinea’s Lament

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January 30, 2013

Puppy Love 4: C’est La Vie

Filed under: Humanity,Life & Death,Love & Happiness,People — Burns the Fire @ 3:43 pm
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I have a bad feeling. Something is wrong. I grab the phone and call my pal June. She’s the invincible 86 year-old wife of the 90+ Eddy-  tender war vet, family guy and my senior crush. I can’t stop blogging about them and their fluffy, little pooch- who first winked at me from a park bench last summer, yanking me into their triangle of love.

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Since Eddy had a massive stroke, June answers the phone. There is a long pause as a growl crawls out of her throat and a few rusted words scratch my ears. She’s alive! Just out of Montreal’s Jewish General Hospital where love’s will and a crack medical team kicked her asthma’s ass.

Eddy? My heart leaps into my throat.

June’s lungs grasp for air. He… he… He can’t stay at home without her. He spent the week she was gone in a nursing home. He…he… He says he liked it. I hear Eddy in the background. I liked it.

I take a deep breath and look out the icy window, into the frozen heart of winter. Black crows circle the sub-zero park bench where we first met. I keep looking for her, but she’s not there. June chokes. The dog is dead. She’s gone.

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Oh no. My brain runs in circles. No, no, no. This was not supposed to happen. The day we met, Eddy told me the dog was dying of tuberculosis, c’est la vie, he cried, but his mind tripped. It was his long-gone brother who died of TB in the war. The veterinarian diagnosed the dog with fatal leukemia, but he tripped, too. The little tyke was fine.

Sgniezka. Eddy whispers her name. Why she get sick? How can she die?

I pay my respects at their kitchen table. Tears trickle down the winding river of their faces. They tell me what happened, over and over again until there are no words left. I look down at my feet and notice the puppy poop-pad in its place on the floor. I can swear I smell something. I say, last time I was here, little Sgniezka laid a big one. Laughter! The air fills.

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For Parts 1, 2 and 3 of these furry tales, click here for Puppy Love, The Resurrection, and Never Say Die.

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At the mo, I’m trying to focus on quality over quantity, so I publish a new post every ten days or so. If you’re in, all you have to do to subscribe is click- FOLLOW BLOG BY EMAIL on the right-hand column of this page and make sure to send back the confirm-email you’ll receive  (check your JUNK box, in case). 

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Lastly, if you dare, please SHARE and help spread the good word!

January 14, 2013

Life or Death, 1

Filed under: death,life,love,spirituality — Burns the Fire @ 3:18 pm
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It was a miracle.

Early last spring, sporting jeans, flip-flops and a hack-saw, my husband’s 77 year-old father took it upon himself to climb the 30-foot apple tree in our backyard, to prune it within an inch of its life.

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Ned begged him to come down. His father ha ha ha, waved his saw in the air. He grew up swinging from the trees of Constantine, Algeria, barefoot and free, plucking nuts and fruit off the branches with his teeth. I watched as his elderly toes curled around a gnarly branch and he hoisted himself higher in the overgrown tree, closer and closer to heaven.

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Ned turned white. I grabbed my camera.

It was an accident. Last October, my oldest friend Naomi’s life-partner Mike got locked in at work on a Saturday. He didn’t want to hassle anyone and the only way out was to scale an eight-foot fence. He used to jump fences as a kid.

I didn’t ask what Mike was wearing on his feet when he fell. At 52. On to the concrete, shattering his right knee, left elbow and prescription glasses. In the super-human spectacle that is shock, he somehow made it to his car, blindly drove the ninety-minutes home, called Naomi and told her to meet him in their driveway. When they got to the hospital, the pain.

When Naomi told me what happened, my brain flashed on Ned’s father and our apple tree, and for the first time it hit me that he could have died. That it was a freaking miracle he didn’t fall and break his neck. One peeping blue jay. One snapping branch. One wrong move-

The phone cried.

Mike is dead.

What??

Mike is dead.

MIKE IS DEAD??!!

He’s dead.

Mortal shock. The day after coming home from the hospital, days after the surgery that would have had him lying prone for two months in a haze of gratitude and the womb of their 13-year love, a homicidal blood clot raced up his leg into his lungs and killed him on the spot. It happened as fast as the time it took Naomi to tell me.

The brain scrambles to find words for the heart.

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Click here to read Life or Death, 2.

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Dear Readers, I’m trying to focus on quality over quantity, so I publish a new post every ten days or so. If you’re in, all you have to do to subscribe is click- FOLLOW BLOG BY EMAIL on the right-hand column of this page and make sure to send back the confirm-email you’ll receive  (check your JUNK box, in case). 

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Lastly, if you dare, please SHARE and help spread the good word!

December 17, 2012

Flesh-and-Blood (All Living Things, Part 2)

Filed under: Animals,art,blood,butcher,life,meat,vegetarian — Burns the Fire @ 3:24 pm
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Here's the Beef

Here’s the Beef

Ok, I lied. In this post about a guy I met who saw a deer road-killed on the highway, muscled its massive, hairy carcass into his trunk, butchered it outside his state-of-the-art cottage in the woods and engorged his stainless-steel freezer with Bambi’s handi-wrapped steaks. I bull-shat when I said the guy was a stranger, because the truth is; he’s flesh-and-blood. My husband’s uncle’s first-born son, to pin the tail on the ass. I told another whopper when I said we met at a dinner party, when in reality- it was around our table at an intimate family brunch. Don’t shoot me, I’m a storyteller. Free-range.

Truth. As we gorged ourselves at brunch on home-made crepes gushing with maple syrup and convulsing with old cheese, M (I’m withholding 5 letters of his name because it sounds better this way) cheerfully recounted the inside poop behind his plasma-soaked tale.

When he was all of 7 in the sunny south of France, M’s Algerian father started taking him on his yearly trek to the chicken farm where he would buy live chickens, roosters and rabbits that he would then slaughter, butcher and fry up in a pan. Horrified, riveted, I asked M if he was traumatized by the experience, and he smiled. Sometimes he would let me hold the chicken’s feet as he cut off its head.

WTF. Why are we, why am I so sucked into a bloody story? My deeply non-rural, city-slicking roots, my wordy, indoorsy, Jewish intelligentsia, my dedicated near-vegetarianism and distaste for raw animal guts splayed on a styrofoam plate- rise up, into the delicacy of my throat. I think of my Chicago-born, Harvard-educated, professor Dad. He may be a meat-and-potatoes devotee, but in my wildest imagination, I cannot imagine him hanging a dead animal upside-down to bleed dry, let alone petting one in a zoo.

Then it hits me. Not only was my great-grandfather celebrated for home-brewing his own root-beer and pickling a mean sour, he was the only kosher butcher in Minneapolis, or at least- the kosher butcher. I call my father to check the facts and he tells it like it is. There is blood on all of our hands and meat on all of our bones.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

My father and Zaidye the Butcher

My father and Zaidye the Butcher

If you like this post, check out All Living Things (Part 1). Click here!

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