Tuesday, October 21, 2014


At The End of the Day (work in progress)


At The End of the Day is a short story about Henry – a Professor who has just found that the sickness that he thought was a cold is actually a sickness that can bring on his demise at any moment. Always a careful, feeble man – Henry decides to take control of his life by giving up the pretense of control – why be scared of dying when its a foregone conclusion that death can occur at any moment?
hugging in the rain

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Waiting on that Q and Them Stuff of Dreams. by Freddy S. Zalta

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 I was standing on the elevated train platform on Kings Highway and East 16th Street, waiting on the Q train to come and take me to where I needed to be. It was a late February Brooklyn morning and as I leaned over to see if anything was heading our way - I saw nothing but an empty track. The track rolls along an open path in plain sight, there are no obstacles - so if the train is 3 or 4 stops away - you will be able to see something moving in the distance and let out a breath and say, "About time."

Its not only a metaphor, by the way. The Q can mean "Queen" and the tracks can be a future that one is waiting on. In my case though - I was waiting for the train.

But there is a "Wait" that we all go through - we grow up dreaming of some sort of future and end up living a whole different life. No one is ever truly sure if the life that came through turned out better than the dream - but in each person's life there are countless dreams that constantly are born and alive. Still we continue waiting.

Some dreams can seem like a never ending nightmare where we are hoping for the alarm clock to wake us up.
Other dreams are like a perfect summer's day in June - that we spend the rest of the summer trying to duplicate only to end up falling short but having a good day none-the less.
Some dreams are like a Snow Day is to a child - no school and all play, mommy in the kitchen making some hot chocolate, TV humming in the living room as your sister or brother watch. You standing by the window watching the snowflakes congregating on the cars, trees and the streets.
Some dreams begin and end with no proof of ever taking place. I knew an older man who once told me that everything he had was taken away from him in Germany during the late 1930's and 40's. He was 12 years old, living with his parents and 6 brothers and sisters and getting ready to be Bar-Mitzva'd within a year. One night, they were taken out of their home by force - whatever possessions they had were left in their apartment. Within a month he was alone - his parents and siblings sent to different camps. He survived the war, barely, and found himself an orphan at 15 years old - with no siblings, pictures or souvenirs of a life and a future that had been stolen from him in plane sight. He moved to New York where he had an Uncle, got married and had his own children and grandchildren.

"But somewhere there are millions of souls still trying to get back what was taken from them. My soul was lost - from when I left Europe until I had my first child is all a blur to me. But when I saw my baby for the first time, snuggled in his blanket and safe from this world, I began to live again. I cried for hours, days hell even years. I began to feel and it kept me up at night - we all had dreams...but I had been given the life that so many had stolen from them."

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"My eldest brother wanted to move to Jerusalem, my sisters wanted to get married and be mothers and wives - while my younger brothers wanted to just play. Just play - can you imagine something as simple as 'Just Play'? They all disappeared with no trace of ever having existed besides letters typed onto paper. Those letters cannot express the dreams, the joys, the fears they each possessed. The look my mother would give me when she was upset - it would send chills up my spine. The feel of my fathers beard against my face when he would kiss me as I lay sleeping..."

"My friends, who were all excited about getting bar-mitzvahed that year...they had dreams and aspirations back then as well. My friend Avram wanted to be a Doctor - can you imagine? A doctor? What if he would've been the Doctor who cured cancer? Instead the cures, the dreams, the aspiration lay in ashes on the ground. No proof of ever having had the parents or the day to day lives we enjoyed once upon a time. What we did have was our faith - that no one could ever take away"

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I would always walk away from my old friend feeling that we have been given the opportunity so many have had taken from them. I would walk away feeling that I was a thief of time - having wasted was allotted to me. I would walk away in awe of people who were able to continue to have faith in a God who possibly fell asleep at the wheel.
This was a long time ago - maybe ten or fifteen years ago - I learned from him that we that nothing lasts forever. Not love, people, time, pain, sadness, joy, laughter - nothing is immortal - everything is transient - from one emotion to the next, from one second to the next - nothing stops moving, evolving, revolving or spinning in its place. The rivers keep flowing and the arms on the clock keep on moving - the sun rises, the sun sets, the moon rises and then goes away again. There is no certainties in this world - nothing, not even the sun. But faith - a true belief is something no one can ever take away.

So dream big, live bigger; love a lot and express it even more.

But if you take the time to soak it all in - to ingest and to invest in the stuff that is vital to existence - the stuff that "Dreams are made of."  You will find that there are things in life that not even time can take away.

Paint your masterpiece and paint it over and over again...that train will find its way towards you in time - all in its time.

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Sunday, February 24, 2013

Life in Pink and other Bright Colors

Life in Pink and other Bright Colors by Freddy S. Zalta

The sun had yet to rise when Hank woke up, jumped out of some bed, pulled on his pants and boots – threw his jacket over his shoulder and left. He thought to write a short letter, an apology? A thank you? He wasn’t really sure – he didn’t really remember anything about the night before – only that her name was Penny. Before he left the apartment he looked back at her and saw her blue eyes through her black hair watching him and she smiled a half smile. He smiled, looked down and then waved.

He walked down the three flights of stairs, got a knowing smile from the doorman, who must have been the doorman from last night because he looked familiar, then walked out onto 73rd St. As he walked he knew that a cup of coffee was required to even think about surviving the next mile or so that he need to walk to get to his apartment. On the corner he saw a diner and took a large cup to go – then began to walk. The street lamps were still lit, the ground was shiny from last nights rain and there was a nice cool humidity-less air. He looked at his watch - 5:31 am, June 15th Friday.

As he was walking he decided to make a detour and head on across to Central Park; he had no where to be until later on that night and did not feel like going home. As he walked he noticed that there was a crowd of people, a couple of police cars and a couple of ambulances parked outside in the middle of the block between and 2nd and 3rd avenues.

“What’s going on?” He asked a lady standing there.

“See for yourself – they are covered now” she said pointing to a mound covered with a black tarp, “but a couple of minutes ago you could have witnessed what looked like a double suicide.”

“There are two people under that?” He asked.

“Yes, an elderly couple I used to see once in a while walking together; never really spoke with them although I could tell the wife was sick.” She said it as if discussing a TV show she just watched.

“Sad…” Hank said as he realized he hadn’t looked away from the couple under cover.

“Yeah, well I need to get to work.” With that she walked away. He just stood there wondering if they had any children who would be looking for them, wondering why they didn’t answer their phone calls. He stood there thinking about the lives they must have led. ..

A Shadow of two people dancing as a crooner sings a song professing his love for his lady. They are slow dancing on a roof somewhere and the shadow is being cast by a full moon over New York City. The crooner is coming out of a small radio and the couple are each from France. They had arrived in New York ten years earlier, separately, with different spouses, to escape the Germans who were now marching through Paris but who back then were just knocking on the doors of France - all set to break them down if not opened. They were both Practicing, if not totally observant Jews. They had worked together in a university and were lovers in the shadows of the Eiffel Tower and the Seine. Their respective spouses were now back in France, unafraid since they were non-observant and did not consider themselves Jewish. Well it seemed that the Germans didn’t make the distinction between practicing Judaism and being born a Jew – they had each been sent to different camps and had not been heard of since. Fifty some years later on – four children, eighteen grandchildren and several great-grandchildren; Beatrice had been told that the cancer that had take away her hair and any strength she still had away two years earlier was back. This time the Doctors were not giving her more than six months. Victor had sat down with her and told her, “Just as in Paris we knew it was our time to leave, so here in New York City, we must accept it is our time to leave, once again.” With that he bought a bottle of wine, a tape recorder with a recording of their favorite songs. They went up to the roof and then as they had back in the forties – left their home for the promise of a better life.

Hank had heard about this from the grandson of Mr and Mrs. Addas – he had gone to make a Shiva call out of curiosity. He ended up with photo albums, stories and evidence of a life full of love.

”They loved to dance,” the grandson, David, explained, “They were in love with each other and never spent more then one or two nights apart. But not out of necessity, more because they wanted to be together - Grandpa used to say ‘apart they were like an ordinary piece of art, together they were a masterpiece.’ They were a model couple and one very difficult to even measure up to. He used to sing to her this song, “la vie en rose*” while they danced. He would say ‘put your heart against mine…’ amazing.”

That evening as he walked back to his apartment he realized that his life was an ordinary piece of art and that what was missing wasn’t another artist but a reason for the colors and the shapes to blossom. He might never paint his masterpiece – but it hit him just what it was that was missing in his life. The music played but did not touch, the colors existed but did not paint a picture and the classes attended but the lessons were never absorbed.

As the sun rose the next morning he noticed a red ray streaming across the sky and he realized he had never before seen that hue – he took that as a sign. Put on some music and decided to sit by his easel. A masterpiece in chains within his heart – time to break free.





“La Vie En Rose”

Hold me close and hold me fast
The magic spell you cast
This is la vie en rose
When you kiss me heaven sighs
And though I close my eyes
I see la vie en rose
When you press me to your heart
I’m in a world apart
A world where roses bloom
And when you speak
Angels sing from above
Everyday words seems
To turn into love song
Give your heart and soul to me
And life will always be la vie en rose
Lyrics by Edit Piaf as performed by Louis Armstrong
Coreys Coming (Songs and Stories)


When I was growing up I used to lay down on my bed and listen to music either on a record player or on the radio. When I would hear a song it would always take me on a journey to another time and place - narrated by the music and the lyrics. I always imagined what had happened to have inspired the characters in songs to be in the position they were in and also what happened once the needle moved on to the next song, leaving unfinished business behind.
I have always been Inspired by songs - poetry set to tunes have always been a impetus to my daydreaming and set a rhythm to my heartbeat and moods.Within the list of short stories I have written for this project, Harry Chapin has inspired me more than any other songwriter. It could be because of his characters always being multidimensional, downtrodden and beaten but never defeated by the world in which they lived in.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Soundtracks: Living With Bob Dylan


Part I
     Music has always been a very big part of my life. Songs were a way for me to express my mood or feelings at each given time. I love music with lyrics a lot more then just instrumentals - though if you list to John Coltrane and Duke Ellington- words are seldom required. I grew up listening to artists like Bob DylanSimon and GarfunkelThe BeatlesElton John(with words always by Bernie Taupin) and so many more - too many to mention.
     I was born in 1966  in Brooklyn, New York. That was smack in the middle of one of the most influential decades of the 20th Century. There were assassinations, a "Police action" Vietnam, a lot of hatred and a lot of love. Bras were burned, rocknroll grew up with a bit of an American twang and a British Accent.
     I was thinking about what growing up knowing that once you turned 18 years old, you would be drafted into the Army did to ones mindset and outlook. Of course rebellion was ripened by the prospect of being sent away at 18 years of age. The war in Vietnam where kids were going and not coming back, or coming back but never in one piece again, in body and or spirit, was a war that the American people did not rally around. The kids who went there to fight were never appreciated, celebrated, the way they should have been. It wasnt the war that they chose but they went because it was their obligation to serve their country. No arguing about whether the war (or police action or foreign conflict whatever they call it - its a war by any name) was just or not - they went and fought because of their moral and ethical aptitude.
     Back to my soundtrack - just wanted to give you a quick backdrop to what was happening while I was a baby. With all the anxiety around during that time period no wonder my generation suffers from anxiety attacks and depression - it was probably instilled in us along with the bottled milk and blaring headlines.        There were some Miracles in the 60's - the Equal Rights Amendment, the trip to the moon, me being born, and of course the "Miracle Met's of 1969" to cap it all.

Miracle Met's
One of the best things to come out of all this craziness of the 60's was the graduation of Rock-n-Roll.  In my house the only one in my family with a record player at the times was the oldest kid in our family, my brother Maurice.  He also supplied the records and unwittingly influenced our musical tastes. On that turntable played, amongst others, the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, the Rolling Stones, Elton John and Bob Dylan.

Dylan circa 2009
While the rest of these artists remain on my "Most played" list on my ipod - I have to say that Mr. Dylan has had the biggest impact for me and has been the soundtrack to many of my life events My brother let me use the turntable as long as I never touched the disc itself - lest it scratch and cause skipping or repeating on playbacks. The three albums left there most were; Dylan's "Bringing it all back Home," (side A) Simon and Garfunkels "Bridge over Troubled water" (Side B) and the Beatles "Sgt Peppers Lonely hearts club Band" (Side A). I learned each word, each musical twist and turn and incorporated each skip, scratch or repeat. I would lay there on my brother's bed and hold the album cover - reading it as the songs played. They all had lyrics on them besides the Dylan album. But that had this write up on it that I read many times - but have since forgotten. I should look that up!
I remember Side A starting with Subterranean Homesick Blues and end with " Bob Dylan's 115th Dream" I knew and still know each second of each song - even the scratches from the original vinyl - I still expect to hear them each time I hear the songs. For instance during the first verse of "Bob Dylans 115th dream" (after the retake) he sings,
"I was riding on the Mayflower, When I thought I spied some land,I yelled for Captain Arab, Arab, Arab,Arab,Arab,Arab - I'll have you understand...
Well every Arab after the first was one Arab too many. It was because of the scratch on the record...My brother blamed it on me and whether I was guilty or not - that didn't matter. It didn't stop him from letting me listen. Nothing could have - music was my outlet, inlet and cathartic therapy that till this day saves me with its consistency and its ability to translate into different languages and emotions each time - well, I listen to my Ipod. Where I once needed 4 or 5 boxes to store my "Albums, CD's" I now carry in the palm of my hand thanks to Steven Jobs. Sorry Jon Bon Jovi - You must have forgotten what its like to not have people carrying things for you.
Dylan had some off years in the late 70's to the mid 80's (Well off for me - I am not into Christian Rock - so I am prejudiced to this as I have only heard the songs once or twice) when he released "Infidels." With songs about religion, loneliness and regret. Of course what kind of album would it be without his usual ability to forsee problems before they occurred or is it that life is nothing but a series of repeating events in different times? He speaks about the Unions how it "Sure was a good idea, until greed got in the way." And how Satan comes as a man of peace;
My favorite song though is "Neighborhood Bully." A blunt and honest take on the persecution of the Jewish people and the state of Israel - calling Israel a "neighborhood bully,"
"Every empire that’s enslaved him is gone
Egypt and Rome, even the great Babylon
He’s made a garden of paradise in the desert sand
In bed with nobody, under no one’s command
He’s the neighborhood bully."

Dylan at the Wall in Jerusalem
My divorce in 1993 had "Blood on the Tracks" at its backdrop. "Simple Twist of Fate,"
People tell me it’s a sin
To know and feel too much within
I still believe she was my twin, but I lost the ring
She was born in Spring and I was born too late
Blame it on a Simple Twist of Fate.
My second marriage was precipitated my playing "To Make You Feel My Love" to my wife as I popped the question. This is from his "Time Out of Mind" comeback Album.
The storms are raging on the rollin’ sea
And on the highway of regret
The winds of change are blowing wild and free
You ain’t seen nothing like me yet.
It was on September 11, 2001 when I actually picked up his Album "Love and Theft" as the ashes from the towers were still raining down on Brooklyn. The lyrics to the song, "High Water (for Charlie Patton)"
"High water risin’, six inches ’bove my head
Coffins droppin’ in the street
Like balloons made out of lead"

September 11, 2001
So many events in ones life - so many songs we all hear. We can relate to some and others songs can get our heart beating to the rhythm we need to get through the days and nights - or as Mr. Dylan put it in the last song on"Empire Burlesque"
"Oh, time is short and the days are sweet and passion rules the arrow that flies
A million faces at my feet but all I see are dark eyes"

So many other songs have had so many different places in my life and have been cited by me as Bob Dylan's words. My favorites are all over the place and I could go on for pages and hours - I'll spare you - for now.
In my life I have made choices that were unpopular and criticized. I have been looked at as if I was out of my mind or simple minded at best. I have never really cared what others have thought about me or my decisions. I walk, I write, talk, sing and act the way I act because that is who I am. I used to think there was something wrong with me but now I have come to understand that I am the way I am - well, because that is who I am.
One more quote from Mr. Dylan;

The Poet - The Bard of Multiple Generations

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Writing that Down

Writing it all Down – Part One

I have taken many writing classes in different schools, been given countless words of advice and criticism by countless readers and teachers. My favorite writing teacher was the one who told me to express myself the way I felt like expressing myself. "Don't worry about word choice as much when you are first writing down your feelings. You can always go back and edit and change things around. Just take the pen to the paper and let it bleed."

In giving a writing class the first lesson to be taught is individualization and visualization. In fact writing is all about the "-tions."

Close your eyes, take some deep breaths, visualize where you want to be or what you want to express. Go to that location, become a fly on the wall and watch as the emotions begin to evolve into expressions. Then, report. Report the surroundings, the placement of the sun or the moon, what they characters were wearing, the tears that were welling up in their eyes as they smiled and expressed their feelings of…

We are all natural born reporters. We begin by reporting what our siblings did to their rooms. We report on the goings on in school and then the work place. We tell stories of friends, strangers, co-workers, family members and ourselves.

If we can report it – we can write it down.

To be continued.

Classes begin in March – email me for more information fzalta@gmail.com

 

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Friday, December 17, 2010



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Sunday, October 17, 2010

Yum

Monday, September 27, 2010

First Day of Rosh Hashanah 2010 Sermon delivered by Rabbi Schlomo Lewis of Atlanta

EHR KUMT
First Day of Rosh Hashanah 2010
Sermon delivered by Rabbi Schlomo Lewis of Atlanta


 I thought long and I thought hard on whether to deliver the sermon I am
 about to share.  We all wish to bounce happily out of shul on the High
 Holidays, filled with warm fuzzies, ready to gobble up our brisket, our
 honey cakes and our kugel.  We want to be shaken and stirred – but not too
 much.  We want to be guilt-schlepped – but not too much.  We want to be
 provoked but not too much.  We want to be transformed but not too much.

 I get it, but as a rabbi I have a compelling obligation, a responsibility
to
 articulate what is in my heart and what I passionately believe must be said
 and must be heard.  And so, I am guided not by what is easy to say but by
 what is painful to express.  I am guided not by the frivolous but by the
 serious.  I am guided not by delicacy but by urgency.

 We are at war.  We are at war with an enemy as savage, as voracious, as
 heartless as the Nazis but one wouldn’t know it from our behavior. During
 WWII we didn’t refer to storm troopers as freedom fighters.  We didn’t call
 the Gestapo, militants.   We didn’t see the attacks on our Merchant Marine
 as acts by rogue sailors.  We did not justify the Nazis rise to power as
our
 fault.  We did not grovel before the Nazis, thumping our hearts and
 confessing to abusing and mistreating and humiliating the German people.
We
 did not apologize for Dresden, nor for The Battle of the Bulge, nor for El
 Alamein, nor for D-Day.

 Evil – ultimate, irreconcilable, evil threatened us and Roosevelt and
 Churchill had moral clarity and an exquisite understanding of what was at
 stake.  It was not just the Sudetenland, not just Tubruk, not just Vienna,
 not just Casablanca.  It was the entire planet.  Read history and be
shocked
 at how frighteningly close Hitler came to creating a Pax Germana on every
 continent.


 Not all Germans were Nazis – most were decent, most were revolted by the
 Third Reich, most were good citizens hoisting a beer, earning a living and
 tucking in their children at night.  But, too many looked away, too many
 cried out in lame defense – I didn’t know.”  Too many were silent.  Guilt
 absolutely falls upon those who committed the atrocities, but
responsibility
 and guilt falls upon those who did nothing as well.  Fault was not just
with
 the goose steppers but with those who pulled the curtains shut, said and
did
 nothing.

 In WWII we won because we got it.  We understood who the enemy was and we
 knew that the end had to be unconditional and absolute.  We did not stumble
 around worrying about offending the Nazis.  We did not measure every word
so
 as not to upset our foe.  We built planes and tanks and battleships and
went
 to war to win….. to rid the world of malevolence.

 We are at war… yet too many stubbornly and foolishly don’t put the pieces
 together and refuse to identify the evil doers.  We are circumspect and
 disgracefully politically correct.

 Let me mince no words in saying that from Fort Hood to Bali, from Times
 Square to London, from Madrid to Mumbai, from 9/11 to Gaza, the murderers,
 the barbarians are radical Islamists.

 To camouflage their identity is sedition.  To excuse their deeds is
 contemptible.  To mask their intentions is unconscionable.

 A few years ago I visited Lithuania on a Jewish genealogical tour.  It was
a
 stunning journey and a very personal, spiritual pilgrimage.  When we
visited
 Kovno we davened Maariv at the only remaining shul in the city.  Before the
 war there were thirty-seven shuls for 38,000 Jews.  Now only one, a
 shrinking, gray congregation.  We made minyon for the handful of aged
 worshippers in the Choral Synagogue, a once majestic, jewel in Kovno.

 After my return home I visited Cherry Hill for Shabbos.  At the oneg an
 elderly family friend, Joe Magun, came over to me.

 “Shalom,” he said.  “Your abba told me you just came back from Lithuania.”
 “Yes,” I replied.  “It was quite a powerful experience.”  “Did you visit
the
 Choral Synagogue in Kovno?  The one with the big arch in the courtyard?”
 “Yes, I did.  In fact, we helped them make minyon.”  His eyes opened wide
in
 joy at our shared memory.  For a moment he gazed into the distance and
then,
 he returned.  “Shalom, I grew up only a few feet away from the arch.  The
 Choral Synagogue was where I davened as a child.”

 He paused for a moment and once again was lost in the past.  His smile
 faded.  Pain filled his wrinkled face.  “I remember one Shabbos in 1938
when
 Vladimir Jabotinsky came to the shul”  (Jabotinsky was Menachim Begin’s
 mentor – he was a fiery orator, an unflinching Zionist radical, whose
 politics were to the far right.)  Joe continued “When Jabotinsky came, he
 delivered the drash on Shabbos morning and I can still hear his words
 burning in my ears.  He climbed up to the shtender, stared at us from the
 bima, glared at us with eyes full of fire and cried out. ‘EHR KUMT. YIDN
 FARLAWST AYER SHTETL – He’s coming.  Jews abandon your city.’ ”

 We thought we were safe in Lithuania from the Nazis, from Hitler.  We had
 lived there, thrived for a thousand years but Jabotinsky was right -- his
 warning prophetic.  We got out but most did not.”

 We are not in Lithuania.  It is not the 1930s.  There is no Luftwaffe
 overhead.  No U-boats off the coast of long Island.  No Panzer divisions on
 our borders.  But make no mistake; we are under attack – our values, our
 tolerance, our freedom, our virtue, our land.

 Now before some folks roll their eyes and glance at their watches let me
 state emphatically, unmistakably – I have no pathology of hate, nor am I a
 manic Paul Revere, galloping through the countryside.  I am not a
pessimist,
 nor prone to panic attacks.  I am a lover of humanity, all humanity.
 Whether they worship in a synagogue, a church, a mosque, a temple or don’t
 worship at all.  I have no bone of bigotry in my body, but what I do have
is
 hatred for those who hate, intolerance for those who are intolerant, and a
 guiltless, unstoppable obsession to see evil eradicated.

 Today the enemy is radical Islam but it must be said sadly and reluctantly
 that there are unwitting, co-conspirators who strengthen the hands of the
 evil doers.  Let me state that the overwhelming number of Muslims are good
 Muslims, fine human beings who want nothing more than a Jeep Cherokee in
 their driveway, a flat screen TV on their wall and a good education for
 their children, but these good Muslims have an obligation to destiny, to
 decency that thus far for the most part they have avoided.  The Kulturkampf
 is not only external but internal as well.  The good Muslims must sponsor
 rallies in Times Square, in Trafalgar Square, in the UN Plaza, on the
Champs
 Elysee, in Mecca condemning terrorism, denouncing unequivocally the
 slaughter of the innocent.  Thus far, they have not.  The good Muslims must
 place ads in the NY Times.  They must buy time on network TV, on cable
 stations, in the Jerusalem Post, in Le Monde, in Al Watan, on Al Jazeena
 condemning terrorism, denouncing unequivocally the slaughter of the
innocent
 – thus far, they have not.  Their silence allows the vicious to tarnish
 Islam and define it.

 Brutal acts of commission and yawning acts of omission both strengthen the
 hand of the devil.

 I recall a conversation with my father shortly before he died that helped
me
 understand how perilous and how broken is our world; that we are living on
 the narrow seam of civilization and moral oblivion.  Knowing he had little
 time left he shared the following – “Shal.  I am ready to leave this earth.
 Sure I’d like to live a little longer, see a few more sunrises, but
 truthfully, I’ve had it.  I’m done.  Finished.  I hope the Good Lord takes
 me soon because I am unable to live in this world knowing what it has
 become.”

 This startling admission of moral exhaustion from a man who witnessed and
 lived through the Depression, the Holocaust, WWII, Communist Triumphalism,
 McCarthyism, Strontium 90 and polio.  – Yet his twilight observation was –
 “The worst is yet to come.” And he wanted out.

 I share my father’s angst and fear that too many do not see the authentic,
 existential threat we face nor confront the source of our peril.  We must
 wake up and smell the hookah.

 “Lighten up, Lewis.  Take a chill pill, some of you are quietly thinking.
 You’re sounding like Glen Beck.  It’s not that bad.  It’s not that real.”
 But I am here to tell you – “It is.”  Ask the member of our shul whose
 sister was vaporized in the Twin Towers and identified finally by her
 charred teeth, if this is real or not.  Ask the members of our shul who
fled
 a bus in downtown Paris, fearing for their safety from a gang of Muslim
 thugs, if this is an exaggeration.  Ask the member of our shul whose son
 tracks Arab terrorist infiltrators who target – pizza parlors, nursery
 schools, Pesach seders, city buses and play grounds, if this is dramatic,
 paranoid hyperbole.

 Ask them, ask all of them – ask the American GI’s we sit next to on planes
 who are here for a brief respite while we fly off on our Delta vacation
 package.  Ask them if it’s bad.  Ask them if it’s real.

 Did anyone imagine in the 1920’s what Europe would look like in the 1940’s.
 Did anyone presume to know in the coffee houses of Berlin or in the opera
 halls of Vienna that genocide would soon become the celebrated culture?
Did
 anyone think that a goofy-looking painter named Shickelgruber would go from
 the beer halls of Munich and jail, to the Reichstag as Feuhrer in less than
 a decade?  Did Jews pack their bags and leave Warsaw, Vilna, Athens, Paris,
 Bialystok, Minsk, knowing that soon their new address would be Treblinka,
 Sobibor, Dachau and Auschwitz?

 The sages teach – “Aizehu chacham – haroeh et hanolad – Who is a wise
person
 – he who sees into the future.”  We dare not wallow in complacency, in a
 misguided tolerance and naïve sense of security.

 We must be diligent students of history and not sit in ash cloth at the
 waters of Babylon weeping.  We cannot be hypnotized by eloquent-sounding
 rhetoric that soothes our heart but endangers our soul.  We cannot be
lulled
 into inaction for fear of offending the offenders.  Radical Islam is the
 scourge and this must be cried out from every mountain top.  From sea to
 shining sea, we must stand tall, prideful of our stunning decency and moral
 resilience.  Immediately after 9/11 how many mosques were destroyed in
 America?  None.  After 9/11, how many Muslims were killed in America?
 None.  After 9/11, how many anti-Muslim rallies were held in America?
 None.  And yet, we apologize.  We grovel.  We beg forgiveness.

 The mystifying litany of our foolishness continues.  Should there be a shul
 in Hebron on the site where Baruch Goldstein gunned down twenty-seven Arabs
 at noonday prayers?  Should there be a museum praising the U.S. Calvary on
 the site of Wounded Knee?  Should there be a German cultural center in
 Auschwitz?  Should a church be built in the Syrian town of Ma’arra where
 Crusaders slaughtered over 100,000 Muslims?  Should there be a thirteen
 story mosque and Islamic Center only a few steps from Ground Zero?

 Despite all the rhetoric, the essence of the matter can be distilled quite
 easily.  The Muslim community has the absolute, constitutional right to
 build their building wherever they wish.  I don’t buy the argument – “When
 we can build a church or a synagogue in Mecca they can build a mosque
 here.”  America is greater than Saudi Arabia.  And New York is greater than
 Mecca.  Democracy and freedom must prevail.

 Can they build?  Certainly.  May they build?  Certainly.   But should they
 build at that site?  No -- but that decision must come from them, not from
 us.  Sensitivity, compassion cannot be measured in feet or yards or in
 blocks.  One either feels the pain of others and cares, or does not.

 If those behind this project are good, peace-loving, sincere, tolerant
 Muslims, as they claim, then they should know better, rip up the zoning
 permits and build elsewhere.

 Believe it or not, I am a dues-paying, card carrying member of the ACLU,
yet
 from start of finish, I find this sorry episode disturbing to say the
 least.

 William Burroughs, the novelist and poet, in a wry moment wrote – “After
one
 look at this planet, any visitor from outer space would say – “I want to
see
 the manager.”

 Let us understand that the radical Islamist assaults all over the globe are
 but skirmishes, fire fights, and vicious decoys.  Christ and the
 anti-Christ.  Gog U’Magog.  The Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness; the
 bloody collision between civilization and depravity is on the border
between
 Lebanon and Israel.  It is on the Gaza Coast and in the Judean Hills of the
 West Bank.  It is on the sandy beaches of Tel Aviv and on the cobblestoned
 mall of Ben Yehuda Street.  It is in the underground schools of Sderot and
 on the bullet-proofed inner-city buses.  It is in every school yard,
 hospital, nursery, classroom, park, theater – in every place of innocence
 and purity.

 Israel is the laboratory – the test market.  Every death, every explosion,
 every grisly encounter is not a random, bloody orgy.  It is a calculated,
 strategic probe into the heart, guts and soul of the West.

 In the Six Day War, Israel was the proxy of Western values and strategy
 while the Arab alliance was the proxy of Eastern, Soviet values and
 strategy.  Today too, it is a confrontation of proxies, but the stakes are
 greater than East Jerusalem and the West Bank.  Israel in her struggle
 represents the civilized world, while Hamas, Hezbollah, Al Queda, Iran,
 Islamic Jihad, represent the world of psychopathic, loathesome evil.

 As Israel, imperfect as she is, resists the onslaught, many in the Western
 World have lost their way displaying not admiration, not sympathy, not
 understanding, for Israel’s galling plight, but downright hostility and
 contempt.  Without moral clarity, we are doomed because Israel’s galling
 plight ultimately will be ours.  Hanna Arendt in her classic Origins of
 Totalitarianism accurately portrays the first target of tyranny as the Jew.
 We are the trial balloon.  The canary in the coal mine.  If the Jew/Israel
 is permitted to bleed with nary a protest from “good guys” then tyranny
 snickers and pushes forward with its agenda.

 Moral confusion is a deadly weakness and it has reached epic proportions in
 the West; from the Oval Office to the UN, from the BBC to Reuters to MSNBC,
 from the New York Times to Le Monde, from university campuses to British
 teachers unions, from the International Red Cross to Amnesty International,
 from Goldstone to Elvis Costello, from the Presbyterian Church to the
 Archbishop of Canterbury.

 There is a message sent and consequences when our president visits Turkey
 and Egypt and Saudi Arabia, and not Israel.

 There is a message sent and consequences when free speech on campus is only
 for those championing Palestinian rights.

 There is a message sent and consequences when the media deliberately
doctors
 and edits film clips to demonize Israel.

 There is a message sent and consequences when the UN blasts Israel
 relentlessly, effectively ignoring Iran, Sudan, Venezuela, North Korea,
 China and other noxious states.

 There is a message sent and consequences when liberal churches are
motivated
 by Liberation Theology, not historical accuracy.

 There is a message sent and consequences when murderers and terrorists are
 defended by the obscenely transparent “one man’s terrorist is another man’s
 freedom fighter.”

 John Milton warned, “Hypocrisy is the only evil that walks invisible.”

 A few days after the Gaza blockade incident in the spring, a congregant
 happened past my office, glanced in and asked in a friendly tone –

 “Rabbi.  How’re y’ doing?”

 I looked up, sort of smiled and replied – “I’ve had better days.”

 “What’s the matter?  Is there anything I can do to cheer you up?” he
 inquired.

 “Thank you for the offer but I’m just bummed out today and I showed him a
 newspaper article I was reading.

 “Madrid gay pride parade bans Israeli group over Gaza Ship Raid.”  I
 explained to my visitor – “The Israeli gay pride contingent from Tel Aviv
 was not allowed to participate in the Spanish gay pride parade because the
 mayor of Tel Aviv did not apologize for the raid by the Israeli military.”

 The only country in the entire Middle East where gay rights exist, is
 Israel.  The only country in the entire Middle East where there is a gay
 pride parade, is Israel.  The only country in the Middle East that has gay
 neighborhoods and gay bars, is Israel.

 Gays in the Gaza would be strung up, executed by Hamas if they came out and
 yet Israel is vilified and ostracized.  Disinvited to the parade.

 Looking for logic?

 Looking for reason?

 Looking for sanity?

 Kafka on his darkest, gloomiest day could not keep up with this bizarre
 spectacle and we “useful idiots” pander and fawn over cutthroats, sinking
 deeper and deeper into moral decay, as the enemy laughs all the way to the
 West Bank and beyond.

 It is exhausting and dispiriting.  We live in an age that is redefining
 righteousness where those with moral clarity are an endangered, beleaguered
 specie.

 Isaiah warned us thousands of years ago – “Oye Lehem Sheh-Korim Layome,
 Laila v’Laila, yome – Woe to them who call the day, night and the night,
 day.”  We live on a planet that is both Chelm and Sodom.  It is a
 frightening and maddening place to be.

 How do we convince the world and many of our own, that this is not just
 anti-Semitism, that this is not just anti-Zionism but a full throttled
 attack by unholy, radical Islamists on everything that is morally precious
 to us?

 How do we convince the world and many of our own that conciliation is not
an
 option, that compromise is not a choice?

 Everything we are.  Everything we believe.  Everything we treasure, is at
 risk.

 The threat is so unbelievably clear and the enemy so unbelievably ruthless
 how anyone in their right mind doesn’t get it is baffling.  Let’s try an
 analogy.  If someone contracted a life-threatening infection and we not
only
 scolded them for using antibiotics but insisted that the bacteria had a
 right to infect their body and that perhaps, if we gave the invading
 infection an arm and a few toes, the bacteria would be satisfied and stop
 spreading

 Anyone buy that medical advice?  Well, folks, that’s our approach to the
 radical Islamist bacteria.  It is amoral, has no conscience and will spread
 unless it is eradicated. – There is no negotiating.  Appeasement is death.

 I was no great fan of George Bush – didn’t vote for him.  (By the way, I’m
 still a registered Democrat.)  I disagreed with many of his policies but
one
 thing he had right.  His moral clarity was flawless when it came to the War
 on Terror, the War on Radical Islamist Terror.  There was no middle ground

 either you were friend or foe.  There was no place in Bush’s world for a
 Switzerland.  He knew that this competition was not Toyota against G.M.,
not
 the Iphone against the Droid, not the Braves against the Phillies, but a
 deadly serious war, winner take all.  Blink and you lose.  Underestimate,
 and you get crushed.

 I know that there are those sitting here today who have turned me off.  But
 I also know that many turned off their rabbis seventy five years ago in
 Warsaw, Riga, Berlin, Amsterdam, Cracow, Vilna.  I get no satisfaction from
 that knowledge, only a bitter sense that there is nothing new under the
sun.

 Enough rhetoric – how about a little “show and tell?”  A few weeks ago on
 the cover of Time magazine was a horrific picture with a horrific story.
 The photo was of an eighteen year old Afghani woman, Bibi Aisha, who fled
 her abusive husband and his abusive family.  Days later the Taliban found
 her and dragged her to a mountain clearing where she was found guilty of
 violating Sharia Law.  Her punishment was immediate.  She was pinned to the
 ground by four men while her husband sliced off her ears, and then he cut
 off her nose.

 That is the enemy (show enlarged copy of magazine cover.)

 If nothing else stirs us.  If nothing else convinces us, let Bibi Aisha’s
 mutilated face be the face of Islamic radicalism.  Let her face shake up
 even the most complacent and naïve among us.  In the holy crusade against
 this ultimate evil, pictures of Bibi Aisha’s disfigurement should be
 displayed on billboards, along every highway from Route 66 to the Autobahn,
 to the Transarabian Highway.  Her picture should be posted on every lobby
 wall from Tokyo to Stockholm to Rio.  On every network, at every commercial
 break, Bibi Aisha’s face should appear with the caption – “Radical Islamic
 savages did this.” And underneath – “This ad was approved by Hamas, by
 Hezbollah, by Taliban, by the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, by Islamic
Jihad,
 by Fatah al Islam, by Magar Nodal Hassan, by Richard Reid, by Ahmanijad, by
 Sheik Omar Abdel Rahman, by Osama bin Laden, by Edward Said, by The Muslim
 Brotherhood, by Al Queda, by CAIR.”

 “The moral sentiment is the drop that balances the sea” said Ralph Waldo
 Emerson.  Today, my friends, the sea is woefully out of balance and we
could
 easily drown in our moral myopia and worship of political correctness.

 We peer up into the heavens sending probes to distant galaxies. We peer
down
 into quarks   discovering particles that would astonish Einstein.  We
create
 computers that rival the mind, technologies that surpass science fiction.
 What we imagine, with astounding rapidity, becomes real.  If we dream it,
it
 does, indeed, come.  And yet, we are at a critical point in the history of
 this planet that could send us back into the cave, to a culture that would
 make the Neanderthal blush with shame.

 Our parents and grandparents saw the swastika and recoiled, understood the
 threat and destroyed the Nazis.  We see the banner of Radical Islam and can
 do no less.

 A rabbi was once asked by his students….
 “Rebbi.  Why are your sermons so stern?”  Replied the rabbi, “If a house is
 on fire and we chose not to wake up our children, for fear of disturbing
 their sleep, would that be love?  Kinderlach, ‘di hoyz brent.’  Children
our
 house is on fire and I must arouse you from your slumber.”

 During WWII and the Holocaust was it business as usual for priests,
 ministers, rabbis?  Did they deliver benign homilies and lovely sermons as
 Europe fell, as the Pacific fell, as North Africa fell, as the Mideast and
 South America tottered, as England bled?  Did they ignore the demonic
 juggernaut and the foul breath of evil?  They did not.  There was clarity,
 courage, vision, determination, sacrifice, and we were victorious.  Today
it
 must be our finest hour as well.  We dare not retreat into the banality of
 our routines, glance at headlines and presume that the good guys will
 prevail.

 Democracies don’t always win.
 Tyrannies don’t always lose.

 My friends – the world is on fire and we must awake from our slumber.  “EHR
 KUMT.”

Friday, June 04, 2010

Thursday, June 03, 2010

Going it Alone

On Wednesday, two days after Israel acted alone, as is usually the case, to stop a "Flotilla" from breaking a security barrier, a young boy in Los Angeles, California, acted alone to protest against a Pro-Palestinian group. The group calling for the destruction of Israel - was forced to scream louder and throw stronger death wishes as the young boy just stood his ground, kept composed and walked alongside them with his Israeli Flag, IDF Tee-shirt and Yarmulke covering his head.

Israel and Jews in general, have always been on the low end when it came to population and size of land owned. The disproportionate, David vs Goliath, if you will, has had to be backed with a proportionate amount of force to just survive while encircled by Rottweilers always on the attack. So here we have One Country, roughly the size of New Jersey, against 4 countries who border it (Egypt, Lebanon, Syria and Jordan) and they stand tall. Israeli's are educated, the country is at the top of the economic scale in the world, Top in medicine, genetics, technology and so on.

I could go on for days about the Pulitzer Prize winners, Nobel winners and the breakthroughs made by Jewish innovation - I wont. I will say this.

Israel goes one against many - to push ethics, humanity, peace and improvements in the world. They are the first country to send assistance to other countries in need. They stress security because without security they would not exist. They have the best Air Force in the world because they need to watch and fight from above.

That kid walked into the crowd and waved his flag because he knows that good triumphs evil. The power of the One can overwhelm the power of the many - and he knows this and that's why he was able to walk there, head help up high, waving the flag and singing the songs of survival and faith.



Not just on Sundays or once a year

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Queen of Hearts - Happy Mothers Day

    Tired look on her face as she walks through the house picking up some stuff on the floor, making sure the kids have eaten, been bathed, did their homework and now are all ready for bed. She walks towards them and then stops - they are all sitting together and no one is fighting. One has their blanket over them, the others are sitting and watching the TV. Not the best thing to be doing - but she knows its been a long day for them so she just stands and watches.
    The time has flown, from diapers, to pull-ups to spider man and then to grown up underpants. The time has flown, from pacifiers, to sippy cups, to soda and then to a hot cup of coffee. 

    Where did the time go? She stands there watching. 

    The birthing rooms, the first drive home, the feeding and the mid-night crying. Only mommy could calm them to sleep - only mommy could bring out their smile, crooked and sly.

    Seasons come and change - the snow, the sun and the rain that brings on the flowers. The grades climb higher and higher from Kindergarten to College, from marriage to grandchildren. 

    Where does the time go? She stands there staring out the window.

    Five o'clock dinners, "How was your day?" as if she has to ask. To this day my mother has this scary ability to know how i am feeling without even speaking or seeing me. She'll call me on the phone and ask, "How you doing?" In her voice I hear her concern and I love her for it.

    She sits there watching and can see through the facades, the jokes and the smiles. Mother's Day is once a year - but we know its every day of every year. They never rest. Fathers will sit on the couch and fall asleep - Mom's will be watching, cleaning, cooking and worrying. 

    I remember times in our lives where she stood there giving us strength while we were crumbling. Ignoring our comments when we should have kept quiet. Defending us from others and telling us to be strong.
    Mommy opened her doors to our friends and never complained about the noise or the mess. (well maybe about the mess) Our friends came over and ate over - the memories still are cherished and held close to our hearts. Of the Saturday afternoons - boys and girls hanging around - on the porch in our livingroom. The aroma of the Friday evening left overs being warmed up. 

    The years do fly on by and mommy has been a grandma for over twenty years now. I remember being a kid and knowing just how much she loved me. We all felt that she could never love anyone as much as she loved us. The that grandchildren came around - we were old news. 
    We all have the same open door policy that she kept - the kids all come over and hang around, talking, laughing and comfortable. Those kids become like our own - creating memories that are cherished and held close to their hearts, and ours. 
    Love for our parents is, or should be, expressed more often then once a year with flowers and a phone call. 
    If love could be measured in space and time her love for her children and grandchildren would encompass the universe and beyond. Our love for this special Queen of Hearts can never be defined, what love can? Most love cannot be defined, measured or even ever fully understood. All we could do is stand there in awe and admiration and let her know, "We love you and Happy Mother's Day."




Thursday, April 22, 2010

Vote Now And Win!



Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Time for Music, Time for Games and time for fun!

What else is there in life?

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Not Six Million By Freddy S. Zalta

Not Six Million Written By Freddy S. Zalta for Image Magazine 2000 When people speak about the Holocaust the number “Six million” comes up and people pause. Sometimes they pause because they are in awe of the number; sometimes they pause because they just cannot imagine six million people being extinguished for no other reason but hatred. Sometimes they pause because the number has been repeated so many times that it doesn’t even faze them anymore but they feel that a pause is necessary. We have all seen the footage of the atrocities carried out by the Germans; we have seen the footage of the emaciated Jews looking into the camera; we have all seen the footage of the piles of bodies; men, women and children. The stench of death will never be forgotten and the blood is on the hands of every leader of every country that knew about the atrocities yet decided to turn away. Six million souls? No, not six million souls. The souls of the six million live on forever; it is the souls of the murderers that have been obliterated or are still burning in judgment somewhere. Six million Jews? No, not six million Jews. Each one of those six million would have contributed much more to this world then just taking up space. The cure for cancer could be in the ashes of Auschwitz. The cure for war could be in the ashes of Bergen-Belsen. The percentage of the six million who had yet to have children or marry could have led to another 20 million Jews by 1960; in turn another 40 million by 1980 and another 60 million by 2000. Six million? No not six million. Think of the music that could have been composed. Think of the stories that could have been written. Think of the art that could have been created. Think of the millions of lonely souls searching for love…The millions who have lived a life full of sadness and emptiness that one of those “six million” could have filled with their love, their caring and their warmth. Think of death and you cannot fathom the lives these unborn souls would have lived. Think about life and the right to choose to live or die and you can’t help but remember the choices that the unborn will never have. Think about the amount of the six million who had yet to fall in love; who had yet to see a beach; who had yet to watch a baby being born…the millions more who will never even get the chance. The ashes of the camps are filled with dreams that will never be dreamed; cures that will never cure; love that will never again love or be loved; children crying out for mommy or daddy… Six million is just a number. The Germans did more then kill Six million Jews they destroyed a world that could have been, should have been brighter, healthier and full of love and peace. Six million? No. An infinite amount of people will be paying the price of the death of the living and the death of the unborn for an infinite amount of time. The generation of the survivors is aging and in a short while there will be no more witnesses. That is why we must teach our children over and over again the importance of never to forget. The importance of the words…Never again.

Tuesday, April 07, 2009

Disclaimer

All written by Freddy Zalta "The events depicted in these chapters are fictitious. Any similarity to any person, company or entity living or dead, in business or out, is merely coincidental. (C) 2008-2009 F-Train Publications Brooklyn, NY ISBN-2126-546718

CPA and Just Another Day

Below are the first 5 chapters of my next book. It has not been edited and is very raw so be very understanding...to be continued.

Monday, April 06, 2009

Chapter 1 - Ride to NYC

On a beach somewhere…its hot but there is a soft caressing breeze blowing and I can sense the feeling of relaxation seeping within me. The water is a clear aqua blue and the sky is azure. White powdery sand covers my toes…I can feel someone touching me and suddenly I feel a numbing pain in my balls. A loud announcement screams, “The news watch never stops, you give us 22 minutes we’ll give you the world. Good morning its, 14 degrees outside and cloudy on this January 18th I am Judy Deangelos.” I hit the clock…my daughter laughs. She is on top of me and her foot has inadvertently (?) kicked me in my groin. My wife rolls over and says, “Good morning.” I roll over and smile, in pain, “but it was such a nice dream…” Under the shower the water pressure suddenly drops. Shampoo in my hair begins to drip unto my face and then my eyes. I spend the remainder of my shower trying to wash myself under a dripping spray. As soon as I go to shut the water, the pressure returns, too late, I shut it. I put on my clothes and my pants are tighter then usual. “Honey I think my pants shrunk.” I say. “I don’t think it’s the pants that have changed.” She says with a smile. “I haven’t gained weight in one week. These pants fit me perfectly last week and then you had to clean them.” “They were dirty, you want to wear dirty clothes?” I lose the argument and just wear them unbuckled with a sweater covering the belt area so no one can see. I walk downstairs and make myself a cup of instant coffee. It tastes, well, like instant coffee; instant gratification without the actual gratification. But its ok, its caffeine and its Monday morning, so it’ll do. I have come to lower my standards on this and lots of others things I once seemed to hold to higher ones. Music, movies, books and coffee; some examples of too many expectations that have fallen short and less then have they risen to the occasion. I once believed that life was supposed to be seized; you know “carpe diem” and all that. Yeh, well, I have come to realize that’s a bunch of bullshit spoken by poor artists who didn’t have to raise a family and pay for a mortgage that was refinanced 3 times just to make ends meet. Fucking assholes; infecting us with all that “make the most of your day” crap. Yeh seize ‘this’ buddy. I walk towards the elevated platform on Avenue P and McDonald Avenue to take the F train into Manhattan. I live in Brooklyn, have lived in Brooklyn my entire life. Its in my blood and I will probably die here and be buried somewhere in this Boro Capital of the world. I wait on the platform and see the familiar faces; the Russian girl who thinks she is hotter then she actually is, the Asian girl who is hotter then she thinks she is, the religious Jew who carries a big book in his hand, the Talmud and then the Giant man who scares the crap out of me. He is well over 6 feet tall, really heavy set with over sized features on his head. Bit mouth, giant ears and big nose. He can pass for a modern day Frankenstein, in any case he scares the shit out of me. He lives in my area because I often see him walking alone and one time I saw him walking alone in the dark. I didn’t know what it was walking towards me, looked like a walking tree, but as he got closer I realized who it was, the giant from the F train. The train rolls in and we all walk onto the cars and scramble for a seat. Its usually not a problem since we are one of the first stops from Brooklyn to the city. I sit down and look around. Once again, I see the usual suspects sitting in their usual spots. Young girl mouthing prayers very quickly while the woman next to her applies make-up to her face, as if it’s going to make a difference. Its funny thing about makeup, sometimes I see a beautiful girl walk on looking all fresh and then she sits down and puts on make up that makes her look older and less pretty then nature intended. I don’t know, I am just happy I aint no chick, I don’t know if I could be so obsessed with my appearance just to impress others. I am sitting on the first seat next to the door and there is an Asian woman and her little son sitting next to me, one seat apart. She is speaking extremely loud to him and I have no idea what she is saying but she seems quite pissed off. She keeps speaking like a fucking siren in the middle of the night screaming and blaring. I say Asian because I have no idea if she is Korean, Japanese, Chinese or whatever. I am a Jewish Man from Brooklyn and I have no idea how to differentiate. That might sound racist, but I mean it in a non-racist way. What does piss me off about them is their loud voice. They can be sitting inches apart and they scream to each other as if they are a block apart. What's up with that? 18th Avenue and the Hasidic Jews walk onto the train, seats are scarce and people are beginning to be stuck standing for the duration. I open up my paper and read about the same old news. Bailouts, unemployment, Obama’s change is basically the same old story and the only change is the color of the skin which is the only reason he was elected in the first place. People all talk about how its such an amazing accomplishment that we have elected a black president and I guess to some extent I agree, but I feel the opposite is true. People want to convince themselves that they are better the generation before then so they vote for someone who, despite all the reasons not to vote for him, lack of experience, past affiliates, etc. vote for him because of his charisma and his call for change. I am hoping he turns out to make a difference simply because this country needs serious help. So I will stand behind him and hope for changes for the better. We go underground and hit Church Avenue; a large man walks in and decides to sit between the Asian lady and me. It takes a couple of seconds but the smell begins to make its way towards me. I stand up and walk towards the other side of the car. I cant believe I got screwed like that but, what am I gonna do? We hit Jay Street and a mass exodus occurs, I run and find myself a seat next to the chick who was praying before. She is listening to her ipod now and oblivious. No problem at least she smells nice. She looks at me and nods her head as if she is disgusted with me. “What?” I asked. “You just sat on a some yogurt or something.” She says. I put my hand on my butt and notice its wet now and all I can say is I hope its water and not yogurt. Black pants and yogurt don’t go well together and we have a meeting today with the boss and some board members. There have been rumors of lay-offs and cut backs, we already did not get any bonus this past New Year and its no secret that the company gambled 7 million dollars on a product that was at its peak and was now in decline. So this meeting was called to discuss the future of the company and its employees. The train stops in between East Broadway and Delancy Street, no announcement until 5 minutes into it. “Ladies and Gentleman we are being held here because of a stalled train on Delancy Street, we hope to be moving shortly.” Ten minutes pass by and the smell from my former neighbor across the car starts to make its way towards us. I stand up to walk towards the other side and the train jumps. We get to Delancy and throngs run onto the train.

Friday, February 08, 2008

The Thing About Dreams

It’s late September; last day of September actually. The summer is still hanging around, although the wind has been trying its best to push it away. The summer was something this year. Blue skies, trips to the beach, baseball, no homework, and cuts and bruises all around. When I was younger, summer meant no school and the sounds of baseball on my transistor radio. Each spring I would eagerly count down to the first week in April for opening day and the start of a six-month journey where dreams are encouraged and the daylight lasts straight into the evening. I remember playing softball in the schoolyard down the block from our home. We would begin early in the morning and defend our field until the sun just couldn't stay up any longer. We would play and we would become our heroes; I would be Tom Seaver pitching and then I would be Dave Kingman hitting. The dreams I held tightly in my heart were encouraged by the success I had between the lines; I was a fast runner and I would plow my way around from home plate to home plate. Bruises, scrapes and cuts leading to scars on my body. The journey around the bases was exciting as I dared each player to try and catch me; the dream of success encouraged. I didn't always get the hit and strike out the hitter; in fact I was not the best player on the field. But I had more fun then anyone else. How can you go wrong when you are living your dreams? The summer evenings were always hot. Air conditioners were not the norm back then and the windows would be wide open all night. I would keep my transistor radio underneath my pillow and listen to the sounds of baseball being played somewhere. Dreams encouraged; dreams being celebrated as the summer months peaked. I remember the summer of 1977: blackouts, heat, killer on the loose, dirty streets and death that seemed to follow us wherever we turned. Charlie Chaplin, Groucho Marx, Elvis Presley and so many others. The daughter of the owners of the diner across the street on Kings Highway, killed by the media's ‘Son of Sam.’ Of course there were also the dreams that died that year for me; the dream that loyalty meant something. On June 15th 1977, the Mets traded my heroes Tom Seaver and Dave Kingman and just like that, all in one night, they were gone. Loyalty seemed nowhere to be found on or off the field. The summer went slowly that year and I waited for it to end. Dreams seemed to be turning into nightmares and I felt out of control. The thing about dreams is that they are rarely encouraged; they are looked upon as if they’re a curse and when something goes wrong we’re told to wake up and deal with reality. The thing about dreams that brings feelings of unease is the way they are discarded, forgotten and replaced—just like Seaver and Kingman. The summer is finishing now and I can tell you that I've had my share of ‘dreams’ gone wrong. Dreams of loyalty, support and courage. It’s not how the dream ends; it’s how much heart and soul you put into it to make it the best journey possible. The baseball season ended for me this September. With the Mets losing, all the success of the months before had been negated. The heart and soul of the team was lost somewhere in the dog days of August. Now the cool winds will blow more consistent, the chatter on the streets will grow faint and days will last only for several hours at a time. The comfort of the daily games are gone and the sounds of the ball hitting the bat muted. Life is too short to let go of all your dreams; our dreams can be part of our reality. In dreams there are no failures; the only failures are the dreams no one dares to take a chance on. There’s no such thing as failure, because without failure, who are we? I’d rather speak with a man with scars than one with a clear complexion. Who are we if we have not yet fallen on our face and stood up to try once again and again and again? I have my scars. Most people are sympathetic; I equate my scars with trophies—inspiration to stand up again, walk onto the field, hit the ball and run around the bases. Although these days I am much slower, I know that I will find my way back home via the base paths. Each base is its own goal and reward— integrity, respect, love and responsibility. That responsibility in knowing I am not the only one on the field and that there are others who are running ahead and behind me. It is my responsibility to clear the way for them to find their way back home. _________________ Freddy S. Zalta lives in Brooklyn, living the impossible dreams

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

July 10th 2007

Hot summer day; 4th of July passed; love conquers all...it does. Money is unimportant when you have a lot of it. Money is important. Health and Happiness go hand in hand...God bless you. I didnt sneeze... No i meant...ok. Keep your chin up and keep on passing those open windows. you dont have to entertain to be loved but you can love to entertain. Do unto others as you'd like done to you...the rest is all commentary. Good night, Irene. (who is Irene?) Dont stop dreaming...ever!