Not the same

Many years ago I told my mother I was seeing a woman. “Oh yes,” she said “I have feelings for women too.”

“Ma,” sez I, “I don’t have feelings for J. I fuck her.”

And yeah it’s still true. I don’t have feelings for men or women. I fuck them.



I don’t want to do other people’s aikido.

I hadn’t thought until recently that I want to do my aikido.

I have only recently accepted that there is such a thing as my aikido. There are a few insights I’ve had that are uncommon. I have an approach to learning.

The insights aren’t (that) new. The recognition that they are insights is.



I’m fairly high ranked.

Last summer, the technical committee approved a rank promotion for me.   The two people on the committee whom I know best started treating me differently.

One of them has been talking to me about his training, how he perceives aikido, what he’s trying to accomplish when he teaches. (He used to just tell me jokes.) Sometimes he’ll repeat some of what he’s said in class.  Sometimes it’s different.

For years I’ve taken his classes when I could, because there’s at least one moment of  shoshin.

Recently though, I sometimes get something else.  Not every technique. Not even every class. I don’t think I’m figuring out what he does any better than in the past (and I don’t care really, I don’t want to do what he does). Instead, after being befuddled by whatever he’s doing, I start my technique and it is more than technique.  Well, no, of course it isn’t.  It’s lighter, stronger, joyful technique.

Even though I get this expansion most frequently in his classes, it’s not unique to them.  I’m starting to be titanium all over.


Stories vary

I contacted a childhood acquaintance. She remembered me.

She told me a story about my mother that was clearly important to her and her sibs. I didn’t remember it, but ran it by Mom.

She didn’t remember it either.

So yeah, what else do people remember? What important stuff did I do that entirely dropped out of my history?


Cab stops. I’m still fumbling to pay. A couple surges up to the door. She bleached blond, he pencil beard. He opens the door, “Yo! I’m still in here!” “Oh, sorry.”

Eventually I emerge.

The woman: “He was trying to help you out the door.”

“No, he wasn’t, but nice try.”

The woman: “Are you Jewish?”

Me: “What the fuck has that to do with anything?”

The woman: “I knew it. Fucking Jewish bitch.”


For many years I attributed my lack of a sweet tooth to my health conscious parents who didn’t feed us many sweets.

Recently I’ve realized that this is nonsense.

My brother loves sweets.

No, I mean it. He loves sweets.

But I don’t.

I realized that I have quite limited food loves. Oh yeah, I’ll try anything. I’ll eat anything a friend serves me.


– No saccharine

– No cruciform veg

– No twizzlers

– No black cherry anything

– No chocolate with nuts

– No ham (even when I ate pork)

– No artificial strawberry

Geeze, listing what I like would be easier!

Martha Miriam Eliezer

The Times published an op-ed piece on artists who are bad people (actually bad men).

Lots of comments about you can, you should separate the art from the artist. (Easy once they’re dead.)

That’s the context.

I started thinking about Woolfe’s imagined Judith Shakespeare, and how maybe she’d have been an even greater playwright – if only.

And then it hit me. Miriam and Martha have the same endless demands on them. Not Eliezar – not a lick of housework.