The Card That Started It All

Here's the card. It's not exactly the way I had described it, but we all know that memory is a funny thing. I filched it from The River City Church blog, not a greeting-card-website, hence the penned addition of "Andrew" beneath "Brian" (way to take the fun out of it - Andrewtology does not have the same ring to it. I'm sorry, it just doesn't.). The Brian who received and posted it seems genuinely unimpressed by it; but, that could just be my interpretation of his words on the flat page/screen. Note to self: no proselytizing in Missoula.


The real life Brian, posed here with his awesome wife/my step-mom, Laura.



I've been thinking: I think the first commandment of (our) Briantology, though it could be placed anywhere along the hypothetical, eventual list, will be:
"Thou shalt embrace thy inner gnomeness with aspirations to being as gnome-y as The Brian."

The Nativity Story of (our) Briantology

Google "Briantology." You'll see that we're not original in our name but it is dear to us, as will become apparent in this post. Of course, The Life of Brian is the first point of departure for most upon hearing this moniker for my paternal family's gaff-religion. But, the story itself and the 'religion' itself has taken on a life of its own.

It all started last year this time when I was looking for birthday cards for my brothers, Jason and Seb; their birthdays are in April. I came across this gem: on the front cover it said, "Not satisfied with the state of religion today, Brian decided to branch out on his own"(or something to that effect). Underneath this message was a simple cartoon drawing of a man wearing glasses standing behind a lemonade-type-stand which said on it "Church of Briantology" and a jar sat on the stand: Donations Accepted. Inside the card it said something like "May the force of Brian be with you." I'm pretty sure I wet myself in the Hallmark store and bought two.

What makes this so funny is that my Dad's name is Brian, and we've always had a running conversation that often turns into joking about religion in general and spirituality in particular; such conversations usually end with the general consensus that Dad is god-like in nature, and makes Emmer and I wonder what we would do without each other to discuss this (and, keeps us all in fine eye-rolling form). One of my favourite conversations with him about this opened with him telling me that he had just "come out of the closet": he did indeed have a faith but was still trying to figure out just what it is.

When I presented the cards to my brothers, my step-mom loved the card so much that rumour has it she went around to all the Hallmark stores in the Greater Barrie Area and bought them up. The modest spreading and proselytizing of Briantology had begun.

In the meantime, Briantology is now a fairly regular topic of skype conversations between my father and me. We have already decided that Sean Connery is our first saint. Briantology does not believe that candidates for canonization need to be dead already for X number of years before nomination. Sean's three miracles are as follows:
1: Greatest James Bond ever.
2: Wearing that outfit in Highlander without losing a shred of his masculinity.
3: Regardless of how shitty the movie is that he's in, he makes it respectable. Ok, if not respectable, then it's a downright cool flick just because he's in it.

Also, I have decided that I am the President of Briantology. Dad protested this decision, saying that he should be president, until I explained to him: I am the eldest child, therefore it is my prerogative to be president; he can't be the president because he is The Brian. That satisfied his vanity. And, we decided together Briantology's motto, if it ever has a motto, will have something involving capitalism with a socialist conscious. I'm even debating adding my idea for an NGO to the Briantology mandate/manifesto: Sustained Altruism Without Politics (SAWP).

Further, the topic of Briantology was raised at a December dinner in an Ethiopian restaurant here in Jerusalem. I told my gang the story of Briantology and Daan (one of The Dutch) asked if the position of Messiah was open. I told him, "No," because I'm reserving it for my kid, since if I ever get pregnant and become a mother, it'll be a miracle. Daan is instead our first prophet; what better place than Jerusalem to find our first prophet, or rather to have our first prophet find us? Daan is balanced enough, after being here for seven months already, that he shows no signs of Jerusalem Syndrome. I would be worried about the speaking-in-tongues thing, but Daan speaks something like 12 languages and about two-thirds of them are dead languages anyway so I'm not mother-henning this one.

So, there you have it. From his modest beginnings in a farmhouse in Flesherton, ON (pronounced fleshurt-un), to his childhood in Creemore, to his highrolling life in the thriving metropolis of Barrie, Brian's spreading his word of peace, love, and, um, European football. He's a bit of a cinephile, and we forgive him his transgressions of Louis L'Amour novels. The best of Briantology is yet to come, when we publish a songbook of all popular favs rewritten with improvisational irreverence; I think the first fifty copies will come with its own glow-in-the-dark SweetBabyJesus, just for fun.

Your Friendly Brian and Humble President:

Sunny Days Are Here Again

So, today's post is dedicated to wrapping up some loose ends from previous posts.

First of all, the final package has arrived! My Christmas gift from my grandmother was on the road for 4.5 months, and I'm hoping that it at least stopped in Italy for gelato on its way. In it, I received some lovely noties, Lindor dark chocolate (yum!), more hand cream (yum!), and an exquisitely hand-made journal. The last in the list arrived at the perfect time since the current journal is nearly full. The almost-full journal makes eight since my arrival in the Holy Land, Gramma's will be nine. And, its arrival proves my point that often what we're waiting for arrives when we need it most and not a moment sooner. Our happy postal shrine has not been dismantled, but it is shrinking. The contributions from Gundula and Bea returned home with them: Gundula returned to Cologne in the middle of February and Bea flew home to Guadalajara, Spain, earlier today. Lily, Kyle and I are on pins and needles to meet our new roomies.

Regarding Shabbat Goy issues, Lily indeed stayed in the kfar a few weekends ago. Can I tell you how exciting it was to have first-hand experience as a Shabbat Goy? - a real, true, appreciated, intentional Shabbat Goy! I turned on kettles, turned light-switches off and on both in the apartment and in the stairwell. It was a beautifully sunny Shabbat, so Lily and I sat outside chatting and picking out which boys in tzitzim and kippa she should marry and when we returned to home on the elevator, I pushed "3" with such purpose! My only sadness on that weekend was not being able to cook for her, since I'm no kosher gal. But, we can't have everything.

The February vacation is nearly at an end; classes officially start tomorrow but I don't have my first class until Monday morning at 8:30. This semester, I will continue with Biblical Hebrew, and start Canaanite Literature and the Bible as well as Ugaritic. True to Hebrew University form, as we've experienced it at least, the course for Ugaritic has been approved but no one knows where or when it will take place. The other thing I have to do is talk the powers-that-be in the graduate office into letting me take a tutorial on Literary Translation.

I know that you've all been quite worried about my tan, and I can't say that I blame you. As it turns out, all disaster was diverted yesterday (+24) and today (+30). Yes, I got a little pink today at 8am sitting outside waiting for my laundry to wash. Yes, my exposed flesh is sunscreened. Yes, I know that you all think I can't get a tan, but my pal, Sofia (who is also Spanish) said that she knows people back home who would be envious of such a tan in March. I stick my tongue out in your general direction.

Oh! Speaking of Monty Python, the Cinemateque is screening The Life of Brian on Tuesday. I know - it's smackdab on Purim, and it's causing a real argument between my different brains. What to do? Dress up as a vampire (is it just me, or is dressing as a vampire a pretty standard costume regardless of dress-up holiday the world over?) OR go conduct research (free with my movie pass) for our family's budding religion? I am, after all, President of Briantology. (No, my father cannot be president of Briantology because he is The Brian.) (Yes, we've already discussed this.) Oh, dear, I have ended on a cliff-hanger after a dedication to the contrary...

Important Weather Bulletin

I was just listening to CBC's Metro Morning. They said that the weather in Toronto was 9degrees celcius and raining. For all you schadenfreude-types out there, you'll be pleased to hear that it's 6degrees celcius, rainy and hailing in Jerusalem. At this moment, I feel my blood is justifiably thin despite the report that temperatures are predicted to drop to -16 (-24 with the windchill) by tonight in Southern Ontario. Jerusalem temperatures, on the other hand, will remain steady at 7degrees for the next few days before starting to climb steadily into the double digits again on Monday or Tuesday. I smell my tan fading.

My Highbrow Side

Monday past, I went to the Tel Aviv Opera Company's production of The Cunning Little Vixen by Janacek. Adrienne's husband Johannes is the baritone playing/singing the part of the Forrester and he had set aside two tickets for me, so Pieter joined me. Oh.My.Gosh. Everything about the production was pure magic: the music, the voices, the acting, the costumes and sets. I've now been to four operas, three of which were post-twentieth century: Die Entfuhrung Aus Dem Serail (Mozart), The Handmaid's Tale (Ruders), Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk (Shostakovich), and The Cunning Little Vixen. As much as I love Mozart, I am drawn to the innovative sets and modern interpretations encompassing "opera." It's not just a stuffy, highbrow form of art; opera is more than this preconceived notion of a soprano or baritone or tenor walking on stage, singing an aria then walking off again.

Here's a little review of the Vixen, a la T. The music was gorgeous, and all the voices were wonderful but of course Johs and the Vixen really stood out. Dance and ballet were incorporated - the death scene of the mosquito was sooo sad, and the "dream vixen" was sensuous and made me long to dance topless in the forest (again). The sets and scenery were imaginative and inspired the imagination - the landscape upon which the opera played out was hilly terrain, piled with pillows in places to mark forest foliage and the front opened onto a 'room' that was used to mark either the inn or the Forrester's pen where he kept the Vixen; plus, large branches and the ornithological characters, like the knitting owl, were raised and lowered from the ceiling above the set. This production had beautifully choreographed expression and seasonal transition - the season of spring opened with 6 of the children who played different woodland animals holding umbrellas which they opened slowly into huge daisies. AND it was funny - the scene with the chickens was hysterical; the scene with the pastor lamenting his lost love and youth was wonderfully punctuated by the Vixen rolling around wide-eyed behind him, unbeknownst to him, almost taunting him with her young sexuality. I was amazed that the audience didn't warm up to the humour in Vixen until after the intermission. There were parts where I had to giggle to myself - heaven forbid I be shushed for enjoying the show! The goal is to see more opera, especially pre-twentieth century opera, so that I can balance the modern with the, um, old school.

Emily's a Winner, Baby, That's No Lie

True to Murphy's Law, the weather cleared up the day after Em left. She had arrived here in Israel on the 15th, and I took her back to Ben Gurion late Sunday night, the 22nd. We had a fantastic time while she was here - some much needed sister-bonding - and the weather was mostly overcast, chilly and rainy. Saturday was full of thunderstorms and hail, and in a country that needs the rain, I'd like to think that Em's presence was the boost the clouds needed to open up and give. It's easy to be optimistic after the fact; in truth, I felt bad that she wasn't able to experience Israel in its heatfilled glory. I felt a little like when Mom and I went to Ireland in the middle of a heat wave in May - how can you truly experience that country unless you get caught in a downpour?

But, back to Israel: four of the seven days she was here were productive and filled with (fairly relaxed) sight-seeing. Monday we walked to the Old City, entered through the Lion's/St. Stephen's Gate, walked around the Tower of David Museum then out Jaffa Gate. We walked through the mall, then up Schlomzion Hamalkah to Kadosh for dinner. Em had gnocchi with a mushroom cream sauce and I had a grilled cheese with blue cheese and figs. For dessert we shared a Napoleon, my latest dessert of choice.

Tuesday we didn't do much of anything other than go to the post office, where I picked up two parcels from Mom, one of which was my Christmas Stocking - Hershey Kisses and yummy teas! (The roomies and I are having almost-daily tea parties.) I'm still waiting and hoping for my gift from Gramma. Fingers crossed. We also went down to Hertz with Bea and picked up the car...

Because on Wednesday we roadtripped to the Galilee! Bea, Emily and I were up and gone by 7:20, drove north and travelled along the eastern shore of the Kinneret. We stopped at a little spot that Bea knows so that she could fill a bottle with Jordan water - her mad driving skills warrant another post entirely - then we made the rounds. First stop: Tel Hazor! Then, down to Tagbha, the Church of the Multiplication of the loaves and fishes, then to Caphernaum, the Primacy of St. Peter, and the Mount of the Beatitudes. Since we didn't have enough time to make it to Mount Tabor, we decided to stop in Tiberias for a walk-about and some coffee. As we sat in a cafe, I realized that we had forgotten to pay for parking...yup, a 100 shekelim ticket was waiting on our windshield.

We were home by 8pm and up again the next morning by 4:30 to roadtrip to Masada and the Dead Sea; Tessa joined the three of us for this trip. The goal was to watch the sunrise from the top of Masada. Instead, the sun rose as we were still on the highway, it was still glorious and, as it turns out, the cablecar at Masada doesn't start operating until 8am in the winter. Ordinarily, it starts a half hour before sunrise. Climbing the Snake Path - an hour and a half hike - was vetoed by all but Tessa, since we were exhausted to begin with and didn't want to be completely knackered before the day had really begun. Masada was incredible, much bigger than I had imagined. By noon we were at the En Gedi spa for massages, exfoliating facials and a quick float in the Dead Sea. We managed to get the car back on time by 5pm, despite running into nasty traffic once we were back in Jerusalem.

Friday morning Emily and I dragged ourselves to Tmol Shilshom for brunch and came back to the kfar right afterwards. I was worn out but Emily was feverish. We rested and relaxed, gabbed and read, surfed the internet and chatted with each other and folks back home. By Saturday night we were both rested enough to brave the rain and hail; we went for a gorgeous dinner at Canela, beside Kadosh on Schlomzion Hamalkah. We shared seared whitefish on a bed of rice to start, then Em had chicken breast stuffed with mushrooms and I had the duck. MMM, duck.

Sunday saw us back at the Old City. First, we walked the ramparts then Emily visited the Kotel. Next, we went for an overpriced falafel lunch in the Arab Quarter, did a little shopping then we wandered in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Again, this was much bigger than I thought it was when I was there back in August. We then went up to Ben Yehuda to shop for some more souvenirs. Emily was packed and ready for the sherut which picked us up at 7:45pm.

So, there's a grocery list of our time together. There are new photo albums and some wee films for you to check out. Em and I were pretty addicted to the films and watched them over and over. To close with today, here's my own little academy-esque speech: Thanks, Dad and Laura. Thanks Em, for your divine spark. I believe that, often, what it is I sense I'm missing or needing arrives when I need it most - and Em's arrival and the time we spent together was amazing, well-timed and a much-needed connection not only with her but with home. I'm reminded that being away from home for so long affects us more profoundly than I could have imagined. And I can imagine a lot.