933. iDaven

I liked this sensible answer:

"Can I Pray With an iPhone?"

I agree that an actual, physical siddur "has a certain sanctity to it that a virtual siddur cannot attain," but perhaps this is because we're a lot more accustomed to the technology of the book, with 500+ years of history and associations behind it. I wonder if praying from Gutenberg's invention didn't shock a few parchment scroll fans back in the day, as well.

Also agreed that the point of prayer is to escape form the tyranny of e-life. But prayer in a synagogue is communal and, paper siddur or not, will not exclude that loud, off-key guy who thinks his "Amen" must be heard in the shul down the block. "Ask the Rabbi" offers this solution to the electronic version of barriers to concentration:

"The ring tone issue is easily solved by switching to vibrate. Notifications can be turned off in Settings. But you're still going to have those incoming calls and text messages popping up over your siddur. To avoid these, the only trick I know is to switch to Airplane Mode. It seems to me that this is a must for proper praying. Look, if you can do it on the runways of Planet Earth, you can do it on the runway to heaven as well."

929. Time travel

Haven't written very much lately, but I've been busy--with life, and chanting as well. This morning at the minyan I read a short section from the beginning of Mas'ei, all that going forward from place to place. On Shabbat Pinhas I chanted about sacrifices from Pesah through Yom Kippur, mostly all the same except for an extra "and" and inexplicably changed trope now and then. I guess the Masoretes wanted to make sure we didn't fall asleep when reading it for the 5,000th year in a row. I was worried I'd screw up my old friend the Pesah maftir, which became much trickier when paired with similar but slightly different other sections, but everything went well until the end of Rosh Hashahah and I made up a bunch of trope. I ended in the right place, however, so all was well. I'm very glad these hiccups no longer give me heart attacks.

The summer is officially here--98 degrees as I sit in Starbucks typing into Evernote on my iPhone with the ancient, collapsable Bluetooth keyboard that never quite worked years ago with my Treo (it does now, perfectly) and Yo-Yo Ma in my earphones drowning out generic 40s jazz--and it will be short one. The holidays start right after Labor Day, so rehearsals will need to be sometime in August. This logistically annoying earliness is probably why the cantor asked myself and the other hazzanim just last week if we wanted to sing again this year. (Duh.) The subject line of his email was "High Holy Days 5761," leading me to wonder if time travel was among his many talents (since we're about to enter the year 5771). Details, details. The early notice was welcome, even though I've finally stopped angsting (much) about whether I'll be asked back each year.

The email also reminded me that I need to finish writing about last year's High Holy Days, which were lovely but not without drama. I will do that before something else eventful happens that's worth chronicling (donating bone marrow, for example; still on hold.)

927. Geek

I'm one of these. Typing right now on a small folding Bluetooth keyboard I bought about three years ago for my late, great Treo, now retired to whatever part of heaven is reserved for ancient technology. And the keyboard is paired with the phone that will stop traffic in about seven hours, and is right this minute responsible for a big swath of Broadway turning into a concrete campground as fellow geeks (slightly more nuts than I) salivate until the Apple Store opens at 7AM. Fate smiled on me two weeks ago via the online ordering process, so my iPhone4 came via FedEx this morning in a box tiny enough to camouflage its ability to create world peace or plug the oil spill in the Gulf, as you might assume it could do if you were from Mars and read the breathless forum posts on Mac blogs this week.

I went to the gym this evening and disguised it in my old, beaten-up 3G case lest some crazed fanboy notice and, well, salivate. But I was nervous just the same.

Postscript: Wrote this last night on the phone and am editing and posting this morning on my computer thanks to Evernote, a very cool app that can create, share, and update documents between either place. There are other ways to do this, but none so easy and seamless.

898. Moses

Speaking of Parashat Beshalah, Moses is coming down from the mountain tomorrow.

OK, not really. But according to Business Week, Steve Jobs' wildly anticipated announcement this coming Wednesday of a new kind of tablet computer (tablet, get it?) is prophetic and threatens to change life as we know it. Or something like that:

The Tablet as Totem: Is Steve Jobs Our Moses?

I am the world's biggest iPhone fan, and probably more people will be at the foot of our moden-day Sinai, aka the Internet, than at the original one* to hear this announcement, but I don't think we'll be adding a Sixth Book of Jobs any day soon. (And, despite any phenomenal numbers of tablet sales, the symbolism of the apple in the Torah will still be pretty negative. Sorry, Steve.)

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* That is, without adding in all those other Jews who ever existed or will exist, traditionally also at the mountain that day (a concept that terrified me as a child—even more crowded than the subway at rush hour!).

895. Amazing

I've posted before about how I really love my iPhone. Here's further proof that it's an amazing device (sorry for the commercial at the beginning):

iPhone Saves Life of Man Trapped Under Rubble in Haiti

735. Right before Yom Kippur, 5769

Yom Kippur rehearsal

I emerged blinking in the bright sunlight from the dark Sanctuary last Sunday afternoon after my rehearsal and wandered smack into a street fair. ("Yom Kippur rehearsal?" wondered a friend. "Do you practice fasting, as well?" No, but judging by the amount of Chinese food I had for dinner that evening, one might think so.) High Holy Day week is also street fair season on the Upper West Side, always delightful and sometimes bordering on mystical. Once again I wove in and out of knots of people eating arepas and chimichangas; inspecting discount Chinese rugs and Indian handbags and African earrings; stopping to hear a Cuban mariachi band or try on a sweater; and I wanted to hug them all, a ridiculous wave of love for every single person, dog and roasted-corncob-dripping-with-butter-on-a-stick in my city. Maybe it was because I knew I wasn't the only sinner on Broadway, as we all joined in gluttony and coveting just as the Vidui advises we should not.

Or maybe it was because the rehearsal ran late, so I had no choice but wait for the cantor himself to rehearse Kol Nidre while I tried to look nonchalant. The rest of the Upper West Side was running around scrounging for bargains, thinking they were the lucky ones--but only I got to listen to the closest sound to the voice of God, over and over again. (I got to hear him on Rosh Hashanah, as well, which usually doesn't happen with all the hazzanim moving from service location to location--and he heard me, too, a bit nerve-wracking. Both mornings felt a little like a master class with the entire Jewish people observing from the the upper rows. But I seem to have passed, for now.)

A few days later I came back home from the Kol Nidre service still drowning in sounds of boundless strength embraced by compassion, and got right into bed because I had to be awake at 6:30 the next morning--but the year's worth of transgressions wouldn't stop bouncing around in my brain. The best way I could think to relax was with a little puzzle game on my iPhone, which I knew wasn't exactly kosher. It felt OK, though--more like meditation, repetitive, numbing and ultimately healing if it managed to keep me calm. Not that I have any idea what God wants, but I figured my good night's sleep was on His list, and so He wouldn't mind if I pushed all the little pieces together in rows while trying to refrain from conscious thought.

I'd been playing this game rather addictively for a few weeks. My highest score was 300,000 points, a number attained after lengthy rumination about strategy and tilting technique. But I decided to ignore all that, since I wanted to keep the day holy in spirit if not letter. My game would become one big digital "om": tilt, click, ping, tilt, click, ping as my brain emptied, readying itself for better things to come.

The little bomb exploded; the game was over. I looked at my score: 976,852, three times higher than my former greatest achievement. Cool. Maybe God really was OK with this particular sin and (were I a believer in that sort of communication) was trying to tell me that the year would start out just fine.

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The rest of Rosh Hashanah to follow after Sukkot. (So soon? But I was just wallowing in endless guilt--now I get to be happy and celebrate the harvest? Amazing.) Wish everyone a sweet and bountiful holiday.

725. Existential GPS

As I've said too often, I love my iPhone. But it's not perfect: some apps crash, the calendar isn't as good as on my trusty old Treo, and it hasn't yet learned how to copy and paste. That's OK; I'm patient. It's young, brilliant, and lovely, not yet seasoned but full of potential. I can wait.

It is, however, a bit confused. At certain times of day, from a few different locations in my apartment, it thinks I'm in Texas. Not just anywhere in Texas, but a very specific spot on Town-to-Market Road outside of Houston. It's offered up the name of the closest pharmacy to Town-to-Market Road, and told me there are no restaurants in a 5-mile radius. According to the satellite photo on the GPS Google Map, there's nothing much in that spot except a road, a field, and what look like storage buildings.

I wonder: is someone on Town-To-Market Road outside of Houston at this very moment checking a new iPhone after a long day of work hauling farm equipment, and wondering why it thinks she should go see a movie at Lincoln Plaza Cinemas or check out a hot new restaurant featuring photos of clowns on the wall?

Are we ever really where we think we are?

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I am not the only one pondering the philosophical implications of the iPhone. Here's Rabbi Marc Wolf of JTS on Parashat Ekev:

Since I am a self-professed “techno-junkie,” it took considerable restraint to wait the year for the second-generation iPhone to be released. ...

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On another matter: Matt Damon speaks for me. Bravo.

722. A cliff, part 1

How do I work this thing?... Oh, right, just type. So here I am again, trying to steer myself to the proper course as we approach the end of Elul. I've missed writing, but have had little space for it in my brain. I've also been indulging my outer life more than my inner: finally snagged an iPhone and am playing with it constantly, bought a new couch, got rid of of the old one (a very New York story, post to come). Along with introspection, silly stuff is also necessary to maintain balance in life. But I am definitely still here.

At services two weeks ago, the rabbi reminded us that the letters in the name of this month, Elul, are also the first letters of "Ani dodi v'dodi li:" "I am my beloved, and my beloved is mine." He suggested we remember that we are our own beloveds--that in heshbon hanefesh, the inventory of our year, we pay attention to what we love in ourselves, and how we can nurture and grow these traits. And take note of the parts we don't love, so we can leave them behind.

Last month I confronted both poles, which I must admit is another reason (aside from crushing loads of deadline-oriented work) that I haven't written. I haven't wanted to put in the time to digest, articulate, and understand. I had signed up for a whopping bit of chanting, a column and a third. Most of this I read three years ago, so wasn't worried. I was kind of excited about doing it again, in fact, this time calmly and with more confidence.

On Friday afternoon I got an email from the cantor: Would you like to read the haftarah, as well? It was a cool one: "Nahamu, nahamu," the first haftarah of consolation before the High Holy Days. I was about to say yes, but was drowned out by a little voice from the logical side of my brain: it's a bit too much to cram. (The musical part comes quickly, but I still stumble over Hebrew.) I thanked him, and said I didn't think I'd have enough time. OK, he replied, I guess I'll keep trying to ask around. I could almost hear the big sigh between the lines of his email: Someone backed out at the last minute and I can't find anyone else. You've never learned anything this fast before, but I know you can do it. Pretty please.

I knew that chanting this particular haftarah would help heal me from the searing images of Tisha be-Av. I wanted to do it. I read it through a few times, decided to trust in the cantor's trust, which never let me down before, and said yes.

(Continued here.)

707. Grumpy

I'm a gadget freak, staunch supporter of Apple, and rely on a PDA for work. OK, I also like to look cool. But I'm also proud of my individuality, and try to avoid doing something that a million other people are doing at the same time.

So I waited a whole week before giving in to my desire for an iPhone. I also felt a little guilty because I love my Treo, which completely changed my work life. No more rushing back to my desk to answer email, or even plunking down a dollar for the latest newspaper. I also relished leaving it behind on Shabbat, and feeling completely cut off from the world.

But in every life there's a time for change, and this morning was to be my iPhone moment. I checked the website; red squares almost everywhere except my favorite store, 5th and 59th. I ambled over at 7:30AM, certain that few other crazy New Yorkers would sacrifice their Sunday mornings for a phone. I was wrong. They were already sold out, which made sense once I learned from a creepily perky Genius in an official 3G T-shirt that shipments arrive Monday through Friday, so of course none would be left by the end of the weekend.

Still, despite oppressive, humid heat, I had a nice morning walk alongside the southern edge of Central Park. I love New York even though all my favorite diners have closed and the nearest place for scrambled eggs was 15 blocks away, and once there I bumped into crowds just emerging, blinking in the sunlight, from the 6AM showing of THE DARK KNIGHT. I guess they're no crazier than I. I love New York despite loud, unfashionably-clad tourists on the subway at the crack of dawn, all wide-eyed and trying to re-fold their big, glossy maps. I really have no beef with you--you can wear whatever you want, I apologize for my rudeness--and am grateful for your boost to the city's economy. But attempting to keep your balance in a moving train without holding on to a pole is neither clever nor cute, although you think it is, and you will probably end up falling on my head. I value my head. Nor is staring at fellow riders, having conversations at a volume that can be heard back in your native country, or standing in the middle of the platform and blocking my egress so you can take a photo of your kids smiling in front of dirty tracks. I'm not a curmudgeon, but I want New York City all to myself at 7:30 AM--especially if I've just learned I can't scratch my itch and won't get an iPhone until tomorrow at the crack of dawn. Maybe.