About Me

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Armchair theorist, poet, and occasional IT manager, Sascha B. is equipped with a Master's Degree in Middle Eastern Studies from the University of Texas, and is not afraid to use it. His work has been published by the University Press of America, Edwin Mellen Press, University of Texas Press, and a variety of small journals nationwide. He is also the proprietor and baker for 3141 Pie, of which you should eat many.

The Deal

I stopped blogging in 2013, when life overtook me. My father became ill and died shortly thereafter, and my mother was left with increasing dementia. I became the primary caregiver, and now orchestrate my mother's care and our family estate.

Now, I am coming up for air again.

Looking for the next book to read. All suggestions welcome.

My reading list is over here.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006


It would seem that Palestine, through internal incompetence and external neglect, is self destructing with remarkable speed. On the one hand, the US failed disastrously to provide a firm jand in shepherding the young government to an effective point politically; on the other, the fractionalized anger that has been present for so many years is now rising to the top of the froth, and without funds, or aid, or support, the worst of all sides' natures appear to be taking prode of place.

Imagine if the Democrats in Congress, led by Nancy Pelosi, credibly threatened to assassinate Bush and Cheney, and Rice, and the entire cabinet. That's where these guys are at.

Read more: Reuters: Palestinian group threatens to kill Hamas leaders.

Monday, October 02, 2006

On Being Inscribed

Today was Yom Kippur. I did not pray. I did not eat. This evening, toward the end of the day, I scurried shamefully past the storefront being rented by the local Chabad Lubavitch congregation for a house of prayer this day, scandalized in my heart to see the room full of my fellow Jews, praying, and feel outcast, and longing, and at the same time feeling...nothing.

I fasted, for myself and my own reasons, but I was not today a part of my community. And this is my choice. I feel deep spiritual comfort in these forms, but at this time, this day, it does not feed my soul more than that: a comfort in the form. Not in the content. At least, not today.

I have broken my fast with a steak larger than my head, smothered in porcini mushrooms and shallots, and sweet corn and peas cooked with ginger; a loaf of fresh rye bread, an apple, and a bottle of Tignanello. Later, after my stomach has eased into itself again, I shall have some cheese and more apple, and chestnut honey. And I shall ponder the meaning of what I make of my own solitary, half engaged, nearly apostatic sense of spiritual grounding.

Tomorrow, at work, perhaps I will return to thinking on the confusions of Washington. And the issues of our day at large. Perhaps I will confer with the other hemi-demi Jews who also engaged in fractional aspects of observance, and who have their own reasons, and their own paths, and their own spiritual hungers to share, and hide.

We all have our self-directed questions with which we toss and turn at night. This is one of mine: Who am I, now that I am so much myself?