#nachmanism

[cottoncandytrafficcones]

I love you Jewish remakes of popular songs

[thebespokeprovocateur]

[eretzyisrael]

[waugh-bao]

[transmascpetewentz]

the urge to wear a kippah vs the fact i get overstimulated from attaching anything to my hair

[girlactionfigure]

Rebbe Nachman lost his wife, the mother of his eight children, to tuberculosis in 1807. He remarried shortly after. In the late summer of 1807, Rebbe Nachman himself contracted tuberculosis, a disease that ravaged his body for three years. Knowing his time to leave this world was imminent, he moved to Uman in the spring of 1810.

He gave over his last lesson to hundreds of followers on Rosh HaShanah 1810 and passed away a few weeks later, on 18 Tishrei 5571 (October 16, 1810), at the age of thirty-eight. He was buried in Uman. #BDE

Afshine Emrani

[lunarcovehq]

Jeremiah Nachman is a werewolf that currently resides in Downtown and has been a Lunar Cove resident for 35 years.

ITS THE END OF THE WORLD

GENDER/PRONOUNS: CIS Male, He/Him

DATE OF BIRTH: July 14, 1989

OCCUPATION: Therapist

FACECLAIM: Oliver Jackson-Cohen

AS WE KNOW IT, AND I FEEL FINE

SPECIES: Werewolf

WOLF CLASSIFICATION: Omega

PACK AFFILIATION: Member

WELCOME TO LUNAR COVE, JEREMIAH NACHMAN

On a late winter night, with the reassurance of not being far from home—and two rows of teeth drawn in red on his arm—Jeremiah Nachman fell victim to the universe’s sense of humor. His existence up to that point was proof of that sense of humor: he was intelligent but long-winded, open-minded but nearsighted, and well-disposed but awkward. Of course, he’d heard stories about unfortunate townies being attacked by werewolves right outside of Lunar Cove, however, he’d been so busy hypothesizing what he would do in their place, that he failed to consider he might not have the chance to react.

While he sat roadside—hand pressed tightly to the wound—memories of his adolescence came flooding back. He saw himself rushing down the hallways of LC High School risking a detention and avoiding social interactions. He saw the back of his mother's head, fresh highlights in her hair, as she guided him through the crowd at a Coven party. He saw his Social Studies teacher telling him his classmate needed a tutor. 

She told him to stay where he was. 

He could have laughed because—when had he not? Leaving out the solitude and self-imposed isolation, his miseries had been as elaborate as his hypotheses, and his decision to live in the past an idiosyncrasy. In his first year in college, he’d gone through his rite of passage and used his then-limited knowledge to psychoanalyze himself. 

Jeremiah tried and failed to understand—the same way he tried and failed to understand Jacques Lacan—and wished he could be back at the Coven walking in circles around his elders. He’d been a brilliant witch from a young age. He’d been diligent and righteous, proud and sincere, comfortable with the idea he had a grasp of other people’s perceptions of him. The Coven was the only place he felt comfortable in. It was there he was told—because you can’t live off making sparks with your hands unless you work in Las Vegas—he had a future as a therapist. It was there he met the woman coming to his rescue. The memories wouldn’t stop coming. How many times had he tried to make sense out of Poppy Reed? How many times had he listened in on conversations hoping to get to know her through others?

She told him to stay where he was—like he had it in him to stay away from her. 

His nonchalance was a sham, a ruse he used to be a well-adjusted member of the Coven. His short-lived relationship with Poppy was a secret thanks to his phobia of being vulnerable in front of others, and her talent for pretending she didn’t know him in public. Although he was stung nothing serious came from it, it was an experience he looked back on with fondness. She had been his friend first and foremost and—far from shunning him out after being brought back to life—she’d grown close to him again. Some nights Jeremiah would be brought out of sleep covered in static like an old television, and he would turn to his nightstand right in time to see her name appear on his cellphone screen. 

But although old habits died hard—on the night he was bitten by a werewolf twenty miles outside of Lunar Cove—he couldn’t help but look back on the life he almost had. Because the truth is, while his return was unsurprising, it was also unsatisfactory. 

Years ago, before returning, starting his practice at Solstice Therapy, and rejoining the Coven, his parents would tell anyone who would listen that he’d gotten himself a girlfriend in New Hampshire and was engaged to be married. She was a redhead, as cute as a button, and she was set to become a pediatrician. Shivering on the concrete as he was—the blood half-dried under his hand and tacky to the touch—he thought of Alice, scribbling away in her scrubs, or perhaps asleep in her bed. She would never find out about what happened to him. She would only remember him as the guy she wasted a decade of her life with, and how he grew distant from her the second she told him she didn’t want to live in Rhode Island. 

The life he had and that he sacrificed so much for was over. 

How was he supposed to take care of a patient now? Werewolves were vicious and temperamental creatures—should he make a consensus with the one that just attacked him—how was he supposed to help others navigate through feelings of sadness and loss now that he was drowning in them himself? The moonless sky and the woods lying still were less of a comfort and more of a threat. What if the werewolf that attacked him came back to finish him off? Why would it bite? Why would he bite? He’d never used aggression past his days of rushing out of one classroom and into the other—how could he ever bring himself to harm another creature? Would he have a choice? 

There would be no remnants of his fragile sense of self after he lost his magic. His dreams of becoming a parental figure in the Coven like his elders before him were over. His place and knowledge and the idea of himself he’d built upon the opinions of others had vanished; when being a member of the Coven was all he’d ever known, the thought of starting over surrounded by people who were a little more than strangers filled him with dread. So much for losing everything after grieving unnecessarily! So much for waiting for the next full moon that month, and every month, for as long as he may live!

The universe had a sense of humor. But he’d never learned to laugh along. 

[dragoneyes618]

Anyone else feel bad for Rabbi Nachman? All he wanted to do was be a good host and husband and offer his guests and his wife a drink but every time he suggested it his guest kept arguing with him.

[officialjanetweiss]

Chelsea Nachman and Jessica Phillips are married!

On Sept. 20, they were married by Michael A. White, the senior rabbi at Temple Sinai in Roslyn, N.Y., in their South Orange backyard.

[queerunpleasantdanger]

.

[otherstuffthatilikerightnow]

Rabi Nachman | Eve Y Lear | רבי נחמן | איב אנד ליר | Rosh Hashana 5782

[thebespokeprovocateur]

[subscribepodcast]

The Prayers of Rebbe Nachman of Breslov - @SubscribePodcast @HypnotistBook 

[anamon-book]

左翼社会革命党 1917‐1921 スタインベルグ、蒼野和人・訳、松田道雄・解説 鹿砦社

[omeryotam4]

[anchorsnreignbows]

When I was a child and my brother was a teen starting to be interested in Breslov, I would sometimes convince him to take me with him to Hitbodedut in the nearby ”forest”. Since you’re supposed to be completely alone he’d get really far from me (we set a time and place for meeting again).

During hitbodedut, people usually speak to god directly, from the heart, and often yell out to him. Well I was a child in a dark forest alone, jackals somewhere around me howling at the moon, so instead of calling out “Tate” I’d call out my brother’s name, with perhaps the same spiritual intensity.

I don’t believe in god nowadays, but this is how I understand the term Tzelem Elohim.

she asked me if i believed in god and i told her that when i was four i almost drowned in a public pool and in my panic mistook a stranger for my father. i clawed my way up his leg. four years later he’d send my parents a picture of the scars alongside a tin of cookies. he said, “i hope she’s still okay. i carry her with me. it isn’t every day you save a life. it isn’t every day you feel like you were here for a reason. when it does happen, you have to cherish that memory. for once, i had a purpose. just being there was enough. she tore me open but she taught me a lot about love.”