So fine, in fact, that I don’t care if everything gets done right, or if it gets done at all! For the party tonight, that is…
I’m really OK. My sister and I cooked quite a bit last night. The house isn’t clean clean, but it’s not a disaster. There’s food. And plenty of booze. Some of the wine is actually expensive and tasty stuff…
And I’m getting a facial in an hour.
ANd I’ve realized (and must continue to realize) that being in your 30’s means knowing you’re in control of your destiny. If you feel like it, you can rent a car and drive off into the sunset. Or buy a ticket to Provence. Or Tuscany. Or Goa. Or Russia in winter. Or sleep all day. Or jump off a cliff.
So, as I finish off being in my 20’s… I’ve got to say it’s been an incredible decade.
I began it in Dublin, Ireland, for a year. Spent a lot of time in London, Moscow, Bangkok, Chicago, the Negev desert, and Tel Aviv. I’ve vacationed in France and Italy and India and Ireland. I’ve eaten lobsters in Maine. I’ve hiked mountains on my own. I’ve set foot in more than 35 countries. I earned two degrees and one professional certification. I’ve worked in something like 5 different careers or more. I’ve made and lost (mostly made and kept) some incredible friends and lovers. I’ve baked dozens of cakes. I’ve fashioned hundreds of beautiful meals. I’ve written some decent prose and even a book. Directed some avant-garde plays. Made some attempts at art. Created some radio stories. Met some of the best living artists of our time. Made some money and spent basically all of it. I’ve found a way to own a great iMac, a fantastic KitchenAid, and I have always found room in the budget for Chanel Allure Sensuelle.
A good decade? Why not. Yes. Yes it has been. There’s no need to look at what you don’t yet have, and what you didn’t yet do. This is enough.
It’s officially the last week of my 20’s. Wow. You know, I think I’m ready. Well, you have to be. But it’s OK. Really. It’s getting a bit easier to have a good time. Really.
Today — I started out with another wine tasting — this time at a big theatre in Tel Aviv for an event, an awards ceremony for PR professionals, of all things (my former profession, one of them, stateside). I served 400 people the Gamla Sangiovese 2006. A very decent cup a joy.
Then I joined friends for an impromptu late-weekend-breakfast at a city center bistro.
Then I went home for the flash of an eye…before going to a friend of a friend’s beachside birthday party…which turned out to be more like…hanging out with some way-too-mellow beach bums, doing close to nothing. Ya. But I warmed to the idea. Finally. Because it was so incredibly beautiful. Just before sunset. On what for Israel is an exceptionally empty beach. It could have been Goa. Seriously. Wide expansive beach with small dunes. Tents and tarps set up here and there with straw mats and mattresses and tables laden with comfort food and bottles of beer and arak. I didn’t have a swim suit (silly me wore a dress and jewelry thinking it’s a Friday night birthday party…), but I was convinced by the crowd and borrowed a spare pair of swimming bottoms from the bday girl, and I went in my bra… And the water was warm and calm and soothing… And absolutely NO jellyfish, usually a complete bummer for Israeli beach summers which makes it close to impossible to go into the water. It was liberating. I have always wanted to go swimming and prancing about in my underwear. It’s really different than with a bathing suit. Something about it not supposed to be seen usually. And I felt pretty. Really pretty.
Age is pretty irrelevent. Life goes on. Always goes on. And despite it not being “productive” I had a pretty full and pleasant day. And I discovered a pocket of Israel that looks just like Goa. Where you can relax. And simply be.
Funny how I no longer have to think about how many days until my birthday. It’s incredibly close.
A free pass…
My therapist recommended I give myself a free pass these coming two weeks. This blog has in many ways helped quell my anxiety over turning 30 (which is really about the larger issues confronting the fear I encounter daily, confronting the expectations I have for myself compared to what I have actually accomplished, etc). I fully expect to feel either a complete “let down” at this build up, or on the other hand, feel exhilarated and liberated over turning 30. I don’t expect to feel sad or especially depressed on the day of my birthday or the day after. I know I will be fine. On the other hand, I have artificially built up this day. Counting down to something highlights it in a way that it would not have been before. And a 30th birthday highlight enough in anyone’s life. So…I’m to give myself a break…I may feel worthless, depressed, anxious, scared, and who knows…maybe even some overinflated good things…in the 12 days I have left. And that’s OK. Wow, 12 days “I have left.” Dead man walking, indeed.
Community – the clincher
Whether it be Ross, Rachel, Chandler, and Monica at the Central Perk, the office mates by the coffee machine, your college sorority, your band camp buddies, or (gasp) even your tiny dysfunctional nuclear family – community is everything. Everything. And I know I’ve lacked it in a substantial way since moving to Israel. However, what I didn’t know is how strong an effect this has had on the fabric of my life. When we don’t have a routine (work = the same people depending on you doing a task every day; family = washing dishes and laundry and helping each other with essential basics; friends: comfort and support from ordinary things like a weekly cup a joe) it’s very difficult, and for me nearly impossible, to get anything done. I am terrible at self discipline, as you would know if you’ve read any of my past posts here. This is a sort of catch 22 situation, as this is almost impossible to achieve without help…but I can’t get the everyday help of a support system without working at it… All in all, the longer you are alone, the harder it is to find and “fit into” a group. And the longer you are alone, the more difficult everything is in life.
Being seen
What is that crucial element of being in an integral group? It doesn’t matter if it’s work or friends or family or a social niche of some sort. What all of these things have in common is that each member is required to notice the others and be noticed in exchange. It lends itself to caring for others, and in turn being cared for. It’s why the word network is so appropriate. A web, with one strand connected to many others, supporting many others, while being supported by many others. The fewer strands, the weaker the web. The more strands, the stronger everyone is.
Being alone means that on a regular basis there are many fewer people noticing me, caring about me, depending on me, than ever before. When I had an interesting and fairly important job, I was needed on many levels and many people needed me. The more friends I had, the more natural it became to see them regularly, to depend on them regularly, and for them to depend on me.
And the fact that I am now aware that I am not being thought about, that I am not being seen, kind of really hurts. It’s another perspective to the shape of my life. It makes me want to create community, and create one in a hurry. Applying to a doctoral program sounds pretty darned great. Not necessarily for the career or interest motivations. But for there being a lot of the kind of people I tend to gravitate towards, around me a lot. I don’t know if this is a good answer. But seeing my situation in this light…feels funny. I know I have friends all over the world. Some of them great friends. Really great friends. But the fact that we have no common routine, no common rituals, means that we do not spend much of any time thinking about each other with any regularity. And that sucks.
It means I need to make a huge effort, perhaps a very difficult and un-fruitful effort at first, to surround myself, and to find a way to regularly include friends. Calling people every other week, getting together once or twice a month, is not going to cut it. Because I’m drowning here. I’m having trouble finding work, finishing my editing, even identifying who it is that I am anymore, with my being alone so much of the time. And I don’t want my 31st birthday to be spent wondering if anyone is going to show up at my party. I want to know it’s going to be great, whatever happens. I want to be such a good and dependable friend to others that I will have that support in turn.
Now if only I didn’t “like and enjoy” being alone so damned much…
A day of fine wine, exceptionally hot heat, a stubborn sick cat, and of course, exhaustion.
Wine in the summer?
The tasting I led to today was at a very nice wine shop in a very posh neighborhood right next to where my cousins live. Unfortunately, the store was pretty small, and they asked me to set up shop, (wine buckets, ice, crystal glasses, wine menus, the works) outside. I wasn’t happy, but there didn’t seem to be another option. I could have left early. I could have called my manager. I could have been a bitch. But I was good. I may have heat stroke, but I’m good. And again, wrong shoe choice! I never want to stand up again!
My cat who I thought was on the mend is most decidedly not. Folks, if your vet asks you for a stool sample, provide him with one, tout de suite! The bad bowels stopped. So I thought he was fine. Then my sister and I noticed he wasn’t quite himself, took to sleeping in the bathtub, not eating as much. Then, I took in the sample. Turns out, he might have had a fever all week. Two kinds of bacteria or parasites or something icky like that! I feel like a bad pet owner. And the antibiotic pills are a nightmare. He hates them more than you can hate anything, I think. We’re talking scratches all over the arms all week long. We deserve it though.
Blog Monetizing
So, I’ve been giving some thought to creating a new blog, a good blog, a professional blog, all for the new year, my new age, my new decade…and monetize it. My views regarding sales have always been rather negative. I don’t want to sell things to people who have no interest in them. No way, no how. Online though, everything is so passive. Many sites have ads, and we never notice them. I mean, you buy a newspaper, and there are ads there. Doesn’t mean you don’t read the news, enjoy the funnies, and dive into the crossword. Sometimes ads are helpful. And if I can choose the ads. If I believe in the product. Then, why not?
My Strengths
It’s really hard to make money in Israel. Ha! It’s hard to make money anywhere these days. And I am trying, as always, to get a good sense of my strengths, realistically speaking. Sure, I was a good pianist, sang wonderfully in choir, and I can write a great press release. But what do I realistically devote time to? Writing about myself, my views, things that interest me. And that kind of journalism/novel writing doesn’t exist on a real “bankable” plane. My novel is largely autobiographical. The journalism I have done was all human interest. The few essays, short stories, etc, that I have completed, and completed well, were spin offs of what I knew.
You write who you are
Is it wrong? No. I think it makes sense. All writers write best when they write what they know. And the person we know best is ourselves. It explains common themes and characters in the works of the same author. It explains a journalistic subdivision (a finance writer doesn’t stop and occasionally write theatre reviews). We write who we are.
And I love to blog.
So, if you have any advice out there, please bring it on. I’ve found a ton of articles on how to monetize and tips and blogs on blogging, etc. But a helping hand to weed out the crud would be wonderful.
Great weekend folks! Wish me luck with editing the book…or rather…battling the demons…as I now understand this task to be.
Tonight La Scala’s full orchestra, chorus, soloists, and conductor performed Verdi’s Requiem in Tel Aviv’s main park. The masses turned out in droves. Daniel Barenboim, il maestro, is our hometown boy. And it was a glorious performance. This was no Ravinia or Tanglewood or Millennium Park experience. It was packed, to the teeth, and the crowd was being sold hot dogs and pizzas. Like a rock concert or better yet, a baseball game. And bigger than when Paul McCartney was in town. Well, this was free, so that might have had something to do with it. Of course, the Israeli audience was rude right and left until the very second it began, spoke over the mayor’s excellent speech, shouted for the people in the front and the latecomers to “sit the f- down and shut up already,” and botched the applause for the soloists. But for the most part, the crowd was hushed and calm for the show. Midway through a steady stream of older people and folks with kids and the run of the mill ignoramuses trickled out — but it was so packed, it was hard, for them to find a hint of a trail leading toward an exit and for us trying to watch and listen. At one point I had to laugh. The chorus and soloists were pummeling out a very intense, “lead us out from death and into eternal life,” and right before me, silhouetted because of the glorious light from the stage, was a decrepit elderly woman being supported on both sides, being led out very very slowly, with a gaggle of frustrated stragglers behind her. It was very clear that a few people around me were thinking the same thought because that lyric did not change for a long time, and here was this poor creature, looking like she was on death’s door…and to add insult to injury, the conga line leaving party following her really looked something like the hand-holding plague-ridden group at the end of Bergman’s Seventh Seal. No sooner was the concert over, Tel Aviv of course had to blow it, big time. We barely recognized the piece was over because we messed up and applauded at the wrong points every other time (typical “boy who cried wolf” classical music mishap), and then, probably because of a lack of momentum coupled with people elbowing their way out desperately, we could barely pull off two (and an attempt at a 3rd) curtain call for the soloists. Then, oh then, and I can’t help but cringe…a fireworks display explodes at the two ends of the stage, a big display, being accompanied by some way-cheesy 1970’s song celebrating Tel Aviv…I mean, the orchestra was starting to exit the stage, and a lot of people looked startled. We just heard Verdi for the love of Pete! Less than a minute before! Yup. Typical. The concert was fantastic, though. I was very impressed with the soloists. I haven’t heard quality like that in a very long time. Especially liked the alto. And the moments I thought she was going to split the front of her dress. Oh me. I must be turning into a true Tel Avivian. As if.
Coming off of my meds (most recently Cymbalta) and being completely clean of any antidepressants or mood stabilizers or panic meds for the first time in a year was easy. I was on such a low dosage (25 mg every other day), that even the side effects and the “coming down” was almost unnoticeable. The first symptoms came a few days after, when I felt I didn’t have control over my emotional reactions. Then again, this was in regard to my mother who is the source of much of this and who bothers me and will probably always bother me immensely even while practically sedated.
And then there was today.
A decent day. Hot as hell. Hot as balls. So hot I couldn’t mop the sweat off me fast enough and there would already be another layer. I went to the cinema. Saw Bruno. Was entertained enough, but more glad of the AC and the darkness and the company, anonymous though it may be, for a while.
My little cousin is going to be drafted in two weeks, and 18 year-old’s rite of passage here in Israel. It’s traditional here to have a congratulatory party, a kind of graduation party crossed with a goodbye party. Family and friends. Salads and quiches and hummus. A very delectable semifreddo my aunt made. A cheap bottle of wine that wasn’t finished despite eight people drinking. A few speeches, actually. Exactly what I expected.
And it could have been the sweet sentimental proud words coming from grandmothers and parents. It could have been the company that almost never comes together in such form anymore (my aunt and uncle have separated, so we’re rarely in the old house, and we almost never see the other side of the family). It could have been that both those things triggered something very raw and sensitive for me. The fact that I don’t come from a speech-giving family. That it’s been a long time since I’ve felt accomplished or appreciated or loved openly. That my parents weren’t there, missing amongst the “adults.” That if we were back home in the US, we don’t have such a tight-knit family for such occasions. And I could go on and on.
But I don’t think it was as conscious as all that. A sudden melancholy just blanketed me. Right in the middle of a teary-eyed speech. It’s familiar to me. Quite familiar. But I haven’t felt it in months, and I don’t have a chemical weapon to fall back upon. Of course, this is by choice, but still. It’s like sadness but emptier. And it’s that empty void that is almost comforting. Because things become very sharply focused. Sad that I’m not a part of things, but understanding why. Understanding that it’s actually much easier than I think. This thing called life. But that I’ll perhaps never make it. Focused detachment. A sea of nothingness. And I was surrounded by people, my little cousin being praised and embraced, glasses clinking. I wanted to go away. Maybe read a book. Be alone in another room. It felt silly to be there. It had little meaning or interest anymore.
The one important thing. It did occur to me that this sudden melancholy happened all of a sudden because I wasn’t on any medication anymore. It made it slightly humorous, actually. I liked the “meta-ness” of it. Because all of a sudden I was aware of this fact, that because I wasn’t drugged, this state of being that used to be so normal had just set in again, I felt like I actually might have a modicum of control. And that’s a damned fine thing to believe, I’m telling you. Because I do thrive on melancholy. But it also destroys me. And I cannot afford to “allow myself” to fall into a pit. I have to be strong like I know I can be.
Yesterday’s job interview was not a job interview but a bizarre, “maybe you can kind of sell our services on a casual basis…”
Today I had a wine tasting in Petah Tikvah, a kind of farther off suburb, which in Tel Aviv terms is really really really far. It took me over an hour to get there, the wine shop tells me I’m an hour and a half early, proceed to tell me to take a walk and come back. For the love of pete! And here it is:
I walked around this crumbly old town for over 20 minutes without finding one single coffee shop. Not one. Not even a restaurant that makes coffee. Nada. A few kiosks. Lottery ticket booths. A couple of hummus and falafel joints. Nothing that resembled civilization. No place for a quiet cup a joe. And this is Israel. A cafe society. You can’t walk around Tel Aviv without finding one!
The tasting ended up being a complete dud, too. No takers. The worst tasting ever. It was a Russian-run store, and everyone who walked in bought cheap vodka, cheaper beer, or cigarettes…many people buying a couple of loose cigarettes.
So now I know. You enter a random town. Seems like a decent place. Good veg market. Nice residential areas. But there are no cafes. It ain’t a place you wanna spend any time.
But in all seriousness. I’m more busy and less busy than expected. Very excited and brushing lethargy. Is it where I expected to be this week? More or less. I accept the paradox that is my life. I’m stressing, job hunting, being lazy, watching too much The Office, and not editing my book…but also spending quality time with my sister, networking, cooking, and not freaking out too terribly…that’s more than OK, right? Right.
Potential Major Complication – I learned that my (secular calendar) birthday this year basically brushes the Jewish calendar’s Tisha B’Av. It’s the “saddest day in Jewish history.” This sucks big time. For Jews, of course, but practically speaking, for me and my party plans. It’s a fast day. And it doesn’t matter that I’ve planned to have a party on July 30th – the day before my actual birthday and a Thursday (so my religious friends can attend – they wouldn’t be able to on a Friday night). They’ll be breaking a fast now. And most likely wouldn’t be able to come to a party even if they did want to. Part of me thinks I should be glad. My birthday this year falls immediately after Tisha B’Av — so it’s a good thing, right? We can rejoice and be happy and be grateful for all we have instead of mournful for all we’ve lost. But I’m prone to be childish about this, wanting to stomp my feet, pout, and curse the heavens for this dastardly coincidence.
Then again, then again…there’s the mystique of it all. It is said that the Messiah, the real deal Messiah, would be born on Tisha B’Av (which means the 9th day of the month of Av). I missed it by a mere two days. I was born on Zayin B’Av, or the 7th of Av. Still a pretty bad day historically. It’s the day the walls of the city of Jerusalem were breached leading to the destruction of the temple two days later. But not the worst of the worst of Jewish mourning. There’s a stigma around it. People do NOT want their kids born on this day.
Birthday Party Plans
I am probably going to throw a pretty standard party: invite everyone I know to my apartment on July 30th for a rooftop barbecue from the early evening until the wee hours. With the exception of a handful of religious friends, I think this will still work. Due to my current finances, I’m thinking of doing this BYOB or having a donation box for whatever alcohol I do have. To make it run more smoothly, I’m considering getting friends to take turns being bartender in a clearly designated area. I was also thinking of recruiting someone to DJ or at the very last assist with sound, something basic, like hooking up speakers that are better than the ones on my computer and connecting an ipod with a good mix to it. I was also thinking of having this catered. Now, I don’t think I can afford this really. But I’m putting my foot down – I don’t want to cook on my own birthday, but I want the food to be good. I have to be able to enjoy this party, not be running to the door to greet folks every few minutes, not feel obligated to refill glasses, run around like a madwoman in the kitchen, etc.
Week of B-day Fun to Counter the Anticlimax
I think I’m not alone in being a bit sensitive about birthdays. Even though I plan so hard to prepare myself for anything, I usually end up a bit disappointed. I can’t get it out of my head that amazing things are supposed to happen. That on a birthday the truly miraculous can and should happen – a real prince charming to whisk me away, a dream job opportunity, winning the lottery, or just a really perfect day happening without feeling even slightly let down.
Does this make me a prima donna? I don’t know. I just don’t. I guess it stems from the fact that I find life to be pretty hard. Beautiful, often, but hard. I don’t expect the miraculous every day. If I can get out of bed and be even slightly productive, it’s a good day. If I can get together with friends, it’s a a super day. If I allow myself to be normal and try to have fun, try to date, try to dance, it’s an exceptional day. So on my birthday, on my birthday, on that random anniversary that should just be any old day, I just always kind of believed that I should get some help. That at least on one day of the year, I could and should have a perfect day. I should look great, do fun things, have a great party, be surrounded by kind people, beautiful food, and have it be effortless. That’s it. The effortlessness of it. Because life is anything but.
So to dull the perhaps inevitable disappointment or at least the anticlimax of the countdown to midnight, I was thinking of having a “week of fun and interesting events.” With or without friends. It’s more than healthy to do at least one thing that makes you happy every day. But perhaps with the week leading up to my birthday, this big birthday, I’ll do extraordinary things that make me happy. Go to the opera. Go to a really fine restaurant or drink a really good bottle of wine. Take a fun class or art workshop. Spend a full day doing nothing but reading trashy books (or Harry Potter) on the beach, eating fries and drinking beer. Go hiking and swimming in one of Israel’s many many national parks. Go camping. Do a lot of yoga. Have a facial and a really good wax job. Stuff like that.
Boobies on Parade!
Which leads me to something I really want to make happen on or around my birthday. A very dear friend of mine is a conceptual artist who is building an ongoing installation which incorporates dozens and dozens (or hundreds or much more) of plaster-caster breasts. That’s right. She lubes up women’s breasts and places papier macher/plaster of paris type stuff over them…and ends up with perfect molds which she then uses for her work. She’s done mine. And it was a liberating experience. Imagine a dozen or more ladies, real ladies, your friends, topless, waiting to have their boobies plastered for posterity. And because I’m moving into an apartment with a private rooftop terrace, perfect at night for our sweltering Tel Aviv weather, I’ve asked her if we can do a plaster-caster session as part of my birthday festivities. And I really want to make it happen. But because of Tisha B’Av she can’t come on my birthday, and we’d have to do it a few days before or after. Which might work well for my “b-day week of fun”. I would absolutely die to have as many of my female friends as possible topless, drinking sangria, laughing, taking turns being molded and sculpted. How much fun, how empowering, how sexy, how much I miss being around a lot of people I love doing something creative and silly and effortless. You know?
38 days…this last stretch is really here. And I’m doing OK. Really I am. I’m getting really excited to turn 30. I’ve had a premonition since I was a kid that life would be good at 30. Sure, I thought I’d be a scientist or published great or something and people would finally “take me seriously” because of my age. Still. There are a ridiculous amount of good things ahead.
First – the news:
My cat survived the 4th floor fall. Without a scratch. Without batting an eyelash. I had to do some research and discovered cats turn into parachutes when they are falling, and they tend to survive 9 times out of 10. Gives some statistical credence to cats having nine lives, doesn’t it. Read more here.
My father turned the corner and is doing much better. I’ve not blogged for a couple days partially because of this. We’ve been worried sick. Trying to figure out if and how to get home to Chicago immediately. Two days of an “ice blanket” and finding an antibiotic that finally worked. And last night he ordered a generous dinner from the hospital menu. Thank God.
Gay Jewish weddings on the beach in Tel Aviv - a great article in Ha’aretz newspaper summarizing this pivotal event. Domestic policy, especially stuff like gay rights, abortion, racism, has never been huge on a daily basis in the Israeli radar. Why? Well, it’s obvious. When you live amidst terrorism, when you’re surrounded by enemies, and you have major water shortage issues, stuff like abortion and gay rights is small potatoes. It would be a luxury to be able to focus on them. For people on both sides of the arguments. I’m a die hard liberal. In the US, you would have no problem guessing who I vote for, who I contribute money to, etc. In Israel, it’s bizarre and lopsided. Because if you want to vote for the communists, seeing economical and social common ground, you’re actually voting for the same ticket as a lot of Palestinian hard-liners…and that might be against your foreign agenda. Anyway, anyway. Enough about that. The point I’m trying to make is this - we have a lot of really liberal gay rights achievements here in Israel. It’s just difficult to see them. And we’re moving in a good direction, I hope…
And for your surpreme entertainment – check out this wonderful short film written and directed by, and starring Matthew Modine (no embedding possible – but do watch it):
So…long hot nights…yup. It’s hot here. Really hot. And July and August are worse. Or better. Whatever your perspective. Like any extreme weather situation, it’s love-hate. Because it’s fun when it’s sunny. There’s the beach and ice cream and beautiful sleeveless dresses and flip flops and icy beers and cocktails to cool off with. On the downside, it’s thighs-sticking-to-your-seat weather, so humid your hair frizzes beyond recognition, you’re always sporting a sweat mustache, and don’t think about going out between 10 am and 3 pm if you don’t want to get heat stroke/burn your shoulders to a crisp/faint in the street kinda weather. And I’ve got to get moving on this book. And I’m becoming an insomniac. The nights are the shortest in the year. But they seem way too long to me. And I have to figure out how to be productive. At least I’ve got some wine-tasting gigs this week.
There you have it. Good stuff. And I’ll have more news tomorrow…because I interviewed for a job yesterday that may change my life…if I get it…
My cat may or may not have plummeted four storeys last night and cannot be found, my father is very ill in hospital with a freak infection, I was eaten alive by mosquitos last night, I’m quite nauseated and sore in the mouth from having my teeth cleaned and flourided an hour ago, and it’s already something like 35 degrees (100 F) at 9:30 am.
How is it I am surprisingly calm? Have I somehow acheived a Zen-like state of being able to open and close and compartmentalize emotions like a pro? Not a chance. Exhaustion? Perhaps. I’ve either not entirely gotten over jet-lag or I require so little sleep I’ll soon become a superhero or I’m just a nocturnal semi-insomniac. I suspect it’s a combination of the three. And in addition, I’m taking Cymbalta. I’m afraid this may be the real culprit. Some genuine panic wouldn’t hurt around now. But somehow, all I want is a nap before starting the day’s tasks…seeing as I got 3 hours sleep or less having had to wake early for an 8:00 am dental cleaning.
The day’s tasks you ask? Appling for jobs. Editing my novel. Preparing for an interview I have tomorrow (on Skype, that’s a first). Seeing my therapist (praying I’ll be able to keep seeing/paying her). And going out for drinks with an acquaintance that I hope will become a good friend. A good day’s work, no? I think so. If I’m able to perform even some of it, it will be a miracle. My mother is still in Israel, the cat(s) are living downtown at “her” new place into which I’ll be moving into and paying dearly for next month, there’s my father about whom I may be on the phone all day (they think he’s got e. coli from a simple biopsy procedure, antibiotics are not working, and they’re calling the CDC…and all of his immediate family are hundreds if not thousands of miles away), I may need to place “lost cat” posters around the neighborhood, and who knows…I have no problem finding any number of stupid things to worry about.
So ya wanna hear about the jobs I’m going to apply for…do ya, do ya, do ha? I know you do! Here’s a quick rundown: several content writing jobs (in plain English – getting paid well above average salaries for writing stuff on websites in excellent English grammar…as well as “blogging” and forum hosting and other silly easy stuff like that); a very part time job (like every other weekend) at an art gallery; some freelance writing (fake journalism at its very worst); potentially some secretarial, etc. Dull as dogsh*t. Luckily I am still leading wine tastings with my lovely precious wonderful winery a few times a week. I’m hoping I can piece-meal this all together. I need another very regular decently paying part-time job or a a full-time job that doesn’t bore me or bother me too much ethically. Or a couple of part-time gigs that together make life interesting enough and allow me to eat. It will be OK. It will be. I hope.
So, since I’ve been back, I’ve not been too productive. I have located some jobs but haven’t applied yet. I really need to start editing the book for several hours a day, starting now, but have been too busy (aka I haven’t made the time because lord knows, I have found the time to watch The Office until 4 am on a couple occasions). And my dear, dear mother is driving me up the wall. And I need to make nice. She leaves Thursday. I need to find a way to make some peace. Even if I don’t entirely mean it. Because I love her. I just really dislike her a lot of the time. And I hate that I do. But I cannot change the fact that I cringe around her. That I often find myself wanting to scream or in fact screaming at her in her presence. That looking at her makes my blood boil. Only sometimes. Only sometimes. Like last night when we were on the phone to the hospital and she showed no emotion, not much concern, chatted to her friends (who were at my father’s bedside instead of her) about the party she just had, how changing her travel plans will be difficult and that she wanted to wait to see what the verdict was. And I’m sitting there about to cry. If it were my husband, I’d be on the next plane. Bitch.
OK. I’ll stop. Because I’ve just been informed that I need to make “lost cat” posters. Damn. I wish I had an emotional response to this. Perhaps this is my mother’s normal state. But he is just a cat. Oh dear. Poor kitty. He was such a character. Was? Goodness I’m morbid. Poor kitty. Now I’m feeling it. How could my sister leave the windows open on a fourth storey apartment with cats in it all night long?
Wish me luck. Poor kitty.
My kitties when they were babies...the missing one is the male, the one on the right
Before I get depressing here, enjoy this fantastic video:
It’s my last day in the USA. I’m really sad and trying not to acknowledge it. It’s not been long enough for me. Or too long, who knows. I will miss our old family house. I will miss Skokie. I will miss the convenience of malls, driving, Barnes and Nobles, Victoria’s Secrets, Pinkberry (which I discovered in LA), super dooper pharmacies that are bigger than grocery stores (I think I bought out the local CVS yesterday…stuff you can’t find abroad…), Starbucks and their non-chain counterparts, and much much more. I will have to have my last Starbucks today, my last look at Skokie, my last sit down in my comfy armchair with a book, a remote control, and a laptop. Back to life. Back to reality. And of course, I’ll miss the library most.
I spent yesterday going through 27 boxes (I’m not kidding) of my books and knick knacks in my parents’ crawl space. And I chose here and there what to take/ship back to Israel with me. It’s heartbreaking. Part of me wants to just decide on a home. Just pick a place, get an apartment that I can afford and that I like well enough, and just get all of my books in one place. One place. Bookshelves as far as the eye can see. Because I feel like I am what I’ve read. And I love to have these books around me. They feel like friends. Physical manifestation of memories. I know lots of people use their parents’ homes as storage for a few years (or decades) or maybe they just forget about that stuff. But I have sooooo many books. Over a thousand. Maybe if I can figure out how to surround myself with my books, I will finally be happy. Fat chance. I know. Sounds a lot more like a buffer, a mask, a wall guarding me from reality and the outside world. But books are so beautiful. So very beautiful. Because they open minds and worlds, and they’re life changing and exciting. Ah! I often wish there were no such thing as success, ambition, careers, jobs, groceries, responsibilities, and that I could just stay in bed or a comfortable chair and read all day and night long. Oh, to live in a library!
And my behavior patterns have returned to the exceptionally unhealthy ones of the worst phases of mine in Israel. Not going to sleep, even though I show many symptoms of extreme exhaustion. Instead I stay awake watching corny sympathetic old movies, over and over again. And don’t brush my teeth and face before I plop under the covers. And all I want to do is curl up and sleep. Read a book. And not go out. Even though it’s New York City!!!! What the hell is wrong with me?
I’m going back to Israel, that’s what. I’m close to broke, that’s what. And reality and genuine decisions loom. My ornery scary grandmother will be at my door, screaming at me and scolding me about not having paid some bill or other or not being nice to some relative or other, or any such other thing that is none of her business. My mother who I’ve not been speaking to often will be there again for another week or two…wanting to repair our relationship…wanting me to tell her why I’m angry…wanting to dump all her responsibilities on me…wanting me to cook the entire spread for her going away party/housewarming party next week.
So…have I enjoyed myself? Has it been a good trip? Yes. I think it has. I miss a lot here. If I were to come back Stateside, it might be good for me. I miss intellectuals. I miss kindness. Whether it be genuine or not, even the illusion of kindness soothes me. I found myself elbowing my way througha line yesterday on the subway…the only one…people let me through without question…so bad, so bad, so miserably bad. Then again, I need to repair me for a bit longer. I need to work on writing and make money and be in one place for a while. And I can do that anywhere without picking up and changing my life drastically. I think I will come back home. America is home, I’ve realized. But not just yet. Not just yet.
What will I do when I’m back?
Edit book until it is done
Get a job – wine tasting is there but not very profitable…consider bookstore, teaching English privately, teaching English with a company, applying for anything temp or part time that looks white color enough and easy, and maybe just maybe consider food service…but give every establishment a good once over before starting.
Send out book to close friends/good readers (they must be both) and then some agents and publishing houses
See friends
That’s it. Book, money, friends. How hard can it be? Right?
Before I leave the US, I have to go through my old books and knick knacks and see what I want to take or send to Israel. Boxes and boxes in my parents’ crawl space. Oh well. And then there’s two days in Warsaw. Yup. Maybe it’ll be really good for me. Real transition time I need. Not American. Not Israeli. Confusing. And Perfect. Shake one off. Prep for another. All while eating blini and perogies and potatoes and vodka. Right? Right.
I had a decent day. That should be something to celebrate. A decent couple of days. Yesterday I was in Jerusalem seeing good friends, hanging out, laughing, and even participated in an impromptu evening barbecue on the rooftop of a friend’s hippie-digs in a fun secular-religious-mixed-up-ancient-hippie neighborhood called Nachla’ot. Spicy sausage and marinated chicken thighs. Oh yah.
Today, I had breakfast with my sister (totally forgot about the plans and went in hastily thrown on clothes and an unwashed face) at a nice cafe. Made the mistake of ordering the only thing I’m kind of allowed to eat without realizing that it was the most expensive thing on the menu. Ya, I paid around ten bucks, US, for a bowl of plain yogurt. ‘Cause I can’t eat sugar or yeast. Which means no fruit or sweet muesli or honey. Or anything else cheaper on the menu, for that matter, like pastries or breakfast sandwiches.
Tomer Reshef Salon
Then I went and got my hair cut with my mom. I have the best, the very best hair stylist in Israel. Maybe in the world. They call her the queen of the curly-haired people. And goodness knows, more people in Israel than in any other place in the world have curly hair. Or wavy hair. Or frizzy huge undefinable hair. The whole Jew-fro thing. Yah. This lady conquered it all. If you can read Hebrew, or just want to see some cool hair photos, visit this article about Tomer Reshef’s Salon in a very hip designer-laden area of south Tel Aviv. The philosophy is this: if you don’t use conditioner, your hair won’t frizz. And I can safely say, it is true. Takes some time. But you can use a great aromatic natural oil “mask” after you wash your hair and leave it in. Helps the curls stick. It’s an all natural place.
My mother annoys me very quickly. Luckily, as she was getting her hair colored and it would take another hour, I used the time to find wholesale warehouse kinda priced framers. South Tel Aviv rocks. It’s old. It’s crumbly in areas. It’s dirty. But it’s got the goods. Furniture, clothes, you name it, warehouse style. In Italy, I bought a lot of great artwork. Signed stuff, original prints, great souvenirs, but some of the stuff I know I’m going to love looking at for years. And unlike my usual self (I have bought amazing art in the past, only to have put off framing for so long as to have forgotten it in boxes…for years), I took care of framing immediately. I’m so excited to have picutres, my own pictures, with good frames and glass and matting, that I have chosen. Such a relief, after living in someone else’s artist’s studio, stacks of paintings, walls full of paintings, none framed or framed well, none that I’ve chosen to be up there. I shouldn’t be speaking so of my grandfather’s work. People ooh and ahh when they visit me here. It’s all a colorful picnic in theory…but you wouldn’t want to live there, ya know.
I will sum up with this, as I write too damned much, and I know people aren’t getting to the end. Have you ever heard of a sabich? It’s kind of like a sandwich. Similar to falafel. Hails from Iraq. Well, I love them. And I had one today at my favorite place to get them: Sabick Frishman, on the corner of Frishman and Dizingoff. Just imagine, if you will…a whole pita, slit on top so you can smear the inside with hummus, tahini, a spicy chili-like paste, and amba (another sauce, bright orangey-yellow, very spicy and curry-flavored, made out of pickled mangos), filled with deep fried eggplant slices, sliced up hard-boiled egg, and chunks of baked potato, topped with finely chopped tomato salad, slices of onion (sprinkled with red sumac – a heavenly spice – that’s what really makes shawarma taste like shawarma, if you were interested), cilantro, more tahini, and a special spicy mixed vegetable salad. You can then choose on your own to put various pickled and/or curried-pickled veggies on top. It is heaven. Feast your eyes on this:
After I ate, I went to this fab tiny little used book store with a (relatively) huge English-language sci-fi section. Did you know there seem to be hundreds of spin-off Star Trek books? I found an entire shelf of Star Trek Voyager novels. Bizarre. Do they take place after the crew gets back to the Alpha Quadrant? Or during the Delta Quadrant voyage, and the authors somehow find a way to not mess up the TV show’s plotline? Weird. Who reads this stuff? And why do there seem to be many, many authors? Who keeps the storylines straight? Who safeguards the characters? Wonder if I should give it a try. The reading or the writing…ha!
G’night y’all. I have to get back to reading manuscripts. I’m a big-ass procrastinator. Gotta be ready by 8 am. And it’s 11:45 pm. Ahhh!
So…I haven’t written for a while, and it wasn’t for lack of material. It was because I without computer for too long, and I had too much material, and now so many f-ing errands…you get the picture.
An AUM Meditation Session
I went to an Ashram, the “Desert Ashram” an hour north of Eilat (in the middle of nowhere and in view of Jordan), an Osho Ashram – participated in many, many, many bizarre meditations, some of which I enjoyed, some of which terrified me, and some of which we just plain funny. Lots of screaming, breathing, vibrating, etc. And I went to a lecture entitled, “Secrets of the Female Orgasm.” I was really hoping to learn something. Instead, I have a hysterical story racked up for a future post. Go figure. I slept in a tent for 5 days. I slept when I wanted. Ate veggie food. Read a great sci fi book I brought with me (Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card – read it, if you haven’t). And basically, had an OK, pretty relaxing time with a bunch of bourgeois pseudo-hippies on an alternative spring break.
Venice
I’m going off to Italy in a day and a half. Yup. Italy. With my family. We’re converging from many places all over the world. My two parents from Chicago, my doctor sister from NYC, and my sort of student sister who lives near me but went to Italy 2 weeks early to make a mega-vacation out of it. The ‘rents bought a cruise for us all last year before the economy went crunch. So, we’re going. It’s paid for. I’m going a week early in order to hike around Pompeii, a dream since I learned about in 3rd grade, eat the world’s best pizza in Naples, experience the majesty of the Amalfi coast, meet up with both sisters for three days of Roman extravagance, and then all three of us are meeting the parental units up in Venice. For the cruise. The worst idea for a vacation, I think, as I have terrible motion sickness and have been stockpiling Dramamine (and its Israeli equivalent) since I learned of this idea (thank you Mother). And from there, Croatia (for 8 hours), a bunch of Greek islands (for 8 hours a pop), and one Turkish island (again, 8 hours). It’s bad. I mean, it’s barely a taster. It’s not even one night. It’s a stroll, a meal, a souvenir shop, and hey, it’s time to get back on the bus…except it’s a giant boat. Nothing says Stupid American Tourist like a giant white cruise ship. Ugh. And I’ll be one of them. There are formal nights, too. I have to go to black tie events…I’m a backpacker for f’s sake! Oh well. Can’t say no to a free vacation, right? When we get back to Venice, Mom and I zip off to the other coast and do 4 days in Cinque Terra (dream come true for me, again, lots of hiking, quaint vineyards, artisanal cheeses, views, hiking, food, wine, ham, cheese, wine, and did I mention food…and hiking?). We end the trip with 1.5 days in Milano before Mom joins me on a flight to Israel…where she’ll be extending her visit for 2 months!!!!! Which is why, dear friends, readers, countrymen…I got myself a ticket home – Stateside – that be right! My first trip home to the States in well over a year and a half! Yeehaw! And it means I avoid dear Mother for one out of her two months invading my space in Tel Aviv.
I promised poetry, though, right? Well, if anyone cares for bad poetry-exercise-prompted written at an Osho ashram, there’s some below. Knowing me though, it’s kind of funny and dirty and crude and cynical. Everyone was writing about the sky, the sand, the emotions, the sounds of the birds…bla, bla, bla. WordPress has taken out all my stanzas. I don’t know why. So I can’t tell you where one should begin and one should end. Oh well. I tried. Like 5 times. Go figure, wordpress. Really. Well, here we go. Here’s my take on the Ashram, in verse, no less:
Prompt 1: write a poem of no more than 6 lines which has the title “Desert” or “Kiss”
Desert
There are no more to conquer
No sands too dry
No heat too harsh
No thirst too great
No.
There are no more deserts to conquer
Only from which to escape
(notice me cheating…always…there are 7 lines in that one…cheeky, cheeky…)
Prompt 2: Write a poem on the theme, “The Zorba the Buddha Festival” (the name of the festival I was at, if you can believe it or not)
(translated from the Hebrew…she made me…I don’t like to write in Hebrew…I’m bad at it)
Why do they say Pestival with a “P”?
And not Festival with an “F”?
Why do they wear such stupid clothing like these?
Do they think they’re in India?
Why do they search for answers here?
Do they think the hippies know the secret of life?
The bourgeoisie is coming to the desert
Caravans, caravans, caravans
Toyota, Hyundai, Daihatsu
iPod, Arak, North Face, Crocs
Searching for themselves.
There are no answers. There are answers.
They go home. Sand in the car. Dust in the hair.
Hope remains. Life goes on until the next pestival.
(it sounded better in Hebrew. The nuances were lost. Can you tell? Too bad I can’t type in Hebrew…not that anyone could read it..)
Prompt 3: Write a poem based on specific physical observations.
Thick, crusty, yellow and warped
The monstrous ugly duckling
Amongst his fair brothers
Protruding above the others in their line
This was not a congenital condition, oh no
No genetic abnormality disturbed his birth
He grew, identical, from toe to tip
Like all his adorable kin
But this little piggy went to market
And that little piggy went home
And while this little piggy ate roast beef
Our little piggy got a mushroom pie
The shameful secret that cannot be hidden here
Under woolen warmth or stiletto style
And thus, and thus, this is the story of the seemingly normal
Seemingly sweet, kind, desert dusted
Feet of my rebirthing neighbor
(Do you guys have any idea how many people suffer from toenail fungus? It’s nasty. I mean gross. I’ve got one borderline nail that I’ve been treating with lacquer-medicine for months now because there is no way I’m turning into Franken-toes. This person grossed me out to the extreme. Cmon folks, take care of your feet. I don’t have the best ones, I know it, but I try. I try.)
Finally,
Prompt 4: write a poem of no more than 5 lines that contains the words “sex” and “surfboard” and contains a variation on the word “pain”
(Joy of joys…)
Sex with him was to be
Better than chocolate!
Like the best rollercoaster,
A magical surfboard ride!
Hell, he was just another painful poke
And why have a I regaled you with horribly bad ashram poetry?
1) because I can
2) because the Israelis thought I was a bloody brilliant modern day Emily Dickinson (ha!)
3) to prove that I did not, nor do I ever intend to DRINK THE KOOLAID! Booyah!
4) because I’m procrastinating right now on a massive to-do list…
The song that’s with me for the night. Relish the master poet:
I’m in Haifa. It’s a stormy night. I’m with my lovely artist friend D, and we shared a dinner, tired as we both were, and then went to a nude modeling session to draw. I feel safe here in her studio apartment, late as it is, with our makeshift mosquito netting hung quickly as an attempt to ward off these horrific offenders.
I am dying to blog about my first wine gig last Friday, but I can’t seem to concentrate. Too tired. Too wired. Too much chemical craziness inside. I’ve been having meds issues. Yup. The Lexapro (or Cipralex, as we call it here in Israel) hasn’t felt like it’s been doing much for the past couple months. It was a pretty rotten February. That or I really do suffer from seasonal depression, as last February was the pits as well. But Israel’s not cold, really. Or grey at all. Anyway, my psychiatrist suggested we double my dose from 10 to 20 (I think it’s mg) per day. Basically, I was taking one pill per day, and we were going up to two. Sure, great, fine. No, not fine. Day one involved my sleeping for the whole day, and dragging myself off the couch only because I had an appointment I couldn’t not cancel, and I spent the entire meeting high off my ass like I had smoked a couple of joints on my own. Ya, that’s progress. I decided, no way, I’m going down by half a pill. Better, but I’ve been sleepy all week. Two to three hour naps at weird hours every day. And I feel groggy all the time. All the time. Like in a kind of emotion-less, slow, silent, creepy kind of high-numbness.
And now, all I want is to get off the drugs completely. Easier said than done. If I do it, I’m going to endure some pretty bad withdrawal. Worse than I’ve ever experienced before. Worse than cigarettes, I imagine. I had a sneak preview today because I was out of pills and had to run to the pharmacy to refill. Not something anyone should do with Lexapro. I’m supposed to take it around the same time every day. Well, a four-hour delay gave me a physical preview of the jonez-ing I will endure soon, or when, I go off this stuff. Even a few hours afterward, the balance must not have been struck, as I would have killed for a shot of whisky or a xanax or a cigarette or all three at once. Yup. Why? So, great, I’ve got a slight bipolar problem. I’ve got depression issues. One little pill can help immediately. But temporarily. And at the end of the day, a drug is a drug is a drug. Perhaps if I go all-natural, get acupuncture, take homeopathic remedies, eat all organic, spend lots of time doing talk therapy, draw pictures, be positive, positive, positive, and enjoy a glass of wine or scotch every once in a while to dilute life’s shit every once in a while, it would be a decent replacement for psychiatric drugs. Because I hate to think what this is doing to my liver, to boot. I might as well enjoy my liquor, as right now, it’s not safe for me to indulge very much at all. Imagine that I went to a whiskey tasting, had eight lovely glasses before me, and took a miniscule sip of each one, leaving them virtually untouched. Like, a hundred bucks work of booze down the drain instead of down my hatch. Pisses me off.
Drugs are not the answer. I’m not psychotic, and my bipolar diagnosis isn’t all that bad. It’s a blip. A minor thing. I hope. So, what’s the answer? Who the hell knows. Drugs are a temporary shelter. The roof wears thin pretty damned fast these days. And it’s astormin’. Maybe I should just learn to enjoy the rain.
A facebook friend posted links to other segments of ABC’s most recent 20/20 program from a couple days ago, all about the impact of the economic crisis on everyday people. And on kids. Really decent stuff. Nothing too “investigative,” however, as I’ve not been living in the USA for almost 1.5 years, it showed me how out of touch I was. Living in Israel, I’m cushioned from the economic crisis. I think this is because of a combination of things -
A socialist governmental system – sure people fall through the cracks, but not many – people don’t starve here, as far as I know. People who don’t work get money from the government.
Israel distanced itself from the mortgage crisis. Our banks are safe. Sure, more people than average are losing jobs as a recourse of the international “ripple effect,” but it’s not like our financial foundations have been cracked. At all.
Personally speaking, I’m young, single, have some savings, have a kind family, and life is pretty much normal, though I do worry about where the money is going to come from in the long term.
And finally, this is Israel. We have endured terrorism, wars, and a large percentage of the population are holocaust survivors and/or their offspring. Tough economic times we can weather. Piece of cake. Because as bitchy and rude and crude as Israelis are, we take care of each other. Nobody I know has lost a home, or is in danger of losing a home, and if they were, I would be the first to take them in, do everything to find them a job, and fix the thing as soon as possible. Many people I know have lost their jobs. But nobody is panicking.
So, all in all, I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten in the States. But watching that video kind of made me want to pack my bags, move to Detroit, buy a $100 house near these nice people, and start a new life, building it quite literally, with my hands. Because these people are correct. When you have nothing to lose, you have everything to gain. It’s not a big gamble. It’s a safe one, albeit pretty unattractive to most people.
And I NEED a home. One I can afford. I don’t have much to my name. Maybe S10,000. Probably less by now. But I have no debt. None. I’m scared of moving out to the “boonies” or to the “country.” I am single. I have a tough enough time as it is forcing myself to be social. If I isolate myself like this, or move to another environment farther from my friends, what kind of favor would I be doing myself? Then again, doing everything possible to get out of this soul sucking apartment I’m living in now, full of the bagage of the dead and gone and departed, full of other people’s dust and clutter, is essential. I promised myself a home by my birthday. I’d better get moving. My ideas? Haifa – it’s still a city and I know some people there, although it’s not a great lively city and it’s only one good friend I actually have there. Rural kibbutz – cheap rent, horses, agriculture, maybe a chance to learn a thing or two about winemaking, from the ground up. Ideally, I’d like to buy. But I don’t have a steady income, and probably not enough for a large downpayment. I’d need the Israeli equivalent of that $100 house. But perhaps it exists. Then again, I’d have to go to Israel’s equivalent of Detroit…or Kansas…to do it.
So many live presidents. How many are there now? Carter, Bush 1, Clinton, Bush 2, and Obama. Cool. I just saw Walter Mondale, too. Nice guy from Minnesota.
It’s 27 degrees Fahrenheit. Amazing. Which makes it around -10 C. They say the windchill factor makes it 14 degrees F or so. Which is what? Like -30 C? Most of the world would plotz over these temperatures with millions of people standing outside waiting for this amazing event.
Barack Obama looks incredibly sober. Serious. Humble. Solemn. He isn’t smiling. A very lonely moment. So calm. I cannot imagine how he must be feeling. The jitters. The heart pounding. The nerves. Perhaps the most important moment in recent American history.
It’s happening now. It’s happening now! I am alive to see an African-American president. A multi-racial president. A worldy president. An incredibly intelligent, thoughtful, moral president. It’s a dream come true.
Trumpets heralding his entrance. Barack H. Obama. Yes! yes! yes! What a moment. What a time to be alive! Please let this go smoothly. And here it comes. Here it comes. Here it comes. Silence.
Diane Feinstein. Good woman.
Rich Warren. Prayer. Wisdom to lead us with humility. Strength to lead us with integrity. Compassion to lead us with generosity. To seek the common good of all. A more just, healthy, prosperous nation, and a peaceful planet. Amen and amen. Was a controversy having him because of his stance on homosexuality. Other than that, he is actually quite a revolutionary minister. Open minded. Fairly liberal. And has done amazing things to bring different peoples together. I saw him on PBS once, Charlie Rose, I think, and I was very impressed.
Aretha Franklin, My Country Tis of Thee. So strange. Not her. But the song. most Americans don’t know that this song is actually God Save The Queen. But a nice rendition, all the same. She’s so lovely.
Robert Bennet. Introducing Justice Stevens who will swear in Joe Biden. Yay!!!! Go Biden.
Joseph Biden is our Vice President! Kisses all around! Such a beautiful oath.
Itzhak Perlman, Anthony McGill, Yo-Yo Ma, Gabriela Montero. Wow. A new composition by John Williams. Violin, Clarinet, Cello, and Piano. Oh wow. Variations on a Shaker Melody. Tis a gift to be simple… Charming and ghostly. Modern.
It’s happening now. They just said that Obama became president 4 minutes ago, even though he hasn’t taken the oath.
Barack Obama is President of the United States of America! Dear God almighty.
I clapped here at home so hard that my hands are stinging. My cats are frightened. And I just want to scream! I feel like a lone liberal in Israel.
It is just another day here in Israel. And I cannot find an inauguration party. Sure, I didn’t look too hard, either. But there you go. It’s just another day.
Despite the cease fire, Hamas is still firing, a big fat violation. Financial meltdown. Global and local crises galore.
And yet. Hope.
Obama’s speech is rumored to be about an “era of responsibility.” I dig it. It’s the only way to move forward. For everyone, from the street sweeper, to the checkout girl, to the bus driver, to the teacher, secretary, data entry guy, micromanager, lawyer, doctor, scientist, political leader — everyone — to stop passing the buck. On everything. I’m ready. I hope all Americans are. I hope the world is.
It’s bleak. Today, I feel the blues. Melancholy setting in. But. But. I feel that hope. I do. Because 2009 has been good to me so far. I’m accomplishing things, if slowly. Or, maybe not so slowly. My book is progressing. It has a future. I am working hard. My cooking has been good. My first catering gig went great. I merely have to keep on plugging away at the book, redesign the website, figure out the taxes, and go. I’m even in a relationship, albeit a young and new thing, that may have something to it. I’m good. In the blackness, we keep living.
And I’m watching the inaugural coverage alone. In my shabby living room. As I did the election night. MSNBC has a live feed. So many of these networks don’t allow foreign countries to see their videos. Thank goodness for MSNBC. And Woodward and Bernstein (my goodness) are providing me with banter as I type this. The Obamas emerged from church. The pundits commented on Michelle’s dress. Goodness. It’s real, it’s live, it’s historic, and it’s so down to earth. Amazing.
I’ll sign off now. I’m going to DC in my mind, leaving my blues behind me in Tel Aviv…as I nosh on hamentashen…palpitating over our new president. Welcome to the world, Mr. Obama. Good luck and godspeed.
I saw this wonderful video on Slate a few days ago about an Algerian immigrant to the US, Hakim Maloum, who walked across America, and it really got me thinking. 3,300 miles in 5 months. Very little money, and he couldn’t ask for help, although he could accept it. It’s just walking. So simple. But so inspiring. It is an exceptional feat.
My mother walks. She has some sort of spur in her foot now, and it’s killing her that she can’t walk like she did. She would walk marathons. She would walk charity walks, 20 km a day for three days. I never really understood her when I was younger. But it’s different now. There is something very meditative, very powerful, in the simple act of walking. It’s THE way people travel. And it can take us around the world, if we want it to. We ask ourselves, how far did Alexander the Great really get? How did the Romans get as far as England? Are there really Jews in India, Jews in Central Asia, Jews in China? How, how, how? If a man can walk across America, and my middle-aged + mother can walk marathons, why is it that we doubt the power and determination of human feet? It’s a big planet. But maybe it’s not that big. We were nomads, after all. How did people even get to the Americas?
And here in Israel, we have a trail, the mother of Israeli trails, called (not surprisingly) The Israel Trail. It is a marked 1,000 km trail, from the very north to the very south of Israel. It takes around 40 days, give or take, according to people I know who have walked it. And it is difficult. Loneliness. Physical challenges. Even with money, finding resources and water is not often easy. Some good Samaritans often hide water bottles and jugs in places near the trail when it crosses into the Negev desert. I can hardly imagine what it must be like to be alone with yourself and only yourself for days on end with only a rugged path before you.
This reminds me of Paolo Coelho’s book The Pilgrimage, a beautiful autobiographical telling of his journey along the 500+ miles of the Spanish trail to Santiago de Compostella. It’s an epic walk. Angels and demons conspire to bewilder. A walk. The basic rhythm of humankind.
Yesterday I met and befriended an incredible couple here in Tel Aviv. One, a famous and important journalist, the other a filmmaker, writer, and professor. We met in because they wanted to improve their English speaking skills before a trip abroad. It turned out to be one of those fantastic, warm, super-friendly, heart to heart, wish-these-people-could-be-my-parents, kind of evening. We even sat in front of a wood-burning stove, which in Israel is an incredibly welcome anomaly. And I asked them, if you could do whatever it is that you want in the next phase of your life, no money or responsibilities need be considered, what would you do. The filmmaker answered that he would easily keep doing exactly what he was doing except that he would want to do it with far more self-confidence and ease. The journalist answered that she would pack a rucksack and just leave, walk, do nothing but walk and maybe visit a monastery, but just walk for perhaps six months. I asked her what was stopping her. People, the husband, children, you can’t just leave. But I really understand her impulse.
Lately, I have been puzzled with myself. I feel that my thinking is more sluggish. I feel like my innate enthusiasm for exploration is waning. On the other hand, and I don’t understand this at all, I feel like I am nearing a more peaceful place, a more peaceful phase in my life. Is it the slowing of the cogs in my brain? Is it the antidepressants? Is it complacency finally setting in? I’m not sure. I’m inclined not to think so because I know that I am still me. My mind not racing at a mile a minute is surprising because my life was dominated by this, and it was a huge part of my identity. Those thoughts are still there. Perhaps now I can access them in a more useful, timely way. Fleeting thoughts are not necessarily all that good. And then there is walking.
I have wanted to try walking the Israel Trail since I learned of its existence. Perhaps now that I am unemployed and with a little bit of cash in the bank I should go do it. A month of my life. Only a month. I went to India. Why not explore my homeland in the most basic way. On foot.
I have been a writing machine for the last few days. And the hours just waft by like, I don’t know, water vapor. You just don’t notice. And you find yourself exhausted. There have been other moments of my life when I was consumed with writing, for instance when I worked PR at the museum and I was working on quite complex press releases…or when I started writing this novel. But I always forget how hard it is physically and emotionally. It’s not just your brain and your fingers that are working. It’s not just concentration and patience and inspiration mixed with research and brainstorming and mixing and matching and building and tearing apart and polishing.
Somehow it is 4:30 pm, and I have only taken a small handful of 5-10 minute breaks since about 10 am. I’ve written three or four big sections, done a lot of planning, and I’m chipping away at the iceberg of a work list I have set up to finish this book. But I’m also giddy from copious consumption of caffein, a bit headachy probably from fatigue mixed with dehydration, thank you coffee, generally disoriented from the string of different coffee shops I’m trying out to see which is the best work environment for me and, I guess, from staring at the computer screen for far too long.
But it’s good. I’m determined to meet my fate proudly, standing straight, whether this book is a success, a mixed bag, or a complete utter dud of a waste of time. At least it’s getting done. And I can see the light. Well, almost.
And do you want to hear a beautiful story about the kindness of strangers? Well, if you’re still reading, you’re gonna. I was planning on having the night to work, you know, the night owl that I am, to put on finishing touches, or to work like a fiend in broad strokes if I’m really behind. That said, I remembered only this morning that I’m not in Kansas anymore (or even in Skokie, for that matter). I’m in Israel. And none of the local copy shops open until 9 am. If I’m lucky. And as luck would have it, I have to be at my worshop, printed, bound manuscripts in hand, at 9 am sharp, if not before. Hah. How on god’s green earth would I swing this one…no laser printer that I can afford would be able to print out a thousand or two pages all in one go. Not knowing what to do, I went to the copy shop nearest my home, just to see if there was any way in hell they ever opened closer to 8 or 7 or 6 or 5 am. Right. Well, the lady listened to my story, said sorry, Fridays they open at 9 am, but usually on other days she does open at 7 am. It’s just that tomorrow is her husband’s birthday and she’s cooking for 50. Then she asked me what I needed printed. I told her I needed my 200 page + manuscript printed six or seven times and bound, and then I took a deep breath and was hoping for a miracle, maybe another copy shop in the area would be open in time for me to get it done and get to my workshop, an hours’ drive away. She told me that it would be impossible, everyone opened at 9 am, and then she paused, looked me in the eye, lifted her index finger and point right at me. If you promise to be here at 7 am, I’ll come in especially for you, print out your documents, bind them, and then go straight home again, she said. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Wow. I asked if she was sure, and she said, only if you can promise and keep your promise. I told her, if she would be here, I would be here come rain or shine, and I’d swear in blood. We exchanged numbers. This lady doesn’t even live anywhere near the shop! She’ll have to be up at 5:30 am in order to get there for me! And this with her husband’s birthday! A good Samaritan, if I ever met one. I’m buying her and her husband a good bottle of wine, even though I can’t afford it, even though this print job is going to cost me a fortune. And I’m telling everyone I know that they have a new print shop. Period. I appreciate good businesspeople. Why? Because this guarantees repeat service. This is special treatment if there ever was special treatment. And something good always begets good things. And even though I’m still borderline freaking out, I feel good. I just got off the phone with another one of the workshop participants (who will give me a ride at 8 am from my neighborhood saving me a bus and a train and a cab — see the world converging to help me today!!!), and she’s really behind on her manuscript, too. Like scary behind. So I’m not alone. It’s all good. It’s all good. And I believe it now. Despite feeling like I’m barely an adult, I’m proud of myself today.
Perhaps this isn’t the best time for it. Well, it’s not, of course. But it’s timely. Courtesy of my Israeli uncle, the Israeli take on a fly in a cup of coffee.
_________
What happens when a fly falls into a coffee cup?
The Italian – throws the cup and walks away in a fit of rage.
The Frenchman – takes out the fly, and drinks the coffee.
The Chinese – eats the fly and throws away the coffee.
The Russian – drinks the coffee with the fly, since it was extra with no charge.
The Israeli – sells the coffee to the Frenchman, the fly to the Chinese,buys himself a new cup of coffee and uses the extra money to invent a device that prevents flies from falling into coffee.
The Palestinian – blames the Israeli for the fly falling in his coffee, protests the act of aggression to the UN, takes a loan from the European Union to buy a new cup ofCoffee, uses the money topurchase explosives and then blows up the coffee house where the Italian, the Frenchman, The Chinese, and the Russian are all trying to explain to the Israeli that He should give away his cup of coffee to the Palestinian.
I’ve been slightly productive today, writing two/three of the ten needed chapters for my Friday deadline. And the night is young, I suppose. If I can get another two/three done, I’ll be OK for tomorrow.
Tom Jones
On other fronts, I’ve been procrastinating productively, today, doing research on and attempting to design new business cards. For some reason, this used to be much easier…or maybe things are just easier in the States. Or my poor young self doesn’t have the image and design software my parents’ computers seem to naturally have, with all sorts of fun and easy-to-use templates. I found some very basic templates on my Word software on my iMac, but it’s very primive. However, my PC laptop’s Word had no templates on it whatsoever, so it didn’t help me at all. Ugh. Found some websites offering free or very cheap business cards with online design platforms, which kind of helps, when I can steal the image…I feel OK doing it, as they won’t send to Israel anyway, and even if they did it would take too long, and again, even if they did, their platform doesn’t support Hebrew, and I need bilingual cards made up. Sheesh. So, if anyone has recommendations for how to make elegant, simple cards very, very quickly, so I can just save it on Word, or make a really fast jpeg out if it, and take it all to a print shop — let me know, ASAP.
The new lovely man I am seeing is looking for bedframes, so if anyone in the Tel Aviv area is getting rid of one for free or cheap, please also let me know. He seems to have come to the conclusion that sleeping on a mattress on the floor for months on end isn’t a very grown up thing to do. This may be due to the fact that he now may have frequent nocturnal company. I don’t really mind, as the mattress is really comfortable, and I don’t feel strange about it at all. I did take a quick peek at the Ikea Israel site (yes, we have one, and everyone of the generic young-ish age in Israel now also has the same furniture as everyone else in the world of the same age group…ah, Ikea…achieving socially conscious world domination through maddeningly affordable beige Scandinavian design furniture, one young professional at a time), and the prices here are vastly different that back home or in Europe. Vastly. Some of the models are two to three times more expensive. Which sucks, as the prices, for Israel, still seem really good. Which goes to show that Tel Aviv really is expensive and may very well deserve the title of 12th most expensive city in the world…ahead of New York and LA. Bizarre. People actually sell their used Ikea furniture here…for close to new prices…not try to pawn it off any gullible sucker like back Stateside. Sheesh, indeed.
Ikea Bed...going for maybe $350
And Tom Jones, my happy go luck, hip-swinging companion for the evening. My lady cat, Cassiopeia (who has no need for anonymity), was so elegant and cute tonight, I randomly started calling her “Lady.” This turned into me singing her the famous Tom Jones number. Which then turned into me looking it up on Youtube. So, enjoy this clip of a very embarrassingly tight-bell-bottom clad, Afro sporting, gyrating Tom Jones. Not much changes. This one’s for darlin’ Cassie, sweetie that she is, cuddling into me right now, looking annoyed at the loud musack.
I’m procrastinating in a major way, trying to type with a cat in my lap, not working, having just finished a late breakfast. I’m so bad and I will be paying dearly very soon. But for now, I’m not stressing. Why? Keeping up with current events and then amusing myself in order to recover from them has proven (disgustingly) a full and interesting morning.
So I learned that the Israeli Defense Force (IDF or Tzahal) has its own Youtube channel. Yup. Watch the war semi-live from an up close and personal view. I had no idea warfare was this precise. I suppose we should be thankful for the precision. This kind of video just shocked me, though. There’s something wrong, it feels to me, to be watching this stuff over breakfast in Tel Aviv, like it’s nothing. Perhaps I’m a bit sheltered. As a liberal American, I didn’t keep up with the gore of Iraq. Didn’t watch any of the viral videos of beheaddings, didn’t follow the embedded journalists like an addict. Now that I live here, it’s different. It’s so close. An hour away at most. People I know have been and will be called up for reserve duty to go fight. The first Israeli soldier has fallen. Why. Why. Why.
And yet, hundreds of Palestinians have already died. Yes, we outgun them. Yes, we have infinitely more power. But they won’t stop shooting. If I weren’t Israeli. If only I weren’t involved. I would totally be on the liberal Western side, condemning Israel, siding with the poor people being slaughtered. It seems so obvious. But it’s far from obvious and simple. It’s hard. It’s really hard. We shouldn’t be at war. It’s horrific, and I want nobody to die. It needs to stop. I wish we could “be the bigger man” and stop. But the underdog keeps at it. It reminds me of the “enlightened ruler” concept. The power to cause great harm and choosing not to. And we keep proving to be unenlightened.
It’s the hatred that gets me most. It would be so much, I hate saying it, but easier, if it weren’t all so malicious. It’s bizarre waking up each day, as an Israeli-American, as a Jew, and knowing that half of the world or more hates me. That despite all the legitimacy the Palestinian people have won, deep down their rhetoric is all about pushing us into the sea. That even if it doesn’t ever happen, they still want it to. And I have no hatred, or very little, in my heart. I really try to approach the world on a person to person basis. Because it’s the only thing that has ever mattered, changed history, one person learning, interacting with another. Learning that we’re the same. That we eat and sleep, care and dream, laugh and sing like the other. But where does this get me, with them incessantly throwing rockets, and we going in with a hundred times the force? I would love to be able to go as a tourist to Jordan, Iran, Saudi Arabia, Lebanon. Honestly. I am interested, and I have looked into it. But I would be in mortal danger in some places. Not all. But it would not be easy, and it would be a matter of hidingmy identity and pretending to be Canadian or something. The 6 hours I once spent in the Bahrain airport, my heart thumping, was a nightmare. Of course I was safe. But there everyone was, walking around in Arab dress, robes, Arabic, all of it. I hit my Israeli passport in a secret pocket I am always certain to travel with deep down in a bag. Lucky I have the American. Whatever. Maybe I should just do it. As an excersize. Write a book. Lone Jewish woman travels the Middle East — follow her adventures as she communes with Bedouin women, slips in camel dung, dodges sneaky questions at passport control, and finally slips behind a burka seeking anonymity and protection…good god, I need to get to work!
So, the video for the day! It’s fantabulous! I mean it. I have just played it about 5 times. Why? Because it’s so damned happy and catchy and it reminds me why I love being alive, and that there are good things to look forward to. The song is about Paris, of course, but more about meeting strangers, becoming friends and lovers, and doing fun things like singing and dancing with crazy kooks in basement flats. It’s about joy. And loving your fellow man. And woman. So enjoy this video! And feel free to play it over and over and over! There’s no shame in it.
A fellow Israeli writer penned this fantastic essay on HuffPo. Read it. It mirrors my sentiments in many ways. And I’m too damned tired to write myself now, so do read it, and comment. Karin’s a fantastic person and writer.
I’m back in Tel Aviv. I can’t believe my Indian adventure was over. It was as rought getting out as coming in, I tell you. Stuck in Mumbai rish hour traffic for 2.5 hours (!!!!) on the way to the airport (what was a 45 minute drive ordinarily), thought I was going to be refused check-in, and when I did get there, they charged me for overweight baggage, something that has never happened to me, for 6 lousy kilos! I fought them tooth and nail, repacked 5 times, shifted weight…but the bitchy attendant said, after all my repacking ordeal, that it made no difference, because if I took it as hand luggage, the weight was still there, all the same. I really lost it, told her to give back my bags, that I was going to make some phone calls. After several attempts to reach my dad Stateside, he said there wasn’t much I could do, could I repack an extra bag, to which I responded, already did that, the lady is just a bitch. Finally, I calmed down, still fuming as I was, and gave up, apologizing briefly to the lady, and I paid the nearly $100 extra for the 6 fucking kilos. I would have understood it had the flight been overbooked, that they were looking for a way to cut down on eight, etc, but the flight was empty, so much so that I had my own row to stretch out in. Bitch. Couldn’t have cut me a break.
I am proud of myself, though. I stayed calm in the cab. I never let my heart race. I never cried. And when I knew I was fighting a losing battle, I threw my hands up, and paid up. I never yelled, I never cried, I never panicked. I took care of myself and stayed pretty damned rational. I kept asking myself what the point would be in losing it, I went over in my head what things I did have control over, and what things I didn’t. It’s amazing. Therapy actually works, and works well, after a while.
I can’t believe I’m back. It feels surreal. The trip felt like 6 months, not 1 month. And my apartment feels alien. Smaller. Dirtier. But it’s OK. It’s starting to grow on me again. I just have to use my amazing therapy skills to hold on for the next few days, especially, and the coming weeks. I’ve got a big job ahead of me, prepping my manuscript and starting a business. And the smaller stuff. Staying calm. Staying adult. Managing my finances. Not falling into depression. Keeping up with friends in a constructive way.
Today’s goals: unpack (really unpack), and pick up the cats from my sisters. Both much larger tasks than meet the eye. I’ll need a car for the cats, and I’ll have to beg a family member or friend for an hour of their time to do this. My sister’s moody roommate asked me to remove the cat-box tray as well, which will require more time if it’s full and needs to be cleaned. Ugh. I don’t quite see the point. But I am looking forward to the kitties being back. After the house is ready for them. And I don’t want to open the luggage quite yet. Give me an hour or two. A nice long bath. Another nap. I’m exhausted.
And then there’s the war. I have no idea what’s going on except it’s all over the news. War is such nonsense. I hope it stops soon.
And the new year. We don’t really celebrate here, which is a relief in a way. Jewish new year takes precidence in the autumn. But it would still be nice to be out and about, or at least with a friend or two. I’m looking forward to seeing the guy. The guy. I’m wondering about the effectiveness or stupidity of maintaining the anonymity of this website. The majority of the people reading know who I am. But for those who don’t, I really don’t want my name, even my first name, splashed all over the place. And I certainly don’t want the people I write about identified. But I’m sure some of them, if they haven’t discovered it already, might actually, and know I’ve mentioned them. It takes away from my own anonymity, if the people I write about know that I am. It’s not a diary anymore. And I have to be more and more careful. And I think it’s time to assess what my goals are here. Should I be using this blog as an emotional release? It feels good to do it. But I don’t want to hurt or expose anyone. Ugh. I just want the man to call me. That’s what. And I should just pick up the phone and call him. I’m such a loser. I’m such a loser. Dating, mind games, bla, bla, bla. It’s as if I still am not convinced that anybody would ever want me. Which is ridiculous. But, there you go. When you’ve never had it, it’s hard to accept. I’m going to stop. This is all exhaustion speaking. And my friends may be reading…
Enjoy this mad video. I had a revelation at a book stall in Mumbai on the street in my last few hours doing some shopping. All of our collected human knowledge, all of the beautiful books, our scientific discovery, the great works of art, our agriculture, our cities, our cuisine, our traditions, technology, all of the collected accomplishments of the last 12,000 years or so of our modern species mean absolutely nothing, should we perish. When we seek fame, we seek admiration from our fellow humans. When we seek fortune, we seek profit from human markets, by selling to humans. When we seek to entertain, we entertain humans. When we love, we love humans and receive love from humans. We are social in every way. Even antisocial people are antisocial in antithesis to a society, without which this person still could not exist. When a baby is born, the process of educating her, by parents, friends, teachers, schools, television, radio, movies, and more, is actually the process of transferring our species history to her. Because each person starts out a blank slate. There is nobody alive today who existing during the French Revoltion, the 100 Years War, the destruction of the first or second temples, the building of the pyramids, the assisination of Caesar. How do we ensure that we remember these things? Because it makes up who we are. And if we were to cease existing, it would matter to nobody. Our own survival is paramount only to ourselves. Funny that it’s we who are killing ourselves. Anyway, just saw this video that’s been burning up the web. Enjoy:
We are glued to CNN live. It’s a mess. What a world we live in. Rumors fly. Chabad house attacked, the rabbi and his wife alive but unconscious. Why? 17 Israelis rumored to be held hostage. Terrorists targeted Israelis, Americans, and Brits. Anything new?
What is the root of this violence? The root of the hatred? Of any hatred?
For a long time I have felt that it must be a socio-economic issue, behind it all. That it people in poorer countries were better fed, better capable of caring for themselves, had a higher quality of life, had a good and proud self image, there would be no reason to attack. That starvation and national defeat prompts religious fundamentalism, or fundamentalism at all (Nazi germany). That it leads to scapegoating. To hatred. To violent action.
But is it really?
And I sit here, in a big beautiful kitchen in Tel Aviv, making pumpkin pie from scratch, with my new haircut, my company laptop, well fed, worried about petty things only…like will I still be able to go to India come Monday. God only knows.
It’s a great day for America, for Chicago, and here in Israel, there is a collective sigh of relief. Rahm Emanuel is a great person, an intellectual Clintonite, a Chicagoan, a Jew whose dad is Israeli, grew up with Hebrew spoken, and volunteered for the Israeli Defense Force during the Gulf War.
I have spent the past eight years becoming more and more ashamed of my American passport.I spend a lot of time in international arenas.I have lived abroad on more than one occasion.I have attended international schools and international degree programs.I am used to being a minority, and as such, as many Americans abroad find, I have spent my fair share of time defending my country (or, as I’ve tried, sometimes successfully, and sometimes unsuccessfully, distancing myself from it).And I am sick of it.How many, “you’re the first nice/reasonable/intelligent/non-annoying American I’ve ever met,” comments can one take in this lifetime?
I feel such a surge of energy today.We, as a nation, came together and did something sensible, something smart, something hopeful.We made a good choice.I find myself really believing that I can achieve my personal goals and ambitions (get the book published, have a career I not only tolerate but love, have a decent non-depressed daily existence, find a partner, go to India…).My goals are quite attainable.Really believing that they are, taking real steps, is the difficult part.
But Obama did something unbelievable.
Pigs are flying today.Hell froze over today.
There is a question left, however.A question of my own shame.Am I a fair weather friend?When the going gets tough, I get lost?Of the last eight years, I have spent almost four of them out of the country (as I vowed on that fateful November day back in 2000).It is difficult to be proud of a country, love a country, defend a country, when you don’t approve (and in fact despise) the actions of its leaders.It’s an issue.How to keep believing.Am I lucky to have dual citizenship?Or do I use it to hide?I am an “international” person, a proud expat.Or am I?Am I coward?
What does it mean to be a citizen?A good citizen.Is it enough to pay taxes?To breathe in and out?To merely exist?Does voting make you a good citizen?Or is there such a thing as a good citizen at all?Are there just citizens and traitors?
It’s here! It’s finally here! Let’s make it a good one, America!
I’m so excited, and today I really feel homesick. Nobody really gets it here. Or else, I don’t have too many American friends. And some Americans I know here are Republicans.
I have nowhere to go tonight yet. I don’t know where (a bar, a club?) will have good coverage. I don’t know which place will have a nice crowd of folks like me. I really want to be out among friends tonight, and it’s really hitting me how few strong, interesting, intelligent, very liberal, American people I know around here. Oh pooh, at times like this, I just miss Chicago. The 2000 election. I miss Jimmy’s Woodlawn Tap, and renting a giant donkey costume, and going to the Gore rally, and feeling optimism and hope–old style, like Clinton could never lose, and who on earth didn’t just love him, and the Reynolds Club on election night, the entire student body screaming at the TV, and running back and forth between the theater lounge where we had internet and the cafe where the TVs were set up. I miss paad thai and The West Wing and confidence and beautiful possible future. Before the ground caved in beneath us.
So, if anyone knows where there’s a good place to hang out in Tel Aviv tonight, please let me know.
And all youse guys in America – GO VOTE! NOW! Because who knows how long you’ll have to wait in line! And remember to not leave until you’ve voted! No matter what they say. And as we say in Chicago, “Vote early, vote often.”
I received my voter registration card in the mail today. My Israeli voter registration card, that is. Interesting fact: I never registered to vote. Not something that happens here. If you’re a citizen of age, and you’ve lived here long enough, you can vote. If you have this card, I suppose. And I am so excited. My first time participating in this, doing my civic duty, executing my right. I have had Israeli citizenship from birth. But this is the first time I’ve lived here for more than 6 months. Which is the time threshold.
Municipal elections are coming up in a couple weeks. Here, we vote for mayor, and the separately, we vote on a list – a group or a party – for the city council. And Israelis – get this – don’t consider local elections political. They don’t think it’s politics. The national parties don’t figure into the equation at all. Mayors are just people that run for office. Usually, without belonging to a specific party. And the lists can be a random old group of people who create a platform. Usually, they do have some party connection or existing group affiliation. This time around, there is a “Life” party, which fends for the rights of animals. And they have a very decent shot! The Greens, I’m told have a good chance, too. It’s amazing. There’s hardly any hoopla about this at all! Which makes sense…as most of the power is with the national government…and that’s about to fall apart into elections this winter…ay gevult!
At least next week I have an easier decision to make than Meretz, Labour, Likud, Kadima, etc, etc. In the comfort of the local high school, I get to choose between The Animal Rights Party and The Green Party for city hall! Yah! Booyah! Go Tel Aviv! The liberal enclave I call home.
I voted! Yes, siree Bob, I voted! It was a total off-the-wall chance that I learned about the polling place at all (The Dancing Camel Brewery in an industrial area of Tel Aviv), it took me ages to find it (after I had been sure I knew where I was going…gotta love second-guessing yourself, wearing the worst shoes, and walking about 2 kilometers the wrong way and having to back track). And then I got half-off beer for voting. And, boy, what a beer. A unique, sweet, tangy, lovely pomegranite beer. Ah, moral center, moral center, when I do the right thing, it’s so funny to be so quickly and directly rewarded. Beautiful beer. Dear, dear, Barack Obama, one (unfortunately, pretty solitary) vote coming atcha from all the way in Israel…
Micro Brew from the Holy Land
(Note: The Americans here in Israel are predominantly religious [not ultra-orthodox all, like the ones you picture in movies...no, these are ordinary folks who wear the ordinary little hat, and that's all]…and I find them to be annoyingly closed minded…folks who only vote with Israel in mind and will not sway from their belief that a Republican will always be a better friend and protector to Israel and in opposition to Arabs…how an intelligent Jew can reasonably and conscientiously vote for a ticket with Sarah Palin on it, is completely beyond me…but then again, if you only vote with one issue in mind – lord knows, if the candidate advocated dumping garbage into the oceans, starting wars in every corner of the globe, and slashing civil liberties, but still was a “friend to Israel,” I bet these yahoos would still vote for him or her…)
Iran. A friend in the States asked me for some insight on Iran because she couldn’t quite wrap her head around why it was an important campaign issue for Jews and in relation to Israel. Are they really such a huge threat. Well, she really liked my email response, and she thought I should send it to American blogs in a more developed form. Let me know what you think about this, too. I’m all ears. So, without further ado, a secular American-Israeli’s 2-minute explanation of what she sees as the situation with Iran (taken verbatim from the email):
Today, I saw an article on Yahoo to this effect: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20081027/ap_on_re_mi_ea/ml_iran_arms;_ylt=Ah7GNGG2H3PouYITvC25vqhvaA8F. Iran is widely thought to be one of the biggest threat to Israel right now. They not only provide weapons and funding to the terrorists who reside most closely to us (Hezbollah), but their nuclear program, you can imagine should it come into fruition, would have one very easy, very close target. Their rhetoric is disgusting. Ahmadinijad hosted conferences about denying the holocaust, which brought together revisionist historians and neo-nazis from all over the world, claiming evidence that it never happened. I heard of anti-Israel, anti-holocaust political cartoon contests. The works. It’s scary. It’s a lot of what Israelis think about when it comes to foreign threats. The funny thing, in my view, is that I have nothing against the Iranian people. They are Persians, ethnically. They aren’t Arabs. Yes, the Islam that they practice is Shiite, a much more radical (and mystical) variety. But a huge percentage of the population are secular. And they’ve been suffering for decades under this dictatorial theocratic rule. We know plenty of Persians in the US, and several are close friends of my family. It’s the weirdest thing in the world to me, as the country is so hateful a presence, but I have always found the people to be ridiculously nice and peaceful and welcoming. Another funny thing, Ahmadinijad himself has said he has nothing against the Jews. Only against Israel. Which…sucks…as it pins Jew against Jew in the world. And ultimately, he’s being a sneaky fox indeed. Because tons of Jews come from Persia. Most had to flee in the recent decades because of how hard it is to be a Jew in Muslim countries. After 1948, Jewish communities in Arab countries were ritualistically attacked, thousands murdered, as retribution for Israel having been declared a state. So…they fled to Israel…which is why there are so few Jews in Muslim countries. There used to be. Tons. We have huge Iraqi, Irani, Yemeni, Moroccan, and Egyptian communities here. Jewish communities. Where the first language used to be Arabic.
The new psychiatrist gave me more Xanax to deal with the Lamictal withdrawal. Yipee! What a world, right? Throwing medicine at a problem caused by medicine you are trying to get off of. I try not to think about it too much. I like Xanax. A lot. It helped me quit smoking. How, you ask? When the pain got bad, the jonesing for a cigarette, I took a Xanax, and then drank a glass of wine. An extraordinary feeling. And I’m told extremely dangerous (don’t do that at home…). But lord knows, I’m grateful. I haven’t picked up a cigarette since January 17, 2002. And I’m told they’re not addictive. I’ve only ever been given a small handful for emergencies…so having so many on me is a very weird luxury. I am going to try to take them only when I really need them.
My cat(s), don’t know which one, chewed through an Apple cable. Thankfully not an important one. Actually, the least important one. A spare USB port extension. But geez, I don’t know what to do now…move my computer to the only other room I have, the bedroom? Uh uh. But how do you discipline a cat? And I’m pretty sure it was a sign or else retribution for something. They’re getting picky about having their litter box being ultra clean. I mean, I do clean it. I don’t leave it for more than 2 days. But come on, they wake me up at 5 am, and the only thing I can think that they want is a clean litter box. What else, when they have plenty of food, plenty of clean water, tons of toys, and lots of room to play, and soft areas to sleep? What else? Will my technology survive? Can I hide every single cord and cable? Do I need to?
One of my favorite Disney films… Watch Haley Mills kibbitz with the FBI…
Today is my one-year anniversary. I have been living in Israel for one year. It’s hard to believe. I still feel like a hermit. I still feel green, new, clueless. And I don’t feel like I have any more courage, ingenuity, spirit, pride, or anything more than when I got here. Well, that’s not entirely true. I’ve had therapy. Lots of therapy. And drugs. And I’ve published something. Something small, yes. But something that has gotten amazing feedback. And I graduated from culinary school. So, besides the job issues that never cease, and never will cease, as making a living has to be done, anywhere in the world, something was accomplished this year. Another certificate. More experience. Some emotional progress. Yet, a great deal of treading water, treading on known, old, not-so-healthy paths. But there is light. There is light. It’s an interesting feeling knowing that we never really grow out of childhood. I will always be stuck at 16. In many ways. We are all adolescents. Faking it.
I thought I would have a party. Instead I’m alone at home. Not altogether bad. Trying to plot the next few turns, make the next plans, straighten myself out. Alas, major exhaustion from Yom Kippur yesterday, and continued recovery from the 2-week Irish visitation, has gotten me plonked down in front of youtube and the like, watching Star Trek Voyager. I am thinking of going out and getting some expensive beer. Then again, I really really need to stop spending money. I have less in my account than I thought. And that’s not good. But it is an important day. Will two Belgian beers and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s really set me back all that much in comparison to the enjoyment it will all bring? Yes, it’s worth it. But in the end, it really is more of an issue of getting up and out of the chair (at least it’s a chair and not a sofa or bed). As it’s Shabbat, I will have to trek 20 minutes to the local AM:PM, the only shop that’s open around here. Gotta love Israel. It is nice, though, to have a real palpable feeling of “otherness” for the weekend. It’s much more quiet, relaxed, even though it’s inconvenient not having buses or shops or stores or restaurants open locally.
The cats are back. They were at my sister’s for the duration of the Irish visit. Not sure I’m glad, as they are a royal pain. The company is OK some of the time.
Another year. Appropriate it came right after Yom Kippur. After the gates of heaven slammed shut for another year. Another chance. I didn’t really pray. Even though I was in synagogue a good deal yesterday. Even though I fasted. I am not sure I believe in prayer. I didn’t feel too spiritual. I felt good, actually. Felt calm. Sleepy. Adult. Slightly nostalgic, but not in a negative, wish-I-were-back-there, kind of way. I awoke on the morning of Yom Kippur having had a very goo night’s sleep. I was in Jerusalem staying with a very good friend of mine, a woman I feel more at home with than almost anyone in my family. She had laid a matress for me on her living room floor and given me perhaps the most comfortable comforter to sleep with. I remember waking several times during the night wondering why it wasn’t yet morning and time to go to services. And when I finally woke for the real morning, the memory of my family’s last vacation to Hawaii was on my mind. It was one of the best trips we’d ever taken. All of us adult. All of us more or less getting along. We were on Kauai where my parents have a time share, a place we’d been several times before. And the vacation was spent on calm beaches, fun small restaurants, cooking meals together in the kitchen, and playing Scrabble. Lots of Scrabble. And mostly me winning, as is the case in my family. It was a good time. And even though the fast was not easy for me this year, I took a nap after we broke the fast on my friends sofa, with that wonderful comforter, and I felt safe. A safety I feel with very few people. A safety I rarely if ever feel with my immediate family. A safety I feel when I’m with people I know will take care of me and always welcome me with open arms, no questions asked, no guilt piled on, no judgment doled out. It was only for 20 minutes or so, but I will remember it for a long time.
I am thankful to her from the core of my being for creating safe, warm, loving spaces in this often cold and confusing world. It’s rare for me to feel comfortable on anyone else’s sofas. There are perhaps three I can think of. So, thank you to the Queen with the most comfortable Jerusalem sofa and comforter.
And will there be another year? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Time will tell, all too well.
Welcome!
This is my countdown to my 30th birthday. Thanks for stopping by.
This life I’m on often feels like a great adventure, and it is my pleasure to share it with anyone who is interested.
I am a writer and chef. I am an American woman living in Tel Aviv, editing my ... Continue reading »
It is just another day here in Israel. And I cannot find an inauguration party. Sure, I didn’t look too hard, either. But there you go. It’s just another day.
Obama’s speech is rumored to be about an “era of responsibility.” I dig it. It’s the only way to move forward. For everyone, from the street sweeper, to the checkout girl, to the bus driver, to the teacher, secretary, data entry guy, micromanager, lawyer, doctor, scientist, political leader — everyone — to stop passing the buck. On everything. I’m ready. I hope all Americans are. I hope the world is.
We are glued to CNN live. It’s a mess. What a world we live in. Rumors fly. Chabad house attacked, the rabbi and his wife alive but unconscious. Why? 17 Israelis rumored to be held hostage. Terrorists targeted Israelis, Americans, and Brits. Anything new?
