Thank you for following along with me on this roller coaster of a mish-moshy blog. Today, I have reached the end of my countdown. Yes, that’s right. It’s my birthday! And all is well. I’m having a wonderful day.
What I am a bit misty over is the fact that this blogging journey has come to an end. At least in this capacity. This year this blog has been a saving grace. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but the blog was so much a part of the process — the aging, reflection, creative, destructive, manic, depressive whirlwind that is my life process — that turning 30 was for me. I’m going to miss it.
The party, in brief
At the party last night, which was fabulous (lots of people, all the people I had really wanted to come, realistically speaking, came — we had bbq chicken and sausages, quinoa salad, guac, hummus, tahini, salads galore, funky organic chips, four French cheeses and grapes and crackers, soooo much wine it was coming out of everyone’s ears, add sangria to that and add vodka-fresh watermelon punch to that, and then a gorgeous hazelnut chocolate mousse cake at midnight with champagne popping…ahhh…it was perfect), a few people came up to me and said that after turning 30 they realized how much of a relief it was. A real load off. The anxiety gone. Another perfect decade to have fun and create and build and enjoy and grow and transform in. It’s cliche, but yes, life is indeed beginning at 30 these days.
And today? Oh, today.
Morning
I awoke and immediately opened my presents. A modest yet touching collection of trinkets. Lots of books and interesting design-y elements. Then my sister and 2 friends and I went to have brunch at the most wonderful restaurant called Manta Ray, right on the beach in southern Tel Aviv, very close to the border with Jaffa. I had a “Mr Crunchy” – a very croque monsieur-esque cooked sandwich with an Israeli touch — grilled eggplant — to go along with the crunchy ham and the heavenly melted cheese on eggy sweet challah bread, all topped with Rocket salad and cherry tomatoes. My sister had the pancakes, a rarity here in Israel, cooked American-style, with lovely sweet peach slices on top and a dollop of creme fraiche. My friends had salads (very Israeli), and scrambled eggs, and we all shared some trout ceviche and freshly baked breads and bagels with a seletion of jams, compotes, cheeses, olives, and whipped butter. Ah, heaven.
Afternoon…
…was spent shopping at only one store, and thank goodness for that. I had wanted to wander Tel Aviv, but I hadn’t anticipated the fatigue from last night (we went to bed after 4 am), and the slight hangover (I’m seriously surprised it wasn’t infinitely worse, quite frankly), along with the unbearable mid-day heat. So we went to the one place I love to shop: Liligrace. It’s small boutique with just gorgeous, unique, special clothes at very reasonable prices. A very mini-H&M, homestyle, run by the two sweetest ladies. See, my sister and I discovered this shop on her birthday, almost 6 months ago to the day. AND it just happened to be only the 2nd day that this store was in business. We were some of their very first customers. So, we kept coming back. The prices and the styles are just too good to be true. AND every time I went back, I brought new friends. It’s a loyalty thing. I feel special regarding our little coincidence with the birthdays and the store opening and them being so nice and all, you know. So, of course, of course, this was the only place I would consider going to, if I could only pick one store to shop at on my birthday. Period. AND I came out with some excellent loot, at a kind discount as well, for being the birthday girl. Two dresses, one of them quite dressy and very funky indeed (Japanese meets European), and two very unique shirts. I feel like a princess when I come out of Liligrace. I really do. Visit, if you’re ever in Tel Aviv. On Dizingof between Ben Gurion and Arlozorov on the eastern side of the street.
Evening…
That’s broaching on right now. We’ve been napping for a couple hours. Thank goodness. We’ll probably have some leftovers for dinner… I can’t believe how much food is left. Maybe we’ll even bbq again. Afterward, the plan is to meet up with my family for the “family birthday event.” You know, obligatory time with grandma, potentially awkward moments with teenage cousins, the works. I’ve decided to minimize the potential weirdness by opting out of a typical dinner…and just doing dessert and drinks…at a fabulous cafe, 10 Idelson. I’m expecting world-class cake. And no more than an hour with my crazy grandma. And I’m bringing a friend as well which should act as a buffer against potential explosions. Yes, it should be great. Tonight? No idea. Tel Aviv has crazy parties and night clubs and the like, but I’m so not into that. I’d rather take in a movie at home. Hang out. Sounds nice, doesn’t it? Yes I think so.
The future
You will still find me editing my novel (will be sent to agents and publishers by the end of summer, I declare!), job hunting (or working at a new job very soon I hope…touch wood), pondering the meaning of life and breathing through countless existential dilemmas, enjoying Tel Aviv, debating living in Israel, analysing oddities, watching Star Trek, traveling the world, writing, thinking, examining, dreaming, breathing, being, and of course cooking a ton and drinking a lot of wine.
I will be starting a new blog very soon. I have captured some good domain names, and I’ll let you know here how to find me.
Thank you so much for coming along on this ride. I will miss it. And I will miss you.
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.
Funny how the symbol for infinity is an eight turned on its side. Or maybe I should ask why an eight is an infinity symbol standing on end. In any case, it’s almost a week until my 30th, and it might as well be an eternity away for how much a have to accomplish by that date…
Being an avid book lover and having to move apartments to a fourth floor walkup without any cash or much help is a nightmare. Having to do this in the middle of summer in Tel Aviv with a twenty year-old borrowed car (without AC) on its very last leg made this hell on earth.
But I survived. Every muscle shaking. So wet from sweat, it was like I’d jumped in the sea with all my clothes on.
And here I sit. In the gorgeous new place. No idea how I will be paying for it. Not at all unpacked. And with a couple more loads of stuff to bring over from my old place.
I did have a short interview today. For what could be the answer to my prayers. A work from home job that could pay exceptionally well to basically be a long-distance secretary. But the chances are low, and the interview process long. Which means the resumes still keep going out.
And I’m going to turn in. I can actually get about 8 hours sleep tonight…a far cry from the 3-4 hours I’ve been getting because of the move. Tomorrow is another wine tasting. My feet hurt. And a word to the wise:
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.
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?
Now what is that header supposed to mean? Who knows? Who cares? It’s hot as balls (a new expression of my sister’s…e.g. “I’m sweating balls”) here in Tel Aviv, and although there are breezes coming through the huge open windows, I’m still sticky and uncomfortable…and risking flying cockroaches because of said open windows.
And I’ve got decisions to make. Again. As always. Why isn’t life simple? Well, I suppose if you believe it’s complex, well, it will be. If I believed in a simple solution, I think I could find it. Simply. Where am I going?
I was offered a job. To sell art. Fine art. Aboard a cruise ship. And I was excited as hell for the opportunity. Until I did the research. And found out many past employees have felt swindled, betrayed, lied to, taken advantage of, underpaid, and much worse. Past customers have discovered their works were grossly overpriced upon returning home, and sometimes even finding that some of the paintings are suspected forgeries. There are class action law suits. There are whole websites devoted to how bad this is. And this is where I want to work?
Back to why it sounds good on paper: 6-12% commission. Free travel. Free room and board. Fine art. Picasso. Chagall. Miro. Dali. Yup. There you have it. The “love boat,” the finest art the world has ever known, and the chance to make six figures.
But those tales of woe are scary. And I’ve just come back from two months of roaming in a year when I spent more than 3 months out of 7 outside of the country. The thought of just being able to amass a huge chunk of change. Being able to make a down payment on a mortgage. Being able to write and not worry for another year or more. And getting this wad of cash doing something interesting and sexy like traveling on a luxurious cruise liner. Wow.
I’ll tell you a secret: almost anyone reading this blog can qualify for this job. Honest. Just go to Monster. It’s there. Always.
And I’ve come off my meds. Experiment. I was so inspired by my Chinese medicine doc. So inspired by having felt good for a few days. Let’s get off of everything. Let’s take herbs. Let’s have talk therapy. Let’s work a decent honest job. Pay rent. Just live for a while. Just live. And it will all be OK.
That was yesterday.
And the existential dilemma crept back in again. My old friend. Meaninglessness. Ambiguity. Hopelessness. The fact that life really really really really sucks. It’s dreadful. People are hungry. Starving. We are killing all the plants. We are suffocating ourselves. We are stupid, and we don’t care. And yet. And yet. Life is so beautiful it’s nearly impossible to contain the joy I sometimes feel at being able to smell a strong-scented flower while walking down the street or at seeing children playing in a garden or thinking about a favorite book or poem or television series. We are stupid, stupid geniuses. That’s what. And it’s both. It’s the paradoxicality of us. Yes, I think I just made up a word. Spell checker hates it. And here I go again:
will I ever be able to love, does it matter, of course it does, no it doesn’t, it’s only important that i can recognize the importance of love, experiencing it directly is a privilege that may not ever be afforded to me, but that’s ok, right? right. wrong. or maybe if I feel love for my sister or for a book, or for life itself, or for my fellow human beings, that’s enough, that’s love. no. what the hell is love anyway? fondness? no. too easy. will I ever have kids? do I even want them anymore? they say it’s real true love. you know it then. shall I selfishly have kids so that I can know love? is that how it works? is having children ALWAYS innately a selfish act? reproducing one’s face? one’s abilities? one’s talents? one’s blue eyes? it reminds me of the speech from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, yes, of course, when Viola (disguised as Cesario) is sent to woo Olivia on behalf of Orsino, and she says, “you will leave no copy”…that one could be so beautiful, it would be a sin not to leave a genetic copy on earth to live on after you are gone…is it narcisim? does it matter….no, no, no, no…nothing matters. because nothing matters. we live. we die. we are always dying just as we are always living. nothing alive is alive forever, just as everything dead must have had the privilege of life. it’s the same thing, right? right. no. no. no. I need to sleep. yes, i need to sleep. i am forcing insomnia upon myself. i am doing it to myself. stop.
Have a mentioned that I’ve a new addiction? For “The Office”. The genius television series. That’s right. I’m in it for Jim and Pam. I have to see them. How they get together. Because those actors got it. They are astounding. It’s so real. And I can feel the love between them so palpably. Did I mention I’ve started from the beginning? From series one? Yes. I have. I know they’re together and engaged and the season 5 finale was awesome for them. But I have to know, I just have to know how they got there. Which is why I haven’t been sleeping. It’s been suggested I should read Angels and Demons or some other good book. But I think I’ll finish the series.
Thanks for reading. If you have. And if you’re reading this. You have. So, thanks.
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…
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!
I am plain tuckered out. Was, maybe 8 hours ago, too. I haven’t worked this hard in a long while. Sucks that I’m barely making any money, and that in this holiday season, I’m spending more than I’m making, easily. But it’s nice to have a full schedule. There’s something refreshing about feeling my body totally exhausted. From the soles of my feel to the scalp on my head.
Today, I got up at 7:30 am (after less than 5 hours of sleep) in order to get to my psychiatrist at 9:30 am. For the first time in a long while, he was super attentive, focused, and really seemed to listen to me. He agreed with me that we’d better switch up my meds, and we considered a few options. For the second time, by a second psychiatrist, I was offered Lithium. And for the second time, I refused. There is such stigma attached to it. And I don’t want to gain hundreds of pounds. Lithium screams “bipolar and proud of it” to me, and I just don’t want to go there. When it was first suggested, nearly a year ago, I did a lot of research…including all the art inspired by Lithium…the Sting song…the Nirvana song…plenty of other stuff. I wonder if someone as talented and respectable as Sting is, is still on Lithium. And whether it was the right choice. Because Lithium seems like I’d have to admit to myself that I’ve somehow lost it. So, I’m going to start on something called Cymbalta (sp?), and I won’t have time to research tonight, as I’m literally falling asleep as I type. Good Lord…know what this means? Time for major, and I mean major withdrawal this week. Thank you Lexapro, thank you terror, thank you disillusionment…you see where I’m going? I don’t. I’m drunk with fatigue. And starting to jones.
So, after the doc, went to my sisters to help her frantically pack for Italy (I’m meeting her there is just under two weeks), then had a strained lunch with my grandmother where I found myself having to apologize for everything and anything including my mere existence. And then. And then. Wine!
It was so chaotic in the store I was placed in today that the manager asked that I not do any tastings (until perhaps the end), and just represent the winery in the aisles and help people with their choices. My first thought was bloody hell…I got into this business for the tasting itself…wanting to teach…to converse about an actual product…not be a salesperson in the most direct and annoying fashion. But you know what? I did better business today than I did on any other day in the last two weeks. Why? When you’re leading a tasting, you’re kind of stuck to your station. You can walk around, but then the wines aren’t being watched over. And if you’re helping some people with a tasting, you miss customers walking in behind them and around the store. Sure, people would have preferred a tasting, I think. But you know what? I learned that it’s me, the “expert,” the winery rep, the salesperson, who decides what to sell the customer. If I sound assured, and I consciously choose what to present them, they will buy it. More times than not. Amazing. Just the power of mere suggestion. Nothing pushy. Even helping with other products, other wines, beers, spirits…and they trust you. It’s scary what an art sales really is. And kind of disgusting. Because when you think about it, we’re all prey. If we’re not selling, we’re being sold to. All the time. But hey, today, I was really proud of myself. I got people to change their minds after they went to the register with bottles they had been convinced to buy. And I wasn’t the least bit pushy or rude. How could I be? I’m me. Miss American Manners. In Hellish Tel Aviv.
And then, and then, we’re talking 9 pm, I walked half a mile, got a bus home, went to the pharmacy to get my new meds, and the went to my uncle’s with a chicken and four premium bottles of wine, and I proceeded to cook…for the last three or more hours. Chicken soup (with carrots, onions, garlic, celery, celeriac, parsley root, and leek…and of course the obligatory bay leaves and allspice) is done…as is the ridiculously complicated quinoa salad that I have become famous for this year. It takes a ton of chopping and peeling and minute work. It’s not difficult. Just time consuming. Tomorrow the matzah balls, tsimmes, and roast beef will have to find themselves being made somehow or other. I hope. Because at 9 am I need to be out the door to my last holiday tasting, all the freaking way on the other side of the city…until 3 pm, when I rush to my uncle’s to finish cooking. Good Lord!
And now, I’m going to hop in the shower. Oh how I’ve needed to shower. For like three days. Please don’t think me gross. I’ve had other priorities, for the first time in months. A “feels good to be dirty” kind of high? Not really. But it should be at least somewhat satisfying. And Thursday! Thursday! I’m off to the Ashram in the Desert for 5 full days!
Happy Passover to All! And Happy Easter (whenever it falls this year…sorry, it’s the first time I have no idea)!
I am sipping a “long” espresso in one of my favorite cafes in the heart of the fashion district of Tel Aviv. It’s a better day than yesterday, that’s for sure.
Yesterday, I did not leave my house. In fact, I barely left the sofa. Yesterday, I ate nothing but nuts — almonds, walnuts, and a few raisins thrown in there — everything that happened to be readily edible in the house. Yesterday, I looked for anything to distract me from the terror. Yesterday, I watched several hours of television, including every episode of the new show, “Lie to Me,” online. Yesterday, I was down. Yesterday I was really really down, down beyond “the meaning of life” down. Yesterday, I nearly called my parents for help. I still might. And that’s a scary place to be in.
Then something happened. I don’t know what. Evening came. I felt more calm. I got up. I straightened things up. I made a list. I cooked spaghetti. I answered a phone call. I was ever so slightly productive. I read a manuscript I needed to work on. Finally, I took a long needed shower at midnight (I still had makeup caked on my face from the day before – !!! – and talk about the fuzzy teeth issue). I slept well. And I got up in a more peaceful mood.
I’m perplexed at my state these days. I don’t know if I’m strong, and I have serious mental health issues, and that it’s all coming out now because of my lack of structure, and my finally breaking away from family, and because of being alone or a combination of these things. Or if I’m actually allowing myself to be quite weak, that I can be strong, that I have been strong, and that now, I’m allowing myself to be lazy and weak, indulging in depression, like some sort of mental vacation. It sounds stupid, but I can’t decide. I don’t know whether I’m strong and I’ve reached my limit, or whether I’m strong and I’m allowing myself to slip. Does it matter? To my ego, only, probably.
In either case, I don’t think I’m getting the help I need. Problem is, I don’t know what that help is. I know I want to (need to ?) be more closely taken care of. But without a spouse, very close siblings and/or parents, I’m not going to get any care. And what do I mean by care? Not sure. Certainly not chicken soup in bed and calls four times a day to remind me to do things. I’m not an invalid. But one call a day would be nice. One or two visits per week would be nice. Help with some basics would be nice. Maybe I just need to find the money to hire a cleaner once per week. Maybe I just need to go to therapy more than once per week. And maybe if I scheduled regular coffee dates with friends, I’d be OK.
But yesterday, lying on that sofa, paralyzed, so filled with sadness, feeling so worthless, all meaning sapped out of me, almost all hope drained out of me, I just wanted someone to come, not ask any questions, and hug me, feed me, even bathe me. I’m starting to understand what it is to have reached the bottom. The end of the rope. Maybe I’m not there yet. I don’t want to slip any further. And today is better. Much better than yesterday. There are good days. But the bad days. The bad days are getting worse. And I don’t know why. And I don’t know what to do. And it sucks. I hate that I know both sides. As shitty as life is, I know how spectacular it is. Being alive is magic. But it is also a curse. It cannot be one without the other. It’s both, simultaneously. It’s part of the paradox of human existence.
Two nights ago I went to a modest whiskey tasting at a very nice wine and liquor store in Tel Aviv. The selection wasn’t much to write home about. But it was super-friendly and turned out to be a great evening. And the guy leading the tasting, the brand manager at Akkerman (the largest importer of spirits, beer, and wine to Israel), was really sweet, told great stories, and I learned some new things. There were only about ten of us sitting around a table (including the shop owner -one of the most knowledgeable wine-and-spirit men I’ve met in Israel), all of us nibbling on a nice charcuterie and crudite spread throughout, and it was, just, really nice. Which for a melancholic like me, is something to be happy about. So, here’s a brief summary, and I’ll try to be as pictorial as possible…everyone likes pictures best, right? Well, in the absence of the whiskeys themselves, you bet.
Here we go! And for those of you with no patience, there are a couple of hilarious videos at the end! And let’s get on with the show!
Random facts: Whiskey is not a geographical term, as Scotch Whisky (from Scotland only) and Bourbon (from Kentucky only) actually are. Japan is apparently making incredible whiskeys these days, perhaps better than some of the Scotch. There’s a story that goes something like this – a Scotsman married a Japanese person way before the war and brought this tradition with him…and because of the direction of the alliances, this guy had to leave, but left a whiskey-making sensibility behind there. And I’ve never tasted a Japanese whiskey. And I really should. Gotta do some research about that. They have the correct climate conditions and some excellent water, so it makes sense.
When I see this, all I can think is, "For relaxing times, make it Suntory time."
Fun Facts continued!
Jack Daniels has overtaken Scotch – it’s the single largest lable being bought in the world today. Of course, more Scotch is being sold, but it’s the single biggest. In the Scotch world, there are four big takers making up the majority of the pie – J&B, Ballantines, Johnnie Walker, and Dewar’s. All blends. And there’s a big historical reason for that. Which I just learned about. Which I’ll get to later.
Master blenders (which every distillery has) only use their noses to create the blends. They smell the barrels. And I’m told they’re very “simple” and strange people, apprenticing for decades, learning what the true smell and taste of that particular whisky is meant to be, and then taking over for the recently deceased master blender.
Whiskey in a barrel evaporates at a rate of 2% per year. Think about how much whiskey has gone up into the “sky” from a 25 year old barrel! In Scotland they call this “the angels’ share.” Sweet.
There are two types of Scotches, malt and grain. Malt whisky is distilled in a single pot in a relatively simple process. Grain whisky is distilled in a column with a process called fractional distillation – it’s a more complicated, but far cheaper process – the result being far more tasteless scotch.
Pot Still, for single malt
Column or Coffey Still
So the big difference between single malt Scotch and Blended Scotch Whiskies? Single malt is just that. One kind of Scotch, made in a pot still, from one single distillery (it can come from different barrels, though – they too use master blenders, because every barrel is different, and they need to try to stay consistent somehow). My previous post has a short video on how they make single malt at Laphroaig. Blends are a mix of grain whisky (the cheap, tasteless, fractional distilled kind) and many different malt whiskies. Yup, that’s right. Cheap, tasteless whisky, flavored by up to 50 different single malts (that have very unique flavors of their own).
And why are blends so popular? Because they are much much much cheaper and easier to produce. It’s like taking a blank cheap canvas, and using tiny tiny dabs of expensive paint to give it flavor.
Until recently, I thought blends were a waste of time. Generally, the cheap ones kind of are. For me, anyway. I’d rather have the real thing. A specific strong unique flavor. But last month when I got to taste the whole Johnnie Walker line, I learned better. The top-of-the-line blends use really expensive and really old whiskies, some of which don’t even exist today. AND because the blends are doing so “well,” they are forwarding the whisky industry as a whole. It’s a great time for Scotch, as far as I know.
More facts? God, who is going to read this?!
OK-
Onto America. Scotch and Irish immigrants in the new world wanted to make their favorite brews. But, again, these are still colonial times with the big bad taxing English calling the shots. So, they push on into the frontier. Appalachia. Tennessee. Kentucky. The French. Get along great with them, side with them against the English, treat these guys a lot better, go ahead and make your whiskies, boys. For a really long and succinct history on the name “bourbon,” go to this website.
American whiskeys are pretty different than Scotch or Irish. Why? Corn. The main grain aux etats-uni, of course! American whiskey rules are: 1) 51% corn AND 2) use of new wood barrels ONLY. See, in Europe, they use old barrels. Great flavor from what was in there before. But in the US of A, new barrels. Sweet liquor from the corn, aggressive woodsy taste in the throat going down.
UNTIL
Jack Daniel’s. Crazy guy. Born 1850. Left home at 6 years old. Had his own distillery at 13 years old. Moved it to its current home in Lynchburg, Tennessee at age 16. Lynchburg’s got great water from underground springs. To this day almost all the 350 residents are employees. And it’s a DRY TOWN. Not kidding. During prohibition, the heir to JD’s ran for office in order to protect the business, and got a special arrangement — they could make the whisky…they just couldn’t drink it. To this day, you can’t drink it where you make it. There’s an “11 miles, one step, and a closed door,” rule.
But back to Jack. His whiskey was smooth. Why? Maple charcoal filtering. Took the bite out of the new wood taste from the barrel, AND added taste from the maple.
Sometime after his death at age 61, they created “Gentleman Jack,” an upscale version of the original. The difference? It’s charcoal filtered twice. Before and after. And they use “gentler” barrels. So smooth. It’s a nice drink. I’m not fond of American, but this one, I do drink on occasion.
Last but not least, Canadian. I’m embarrassed to admit that this was the first time I tasted Canadian. And I really liked it. To this day, they’re not as big in the whiskey world. But they’re there. Why? Prohibition. When America couldn’t make alcohol, they got tequila from Mexico and Scotch from Canada. I tasted Canadian Club, and it was unbelievably sweet. You know why? They make it from rye! That’s right. Rye is another drink, albeit related, but in Canada, it’s their grain of choice for whiskey. And believe me, it was gentle, sweet, and totally full of vanilla. I also learned that one of the whiskies I have drunk quite a bit of in the past, Chivas, was originally Canadian. Cool beans.
So what all did I taste at the tasting? Funny you should ask.
Scotch: Laphroaig (single malt, very peaty and smoky and very much what I like to drink. It’s from the islands and you taste the sea in every drop); Dewar’s White Label and Dewar’s 12 year old (blends, sweet, very different from each other. I was surprised by how pleasant the “cheaper” White Label was); Glengoyne (single malt, from the highlands, so traditionally would have less peat — however, this time, no peat. It’s the only distillery in Scotland that does not use any at all. A very bizarre flavor. Not what you’d expect. I encourage Scotch drinkers to try this one, if you haven’t).
American: Jack Daniel’s and Gentleman Jack. Already described above.
Canadian: Canadian Club. Ditto.
That’s it. Seven. But well worth the two-hour lecture. Thanks for reading my spiel here, if you’ve kept up. Now, go have a glass of whiskey!
Bill Murray doing Suntory:
Sean Connery (!!!) doing Suntory:
Oh boy, the full Connery:
And the best for last, I present you, Keanu Reeves:
Suntory time feels so bad, it’s good.
Suntory time, baby. Thank you Ms Coppola. Thank you Mr Murray.
Such the fraidy cat that I am, I just spent half an hour rehearsing a phone call that lasted no more than five minutes. But what a step! And what a series of events! For starters, I went out last night with an extremely hip group of women. One gifted writer, one theatrical designer and TV stylist, one genius computer engineer, and me. The four of us, after a hilarious mishap which found us at an Israeli cross between a pub and sports bar when we had been expecting a suave wine bar with exquisite Italian food, went across town where I found us a real quality wine bar, one of only two that I know. This one was closer (corner of Nachalat Binyamin and Montifiore), very new, and owned by a friend of a friend, so I was more than glad to give them our business. It was a wonderful decision. We shared a bottle of Rioja, which turned out to be very complex, spicy, and really hit the “we want to be in a great and elegant spot” kind of mood. We also shared a cheese plate, a fundamentally fantastic decision, again, as it had a Chevre, a goat’s Camembert, a gorgeous Gorgonzola, and a hard cow’s cheese presented in dainty slivers whose name I can’t remember now. This wonderful place even gave us four homemade chocolate truffles with our bill. Nice. In a country where customer service is a non-existent joke, we were quite happy, indeed.
My depression / melancholy / ennui patch slowly subsiding this week, and still very much on a high of wanting to “get into” the wine/spirits business here in Israel, I chatted with the ladies about some realistic short-term goals I had in mind. Amongst them is to perhaps get a job at a wine shop, or lead wine tastings, or doing some part-time marketing work for a boutique winery, or some such activity which would allow me to get out of the house some, interact with interesting people, and taste and learn lots about Israeli wines. As well as earn a buck, I should say, as I’m unemployed or self-employed, or delusionally employed, or goodness knows what.
As I was saying this, the wine bar staff was just pouring our wine and presenting our cheeses, and my friends stopped me…as it seemed the two waitresses were trying to get my attention. These two charming girls told me that they often do wine tastings and that their manager at this company was looking for more workers, especially with the holiday season approaching (holiday season in Israel comes twice a year, essentially — we have the autumn holidays, the big scary “high holy days” — and then we have the spring holidays which start with Purim in March, continue to Passover in April, and then continue to a bunch of national holidays leading up to Independence Day, which is usually in early May). They had me take down their contact’s number, said to pass along their names, and that was that. It also turned out that one of the women I was with, the designer, has a brother who is a wine maker, a true blue degree-carrying expert in setting up vineyards and making the actual wines who has been doing it for a decade or more here in Israel. Good friends of her brother’s actually started one of my favorite boutique wineries here in Israel, Flam (it’s a gorgeous website, too). And after I do some good research about what my “wine goals” realistically are for the long run, and do some good research on wine making, wine in Israel, etc, she’ll find a way for me to meet her brother. Yay!
It was a fortuitous evening to say the least. Stars coming together to help me. But, I have to act, too. This could be it, the way for me to make money without hating myself. It also really helps that I love this field, and I might be persuaded to even dream so big as to want to make a big contribution. Why not? But I have to act. And act I did. I made that phone call, they are looking for new people to lead wine tastings and market the wines, and there will be an introductory meeting early next week! Yes! It’s a step. And it may lead to nice part-time work. And it’s a great company, from what I’m told. At least the wines are good. Check the Golan Heights Winery out.
But onto the daily drag. I have a mountain of laundry so scary, I’m not sure what to do about it. Wash it would be the logical thing, but I don’t have a dryer, and it would take me more than a week to wash, then hang, wait for the load to dry before doing another one, as the apartment is too small to even hang more laundry than that. I have to read two manuscripts this week for my writing seminar, and I have to write, and write a lot, because I’ve barely been doing a thing. So, it’s gotta be about writing and cleaning and reading this weekend and it has to happen.
Luckily I’ve got some great new tunes to make it all go easier. I’ve heard some of Mika’s songs over the past many months, but I didn’t connect the dots. I must have been the last one to hear of him. I honestly thought the songs might be from Robby Williams (because to me, they have very similar voices). But in Ireland, my friend had the album Life in Cartoon Motion in her car, and I got to listen to the whole thing. Impressive, full of energy and light. Fun, hip, bouncy, quirky, and intelligent. I highly recommend it to anyone out there who needs a boost. And to anyone else. It’s just too damn fun to miss out on.
I warn you now. This will be something resembling a rant. Or philosophy. Or just depressive mumbo-jumbo. But it will only be as long as my crappy laptop battery will allow as I couldn’t get one of the only two tables at this cafe that are situated by a wall socket.
62% – here I go
It’s raining. It’s a good thing for Tel Aviv. It feels something like Christmas when it rains. It’s far more lively. People rushing about. Cars not used to splashing through puddles get pedestrians wet by accident. It’s kind of joyful. I holed up for a while in The Third Ear music and movie place, and then ran as fast as I could across the boulevard to a cafe because it was really coming down. I’m in a “glassed in” section that cafes tend to build out for the winter here. I’m kind of outside. I’m kind of in. It’s pleasant. And there are space heaters above us. And the rain is audibly pounding. It’s kind of a respite for me. But I’m still not feeling good.
58%
I lack structure. I’m not good when I lack structure. But I knew that this was coming. When I gave up the structure of a miserable job, I knew there was a big chance I’d flounder. I knew there was a big chance I would leap for another job, for another course, for something to make me get up in the morning. But once I establish a structure, I get very tired of it, very quickly. How does one live with structure and live without structure? How can one be comfortable in either situation? I love and hate both. I need and reject both.
56%
I dream of having ultimate purpose. I dream of deciding, this is it, I love the environment (or abused women, or tax reform, or crochet knitting, or model rocket building) so much that I will devote myself to making a change in this one particular field. Nothing will stop me! I will not yield! I am an environment saving (or women saving, tax reforming, crochet knitting rocketry) machine! I will form a company, a union, something! Or I will get a job with an existing agency and do it! I will get up every day, knowing that even though I may only be filing today, or only sweeping the floor today, or sitting in boring meetings today, I am ultimately doing something for what I love! I have purpose! I am doing my small part in one specific field, and over the course of a lifetime, I will have done something meaningful, I will have helped progress, I will have been able to sleep through the night, have friendships, have a love, clean my house, plant a garden, with the peace of knowing that 9-5, 5-6 days per week, I have purpose. That I function. That I do. That I count.
53%
That was idealistic wasn’t it? Life didn’t used to be like this. One existed to keep existing. Your dad was a silversmith? You apprenticed, you worked hard, you learned, you took over for him, you made enough money, got to marry, got to procreate and sustain that family because you had a profession. Or you have land. It’s your one asset. You grow food on it. It sustains you. You have a surplus. You sell it, you trade it, you have more under your belt. You marry. You have kids. You survive. You exist.
50%
So, why do we keep doing it? Over time, we have gotten to have more and more leisure time. In other words, we have more time to enjoy ourselves. And we have more time to think. So. What does this mean? We become more introspective, sure. And we can become gluttonous libertines, too. We start to think about meaning. Why are we here? Why is life such a struggle? Why continue? Because it’s also pleasant. Because food tastes good, sex feels good, talking warms us in a way a fire can’t, sleep is nourishing and pleasant. So…do we work hard so we can come home and enjoy the pleasures in our lives? Love our husbands and wives and lovers and children and sing songs and eat cake and drink wine? Is that enough? Has that always been it? Is that it now?
45%
I’m losing my train of thought. I don’t know if it wouldn’t just be prudent for me to find any old PhD program who would take me and just fall into the world of this, of books, of depressive philosophy. But that would be a pleasure in itself. Painful though it may be.
I’m just struck by the nothingness now. I feel sometimes that I’m nothing. That everything that I have accomplished is passed. That even though I have been productive in the past. Even if I’ve created great art. Even if I’ve once worked hard, if I’m not doing it now, I am nothing. And my goals seem so trivial. Work as a “traveling chef” while I edit my novel so I can send it out to get published. Maybe. Cooking seems so…nothing. It’s not like saving the whales. Or saving the economy. Or even reading philosophy books at a university. It feels on the one hand quite blue color and hard physical labor and crazily demeaning; and on the other hand it feels really decadent and over the top with the menus I plan and the heights I aspire to and the “world peace” I sometimes feel I can achieve if only I can educate people on how fantastic the history and processes of food really are. And yet, beyond the one catering gig I had, I have no leads. Sure, I’ve not done much of any marketing, or asking around, or making of flyers or anything. But I have distributed some 100 business cards and people were practically offering me work all over the place. Ah, c’est la vie. Nobody is true to their word, most of the time. Or am I just being cynical because I’m having a bad day/week/month?
40%
Joy. There are beautiful things about being here. About our existence. Whether we are base animals, working hard just to feed and sustain the next generation, so they can do the same thing. Or whether we are these huge thinkers, these pompous philosophs (or should I say sophists), who are so wrapped up in themselves, they cannot see the forest for the trees. If it’s a matter of work (dare I say, “work will set you free?”) and simple pleasures of home, hearth, and God, or something much larger…I don’t know.
38%
I live in a world of chocolate. I live in a world where I can sit sheltered from the rain in a glass box, sipping a latte. I have a laptop. I have internet. I express my opinion to millions (or maybe a dozen or so) strangers, freely. I go to a shrink, weekly. I take prescription drugs. I drink whisky. I live in a world where I wonder about it. I live a life I cannot understand. I am continuously in awe of things I discover. I am continuously puzzled by things I can’t wrap my head around. Are these not all wonderful things? Are these not things that in their own way bring me joy? Maybe even give me purpose? No, not purpose. That’s going too far.
34%
I have always, always, always believed that things, all things, only have the meaning we bestow upon them. A religious person believes in God, in God’s power, love, grace, etc. An athiest does not. Yet they live in the same world. And they are both correct. Meaning is our attempt to give significance to the things around us, and hence to our lives.
32%
But, if I believe that meaning is an artificial construct, then what am I doing here? If I don’t believe that anything means anything, can I still care? Well, sure, right? Sure, we’re all going to die. But some people suffer more than I do, some people even starve and die painful deaths. There is no sense in some of us people being wealthy and some being poor. That’s the way it is now. I’m not saying it “shouldn’t” be this way. But this is the reality. I can still do something about it. From giving a small donation in a tin on the street corner, to devoting my life to alieviate poverty in, say, Africa. I can do something, even if I accept that things are the way they are, just because they are.
30%
50 ways to leave your lover is playing. I love this song. I really do love Paul Simon’s work.
So, we are an accident. Something that happened. Big Bang — massive expansion — stars, planets, volcanoes, atomospheres, amino acids, cells, and finally us. Nobody before. Nobody after. Nobody watching. And even if someone were?
29%
Here I sit at a cafe. Really sad, and no reason to be so. My tears have no meaning. If I applied myself, I could be great. I have that background. I have that education. I have that elloquence. I even hhave the connections. And I don’t know what to do. Maybe this is indeed depression. Massive depression. Maybe if I took more drugs, I would feel like I was over the moon, clean the house, get a job, finish the book in lightening speed, sell a million copies, move to Paris like I want, eat croissants, go shopping, have a lover who really loves me, have babies, have a vegetable garden in Provence, drink wine, grow vineyards, make wine, write funny stories, sing pretty songs, and die a peaceful death, full of fat French cheese, lush Belgian chocolate, and smiling faces all around. One more pill a day? Just one more pill? Wasn’t this what I thought one pill ago? Is this more of an existential dillema than a psychological one? Do I need more therapy? Or a weekly chat with a philosopher? Would winning a million dollars change anything? Would it?
26%
I think I’ll stop soon. Nobody will have read this far. I’m not nearly as intelligent as people think I am. I still can’t get over the feeling that unless I am productive, unless I have a title, unless I am earning, unless I am creating something, I am nothing. How different would the world have been without me? Not much. Or would it?
I am spinning in circles, and I don’t know the way out. I feel so sad. I hate not having purpose. Because in all actuality, I have too much purpose. I cannot decide. I can’t. Why can’t I just go work for Greenpeace? Go join the Peace Corps? Get a job at a bank? Earn a paycheck and drown my sorrows with….simple joys? I don’t know. I just don’t know. I’ve never known.
22% – it’s not safe to go to zero, is it?
Still, I have to remember that I have good days. So good, it’s scary. Days when every flower is a gift. When every new thing I learn is reason enough to have been born. Why am I like this?
I’ve been surfing blogs after a nice day out. The day out was a pleasant surprise. Saw a friend, visited the cats I’m sitting, and went to “Ha’Ozen Ha’shlishit,” or, The Third Ear, Tel Aviv’s premiere independent music and film center, where you can buy and rent just about anything. I rented two films I’ve wanted to see for a long while, a couple soul searchers. I’m still really confused, borderline depressed, sluggish, and weird. But, I’m getting on. Read a great book yesterday, The Uncommon Reader, by Alan Bennett. Read it in one sitting and was much the merrier for it.
Right as I got the The Third Ear, there was a graffiti-ed sentence on a wall: “What we had to do to get by” and beneath it, “Know hope,” with a heart. I don’t know if it’s a campaign or what. But I wanted to cry. In a good way. Kind of.
And just now, from blog to blog to blog…as you do…discovered the YouTube site of “Improv Everywhere,” a fab company which stages grand acts of joy, randomly in public. You might remember that people frozen in Grand Central Station, the video that went viral last year. Here’s something I adore. Enjoy!
Yes, I’m having one of those blurry, kind of fun filled, kind of exhausting days. Within 24-hours I have been to Tel Aviv, Haifa, and now Jerusalem. Sure, on American or even European standards, these places are pretty close. Not so, here. I’ve been on a train and six buses in less than a day. Why? Friends, of course, completely putting ruin to my “week of health,” that I so aspired to in my last post.
What have I been doing, might you ask?
Started out visiting two adorable kitties (not my own) whom I’m looking after for the week, and ended up having a marvelous time playing games with them, brushing them, having fun looking out windows with them, and then snuggling for a bit while I read a book. A yummy sort of visit, wouldn’t you think?
Saw friends from all nationalities and living in different parts of the country — including Dutch, Russian-American, Israeli-American, and plain old American. Well, I should also include the regular Israelis, too.
I drew a nude woman at a studio art session in Haifa (there is an extraordinarily interesting story to this — Despite the fact that I come from an artistic family and had a rather famous artist as a grandfather and I currently live in his former studio, I have never attempted to draw. Sure, I love to doodle, and as a kid, I colored lots. It’s a constructive activity for kids. But as an adult, or a teenager, even? No art classes for me since elementary school. Never learned to sketch figures, faces, etc. Didn’t think I could do it, and I was already over-committed to drama, music, clubs, societies, academics, and more. Well, last week I discovered that not only can I draw, I can draw well. I’m starting to suspect I’m a bit of a genius. And I’m not saying it in a conceited, self-aggrandizing way. I’m good at almost everything I’ve ever tried, to the extent that I could have, or could have had a career in just about anything. Which I had already suspected. Which makes my psych problems all the more exacerbating, as I can’t make up my mind, and I suspect it has much to do with the fact that I was always praised more for my talent than my effort, and it fucks with a kid’s mind to do that. Ok, I’m going to stop. So, I painted this nude woman very well, and I may even frame one of the brush-and-ink ones I did, the first time I’d ever used a Japanese brush before. An elegant almost organic tool. It even feels sexy to just handle it.)
Had drinks at a bar (non alcoholic for me for a change — orange juice mixed with Sprite) with a good friend and her artsy friends while gorging on gorgeous tempura-style broccoli and dipping sauces
Had a sleepover at my friend’s, complete with surfing fun blogs late at night (check out The Absolute Zero Project – a guy named Russell Freeland’s amazing site, amazing story, an inspired and addictive read), the poor-man’s healthy breakfast of bits of sliced cheese, a banana, some lukewarm herbal tea, and good conversation.
A hurried purchase of two, count ‘em, two new pairs of gym shoes, for only 100 shekels (about 25 USD) at a great (ordinarily kind of crappy) discount shoe outlet called Gali, this one at the Haifa bus station. See, I haven’t gotten to the gym yet, not for lack of trying — see, a couple days ago I got into gym clothes and everything, set the time aside, was all ready to go, and then couldn’t find one of my gym shoes. I tore my room apart to no avail. I only own one pair, and it was purchased back in 2004. So…almost 5 years with one pair of runners warrants a new pair…or two…and the price was more than right. Major discount. Major. Add to this my stupidity of wearing crocs, yes, crocs, holes in the sole and all, on what turned into a cold and rainy evening yesterday…and I was more than happy to have tightly tied closed toed shoes to skip around Jerusalem with.
Met up with another amazing friend in Jerusalem and had scrummy delicious leftovers at her house, including kasha (buckwheat) stewy stuff that had come out of a veggie stuffed pepper, some sort of lentil curry (I think), and some sort of casserole made out of greens and recycled sweet cornbread (this resembled stuffing) and tofu. Did I mention she’s an amazing cook?
And now, she’s napping as I blog…this has turned into a boring domestic report, oh my. Oh well. I’ve been invited to dinner, and I think I will stay…a mutual friend is returning home, a lovely sweet man, who is bringing back oodles of sweets and junk food for us from his native land called Liverpool. I tried to convince him to bring me wine gums and skips, a kind of reconstituted artificial crisp that fizzles in your mouth, both foods that bring back memories of endless rides on British trains with green fields, sheep, churches, big grey skies, and streaks of rain outside my window as I snacked snowly on these sinfully delicious snacks, reading fantastical novels, and relishing every minute of it. But no. He thinks skips are disgusting, which of course, they are, but he’ll happily bring me the wine gums. You can’t win it all. And then, and then, back to Tel Aviv I’ll head, a mere 27 hours after I’ve left it. A huge triangle have I created across the land. At least I had excellent company and good reading (borrowed a copy of Sybil from my cat friend’s bookcase) between stops. And although it’s cold as bloody hell in Jerusalem and even colder indoors because of our bloody concrete structures, I have a little space heater in front of me, and if I squint, I can almost be persuaded its glow is that of a small burning fire.
Under 200 days until 30. Not sure how I feel about that. It has been an eventful 5.5 months, however. Best not to dwell. I’m doing OK today.
Fischer and Cassie-O
My male cat, Fischer, broke a really big heavy glass mirror this morning. He did it by somehow ricocheting off of my leg as he sort of sped, a la Tom and Jerry, through the apartment on a craze of some sort. So, I’m wondering if I’m partially responsible for it. And although I shouldn’t and don’t believe in luck, you never know, and it’s sort of always hanging there. Not really. But I’ve never broken a mirror or aided and abetted in the breaking of a mirror. I mean, I was the silly girl who in high school kissed the ceiling of her car when she passed through a yellow light and held her breath when driving past a cemetery. We used to say, seven years bad sex for anyone who didn’t. But do we believe it? What are your thoughts about superstition? I mean, even if you don’t believe in this stuff, who goes around breaking huge mirrors, you know?
Anyway, it was a messy cleanup, and as I’m messy anyway, it wasn’t fun. This mirror turned into sparkly fairy dust-like powder in some areas. I mean, the microscopic mirror fragments we’re talking about here will make it impossible to walk around without shoes for months. It mixed in with the random kitty litter which was scattered on the floor, and it got in the cracks in the tiles on the floor…ugh.
Cassie-O, dear sweet Cassie-O (Fischer’s little sister, my nickname for Cassiopeia, and a nice take on “Jackie O,” if I do say so myself) has taken to sitting in the crook of my knees when I’m lying down on my side. She, unlike Fischer, the in-your-face ham, doesn’t like to be confined or held in any way, as affectionate as she can be. She needs to feel she has her escape route. It’s just about the cutest thing you can imagine, as she gets right up in there, making a great legwarmer in our cold winter days and nights.
This week is all about planning this party I’m catering on Saturday night. Amazing to have a task this huge and fun. But a lot of logistics. A f-load of logistics. And I may venture forth in to South Tel Aviv, cheapy-ville, for a cut-price food processor today. Making pate for 40 is not fun if you have to do it by hand, that’s for sure. But for now…I’m tres sleepy, having slept over at my lovely guy’s place (where we dealt with a crisis of no water in his apartment, calling the neighbors, the landlord, threatening the landlord, etc, etc), and I want to take a nap before:
Dealing with finally finishing business cards
Reading the first third of a colleague’s novel and critiquing it for my writing workshop
Creating a very very detailed plan of action for all the shopping and cooking that has to happen in the next 3 days
Going to downtown post office to collect (and pay taxes on) belated Hanukkah gifts one of my sisters sent from the States
That all sounds reasonable, right? Right. Good. Now, let’s snuggle with some cats, now shall I?
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.
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.
In brief, I had a great night last night. A truly great party, nice people, inspired DJs (one of which set up an “old time speakeasy” as his area…old time jazz, amazing). And a date. A wonderful date.
Morning brought about a brief hangover followed by greasy eggs benedict and hash browns and frothy coffee at a local restaurant famous for this kind of grub. A long walk. Hand holding.
And now I’m home feeding pissed off cats (for goodness sake, they’re fat enough as it is and I left them with enough last night!), and running off to Jerusalem to see some friends.
A lovely pleasant comfy start to the new year. Hard work starts tomorrow. And indeed it will be hard.
Hope your 2009s start off as nicely or better than mine. Cheers!
(notice all of yesterday’s negativity wash away…ah, humanity, my own included, baffles me so…)
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:
I’m sitting in one of my favorite Tel Aviv spots finishing off a lovely bowl of lemony black lentil and spinach soup: Dizi, a vegetarian cafe, DVD rental, and laundromat. It’s right on Dizingoff square, across from an aging cinema, a flaking fountain, and the site of the twice-weekly antiques market. It’s also around the corner from a tiny used book store that I discovered has a mega-collection of English-language sci-fi books selling for dirt cheap. Not a bad place to spend an afternoon. Oh, did I mention this cafe is also an internet place? You can rent a laptop for 40 shekels/hour, and for customers, there’s free wi-fi. What place doesn’t have wi-fi these days, of course, but still. When i arrived in Israel last year, laptop-less, it was nice to be able to rent one for a while, work on CV’s, feel normal for a change.
DIZI Cafe Interior - I'm sitting on that sofa now!
I’m working on an article that I hope will be done done done within a couple hours, so that I can treat myself to a glass of wine and chocolate cake. Ah, food. Ah, lentils. Ah, wine. Ah, life. And maybe I’ll have the courage to call the new man in my life, cutie gentleman that he is.
I got my ticket to India today, and I bought my mega huge insurance package. Now…all I need is a VISA! Please, please send good karma to the Indian Embassy in Tel Aviv, dear friends. I need all the luck in the world. One week to India…I hope…Fingers crossed!
Four people were laid off at my work.An office of 50 people.Now, closer to 43, as two quit (including me), one was fired last week.And 4 were laid off as a consequence of the economy’s effect on the company.It’s pretty somber here.One person who was let go is weighing on me particularly.I wonderful caring man.Early middle age, if I can even say that.Probably early forties.Three kids.Was always at work early.Worked hard.Very hard.Had brilliant ideas.Was a model of the kind of person that a startup should have.Gone.Where is the logic?We keep maybe 10 very young programmers whose jobs are ridiculously elusive to me, and this nice fellow has to go.
I feel extremely tired and empty today.Yes, severe lack of sleep over the weekend, really lovely, pleasant, fun lack of sleep it was.But I have so much to do this week, I want to cry.It’s still all fun.It’s still somehow manageable.But I still don’t have a visa to India.So…who knows if I can go…and whether I should even book any activities or hotels.And I have an article to finish for tonight/tomorrow-ish.An article I love to write.All about food and culture and Israel and recipes.But some time consuming concentration for a few hours is certainly required.And I have no energy.
And then there is Thanksgiving.Which I’m doing Friday instead of Thursday.Which I’m doing in a kosher kitchen in Jerusalem, a very close friend’s house.And I’ve invited some good friends and my sister, all from Tel Aviv.Not only is there the worrying about the food, the shopping, the cooking, the number of people….there’s the stress of it being in Jerusalem on a Friday!How do we all get there?Or, they, as I’ll have to be there from the crack of dawn and that’s OK.But when the buses and trains all shut down…how will I responsibly get my friends there?And will we ALL stay the night?Will they want to?Will it be OK?Will there be room?I wish I could just give them the time and the address, let them figure it out themselves, and just leave the cooking to me.Maybe it is that simple, who knows?And…it’s about 2.5 days before I leave the country (!!!) that is, if my visa comes through.
And then there’s leaving work – making sure everything is done, that the torch is passed effectively.It’s the kind, polite, good thing to do. But I’m tired and fed up.Who knows how the last scramble will be…
And then there is the new man.For the first time in a long time, I really feel a click.A nice connection.Some excitement.But because of the very strange aspects of my week and this phase of my life and the very busyness of it all, this excitement feels too sedate.I want to be revved.And of course, right about now my paranoia will kick in.Does he like really like me?Does he really?When did he last call me?Should I call him?How much should I limit my contact with him?Don’t want to appear too clingy and paranoid… And do I really like him?Do I?Is it worth this?Getting excited again?How much of myself should I stake?Is this an inevitable heartbreak…so just have fun with it…or is it actually a good thing…and I should invest as much of myself into it as possible?
But at the end of the day, he is a kind man.Smarter than I expected.More tender and caring than I had expected.And I think he is just beautiful.If he feels a fraction of this for me, perhaps he’ll wait for me to come back from India. If he feels even a fraction of this, perhaps he might have intentions bordering on serious…
Thank goodness I’m too tired to weigh in on this too much.Fatigue has its uses, too.And right now it’s protecting me from myself.
Weird title, I know. Had a great day, for the most part, walking all over town on a Friday — best day of the week for it. Tel Aviv is most alive on Fridays. Markets are overflowing with people. Restaurants have lines out the door. The streets are full of people rushing around, or enjoying a leisurely stroll, eating ice cream, crepes, falafel, or lafa with labaneh abd za’atar.
But I’m at home now, and I should head out. Why? Invited to a movie. Don’t feel like moving, but I know I should. I think I got into a bit of a funk when I got home. Why? Grandma. Or Savta, in Hebrew, as I shall call her. She had been around. She drops by unexpectedly all the time. It’s not cool. Yes, this is her place. She allows me to live here. But nobody else would be, if not for me. And I really take care of the place. She could call. She could write a note and leave it on the door. She could ring the bell, and if I’m not there, come back later. But no. It’s because of the cats. They are teething, I think, or they’ve recently picked up a bad habit. And because I live with artwork, I am constantly afraid they will chew up a painting. A legitimate fear, believe me. But I have taken measures. Placed extra boards on top of the stacks of watercolors, and I’ve turned the oil paintings paint-size away, and move them around a bit, to make sure there’s no damage. Well, the cats have started eating up the boards. No harm done, I just make sure that they always cover the paintings. How on earth am I to scold a cat when I’m not there when he chews? When I came home, I saw that Savta had placed newspapers and magazines and plastic bags over the boards. She must be livid. She didn’t even leave a note which is customary. She will expect me to call her. And there is a voicemail message, and I’m afraid to check it, because I’m almost certain it’s her.
See, I’m more afraid of my grandmother than of my parents. Funny that I talk of fear? Yes, it’s fear. No matter what, I know she loves me. But that doesn’t change the fact that she is nuts, crazy, psychotic at times, and just a real pain. She has screamed at me countless times throughout my life, told me I am a beast, a horrible human being, and worse. She needs to be medicated. But she teeters within the range of sanity most of the time. It’s just — scary. It’s almost good I’m in her life to keep an eye on her, NOT vice versa. And I haven’t told her I’ve left my job. I haven’t told her about India. Why? She lectured me about two weeks ago about how I have to be responsible, that she doesn’t take rent because she won’t from family, but that she wants to know I’m putting aside money, as if I were paying rent, so that someday sooner rather than later I can have my own home. Sure. Legit. But here’s the thing, there was so much hype leading to this encounter I believed she would kick me out. I came to terms that I might have to in a matter of days. She’s just that unbalanced. And she’s paranoid about having enough money. OK. Fine. But I tell her repeatedly that I’m very unhappy at work, but her line goes — an income before everything.
Why do I care? I don’t know.
And I’ve been thinking about sex. My complete disinterest in it. At the moment, especially, but predominantly over the course of my life. I think I have been very concerned with whether I could get it, whether I was having it, whether someone wanted it from me — than it. Because once the lights are out and the jeans are on the floor, I become stiff as a board. And I’m not a man here, this is not some exciting metaphor. I wonder if there could be a disconnect between my body and my brain. I wonder if it’s possible that my brain cannot tell when my body is aroused. Because if it’s all psychological, I have way more therapy to get through. Or if I was right back in high school and I am in fact gay. I’m pretty certain on the Kinsey scale, I’d be smack dab in the middle. I am pretty certain that for me, at least, dating men has been a choice. It has been exciting. I’ve fallen in love. Glimpsed some intimacy. But as I’m a petrified naive, goodness knows what of a person, I haven’t had a real relationship. And truth be told, I’m much more of a women-person. I like men. I love men. But I am more comfortable around women on a day to day basis. It could be my upbringing and experience, sure. But here’s the thing – in public, who do you notice more, say, when you’re sitting in a cafe for the mere purpose of zoning out and people watching, men or women? I notice women. Infinitely more than men. I think most women would, though. Women are by far more interesting to look at, from a purely aesthetic stance. The clothing, the accessories, the huge variety of body shapes and sizes, the hairstyles, the shoes, the asses, the breasts…women are beautiful. They are the beautiful sex. Sure, there are beautiful men, but most of the time we ask ourselves whether they are gay. So, even though I pay a lot more attention to women, it doesn’t mean I’m swooning after them. In fact, I am not. I’d feel it, right? Arousal is something you can feel. But still… I don’t fell arousal looking at men, either. And the few times I felt tingles, well…I can’t even be certain. For me, it’s about the person. And I have had plenty of crushes on women and men. Thing is, I see myself with a man. It’s a man-woman-child-dog-house-carport-lawn kind of picture. I’ll take a woman if I fall in love her. But I’ve been programmed for the former. And because I feel so little in the groin, I go for the men. Because whether dating men or women, dating is an effort. A huge effort. Dating both gendres would spread me too thin. But I’m considering it. Considering it. Because what if I’m missing something? I’ll take Heather Has Two Mommies, if I’m happy with it. I will. But it’s a matter of looking. And I don’t know if I’m ready to be a lesbian in Israel.
Caffein? Work woes? My drug rollercoaster? Being away, being away, being away from America for the first time in my life (!) for a presidential election? I’m in a cafe, just finished chowing down on a very satisfying shakshuka I’d been craving, and I’m almost shaking, almost crying. I want this day to be over, and I want this day to last forever. I feel so strongly about this election, about Obama, about him being so right, so right, so right on, right now. I feel like I know him, his family, his politics, his education, his background. And I used to care so much. Before the 2000 debaucle. And I’ve been so complacent, so depressed, so self-loathing about being American these last 8 years. I just want the day to pass smoothly. I wish I had done more. Always. But in the most fundamental way – my vote, my personal relationships, my talking about Obama to strangers in Israel, I may have made a small difference.
I’ll be going to Mike’s Place tonight. It will undoubtedly be mobbed. I wonder if I should call for a reservation (a reservation!, geez, what am I thinking, it’s a dive expat bar!).
Good luck getting through the day, all. Get out the vote. Much love.
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 just got back from my therapist. It was a good session after a rocky week. I haven’t gotten to the very root of why I have such trouble making decisions, why I have such guilt over leaving things (hobbies, professions), and why I move around so much. But through our session today it became very clear that I often keep myself on the fringes, keep myself uninvolved, keep myself temporary, fluid, flexible. It’s kind of the story of my life: don’t get too attached – you never know when you have to leave. The thing about leaving all your options open, is that at the end of the day, you’re left feeling empty and unfulfilled. My therapist said at one point, sure, at 13 it’s great and fun and necessary to be figure skating, and taking piano lessons, and going to space camp, and learning French. But as we get older, we just can’t keep doing that. If we do everything, we end up with nothing. And that’s what I’ve gone and done.
I could very well blame it on my parents, for giving me next to no guidance and trusting that because I was so mature, I could figure it all out and take responsibility for myself…from about age 16. Both of them had quite opposite upbringings, with their parents suggesting, recommending, leading them in a certain direction, making sure they at least were able to have occupations that would enable them to sustain themselves. I guess my parents, my mother especially, felt that the hands off approach would have been so much better, and why not let the kids decide for themselves. Well, we can’t. Sometimes parents get it wrong, make people become responsible accountants and horrible things like that (apologies to accountants, my dad included). But a little guidance goes a long way. A dose of reality early on would really have helped with the major decisions I have had to make in the last ten years. Decisions on grad school, first jobs, job satisfaction, job versus career, quality of life, etc, etc, etc.
So, I am upset. I am upset that I am a “Jack of All Trades”…because a Jack of all trades is a master of none. At the end of the day, I need to be excellent at one thing. Whether it be decorating cakes or perfecting screenplays. I need to give something important of myself to the world, At 25, I went to work at a Museum, thinking to myself, this is a cool job, for now. For now, I’ll work hard, I’ll learn a lot, I’ll do good. And so what that my life sucks a little now, this is a good job and good experience. But there is no way in hell I’m doing this when I’m 30, when I’m 35, when I’m 40. How on earth could I live with myself? But what did I want to do instead? I didn’t know. I directed plays on the side because that’s what I was supposed to do. It gave me some joy, earned me some respect, but I’m not sure I loved it. I loved the creativity. I loved the self-expression. I loved the attention. But was the theatre it? I am writing now. Many have told me I’m good at it. The thing about writing is that there is a practical, journalistic, media-oriented, communications, regular income producing kind of writing, and then there is artful writing. And the two crossover all the time.
Investing. This is the word I left my therapist’s office with. Investing. In Tel Aviv I have stayed on the fringe. Sure, I’ve gone to the beach a lot, picked a cafe I liked, tried to make some friends. But it isn’t living. I have a job with a healthy income, yet I choose to stay in my family’s art-warehouse of an apartment, cluttered, so-not-mine-it-hurts, and temporary. In Chicago, before, in many ways I stayed on the fringe – was this THE job, were these MY friends, was this MY apartment? I have always found it difficult to make decisions, and very difficult to establish close friendships. Despite a healthy dose of social anxiety, a lot of this, I now think, comes from not wanted to become tied down. Fear of commitment is an “easy” definition to throw around. But it runs very deep with me. Most use this term for people not wanting to get married. With me, I can’t pick a country, not to mention a city within one. So, friends, family, job, career? Right. And I always ask, am I making the right decision? I want someone’s permission. Now. Alas, no. There is nobody’s permission to ask.
Investing, in the non-financial definition, is to spend or devote for future advantage or benefit, or to devote morally or psychologically, as to a purpose; commit. To devote, to spend, to devote morally, to devote psychologically. These are big things. You cannot reap the benefits of anything, unless you invest. You will not have crops if you do not plant seeds. Plain and simple. And the fact that it is both material, physical devotion – as well as psychologically and morally – it fits the whole picture for me.
I need to invest. I need to do one thing, and then do it. I need to stand on my own two feet. Get my own place. Stick my neck out. And do all of it even though I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do. Even though it may totally fall apart. Even though it scares me to death. Because now, I’m planting a seed here, and a seed there, and I’m not watering enough, and I’m not there to tend everything, and nothing is growing too well, and I enjoy nothing. Plain and simple, I don’t have much enjoyment in life, because I haven’t invested.
What does this mean practically? I haven’t decided yet. Ha! Don’t blame me, I just walked through the door from the therapist’s. But it may mean coming home. Yes. Leaving this place. Because in Chicago, I know the streets, I know the shops, I know the theatres, I know the lake, I know downtown, I know uptown, I know the suburbs, I know my university. In Chicago, I know. In Chicago, I have friends. A lot of them. And I’ve always said I wished I could spread myself all over the world and be where all my good friends are, from Ireland to Norway to Thailand and Australia and back again. But I can’t. Nobody can. And a good solid amount of my friends, good, good people, are in Chicago. And it might not happen. I might yet give Tel Aviv a fighting chance. They say if you don’t know where you’re going stay where you are. But they also say, go where you know people. And I have people in Chicago. No place has ever really felt like home to me. Even there. Sometimes especially there. It’s not beautiful romantic Paris. It’s not the hip, friendly, bustling Dublin. It’s not the chic happenin’ London. And it doesn’t have the beach of Tel Aviv. I have called all these places home. But my people are in Chicago. I have to invest. Sometimes I think to myself, just take all the money you have (and it ain’t much), and make a downpayment. Just buy something. Anything. Anything you can live in and make your own. And decide to stay there. Writing is good. It’s scary as hell. Singing for your supper, kind of.
So, I have a lot to consider. But for some reason, I feel I have made some peace with myself tonight.
I’ve been 29 for just over a month, and I’ve meant to write on so many occasions. It just didn’t happen. So typical of blogs. My day job is very related to the “blogosphere” and there’s been rumour that the blogging bubble has burst. More blogs have been created than last, obviously. I mean, who don’t you know that didn’t start a blog at one point? The point is longevity, no matter what the goals are in blogging. Endurance.
It’s not been an easy month. But there has been some light, some fun, and some growth. I’m proud of myself for getting through it. There were some horribly depressive streaks. I watched the entirety of House, the television program, episode by episode, season by season. Beginning to end. He is a compelling character. A superb actor. And yet another sign of OCD, depression, and goodness knows what else, on my part.
The good stuff, you ask? I went to the Dead Sea on a whim, the day after my birthday. I went kayaking in the north of Israel, about a kilometer south of Lebanon, on the very top of the Jordan river. It was tremendous fun. But limited. It took me at least an hour to relax. I kept getting angry about people splashing me for no reason. I was frustrated at getting caught in the weeds on the banks of the river. I was pissed at my kayaking partner who I believed had no idea how to steer or create a rudder with his paddle. And it was lucky I did relax. Can you imagine me fuming, fuming (!), in the gorgeous sunlight, in an inflatable kayak, with happy people all around me. I couldn’t let go. I didn’t have control of much, my environment, the behavior of others. The only thing I had any influence over was my mood, my reaction. And thank god I let go. Don’t know how, but I did.
Let’s see – other good stuff – joined a gym. Only went twice, but I did go to the pool twice, too. Olympic gorgeousness, sunshine, and one of the best things to do in Tel Aviv. I walked a lot, all over the city, from my house to the beach a few times. Ate lots of organic food. Saw a couple of great movies at the cinema (In Bruges and Wall – E). And I went to a hummus festival, a huge event with the best vendors in the country, Arab, Israeli, Druze, everyone, showing up to show off and sell their wares. Learned a bit about Chinese medicine, acupuncture.
Can you tell I’m having fun with links? I like to educate.
And…I went to an Ashram. An Ashram in the Desert. The “Ashram Ba’Midbar.” On a whim, too. And it was the very best thing I could have done for myself. A friend sent me a link to the place, and it seemed they were hosting a writing seminar led by one of Israel’s most prominent writers, Gabi Nitzan. His work hasn’t been translated (or rather, the translations haven’t been published yet), but I expect they will soon. He’s a very talented and interesting person. So, I got a lift, what in Hebrew we call a “tremp” down to the Ashram with a perfect stranger who turned out to be a successful business and management consultant old enough to be my father, and together we (along with a nice young guy we picked up on the way just back from a year in South America) headed into the middle of nowhere. Honestly. In the Negev desert you’d think you were in outer Mongolia or something. Nothing as far as the eye can see. In reality it’s about an hour north of Eilat and an hour south of Mitzpe Ramon (by the Makhtesh Ramon – mistakenly known by the world as a crater – it’s not – it’s a unique geological phenomenon – a huge depression in the earth, like a vast canyon or something, which is the remnant of an enormous prehistoric ocean. What’s left is the Dead Sea, and explains why it’s so salty).
So – the Ashram – in brief, is an oasis. The most oasis-like oasis you can imagine. Like out of a film. A mirage in the desert. So green, so heavenly, yet tiny, tiny, tiny. A small clump of buildings and tents centered around a dining hall. There’s a small swimming pool. A large domed tent for, who knows, gatherings, meditations. And a meditation/worship hall. See, these people have a guru. Someone called Osho. A real Ashram it seems. The one in India is in Puna. I wasn’t too impressed by the teachings, but you don’t have to be to go and enjoy the place. The meditations were fun and quite helpful to me, health and emotion-wise. The Chakra-Breathing meditation allowed me to breath better than I have in months and months. I have been having a lot of trouble breathing. A lot of trouble. I keep changing my mind about whether it’s asthma, allergies, dust, the summer heat-humidity-pollution, or simply great stress. It’s probably a combination of a few of those. But whatever it is. It’s been dramatic. I feel the difficulty nearly constantly. Deep breathing helps little, and it’s only temporary. So, at the Ashram, I slept, I walked in the desert, I met friendly lovely people, I meditated, ate simple and delicious vegetarian food, I let myself be, just as I was, without thinking, analyzing, worrying…and I wrote.
The workshop – very straightforward – a guided three day journey of prompted writing exercises. We met three times a day. Each time, we all read what we had written from the prompt of the previous session. There was little feedback. But great vibes. Gabi read his own work to us as introduction to the various themed section. We started off with birth. Our perceptions of our own birth. Or anything that inspired us by the words, “My birth.” We moved on to childhood, trying to enter the minds and bodies of our child-selves. Then into animals. Primal beings. Then into moments of discovery. It was moving. As much by the amount I was able to produce, the quality of what I produced, and the amazing people in the seminar who were so brave to share. It wasn’t a professional thing. But it was so helpful, made me focus. And now I’m forcing myself to write every day. Discipline for me is hard.
So, I ask you, potential readers I may have out there – would you like an occasional short story? Some titles to choose from, produced in the last week – “The Carrot Who Would Fulfill His Destiny,” “Star Crossed,” “The Meaning of Meaning” and “Addendum to Meaning,” “On Reality,” “Retreat,” “The Stranger Within,” “Self Pity,” “Cadbury Bunny,” “The Swing,” “Elogy to Peter Pan, or On Seeking a Statue in Hyde Park,” “Nirvana Lost or In Judgement of Reclining Buddha (or Me Igra Rama Le Bira Amikta).”
Or should I just start a writing blog, and let it out separately?
This turned out to be long. Thank you for reading, if you’ve gotten this far. My best wishes to you.
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 »
