Enlightenment, the wrong way?

Pulsing colors, heat waves, mind slowing down, going deep, ripples running all through the body.  Almost a drug-induced far out trip, you might say.  But no.  I just got back from my new weekly meditation class.

I honestly never thought I would get all that much out of meditating with a class of people.  After today, I am convinced the human mind is much more exceptionally powerful than we know.  It’s the mind after all that reacts to drugs when we take them.  It’s also the mind that creates sexual climaxes.  We are so wrapped up in our everyday lives, routine, and even our intellectual pursuits – allowing the mind to work a small percentage of minor cogs and gears – when we are capable of doing a lot more.

I was thinking about the Heart Sutra before class started, about how everything is emptiness.  Nothing exists.  And while meditating, all of a sudden, I saw an image of a vessel, like a jug, full of water.  The water would evaporate, then condense, over and over again.  I was somewhere hovering, in the vapor, outside the vessel, then in the vessel.  Then I was the vessel.  I became a void.  Then I became whole again.  Energy streamed out of my body.  Then back in.  Incredible.

After the class, I learned that I was wrong.  Totally wrong.  If you can even be wrong while you meditate.  Can you believe that?  The point of this Nepalese Zen-like dharma meditation is to disassociate from thoughts.  Be blank.  Allow the thoughts that stream by to stream by, and learn to let them go, not think the thoughts, not let you take them away.  Apparently, focusing on an image is a diffferent stream of meditation entirely, completely on the other side of the spectrum from this one, and a more “superficial” variety.  Because an image is in its way, a thought.  And it’s easy to focus on one thing than to focus on nothing.

I get it.  But I am a little disappointed.  I had a really powerful experience.  A once in a lifetime physically moving experience.  And I got to it by meditating incorrectly.  Yes, I know there is no such thing as “wrong.”  I relaxed so much.  I felt good.  Focused.  Physically at peace.  Isn’t that the point of meditating?  I really wanted to go back and do it again.  But what’s the deal with method?  Why is it so wrong to meditate in different way?

I don’t know.  Any ideas folks?  Buddhists out there?  Meditators?

It’s raining a storm here in Tel Aviv.  A good night.  Even though I got there “the wrong way.”

Day 0: A Slice of Paradise

Dear Readers:

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.

1 Day: The Last 12 Hours of My 20′s

And I feel fine!

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.

12 hours.  A facial.  Cooking.  Cleaning.  Yes.

Thank you for coming along on this journey.

Me, in an hour.

8 Days: Infinity on end

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:

NEVER mix Moscato with Arak.

It’s a nasty combination.

15 Days: Requiem

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.

22 Days: Sure Fire Litmus Test

I’m making this quick. What a friggin’ day.

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.

No coffee = no culture.

31 Days: Mourning. Birthday. Boobs.

It’s the FINAL COUNTDOWN!

My birthday is exactly a month away!

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?

36 Days: The Paradoxicality of Us

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: Long Hot Nights Ahead

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…
• Like the GLBT film fest in Tel Aviv this week. Check it out.
• 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):

Cowboy

Cowboy

• Finally, it was proven in a British experiment that talking to plants makes them grow better….and women’s voices do a far superior job at this, to boot.  It was Darwin’s granddaughter’s recorded voice that did the best job out of all the plants, too!   Makes me want to go out and start a tomato garden.  Seriously.  In the new apartment, there is a rooftop terrace, hence box gardening is possible.  Yay!

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…

78 Days: The pleasance of normalcy

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!

Just for kicks...who can refuse a Borg sex kitten