Funny how I no longer have to think about how many days until my birthday. It’s incredibly close.
A free pass…
My therapist recommended I give myself a free pass these coming two weeks. This blog has in many ways helped quell my anxiety over turning 30 (which is really about the larger issues confronting the fear I encounter daily, confronting the expectations I have for myself compared to what I have actually accomplished, etc). I fully expect to feel either a complete “let down” at this build up, or on the other hand, feel exhilarated and liberated over turning 30. I don’t expect to feel sad or especially depressed on the day of my birthday or the day after. I know I will be fine. On the other hand, I have artificially built up this day. Counting down to something highlights it in a way that it would not have been before. And a 30th birthday highlight enough in anyone’s life. So…I’m to give myself a break…I may feel worthless, depressed, anxious, scared, and who knows…maybe even some overinflated good things…in the 12 days I have left. And that’s OK. Wow, 12 days “I have left.” Dead man walking, indeed.
Community – the clincher
Whether it be Ross, Rachel, Chandler, and Monica at the Central Perk, the office mates by the coffee machine, your college sorority, your band camp buddies, or (gasp) even your tiny dysfunctional nuclear family – community is everything. Everything. And I know I’ve lacked it in a substantial way since moving to Israel. However, what I didn’t know is how strong an effect this has had on the fabric of my life. When we don’t have a routine (work = the same people depending on you doing a task every day; family = washing dishes and laundry and helping each other with essential basics; friends: comfort and support from ordinary things like a weekly cup a joe) it’s very difficult, and for me nearly impossible, to get anything done. I am terrible at self discipline, as you would know if you’ve read any of my past posts here. This is a sort of catch 22 situation, as this is almost impossible to achieve without help…but I can’t get the everyday help of a support system without working at it… All in all, the longer you are alone, the harder it is to find and “fit into” a group. And the longer you are alone, the more difficult everything is in life.
Being seen
What is that crucial element of being in an integral group? It doesn’t matter if it’s work or friends or family or a social niche of some sort. What all of these things have in common is that each member is required to notice the others and be noticed in exchange. It lends itself to caring for others, and in turn being cared for. It’s why the word network is so appropriate. A web, with one strand connected to many others, supporting many others, while being supported by many others. The fewer strands, the weaker the web. The more strands, the stronger everyone is.
Being alone means that on a regular basis there are many fewer people noticing me, caring about me, depending on me, than ever before. When I had an interesting and fairly important job, I was needed on many levels and many people needed me. The more friends I had, the more natural it became to see them regularly, to depend on them regularly, and for them to depend on me.
And the fact that I am now aware that I am not being thought about, that I am not being seen, kind of really hurts. It’s another perspective to the shape of my life. It makes me want to create community, and create one in a hurry. Applying to a doctoral program sounds pretty darned great. Not necessarily for the career or interest motivations. But for there being a lot of the kind of people I tend to gravitate towards, around me a lot. I don’t know if this is a good answer. But seeing my situation in this light…feels funny. I know I have friends all over the world. Some of them great friends. Really great friends. But the fact that we have no common routine, no common rituals, means that we do not spend much of any time thinking about each other with any regularity. And that sucks.
It means I need to make a huge effort, perhaps a very difficult and un-fruitful effort at first, to surround myself, and to find a way to regularly include friends. Calling people every other week, getting together once or twice a month, is not going to cut it. Because I’m drowning here. I’m having trouble finding work, finishing my editing, even identifying who it is that I am anymore, with my being alone so much of the time. And I don’t want my 31st birthday to be spent wondering if anyone is going to show up at my party. I want to know it’s going to be great, whatever happens. I want to be such a good and dependable friend to others that I will have that support in turn.
Now if only I didn’t “like and enjoy” being alone so damned much…
I watched the entire 7th season of the West Wing today. That’s it. Did some laundry (miracles do happen). Bought some sushi to take home to my sister.
All this Saturday amazingness when I should be editing, applying for work, becoming entrepreneurial, packing for my move next week, seeing friends, planning my birthday party, and a dozen other more important meaningful things.
It begs the question of life’s meaning again. Not meaning. Maybe purpose is a better word. If a person gets up and works a mundane job, but goes home, enjoys their dinner, loves their sit-coms, occasionally goes on vacation, and lives their life without much of any regret, that must be perfectly OK. Most people are like this, I think. Why am I different? Because I was raised to think I could do something significant to change the world and leave my mark on it? Why am I miserable? Because I don’t have the balls or the skills or the self esteem or the training (maybe) to fulfill my potential or dreams or whatever?
Whatever. But I have got to come to terms that I make my own bed, and I do indeed sleep in it. If I don’t like where I am, I’m the only one to blame. And if my book is moving slowly, it’s me that’s the slow mover. And if I spend a Saturday watching the West Wing, that’s what I did. And it’s OK. It’s OK because I allowed it, and I told myself that I would not feel badly about it. Usually, I would (or I should) feel horrible about zoning out and twiddling my thumbs and not forwarding my goals.
A day of fine wine, exceptionally hot heat, a stubborn sick cat, and of course, exhaustion.
Wine in the summer?
The tasting I led to today was at a very nice wine shop in a very posh neighborhood right next to where my cousins live. Unfortunately, the store was pretty small, and they asked me to set up shop, (wine buckets, ice, crystal glasses, wine menus, the works) outside. I wasn’t happy, but there didn’t seem to be another option. I could have left early. I could have called my manager. I could have been a bitch. But I was good. I may have heat stroke, but I’m good. And again, wrong shoe choice! I never want to stand up again!
My cat who I thought was on the mend is most decidedly not. Folks, if your vet asks you for a stool sample, provide him with one, tout de suite! The bad bowels stopped. So I thought he was fine. Then my sister and I noticed he wasn’t quite himself, took to sleeping in the bathtub, not eating as much. Then, I took in the sample. Turns out, he might have had a fever all week. Two kinds of bacteria or parasites or something icky like that! I feel like a bad pet owner. And the antibiotic pills are a nightmare. He hates them more than you can hate anything, I think. We’re talking scratches all over the arms all week long. We deserve it though.
Blog Monetizing
So, I’ve been giving some thought to creating a new blog, a good blog, a professional blog, all for the new year, my new age, my new decade…and monetize it. My views regarding sales have always been rather negative. I don’t want to sell things to people who have no interest in them. No way, no how. Online though, everything is so passive. Many sites have ads, and we never notice them. I mean, you buy a newspaper, and there are ads there. Doesn’t mean you don’t read the news, enjoy the funnies, and dive into the crossword. Sometimes ads are helpful. And if I can choose the ads. If I believe in the product. Then, why not?
My Strengths
It’s really hard to make money in Israel. Ha! It’s hard to make money anywhere these days. And I am trying, as always, to get a good sense of my strengths, realistically speaking. Sure, I was a good pianist, sang wonderfully in choir, and I can write a great press release. But what do I realistically devote time to? Writing about myself, my views, things that interest me. And that kind of journalism/novel writing doesn’t exist on a real “bankable” plane. My novel is largely autobiographical. The journalism I have done was all human interest. The few essays, short stories, etc, that I have completed, and completed well, were spin offs of what I knew.
You write who you are
Is it wrong? No. I think it makes sense. All writers write best when they write what they know. And the person we know best is ourselves. It explains common themes and characters in the works of the same author. It explains a journalistic subdivision (a finance writer doesn’t stop and occasionally write theatre reviews). We write who we are.
And I love to blog.
So, if you have any advice out there, please bring it on. I’ve found a ton of articles on how to monetize and tips and blogs on blogging, etc. But a helping hand to weed out the crud would be wonderful.
Great weekend folks! Wish me luck with editing the book…or rather…battling the demons…as I now understand this task to be.
Today I devote myself to my novel which takes place in Paris. I’ve had some breakthroughs this week, and I know how to tie together the structure, finally! I just need to do it.
So, folks, French or not, Francophile or not, remember this great day. Le quatorze juillet commemorates not only the uprising of the modern French nation, but is the symbol of the cusp of many trends in history, in politics and economics. Nothing was the same after the French Revolution. For all of us. And that is indeed something to celebrate.
Enjoy this amazing video fromCasablanca! I always want to cry when I hear the Marseillaise, but I wept openly in this Tel Aviv cafe when I watched this gem. I marvel that it was a film made in 1942, a war film meant to bolster the nation, when the world had no idea what the outcome of the war would be. No idea if France would be free again. If anyone would be safe again.
Cross a good therapy session, a two-week bout of “white collar” homelessness, and a sappy made-for-tv movie, and what do you get? The twelve year-old in me, the girl who dreamt big and believed it all possible, emerges. And why not? The bigger question here is, where has she been? And why doesn’t she stick around for very long?
Answer one: I’ve been living in jaded-ville off and on for ten years.
Answer two: I’ve been trying to stay in the neutral category, just edging out of negative, that the unthinkable (the positive) was just that.
What the hell am I talking about? See, it’s as if I’ve created a triptych out of my perception of the world:
A) world as it should be
B) world as it is
C) world as it could be
What’s the subtle difference here?
Option A: the world as it should be
There is a template to this world, and we’ve got it all wrong. We get sadness, pessimism, cynicism, and hopelessness here. We have failed in some moral, ethical way. When we think of the world as a series of mishaps, of what was meant to be, and didn’t happen, it’s a major bummer. We’ve polluted the air, the water, killed off half the animals and plant species, people are still dying of hunger, horrible diseases are ravaging the world, and on, and on. The world should not have been this way! How can we ever get out of it?! How can we get back on track to how the world should be? It should have been cleaner, we should have been smarter, nicer, more generous…bla, bla, bla. “Should be” in the very best possible sense focuses only on fixing problems, keeping in mind some illusory “perfect world of should be” as a goal. It’s a constant reminder of a failure. And something we owe it to ourselves, or more so, owe it to the world, to work toward. It’s a struggle here.
Option B: the world as it is
There is no blueprint for how we as a species or the earth as a planet are meant to evolve. On my best days, these days, this is where I live. No shoulda coulda woulda. No right and wrong. No fault. No blame. No emotional entanglement. Sure, lots of things have been killed off. Sure, we’re choking ourselves to a slow hot death. So what. The universe will not weep for us. We conquered the planet as a species, so if we did what it what we have done, consequences will ensue. So what. Is it wrong? Is it fair? What’s fair? We were stupid, we killed off elements fundamental to our own survival…so we deserve to die. Right? Right. No, not “deserve.” There is no blame here. We were stupid. We will die. Or maybe we won’t. If we’re smart and we fix stuff and save our skins. When I’m in this mode of being, which I often am these days, I marvel at human history. Industrialization, politics and power, economics and wealth distribution, rights and responsibilities. All, all, all superficial constructs. Why does anyone have a right to live? It’s laughable! One is born if one is born, without consent or permission. If a baby died in childbirth, it died in childbirth. If one person is born to a rich family, and one to a poor family, so what? Are they equal? Of course not. What on earth do rights have to do with it? This is a world of that which is, simply is. It’s a world of power, of laissez faire, of sit back and watch what happens. It’s all so amusing to watch people up in arms over issues when nothing actually matters!
Option C: The world as it could be
We’re making up the blueprint as we go along, always adapting, learning, changing. I wish I could live here. It takes effort these days. Perhaps it just makes me sad to think of the girl I once was, so excited about the future, so excited to be alive and have the chance to participate in something so beautiful and important. The world as it could be, the world as it could be. It’s an optimist’s haven. It’s the world of sci-fi, of Star Trek, of admitting, “sure, it’s really bad…but there’s a bright side, and we’re working hard to get there.” The world as it could be throws out the idea that there was a definite way the world should be working. It takes the best of the honesty from Option B (OK, this is where we are), admits to a little bit of option A (OMG! it’s bad, it’s really bad, and we did it), but gets on with it, takes a deep breath, thinks big and way outside the box, and then makes a realistic plan of attack. This is the world of Disney, Ford, NASA, the biosphere, Apollo missions, the pyramids of Egypt, hovering bullet trains, Asimov, Gregor Mendel, the Pantheon, Da Vinci and Galileo and Matisse and Picasso and Kandinsky and Rothko. It’s the best. It’s hope meeting action. It’s admitting we can’t have a solid picture of where we “should be headed,” but it doesn’t mean that we, “see the world for what it is and stand still.” It’s keeping your chin up. And working hard. With a goal in mind.
My goals have gotten small lately. I’m so used to being disappointed with myself, I don’t expect to succeed. And I forget that I used to be so successful, it was embarrassing. Like a success junkie. Maybe that’s what makes this adult reality so much the more difficult. My self esteem is in the gutter quite often. But no excuses. Not anymore.
I care about so many things. So many. Sure, it’s a little late to become a NASA scientist or a Greenpeace sailor or a Cousteau researcher. But I’m only 29 years, 11 months, and 12 days old. That’s kind of young enough to take on a project. Or take adopt a new purpose to your life. Enough with getting by. I need to reach goals. Big ones. Because it is possible. Helping Israel develop its recycling system (which is embarrassingly behind the rest of the world) is attainable. Getting a complete amount of organic produce here could be done. Ending childhood poverty in a country as small as this, can be done. It can be. Writing about issues that I find important, and get paid to do it, is possible. It is.
I just need to figure out how to stay here. Because I still need a day job for the moment. I still struggle with depression, big time. Perhaps Lifetime TV and the Hallmark Channel just became my new best friends…
Sarah Palin resigned as governor giving no reasons why.
Michael Jackson is dead.
The (maybe) revolution in Iran has fallen off the front pages.
And I can do nothing but twiddle my thumbs, not care a feather or a fig, and take a personality test that should show me the real direction I should be going toward in my dating exploits.
Uh huh. Yeah.
It’s July 4th, and I’m not at a parade eating a brat, watching grown men in fezzes driving tiny cars and covering my ears at the live cannons toted by the Civil War reenactors. Instead, I’m burning up in a bathing suit in a far too sunny Tel Aviv flat, alternating between reading a bad book, watching BBC tv, and drinking herbal tea. And I kinda really wish I were at the parade or the local fair or a friendly barbecue. Ah, the life of an expat. Always between worlds. It’s my yearly painful push pull struggle with patriotism coming to a head. But I won’t let it bother me too much. I think I can handle it. Who doesn’t love a nice cold bottle of white wine, the “Antiques Roadshow,” and Dan Brown’s petty prose? A decent way to spend the holy sabbath, right?
So…as a brief update on my last post, about being consistent, doing things every day…I’ve not been entirely successful. Of course. And I have no excuse, and I don’t know why. I must try harder. Period. What I have done is apply to tons of jobs. And network. And I may have a job very soon. Which is great. Really great. Not a dream job, but a job that pays more than minimum wage, a job in an office, with air conditioning, that will help me get back on my feet financially after going through my savings these last 8-9 months. I have also been sleeping much better, although I’ve not made my midnight nighty-night deadline. I have been calling friends. AND I have been making a decent effort to work earlier in the day…as in before noon, although I’ve tried for before 10 am. Not bad. Except for the major thing, the first thing on the list: working on my book.
Avoiding the book is not new. I could have had it done in much better shape a year ago or even more. I am so scared, so afraid of it failing…or you could say the flip…I’m so afraid of it succeeding wildly…that I prefer to default and not try at all. But that would be cowardly. I do occasionally triumph over my cowardice, hence, the phase when I did nothing but finish the book to the end…the stroke of brilliant courage that had me enlist and hire a critic/teacher. Now, I need to see it to a close. It’s just so much easier to use the current situation (financial panic/instability), that I’m blinded. Quite blind. I need to get over it. Do small things. Ease into it. Not be frightened to open the documents. Do some reading, some research. And then it should work like clockwork again. It’s not easy, but the task is virtually impossible if I don’t even begin.
Maybe it has to do with my personality type. So, I was randomly surfing HuffPo and came across this article, all about how everyone has a type. The article leads to an article and quiz on Chemistry.com. And I’m always up for a pseudo-scientific quiz. And I found out, according to the quiz, that I am a Negotiator (primary personality type) / Director (secondary personality type). And, it says that I’m attracted to the sort of opposite combination (Director/Negotiator). Weird thing is, I think I’m even, not primary/secondary. I might even be more of a director than a negotiator. Here are my results. Or maybe the results were right…I need to stop “negotiating” with myself and be more “direct” and force myself to drop everything and WORK ON THAT BOOK! Yes. In any case, the article and quiz were quite convincing, so I do recommend it to those singletons who are interested in honing their dating skills. There are apparently only four types: directors, explorers, negotiators, and builders…and if we can identify what we are, and what is the best match for us…we can more easily identify it…right? Let’s hope.
As for me…this is as close as I’ll get to my favorite Shriners this year…have a great Independence Day, all! Eat a brat for me!
And my behavior patterns have returned to the exceptionally unhealthy ones of the worst phases of mine in Israel. Not going to sleep, even though I show many symptoms of extreme exhaustion. Instead I stay awake watching corny sympathetic old movies, over and over again. And don’t brush my teeth and face before I plop under the covers. And all I want to do is curl up and sleep. Read a book. And not go out. Even though it’s New York City!!!! What the hell is wrong with me?
I’m going back to Israel, that’s what. I’m close to broke, that’s what. And reality and genuine decisions loom. My ornery scary grandmother will be at my door, screaming at me and scolding me about not having paid some bill or other or not being nice to some relative or other, or any such other thing that is none of her business. My mother who I’ve not been speaking to often will be there again for another week or two…wanting to repair our relationship…wanting me to tell her why I’m angry…wanting to dump all her responsibilities on me…wanting me to cook the entire spread for her going away party/housewarming party next week.
So…have I enjoyed myself? Has it been a good trip? Yes. I think it has. I miss a lot here. If I were to come back Stateside, it might be good for me. I miss intellectuals. I miss kindness. Whether it be genuine or not, even the illusion of kindness soothes me. I found myself elbowing my way througha line yesterday on the subway…the only one…people let me through without question…so bad, so bad, so miserably bad. Then again, I need to repair me for a bit longer. I need to work on writing and make money and be in one place for a while. And I can do that anywhere without picking up and changing my life drastically. I think I will come back home. America is home, I’ve realized. But not just yet. Not just yet.
What will I do when I’m back?
Edit book until it is done
Get a job – wine tasting is there but not very profitable…consider bookstore, teaching English privately, teaching English with a company, applying for anything temp or part time that looks white color enough and easy, and maybe just maybe consider food service…but give every establishment a good once over before starting.
Send out book to close friends/good readers (they must be both) and then some agents and publishing houses
See friends
That’s it. Book, money, friends. How hard can it be? Right?
Before I leave the US, I have to go through my old books and knick knacks and see what I want to take or send to Israel. Boxes and boxes in my parents’ crawl space. Oh well. And then there’s two days in Warsaw. Yup. Maybe it’ll be really good for me. Real transition time I need. Not American. Not Israeli. Confusing. And Perfect. Shake one off. Prep for another. All while eating blini and perogies and potatoes and vodka. Right? Right.
It is possible to miss people even more when you are with them than when you are not. When without them, rich deliciousness colors your memories. Reality is far more boring. And often more tragic. Why it is so difficult to relish that which is today, baffles me so. Because so often, when today has turned to yesterday, it is far sweeter (or at the very least, less bitter) and far more easy to digest. Today remains unpalatable. Yesterday is a recycled leftover, doctored up with herbs and spices and bits and pieces of makebelieve. Tomorrow, a dreamed up recipe about to be tried.
I’m in Delaware. I’ve been welcomed heartily, offended, alienated, ignored, tolerated, bored and warmly hosted, all in a period of about eighteen hours. This place was never a dream of a past for me. I’m not sure what I expected. But as I’m an adult now, I know I have choices. I relish my choices. And it’s nice to know that when I suffer or tolerate a situation, I do have the power to change it. I just choose not to more often than not.
Almost eight years ago I moved down here. And I proceeded to live here for one year. It was life changing. It was important. And it sucked big time, too. It was joyous and hopeless and interesting and painful and comfortable. And then I got the hell out. And the people I loved who stayed around here…well…they’ve changed and stayed the same. Of course. There’s a well-intentioned but highly silly Horseshoe Crab Festival. A bankrupt community theatre in a historic cinema building. Fields as far as the eye can see full of soybean and God knows what. Ponds. Streams. Trout. Squirrels. Possums. And too much new development. And maybe it’s good, too. Oh, yes, did I mention lesbians as far as the eye can see? Yes. I found myself surrounded by a good hundred of them last night, all over the age of 45, all with jeans pulled up to their breasts, short poofy hair, or short shaved hair, or short mullet hair (you get the picture), and men’s polo shirts or loose fitting clothes out of the Golden Girls. It was such a fashion nightmare, any designer or fashionista would faint (I would bet money) on sighting this phenomenon. I love lesbians. I kind of used to be one. And I often loathe their society. What can you do.
And that’s Delaware. I don’t belong. Perhaps because I belong nowhere unless I decide I do. I don’t enjoy being merely tolerated and sometimes grudgingly so when given the impression that I am wanted. But I’m an adult. And I can let it fall away. I can pick up a book and sit by the pond and write and eat ice cream and take care of my damned self thank you very much. And I will. And I’ll bake a liquor soaked powdered sugar pound cake. So there.
Happy D-Day folks. Let’s remember that bit of bravery from 65 years ago and have some pride that we were once a species with a noble spirit.
I have to blog. I just have to. I just spent a fortune to connect to the internet, and twelve minutes in, I get disconnected. It then takes me the better part of a half hour to reconnect. And now I have to board the plane. ARGH!
LAX isn’t a swanky modern airport. I waited a half an hour to get through security. That said, I LOVED the online check in United provided that got me through the baggage check and whisked away into the security line in about 30 seconds.
So, just for fun, here are some things I’ve been reading:
A feral girl was discovered in Siberia. Yup, she was raised like a cat or a dog. Poor thing. Five years old and completely neglected by her parents and grandparents.
Tips on overcoming writers block. Good stuff. I know a writer who has a sign over her desk, “Write Stoned, Edit Sober.” Another bit of good advice right there.
And now I really really really have to board the plane. I’m sitting on the floor by the only outlet plug I could find. Good grief! At least I have Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy to watch on the plane…as long as my miniscule battery supply will last.
I’m a bit woozy, as I took a xanax an hour ago or so. Not the best day. Well, an eye opener. My writing workshop consensus was that my book, although ridiculously promising at the beginning, needs a lot of work in the middle and end. I mean, when they gave me the critique a while ago on the first third, it was through the roof. The kind of stuff that a publisher would have a wet dream over. And now I realize what a grandiose mountain it is I am really standing before.
I felt really alone today. Really wanted to cry and be comforted by a mother. My mother isn’t the type. So not the type, it’s laughable. All my life I never realized that I approached her with so much hope that she’d finally just embrace me without opening her mouth. With pure acceptance. Without curious, suggestive, self-centered, egotistical, judgemental jabs. And I spoke with my father today for the first time in what must be over a month or maybe even more. I think it’s like more like two. And the weird thing is, I don’t have the strain with him as much as with my mom. He just doesn’t call and is so busy and in so many countries, I never know when to call and where I might find him. It was nice to hear his voice. But it made me so sad. I wanted to cry, to tell him that it is quite possible I’m terribly depressed and that I’m not sure my meds are working and that I feel that my life is insignificant sometimes and that I don’t know what the solutions are. But I couldn’t say anything. We just talked about my travel plans for the spring, and he helped me with his industry-insider knowledge in booking some flights. And part of me was so angry. So angry at him that I couldn’t say these things. So low. And all we did was “talk business” as usual. I’m pretty sure I sounded strained. You know, when someone asks how you are, you always say you’re fine. Even though you might be the farthest thing from it. Why open Pandora’s box? Why tell a parent who can’t do anything to help you and usually gives you advice you don’t care to hear because it’s conservative and insensitive, that you’re lost and scared and miserable? It would only hurt them. But then who do I turn to?
I took a xanax, not something I do often, maybe 2-3 times a year…but it’s gotten closer to 4-5…not a dangerous amount. Because I was sensing myself start to spin. I called a friend on the phone and she didn’t answer. I would have called one or two others, but it’s the Sabbath here, and they’re religious and won’t have their phones on or won’t answer.
My date went well. He was exceptionally smart. We have a lot in common. But I sensed I wasn’t quite all there. We are going to meet again. But I need to have a heart to heart with myself, if such a thing exists. My gynecological issues these past couple months have been scary and uncomfortable. I can’t pretend that the idea of sex isn’t still off-putting. It is. I want to get to know people. Just people. Sometimes I think I’d give almost anything up to have unbelievable sex just once in my life. Maybe even pleasant good sex. Other times, I know in my gut that I’d be more than OK if I’d never have sex again in my entire life. Funny. It’s a take it or leave it. Sometimes I feel (or rather I know) that I’m really missing out. Other times, I really know it’s not worth it. Sex has brought me nothing but worry and discomfort and jeopardized my health. I don’t know what it feels like to burn with desire. Maybe I’m not capable of it. But I know I need a partner. I need to keep dating. I want to built positive relationships, have strong friendships, weave a varied and colorful and supportive basket of people around me. But the intimacy thing. Sometimes I wonder about hypnosis. I’d really like to dig to the root of my problems. I was never physically abused as far as I know. But after all my years of dating, of sexual dabbling, and therapy on top of it, to still be so uncomfortable, so panic striken, seems fishy to me. Regular yeast and urine infections, along with the worry of STD’s and pregnancy, for crappy sex that feels a bit uncomfortable at best just isn’t worth it. Keep the dirty knobs away. For the moment, anyway.
It’s just one of those “world conspiring to do me a huge favor” kind of days. I cannot friggin believe it. I just got back from my writing seminar, and they drop dead loved my book. All the worry. All the absolute convincing-of-myself that I did that the manuscript was just glorified toilet paper. Gone. People really do think it’s something special. Four talented, professional writers think it’s really good. And funny. The leader of the group, the professional writing instructor, told me he laughed out loud several times, and that that never ever happens to him. Ever. And he even read it twice. Twice! And laughed out loud the second time, too, anticipating the funny moments. I am in shock. I am not a failure. What I create may actually have merit. One day I, too, may become a published author, big time. Because the other manuscript we critiqued today, while it was quite good, didn’t receive the all-around, “this was so fun-unique-hilarious-true, etc, etc” that mine did.
And now I’m off to cook for two whole days, starting in about an hour, after I can get my stuff together and over to my uncle’s house who has graciously donated his kitchen for my cause today. Friends will be popping around periodically, and I’m hoping it will be a Martha Stewart meets Mr Rogers meets the cast of Friends kind of day, yet totally productive. Geez, this is even one of the plotlines, when Monica has her won catering company. Actually, it’s the exact plotline, when she takes one of her friends to be the waitress and friends of the family are the first ones to hire her. Wow. Life mimicking art. Naw. That would be going to far. Not that Friends isn’t art…I mean, how silly would it be to think I have a life…ha, ha, ha. Now let’s get to frenzied work! Pate to be made! AHHHHH! Wish me luck!
OK, I’ve been too calm. Or too lazy. Or too “pretend grown-up” this week. The numbers for the party I am “catering” have risen from “maybe 30″ to “at least 50,” and I haven’t even done most of the grocery shopping yet. OMG!!! The plan was to do the groceries tonight, have them delivered to my uncle’s house where I’ll be cooking on Friday (tomorrow, OMG), do at least 50%, but hopefully closer to 70% or 80% of the prep while there, and then transfer the food, etc, to the suburban kitchen where I’ll be working all day Saturday. What you all might not realize is that because I’m in Israel, the grocery stores CLOSE at around 3 pm at the latest on Fridays because of Shabbat. Which means, better have more than enough beforehand because there is very little you can do otherwise.
Breathe. It’s going to be OK. What’s an extra 20 people. Just buy more stuff and cook in bigger batches. And it’s OK if your budget is a good 30-40% bigger, because, hey, the numbers increased. My worry is that I underestimated my ability to acquire the specialty items…it’s hard to get pork products and seafood here, as they’re not kosher. But hey, I bought a food processor yesterday! Pate should be a cinch. And I KNOW that I have enough couscous to feed an army. So just get to one of the non-kosher places today, and buy them out. Shrimp and bacon are not that unique.
I guess what’s really bothering me is that I am spending the day with the lovely boy, something that I am so excited about, seeing him on a weekday, in the daylight, and doing something real, in nature, etc. We’re going on a minor hike in the Jerusalem hills and then hopefully find a fun place to stop for refreshments and lunch. And I don’t want to have all of this on my mind. Ugh. AND I haven’t read and analysed the first third of my colleague’s book for tomorrow. Which, honestly, shouldn’t take more than an hour. But I still haven’t done it! AND I finally have my business card design, but I have to take it to print today!!! OMG.
OK, calm. Just get out of the house now. NOW. You’re in PJs. No need to shower, you took an hour-long bath yesterday. You can get to the printer now, and then maybe even hop over to the local uber-expensive specialty butcher’s and buy all of their bacon and shrimp…and do it all before your 10 am deadline! Yes! That way, I won’t have to be so antsy while hiking. It will be OK. It will be OK.
I did it. The first true blue all-nighter since college. The manuscript was printed at 6:15 am, finished binding the copies around 7 am, about a hundred bucks down the drain and potentially the most heavy and expensive toilet paper I have ever had the pleasure of purchasing. As I walked to the main intersection near me to await my ride, heavy plastic bags full of manuscripts in tow, I couldn’t help but laugh. My arms were aching quite literally by the weight of my words.
And now I wait. I am so out of it, my rhythms totally messed up, emotions raw, barely ate in two days. Got a 5-hour nap in and a meal at grandma’s, and now I’m out the door to see my guy, go to a friend’s dinner late, and just, blow everything off and hopefully relax. And I don’t know if I can. I’ll have to get drunk or stoned or something. Because this victory doesn’t feel sweet. I feel some relief. But not much. I need catharsis. I want to cry in warm arms without any questions asked and not have it be a big deal.
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.
I just have to put it out there – I’ve just realized, concretely and in black and white, how lazy I have been. There. I’ve said it. I’ve been so scared, blinded by fear and denial, that I’ve chosen to ignore my novel. For a long time. And now I have all of 2.5 days, if not less, to whip it into shape. Which includes writing about 10 chapters (!!!!!!!), which I have certainly sketched out in outline form, but somehow forgot that I hadn’t written. I am in such deep hot dangerous water, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. But at least I’m working now. At least I’m looking at my problems in the face. And come Friday, and then the coming weeks, I will finally face the music: is my work any good, or have I been wasting my time for the last two years. OMG. Heart pounding madness.
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.
When I get back on January 2nd, I immediately begin a 6-month manuscript workshop with an excellent instructor and small group to get my book beaten into shape enough for me to send to agents and publishers.
Also on January 2nd, I begin my life as a full-time freelance writer/food writer and personal chef. I am already creating a business plan, of sorts, and I at least own the textbook bible how-to of setting up this kind of business (thanks to B).
I am shocked. I am shocked and stunned and awe-struck because I am achieving my goals. I wrote them down. First, here in this blog, and second, on paper this week. And I’m checking off the list. I am nowhere near professional success…but I’m not on square one. And I am much nearer personal success than I had believed. I have accomplished or am about to accomplish the first four items on my list: finish the book; go to India; get a pet; find career/money/happiness balance.
One – I’ve signed up for the manuscript workshop, it’s costing a lot, I have to work hard on the thing even before it starts (in the 2.5 weeks I have!), and I’ll be damned if I don’t make something of it with all of this structure I’m creating.
Two – I got my ticket to India today! I go for a month. I wish it could be for two, but a month is a long trip, still. I am being realistic. I can’t see all of the country in this amount of time. But I can focus on three or four regions, have a good time, and learn something. I’m planning on taking classes on Punjabi and Kerala cuisines, and really try to get an amateur-mastery level before I come back. Plus — I have number three to worry about…
Three – I adopted two cats on August 8 of this year. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. And I don’t think I would have done it otherwise and under different circumstances. My sister asked me. It was her last day on her archaeological dig, and the all kittens the site manager had brought with him from home to be adopted had been — apart from two. I suspect they were the runt and the bad egg. However, Cassiopeia (the runt) and Fischer (the bad egg, aka the tornado) have been wonderful. After I got used to them. The first month or two were very hard. Very hard. I always thought I was a pet person. Instant companionship. I felt invaded. That my life was taken away from me. My only safe haven in Israel destroyed. But apart from keeping them from chewing on precious artwork (I live in my grandfather’s old art studio), and having to empty a litter box, they’re my family now. I don’t love them like I love people. But it’s nice not to be alone.
Four – Figure out the work/life/money/creativity – well, I’m doing it. I quit the job that was horribly for me in many, many ways. And I’m going to put in a real, hard-working, 6-month effort at food and writing and food writing.
So, there you have it. Living my dream. Still, I’m alone on a Thursday night (like Friday night everywhere else in the world). But it’s better. I talked to several friends today, and I have some plans for the weekend. No dating. Kind of. Mr 23 is still loitering in the outside lobby of my social life. But tonight, I have an iMac, two (thankfully) sleepy cats, an apartment to clean, some old movies, a novel to edit, and a trip to India to plan.
Congratulate me, if you will, if you’ve read this far. And let me know if you have suggestions for India. I’m a (nearly) blank slate. You know, you can do it, too. How simple it is. Just write it down, and check the items off as you go.
I woke up this morning with a headache so bad that I could hardly move. It was major dehydration. It seems for the past four or five days or so, I just stopped drinking much. Mix a bit of alcohol (OK, a lot on the horrid date night), and a couple shots of Bailey’s last night, just for kicks. I am a zombie. Might as well change my name. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone off the Lamictal. I am always tired. Always.
The Pitiful Shameful List of my life this week?
No Friends seen in a long while, don’t even feel like calling anyone.
No dates in longer, even though I’m back on Jdate (hurrah!-not).
No writing – even though I went to a great workshop, was really revved, wrote a decent article for a magazine last week, and all. And all. And I am a zombie.
No gym – never crossed my mind to go, not even any guilt – which is shameful.
No resumes sent – even though I’m miserable at work, and the light at the end of my tunnel (other than publishing the book one day soon or getting picked up by the food network) is that I can always get another boring desk job that will be more tolerable than this one. Yet! I haven’t sent them out.
So. What to do? Another doctor appointment to get yet another second opinion. Force myself to the gym. Contact any old loser on Jdate and just go out. Get out of the house. Call my supposed friends. Force myself to go out. Plan something for the near/medium future. Like a big Thanksgiving dinner (I went to a hotel last year…ugh, what a sin!). And write. Even though it’s scary. And it’s easier to watch Youtube and keep up with the election and watch House and Start Trek Voyager and Coupling. Even reading a book, in my situation, does not help me get out of the rut. Books are just as bad if not worse than television and the internet. Why? Books are my ultimate in living vicariously. Shit. I love books.
So. Knock on wood a million times over for tomorrow. Please be well Mr Obama. Get some sleep, yourself. Drink some water. Try not to freak out. Take care of yourself. You can do this. You can be an adult. You can clean the kitchen and sweep the floor and mop the floor and scrub the bathroom and do the laundry. You can find a place to watch the elections tomorrow night. You can do this. You are not hopeless. You are not alone. Even though it seems that way. Even though you spend almost all your time alone. It will be OK. It is OK.
And just so you don’t all think I’m going off the deep end, here is a link to a fantastically great poem that a friend back in Chicago introduced me to. Here is William Carlos Williams and Danse Russe. Who’s to say I can’t be the happy genius of my household, too?
I attended a writing retreat yesterday. It was led by Evan Fallenberg, a writer and teacher I respect. He writes in English and teaches at the creative writing masters course at Bar Ilan University. Evan created a writers’ studio in his home on a lovely green moshav (like a small farming village – in Israel these have kind of been turning into great replacements for suburbs) near Netanya.
I have decided that discipline is key. I will beat myself into this, whether I like it or not. In the end, I know it will be worthwhile. I will write for one hour, and one hour only, every day. I have declared it here.
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.
One acutely aware of the other. The other lifts its head only at the hint of annoyance.
One species is apish, warm blooded, curious, gluttonous, and very lazy. The other, descended from a long line of reptiles, voracious, quick, nimble, capable of flight and possessing a vicious nature.
It would be an easy battle for the mighty raptors, but for their stature. At around one six-hundredth the size of the sluggish ape, it’s David and Goliath every minute of every hour of every day. For these pint-sized raptors must eat (as their ferocious heritage necessitates, after all), and they must eat constantly. Natural selection is the incessant deadly game amongst these vipers, only the fittest surviving another day.
And it is the decadent ape who is the guardian of the wealth they so desire and crave. That this ape is ultimately the laborer and creator of this treasure is besides the point. Having spent generations fending for themselves, hunting their own prey, the wee raptors found themselves an easier target to feed upon. Scavenging, Robin Hood style, became a profitable business indeed. A new order came to be – gangs of pirates and mercenaries, constant infighting, with loyalties changing as the winds. And so, hunting parties bombard with aerial attacks on unsuspecting apes, snatching and grabbing at their “well-earned” spoils.
That they should pass among the giants so little noticed, a combination of their minute size and seemingly docile appearance, is the key to their attack strategy. Surprise is always the best maneuver. Regular retreat is also a stealthy move on their part. Just as they annoy and peck to the limit of their victim’s tolerance, they back away, never becoming too much of a nuisance.
And as I sit down to enjoy the warm sunshine, a large frothy coffee, and a morning danish, Captain Sparrow innocently perches on the rim of my plate.
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 »
