Personame’s home

” I dont want my hair to be ruined “I told you when you reminded me to open the window in this warm evening in June. you never liked the fake air-conditioning in cars, and shraga our Subaru station didn’t have any normal air-conditioning anyway. it made this noise that interupted our never ending human voices. you didn’t like fake heating too. “I rather snuggle with you under the blanket” and so we had a blanket in the car too. I used to put on our knees when driving and made you smile for my silly ideas you loved so much.

“hetesh, enough with this hair ironing . you have eyes for curls anyway. ” I never really understood the glimpse you had seen in them, but they had more twitch in them when you came in my mind or entered the door when coming back from climbing. my brown eye curly girl was you version of this van morrison tune and I believed you were honestly the original.

“Im keeping it open zneveg. just a few more minutes ” my hair was somehow not a part of my head but i didn’t want it to look all messy. I was Finally growing it-after years of short hair-dues and i was addicted to this ritual of ironing once a week at sigi color my hairdresser , and going with a pony tail for the last 3 days of that week, when it was loosing its shape. you liked that, I can see your eyes now and its not silly and burned.  today when I let it go wild in the English wind and I don’t care anymore. it was small addictions to Hair,  shoes, to nice dishes, to yummy things in the fridge for the weekend, especially the sausages and cheese we liked and fine wine we learned to appreciate so much. small addictions from the good kind that you said you would never thought of until I appeared. you brought your books, your climbing gear, your tough smile and your mind. I brought the soft materials , my books, a few stuffed animals and far too many things that belongs in closets.

you smiled. and we rented the biggest house we could have found with 4 closets and a closet room.” my girl needs some space and she will have it” . You needed a different sort of space and I gave it to you with no doubts. I wasn’t thinking about it , we grew into our spaces and no one was wondering about it . sometime when we met in the inbetween  , snuggling on the sofa overlooking the olive grove valey and you were not saying a word just taking another olive in oil and smiling at me as if “it cant get any better cant it hetesh”.  no,it could only get worst I thought inside my head and was ashamed that I cant simply be grateful.

we took the curve next to the Arab village , the black night in the middle of june was hot but not too humid. good for my hair I thought.  A day after my birthday and i was chatting with you about my need to go and learn in university again. lets go to Italy you offered , I can find some contacts that will get me a good position and you Can do what you dream of and maybe you know we should start thinking of shnitsel, you added casualy as if we were having this conversation before.

you were changing in the last 7 years . the man who wouldn’t dare to commit to material or human heart , was thinking of his own family. of a grove he will grow with his girl , of a cradle he will build for his baby.

I was moving in my chair a little bit, I love you so much but I want my dream first and than the shnitsel and than maybe the house in the grove . but it will be with you, I promise I said and gave you my curliest look. I held your hand and commited with a squeeze that real out loud words cant commit to even when shouted. your hand always held mine , one on the wheel and one in my hand touching slightly your magnum pistol that was between us cold and expecting.

we took the curve, slowing down as usuaal before speeding through the groves of the village.  the little minimarket of shlomo is blurring in our eyes , its closed at this time of the night but the gas station next to it has some shades in it. Im getting smaller in my chair. I  always become smaller at this curve, just in-case the bad guys will be thinking of finding me, I will be small enough and they will give up. you were sitting at your side taller than ever. your 2 meters had always enough space in the station car but your long legs had stretched even longer to the pedal, your eye had its eyebrow jumping high, a splash of fire was smeared at the side of shraga and black liquid was sprayed at my window. your long leg pushed the breaks in a tight move , i was afraid your leg will come out of the car. a scared donkey on the side of the road seemed to be in shock as we were

“stay here hetesh, down at the bottom of the car” you opened the window and before I could even protest against your hunters impulses you opened the window at your side and set a few shots from your pistol to the air . “are you out of your mind ” I only realised we had a Molotov bottle thrown at us , I said with a surprised look. I wasnt even angry . “close the window, we dont want anyone to ruin my hair do we ?” I tried to put a funny, unnecessary line into the sudden silence between us. ” you looked at me , not knowing weather to be compassionate to your little girl or to be angry with those bad guys , or to be you before knowing me who wasnt afraid to kill. you closed the window and told me youll get me back home safely , but just to be on the safe side so I wont think you have changed that much and stop loving you , you added you will be back this night to the village. ” no one will hurt my woman without paying “

I was sad for the first time in a very long time, when realising you will kill and die for me if you had to. “I don’t know if I can do the same”, i said out loud while driving home , the blanket from our winter travels was over my shoulders now. it was freezing cold inside shraga.

 to  Tzipi with  love. (1944-2008) http://www.tapuz.co.il/pCards/myCard/?UserId=578330

train. you are behind your  newspaper ,Im behind my  eyes, searching for the folding  of  the paper to catch that glimpse you send  me everytime you think I dont look.

train. you are  behind your  newspaper, Im behind  my manners, I dropped them  at mile end, when you  went up,  exchanging from the district, and we squeezed together to  this short journey affair of the central line at rush hour

train.  you are behind your newspaper,  I  am behind my hair, hiding my fears  that you  will go  down with  me in  south woodford,  we will find out we are neighbours and  you  will introduce me  to your Jewish mother and tell  me Im  the right one

train. you are  behind  your newspaper, I am behind  another back,   holding tightly the metal  bars so I wont  fall inlove or not mind  the gap

train. you ard aree  behind  your newspaper, I am  behind  it too, 10 inches of sodukosex and  sins  and I have  to go  down  the next stop

He pinches it at my face

rub it on his wounds

spice the lamb he cooks for her

while asking me to lick his tears

frozen leaf  just stumbled at  my  window glass
an accurate touch ignoring all the other leafs falling around it on the  floor

those lonely leafs   always capture my  heart, once  there are dropping  there to be noticed, shaped to perfection with their daring choice arriving at my doorstep.

cant ignore. I  close my windows well in the winter. not letting anyone to enter my  kingdom through the window. not even the  wind that i admire . the  door  is always open , through the main gate I am a generous  woman. open hand is constantly welcoming for a gesture .  windows are for peeping  only. My heart  is  closed.

and he dares.  one leaf, his green is glittered  with frost, waiting  there with  glistening stem, will you let me in kind woman ?.  I  am  pretending to  communicate with nature through my  lonely choices.  the spring sun is wating patiently for me to  dare to  remove the curtains,  open  the window  widely and  welcome  warmth into my domain

Here comes the sun plays on my Itunes. I  search for my favourite Jeans to wear for you.  Cant bring myself  to wear dresses in the British frost. In Israel  it was  so easier for me. with Guy  it was  even  easier, I just  needed to open my mouth and say something  smart or warm and he liked anything Im wearing  with my words. Depends on my  weight  and my laziness to do sports at that time, even when  my hair was short, if I  felt comfortable, than he thought I was the most beautiful woman in the world. sometimes I  didn’t feel  comfortable and so he  gave me a hug and  told  me not to worry ”we  will solve it my Hetesh, don’t worry”. and so  I didn’t. I miss my simple life, when I wore dresses cause it was warm and  safe and he was there and we  were happy in the most simple way people can be.

The frost outside is not good for dresses anyway. My hair  is wonderful today in this wind and the drops of my curls over my eyes,  allows me  to  see you, in  a  safe distance but without showing all the glimpses  that comes from my eyes when you once  again say something i didn’t know. you are sitting there shuvving your legs under that small wooden table, the light  that comes from the  big window falls over  your face, makes you look very accurate. You are flattered by day light when  it  brightens your eyes.  shame you are  hiding from suns. I am a sun  lover, I look much better in it or in a warm light  from my table lamps. softer,  relaxed, safe. I like light more  than dark I guess,  but I  like shades of  light as  well and I learned to appereciate  complt  dark  in caves, when he  held  my hand and chew the  darkness with me.

I am playing  with my soup, Chinese soups are my favourite but this one has more bones than duck and too many noodles and I  rather listen to you or tell.  I look at you  reading my letter. did you  finish it ?, you must be a fast  reader,  you say you  haven’t. I  like watching people reading  my  stuff but I  rather  read it to them. my voice gives  it always a different  meaning. my words not always commit but my voice  does. sometimes I wonder if  all those great poets were  great  when   they  managed to get their  voice  so clear that when people  read  their  poems out-loud they felt their own voice  is changing to the writers one. you burn  your lips and I do not dare to touch them. they are the most fragile part  in you, after your hands  that  always seem to have a need to  hold something. your plate looks Chinese, you eat it when its colder  ,I notice  the way  you eat your food. I  cant tell if its tasty but the next time Ill try to find us  this dim-sum place that is another chineese with better soups. the  soft pop eastern music needs some wine with it ,  [paint this  dull  communist room with pastel colors to suit my mood. I am not  very brown today or reds.  softer by your  presence  and by  the  fact that we have holiday now for 3 days.

When we  had holidays, Guy  used to go climbing and I  never minded  that  space at home cause i knew  he  will be  back in a week or  2 and ill have his  adventures told by a man that his freedom, self esteem and  happy spirit were adored  by me. his stories were better when  we  found the way to put in one eqision 2 lifes of 2 very different people with mutual admiration  to words and sights and life.  I  could  have been a  great poet with  him , my voice  was clear , I think to  myself  with sentimental  eyes  and  get  rid of  that thought, drowning it under a pile of  noodles

I am sometimes  scared of my thoughts  when they  come from a place of warmth and safety.  Even if its just a moment with a  soup with a man who  takes me to think more  than  the usual and plant  some sentiments in  me. Thoughts of safety scares  me a  bit.  are they  real? is is the restiveness of warm  room,  good talk and  very  kind  smile that brings them to  me?.  I am  confused, even my  writing is sloppy these  days so I type here.

when I die don’t give me a stone . don’t put me under marble . keep it in its mountain overlooking Carrera. wear me as a token of love on your chest , bury me in your heart , put me in the ugly Vase you got from that aunt who really hates your mother . don’t say words of compassion of how great I was. save that compassion to your self and your new lovers. make something useful with me. give my essential parts to the ones who needs them. give away my belongings, if you can call them belongings cause I never had felt they truly belong to me. plant something that can be used in your tea over my name. make tea and chocolate parties with any money i have left. teach others to love. no stone. no words in the stone. no people around stones . save the space to someone who wish to lie comfortably in a warm place

no place to write. my virtual paper is not available . my natural private space do not exist but in my head , my time is also taken by a bunch of strangers who are the closest-to me in the world. Long relatives close relatives, my belonging needs accept special attention these moments .I write you meanwhile in my travellers notebook, you u know, the one with the red dots and black ribbon

I write you about my lost and found department in my old home town. are you patient enough to wait for my words ? . I press them for you now in my mind . I press them to become a think paper exploding  of words , of memories , of encounters , of Identity I forgot I had for a while , of me.

window Glass,  your heavy breathing creates little clouds on the glass. People are talking when  hot  fresh and steamy Chumus is blurring In their eyes. 

3  hi teck  grown kids came to close another working day  of 12  hours. Even  when you  make millions , only chumus is comforting  you. A drop  of Tahini is spilled on the trousers of  one of them. A wiping sleeve,I  remove a disturbing curl from my eye. Its nice-to stare at people behind  a glass.

Standing in line.one is chopping the onion for the salad.one adds olives to the metal container. The big brass cauldron is almost empty. The third  guy  is scratching  its  bottom to dig for  us last pieces of chumus and fool . that’s where you find the best pieces.

Clichés. Gestures of first meetings. A word haunt another. Compassion search for a blanket to be covered by. A smart man is taking over my mind and I pick little tiny crumbs of this middle eastern thick paste that starts to gets cold and bothered by  my  picking. Eat  please, stop dreaming.

The cold is pinching my legs, but my heart is warm. There is n o such thing as a rest at the end of the day with a lively conversation.I just need a cup of tea and his blanket to wrap with

2 people with munching appetite ask for 5 chumus take away. Put a lot of the spicy green stuff man, and some parsley too. Green leafs you know my brother. Make it yummy for us, well this town is not having  spices of Yemenites .  its too white, but who cares just give  us  a lot of  those green  leafs and  a  couple of  tomatoes  too

The sky started dripping again, when  will we stop arguing with the Jordanians and  Syrians over water. I see  that we  have plenty. And  here in Raanana  they only drink Evian  anyway

I start dripping words like the clouds above us. When will you put a dam to al l the words that comes from my heart? Warm eyes serve  me  another pita, a  gesture  of a smile, bending of a back towards  me  .as f  we always  knew each-other

Window pane.  Words that we can  write on   frozen glass. Scripts of  thoughts on  humus fumes. Sometimes  it  also a  mirror to  my appetite.  Meeting  new  people ,  gathering  fro m the bottom of a big pot the next  adventure. Not even a cat o n  the street-in such a cold  day. Hungry people yes. Short breathes, blushing chicks, I  think of  another persons  words,  affection

when no one reads you out of 2.5 million bloggers. even a million taking out the ones who left their muse under the sunset in Goa or Jerusalem, or walking down hill in Rome. is that possible ?

just randomly I crossed some great thoughts of others here and I wish to save some with me , since I have no sunset in Goa or down hill Rome for the next 2 months

When you are awake

Your voice is clear and beautiful

Brave as a  razor

Of a new Knife

When you are tiered ,the voice that is  produced behind your  tongue,  tells me  a sad story, spoiled, rolled over not very  clear  words,  sleepy  words ,stink of  self  sorrow, pittifull, annoying, true yet  not precise.

When you are awake

Your words are straight

Accurate from sensitivity

Adopting a dialog

When you are tiered, your sound Isn’t balanced, make my ears bleed of stress, analyze every shade of every letter throwing another shadow the one before. Words words   words, not repeating the logic of their friend. Insane, real but not clear

When you are awake

You explain to me I n a glimpse

Fragile magic

That captures my heart

When you are tiered

After we repeated all the anger. After we found there is nothing to say. After  I lost all my charms explaining too much. after all I hate to explain, because I really don’t get  it.  Im real but completely wrong

its a house.
4 walls and a carpet
just a plain house; with a garden
and dog.
so simply a house, with a
wood faded red fence
maybe some little yard
with a tree and
a joke
I become my own landlord
sweet feeling of self
and I bring my blue sweater
to cover my hair.
I don’t need much
but spaces,
to feel up
my fears,
and a dear friend
to pack there
with a pot and
a tear

sentiments. you don’t always have to explain them. I yarn for safety and for some response from the 2.5 readers that I have

And in my dream, I  sit on a  wood bench with you, peeling  layers of doubts, getting warmer underneath a lakes sun, sort  of Sermione, without its tourists.  the  air is tasty when  you breath it spiced with sounds and smells  from the near kitchen. A  focused picture of  colorful  little houses,  merge d with the blue and green background. I  sit  with my legs in this  leaning  angle,  thigh  over a  thigh,  ankle over ankle,  my skirt reveals  some  skin, my  back is  straight and strech  to your hand. I’m comfortable.  Eyes  are looking straight  into mine. We do not stop talking, between us lay my book,  exactly in  that page of your favorite story.  Where  I laugh  about my cooking skills and my  misfortune ride on  the motorcycle with sandro. We  laugh from everything. Light clothes , light spirit mixing with the most pleasant  human voices  that  comes  from  our  own throats. Laughing one with the other, amoremio, laughing  when the sky are blushing  just from looking at us

Laughing and  happy.  

to arrive home after a whole day out and to have an urge to type.
thank you.

we got up the street from temple station through those old buildings, glimpsing at the glazed windows of chambers full of lawyers working on their next battles.
the frozen well expected wind took us to rush a bit when my Rabbi, had to stop and admire the walls, the old fashion street lamps, the temple, my walk. we made it to te temple and it is not even our temple. we lost it , too many battles of the old generation. when the court of justice was ruled by swords of iron.
we didnt have tickets left and so we had to settle for those cold benches of stone. I fear my natural smile will not be able to escape the frost that started to spread in me, while pretending i m happy with my companion of this evening.
you need to meet people and not through your work. that’s what my rabbi said and took matters into his hands, the one that shake dust from the bible ever day, the one that shake my hand with care but with judgment as well. but this man who sit next to me s talking with me about my work. I escape into more work talking so he wont suspect that I am interested i n anything else.
and we are in a church, covered with marble and the 10 commandments staring at us, a rabbi and rabbis wife on my right, gods challenge me o n my left. and I wonder is he doing it to me on purpose cause i dared to love a man who is not Jewish ? . what is the challenge to my heart and why does he still bother to watch me. do you up there who walked on Me with no warning enjoy that whole show or that yous imply create me one so I wont give up on life.

and he enters. longer than his passengers on this proud walk of red and light sparkle and purity. he enters. small smile I can notice from away. moving those well drawn lips that will soon tell me a story.I am waiting with anticipation while my challenge who is named like my rabbi, cant stop looking at my shoes and having a cold. I focus on those little noises of sniff ,that becomes to me like thunders i nthe dead sea around July.

the clean voices sharpens me. gods worship when I doubt my relations with him and his angels. my rabbi slip me the Hebrew words of the tune we hear, and I try to be loyal to the reason I came. to notice your voice from the others. to listen to you for a change.

the french words under those high arches suits you. I can pretend to watch you in those arab old houses in Jerusalem, staring at high ceilings and praying in 10 different languages, some known to you only. are yo close to god?. am I ?. a dialog of sound , and sniff penetrates my thoughts and i wish to ask you to come with us later, and save me from being pretencions and patronising and painful towards this nice man whose only fault was to show interest in me with a friend.
who happen to be my Rabbi and want to fix my heart.

the music argue with those soft voices and I am washed away to day dreaming of Paris in the fall. I escape again. I Can understand my Rabbi for the first time. I am not taking the risks. i am not leaving my shelter.
time to go out. he stood there with my Rabbi. it seem lie k they know each other ever since , and I don’t even wonder for the first words between them. my smile opens up for the first time in this frosty wind. I am warmer somehow, and I feel the arches high presence and those little wings even when we walk away from the temple to to the depth of the secular city.

one of those days some of us do not know how to celebrate. most of us fear the harshness of smiling at aging.

you have it today. knowing you, youll take the  virtual trip here, closer to my birthday. after youll get  your non virtual gift through  the british mail. after youll find another reason to  sulk in front of the mirror. probably after we meet, and  you will  tell me again  that my words  look nicer on real paper with real ink. so lets not call it a birthday gift. lets make it a gesture for all who celebrate a birthday in March. with you I  feel generous, lets give it to the  April people too

an  invitation to the good life . Pallazuolo Or Roma. you can choose.