fruits philosophy – we need those carbs
November 9, 2009 at 10:32 pm (personal, questions, thoughts)
Tags: addicted, carbs, jasmine tea
I guess I’m addicted. OK. I am. not guessing. admitting
carbs are an easy addiction to admit to. I need those to be fruity and doughy and colorful. Ive actually mentioned it in the previous chapter and so why talk about it again?. I’m addicted to repeating myself as well.
truth or dare
October 22, 2009 at 2:48 pm (encounters, questions, thoughts, writing)
Tags: dare, nobel, Obama, peace, prize, truth
some thoughts that crossed my mind after the Obama Nobelgate.
politics had alot to do with the art of games. an art I wish to be always a bit more advanced in.I talk and think more than play, the political science student that was not daring to go all the way with her thoughts and chose the field of informal education to cover her true desires of winning the game, not just explaining it. dont get me wrong I love my Job and my communit. only I wish sometimes to do other things too…. but lets go back to Obama , the Nobel people and us people.
I was in France when it all happned, smelling vacation and trying to improve my french by looking at the headlines of Menus. but I hang with soem educated people and those tend to read newspapers too. real one with pictures!!!. the French daily magazines are very stylish as expected and i found great pleasurelearning the local way of thinking through their Caricatures . this way I do not dare to go with my french learning all the way….but I still get the news. one of those, of the classic left wing way of thinking much Portrayed in european magazines reflected the dialog of peace between the actors in the middle east and obama as the mediator facign them with this humble look. the israelis were not holding an olive brunch, no surprise. the palestinians were smaller and confused looking. no surprise either. I was tough surprised I mactualy holding my virtual pen and write in my head a few thoughts that finally find the virtual screen too.
I think that the nobel prize committee was playing truth or dare when making decisions. they went on the dare, thats normally considered as the brave option, the more spontaneous one, the stronger sassy choice.
when we played truth or dare in primary school in Givataim I almost always dared. but than I didnt do always what I wanted. I was afraid of the truth back than. of admitting it, as I always loved the wrong person. the smart one , with blue eyes but impossible behaviour. it was very unpopular to love that one let alone admit of loving him in a game. I didnt realise that the real daring is to admit that this is my choice of Heart, so I dared instead and kissed the boys I didnt like
the committee members are afraid of the truth too. they rather kiss the wrong guys , the popular ones. the one who may be very special and cool and seem to be suitable for the prize of the nobel kiss, but they are not always the one we really love.
it may be a smart move tough. as I never thought of writing my impressions of that prize before. I actually think now of the reason of why to give it in the first place, of why kissing the popular guy may for the long run enable us to face the truth when we are slightly older. Realising the truth after daring when the whole world discuss it is a healthy dialog
I told him ,the impossible that I love him last week. I think I may finally face some peace in the future.
October 21, 2009 at 12:11 pm (children, encounters, questions, thoughts)
Tags: invisible, Le Petit Prince, visible
Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu’avec le cœur. L’essentiel est invisible pour les yeux . Le Petit Prince
than why is it that my Heart only loves the visible ?. the invisible he forgot how to love .
Frenchwomen and french cities.
October 20, 2009 at 7:47 pm (encounters, introduction, me, personal, questions, thoughts, writing)
Tags: avignon, beggar, cigarette, city, Lyon, paris, pavement, st Lazare, suede
Lyon. walking out of a smoky cafe in this trendy town, a lady with new high boots . suede, medium wood hills, a light camel colour with brown zipper that climbs from her ankles to her knees. fall. she steps out of the cafe holding her matching bag and her posture as if shes the new queen of Rue St Vincent . Women seem to be happier with new shoes. proud of their new walk. their new thrill of their new conquest, of small steps, of smaller feet.
Avignon . 3 polish girls and a cigarette are sharing a table left to mine. coffee and cigarettes goes together in France, like mussels with white wine, they complement my appetite of words, a random Provance tourist who happen to like blue sky and clear air. the 2 older guys from the table on my right chat in loud english (one with an obvious american accent and the other of german origin, but could be scandinavian too) about Sarcuzi and his choice of women. they long for those blonde young students , capturing their peeping eyes through the smoky fumes merging with the fumes of my hot cappuccino.
Paris. we walk fast through the wide boulevard leading to Gare st Lazare. the Parisian street wish to sleep before the new week rises from behind new big clouds of fall. the corners of the pavement are covered with yellowish leaves that compliment my hair . you hold my hand tight. dont worry I wont go anywhere. Im yours.
Paris 2. same boulevard. a woman with tired face is sitting there looking at those last passengers of the weekend. holding their lust and their hopes and a bag of good bread. she sits there with plastic bags surrounding her, seem like a whole day shopping to me. she wears white training pants and a coat . her tired wrinkles matches her tired badly colored hair, she has several golden bracelets and white sports shoes.Her current sit is a temporary chair made of a box. a few coins shine from the little handkerchief lying next to her feet. I wonder about what it takes to become officially a beggar. too much shopping ?
Je tiens à les embrasser tous. femmes et les villes
question
September 30, 2009 at 8:35 pm (questions, thoughts, writing)
Tags: admirers, clapping, fans, loyal, muse, poet
a flat line. again.
what should a poet do
to bring an audience to watch his muse?
to flicker an echo of clapping
on her glistening skin, released from the
greedy hands of her many admirers.
to brush a wave of breaths
sliding on her shimmering hair, released
from the husky tongues of her loyal fans.
hungry
September 28, 2009 at 2:46 pm (children, encounters, personal, questions, thoughts, wishes, writing)
Tags: fast, forgive, hungry
fasting is a good time for thinking. talking to the teenagers in the synagogue today, they all at one point dragged the talk from what do we need to be forgiven for and the different games we are aloud to play in this very special and sacred day, to what do they intend to eat when they finish the fast. yes it is true that when the stomach is empty, the mind takes a walk in different kitchens, looking for the ultimate succulent dish to bite into. I can only think of terribly non kosher delights that comes from Germany and Paul youngs perfect brownies. is that how people start assimilating . by respecting their tradition, but not completely following the logic of being hungry.
I have a few serious questions to ask myself when coming back home today from Neila and the big meal
luck
September 14, 2009 at 10:31 pm (personal, questions, thoughts, wishes)
Tags: I love you, lips, luck, petite, tradition
have you ever had that feeling you’re the luckiest person in the world ?
I look at the little video you put in face book with that petite woman you called the love of your life.
the one who left you for tradition and found you again. already good sign.
silky skin and eyes of the devil just before swallowing your impossible pride.
broken nose and polished nails, briefly touching the lips that holds
the words I love you, I feared so much to tell you
even when you wished for my love.
shivering camera gazing at this beauty wearing her smile
and I think to myself
god, you are the luckiest man alive
healing? thought 3.
September 11, 2009 at 5:15 pm (encounters, questions, wishes, writing)
Tags: love
this is not really a thought , I discover once outlining words on the web screen.
its more of a realization , an understanding . like a man who became blind one day and finally realized he can see in other ways.
its also not so healing. its even upsetting. but mostly challenging . like the blind man rather see colors but thrilled when finding out he can smell them better.
and so ?
I don’t love you anymore.
I forgot what is to love you
I only remember we loved so much,
it left me enough strength to love others
cambridge trio – part 3
August 26, 2009 at 9:18 pm (encounters, me, personal, questions, thoughts, wishes)
Tags: beautiful, father, fortress, fortune, mother, special, tel aviv, vodka
I follow my fortune by choosing my friends. one can tell our choices are influenced by circumstances and coincidences. Such coincidence brought Reuben to my life, another brought you my dearest friend. Younger than me in a number of years, which can create embarrassment at times. but your maturity eased our encounter.
Your velvet eyes and hair took Reuben’s and Alistair’s attention from the yogurt kebab served in Anatolia, very easily. I admit, mine too. Attention is easily distracted by the sight of Beauty. But what is beauty, how to define what’s beautiful and what is not? Where beauty begins and where it ends?. I like to discuss beauty with a good meal holding a beautiful wine in my hand. It makes my words prettier and desired, as required when writing about my beautiful friend.
Your mother peeping from the little screen of your mobile is a very beautiful woman. She has the mysterious facade of those non aging women who are not bothered by wrinkles, flattered by silver hair that spices their brunette hallow with glorious sparkles. I want to be like your mother. I want to be your mother when we reach Tottenham hale and you share with me how much you miss her. I am a one of those people who likes to watch other people’s photos and memories. As if I don’t have enough of my own.
Your mobile is constantly in reach, held by you gently and attach your loved ones in Israel to this little adventure. You like to be surrounded by people and emotions and little items and so you’re taking them with you to our Farewell weekend. Them, and about half of your wardrobe and many little gifts. you hand me a little fury new friend, his name his gumgum and he’s soft and sensitive. you couldn’t know that its one of the nicknames of guy. and I send you a sad smile and open my heart again. the sky are changing their clouds and I am fascinated by the conversation you’re having with your family, already being offered a treatment at your mother’s Beauty clinic, embraced by your father’s smile, and share your brothers wisdom when you let them know you take that weekend with this friend who is special. Beautiful people need special friends.
My friend Sasha in Israel is special. He comes from the same immigration wave as your parents in the early 70ies from Russia to Israel. I talk with clichés when mentioning those people who fought ignorance, who worked hard to become free, on the train to Cambridge, home of Knowledge and freedom. Those beautiful people I wish to be like, to be with, in a Bard night in a Tel Avivian hall, smelling the thickness of your beautiful mother tongue, or next to the kinneret singing Wisotsky songs holding a local Russian extra fine vodka, poured like velvet in my tired throat. Velvet hair and velvet eyes, looking at me from the bottom of velvet vodka shot.
I think about the coming dinner we will have with those 2 men you know little of. They may find our stories of immigration and land loving slightly remote from their British fortress of wisdom. But maybe they won’t. Maybe they will notice the beauty of humanity when we share our Israeli tales laughing in Hebrew and gazing at them guessing what they think about us.
We reach our destination, we just started our weekend and we just started our friendship, and I already wish to draw a picture of you my dearest friend. Ill use my most beautiful words to decorate your chapter in my life, and a velvety fabric to accept all my colors.
cambridge trio – part 2
August 25, 2009 at 10:11 pm (encounters, introduction, questions, thoughts, wishes, writing)
Tags: airplane, cambridge, donkey, ex girlfriend, follow, pilot, pub, river, souvenirs, tel aviv, toys
2 men walking down the street that follows the river
2 women follow the men and the river
a man follows a woman, a woman follows a man. friends following each other footsteps, rhyming those with words that climb the little hill from the river slope to a quiet road of Cambridge after midnight. The local pub on the bridge was going to sleep. This time in Israel, I’m thinking to myself, I would call you to go out to our local tel avivian joint, I’m sure you’d like very much if we would ever met in Tel Aviv. Share a bottle of red wine and so many stories that we can invent with the power of our imagination. I think we both have much of that power.
but I meet you here in Cambridge. Our second encounter. The first was when Reuben read his story on the pilot and airplanes and I flew with my imagination to another country and you noticed that. After the story you set in front of me in that Indian restaurant, when my memory was burning in my eyes learning you play go. And Reuben’s memory was burning in the chair in front of him. It was not an easy place to be for any of us that night. But here we are again, exchanging our thoughts and zigzagging the road with lively conversation, a man follows a woman follows a man follows the river that follow us to your home.
I sit on the little sofa and my eyes are searching for those little details that tell so much about people I don’t know. I love learning about people from their personal belongings. From their books, from their toys, their photos on the wall, the plant that grows or dies in a pot. The little notes I find in their old outdoor Jacket. You surly have things in your pockets, but you’re English and we just met, no searching in pockets yet and I sit there next to Michal and we check your toys. I feel strange. Your eternal student style takes me back to tel aviv again. Are you sure we haven’t met there?
You’re big eyes look at us with blissful curiosity, almost like a child. Those pretty faces sitting in you’re living room, tucked in a small sofa, checking your private items, with no holds or embarrassment. Touching your books, your little ex girlfriends souvenirs, a little wood donkey, a plastic flower that opens in many colors. My eyes are rapidly crossing from your eyes to Michal’s approval to Reuben’s amused look.You smile often tonight, I am happy, at list I get a second chance to indulge you with my spirit. I feel so comfortable, Is it possible that I meet a person for the second time who knows me so well. A woman follows her past. a man follows his friend.
cambridge trio – part 1
August 25, 2009 at 8:28 am (encounters, me, personal, questions, thoughts, wishes, writing)
Tags: anatolia, bridge, cambridge, carmel, farewells, past, punters, train, turskish
I asked you to join us in Cambridge. 2 friends and a farewell to share. a man I wish to learn more about, a river that flows through knowledgeable eyes and a riddle hiding in between the old walls.
we left from Liverpool street. Michal holding a bag that contains too many clothes for 24 hours, I hold a bag of chocolates. we may need that, as farewells are not my sweet choice. the slower train to Cambridge passed through small villages with a cow planted in a wide green lawn. Small lakes tainting summery day with fresh drops. you are like this, in my Life. can you see why I love you?
we arrived . the lady of the brooklands B&B told us its about 10 minutes walk from her home. she wasn’t accurate. she’s Israeli. we walked about 35 minutes and Michal’s bag seemed to be heavier, as we approached the back side of the station and Cambridge that was not the sight you dream about when farewells approach through the eyes of Shabbat.
we have about an hour to meet you and your friend on the bridge. Im exited. Michal is getting dressed and I check our room. our matrimonial room. too many kitschy decorations gives a false first impression of beauty like a too sweet chocolate with too many additives, sliding on my tongue , but not reaching my stomach. the room is covered with white fabrics and many ornaments , the owner collected previously, in a market in Israel I wonder or a 2 pounds shop in london?. lace fabrics and sparkly mirrors, little statues and fluffy materials attached to anything that can be tied . I cant tie myself to anything these days and so I watch all of this matrimonial business with more than a few questions, I lay on the comfy bed waiting for Michal to finish preparing herself and the blue ceiling with gold stars makes me smile when I think of you probably wearing your blue shirt right now.
we order a cab to take us to the bridge point at bridge street. you told us to meet you there , next to the Turkish Anatolia and to the river I wish to walk inside one day . we walk together Michal and I , almost hand in hand as the beautiful summer and the beautiful town, tends to plant love in ones heart. we chat lightly about this wonderful town and our previous and current lovers. the punters humming in a small group sitting next to the bridge and a boat crossing underneath the bridge with 2 couples and a dinner they share . we wished it would feel like that in the Turkish restaurant. the café and pub on the square were already buzzing with the local tourists of the weekend, a woman with a floral dress walked gently to embrace a man with blue eyes, kissing him gently twice. I noticed you and Alistair arriving from behind her and wanted to run towards you and give you a hug, but I slowed down.
we entered the restaurant, a good smell welcomed us and we set next to one of the very colorful tables covered with cloth that reminded Michal of south America. first chat of people who introduce themselves, some met before and some didn’t, little innuendos of first times. glimpses of one eye to another eye. small talk of patterns and colors and scents. Gestures of introduction and I feel it was a great choice to come here. you are relaxed this evening. Your eyes match your shirt and you tell me you like that wine that that goes well with the food here. I trust you. Michal and I are exchanging words in Hebrew , mostly not on the men we sit with but on the atmosphere that gradually develops to a gay tune. We order the food , 3 same dishes and a cuscus. Fresh salads arrive first and I notice my grandmother wine leaves are smaller. I take the fresh pitta and dig into the chumus, the habit of using a fork with it still seem to me a bit out of place. even after 3 years in a country that use cutlery sometime with no relation to the origins of the food or the natural movements that goes with it. chumus need that round curvy little movement of the wrist followed by the smile I give you when I think of another chumus I shared with a tall man and his friend years ago on the top of mount Carmel. and I feel so close suddenly. I sip a bit more of my wine and I cross my words with Alistair.
the evening passes by and we exchange many words and stories and thoughts , different patterns of conversation are being created over the very patterned table cloth. I talk with 3 people and with all of them and with myself and I feel that I also talk a bit with my past. you would argue with me over my sentiments but I don’t care right now. I am looking forward to the rest of this evening as mint tea is served with desert.
cambridge trilogy or more. the meal
August 23, 2009 at 5:34 pm (encounters, introduction, questions, thoughts, wishes, writing)
Tags: mother, home, katy perry, baba ganush, eggplant, englishman, dark eyes
baba ganush. my mom makes the best.
I think of her while sitting in the train
watching your beautiful mother calling her daughter on the phone.
dark eyes mother anticipating her dark eyes girl to come back home.
we are both holding dark eyes at one another. sharing the train seat and the same homeland
I could have been your mother
long time ago when mothers had been less selfish than me
and had children.
we cross the bridge, punters pride
looking more like sisters when searching our souls
an encounter is gathered , 2 men and a glimpse
we follow their choice and our hearts,
Katy Perry is playing in mine and I need a drink
4 plates on an ethnic cloth,
welcome our appetite and your trek back home,
I smell fresh eggplant and I know we made the right choice
trusting an Englishman in Cambridge
stop
August 21, 2009 at 12:33 am (encounters, me, personal, questions, thoughts, wishes, writing)
Tags: fingers, heavy breath, stop
I stopped at the corner of your mouth,
where a tip of a smile search for my curvy hold.
I stopped at the edge of your hand,
where fingers learn to catch the drop of my scarf.
I stopped at the brink of your ear,
where wishful thinking grasp my hopes.
I stopped at the entrance to your mind,
where thoughts gather to cover my heavy breath
farewells
August 19, 2009 at 10:30 pm (encounters, me, personal, questions, thoughts, wishes, writing)
Tags: departure desk, farewells, impossible, tears
but I already know farewells.
goodbye to a best friend in a corridor of tears,
to a dead beloved under an olive tree.
to my mother in her kitchen spiced with garlic and thyme,
a silent goodbye to my father before the departure desk.
to my colleges every year when the summer is coated by a dry desert embrace,
to an impossible lover every full moon in winters, storming moods like a northern wind
to your lips on the phone telling me we meet in the mountains in less than a day
I know those farewells.
sneaking behind my back as I ignore their steps. pulling a rough material over my head pretending to be a silky scarf that becomes my sadness. I know those farewells, naked letters on a clean paper, coding words I don’t know how to spell, spilling cliches to taint my eyes .I know those farewells, uninvited and scratching.
I wish I didn’t know them
Damascus gate
August 17, 2009 at 8:55 pm (encounters, introduction, questions, thoughts, wishes, writing)
Tags: damascus gate, heart, home, hope, life, mint tea, muslim, old city, orthodox, personal, sabre, thoughts, writing
