I guess I’m addicted. OK. I am. not guessing. admitting

addicted,  admitted, to these English words, to my work, to men with challenges, to shoes, to day dreaming on long streets with dusty cafes. to my Jasmin tea, to melodic tunes and street noises, to my computer and to carbs.

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.

there are a few sorts of forbidden fruits

those who contain too much sugar (grapes, water melon) that may ruin my diet. those who are too hard to old peoples teeth(fresh apples, nuts). those  who are raised  in Israel and some people rather not  buy them for humanitarian reasons they believe in (any kind of fruit that is exported from Israel). those who may seduce me from loving only him (extremely red apples, passion fruit , chocolate and cherries who were drowned in alcohol. and yes . you are too sort of a  forbidden fruit.

I thought of the many reasons of why they are forbidden, and which reason makes sense and whether I can  argue with  that sense. it sums up with the amount or consumption method that makes the different. not much philosophy but still important to make clear. I found that cautious consumption of any of the fruits will prevent hard consequences and killing the diet. baking the apples or shredding the nuts and mixing them with some milk will revive old skin . dates that were raised in the west bank are still geography wise considered Israel or at list not  yet another country and will support Palestinian farmers.  very red apples I don’t  like anyway . they re nice to watch.

Its only you I’m not aloud to consume. not even a tiny bite. not even one kiss.

Does a german bread with raisins considered a fruit ? for my little creative routine here. lets say it is

its one of those special breads Pretending to be more than it was chosen to be when baked. a bread to satisfy basic hunger. a cloth to a well made sauce , a sponge to all my tears when I need a fruit to put some happy calories in my heart, but all I have is this bread. An excellent one tough. whole wheat and whole raisins and nuts. musli bread they call it and the international shop sell it to all its Turkish customers who deserted their native pita to real serious pastries when immigrating to Germany.

Sometimes when being asked what’s my favourite thing to eat I answer with no hesitation, pastries. Anything with dough in it , rather fresh but also slightly aged I cant live without. Sometimes I think the answer should be fruits. It will be extremely boring to have life without fruits. Especially those who are not pretentious and stare at you from clean windows of transparent plastic covers, already sliced and cleaned and well behave. fruits that pretend to be healthy and wise and fruits.The fruits that make me happy are those who doesn’t pretend to be fruits. Those you have to stretch your arm to reach them, that you have to get your nails dirty when pealing them, that you have to bit your tongue if a surprise is hidden in their skin and you discover they have not yet reached puberty. fruits that you can imagine their smell walking down a frosty street.

Pastries strangely, I love them all. Fresh brioches puffing sugar on my nose, dark old thick Russian sour dough breads I buy in the market and ear for days, little pretty tartlets dancing behind glossy mirrors in French bakeries, chocolate fudge cakes sliding from too little plates in an American diner, Fresh pita swinging over a chumus in Jaffa, my mothers heavenly tiny burekas that burn my fingers as a punishment for my non patience manners. I love them all. Even the day after.

And I love you too.this dark bread on my table whose a bit dry and pretend to be a fruit to cheer me up when I’m sad. Who tries to be a sponge to my thoughts and my tears , who hides hard nuts in its flesh that keep me surprised and challenged and at the same time hurt when my teeth encounter them. After all I’m a Turkish immigrant who just has to get used to its muesli bread.

some people think they are important , holding a banana in my hand , I admit I dont like those who think they are important. I communicate well with those who knows it. for me it’s either you know you are important to your friends and family or youre humble enough to challenge that conspicuous statement. only those who are truly humble, (I know 3 in this world and one is dead)are the ones I wish to make fruit salad to in the morning.

 being the other kind , I know Im important to my friends and family, but Im not always sure admitting it is a virtue. I feel I may be perceived as the ones who think they are important and those , as said,  I dont appreciate. like beautiful perfectly shaped strawberries , with no flavour and completely not belonging to the season. my admissions are getting worse lately , as well as my longing to summer fruits,  and so I rather think of them instead.

I peal them carefully not to injure the fragile flesh of a citrus infant.

the international shop, down the road, managed to bring those fresh from the tree.  with the stem and leaves still attached. I can imagine the tree that gave birth to those. still containing blissful youth and raging splashes of sweet Juice. when touching my tongue, I’m happy.  I never have enough, can do 3 or 4 sometimes at one  go. my hands tinted with the skins oily texture, creating another layer of memories of winter cloudy days with a mug of wisotsky tea and home made philosophies on our blue sofa. I eat my clementine. sipping every drop that smells like home. I look at my tinted hands and head to the shower. I dont ever want to wash my hands from your memories. but I must .

the things I remember the most from my vacation in France besides women and their street  manners is the food I  had, in particular the pastries, the cheeses and the grapes.those beautiful end of summer,  early fall  grapes with much flavor dripping to my throat when I bite them and feel there cant be anything wrong in this world.

I  write this while holding  perfectly  shaped yet tasteless  British frosted grapes. imported for vain as they don’t create memories to the one  choosing to eat them. only longing to other  grapes.

fruits who do not create memories should not be imported.

the beauty of early mornings is by pretending they know you’re mood.

transparent as my fluid eyes, breathing  the  awakening world with short shots

of hopeful beginnings . fragile freshness reflected from my neighbors window. is it me ?

one more. I miss the yellow sunrises of a decade ago. when safety and warmth encountered me and I didn’t  have to look through the window to realise its morning

when

I’m tired of not being brilliant in the language I live with. The last 3 years I’m struggling with good level , limiting my ability to correspond intelligence the way I’m used to . Yes , one can tell he or she overcomes that by being more sophisticated and clear when bringing their thoughts to the paper by using other methods of communication to convince whoever they address . But I just want to come up with vocabulary that will kick the brain of some of my friends here, and that sadly doesn’t happen . I do not have the time to invest in reading the dictionary. shame yes, as my shelf does contain some space for that book. honestly I do not have the patience and brain capacity to learn too  many new words. My brain is shrinking while the rest of me is expending.  Now I’m depressed. Next year I am moving from good to being retarded in the language I’m going to live with. An infant will beat me in a small argument over Ice cream. Maybe its time to colour my hair blond and pretend I’m a tourist from Poland.

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.

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 .

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

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.

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

I don’t think they will ever ask to me participate in any talent show.  I wont be able to produce a  talent that is evident and acceptable besides my Jewish wittiness  that never perfects itself as I don’t stick to one  language too long. so Ill have to have my own talent show. a talent by itself , see where Oprah is now days. Ill create the OY VEY factor. Jewish kind of a  talent show which will  focus on how badly you had been with your family. and your natural sorry.  how many upsetting moment did you experienced with them, and your pleading skills. how many  wrinkles did  you add to your mother’s forehead. how many  white hairs did you grow on  your dad’s head or possibly how much hair  did he  lose because of  your oy vey behavior. Ill have to  share  with the audience the faults of my life ,  the men I slept with ,  the women I ignored. the rebellious (late age) actions I  took on myself,  the drugs, the  alcohol, the shoes, the addiction to the good life, the friends I  disappointed, the garbage I never  recycle ,  the wedding I never take, the spelling mistakes I didn’t fix to be possibly considered dumb. I wont be the only one to share of course her oy veys with the  world. whoever is tired of his  own behavior will be able to share its tale. non Jewish too. tough they wont  have any credentials for yom kippur collective sorry. they will just  humiliate themselves in public.  because its only us  that are  really sorry. for all the bed things we are blamed for by the world . we truly are  very sorry. so sorry we  wouldn’t mind by asking for  our family forgiveness in live broadcast .yes . this shows gudges* wont  include God or Oprah or Simon. its about your own parents accepting your apology. Tough.

* gudge – as in highland talk http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=gudge  / judge – as in your talk.sometimes mistakes makes us wiser. no grudges to any comments

some gentiles I don’t love.

their ignorance fuming from their eyes  is like a veil that darkens mine.

I patronize over their self loath, with pure indulgence to soften my pain.

sometime its shoes. Sometime I demand my Jewish mother to welcome me to her womb again.