The charmer. A person that has the ability to capture with tiny nuances of the face the attention of any person alive.  I do not go beyond that as I have some suspicious ideas that he/she can also allure those who stopped breathing. But we haven’t tried that yet he and me and you.  Sometimes the charmer use words too, those like his face gestures are elusive and yet creates rich texture of praises , like a poem that forces me to listen even more carefully , to be spelled by his perfect spelling of  human signs, paying attention to the movement of his lips, those I wish to kiss in most cases. I refer to the charmer as a male, because I deal with those mostly. Not that I have not been charmed by women before, but to be honest, its been a while since one of my sisters had managed to charm me for more than a meeting or 2.

The charmer doesn’t have to be handsome, but his eyes must have unique features. Their colour, intensity, the eyebrows holding them, all those have to be different from the rest of us, People who may charm occasionally others but not at any moment or anyone. The charmer will give all of his attention to you during a conversation, whether holding a glass of wine, an espresso or your hand. He doesn’t have to hold anything really. He already holds your mind with witty remarks about your lovely features or many talents. I am a bit more aware now, that I can read those charmers. But somehow care less about my knowledge; I let him penetrate my brain, my thoughts, my ego as if it belongs to him already. Take me and wrap me over you neck as a winter scarf or a convicts rope. Eventually if the charmer chooses one of his captives  to be its sweetheart he may need that scarf in cold nights, or a rope in worst cases. in some cases I may be his lucky charm, nice to bring to meet the parents or best friends, wearing me as a token to the fact he chose me fro all the others. or to be an amulet radianting more of his magical strength.  Respect!!!

 The charmer makes sure I know he charms me. I’m a bit more complicated than other women and so he uses some gestures to reassure I’m still charmed, normally to do with my looks and my wit. If I’m a bit more rigid that day, he will insult me a bit! Laughing about it. Making me feel that I wish to go back to the moments where he just complimented or guilty for not accepting his fragility.

I spent an evening this week with 2 of those typos. They tried their material on one another and I was left there , enchanted to look, listen, wonder and understand that their talent to ravish me works even when they totally ignore me. I’m finally awake.

to start a new language

to wrap my fears on  your tongue

when your mother is watching

and your god as well

a brave woman

a fool inlove

I am who I am

in every dialect you wish

להתחיל  שפה חדשה

לעטוף את פחדי על לשונך

כאשר אמך צופה בנו

ואלוהיך גם

אישה אמיצה

או מאהבת שוטה ?

אני מי שאני

בכל ניב  שתרצה

I clean the dust of My Menorah. candle’s left over pieces of wax I  don’t peel. they are there to remind me of the good old  times . dust  I’m just allergic to

Why am I talking about gentiles all the time?. I should open the hidden drawer behind my concience that gives a few answers, after a small research. shed some light over the thoughts locked in my mind that not everybody understand through my never ending poems .

And so… I write on those gentiles because of 2 main reasons . I’m in a constant search for a gentleman for the past 7 years and I have issues with my identity. OK, it sounds wrong somehow to tell it like this so let’s be more accurate . I actually have a gentleman and a very profound, eventough complexed, identity. but the gentleman is confused and my identity is revolting against the body that holds it. a 40-year-old body in reasonable condition but tired brain cells . those can’t really agree any more with broken hearts crisis , fragile new beginnings, non conformist partnership and dilemmas of lonely people. the body tough is in need for a young embrace , for compassionate duo. lately there was even a dialog between my body and brain concerning a family. the Idea of a child had been planted in my being without even asking me first .. and my still fertile body had become attractive to some of the opposite sex that wondered about my possible plans for the future. that caught me off guard. me with no answers is rare and therefor not so me .and so the 2 parts of me body and soul are in constant argument and dilemmas that attracts the confusing significant others too. longtime since I had a man who knows what he wants and goes and grab it. a strong man who may still be a gentleman.

I get the gentiles . a little check up of what that means I found out a gentile doesnt mean non Jew in particular . gentile wasnt a word to be found in the Old Testimony, than they used GOY גוי  to describe the the people who are not the Israelites  . the other nations. nothing to do with the religion. goy later on was translated from the greek word ETHNOS –  to the roman term to –  Gentiles – nations. other nations.  others.  those who are not roman citizens. those who are not jews was added later as gentiles who became the dictionery term we are all familiar with to non jews.

I tend to choose those others , those who are everything but. ok let’s be accurate again. I got one of those who is everything but. but.but I love him

http://www.ensignmessage.com/archives/whogentiles.html

The gentile caresses me

Long twitchy fingers of sweet distinction

Dropping  my pretentious faces

Clicking my name with an accent I am stranger to

On his wide keyboard of thoughts

The gentile embraces me

Thick wintry hugs of remote places

Brightening my patronising gestures

Wrapping my scarf with a dialect I’m not familiar with

On an arm of a chair he rest upon

The gentile seduces me

Smouldering eyes of secluded emotions

Confusing my mixed intentions

Spreading my clothes with an idiom I find peculiar

On a red rug belayed on a cold floor

some issues with my muse.

its a male muse and hes not around. so I’m searching  for a fruit to comfort me and to give me another reason of why to continue writing  in his own mother tongue,  when I don’t even like his mom.

Listening to the magnificent Susan Boyle adaptation of Wild horses of the Rolling stones. one of those  songs which one says how dare you  even thinking of touching such a tune. or lyrics. but she  takes it with her penetrating voice and she takes me to those wild  Mongolian landscapes  where you promised      you’ll teach me one day how to ride a wild horse. we tried in Israel when Tomer took us to his family stable  in the south and I had  been handed a  horse that I couldn’t control and  dropped me on a big stone with terrible pains and black signs for over 6 months. you fell inlove with me than realising you cant lose me. I fell inlove with you the  week after when you arrived to the hospital with bad  blood  and a memory of a kiss next to an  angry horse.

we never tried those wild horses in Mongolia  but I fell inlove with  you again and again and again. and now I’m listening to  this brave  lady and know that its time  to dare again.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yb3XAP0c8WU

we sit in this small cafe in a central bookshop, holding a book and a blackberry, unseen borders between us and I wonder about our differences. 2 completely different types of fruits . like bananas and oranges.well  maybe more like grapes and oranges to be accurate and. you’ll be the grapes , thats a compliment and Ill be the orange as you are un able to compliment me, unless I demand.

why can’t I wonder about our mutual characters? we obviously share some. I have to focus on drawing those from learning our fruits type closer.  I google for our types. the latin determinations are important in your case , just to clarify our family names. fruits do share a few things in common even if looking completely different. flavours that tickles ones tongue when fresh, the fears of over ripping under the sun, the fragility clinging from high trees, the acidity when not happy with the weather around. the ship that brought them from a warm place ti an island that urge their presence. the need to retain as much knowledge within their shells. you withing your thin layer of grape skin , myself in my slightly thicker aromatic cover. your skin transparent and your knowledge is reflected through its variations to the world to pick and taste. mine is hidden under slightly bitter white layer, yet tempting the ones wishing to peel its covers to be sprayed withh my energetic wit. I need you to peel me once in a while from my over-cautious covers. I need to learn words  to spice my zesty drops of citrus flash with other flavours around me. I also need to take a stroll through your berries and blow them around, get them away from their communal stem as if they may explode if not released to small molecules .

your over loaded grapes conscience clustered in layers is opposite to my selfish citrus simple stand. proudly growing from its orange flower , spreading a scent that overwhelms those who stand close to listen to its bloody drops . your turbulent curvy growth covers for the absence of a glorious scent. youre the crimson kind. velvety attracting its fans to listen to its deep tunes. I am unable to escape my origins . I come in shades of orange , but I supply a shallow encounter with taste and so should be only consumed in small portions . your shiny and smooth, gliding around when spread on a plate.  Im shiny and dimple.

I try to hold your hand in that bookshop , surrounded by other fruits and vegetables of the human kind . not completely in ease with the decoration around us , Id rather take you to sit on one of the shelfs on the floor above us. discuss our differences in the poetry section where honest wordswill get me closer to your pallet.

somewhere over the rainbow

hides a cloud. and you are in its belly, shivering from the endless moist I shed over you. a cloud that follows me , overlooking the window Im looking through to possibly catch you. you hide well. but I can still feel you. youre guarding me this week I can feel that too. guarding and guiding .

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.