End of Kipple #14

September 5, 2011
Rumour has it that the world will end in September. That's when words written on paper either become official or not and reality marches millions on borders, so we're screwed either way. We can predict that things will get messy. Well, they're messy in general in this balagan of a country, so there's not so much unknown to prepare for there.

The people are marching in the streets, still. Up to 400,000. Chanting in unison: העם דורש צדק חברתי--The nation wants social justice. Which sounds much better in Hebrew than in English.

"The government couldn't have asked for a better time for pigu'im (terror attacks)," a friend of mine says, after the string of attacks on the road near Eilat. "It proves the security and defense budget need to be bolstered, no lessened." Not that the government wants pigu'im--this place isn't like bigger countries. You're only half a degree removed from anyone here, at most, and the political agendas are wholly intertwined with the personal.

Everything's personal here but this generally produces the opposite effect of what it would anywhere else. We let it slide. We can pick up and go. Families are tight and never too far off. If we are lone immigrants, we make friends who become family. We are wrapped in a blanket of ourselves and we'll live and die together.

I take off for America in a month-and-a-half. My first time visiting as an ex-patriot. I'm excited to visit-that it's only a visit, and that in the end, I'll be coming home. Things are looking up: My job is great, my friends are great, I live a 20-minute walk from the Mediterranean Sea. All the little things add up and make life absolutely beautiful where before, there was too much smog in the way to see it.

Recently, a friend of mine went off to find himself in America. He came back already.

"How was it?" I asked.

"Just like you remember," he said. And someone else told me "Worse than".

Aah. Just like I remember. Gilded in all its glory and decaying underneath. The greatest disappointment of my life.

Pheraps it is not all bad. Disappointment never shut me down, for all I might complain. It has been the Great Motivator to move on and change a situation for the better.

September 19, 2011
Everything looks worse looking in. Tomorrow, supposedly the world, as we know it, ends.

Plan accordingly.

Develop a good repertoire of bluegrass and old school folk.

Sing about angels and flying away. About saviours glorified in anticipation. About endless distances under endless distances under endless skies. About the end of this world and the beginning of the next.

Sing about gain and loss, about clear water and about trains steaming down the tracks.

Sip your coffee slowly. Enjoy every sip. Suck the marrow out of life. Do not, when you come to die, discover that you have not lived.

There is too much weight on shoulders, passed down and down to us. It is no one's fault--and everyone's. How do you stop the spiral spin out of control?

"Darling, hold fast to your own life."
"Easier said than done. Do you think we're all just on vacation?"
"On hiatus from Forever? Indeed."
"We all have our complaints, I suppose."
"Yes."
"Where is Uriel?"
"Where is relative, darling."
"Relatively..."
"That angel is on an errand. Patience."
"Is a virtue."
"You are blessed."
"With too much. My blessings are my curses."
"Then live with them."
"There is no other choice. Dying with them is most certainly worse and I'll hold off on that."




The angel bows. And I am alone.

End of Kipple #13

 July 29, 2011

Ask my generation of America how we feel about American Dreams. The answers reverberate with disappointment.

Clarkie Expats

We aren't dying in the trenches for the most part. But we are dying of disease, of suicide, of pointless, causeless crime. We are dying of loss. Of broken hearts.

We scatter to the four winds. We take America with us. I find the country I love more than anything else in the world bursting at the seams with passion far beyond its borders.

On the streets of my  new country, I may not agree with all the protests. But every time I pass them, shove through them, I grin from ear to ear. Tel Aviv is exploding with the fury of the people.

July 30, 2011

These days, there's a protest about everything. Walk down Rothschild and we've got a tent city for the next five months. "The Housing Protest." Because "the rent is too damn high". And damn it, we're going to impose homelessness on ourselves (sort of) until the government does something about it.

Elyaqim

Signs everywhere scream "If I were a Rothschild" and because we're all into irony and half-assed wittiness around here, the masses set up their tent city along the richest street in the city, just to piss off those who don't have to worry about the rent being too damn high in their front gardens. Because they're probably the ones raising the prices too damn high.

The protesters are adamant: "We're not leaving!" 

"This is a democracy and the people say..."

"This is capitalism, opening the market to everyone, closing the gap between rich and poor."

The tent city feels like a carnival, fully equipped with fire throwers, street musicians, magicians, food vendors.

I can point out the blatant hypocrisies of this gang: how they all seem to be clean, despite the fact that they have supposedly abandoned their roofs and plumbing for the duration of the demonstration. Over 100 days. How, despite the too damn high prices, the street musicians come equipped with state-of-the art performance equipment: speaker systems, computers with mixing programs. And the tents are relatively empty. The possessions are being stored--Mom and Dad's place? In the apartment we're not sleeping in but still pay for even though the rent is too damn high?

Well, the rent is too damn high, so I'm all for doing something about it. But if I were sleeping in the tents of Rothschild Blvd., you better believe I wouldn't be handing over the rent check every month. Maybe it's working. There have been rumours floating around from Up Top about building new units and subsidizing all of us whiners for the interim.

Of course there was the "Cottage Cheese Protest," which was relatively successful. Same basic principles as the housing kaboom: "The price of dairy is too damn high, how are we supposed to feed ourselves?" Solution: stop buying dairy for a significant period of time.

Social Justice Protest, Tel Aviv, July 30, 2011

A bowl of cottage cheese was sent as a "gift" to the Prime Minister because it is so damn expensive, he should cherish that bowl forever because the people think so highly of him. And whaddya know? Prices dropped by two or more shekels. I had cottage cheese with breakfast the other day. We're still whining, but not as much.

The doctors have been protesting for months, on a rotational basis. "There aren't enough of us." "We don't get paid enough" and, as we all know, "the cost of living is too damn high". To rectify the plight of the doctors, though, will require a complete overhaul of the medical system--not the health plans, but the admission rate of doctors in this country. Perhaps open the door to Nurse Practitioners and Physician's Assistants in the country. Less of a burden on the doctors, more health care accessibility for the people. No need for an ongoing MD hunger strike.

It's going to be a long one.

The "Young Couples Protest". They bring the babies in the strollers. "Diapers are too expensive." "Day care is too expensive." "Everything is too expensive, how are we supposed to raise our children like this!?"

The Social Workers were also on strike but sadly, to hardly any avail.

My roommate says: "The country is in a balagan!"

A Housing Protester at the Social Justice Rally, TA

I love it. It's the era of America I missed, having been born too late. But for here, I was born right on time.

It disappoints me that Americans aren't doing the same thing. Just imagine if. I feel like I can be more American in Israel than I could ever have been in the States. Plus the fact that here, it might be getting bad, so we scream about it, whereas the situation has long become unsalvageable in America.

I think I'll stay. I know I'll stay. My job might be horrible, but my life is great. Here, there is so much to live for beyond mere existence. What is important in the end is what counts here. Not the ticky-tacky in between.

End of Kipple #12

July 23, 2011
There is not a day that goes by that I don't ask myself at least five times why I gave up on everything and naturalized myself into this crazy place. But there is not a night nor morning that I regret it, that I am any less than absolutely certain that it was the best decision of my life.

Sure, I feel more free here than in "The Land of--" and rail against the place I came from, for everything is has allowed itself to become and everything it hasn't. American is my greatest love affair gone awry. All promises broken, all expectations spent. I will never get over it.


Nearly one hundred years after our first Lost Generation, we are lost again, scattered globally, reifying the American Dream that found itself impossible to realize within American borders. True, I could have stayed, fought forever in vain to change what cannot be changed and sacrificed that greatest gift of existence.

Perhaps I am selfish. Perhaps I have left Uncle Sam down and although I feel completely betrayed, I still asked myself "not what my country can do for [me] but what [I] can do for [my] country". I asked and Providence answered truthfully: "Nothing. Go out and create the Dream beyond here. Represent the best possible and fight by being the opposite of expectations".

I am tired of complaints matched with complacency. I am tired of rhetoric and no action and no results. So I throw myself full-force into it where I can and I do not stop. I will be a juggernaut, if need be.

End of Kipple #11

May 30, 2011

"Yes, I made Aliyah," I can say, and I know that sentence is loaded with whatever religious, historical, imperialistic, and political weight we put on it. I have heard that word, "aliyah," used in a reverent tone, an excited one, a loathsome one, a bitter one. I can translate it: "I ascended"--to this place so full of contradictions it makes my mind reel. 

But there is a Midrash that asks: "Why is the Torah compared to water?" The answer is a simple one: "Because water flows to the lowest places. The Torah finds those who are the most humble and the most downtrodden and reaches out to them. Those at the top are left without the sustenance of life." So perhaps we have all ascended merely to to go down again. Perhaps I must follow the water down to its sources and pool there, create subterranean oceans with it, feed the land above, because not everything that exists meets the eye. Remember that beauty is rooted in something unseen. Try to find it and rest there with it.

However you feel about "aliyah," I did it. I ask myself everyday if I am insane. The answer is always, irrevocably, "Yes". But I would never live anywhere else. The thought of that scares me half to death.

Over the next week or so, I will be moving from this City on the Hill, where I can't find gold anywhere other than the cheap kind that gilds. I am very tired of holiness these days. It just doesn't turn me on. Maybe a day trip here and there. Man-manufactured holiness beats me down, stifles me. I need open spaces, freer thinking, less judgement. That is holy. But I don't want to think about it. Just let me be.

I found an apartment in Yafo, very near the sea, and very near central Tel Aviv. I found an amazing roommate and an amazing location. I get mixed reactions:

"Yafo! That's amazing! Yafo is awesome! Really suits you! Really artsy. Lots of music. Lots of art," etcetera. And "Yafo! Why would you move there? Aren't there lots of Arabs there?"

My first reaction is to ask, "Aren't there lots of Arabs in Jerusalem?" I asked that yesterday and was answered with "But Jerusalem is Jerusalem." I held my tongue but wanted to say "But Israel is Israel and the Middle East is the Middle East."

Maybe I'm pretty much on my own on this one, but I don't tend to judge people by what they are.I don't tend to condemn people because of where they come from or what they look like. I judge people by who they are and go from there. I never knew how to see what people looked like on the surface. I had to be taught that this was important in society when I was young. I learned to force myself to look at something I always thought was inconsequential. 

I still force myself to look and I still don't understand it. But I am almost 24 years old and I still struggle to see the point the crowds are screaming at me, insisting that it's important that I notice whether you're black or white, Arab or Jewish, etc. etc. Talk to me and then I'll see you. Walk up to me with your masks and I won't. 

End of Kipple #10

May 24, 2011
I have been writing, just not posting because life is hectic. I will post retroactively, obviously, but here's a slight update:
1. Ulpan is ending officially in about two weeks (June 6).
2. The Ulpan final exam is in two days from now (Thursday, May 26).
3. I have found a wonderful apartment in the city of Yafo (Jaffa) and am moving there permanently on June 1, for at least a year.
4. I love my job!
5. Life is great.
6. It's all in the music and the gigs are picking up.
7. The world is apparently simultaneously exploding and imploding around us, but if I didn't watch the news, I wouldn't have the slightest clue, even though I technically live in East Jerusalem.
8. Word has it that the s&*t has hit the fan, isn't just about to, and the world is changing in big, bad ways. We need leaders, rational thinkers, partners for peace, etc. etc. I say: Since when has any era differed when it comes to the mood, trivialities, and obscenities of the human race?

May 20, 2011
I guess we can count 64 ways in retrospect to solve an issue and say what we could've done, what we should've done. One for each year. For the times, they are a'changing. That's what the media says, at least. Life doesn't change much anyway. We keep on going just the way we have been. Illusions are reality if properly sustained.

Praying Mantis by the Jordan River

Can you see me changing? Can you feel it? It's different looking from the inside-out than it was when I was looking in. Things are necessary--states and borders, people divided. This division is comparable to Siamese twins who share a heart. Nearly unsustainable, the heart beats for both and they resent each other--it is a mutual dependence and a knowledge that one must go and the other stay. But they can't imagine a world apart or without the other or without themselves. Who can?

Surgery is always risky. Better to save one, if possible, than to definitely lose both. But saving one is still only a possibility. Both may be lost anyway. The twins are two sides of the same coin, forever joined and forever facing apart.

Israel is one face of a trick coin that will always land on "Heads". We are on the brink of something we've all tentatively imagined but couldn't quite make clear. Hope is frail. Neither side can live without the tension of the other.

I am reminded that we hate the most what we love even more but won't admit to. We know no other life. Violence is the background of society here. Perhaps it is the foundation. The threat of no tomorrow, or not today, the reality of precariousness lends itself to life here. We are the fragile prism hanging frozen in time at the pinnacle of the parabolic arch into which we've been thrown. The prism is most beautiful in the moment before it shatters.

House Garden at Kibbutz Ma'agan Micha'el

Israel would love peace but we have no idea what that means. The idea is familiar, a memory itching at the backs of our minds, unrealizable. The army forges brotherhood, turns little boys into men in a split second during an ambush just outside of Sh'chem when one little boy ends and the rest have to carry him home. What would we be without the little boy in the box? I can tell you easily: a completely different country. Our whole lives revolve around knowing that this may be the last time we ---, around knowing that we may never get to do ---, and that someone close to us won't. Period. This is my side of the coin.

Since I face in the opposite direction, I can't speak for Palestine. I can only tell you how it feels to be forged together with a face that looks through eyes I'll never possess. From here, I can't see how Palestine can sustain itself on a basic economic level. I can't see how owning merely one side of the coin will ever constitute enough. I can't see a lessening of pride. I can only feel it. Feelings are whimsical and bar the path of logic. But I know that emotion is what drives us as a race, I know that it's instinct, and not logic. So I continue to trust the feeling of the other side although I am blind to the light.

Miraculously, the heart of the twins still beats. But the twins will both die in the end, for the brink on which we stand is the edge of a forge. The coin will be melted down and remolded. What the mold will create, I can't say. I can't even imagine it.

I can say that I will be a part of it. I can say that without a doubt.

May 2, 2011

Yom HaSho'a Ceremony

It has been a year again and it is Yom HaSho'A, Holocaust Remembrance Day. The melodies are somber and so is the mood. The melodies are traditional and after awhile,  catch myself swaying in the way I used to, when I believed firmly in mimicking the flickering sway of a candle so that my body prayed in rhythm with my soul.

The swaying is comforting even though I don't believe in it anymore. Still, I miss being religious. I miss believing in that way even though
I know that I can never believe again. God is somewhere out there, but not to answer prayers. God is only as much as I make It and as much as you make It. God is our own collective and the unfortunate truth is that we are human and incapable of substantial change as a race, despite our ability to understand what is needed on a theoretical level.

It is nice to see people who can cry. I've trained myself not to because I know if I start, I'll never be able to stop. I let the sorrow pass through me as far as it will go. But it is incapable of passing through completely. It merely collects at the bottom of a well that I have dug deep inside myself. Part of me wishes that one day it will overflow and I'll know how to be human again. Part of me needs to keep it buried. I know I'm human already. There are just so many ways a person can survive this world without breaking down when there are too many faces you used to know who can never be seen again.

Because of those faces, I know that the God I used to believe in isn't there. I know it doesn't care and never did and never will. I know that miracles are not divine, merely lucky coincidence, and I know that hell is here, all around us, created by us and by the simplicity of the universe that merely exists. I know, too, that if there is a heaven, I have seen it.

I am driven to create. I am mad to create. Creation is the only salvation, although we all know that everything comes to an end. Ignore that fact of ending and create anyway. Create until you can't anymore so that the creation lives beyond you.

End of Kipple #9

March 23, 2011
Phones are ringing off the hook today, calling, being called. Mine goes dead from all the traffic. But before it does, my friend calls me to make sure I'm all right.

Sculpture of Sampson on Mamilla

"Unfortunately, you get used to this," he says. "Life keeps going but it's sad because now, you'll feel the change. People will stop going out." And indeed, the streets are rather empty tonight, but I can pretend it's because of the cold.

"Welcome to Israel," another friend tells me. "Now you're really a part of it."

Yes. But fortunately, today, I took a detour before heading to Har Nof to return my borrowed cell phone and I was not on the 74 or at my bus stop waiting. I was not a part of shattered glass and the ended life or of the lives immediately interrupted by shrapnel.

"Unfortunately, you get used to this." In response I say, "In a way, I already am."

I know how life holds us all precariously, like unweighted feathers resting lightly on her palm in the wind. I know how death waits patiently with his fingers wrapped around our throats so that we get used to him. So that we hardly notice him anymore. So that that he almost always catches us by surprise.

We talk about life-as-usual. We go on our dates. We enjoy starlight above the Old City.

Let me come clean on this one: I am over the Green Line. Way over. But I couldn't tell you where I cross it. I let the bus route take me.

Outside the Old City

From up on my hill, the land sprawls out beautifully. There are no borders. Borders are made my man, built, imagined, razed. All I see from up on the hill is beauty--and it's impossible to imagine the workings of the human race that build and destroy so whimsically.

It feels different as an Israeli. This is my city, my bus stop, my bus, my friends, my family. And I wonder how we have sustained this madness for so long, how we can perpetuate it merely by being incapable of imagining another way.

March 30, 2011
A week later and we're back to normal. One bomb can't stop the party. Or maybe we're over it. The glitch was just a gentle reminder: be vigilant. Keep an eye out. Keep both eyes open. Don't ever sleep deeply.
There's no rush, just an urgency. We don't discuss it. Why discuss the obvious?

So? We could die in a minute? We always can.

God twitches a little. It's involuntary. What to do? And we're in the way. Insignificant little fleas.

We go ahead with vacation, as planned. Eilat. Maximum south.

In truth, we can walk to Jordan or Egypt. We've walked farther before. We can swim there, in the chilly water.

The Egypt-Israel Int'l Border

I swear, the Red Sea is the bluest water I've ever seen in my life. It's too vibrant to be real and in the water, the borders are really imaginary. The water is too clear for borders, but the proud flags flying remind us when we come up above the surface that we're human. We have to choose.

One of my roommates and another immigrant have the same birthday. They've spent months planning this weekend in Eilat. It begins with a טיול (tiyyul-trip, hike, outing). We're freezing in the pitch black, like the ninth plague. But we can move.

To escape the strongest wind, we decide to camp in a crater. Sleeping bags are laid out, food is prepared by flashlight. We huddle together, body-to-body, warmth begets warmth. We make tea, but only for our hands.

At 5:30, we pretend to wake up and by 7:00, we're off. We are hiking to Eilat from the mountains. It takes 12 hours, including a total of 2 hours of rest. Strenuous, raw, beautiful. Beautiful beyond description. Silent, divine.

Israel from the Eilat Mts, the Red Sea and Jordan

Divine.

Seven years ago, Uriel told me that it and its brethren were born here, in the desert. All of them left me alone this time, gave me space, let me connect with the earth in a Human way for once, instead of saturating me with holy commentary. Except when I needed them.

"Help me," I say, "to climb down the ladder." So they help me because I've never overcome my fear of heights.

They help me climb up and down but the help is minimal. They have learned to listen after all this time, or perhaps seeing all this for myself was the message this time around.

Either way, I made it.

Once in Eilat, we check into the hotel, take showers and quick naps before going to dinner and to sleep. At least I went to sleep. I have no idea what everyone else did.

Eilat Mountains

In the morning we fight with boat captains about enough space and the price of a cruise. After much ado and more ado, we get off our reserved boat and end up taking another. Great sun, air, food, and company. There is a large group of Estonian tourists with us. Apparently, Estonia has opened itself up to massive amounts of tourism to and from "the Holy Land". I wonder how we look to them.

When vacation is over and we return to Jerusalem, I return to the fact that my absorption is nearly complete, according to the Absorption Check-List. I'm employed, I have friends, and my Hebrew is steadily improving.

Now I'm looking for an apartment and prospective roommates. Furniture or a furnished room. I'm figuring out Pesach plans. Life is good. Life is so good.



Because I have a job, I don't have to worry about paying my National Insurance, and the door has opened up to going home for a visit and possibly even going to Turkey to meet the best person in the world for one day in July. So, I have to go back to the Misradim (offices) and get a travel document or passport. I can also afford to transfer my driver's license to Israel. Wish me luck. And come visit after June.

End of Kipple #8

March 7, 2011

I feel the need to clarify: these entries obviously convey frustration. Many readers seem to be interpreting frustration as "misery" which is absolutely not the case! 

Almond Flowers!

Maybe it would make you miserable. I can't say I wouldn't blame you. But: It is all in good humor and the average Israeli complains more than he smokes, which is really saying something, in case you didn't know. 

Ok, so it's lonely and irrational, chaotic, downright insane. But I love it and I've never been happier or more sure of any decision I've made in my life. Yes. I'm crazy. But aren't we all? So, I don't love Jerusalem? I have the Galilee, Tel Aviv, the Negev.

I hope that helps to calm some of your worries or doubts regarding my state of mind and how wonderful it is to live here. I encourage you to visit--once I'm settled in an apartment situation.

'Nough said.

March 2, 2011

Slowly but surely, things fall together. In many ways, Aliyah is like being born all over again. You get spat out, full of scum. This time, no one will wipe you off or unclog your nostrils. No one will hold you when you cry, so you have to clean yourself, hold yourself.

Tu Bishvat at Beit Canada 

Being cradled in the arms of air is all right. I can't fall anywhere because I'm already as far down as we can go without digging. But pens run out and Truth changes. This gift for this moment, then a loss--and another gift for that moment.

Jerusalem opens up for me. I meet a friend. Someone is waiting for me behind a counter, on the street. I get a tour of the Old City. It's quiet there, full of ghosts, history, many orders of angels. The present meets the past and together we make the future. I am in love with this place and I don't know why.

I am in love with the way fathers here can show affection. The children know they're loved.

I am in love with the streets, with the people on them--the way they don't know how free they are while I grew up free on paper.

Everything's a matter of perspective here and I am entitled to mine. Here I feel really free and not just rhetorically free. They can yell at me and I can yell right back.

Bunnies in Yokneam

In America we yell all the time. even with hundreds of millions, there is still so much empty space. I think that space got into me and never filled me up. I mourn for America now. There is nothing I can do to fix her other than speak softly for her, halfway around the world. The American Dream went East. If we will it, Eden is within us.

February 28, 2011

There are a million ways to hold your breath if you're waiting for something that won't ever come. I swear, I've tried almost all of them but I'm over it. There's a whole planet of air to breathe and, dammit, I'm gonna breathe it until we've burned it all out.

I'm a magnet for absurdity. No question. Keep it coming. I must have a sign in Invisible Neon flashing brightly on my forehead calling desperately for every weirdo to break into the territory. Unbeknownst to me, of course. I just mind my own business and they flock.

There be madness on the streets here, but we haven't imploded-exploded like everyone else around us. Count it as a blessing. Count it as a curse.

Me!

Paint me any which way you want--now I'm a part of it and I'm glad. Something about the dust rolling off the streets here makes people glow. I've been told I'm one of them. But if everyone glows, it's nothing special.

One week has brought its usual healthy supply of marriage proposals by old men that could be my grandfather. Let's put it this way: if I said yes, they'd be doing pretty well in life and I wouldn't, until they kicked the bucket and I inherited his "fortune". It would be a case of "Lyin' Eyes" and driving towards the other side of town. What are these idiots thinking? I will never be that desperate. But I suppose they will...they are. And have been for years, most likely.