Sunday, September 16, 2018

loving our home / H O M E

I love our little home.
We're back in it after four weeks on the road, traveling around Washington, Oregon and California. When we're on the road we sleep in the minivan. We have it set up in such a way that our stuff is in milk-crates underneath plywood and a memory-foam mattress. It's very comfortable for us. Nemo has her bed in the space between our bed and the front two seats. All three of us love being on the road. And now I'm loving being here, in our cozy fresh-wood-smelling little studio home. It's rainy out, and that makes it even more cozy. It feels a little bit like a hotel. Wait till tomorrow, though... Tomorrow I start working. :)

Change of subject: Sometimes as I lie down to go to sleep at night, I fear that I will die at night. And one of the many concerns that rise is that I will not get a chance to open the Social Sustainable Cafe Bakery Art Gallery Nomad-and-Traveler Community Gathering Space. So I shall sketch it out and write about it in detail here on this blog, so that if I do die, someone else will create it, and so that if I don't die - people will know about it and will have the desire to help me realize it when I will be ready to do so. Which should, actually, be now. But I don't know how to get myself to start.

Well, let me tell you about it:

The inspiration comes from my love of Israeli and nomadic culture, from coastal galleries and cafes, from my passion for social gatherings and warm spaces in which to create and show art, and from my ideologies of sustainable living.

First of all, it's a place where people gather. A home of sorts. A friendly, welcoming home, where the owner is me and the guests (who are at home) are me and you and anyone who wants to feel the love of a loving space (including non-human animals).

The structure is environmentally-build, and the furnishings and decor are vintage and reused. The style is a combination of wood, flora and bohemia, with warm colors. It is a place for poets to write, for artists to create, for activists to discuss ideas, for regular folks to enjoy a nice cup of coffee, for people to meet friends, for travelers to relax and eat and share stories about their travels. It is a cafe/bakery. Vegan, with an emphasis on locally-grown and organic (as much as possible; I am aware that many things will not be able to be such, as this ideally is located in Israel's desert, along a common roadway/travel path).

We are a friendly business, a mindful-oriented place. On the walls are art. Art made by local artists. On the front wall is a large wall-length window, and on the window sill are plants. Out of the window the garden is in view, in which we will grow fruit trees and vegetables. The garden wraps around the side of the building too. The garden will be based on ideas of permaculture, we will obviously have a compost pile, and we will use the fruits and vegetables we grow in the food we cook and serve. There is also seating outdoors in the garden, for people who want to sit outdoors.

In the back of the building (out of sight from the sitting area) is a grassy area. On the wall against the building there is an awning, and under it mattresses stacked up. These are mattresses for travelers who want to sleep (for free) out back. (Remember, we are in the Israeli desert here: The nights throughout most of the year are pleasant.) There is also a compost toilet hut for their use, and possibly an outdoor shower.

Back to the interior: The entrance door is toward the left of the structure. As you walk in, in front of you is the main counter (in back of which is the kitchen). Right on your left, against the wall, are shelves with salvaged food - free for whoever wants. (Good food that supermarkets would have thrown out, that we collect once or twice a week.) On your right is the main sitting area - round wooden tables with two wooden chairs at each one. Toward the back, a larger table, for larger groups. And in back of it, a carpet, a couch, and a bookshelf with books (including books about veganism, permaculture, environment, spirituality, etc.).

To the right of the couch is an opening, through which we access two guest rooms - these are for rent. They include a bed and a dresser, and a large window (probably not a TV). Down the hall from these two is a joint bathroom for the two rooms - a pretty bathroom with a shower. The bathroom may also be for the restaurant during restaurant hours, or alternately we will have another bathroom for cafe guests. My vision is that guests from the guest rooms will eat breakfast/food at the cafe.

The menu will include things like coffee (which may be served like in the Food co-op, where you pay and then fill your own mug from a coffee canteen), baked-goods, soups, fresh salads and pasta (because I love pasta). I think of it as being a rather simple menu, with maybe an alternating dish on different days, but I am also open to the idea of more unusual dishes. I would love for the prices to be non-expensive, although I do wish to make a profit from this business, too. I see this as a single-income business, a full-time-and-mind career.

I will live right next door, in my Tiny House, and this will be my second home. I will come here in the morning (with my children?) and close it up and go to my Tiny House in the afternoon. After hours, this place can be used for workshops and gatherings, such as a yoga class or a meditation retreat, live music venues, or a community Jewish prayer gathering hub on Friday nights (these are just ideas that come to mind).

As for the name, I thought of things like Mayim Adamah (Water Earth), or Be'er Miriam (Miriam's Well), but I am not sure about it yet. It can change. As for the summary of the type of place it is in Hebrew, I might say: בית קפה-גלריה-חדרי אירוח ברוח קהילה וקיימות. Signs directing to our place from the highway would say something like Traveler Gathering Home And Warm Food, or אוכל חם לטיילים, or Stop By For Food, Rest, and Community. Our staff can include an owner (me), a co-owner, a baker, and three or four more staff members, and we will all be the cleaning staff.

I see myself as enjoying this life, of connecting with the community through food and art, and it is my earnest hope that I will fulfill this dream, and that it will in fact bring me joy.

This will essentially be a home of tolerance, peace, love, inspiration, and good heart-warming food.

**I made a sketch of this place, but cannot find it right now. When I find it I will upload it. Or if I don't find it I will sketch a new one.**

Here are some photos from our travels:

Saturday, August 11, 2018


I sit on the bus as it chugs down a street. The thumpety thumps are lulling at this nighttime setting, but my brain is "overwhelmed," which is the word I give it when emotions situate in my stomach and lurk there is spiral movements waiting to spawn out as colorful streamers constituting everything that I am in one full blow. I sit and peer across from me, at the other passengers. The only way to interpret the savage yearning in me at this time is to state to myself that I feel like I want a baby to hold in my arms, as if a small being toward which I'd pour my compassion would slow my thoughts and calm me down, set me apart from worrying about my output in the world.

I think about the beginning of the story I will write. It holds in it a rapture of all the emotions in that spinning swirl. The bus turns corners and rides toward the downtown bus station of Bellingham. I am overwhelmed and embarrassed by my messy appearance in the world (I want it to be organized; I want all the words I say to people to make perfect sense, but they inevitably don't), and I stretch out the word "embarrassed" in my head so that it is looong and twisty, and the sounds reach out to every negotiable being, pleading for serenity of the senses.

Each letter is like an arm, clinging on to a mother: "Please."


Yesterday, on my way home from someplace where a large number of people congregated for a special meal, I felt overwhelmed.
Overwhelmingness is an emotion I am well acquainted with.
This time I was overwhelmed because of some of the conversations I had. I get frustrated when I feel like I don't express myself in a perfect way, or when I feel awkward, because I feel awkward sometimes, or when I learn, like last night, that more people than I expected read my posts (read me) and enjoy them, and that's overwhelming in a whole other way, in the same way that discovering music I should've discovered ages ago makes me overwhelmed, or the same way that coming up with a brilliant idea makes me overwhelmed - and it can bug me for hours or days, chewing at my heart (it's like my mind can't properly regulate the emotions). So on the way home, walking up the hill, I made up a song for me to meditate on:

It's alright, 
You gave what you gave
You got what you got
No one expects you to be perfect
If you gave a smile, that's enough for today.

Wednesday, August 08, 2018


I wrote in a previous post (or maybe the post was only in my head) that letting my little world pass through the barrier from private to public makes me feel so vulnerable and ashamed. But it's shameful not only because I'm un-knowledgeable or scared I'll be seen as naive, but also because, at the core, I have this aching - albeit quiet - suspicion that it's fake, that all of my outward dispositions are fake, that my wistful hope and urging for peace and for unity and for compassion is just a safeguard, a shield, a "wait-wait-wait don't hurt me" kind of shield, just something to give me the space and time and love I need. (Well, in that case, it is still real. But this doesn't yet convince me.)

This is not to say that I do not believe in these things. They must be some part of me (inherent or not), and around them I create an ideology ("it's important to be compassionate," "we should work toward peace," etc.). When I am quiet and listen to myself, I hear truthful and authentic compassion toward the world (the narrator knows I really do want people to be caring, to be patient, to be kind, I want "enemies" to connect, and I have a firm belief that they can), and my actions in the world are of compassion and reflect this sense of myself that I hold so dearly and proudly. 

And yet still I feel like I must be faking something (especially when these things enter the realm of the public world. When they are in me, I am nourished by them, I am consoled and warmed and utterly inspired by them, but once I utter these ideas in public, I suddenly feel ashamed, fake, small, wrong). These traits of nonviolence and kindness are all-encompassing, and yet this doesn't make me believe they are the real ME, but just that it is perhaps a successful and well-rounded mask that makes sense for my earthly being. 

So I think about the level of being that I am imagining, underneath it all, that which I feel is the true essence. What is it? If it does not truly Love All, then what does it? 

It has no compassion, nor aggression. It is just the core; it is an entity that has no opinions. 

It seems to me that that very deep and fundamental level (the soul, consciousness) is the one I want to reveal when I am listening for truth beyond the visible one. (Not that I want that unbiased truth to become my life, but still it is interesting to be aware of its existence.)

There is another possible explanation for my sense of fakeness: When I was younger, I was not really listened to, and my opinions did not matter much. My inclination to love flowers and rainbows was not taken seriously. Love for such things was maybe even ridiculed - seen as "girly" and "stupid" (naive, not productive, too emotional). Why would a person think the whole world could be at peace?

(I have been close to the thought that maybe it's true; maybe there can be no peace. But no! Of course I didn't take that thought seriously, are you kidding? I will not succumb! I will not succumb to this hopelessness toward potential fruitful human connection and sacred individualism which can, without a doubt, make the world better.)

I'm reminded that the vision and inspiration I have now of a connection to the feminine entity of sacredness and nurturing in the world and in nature are not something I grew up with in an outwardly visible way. I don't actually know the source of their implantation in me. I may have been around in the sixties as a hippie, or as a flower, or as a chord from Joan Baez' guitar, or it is possible that my ancestors had this feminine-spiritual side in them and I just not aware of it. My PTSD and my ancestral soul both have arms in all sorts of places I don't see.

I am who I am.

Monday, August 06, 2018


My book will be a place for sentiment, nostalgia, longing, pain and brokenness.
It will also be a place for growth, beauty, action and love.
That's the only thing I can't put in my book.
How can I turn music into words?

Photos from 2011-2013

Thursday, August 02, 2018


I've been wanting to write about compassion, because the emotion has been encapsulating me, breezing through and around me, being an integral part of my understanding and accepting of the world. But I haven't yet, specifically because the vastness of it makes it hard to minimize into words. I am an emotional being and an empathic one. My eyes well up with tears from slight changes of wind in another person's demeanor, from authentic plights of children, from pain of myself and of others, from unintentional pain or fright I cause others. The raw openness of my heart and my desire to give everyone in the world a valid space for love, makes me feel ashamed (in a world where heartiness, sentiment and unconditional love are seen as naive), but also I feel that maybe there is something in this capacity that is worth sharing, worth spreading, despite my lack of knowledge, despite my lack of memory of factual information about the world around me. And that raw openness and empathy also make me detest violence (or came as a result of it), which I unfortunately see abundantly around me in the general world of adults (online and in real life), and make me want to try to give the world another perspective: A message of being kind and patient. Don't rush. Don't rush children. Lend them a hand - not a command. I am always learning so much about children through working with them and through working with myself who is an unhealed child, and I come face-to-face with those tears in my eyes so often, and I often want to just outright reach in and pull out my ecstatic and tear-stricken heart and spread it horizontally through the landscapes of humanism, and listen, help, encourage, and compensate for the lack of these crucial assets in the scale of the general world.

Saturday, July 21, 2018

Hey :)
How is it possible that my last post (just a single photo) has had 27 views? That's almost creepy, since I hardly have any followers.
Who are you?
Introduce yourself!
I don't know if to be excited or scared.
Have a good and peaceful day, whoever you are, dear reader. <3 p="">

Friday, July 06, 2018

Jerusalem in my olden days

You know what's so crazy and beautiful at the same time? The way I love the aesthetics of "dati-light"* or "datlash"* couples. The way I once was. I got to be that. It was so cool to be that (maybe it still is), in the Jerusalem scene. In Tel Aviv it's being a hipster; In Jerusalem it's being a married couple, she with a pashmina** wrapped around her head with her hair flowing out behind it, he with his Shoresh sandals (Israeli-made sandals) (it's the ideas that these physical things symbolize and hold). It's what I always wanted - in all honesty - since I was young. I did have a good few years embodying that image. We were a prototype. I still miss it sometimes. Jerusalem. The colorful mitpachot**. The carefreeness of people who are literally Earth-bound and rooted, the lack of fear, the feeling of "owning" and of "belonging" - not of possessions but of culture. Really BEING the culture. BEING the grassroots aesthetic. Being free, feminist, outspoken, being a social activist, and at the same time loving and knowing the ancestry, the religious nuances, the rabbinic restrictions, the battles, the warmth.
It was my city. It's really what I was for many many years.
I just want to give that part of me some space, some expression. I felt it was all so beautiful. I think I finally realize that it was the lifestyle that I miss. The things I did, the ideas I embodied until around 2013.
I don't know if I can or should ever go back to that. My life is so different now.


Everything mentioned here should not be taken as facts or as researched information and does not intend to offend anyone. To the contrary: I love it all so much.

*"dati-light" refers to a certain type of Israeli lightly-religious culture, which, if I were to try to define it, is characterized by growing up dati-leumi (modern-Orthodox) and then leaning toward the left, becoming more open and less "halachically" strict (less religiously strict), while still holding on to the rich religious roots and their cultural manifestations.

*"datlash" is an acronym (in Hebrew) for people who were once religious but then became not religious. These kinds of people are somewhat similar in culture and in dress to the previous category, just that they are less (or not at all) adherent to religious law, but still do understand and resemble the religious world's culture in certain ways and may feel right at home with religious people, know their songs, their traditions, etc.

I will also note that there are certain people who grow up religious and then leave religious life, like in the last category, but do not fall under the last category, because they do not hold on to any religious affiliation, connection or resemblance. Then they would usually fit under the category of "chiloni" (secular).

Of course, there are many variations to all of these, but these are strong and prominent contemporary cultural categories, as far as I can tell through my eyes, through my life in Jerusalem for many years.

**"mitpachat" is a scarf that married religious Jewish women traditionally wear to cover their hair (and "pashmina" is a thicker scarf, usually from the Far East or of that kind of style). Women who are not strict with Jewish law but still appreciate the heritage and the intention, may wear scarves tied around their head, but with all their hair loose in back of it (kind of like a thick headband). This is an iconic image of married "dati-light" women. It's how I used to wear my hair for some of the time that I was married.

Friday, June 29, 2018



I like looking through old facebook photos: The rhythm of my fingers clicking the right arrow and my eyes watching the screen, synchronise with the short seconds it takes to reminisce. The light is out - Tal is trying to sleep, cuddle-less, while I sit and spy through the legendary old me. It excites me to put myself in those shoes. I once was. I was so pretty. I love myself, as if I'm watching someone else, well, because main characters are always in the camera's scope; never is the character the camera itself or behind the camera. I want to take myself everywhere, but I want to watch me, not BE me. I love this life that is told through these photos of a hippie. Complex. And genuine. I've done so much. And yet here I am, in agony-of-sorts inside the realm of the mind. I've made it to 28 and a half, though. This means I have always had hope.


This past Shabbat I helped lead the monthly service at Shir Hashalom - the Jewish Renewal "chavurah" here in Bellingham. In this week's Torah portion Miriam the Prophetess and Priestess (sister of Moses and Aaron) dies, and immediately thereafter there is no water for the Israelites who are traveling through the hot Middle-eastern desert (believed to be circa 1,400 BCE). It is told that a well called Miriam's Well had followed them on their journey and provided sustenance. Miriam's life was full of water-themed stories. (One of the central stories is that she led the Israelites in song and dance through the parted Sea of Reeds when they left slavery in Egypt.) The water that nourished the people was attributed to her. She dies, and there is no longer water. The people long for her guidance, her creative and joyful guidance. They despair in their thirst.
As feeling a strong connection to Water myself, and connecting to my namesake, I decided that we'd let ideas of the element of Water lead us in this past Saturday's service, through meditations, chants, songs, dances, rituals and prayers (Hebrew and otherwise). It was a meaningful experience that I won't attempt to describe here, but I just wanted to share with y'all this old Native American song. We sang it, we danced to it. I felt truly led by the beauty, force and sacredness of Water. I felt that the spiritual side of me is strong, is waiting for its time to come through. I get a glimpse of it at our prayer services, especially when I get to sound through my vocal chords niggunim and songs, but for some reason then go home and cannot implement the same kind of spirituality and love (strong waters) in my own personal life. I feel that this duality is hypocritical in a way.
(I know that I can't be a leader - not just yet, in any case - since I haven't got any findings to my own merit; if I have goodness in me, it was gifted to me at birth and is deterministic, and I have not worked toward it or practiced it, nor found any solutions to my many questions and agonies. And I feel that a leader can only lead if she has found something or reached something that is a possible finding or reaching for others, too, and is not only born talents. I need to solve the duality in me and find my own serenity and a life that suits me before I can truly lead - despite people saying I did a great job leading the service, and one friend even asking if I've ever considered being a rabbi.)
I want to let the Wild Woman, the Water Prophetess in me to fly freely to the realms of godliness and creativity, not just once a month, and not just with people outside of my home. In any case, I am so grateful for it, for that opportunity to connect with others and to be part of such nurturing and deep groups of people. Everyone needs to belong to something.
The river is flowing
Flowing and growing
The river is flowing
Back to the sea
Mother Earth carry me
Your child I will always be
Mother Earth carry me
Back to the sea

Wednesday, June 13, 2018

I want to be inspired and to be inspiring, like a heartbeat of an old song in a dimly-lit bar.
I am a being of inspiration. I feel beauty and it overflows my senses. I want to create from that place of deep insight and volcanic soul-streaming.

Friday, June 08, 2018


I'm a taboholic. I collect tabs in my web browser. I save videos and articles open for later viewing. They all seem so interesting and important, so I don't close them. I keep them all open.
And then - the unexplicably terrible thing happens -- My computer crashes. I restart. I open Chrome. And there is NO option of restoring the tabs. They are lost. It is all lost.
It's a little nice to have a fresh start like that every so often, but I still do wonder what I had there and what I missed by not finishing to read/watch it all.

Thursday, June 07, 2018

Kindergarten at Kesher

Sunday was my last day teaching kindergarten for the year. We were in one of our circles that we often sit in (that I gather the kids into in a sing-songy pleasant voice I learned from Waldorf-education teachers), I was delivering my words of closure and love, right before I taught them a Goodbye song, and the children spontaneously got up one by one to hug me, until they were all surrounding me and on top of me and I couldn't help but cry. I know that they loved me this year, and that their parents loved me. I love these children so much, and there were a few specific moments this year that were really moving. Like Friday night before the last class. The kids were going to be leading some songs at the Friday Night Shabbat service at the synagogue, and a few minutes before the service started we gathered on the bimah to review some of the songs one last time. In one song they needed to all look at me and follow my lead, because the cantorial soloist with her guitar was singing harmony, and the kiddos needed to focus on staying on tune with me. As we sang (and their soft high voices ribboned through the air), I moved my eyes from one to the other, watching their sweet eyes and faces as they sang. I nearly choked on tears.

This is their handprints tree hanging on the wall (I painted the bare tree and they added the greenery)

And this is our classroom, which started out white and empty, and to which I (and the kids) added all the extra elements to make it be a calm and welcoming space, when we moved into in in the middle of the year. You can't really see in the video, but there's peach-colored fabric hanging like a canopy or a curtain from the ceiling, which adds a really nurturing feeling.

Monday, June 04, 2018

בחילת קיום Nausea of Existence

I cry soup-bowls of tears
I hear peaaa souuuup in the rustles of the trees when I take Nemo out for her night walk, and my eyes are puffy. I missed dinner there, and I don't eat anything at all for dinner at home. It was as if I was paralyzed in my self-pity. I hate myself for it and it makes me so ashamed. In any case, Tal is arranging a trip for us out east to the Cascades, and wanted me to help organize but my mind is so absent, and he arranges everything. All that's left for me to do is take some clothes into a milk crate and bring it out to the minivan. We go on the trip and I'm so grateful, because I love traveling with Tal and Nemo.

May 26, 2018, nighttime near Leavenworth, WA, in the minivan 
Ocean of emotion has swept over me in the past few weeks. It's hard to resurrect turmoil, especially when it seems (for a while, at least) like it's over. But the gush of frustration and overwhelming sense of Loss or Lost-ness have prompted me to have to find reason, consolation and benefits. And in any case, understandings and revelations have dawned on me in the past 24 hours, slowly adding more clarity to the picture with each new one, and they are interesting enough to be worth pursuing in writing. 
Many times, hard emotions can feel lighter when I write about them, as if once the burden is told to the world as a well-written story, it becomes fascination instead of personal suffering. But it seems like the utter helplessness and regret I felt yesterday may have surpassed that level, and were so hard to bear that even written expression can't ease them. Will write more tomorrow. 

May 27, 2018, in same spot as last night (back here for the night) 
I say to myself, "it would be nice to get home tomorrow in the afternoon and not night, so that we'll be able to relax before work on Tuesday," but then I revise that, asking myself: Is there really a difference if you get to rest or not? In the end it's all the same (in the end you'll have to wake up on Tuesday and go to work anyway...). And this is part of the sense of worthlessness and meaninglessness or despair disconnectedness, or fear, or anxiety, or I-don't-yet-know-what, that is my life, as me, inside of me, through my eyes.
I am kind of always tense, but at the same time there is no place I want to get to or be at that I can think will make me feel at east inside myself, at ease with ideas of time passing, of past-present-future as being linear and relevant, of goals-actions-sense of fulfillment. I sometimes call it cognitive dissonance, or claustrophobia in the self, or maybe (probably) there is something more that I am missing, some pieces of understanding that haven't yet dawned on me.  
Yes, there are beautiful things around me, but something doesn't enter through the veil behind my eyes into my timeless soul and godful existence. Or maybe all humans in fact feel this fear, and maybe only few stop to notice it. Maybe incessant work for some is a way to not notice the utter meaninglessness and emptiness of life as humans. 
Even writing - which in a sense is my saving grace, my refuge, my meaning - seems sometimes meaningless, because it feels like publishing a book would possibly be for the sake of recognition, which is just a continuation of the problem (just a deeper delve into the thirsty search for external meaning) and not a sustainable solution.  
I do love writing. A book wouldn't be just for the sake of recognition, but the fact that I use the thought of publishing a book as a way to ward off a sense of social shame or unworthiness, makes me believe it is also as shallow as the problem.
(The end of this idea was more elaborated in my mind when I started the sentence, but often my mind blanks as I go along and I lose the thought...) 
I want to mention that despite cognitive dissonance or inability to be here, the richness of the past grant me a belly-full of inspiration and excitement when it comes to mind. I want to incorporate it in my writing - bring in stories of my life with Gilad, all those great and pure memories of love, family, friends and closeness that seem joyous in my mind, images of nighttime bus rides, familiar sounds, city streets...


I feel so free when traveling in the car with Tal and Nemo, whizzing along roads with sunshine fluttering through the trees, a vast sky spread out in front of us, and wind singing to our open eyes.

I realize about the shame, on the way home. Shame which breeds anger. Anger and shame - Those are the two, I conclude. The two cores of belly-churning sizzling.
I pour out the shame.
I stomach it through my windpipe and I say, "I want to retell the conversation I had with Elkah, about the night when I missed the bus and missed the dinner." I retell it all. I retell about the paralysis, about the unearthed need for someone to urge me to do things I need to do because of my inability to get up and do them at the will of myself. About the difference in our mindsets - his of scarcity, mine of abundance. About the anger I feel. I feel so much anger, so much shame! "Even from you!," I say to Tal. "I do. I feel like puking all of life."

He says, "I think everyone feels that way -- (that makes me so angry; I say, "what you're saying makes me angry!") -- everyone feels nauseated from life. The essence of life is Suffering."

I had a dream that I forgot what our home looked like, while I was in it. I was in it, but couldn't recall it! It was so scary! (It's a heightened depiction of how my brain works when I am awake.) I called Tal's name, to help me remember, but he said, "I can help you in half an hour." Then I woke up.
I forget things. My brain is a machine that shows vague and blurry pictures of the now.
I don't know why.
My brain is falling apart.
I must have come all the way here, I think, to fall apart, the way that animals find a distant and secluded place to die.

I say, after a long silence, "I feel that there is one thing to do to fight off the suffering... It is Creating Things. Which I don't know if you have a need for (but I'm sure you'd benefit from it too) and which I have a terrible aching need for but some reason can't find a way to do enough of it."

Friday, May 25, 2018


At the end of the day I'm torn. I want to write; night is my time to write. But I am so tired! My eyes are heavy and start to shut. The words try to quickly scurry out of my eyelids before they close! Hurry up... They are trying to ooze through the small crevices of awakenness, like little streams of lava, relieving the volcano into the ocean of clarity before the volcano is closed for the night, leaving the writhing and raving boils inside itself to rest until they stir again tomorrow.
I'm thirsty and
I really wish I had more time in the day to myself.
I working most days now to make money to be able to eat and have a roof over my head, while my heart is empty of passion and creation, which are the fire under my bones that ignite me, and when they are absent I am so empty.
And I am nauseous from tiredness but trying to squeeze in as much essence before I succumb to sleep, and here it is, pulling me pullojg nme ipgkp[djf and im so tireddd sooo tired my head can't stay upright fdhdg;fug;n lkdniekw


Friday, May 18, 2018

A Book, Imagination, Forgetfulness, and Springtime

I say to her, "Please tell me when there are poetry-reading events (in Bellingham). I need more inspiration. I want to write a book..."
"Oh," she replies. "You're married. It's good you have someone who can support you. While you write a book, you need time, you need to dedicate a lot of time."
I think she misunderstands me.
I quickly correct her: "He doesn't support me. We both work and both use our own earnings accordingly."
I think to myself later -- How tempting that sounds, to have someone support you and to be able to dedicate all your time to channeling your creativity into fruitful conclusions. It takes me so LONG. I do need so much TIME in order to write. I can't just get home from work and start writing.
But let not that idea that she raised get too deep into my head, for that kind of situation is likely never to happen.
And how spoiled am I, to even raise this idea. Why do I feel I might possibly have such a privilege? I don't reckon it is right to assume so, or to believe I deserve it. I am myself and therefore I need to work to make money for myself. That is the way it is and should be. But still... Imagining a world in which artists can have all the time they want to CREATE... OH, it's such a beautiful thought...

I am so tired... Nauseous, actually, from tiredness, and my eyes are heavy. I know that if I were to go to bed I'd snuggle up under the covers and doze off... But the need to write! I thought I'd get to write, last week, yesterday, this afternoon, and somehow time just whizzes by and who am I? What is that tree that is swaying (or that flower that is blooming, or the person who is walking), that takes up all my brain's bandwidth and leaves no room for the ideas that lie beyond it? My brain is clouded. I know it. It blanks things out. My memory is sometimes hazy. I am one-track minded. The springtime beauty takes up all the space, leaves no room for calculations, estimations, short-term memories and preparations. That is why I need to schedule a time to write my TO DO LIST.

I need to schedule a time to create my TO DO LIST, because without dedicating time to make the list, the things that need to go on the list are no more than little fleeting clouds. And on that list will go things like DECIDE IF YOU WANT TO LIVE IN BELLINGHAM NEXT YEAR and WRITE BACK TO THAT EMAIL and READ THE BOOKS YOU TOOK FROM THE LIBRARY (The Qur'an and some others) and COME UP WITH IDEAS FOR GIVING BACK TO THE COMMUNITY AND DOING GOOD.

I wish I'd read more books. It's so hard for me to sit and read books.
It seems like a paradox to me; with my love for writing, how come I cannot read?

Alas! The tiredness will overcome in just a moment.

I also say to her, in regard to a different topic, "THERE is always an imagination, because when you get THERE you are still HERE. There is no THERE, as you are always you. That's a sad realization."
She quotes something: "Don't forget that when you get there, you will find yourself there, too."