Sunday, September 30, 2018


I want to write and write and write 
without feeling that time is running out 
and that I should be doing something else. 
It's one of the only things my bodymind can willingly DO;
Most other tasks in life are heavy. 

There is a problem, though:
When a story is in me I feel overwhelmed
But after I finish writing it,
I feel emptied of it,
So empty.

Photo from 2008


I am sometimes reminded of all the lives. You know that one over there in that caravan (trailer) in the desert?

Odelia sends me a message.

She tells me that she's been waking up late in the mornings but that she prefers to wake up early.

I tell her that I rarely wake up early, but that when I do and smell the fresh air outside, it always reminds me of the mechina.

I imagine having my (future) cafe in the Arava desert and taking a day off and tremping in the sun to go visit her in her caravan in the Judean desert.

She will pour tahini into a bowl and then wipe the edge of the container with her fingers and lick them, and then she will cut tomatoes and onions into a hand-pottered bowl, and place them on the little round table.

That's where she lives now. But I love her mother's home, too. I realize at once that Tal does not share this whole culture with me, and may not even be aware of its existence, let alone tasted its warmth: Crevices of dirt; a kitchen full of jars of grains; books on an old wooden bookshelf; a language as mystical and worn as the floor tiles; simple food filled with warmth and unmeasured spices; a stucco home with old trees and a fire pit and a burial spot of a family dog; old maps and children's books and photos and third-hand-fourth-hand clothes in overflowing closets; rich stories of heritage, mourning, life; coarse human flow, harmonious dwelling; laughter-filled Shabbat dinners with some or all seven children (and their children), and whatever neighbors happen to swing by. Rooted.

I feel a gaping mass. I squirm because I'm overwhelmed.

Nemo pants in her sleep in the background and I am enfolded in too much inspiration.

At night I dream that I have a joyous rendezvous with people from old times. 

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