The Bubble

The bowl

He: “It breaks my heart. You know that it breaks my heart when you break my mother’s pottery. We can’t get any more of it, you know”.
She: "oh honey. Please don’t say that. It breaks my heart when you say that. I am so sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen, you know that. I try to be careful, but these things happen. They break easily, the ceramics. Please try to restore it. You do it so nicely, sometimes its impossible to notice.”
He: “you’re not careful enough. I’ve seen you handle it. Not carefully enough, and even if I glue it it will stay broken”.
She: "Maybe the best thing to do would be not to touch your mother’s pottery. We can go to Ikea, buy a set of plates and bowls, and leave these in the cupboard. Maybe that’s the best thing to do.”
He: “I want us to use them. I just want you to be more careful”.
She: “I will try. Here, take the glue. I’m sure you can do a great job here”.
He tries carefully to glue the pieces together: “It can’t be done. One piece is missing, throw it away”.
She: “No, I can’t throw it away. I will put it on the library, like this, see? No one can notice it was broken”.

Vanitas

I strive to be self-sufficient. I suppress my ambitions lest they make me needy.
Every once in a while a desire takes hold of me, possessing.

I fight it, lest I become vain. Lest I become dependent, and lose my freedom.

Lazy sunday afternoon

At the beach

The fever of sensation

"I am jealous but I do not know whether of those on which a biography can be written, or those who can write their own biography. In these notes without context, and I am not interested in their context, I indifferently recount my fact-less biography, my lifeless history. These are my confessions, and if I don’t tell anything in them, I don’t have anything to say.
On what can anyone confess, that will be of any value or use? Anything that happened to us, either happened to all people or only to us; in the first instance it has no novelty, and in the second it can’t be understood. If I write what I feel it is only because by doing so I reduce the fever of sensation. The thing of which I confess is insignificant, because nothing is significant."

Fernando Pessoa /The Book of Disquiet

Picnic

More photos here.

Honest

Honesty is such a lonely word.

Rage

RAGE

I hate to wake up at 6.30 in the morning; I just hate it.
I hate it that my neck hurts for a week now and I can hardly move it sideways to see what’s going on there.
I hate not to be able to walk in the streets without being harassed by beggars, good  people from this organization or that, or an old Jewish woman that today, after hearing me talking in Hebrew with Daniel, and seeing that I was about to enter a Falafel joint, approached me rudely, saying: “why do you want to get inside, they are not Jewish”. “What?” I asked, thinking I didn’t hear correctly, “why do you want to eat there, they are Arabs!” she tried to make her point clearer. I hate being harassed in the streets and I hate that woman.
I hate entering a store and being attacked by the loud music, making me feel as if I comitted a crime by wanting to buy pants, and therefore was sent to hell.
I hate the phony smiles of the sellers in that store, asking me cheerfully “how are you today?” as if they cared. I just hate that.

RAGE. Do you know what it feels like?

Old habits

I thought I saw a suicide bomber today and panicked. No one else seemed distressed. I  explained my worries to the girl at the reception desk. She had the Hebrew words “belongs to god” tattooed on her arm. I apologized; “It’s probably because I’m an Israeli." She had no idea what I was talking about. My friend Amy, whom I met just then, said the thought about a suicide bomber would never occur to her.

One has to quit old habits.

The missile

I saw this dance yesterday.
And how I suffered! And it went on and on and on it went. I thought it would never end. And I twisted and turned in my seat and yawned and moaned and thought it would never end. And had this urge, that I dreaded would be incontrollable, to shout: ENOUGH! And I shut my mouth tightly, to keep it in. And I couldn’t leave because of my dear friend, the pixie, that has connections in high places and managed to get us free tickets to the opening gala. I was afraid that she would never invite me again, had I left. And I do like modern dance, just not that one. And men wearing dresses is really old news! And at the end, when it seemed that it would never end and I would be trapped there forever, I wished for a missile to come and finish us all together, as long as it stopped.
And then it ended. And we ate some good snacks (an opening gala sort of a thing) and went home.