Her hands are rough; they flit across her skirt like butterflies, or Spanish dancers - her fingers become lace mantilals, shaking back and forth to the rythm of the leaves, which are twirled by the wind. She thought of life in images, spare frames filled with motion she could not grasp, and sounds she could not quite understand. "One day, I will make a movie out of it", she would think, at random moments, like when she was spicing the chicken soup. The kitchen tiles felt cold against the soles of her feet, and she wished she had remembered to wash her socks in the laundry. "But it all comes in fragments", she fretted, as she sliced the onions. She enjoyed the feel of their thin layers between her fingers, and once she had claimed that men were weaker than onions, because no man had made her cry. But now, she grew misty-eyed when she thought about that bravado - and then she turned to the author, and complained that she hated cliches, like "misty-eyed" and "bravado".
"And aren't you supposed to be studying Jeremiah?" she asked, "about how God punishes, then redeems, his people? And how dare you think of me when the image crops up of an abandoned whore - if I wanted, I could have a man between my thighs." She goes back to stirring the soup. She is adorable in her anger - the way she flashes her hair and stomps her feet. "Stop comparing me to a dancer!". Another stomp, a bit more paprika. The author is the one who has read (or, at least, skimmed) Luigi Pirandello's "Six Characters in Search of An Author", so she should take the initiative - but she is too tired, and the words of Jeremiah too beautiful. She wonders briefly whether he would have been good in bed, or whether she should take men between her thighs more often. She ponders feminism, and is grateful that her breasts are no longer being opressed by the patriarchy, her pink bra having been removed somewhere around verse six. She longs to chant the words to the ancient text, almost as much as she longs for sleep.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Sunday, December 23, 2012
מנסה לכתוב בעברית
המותר כאסור, האסור כמותר, עד דלא ידעה -
כשטפסתי בתלפיות צועריה, מנשיקות פיה ישקני-
אלכה נא לשוח בין שדיה, וללתף את פניה
שאבקש ערב ובבוקר בכל יום תמיד
כי הנה לא ינום ולא ישן אהבת נפשי,
לא יפיל תנומה על עפעפי.
רב דגן ותירוש וריח השדה על צואריך,
שמותר או אסור, כיונים בעיניך-
איך אוכל לפסוק? הרי כולך יפה ומום אין בך
חוץ מגופי הצמוד לגופיך,
עד שלא ידעתי איפה קץ רגליך
והתחלת ירכי, פניך או פני - כבר השתכרתי
מנשיקות פיך הטובות מיין,
עד דלא ידע בין המן ומרדכי.
כשטפסתי בתלפיות צועריה, מנשיקות פיה ישקני-
אלכה נא לשוח בין שדיה, וללתף את פניה
שאבקש ערב ובבוקר בכל יום תמיד
כי הנה לא ינום ולא ישן אהבת נפשי,
לא יפיל תנומה על עפעפי.
רב דגן ותירוש וריח השדה על צואריך,
שמותר או אסור, כיונים בעיניך-
איך אוכל לפסוק? הרי כולך יפה ומום אין בך
חוץ מגופי הצמוד לגופיך,
עד שלא ידעתי איפה קץ רגליך
והתחלת ירכי, פניך או פני - כבר השתכרתי
מנשיקות פיך הטובות מיין,
עד דלא ידע בין המן ומרדכי.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Jeremiah 29 (Free-Writing Exercise)
"It hurts not to get what you want", she said. Her legs were folded over the stones; I could see the bruises on her knee peeking out from beneath her skirt.
I laughed. "What have you ever wanted that you haven't gotten? A new Mercedes".
"You don't know anything about me."
She turned away, but I knew she was crying. Her chest heaved slightly with each intake of breath, moving to the rythm of her tears.
The torn letter lay on the ground; four more years in a stone palace we had grown to despise. At night, I lay in the cellar, imagining his hands on her thighs; I could see them kissing in the moonlight.
"He says it's time to plant the roses."
"That's only because he likes thorns".
Did her lips still taste of cinnamon? Did she still cry, when she felt the ram-horn's echoes reverberate through her bedroom, with its hardwood floors and silk sheets?
"They could import some", I was told when I complained about the rough cotton - but what was the point? It could not be undone, this incessant twining and untwining that had started the minute Moses and God shared a cigarrette.
"Do you think it's like sex?" she asked.
"What?"
"Prophecy".
I shrugged, flicked my stub into the garden, and used my toes to pile some dirt on the ashes.
Five hundred miles away, she drew the smoke from his breath. His kiss tasted of myrrh and ashes; he could feel the thorns in her legs, the claws in each nipple.
Ravaged.
Her hand is on my shoulder.
The Temple will be ravaged.
We slide into the ground; her knees knock against my thighs; our mouths collide - I can feel the brambles at the back of my neck, but I don't care - and later on, she asks me, "Do you think it's like prophecy?"
"What?"
"Sex".
I shrug, and flick my cigarrette.
I laughed. "What have you ever wanted that you haven't gotten? A new Mercedes".
"You don't know anything about me."
She turned away, but I knew she was crying. Her chest heaved slightly with each intake of breath, moving to the rythm of her tears.
The torn letter lay on the ground; four more years in a stone palace we had grown to despise. At night, I lay in the cellar, imagining his hands on her thighs; I could see them kissing in the moonlight.
"He says it's time to plant the roses."
"That's only because he likes thorns".
Did her lips still taste of cinnamon? Did she still cry, when she felt the ram-horn's echoes reverberate through her bedroom, with its hardwood floors and silk sheets?
"They could import some", I was told when I complained about the rough cotton - but what was the point? It could not be undone, this incessant twining and untwining that had started the minute Moses and God shared a cigarrette.
"Do you think it's like sex?" she asked.
"What?"
"Prophecy".
I shrugged, flicked my stub into the garden, and used my toes to pile some dirt on the ashes.
Five hundred miles away, she drew the smoke from his breath. His kiss tasted of myrrh and ashes; he could feel the thorns in her legs, the claws in each nipple.
Ravaged.
Her hand is on my shoulder.
The Temple will be ravaged.
We slide into the ground; her knees knock against my thighs; our mouths collide - I can feel the brambles at the back of my neck, but I don't care - and later on, she asks me, "Do you think it's like prophecy?"
"What?"
"Sex".
I shrug, and flick my cigarrette.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Jeremiah 28
The chain breaks in my hands. I feel its wood in between my fingers. I almost feel sorry for him: His brown hair hangs down in clumps by his neck. His eyes have the look of a man who gets too little food, and even less sex. I see him avoiding the prostitutes when they call to him from their fig-trees. I offered him money once, a gift, to let him spend the night. "I don't want to owe you a favor", he said.
"Why so bitter, Jeremiah?"
"We didn't all go to prophet school. Some of us had to learn things the hard way."
"Sure."
"I hear God. You don't believe me?"
"Yeah, I believe you. But I don't think you know what the job of a prophet is."
"To say the word of God."
"No. To tell the people what they need to hear."
He laughed.
"I'm serious. You think I haven't hear it all before, this doom and fire stuff? But that's not what they need, with the Babylonians knocking at the gate - they need hope."
"With hope comes complacency."
"You really need to get laid."
The next day, he avoided my gaze completely, but I couldn't help but smile when I heard him tack on that piece about God redeeming his people.
"But God really told me that!", he said, later that night, as we shared a cigarette. He flinched when I put my arm on his shoulder. "What's wrong?" I asked.
"Nothing - it's just that I- well, after what God told me - you heard this morning - I dont' want to get too attached."
"What makes you think we're attached right now?" I force the cruelty into my voice. He swallows, takes a long drag on the stub. I see tears in the corner of his eyes. I want to put my arms around him, and whisper that it will be all right: Hope. That's what we need.
But after spending all day on my feet, giving hope to the people, I am tired. I crawl into bed, and curl up on my side, closing my eyes when he crawls in beside me - and puts his arm around my waist: Hope.
"Why so bitter, Jeremiah?"
"We didn't all go to prophet school. Some of us had to learn things the hard way."
"Sure."
"I hear God. You don't believe me?"
"Yeah, I believe you. But I don't think you know what the job of a prophet is."
"To say the word of God."
"No. To tell the people what they need to hear."
He laughed.
"I'm serious. You think I haven't hear it all before, this doom and fire stuff? But that's not what they need, with the Babylonians knocking at the gate - they need hope."
"With hope comes complacency."
"You really need to get laid."
The next day, he avoided my gaze completely, but I couldn't help but smile when I heard him tack on that piece about God redeeming his people.
"But God really told me that!", he said, later that night, as we shared a cigarette. He flinched when I put my arm on his shoulder. "What's wrong?" I asked.
"Nothing - it's just that I- well, after what God told me - you heard this morning - I dont' want to get too attached."
"What makes you think we're attached right now?" I force the cruelty into my voice. He swallows, takes a long drag on the stub. I see tears in the corner of his eyes. I want to put my arms around him, and whisper that it will be all right: Hope. That's what we need.
But after spending all day on my feet, giving hope to the people, I am tired. I crawl into bed, and curl up on my side, closing my eyes when he crawls in beside me - and puts his arm around my waist: Hope.
By the Hanukkah candles
"You shouldn't do work by the candles", he says.
"I know."
"No. I mean you really shouldn't do work."
I put down my pen. "Whatsup?"
"I'm leaving you."
Silence.
"Why?"
"It's not you - it's this country - it's too much."
"And what makes you think I wouldn't go with you?"
"You can't."
"Why not?"
"Because it's become a part of you."
He takes a sip of coffee. I can hear the liquid splash against his teeth, the slight clink of the mug on the way down.
"Do you love her?"
He laughs. "It's not like that."
I nod. I want to get up and make myself a cup of coffee, but my body is trembling with the effort of holding in my tears.
"I'll get you a cup of coffee", he says. I almost hate him then.
Our hands touch when he hands me the mug. I flinch. He looks down at the carpet: a faded yellow.
"I hate that rug", he says. I nod. I want him to hold me, but I also want to dissappear, and everything is coming at me through a sea of tears I both crave and resent at the same time.
He busies himself around the kitchen, making latkes. "He didn't even give me the courtesy of his time", I think: I know he is only trying to give me privacy, but what does this small act of consideration matter?
The latkes are too oily, and I spend half the night traipsing between my bed and the bathroom. He sleeps soundly, curled on his side - but on one of my trips, his arms reach around my waist, and I find myself crying into his shoulder, before he pulls me down. I cry into his chest, as he awkwarly spoons me, and the down blankets brush my cheek.
"I love you", he says, but the words get stuck in my throat: I do love him, but what does it matter?
I remember the first time he told me those words: I had laughed. "Do you love me, or are you addicted to my body?" I had asked. "Is there a difference?" he asked, and kissed me before I could answer. Now, I wonder if I have run my course through his body, like a really good drug or some really bad latkes.
"Those latkes were awful", he whispers into my shoulder. We laugh. His lips work their way up to my neck. "This is the man who is leaving you", I think, but it is too late: I hate the precision of his body, the way he knows exactly where to place each part. "I'm like a machine", I think, for a moment - before - I stop thinking at all.
"I know."
"No. I mean you really shouldn't do work."
I put down my pen. "Whatsup?"
"I'm leaving you."
Silence.
"Why?"
"It's not you - it's this country - it's too much."
"And what makes you think I wouldn't go with you?"
"You can't."
"Why not?"
"Because it's become a part of you."
He takes a sip of coffee. I can hear the liquid splash against his teeth, the slight clink of the mug on the way down.
"Do you love her?"
He laughs. "It's not like that."
I nod. I want to get up and make myself a cup of coffee, but my body is trembling with the effort of holding in my tears.
"I'll get you a cup of coffee", he says. I almost hate him then.
Our hands touch when he hands me the mug. I flinch. He looks down at the carpet: a faded yellow.
"I hate that rug", he says. I nod. I want him to hold me, but I also want to dissappear, and everything is coming at me through a sea of tears I both crave and resent at the same time.
He busies himself around the kitchen, making latkes. "He didn't even give me the courtesy of his time", I think: I know he is only trying to give me privacy, but what does this small act of consideration matter?
The latkes are too oily, and I spend half the night traipsing between my bed and the bathroom. He sleeps soundly, curled on his side - but on one of my trips, his arms reach around my waist, and I find myself crying into his shoulder, before he pulls me down. I cry into his chest, as he awkwarly spoons me, and the down blankets brush my cheek.
"I love you", he says, but the words get stuck in my throat: I do love him, but what does it matter?
I remember the first time he told me those words: I had laughed. "Do you love me, or are you addicted to my body?" I had asked. "Is there a difference?" he asked, and kissed me before I could answer. Now, I wonder if I have run my course through his body, like a really good drug or some really bad latkes.
"Those latkes were awful", he whispers into my shoulder. We laugh. His lips work their way up to my neck. "This is the man who is leaving you", I think, but it is too late: I hate the precision of his body, the way he knows exactly where to place each part. "I'm like a machine", I think, for a moment - before - I stop thinking at all.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Jeremiah 27
Different chains have different textures: Some are smooth, some are spiky. The wrists they will cover are different too, but I have no desire to imagine the proceedings - only to sit at home, drinking a cup of tea and reading a magazine. Not to be here, by the river, chiselling them into chunks with my hammer. In an hour, five horses will ride out, in five different directions. Tomorrow, five kings will throw a piece of iron into their servant's faces. The servant will lose his balance; the tray will clatter; the wine will spill, and the servant will go to gallows.
I will be at home at the time of the execution, sipping some tea and reading a magazine.
I will be at home at the time of the execution, sipping some tea and reading a magazine.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Skin Hunger (For E.)
"What's it called?"
"Skin hunger".
It was the middle of choref zman. Moshe and Dov were supposed to be learning about how a man is exempt from reciting kriat shema on his wedding night - a topic that Dov knew was on many of his friends' minds: He heard them dissecting the stocking-covered calves of the women they went on dates with, and the loud grunts that came in the middle of the night from the bathroom, the guilty faces when they unlocked the stalls.
The topic of marriage was not that far off from his mother's mind either: "Everyday, I pray for you to get a good zivug", she said, when they spoke on the phone. Like his classmates, he too, went to the Inbal, where he would drink coffee with girls with brown hair and soft eyes. Sometimes he could see the outline of their breasts sticking out from beneath the button-down shirts. He'd trace the points of their nipples with his eyes. They were beautiful, and he wanted to want them, wished he desired to kiss them the way men did in the movies his classmates downloaded to their computers.
But at the end of the evening, he was always left with the same sensation he felt after watching football: It had been pleasant, but there were better things he could do with his time. He heard his mother sigh, every time he informed her that there would be no second date, that he would have to go back to the shadchan - and sometimes, as he sipped tea and spoke about middos, he could see them wondering, what the point was - but then they would pick their pens up and start scribbling, no doubt thinking of the bonus they received for each introduction.
This was what Dov was thinking about, when Moshe explained to him that there was a technical term for the human need for physical contact. "It doesn't have to be sexual", he explained. Dov nodded. "I understand." His hand brushed Moshe's, as he reached for his Gemarah that lay on the table between them. He blushed.
"Skin hunger". The words kept seeping into his mind, and he would find himself muttering the phrase at random moments, like when he was opening his siddur or trying to pee. He wondered: How many of them had it, these chaste boys who went on coffee-dates? Or had they grown so used to being satisfied by their own hands that they no longer felt it? The thought made him sad.
In chevruta, they learned that a mourner, like a first-time lover, was exempt from reciting the shema, and Dov tried to figure out what they had in common. "Well, I'd imagine those are both very traumatic experiences", Moshe said, "losing someone, and making love for the first time. Did you know orgasms were called les petits morts in French?" "Where did you learn that?" "In a book I snagged from my uncle's shelf - my mom's a baal teshuva, so none of my relatives are religious." Moshe grinned. "I received quite an education during family gatherings." Dov laughed. The rebbe gave them a stern look. "We should get back to shteiging". The words of Rashi and Tosfot filled their tongues for the next few hours.
That week, the war broke out: Southern Israel was bombarded by rocket-fire. The yeshiva had special assemblies, during which they would say tehillim, and all students were encouraged to extend their night-seder hours, in hopes that the zechus of their limmud Torah would act as a segulah for the Jewish people. Often, during those extra hours,Dov would find himself staring at Moshe's shoulder blades, wondering what it would be like to touch them, or how Moshe's chest would feel against his lips.
Skin hunger.
That Friday night, they were on their way to shul, when a siren rang out, warning of an incoming rocket. Dov and Moshe ducked into the nearest stairwell - common procedure in case of a rocket attack. They were packed tightly with some ten other people. A girl was crying. Dov put his arm around Moshe's shoulder. Dov looked at him, but did not move. The siren faded. Moshe dropped his arm, and they walked back into the street, neither one meeting each other's eye.
They walked into the synagogue; the entrance was narrow, so they each walked in single file: Dov felt Moshe slip his fingers into the back pocket of his pants. He turned around. Moshe shot him a bashful smile. Then the fingers were gone. Dov smiled back, kissed the mezuzah, and took his seat. Moshe sat beside him. Together, they opened their siddur and prepared to give praise to their Creator:
It is good to praise God and to sing to Your Name, O Most High.
"Skin hunger".
It was the middle of choref zman. Moshe and Dov were supposed to be learning about how a man is exempt from reciting kriat shema on his wedding night - a topic that Dov knew was on many of his friends' minds: He heard them dissecting the stocking-covered calves of the women they went on dates with, and the loud grunts that came in the middle of the night from the bathroom, the guilty faces when they unlocked the stalls.
The topic of marriage was not that far off from his mother's mind either: "Everyday, I pray for you to get a good zivug", she said, when they spoke on the phone. Like his classmates, he too, went to the Inbal, where he would drink coffee with girls with brown hair and soft eyes. Sometimes he could see the outline of their breasts sticking out from beneath the button-down shirts. He'd trace the points of their nipples with his eyes. They were beautiful, and he wanted to want them, wished he desired to kiss them the way men did in the movies his classmates downloaded to their computers.
But at the end of the evening, he was always left with the same sensation he felt after watching football: It had been pleasant, but there were better things he could do with his time. He heard his mother sigh, every time he informed her that there would be no second date, that he would have to go back to the shadchan - and sometimes, as he sipped tea and spoke about middos, he could see them wondering, what the point was - but then they would pick their pens up and start scribbling, no doubt thinking of the bonus they received for each introduction.
This was what Dov was thinking about, when Moshe explained to him that there was a technical term for the human need for physical contact. "It doesn't have to be sexual", he explained. Dov nodded. "I understand." His hand brushed Moshe's, as he reached for his Gemarah that lay on the table between them. He blushed.
"Skin hunger". The words kept seeping into his mind, and he would find himself muttering the phrase at random moments, like when he was opening his siddur or trying to pee. He wondered: How many of them had it, these chaste boys who went on coffee-dates? Or had they grown so used to being satisfied by their own hands that they no longer felt it? The thought made him sad.
In chevruta, they learned that a mourner, like a first-time lover, was exempt from reciting the shema, and Dov tried to figure out what they had in common. "Well, I'd imagine those are both very traumatic experiences", Moshe said, "losing someone, and making love for the first time. Did you know orgasms were called les petits morts in French?" "Where did you learn that?" "In a book I snagged from my uncle's shelf - my mom's a baal teshuva, so none of my relatives are religious." Moshe grinned. "I received quite an education during family gatherings." Dov laughed. The rebbe gave them a stern look. "We should get back to shteiging". The words of Rashi and Tosfot filled their tongues for the next few hours.
That week, the war broke out: Southern Israel was bombarded by rocket-fire. The yeshiva had special assemblies, during which they would say tehillim, and all students were encouraged to extend their night-seder hours, in hopes that the zechus of their limmud Torah would act as a segulah for the Jewish people. Often, during those extra hours,Dov would find himself staring at Moshe's shoulder blades, wondering what it would be like to touch them, or how Moshe's chest would feel against his lips.
Skin hunger.
That Friday night, they were on their way to shul, when a siren rang out, warning of an incoming rocket. Dov and Moshe ducked into the nearest stairwell - common procedure in case of a rocket attack. They were packed tightly with some ten other people. A girl was crying. Dov put his arm around Moshe's shoulder. Dov looked at him, but did not move. The siren faded. Moshe dropped his arm, and they walked back into the street, neither one meeting each other's eye.
They walked into the synagogue; the entrance was narrow, so they each walked in single file: Dov felt Moshe slip his fingers into the back pocket of his pants. He turned around. Moshe shot him a bashful smile. Then the fingers were gone. Dov smiled back, kissed the mezuzah, and took his seat. Moshe sat beside him. Together, they opened their siddur and prepared to give praise to their Creator:
It is good to praise God and to sing to Your Name, O Most High.
Note on My Jeremiah Project (My religiosity peeks through)
Much of my Jeremiah writing is erotic, but I do not consider it erotica. What is the difference? The difference is that erotic writing uses erotic imagery as a means, whereas erotica views the erotic as an end.
As a religious Jew, I personally would feel uncomfortable using holy texts as a platform for erotica. (Other religious Jews may feel differently, and I respect that.)
What I do in my project, is read the text, focusing on the images and feelings they arouse in me, sometimes trying to get my story to match what I feel is the "message" of the story, sometimes giving myself more freedom.
I believe God meant for us to live our lives to the fullest, to maximize our potential - including our creative potential. I also believe that the texts handed down from our forefathers were meant to serve not only as moral guides, but also as texts from which we can draw inspiration for the everyday fabric of our lives and our culture, including the arts.
I am writing this because recently I have encountered some misunderstandings about the purpose of my writing, so I wanted to clarify.
I wish for my writing to be a tool that helps me to grow closer to God, and if through it, I manage to bring a reader a moment of beauty, passion, or inspiration, then I have been truly blessed by God.
Because emotions come from us, but it is God who gives us the tools to express them.
As a religious Jew, I personally would feel uncomfortable using holy texts as a platform for erotica. (Other religious Jews may feel differently, and I respect that.)
What I do in my project, is read the text, focusing on the images and feelings they arouse in me, sometimes trying to get my story to match what I feel is the "message" of the story, sometimes giving myself more freedom.
I believe God meant for us to live our lives to the fullest, to maximize our potential - including our creative potential. I also believe that the texts handed down from our forefathers were meant to serve not only as moral guides, but also as texts from which we can draw inspiration for the everyday fabric of our lives and our culture, including the arts.
I am writing this because recently I have encountered some misunderstandings about the purpose of my writing, so I wanted to clarify.
I wish for my writing to be a tool that helps me to grow closer to God, and if through it, I manage to bring a reader a moment of beauty, passion, or inspiration, then I have been truly blessed by God.
Because emotions come from us, but it is God who gives us the tools to express them.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Jeremiah 25
The wine leaves a crimson stain on her lips. The "boom" causes her fingers to tremble when she passes me the bottle. "The lion is roaring", I say. I fell the wine's swish in my throat when I swallow.
"The shepherds have left the field.", she says.
"There was no more grain."
"No. None outside of the palace."
She takes back the bottle. "My uncle was a shepherd, but he's been staying with us ever since they ravaged the countryside." She takes a sip.
"I hear they burned all the grass." It is only as the words leave my lips, that I realize how worrying they must be.
She wipes her lips with the back of her hand. I want to kiss the crimson stain spreading to her fingers.
"A lion's roar is like a kiss. It can not be put back into his mouth."
She laughs. Our eyes meet. Another rocket sounds.
I kiss her as the city walls come tumbling down upon us; her lips are mightier than the foundations of the temple, her tongue sweeter than the wine spilling out from the half-empty bottle that lies beside my feet.
It took Nebuchadnezzar thirty months and five armies to scale the heights of the temple; it took me one hour and two pairs of thighs.
"The shepherds have left the field.", she says.
"There was no more grain."
"No. None outside of the palace."
She takes back the bottle. "My uncle was a shepherd, but he's been staying with us ever since they ravaged the countryside." She takes a sip.
"I hear they burned all the grass." It is only as the words leave my lips, that I realize how worrying they must be.
She wipes her lips with the back of her hand. I want to kiss the crimson stain spreading to her fingers.
"A lion's roar is like a kiss. It can not be put back into his mouth."
She laughs. Our eyes meet. Another rocket sounds.
I kiss her as the city walls come tumbling down upon us; her lips are mightier than the foundations of the temple, her tongue sweeter than the wine spilling out from the half-empty bottle that lies beside my feet.
It took Nebuchadnezzar thirty months and five armies to scale the heights of the temple; it took me one hour and two pairs of thighs.
Jeremiah 26
Jeremiah was tired; he could see the sun reflected off the brown stones, as he climbed his way to the courtyard. The smell of roast lamb assailed his nostrils, mingled with rosewater and sweat. He licked his lips, trying not to imagine the feel of her mouth, or the touch of her thighs.
"This city will be like Shiloh, a curse upon the lips of those who pass her by."
He felt a hand on his shoulder; golden bangles and a hint of rosemary. "You lie."
The hiss grew louder; a mob of men, robed in their finest linen, came slithering towards him.
"What's all the commotion?"
It was the same priest Jeremiah had seen by the fig tree the night before - their eyes met for a moment.
"This man claims Jerusalem will become like Shiloh."
"Indeed? That is a serious charge - let me summon the sires of Judah. After all, we want to make sure justice in this case is - satisfied." His smirked.
Jeremiah considered running, but the pressure of the man's hand on his shoulder convinced him not to.
"Let us hear."
The three sires of Judah wore robes of crimson and scarlet;their beards showed evidence of frequent trips to the barbers.
"God has sent me: Better your ways, harken to His voice, and He will repent of the evil that He has declared against you. As for me, I am in your hands, but know this: If you kill me, you spill clean blood."
He could see them whispering to each other. The people stood still, silent. Jeremiah was reminded of Yom Kippur, when the masses would wordlessly wait to find out their verdict, written in the face of the High Priest when he emerged from the Kadosh Hakodashim.
"A man prophecied against Jerusalem in the days of Hezekiah. Thanks to him, men mended their ways, and we were saved. Yet a man prophecied the same thing in the days of Yehoyakim, and the king sent assasins to Egypt to ensure the punishment of the wrong-doer."
The people breathed. He could feel their screams; the ground was trembling beneath him.
A different hand on his shoulder; the smell of mint and cedar. A cloak thrown over his shoulders, sheilding his eyes. He let himself be guided; the blue wool felt warm against his cheek, and he longed for water. He continued downward, guided by the palm of a stranger.
When the cloak was off, Jeremiah found himself looking into a pair of the bluest eyes he had ever seen.
"Thank you", he said, but by the time the words were out of his mouth, the man had already turned the corner, his cloak a blue pile tucked beneath his right arm. Jeremiah watched the receding figure, until he could see it no more.
"This city will be like Shiloh, a curse upon the lips of those who pass her by."
He felt a hand on his shoulder; golden bangles and a hint of rosemary. "You lie."
The hiss grew louder; a mob of men, robed in their finest linen, came slithering towards him.
"What's all the commotion?"
It was the same priest Jeremiah had seen by the fig tree the night before - their eyes met for a moment.
"This man claims Jerusalem will become like Shiloh."
"Indeed? That is a serious charge - let me summon the sires of Judah. After all, we want to make sure justice in this case is - satisfied." His smirked.
Jeremiah considered running, but the pressure of the man's hand on his shoulder convinced him not to.
"Let us hear."
The three sires of Judah wore robes of crimson and scarlet;their beards showed evidence of frequent trips to the barbers.
"God has sent me: Better your ways, harken to His voice, and He will repent of the evil that He has declared against you. As for me, I am in your hands, but know this: If you kill me, you spill clean blood."
He could see them whispering to each other. The people stood still, silent. Jeremiah was reminded of Yom Kippur, when the masses would wordlessly wait to find out their verdict, written in the face of the High Priest when he emerged from the Kadosh Hakodashim.
"A man prophecied against Jerusalem in the days of Hezekiah. Thanks to him, men mended their ways, and we were saved. Yet a man prophecied the same thing in the days of Yehoyakim, and the king sent assasins to Egypt to ensure the punishment of the wrong-doer."
The people breathed. He could feel their screams; the ground was trembling beneath him.
A different hand on his shoulder; the smell of mint and cedar. A cloak thrown over his shoulders, sheilding his eyes. He let himself be guided; the blue wool felt warm against his cheek, and he longed for water. He continued downward, guided by the palm of a stranger.
When the cloak was off, Jeremiah found himself looking into a pair of the bluest eyes he had ever seen.
"Thank you", he said, but by the time the words were out of his mouth, the man had already turned the corner, his cloak a blue pile tucked beneath his right arm. Jeremiah watched the receding figure, until he could see it no more.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
I bet you didn't expect to see a poem about the virgin mary on this blog, now did you?
I can't fall asleep (despite having cut down on caffeine!) yet am too tired to read case-law in Hebrew (i.e. do my homework) so I've been going through my inbox, deleting various things.
I stumbled across this ballad about the Virgin Mary, which is an ecphrastic piece based on a painting of the Virgin of the Walters Art Museum. It was an assignment for a class taught at JHU by Pamela Kirpatrick.
I thought it was fun and decided to upload it:
Bordello Mary: strawberry lips
and sweet almond-eyes.
Behind the white gauzy virgin’s veil,
she fills men with surprise.
God in a rush of white wings:
saying Oh Jesus, Oh Jesus
anointed in shattered-latex dreams,
hands are cradling thighs.
Plucked eyebrows, golden hair,
burnished robe of roses.
Green mantle and silver star,
creases under eyes.
When he glided away, your feathered
fingers full of surprise,
did you know that day that from you
the world’s glory would rise?
I stumbled across this ballad about the Virgin Mary, which is an ecphrastic piece based on a painting of the Virgin of the Walters Art Museum. It was an assignment for a class taught at JHU by Pamela Kirpatrick.
I thought it was fun and decided to upload it:
Bordello Mary: strawberry lips
and sweet almond-eyes.
Behind the white gauzy virgin’s veil,
she fills men with surprise.
God in a rush of white wings:
saying Oh Jesus, Oh Jesus
anointed in shattered-latex dreams,
hands are cradling thighs.
Plucked eyebrows, golden hair,
burnished robe of roses.
Green mantle and silver star,
creases under eyes.
When he glided away, your feathered
fingers full of surprise,
did you know that day that from you
the world’s glory would rise?
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Jeremiah 24 (1)
The figs were soft and plump against my palms, my fingers painted by
their purple skins. "These are those whom I have sent away". I push
their seeds against my tongue, feel their sweetness on my lips. Later, I
place my palm against the rotting green that lies on the ground beneath the trees.
"And these are the ones who have stayed". No lips will ever taste their
smashed skins; I wish that I
wanted to touch them. "Before you were born...". Rotted, before these
fruits began to flower. There is something poisonous about their
loneliness - their soft splitting makes them seem needy. I reach down,
and rub their blackening seeds on my lips.
"Are you annointing yourself now?" her tone is bemused. I smell rosewater on her breath. My ancestors once annointed themselves in oil, before going to smoke sheep for the Temple. The only thing I've ever smoked is a bag of hashish, once, when I grew bored while tending the cattle. The night was cold, and in the haze of the smoke, I thought I could see angels. "You must have been dreaming", my mother said. My brother told me he wasn't wasting another bag of hash on me if I saw angels. "When I get high, I see women with tits the size of watermelons."
"But I hate watermelons!"
"Dude, that's totally not the point."
Her fingers are on my cheeks. "I could annoint you, if you'd like."
"How much extra for the role-play?"
"A basketful of wool."
"I have no money."
"Then get out of my fig-grove."
Of course - how silly of me to think that this could be pristine. "What did you expect Jeremiah? We live in a post-modern universe." God was smoking his pipe, explaining to me that things had gone down-hill ever since the potters left to mold royal bowls for the exiled king. "Have you seen the dishes Zedekiah uses? I wouldn't feed my cat from those things." I nodded. I was kind of tired and wanted to go to sleep, but how do you politely excuse yourself from the Divine Presence? There just isn't any protocol for that. "Did you know last night your brother dreamt of women with tits the size of watermelons?" "No? Really?" "Yeah. Imagine how dissapointed he was when he woke up and discovered his wife's tits were the size of apples." God allowed Himself a laugh. I yawned. "I supposed you'd better sleep - you have a long day ahead of you, what with predicting the return of the captives and the captivity of the royalty, and all that. Here, take some figs on your way out." They feel soft and plump against my palms, my fingers painted by their purple skins. I push their seeds against my tongue, feel their sweetness on my lips. Why did I send her away? I fall asleep dreaming of her rose-water breath - her tits are the size of apples:
I want to bite in.
"Are you annointing yourself now?" her tone is bemused. I smell rosewater on her breath. My ancestors once annointed themselves in oil, before going to smoke sheep for the Temple. The only thing I've ever smoked is a bag of hashish, once, when I grew bored while tending the cattle. The night was cold, and in the haze of the smoke, I thought I could see angels. "You must have been dreaming", my mother said. My brother told me he wasn't wasting another bag of hash on me if I saw angels. "When I get high, I see women with tits the size of watermelons."
"But I hate watermelons!"
"Dude, that's totally not the point."
Her fingers are on my cheeks. "I could annoint you, if you'd like."
"How much extra for the role-play?"
"A basketful of wool."
"I have no money."
"Then get out of my fig-grove."
Of course - how silly of me to think that this could be pristine. "What did you expect Jeremiah? We live in a post-modern universe." God was smoking his pipe, explaining to me that things had gone down-hill ever since the potters left to mold royal bowls for the exiled king. "Have you seen the dishes Zedekiah uses? I wouldn't feed my cat from those things." I nodded. I was kind of tired and wanted to go to sleep, but how do you politely excuse yourself from the Divine Presence? There just isn't any protocol for that. "Did you know last night your brother dreamt of women with tits the size of watermelons?" "No? Really?" "Yeah. Imagine how dissapointed he was when he woke up and discovered his wife's tits were the size of apples." God allowed Himself a laugh. I yawned. "I supposed you'd better sleep - you have a long day ahead of you, what with predicting the return of the captives and the captivity of the royalty, and all that. Here, take some figs on your way out." They feel soft and plump against my palms, my fingers painted by their purple skins. I push their seeds against my tongue, feel their sweetness on my lips. Why did I send her away? I fall asleep dreaming of her rose-water breath - her tits are the size of apples:
I want to bite in.
Jeremiah 24
The figs were soft and plump against my palms, my fingers painted by
their purple skins. "These are those whom I have sent away". I push
their seeds against my tongue, feel their sweetness on my lips. Later, I
place my palm against the rotting green that lies beneath the trees.
"And these are the ones who have stayed". No lips will ever taste their
smashed skins; their tiny seeds tremble against the ground. I wish that I
wanted to touch them. "Before you were born...". Rotted, before these
fruits began to flower. There is something poisonous about their
loneliness. Their soft splitting makes them seem needy. I reach down,
and rub the blackening seeds on my lips.
"Are you annointing yourself now?" her tone is bemused. I can smell the rosewater on her breath. My ancestors once annointed themselves in oil, before going to smoke sheep for the Temple. The only thing I've ever smoked is a bag of hashish, once, when I grew bored with tending the cattle. The night was cold, and in the haze of the smoke, I thought I could see angels. "You must have been dreaming", my mother said, when I told her. My brother told me he wasn't wasting another bag of hash on me if I saw angels. "When I get high, I see women with tits the size of watermelons."
"But I hate watermelons!"
"Dude, that's totally not the point."
Her fingers are on my cheeks. "I could annoint you, if you'd like."
"How much extra for the role-play?"
"A basketful of wool."
"I have no money."
"Then get out of my fig-grove."
Of course - how silly of me to think that this could be pristine. "What did you expect Jeremiah? We live in a post-modern universe." God was smoking his pipe, explaining to me that things had gone down-hill ever since the potters left to mold royal bowls for the king to use in exile. "Have you seen the dishes Zedekiah uses? I wouldn't feed my cat from those things." I nodded. I was kind of tired and wanted to go to sleep, but how do you politely excuse yourself from the Divine Presence? There just isn't any protocol for that. "Did you know last night your brother dreamt of women with tits the size of watermelons?" "No? Really?" "Yeah. Imagine how dissapointed he was when he woke up and discovered his wife's tits were the size of apples." God allowed Himself a laugh. I yawned. "I supposed you'd better sleep - you have a long day ahead of you, what with predicting the return of the captives and the captivity of the royalty, and all that. Here, take some figs on your way out." They feel soft and plump against my palms, my fingers painted by their purple skins. I push their seeds against my tongue, feel their sweetness on my lips. Why did I send her away? I fall asleep dreaming of her rose-water breath and her brown hair - her tits are the size of apples:
I want to bite in.
"Are you annointing yourself now?" her tone is bemused. I can smell the rosewater on her breath. My ancestors once annointed themselves in oil, before going to smoke sheep for the Temple. The only thing I've ever smoked is a bag of hashish, once, when I grew bored with tending the cattle. The night was cold, and in the haze of the smoke, I thought I could see angels. "You must have been dreaming", my mother said, when I told her. My brother told me he wasn't wasting another bag of hash on me if I saw angels. "When I get high, I see women with tits the size of watermelons."
"But I hate watermelons!"
"Dude, that's totally not the point."
Her fingers are on my cheeks. "I could annoint you, if you'd like."
"How much extra for the role-play?"
"A basketful of wool."
"I have no money."
"Then get out of my fig-grove."
Of course - how silly of me to think that this could be pristine. "What did you expect Jeremiah? We live in a post-modern universe." God was smoking his pipe, explaining to me that things had gone down-hill ever since the potters left to mold royal bowls for the king to use in exile. "Have you seen the dishes Zedekiah uses? I wouldn't feed my cat from those things." I nodded. I was kind of tired and wanted to go to sleep, but how do you politely excuse yourself from the Divine Presence? There just isn't any protocol for that. "Did you know last night your brother dreamt of women with tits the size of watermelons?" "No? Really?" "Yeah. Imagine how dissapointed he was when he woke up and discovered his wife's tits were the size of apples." God allowed Himself a laugh. I yawned. "I supposed you'd better sleep - you have a long day ahead of you, what with predicting the return of the captives and the captivity of the royalty, and all that. Here, take some figs on your way out." They feel soft and plump against my palms, my fingers painted by their purple skins. I push their seeds against my tongue, feel their sweetness on my lips. Why did I send her away? I fall asleep dreaming of her rose-water breath and her brown hair - her tits are the size of apples:
I want to bite in.
Jeremiah 23
I am tired of spilling my words like fine wine, of stumbling through the streets like the drunkard who grey rags are stained red. I see priests standing in the shadows, their white robes gliding like swans from their bodies, borne upon the fingers of ladies whose price I can not afford.
The prophets who speak words of comfort, who urge each man to grasp his sword, their coffers are filled with gold, their bodies bound in the finest wool. Every night, they take a different lover to their crimson sheets.
God tells me He will raise their staff against them. I am not sure what it means exactly - to me, it sounds vaguely masturbatory - which makes sense I suppose: Like wasted seed, their words can become nothing more than dirt to be trod on by beggars' bare-feet. The old woman will curse men as she wipes their rotting semen from between her toes.
My words on the other hand, will produce flowers: red petals of wars, the thorns of exile, all to be plucked into a lovely bouquet, and used by a man to propose to his girlfriend on the banks of Babylon.
The priest has finished his business; he recognizes me, and gives me a satisfied smile on his way back to the temple gates. He knows he will see me there tomorrow, being mocked like a drunkard, as I spill the truth on a people who do not deserve it. These men, so discerning in their taste of women and wine, clearly can't tell a thing when it comes to literature: If they could, they would realize that each letter I speak is precious, each word worth at least a pound of purple wool.
If they paid me that, I would use it to buy the girl on that corner a bunch of flowers.
The prophets who speak words of comfort, who urge each man to grasp his sword, their coffers are filled with gold, their bodies bound in the finest wool. Every night, they take a different lover to their crimson sheets.
God tells me He will raise their staff against them. I am not sure what it means exactly - to me, it sounds vaguely masturbatory - which makes sense I suppose: Like wasted seed, their words can become nothing more than dirt to be trod on by beggars' bare-feet. The old woman will curse men as she wipes their rotting semen from between her toes.
My words on the other hand, will produce flowers: red petals of wars, the thorns of exile, all to be plucked into a lovely bouquet, and used by a man to propose to his girlfriend on the banks of Babylon.
The priest has finished his business; he recognizes me, and gives me a satisfied smile on his way back to the temple gates. He knows he will see me there tomorrow, being mocked like a drunkard, as I spill the truth on a people who do not deserve it. These men, so discerning in their taste of women and wine, clearly can't tell a thing when it comes to literature: If they could, they would realize that each letter I speak is precious, each word worth at least a pound of purple wool.
If they paid me that, I would use it to buy the girl on that corner a bunch of flowers.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
How To Write Porn
Do you remember that night when I felt your breasts for the first time? They were round and soft, except for your nipples, which were hard, and fit perfectly in the space in between my forefinger and my thumb. I wanted to nibble, but the store-owner was giving us a funny look, and you giggled when I pushed you up against the beer cans. I could feel my groin on yours, and we started dancing to the non-music.
"I'm sorry about the party", I said.
"Sh!" You pushed my face into your collar-bone. I couldn't breathe. You gasped so loudly when I kissed your neck, I was afraid the store-owner would get up from behind the counter, but he was too busy looking at his ipad - watching porn, probably.
I hate writing about sex. I hate being forced to concretize my experience into a series of images. "But you have to", you said, when you were leaning over me, my notebook in my lap, your breasts digging into my shoulders, your hair hanging over my head.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because it's an erotica course. That means your writing has to be - well, erotic."
I laughed. You sat down across from me. I could see your turqoise underwear from between your uncrossed legs. "You really should start wearing longer skirts".
You grabbed the pen and notebook out of my hands.
"Now, what are your top three body parts?"
"I don't know."
"Think. You must have some preferences!".
"Ok. Thighs, breasts, forehead."
"Forehead? Really?"
"Sure. Didn't you know the brain's the sexiest part of the body?"
"Ok. Now three verbs."
"Um. Kiss. Touch. Entwine."
"Now, two adjectives."
"Wet?"
You rolled your eyes. "Really? That's so cliche. How about - moist."
"Yeah, because that's so much better."
"You know, sarcasm isn't becoming on you."
"What about humor?"
"Nah. I prefer cruelty."
"Goody. Should we start the spanking?"
You laughed, and continued writing.
"Ok. How does this sound?
He kissed her thighs; she could feel her pubic hair touching his forehead. That night they played a game: the entwining of the bodies. They drank the moist sweat from each other's skin. He fell asleep with the taste of her breasts on his tongue, and her hand between his thighs.
How's that?"
"Awful. Just awful." He was laughing so hard, it was difficult to speak.
"Well at least it fulfills the terms of the assignment."
She threw a pillow at him. He marched over to the bed and took off her skirt with his right hand, pinning her wrist down to the sheets with his left. He kissed her on the lips, then on the ear. She giggled. They spent the night engaged in the twining and untwining of their bodies. He kissed her thighs; she could feel her pubic hair touching his forehead. He fell asleep as the sun was rising, with the taste of her breasts on his tongue, and her hand between his thighs.
"I'm sorry about the party", I said.
"Sh!" You pushed my face into your collar-bone. I couldn't breathe. You gasped so loudly when I kissed your neck, I was afraid the store-owner would get up from behind the counter, but he was too busy looking at his ipad - watching porn, probably.
I hate writing about sex. I hate being forced to concretize my experience into a series of images. "But you have to", you said, when you were leaning over me, my notebook in my lap, your breasts digging into my shoulders, your hair hanging over my head.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because it's an erotica course. That means your writing has to be - well, erotic."
I laughed. You sat down across from me. I could see your turqoise underwear from between your uncrossed legs. "You really should start wearing longer skirts".
You grabbed the pen and notebook out of my hands.
"Now, what are your top three body parts?"
"I don't know."
"Think. You must have some preferences!".
"Ok. Thighs, breasts, forehead."
"Forehead? Really?"
"Sure. Didn't you know the brain's the sexiest part of the body?"
"Ok. Now three verbs."
"Um. Kiss. Touch. Entwine."
"Now, two adjectives."
"Wet?"
You rolled your eyes. "Really? That's so cliche. How about - moist."
"Yeah, because that's so much better."
"You know, sarcasm isn't becoming on you."
"What about humor?"
"Nah. I prefer cruelty."
"Goody. Should we start the spanking?"
You laughed, and continued writing.
"Ok. How does this sound?
He kissed her thighs; she could feel her pubic hair touching his forehead. That night they played a game: the entwining of the bodies. They drank the moist sweat from each other's skin. He fell asleep with the taste of her breasts on his tongue, and her hand between his thighs.
How's that?"
"Awful. Just awful." He was laughing so hard, it was difficult to speak.
"Well at least it fulfills the terms of the assignment."
She threw a pillow at him. He marched over to the bed and took off her skirt with his right hand, pinning her wrist down to the sheets with his left. He kissed her on the lips, then on the ear. She giggled. They spent the night engaged in the twining and untwining of their bodies. He kissed her thighs; she could feel her pubic hair touching his forehead. He fell asleep as the sun was rising, with the taste of her breasts on his tongue, and her hand between his thighs.
Based on Jeremiah 22, listening to David Broza, likely influenced by stuff I've read on Jewrotica (yes that's a real - and a recommended - website).
"Take off your rags", he said.
The fireplace sent shadows raging across his black beard, and his green eyes glowered.
She shivered as she crawled out of the grey, her eyes scanning the mat that lay by the floor.
"Is this how you thought I would repay you? Do I not mete out mercy for mercy, kindness for kindness?"
She placed her palms between her legs, and blushed.
"Will you not face me?"
"And show you things I'd rather you not see?"
"Yet nothing I haven't seen before."
His voice grew gentle. "Come here."
She stepped away from the warmth. She could feel the chill of his fingers upon her cheeks.
"You're cold", she said.
"Shall I ring the butler for a cup of coffee?"
She shook her head.
"Now let's discuss your punishment."
He ran his fingers over her shoulders.
"You loved me once."
"And I still do."
She wanted to laugh, but the sound got stuck in her throat.
He smiled.
"I know that sound", he said.
She tried not to cry.
"Now take your medicine".
She felt his palm against her tears, the black silk against her lips. She stood still as he let the leather roam the length and breadth of her back and thighs. He kissed her shoulders, working his way up to her neck. "I forgive you", he whispered. She felt the black silk being unbound from her mouth, and the blood dripping down her body.
He kissed each wound as he cleansed it. She felt the sting of peroxyde, followed by the dryness of cotton gauze. She curled up on the mat by the fireplace as he drew her a bath. Then he soaped each part of her body. "You've been purified", he said, before drying her with a white towel, and clothing her in garments of royal purple that matched his own robes. First he helped her into cotton underwear, then into a silk dress that hugged her body.
"Now you have truly earned these", he said, planting a kiss on her cheek.
She turned his face towards her and drank in his lips. "Now that I've gotten you dressed in these clothes, what do you say I take you to my bedroom and get you out of them?", he asked.
Her laughter signalled her assent as he took her hand, and marvelled at the beautiful woman who stood beside him.
The fireplace sent shadows raging across his black beard, and his green eyes glowered.
She shivered as she crawled out of the grey, her eyes scanning the mat that lay by the floor.
"Is this how you thought I would repay you? Do I not mete out mercy for mercy, kindness for kindness?"
She placed her palms between her legs, and blushed.
"Will you not face me?"
"And show you things I'd rather you not see?"
"Yet nothing I haven't seen before."
His voice grew gentle. "Come here."
She stepped away from the warmth. She could feel the chill of his fingers upon her cheeks.
"You're cold", she said.
"Shall I ring the butler for a cup of coffee?"
She shook her head.
"Now let's discuss your punishment."
He ran his fingers over her shoulders.
"You loved me once."
"And I still do."
She wanted to laugh, but the sound got stuck in her throat.
He smiled.
"I know that sound", he said.
She tried not to cry.
"Now take your medicine".
She felt his palm against her tears, the black silk against her lips. She stood still as he let the leather roam the length and breadth of her back and thighs. He kissed her shoulders, working his way up to her neck. "I forgive you", he whispered. She felt the black silk being unbound from her mouth, and the blood dripping down her body.
He kissed each wound as he cleansed it. She felt the sting of peroxyde, followed by the dryness of cotton gauze. She curled up on the mat by the fireplace as he drew her a bath. Then he soaped each part of her body. "You've been purified", he said, before drying her with a white towel, and clothing her in garments of royal purple that matched his own robes. First he helped her into cotton underwear, then into a silk dress that hugged her body.
"Now you have truly earned these", he said, planting a kiss on her cheek.
She turned his face towards her and drank in his lips. "Now that I've gotten you dressed in these clothes, what do you say I take you to my bedroom and get you out of them?", he asked.
Her laughter signalled her assent as he took her hand, and marvelled at the beautiful woman who stood beside him.
I wish
I wish I still loved you enough to cry.
I run my fingers down your spine; the moon is reflected on the pale sheets. I knew I should have bought that book of poetry - now I have only a novel and a Tanach for company - and you, of course.
I felt like Eve, the first time I kissed you and took you to my bed. I let you taste my lips, but I would not give you of the forbidden fruit.
I hate myself for sounding so cliche.
Leonard Cohen music plays in the background; I feel your lips on my thigh, and know that I will drown my loneliness in the caresses of air upon my body in the morning, right before I have my cup of coffee.
Did I leave you or did you leave me?
I suppose it doesn't matter now - here, between these sheets.
I wish I still loved you enough to cry.
I run my fingers down your spine; the moon is reflected on the pale sheets. I knew I should have bought that book of poetry - now I have only a novel and a Tanach for company - and you, of course.
I felt like Eve, the first time I kissed you and took you to my bed. I let you taste my lips, but I would not give you of the forbidden fruit.
I hate myself for sounding so cliche.
Leonard Cohen music plays in the background; I feel your lips on my thigh, and know that I will drown my loneliness in the caresses of air upon my body in the morning, right before I have my cup of coffee.
Did I leave you or did you leave me?
I suppose it doesn't matter now - here, between these sheets.
I wish I still loved you enough to cry.
Diary Entry: Writing To Music (Exercise Introduced to me by my 6th grade teacher, Mr. Larry Sandomir)
I want so badly to be someone, to do something other than to sit here, missing you. I knew I should have bought that book of poetry, sprung for the 45 shekels. Instead I sit here, with only a novel and Tanach for company. Tanach is my favorite book, but it forces me to face myself - and I don't feel ready to do that, quite yet. I wish that you were here, that I could kiss and take you to my bed. I long to feel the curves of your body fitting in and out of mine like pieces in a puzzle. I hate myself for sounding so cliche. Leonard Cohen is singing about a gypsy wife, and I wish I felt beautiful enough to care - or at least that it was warm enough to take my clothes off, so I could drown my loneliness in the caresses of air upon my body.
Did I leave you or did you leave me? Does it matter?
I wish I still loved you enough to cry.
Did I leave you or did you leave me? Does it matter?
I wish I still loved you enough to cry.
Purim Spiel, Part 5
Int. Kitchen, Israel - Day.
Ehud and Lally are having coffee.
Ehud
למה באת?
Lally
לעשות ניחום אבלים.
Lally takes a sip of coffee.
לא רציתי לשלח אותה לבד.
Ehud
למה ? כי זה התנחלות?
Lally
לא. כי זב בית שיבה.
(Beat.)
כל אחד מתאבל בצורה אחרת
Ehud
אך אני לא מתאבל - זה מה שמפריע לי -אני לא מרגיש - אני לא מרגיש כלום.
Lally gets up and puts her hands on Ehud's chest.
Ehud
מה את עושה?
Lally
אני נותנת לך את המרץ החיובי שלי.
Ehud
מה? עכשיו גם את עושה סמים?
Lally
אל תצחק.
(Beat.)
Ehud crumples into her arms, crying.
Ext. Porch, Israel - Night.
Sarah is smoking a cigarette. Ilana comes out. They share a cigarette in silence.
Ext. House, Israel, Day.
A cab is waiting. The entire family is gathered outside. They all exchange hugs with Sarah, but not with Lally, who only exchanges hugs with Ehud. Ehud carries the luggage to the cab. The rest of the family goes back inside, leaving Sarah and Lally to wait by themselves while the cab-driver helps Ehud load the bags. Once the bags are loaded, the cab-driver gets inside the cab. Ehud holds the door open for Lally and Sarah. He hugs Sarah. She gets in, leaving Ehud and Lally together.
Ehud
נסיעה טובה.
Lally
אולי תבא לבקר.
Ehud
חשבת שבגלל מה שקרה, אני אחזור אלייך, ופתעום הכל יהיה מושלם, כמו באיזה מין סרט הוליווד כזה?
Lally
לא. חשבתי שזה יהי כמו "פורים שפייל" - חלום מתורף, שנעלם למקום האשליות.
(She gets into the car.)
אך קיויתי שטעיתי.
She slams the door. The car drives away.
Ext. Zenut Rehabilitation Facility, New York- Day.
Lally and Sarah walk into the lobby. Music is playing. The patients are performing a congo line around the nurse's station.
Sarah
Mom, I think I might need rehab.
Lally
כוסאמק!
(Beat.)
For once I wanted to be able to lord it over your grandmother that I was having sex while she wasn't!
Sarah
(brightly)
Maybe she didn't have sex.
Lally looks at her.
Sarah
(defensively)
Well, its possible.
Lally
She's in room 105.
They look for the room and enter.
Nanny, dressed as a chassidic rebbe, with a hat and false beard, is straddling Enrique, the male orderly, who is on his back. He is dressed in bridal clothes. Nanny holds the same toy whip in her hand.
Nanny
You've been a bad Jew, Enrique. A very bad Jew.
She whips him. In the middle, she looks up and sees Sarah and Lally.
Nanny
What? We're just getting ready for Yom Kippur.
Beat.
Blackout.
Ehud and Lally are having coffee.
Ehud
למה באת?
Lally
לעשות ניחום אבלים.
Lally takes a sip of coffee.
לא רציתי לשלח אותה לבד.
Ehud
למה ? כי זה התנחלות?
Lally
לא. כי זב בית שיבה.
(Beat.)
כל אחד מתאבל בצורה אחרת
Ehud
אך אני לא מתאבל - זה מה שמפריע לי -אני לא מרגיש - אני לא מרגיש כלום.
Lally gets up and puts her hands on Ehud's chest.
Ehud
מה את עושה?
Lally
אני נותנת לך את המרץ החיובי שלי.
Ehud
מה? עכשיו גם את עושה סמים?
Lally
אל תצחק.
(Beat.)
Ehud crumples into her arms, crying.
Ext. Porch, Israel - Night.
Sarah is smoking a cigarette. Ilana comes out. They share a cigarette in silence.
Ext. House, Israel, Day.
A cab is waiting. The entire family is gathered outside. They all exchange hugs with Sarah, but not with Lally, who only exchanges hugs with Ehud. Ehud carries the luggage to the cab. The rest of the family goes back inside, leaving Sarah and Lally to wait by themselves while the cab-driver helps Ehud load the bags. Once the bags are loaded, the cab-driver gets inside the cab. Ehud holds the door open for Lally and Sarah. He hugs Sarah. She gets in, leaving Ehud and Lally together.
Ehud
נסיעה טובה.
Lally
אולי תבא לבקר.
Ehud
חשבת שבגלל מה שקרה, אני אחזור אלייך, ופתעום הכל יהיה מושלם, כמו באיזה מין סרט הוליווד כזה?
Lally
לא. חשבתי שזה יהי כמו "פורים שפייל" - חלום מתורף, שנעלם למקום האשליות.
(She gets into the car.)
אך קיויתי שטעיתי.
She slams the door. The car drives away.
Ext. Zenut Rehabilitation Facility, New York- Day.
Lally and Sarah walk into the lobby. Music is playing. The patients are performing a congo line around the nurse's station.
Sarah
Mom, I think I might need rehab.
Lally
כוסאמק!
(Beat.)
For once I wanted to be able to lord it over your grandmother that I was having sex while she wasn't!
Sarah
(brightly)
Maybe she didn't have sex.
Lally looks at her.
Sarah
(defensively)
Well, its possible.
Lally
She's in room 105.
They look for the room and enter.
Nanny, dressed as a chassidic rebbe, with a hat and false beard, is straddling Enrique, the male orderly, who is on his back. He is dressed in bridal clothes. Nanny holds the same toy whip in her hand.
Nanny
You've been a bad Jew, Enrique. A very bad Jew.
She whips him. In the middle, she looks up and sees Sarah and Lally.
Nanny
What? We're just getting ready for Yom Kippur.
Beat.
Blackout.
Purim Spiel, Part 4
Int. Zenut Rehabilitation Facility Lobby, Nurses' Station Area, New York - Day.
Dance music is playing; laughter can be heard from another room.
Phone rings. Nurse Lola picks up.
Lola
Hello.
(Beat.)
Ms. Anavian. Calling from Israel.
(Beat.)
Oh. I'm sorry to hear that.
(Beat.)
Wait one moment, I'll go see if she's available.
Lola puts down the receiver, walks toward the room from which the laughter is emanating. She opens the door. People, in various states of unattire dance to pop music. Nanny rides a handsome orderly, Enrique, in his mid-40s. She is whipping him with a toy whip and laughing.
Lola closes the door, walks back and picks up the telephone.
Lola
I'm sorry Ms. Annavian, your mother can't come to the phone right now. But I assure you she's drug free and very happy.
(Beat.)
Multiple orgasms? What? Beat.
She hangs up the phone.
Other Nurse at the Nurse's Station
What is it Lola?
Lola
I don't know. The reception must have gone bad. I kept on hearing something about multiple orgasms.
Int. Hallway next to Bathroom, Israel - Day.
The shower can be heard, along with Lally singing. Ehud is standing outside the bathroom door.
Ehud
פתחי, נו! אני נשבע, עוד שניה ואני משתין על הרצפה - אל תהי אכזרית, נו! ללוש! אני סופר עד שלוש, ואז אני מכנס. אחת, שתיים, שלוש.
Ehud waits a second.
Ehud
שייט!
He opens the door and enters, closing the door behind him. He can hear - but not see - Lally singing. He pees. As he is finishing, Lally steps out of the shower and begins to scream. Ehud puts a hand to her mouth.
Ehud
שש! לא שמעת כשדפקתי מיליון פעמים?
He lets go.
Lally
לא. מה אתה עושה פה?
Ehud
הצתרכתי לפיפי.
(Beat.)
למה יצאת?
Lally
הצתרכתי לפיפי.
Ehud laughs.
Lally
נו, אל תצחק. זה דחוף.
Ehud
בבקשה, מדם.
Lally
תסתלק מפה.
There is a knock on the door.
Female Voice
יש מישהוא פה?
Lally
כן.
In quick pantomime: Lally: Go in the shower. Ehud: Are you crazy? Let me leave. Lally: No'! She'll see you. Get in the shower. NOW.
He gets in the shower. She pees, flushes, washes her hands, gets back in the shower, leaving the shower curtain ajar.
Ehud
כמעט שכחתי כמה את יפה.
They kiss.
Lally
מה אתה עושה? זה אסור….
Ehud
הִנָּךְ יָפָה רַעְיָתִי, הִנָּךְ יָפָה עֵינַיִךְ יוֹנִים*
Lally
הנך יפה דודי אף נעיםפ
They kiss.
Ehud
כְּמִגְדַּל דָּוִיד צַוָּארֵךְ, בָּנוּי לְתַלְפִּיּוֹת;
(He kisses her neck)
שְׁנֵי שָׁדַיִךְ כִּשְׁנֵי עֳפָרִים,
(He kisses her breasts)
They begin to kiss passionately, etc. A woman walks in and screams. They pull apart.
Lally
מה? באתי פה לעשות ניחום אבילים.
The woman walks out, slamming the door.
Ehud
שייט. היא חבירה של האמא שלי.
Lally jumps out of the shower and wraps herself in a towel.
Ehud
לאן את הולכת?
Lally
להתלבש. אני לא רוצה להיות ערומה כשהאמא שלך מגרשת אותי.
Lally runs out, leaving the door ajar. Ehud, stunned for a minute, walks after her. He knocks on the door.
Ehud
Lally? Lally!
He opens the door. Lally is lying on the bed, wrapped in a towel, crying. Ehud sits down and strokes her hair.
Lally
באתי לנחם אותך, ועכשיו אתה מנחם אותי.
Sarah walks in.
Sarah
If you came here to fuck Abba, why didn't you just say so?
She runs out of the room.
Int. Kitchen, Day.
Ehud and Sarah are sitting at a table, with mugs of coffee.
Ehud
Your mother didn't come here to fuck me. Trust me - do you know how many times I tried to fuck her in New York and she refused?
Sarah
Eugh! Abbah!
Ehud
What? You can't have it both ways - being a big girl and a little girl at the same time. You asked tough questions, and I'm answering you.
(He takes a sip of coffee.)
Do you remember the time you asked your mother what sex was and she told you to call me?
(Sarah laughs.)
That was her way of getting revenge.
Sarah
Revenge for what?
Ehud
For hitting on her, that night at the Plaza.
Sarah takes a sip of coffee.
Sarah
You still love her, don't you?
Ehud keeps on drinking his coffee.
Dance music is playing; laughter can be heard from another room.
Phone rings. Nurse Lola picks up.
Lola
Hello.
(Beat.)
Ms. Anavian. Calling from Israel.
(Beat.)
Oh. I'm sorry to hear that.
(Beat.)
Wait one moment, I'll go see if she's available.
Lola puts down the receiver, walks toward the room from which the laughter is emanating. She opens the door. People, in various states of unattire dance to pop music. Nanny rides a handsome orderly, Enrique, in his mid-40s. She is whipping him with a toy whip and laughing.
Lola closes the door, walks back and picks up the telephone.
Lola
I'm sorry Ms. Annavian, your mother can't come to the phone right now. But I assure you she's drug free and very happy.
(Beat.)
Multiple orgasms? What? Beat.
She hangs up the phone.
Other Nurse at the Nurse's Station
What is it Lola?
Lola
I don't know. The reception must have gone bad. I kept on hearing something about multiple orgasms.
Int. Hallway next to Bathroom, Israel - Day.
The shower can be heard, along with Lally singing. Ehud is standing outside the bathroom door.
Ehud
פתחי, נו! אני נשבע, עוד שניה ואני משתין על הרצפה - אל תהי אכזרית, נו! ללוש! אני סופר עד שלוש, ואז אני מכנס. אחת, שתיים, שלוש.
Ehud waits a second.
Ehud
שייט!
He opens the door and enters, closing the door behind him. He can hear - but not see - Lally singing. He pees. As he is finishing, Lally steps out of the shower and begins to scream. Ehud puts a hand to her mouth.
Ehud
שש! לא שמעת כשדפקתי מיליון פעמים?
He lets go.
Lally
לא. מה אתה עושה פה?
Ehud
הצתרכתי לפיפי.
(Beat.)
למה יצאת?
Lally
הצתרכתי לפיפי.
Ehud laughs.
Lally
נו, אל תצחק. זה דחוף.
Ehud
בבקשה, מדם.
Lally
תסתלק מפה.
There is a knock on the door.
Female Voice
יש מישהוא פה?
Lally
כן.
In quick pantomime: Lally: Go in the shower. Ehud: Are you crazy? Let me leave. Lally: No'! She'll see you. Get in the shower. NOW.
He gets in the shower. She pees, flushes, washes her hands, gets back in the shower, leaving the shower curtain ajar.
Ehud
כמעט שכחתי כמה את יפה.
They kiss.
Lally
מה אתה עושה? זה אסור….
Ehud
הִנָּךְ יָפָה רַעְיָתִי, הִנָּךְ יָפָה עֵינַיִךְ יוֹנִים*
Lally
הנך יפה דודי אף נעיםפ
They kiss.
Ehud
כְּמִגְדַּל דָּוִיד צַוָּארֵךְ, בָּנוּי לְתַלְפִּיּוֹת;
(He kisses her neck)
שְׁנֵי שָׁדַיִךְ כִּשְׁנֵי עֳפָרִים,
(He kisses her breasts)
They begin to kiss passionately, etc. A woman walks in and screams. They pull apart.
Lally
מה? באתי פה לעשות ניחום אבילים.
The woman walks out, slamming the door.
Ehud
שייט. היא חבירה של האמא שלי.
Lally jumps out of the shower and wraps herself in a towel.
Ehud
לאן את הולכת?
Lally
להתלבש. אני לא רוצה להיות ערומה כשהאמא שלך מגרשת אותי.
Lally runs out, leaving the door ajar. Ehud, stunned for a minute, walks after her. He knocks on the door.
Ehud
Lally? Lally!
He opens the door. Lally is lying on the bed, wrapped in a towel, crying. Ehud sits down and strokes her hair.
Lally
באתי לנחם אותך, ועכשיו אתה מנחם אותי.
Sarah walks in.
Sarah
If you came here to fuck Abba, why didn't you just say so?
She runs out of the room.
Int. Kitchen, Day.
Ehud and Sarah are sitting at a table, with mugs of coffee.
Ehud
Your mother didn't come here to fuck me. Trust me - do you know how many times I tried to fuck her in New York and she refused?
Sarah
Eugh! Abbah!
Ehud
What? You can't have it both ways - being a big girl and a little girl at the same time. You asked tough questions, and I'm answering you.
(He takes a sip of coffee.)
Do you remember the time you asked your mother what sex was and she told you to call me?
(Sarah laughs.)
That was her way of getting revenge.
Sarah
Revenge for what?
Ehud
For hitting on her, that night at the Plaza.
Sarah takes a sip of coffee.
Sarah
You still love her, don't you?
Ehud keeps on drinking his coffee.
Purim Spiel, Part 3
Cut to: Int. Kitchen. Night.
Lally and Ehud are sitting at the kitchen, drinking tea.
Lally*4
אז סןף-סוף שכניתה את אביך לנסע לפגישה שמאלנית?
Ehud
כן, מלא אנטשמים והכל. בפגישה הבאה אנחנו מציגים את היטלר.
Lally
חשבתי שהוא מת.
Ehud
אז נעשה סאנס.
Lally laughs.
Cut to: Ext. Porch -Same.
Close-up of different angles of different body-parts of Sarah and Ilana making out.
Cut to: Int. Bedroom - Same.
Moshe, sits in his bedroom, looking over the porch with a pair of black binoculars.
Cut to: Int. Kitchen - Same.
Lally*5
זה לא עשמאותך, אהוד.
Ehud
אז של מי?
Lally
של אף אחד .
Ehud shakes his head with a sardonic smile.
Ehud
של אף אחד.
Lally
כן. של אף אחד.
She hugs him. They hold each other.
Int. Moshe's Bedroom, Same.
As the door opens, Moshe scrambles to hide his binoculars before Ilana walks in. Ilana, her hair and clothing ruffled, kisses Moshe.
Moshe
What was that for?
Ilana
I don't know.
She keeps kissing him. He responds.
Int. Moshe's Bedroom, Night.
Moshe and Ilana lie wrapped around each other, covered only by a blanket. Moshe kisses Ilana's shoulder.
Beat.
Moshe
Do you want a divorce?
ILANA
I don’t know. Do you?
MOSHE
I don’t know.
ILANA
I’ll be right back I -
MOSHE
Need another cup of tea?
ILANA
No. I have to pee.
They laugh.
Lally and Ehud are sitting at the kitchen, drinking tea.
Lally*4
אז סןף-סוף שכניתה את אביך לנסע לפגישה שמאלנית?
Ehud
כן, מלא אנטשמים והכל. בפגישה הבאה אנחנו מציגים את היטלר.
Lally
חשבתי שהוא מת.
Ehud
אז נעשה סאנס.
Lally laughs.
Cut to: Ext. Porch -Same.
Close-up of different angles of different body-parts of Sarah and Ilana making out.
Cut to: Int. Bedroom - Same.
Moshe, sits in his bedroom, looking over the porch with a pair of black binoculars.
Cut to: Int. Kitchen - Same.
Lally*5
זה לא עשמאותך, אהוד.
Ehud
אז של מי?
Lally
של אף אחד .
Ehud shakes his head with a sardonic smile.
Ehud
של אף אחד.
Lally
כן. של אף אחד.
She hugs him. They hold each other.
Int. Moshe's Bedroom, Same.
As the door opens, Moshe scrambles to hide his binoculars before Ilana walks in. Ilana, her hair and clothing ruffled, kisses Moshe.
Moshe
What was that for?
Ilana
I don't know.
She keeps kissing him. He responds.
Int. Moshe's Bedroom, Night.
Moshe and Ilana lie wrapped around each other, covered only by a blanket. Moshe kisses Ilana's shoulder.
Beat.
Moshe
Do you want a divorce?
ILANA
I don’t know. Do you?
MOSHE
I don’t know.
ILANA
I’ll be right back I -
MOSHE
Need another cup of tea?
ILANA
No. I have to pee.
They laugh.
Purim Spiel, Part 2
Cut to: Int. Shiva House Living Room, Israel - Day.
Ehud, handsome, in his late 30s, with wavy brown hair, sits on a low stool next to his older brother, Moshe, in his early 40s, and his mother Tali, in her early 60s, who is wearing a kerchief around her hair in the fashion common among religious Israeli Jewish women. Ilana, American, early 30s, Moshe's wife, sits next to him. She covers her hair in the Jewish Orthodox fashion. From the way she is interacting with him, it is clear they are romantically involved. The family is surrounded by visitors. All the men are wearing yarmulkas.
A large family picture hangs on the wall.
When Lally and Sarah walk in, there is a hush in the room. Lally nudges Sarah toward Ehud. She hugs him.
Lally walks over to Tali.
Lally*1
המקום ינחם אותך בתוך שער אבלי ציון וירושלים.
Tali
אני מצטערת שזה לקח מוות לגרום לך להביא את נחדי לביתי.
Lally
זאת היתה הברירה שלה, לא שלי.
Same - Same
The family, including Lally and Sarah, are sitting, surrounded by visitor.
Man*2
שחר היה צדיק, ממש צדיק. מסירותו לעם היהודי, לארץ שלנו - פשש! חבל על הזמן. לא כמו השמאלנים האלו, המשטמתים. פתירתו היא טרגדיה לכל קהילות ישע.
Ehud clenches his fist. Lally notices, places her hand on his. He starts. Sarah looks up from her book.
Man
המקום ינחם אותכם בתוך שער אבלי ציון וירושלים.
Lally
אמן.
She nudges Sarah.
Sarah
אמן.
Int. Empty Living Room Israel-Night.
Tali, Ehud and Sarah are the only ones sitting there.
Tali
I don't think anyone else is coming. I'm going to bed.
She leaves.
Ehud
Maybe you should get to bed. You've had a long day.
Sarah
You've had a long day too.
Ehud
I didn't travel 6,000 miles with your mother.
Sarah
She's not so bad.
Ehud
Did I say she was bad? I said she was tiring. There's a difference.
(Beat.)
So, is your grandmother still addicted to cocaine?
Sarah
You knew about that!
Ehud
Of course! She was already an addict when your mother and I got married. I remember, she got high at the wedding. We were afraid the rabbi would find out, so your mother kept your grandmother locked in a closet until five minutes before the ceremony.
Sarah
She did that?
Ehud
You know your mother when she wants her way.
(Beat. Ehud looks dreamy.)
Sarah
What are you thinking of?
Ehud
I don't think you want to know.
Sarah
Yes I do.
Ehud
To keep your grandmother in the closet, your mother borrowed this black silk scarf from a friend. I was thinking of the fun we had with the scarf after the wedding.
Sarah
Eugh!
Ehud
(Shrugs)
Well, you said you wanted to know.
Sarah
But only because I didn't know what you were going to say!
Ehud
Speaking of knowing, why do I know so little about your boyfriend?
Sarah
Mom mentioned him?!
Ehud
She said he wears leather.
Sarah
I'm beginning to think Mom is a perv.
Ehud
I know she is.
(Beat.)
Sarah
Do you ever wonder if she's still in love with you?
Ehud looks at her.
Sarah
Well, she never really had any serious boyfriends.
Ehud
Go to bed.
He kisses her on top of the head and walks out. When he gets upstairs, Lally is standing outside a door, from which Moshe and Ilana's voices can be heard screaming.
Ehud*3
אפה האום כשצריכים אותם? בן-זונות.
Lally
לא צריכים אותם. יש רק דרך אחת לעשות שלום.
(Beat(
מין.
Ehud laughs.
Lally
ברצינות - אם כל הישראלים היו מזדינים את כל הפליסתינאים…
INT. VILLA BEDROOM - NIGHT
In bed, Ilana and Moshe face away from each other. Moshe turns over and puts his arm around Ilana. She does not respond. He kisses the side of her neck. She gets up.
ILANA
I’m going downstairs for a cup of tea.
Ext. Porch. - Night
Sarah is standing, taking in the panoramic view: red roofed villas with blooming back yards and caravans, surrounded by Judean hills dotted with olive trees. Ilana enters.
Ilana
So what do you think?
Sarah
It's beautiful here.
(Beat.)
In there its a nuthouse.
Ilana
Yeah. Your parents are crazy
Sarah
Tell me about it.
They both laugh. Ilana puts her arms around Sarah, then pulls back. Awkward silence.
Sarah
Are you glad you moved here?
Ilana
Sometimes.
(Beat.)
You disagree with us, don't you?
Sarah
This land belongs to the Palestinians.
ILANA
When your grandparents came, there were no Palestinians - there weren’t even any trees.
Sarah
But they chose the land so the Palestinian village nearby wouldn’t become part of a Palestinian state.
ILANA
Most Palestinians support terror even after a Palestinian state. Giving them land proves terror is working. Besides, this land was promised to us by God.
Sarah
Do you believe in him?
Long silence.
Sarah slowly takes out a cigarette, begins to smoke.
Ilana
Since when do nice American girls smoke?
Sarah
What makes you think I'm a nice American girl?
(Beat. )
Ilana walks over, and takes a drag on Sarah's cigarette. They kiss. Ilana stars playing with Sarah's breasts.
Ehud, handsome, in his late 30s, with wavy brown hair, sits on a low stool next to his older brother, Moshe, in his early 40s, and his mother Tali, in her early 60s, who is wearing a kerchief around her hair in the fashion common among religious Israeli Jewish women. Ilana, American, early 30s, Moshe's wife, sits next to him. She covers her hair in the Jewish Orthodox fashion. From the way she is interacting with him, it is clear they are romantically involved. The family is surrounded by visitors. All the men are wearing yarmulkas.
A large family picture hangs on the wall.
When Lally and Sarah walk in, there is a hush in the room. Lally nudges Sarah toward Ehud. She hugs him.
Lally walks over to Tali.
Lally*1
המקום ינחם אותך בתוך שער אבלי ציון וירושלים.
Tali
אני מצטערת שזה לקח מוות לגרום לך להביא את נחדי לביתי.
Lally
זאת היתה הברירה שלה, לא שלי.
Same - Same
The family, including Lally and Sarah, are sitting, surrounded by visitor.
Man*2
שחר היה צדיק, ממש צדיק. מסירותו לעם היהודי, לארץ שלנו - פשש! חבל על הזמן. לא כמו השמאלנים האלו, המשטמתים. פתירתו היא טרגדיה לכל קהילות ישע.
Ehud clenches his fist. Lally notices, places her hand on his. He starts. Sarah looks up from her book.
Man
המקום ינחם אותכם בתוך שער אבלי ציון וירושלים.
Lally
אמן.
She nudges Sarah.
Sarah
אמן.
Int. Empty Living Room Israel-Night.
Tali, Ehud and Sarah are the only ones sitting there.
Tali
I don't think anyone else is coming. I'm going to bed.
She leaves.
Ehud
Maybe you should get to bed. You've had a long day.
Sarah
You've had a long day too.
Ehud
I didn't travel 6,000 miles with your mother.
Sarah
She's not so bad.
Ehud
Did I say she was bad? I said she was tiring. There's a difference.
(Beat.)
So, is your grandmother still addicted to cocaine?
Sarah
You knew about that!
Ehud
Of course! She was already an addict when your mother and I got married. I remember, she got high at the wedding. We were afraid the rabbi would find out, so your mother kept your grandmother locked in a closet until five minutes before the ceremony.
Sarah
She did that?
Ehud
You know your mother when she wants her way.
(Beat. Ehud looks dreamy.)
Sarah
What are you thinking of?
Ehud
I don't think you want to know.
Sarah
Yes I do.
Ehud
To keep your grandmother in the closet, your mother borrowed this black silk scarf from a friend. I was thinking of the fun we had with the scarf after the wedding.
Sarah
Eugh!
Ehud
(Shrugs)
Well, you said you wanted to know.
Sarah
But only because I didn't know what you were going to say!
Ehud
Speaking of knowing, why do I know so little about your boyfriend?
Sarah
Mom mentioned him?!
Ehud
She said he wears leather.
Sarah
I'm beginning to think Mom is a perv.
Ehud
I know she is.
(Beat.)
Sarah
Do you ever wonder if she's still in love with you?
Ehud looks at her.
Sarah
Well, she never really had any serious boyfriends.
Ehud
Go to bed.
He kisses her on top of the head and walks out. When he gets upstairs, Lally is standing outside a door, from which Moshe and Ilana's voices can be heard screaming.
Ehud*3
אפה האום כשצריכים אותם? בן-זונות.
Lally
לא צריכים אותם. יש רק דרך אחת לעשות שלום.
(Beat(
מין.
Ehud laughs.
Lally
ברצינות - אם כל הישראלים היו מזדינים את כל הפליסתינאים…
INT. VILLA BEDROOM - NIGHT
In bed, Ilana and Moshe face away from each other. Moshe turns over and puts his arm around Ilana. She does not respond. He kisses the side of her neck. She gets up.
ILANA
I’m going downstairs for a cup of tea.
Ext. Porch. - Night
Sarah is standing, taking in the panoramic view: red roofed villas with blooming back yards and caravans, surrounded by Judean hills dotted with olive trees. Ilana enters.
Ilana
So what do you think?
Sarah
It's beautiful here.
(Beat.)
In there its a nuthouse.
Ilana
Yeah. Your parents are crazy
Sarah
Tell me about it.
They both laugh. Ilana puts her arms around Sarah, then pulls back. Awkward silence.
Sarah
Are you glad you moved here?
Ilana
Sometimes.
(Beat.)
You disagree with us, don't you?
Sarah
This land belongs to the Palestinians.
ILANA
When your grandparents came, there were no Palestinians - there weren’t even any trees.
Sarah
But they chose the land so the Palestinian village nearby wouldn’t become part of a Palestinian state.
ILANA
Most Palestinians support terror even after a Palestinian state. Giving them land proves terror is working. Besides, this land was promised to us by God.
Sarah
Do you believe in him?
Long silence.
Sarah slowly takes out a cigarette, begins to smoke.
Ilana
Since when do nice American girls smoke?
Sarah
What makes you think I'm a nice American girl?
(Beat. )
Ilana walks over, and takes a drag on Sarah's cigarette. They kiss. Ilana stars playing with Sarah's breasts.
Purim Spiel, Part 1
Int. Bedroom, New York -Late Afternoon.
Nanny, in her early 70s, is opening up drawers, looking for pills.
Lally's Voice, Off-Screen
Nanny!
Nanny
כוסאמק.
Nanny leaves, walks into the next room, the dining room. Lally, a beautiful woman in her late thirties, is standing there, next to Sarah, 16, dressed in punk-goth attire.
Lally
Do I smell cigarettes on your breath?
Sarah
No.
Lally
I smell cigarettes.
Sarah
That must be the after-scent from when I sucked my boyfriend's dick while you were at the cleaners. His sperm smells of cigarettes.
Lally
Nanny!
Nanny
What?
Lally
Did I not tell you to watch the girl while I was out?
Nanny
A girl 16 years old needs a babysitter?
Lally
A babysitter, maybe not, but a chaperone - yes, when Mr. Leather is involved.
Sarah
His name is Dave.
Lally
I know that מותק. But I'll start calling him by hist first name when he stops sucking my daughter's lips like a piece of fucking fruit.
(Goes to the stove, slams a dish down on the table.)
Dinner's served!
They eat in silence.
Nanny
Excuse me. I have to go to the bathroom.
Cut to: Int, Bathroom - Same
Nanny is going through pill bottles.
Nanny
Where is it? Where is it?
(Takes out a bottle labeled "birth control", and opens it. Some white powder spins out.)
Ahah!
She starts sniffing the cocaine.
Cut to: Dining Room - Same.
Dinner table. Sarah and Lally eat in silence.
Lally
What's taking so long?
(Beat.)
(Screaming)
Nanny, did you think the laxatives were Motrin again?
(To Sarah)
I swear that woman is senile!
(Screams)
Nanny!
Sarah
For God's sake mom, can't a person even take a shit in this house in peace?
(Beat.)
Lally
Oh my God! Where did you hide the cocaine?
Sarah
In my birth control bottle.
Lally
You're on birth control?
Sarah
Mom, I already told you - Dave and I are safe, ok?
Lally
Safety isn't just about birth control.
Sarah
(rolls her eyes)
I know, it's also about STDs.
Lally
STIs.
Sarah
What?
Lally
STIs. It's the new term. We use it down at the center. Anyhow, that's not the point - there's also emotional safety, security -
(There's a loud crash.)
Shit!
Cut to: Ext. - Ambulance riding through New York street, Early Evening.
Cut to: Int. - Emergency room, A few hours later.
Lally and Sarah ate seated on a bench. Dr. Smith, a handsome-ish man in his thirties walks in.
Dr. Smith
Hi. Mrs. Annavian?
Lally
Ms.
They shake hands.
Lally
And this is my beautiful daughter, Sarah.
They shake hands.
Dr. Smith
You're mother is going to be just fine.
(Beat.)
Uh, I am not sure how to say this but - it looks like your mother may have a cocaine addiction problem. You really should get her into rehab.
Sarah
We know. I hid her cocaine in the birth control bottle. The birth control bottle! What kind of a fucking 70-year-old goes looking in a birth control bottle?!
Lally
Sarah! Please, your language!
Dr. Smith
Addicts will look anywhere for drugs.
(Clears throat).
Here's a folder with rehab info. A social worker will call you tomorrow to discuss different options. If you'll excuse me, I have other patients to attend to.
They go in to a hospital room. Nanny is lying there, her eyes open.
Lally
You, my dear, are going to rehab.
Nanny
Just kill me, why don't you?
Lally
Don't tempt me. If that cocaine doesn't do it...
Nanny
Dying of cocaine is like dying of an orgasm. It's a good way to go.
(Beat.)
Not that you'd know.
Lally
Nanny!
Nanny
What? When's the last time you had sex? I'm telling you, you need to get some ass and get off hers.
(Gestures to Sarah)
Lally
(turns to Sarah)
You think I'm hard to put up with - you should have seen what it was like growing up with her!
Inside back seat of cab - New York - Night.
Sarah is resting with her head nestle against Lally's shoulder. Lally has her arm around Sarah.
Sarah
Since when do you think I'm beautiful?
Lally
Since always! Or you would be, if you didn't wear these weird earrings.
She starts playing with Sarah's ears.
Sarah
Stop!
Lally
What? What? Don't stop?
She starts tickling her. Sarah laughs.
Cut to: Ext., Zenut Rehabilitation Facility, New York - Day.
Cut to: Int. Lobby, Nurse's Station Area, Zenut Rehabilitation Facility - Same.
Nurse Lola
And our facilities are 100% kosher and sabbath observant.
Lally
I don't care about that religious crap. Just keep my mother away from cocaine, and if you can also keep her away from multiple orgasms, that would be good too.
Pan out to nurse's shocked face.
Int. Living Room, New York, Later that Day.
Sarah is doing homework. Lally walks in.
Lally
Turn on the news.
Sarah
What?
Lally
NOW.
Sarah turns on the news.
News Anchor
Today, more violence on the West Bank. Shachar Zehavi, a 75-year old man was killed on his way to attend a rabbinic conference on, ironically, peace and coexistence. Now, Mr. Zehavi was a resident of the controversial Beth Joshua settlement. Many diplomats think that settlements like Mr. Zehavi's are major setbacks to the peace process. Stay tuned. After the break, Professer Mantos from University of Maryland and Professor Joshua from Columbia will discuss today's attack and debate this controversial topic.
Sarah
Saba?
Lally
I have us booked on the ten o'clock plane.
Nanny, in her early 70s, is opening up drawers, looking for pills.
Lally's Voice, Off-Screen
Nanny!
Nanny
כוסאמק.
Nanny leaves, walks into the next room, the dining room. Lally, a beautiful woman in her late thirties, is standing there, next to Sarah, 16, dressed in punk-goth attire.
Lally
Do I smell cigarettes on your breath?
Sarah
No.
Lally
I smell cigarettes.
Sarah
That must be the after-scent from when I sucked my boyfriend's dick while you were at the cleaners. His sperm smells of cigarettes.
Lally
Nanny!
Nanny
What?
Lally
Did I not tell you to watch the girl while I was out?
Nanny
A girl 16 years old needs a babysitter?
Lally
A babysitter, maybe not, but a chaperone - yes, when Mr. Leather is involved.
Sarah
His name is Dave.
Lally
I know that מותק. But I'll start calling him by hist first name when he stops sucking my daughter's lips like a piece of fucking fruit.
(Goes to the stove, slams a dish down on the table.)
Dinner's served!
They eat in silence.
Nanny
Excuse me. I have to go to the bathroom.
Cut to: Int, Bathroom - Same
Nanny is going through pill bottles.
Nanny
Where is it? Where is it?
(Takes out a bottle labeled "birth control", and opens it. Some white powder spins out.)
Ahah!
She starts sniffing the cocaine.
Cut to: Dining Room - Same.
Dinner table. Sarah and Lally eat in silence.
Lally
What's taking so long?
(Beat.)
(Screaming)
Nanny, did you think the laxatives were Motrin again?
(To Sarah)
I swear that woman is senile!
(Screams)
Nanny!
Sarah
For God's sake mom, can't a person even take a shit in this house in peace?
(Beat.)
Lally
Oh my God! Where did you hide the cocaine?
Sarah
In my birth control bottle.
Lally
You're on birth control?
Sarah
Mom, I already told you - Dave and I are safe, ok?
Lally
Safety isn't just about birth control.
Sarah
(rolls her eyes)
I know, it's also about STDs.
Lally
STIs.
Sarah
What?
Lally
STIs. It's the new term. We use it down at the center. Anyhow, that's not the point - there's also emotional safety, security -
(There's a loud crash.)
Shit!
Cut to: Ext. - Ambulance riding through New York street, Early Evening.
Cut to: Int. - Emergency room, A few hours later.
Lally and Sarah ate seated on a bench. Dr. Smith, a handsome-ish man in his thirties walks in.
Dr. Smith
Hi. Mrs. Annavian?
Lally
Ms.
They shake hands.
Lally
And this is my beautiful daughter, Sarah.
They shake hands.
Dr. Smith
You're mother is going to be just fine.
(Beat.)
Uh, I am not sure how to say this but - it looks like your mother may have a cocaine addiction problem. You really should get her into rehab.
Sarah
We know. I hid her cocaine in the birth control bottle. The birth control bottle! What kind of a fucking 70-year-old goes looking in a birth control bottle?!
Lally
Sarah! Please, your language!
Dr. Smith
Addicts will look anywhere for drugs.
(Clears throat).
Here's a folder with rehab info. A social worker will call you tomorrow to discuss different options. If you'll excuse me, I have other patients to attend to.
They go in to a hospital room. Nanny is lying there, her eyes open.
Lally
You, my dear, are going to rehab.
Nanny
Just kill me, why don't you?
Lally
Don't tempt me. If that cocaine doesn't do it...
Nanny
Dying of cocaine is like dying of an orgasm. It's a good way to go.
(Beat.)
Not that you'd know.
Lally
Nanny!
Nanny
What? When's the last time you had sex? I'm telling you, you need to get some ass and get off hers.
(Gestures to Sarah)
Lally
(turns to Sarah)
You think I'm hard to put up with - you should have seen what it was like growing up with her!
Inside back seat of cab - New York - Night.
Sarah is resting with her head nestle against Lally's shoulder. Lally has her arm around Sarah.
Sarah
Since when do you think I'm beautiful?
Lally
Since always! Or you would be, if you didn't wear these weird earrings.
She starts playing with Sarah's ears.
Sarah
Stop!
Lally
What? What? Don't stop?
She starts tickling her. Sarah laughs.
Cut to: Ext., Zenut Rehabilitation Facility, New York - Day.
Cut to: Int. Lobby, Nurse's Station Area, Zenut Rehabilitation Facility - Same.
Nurse Lola
And our facilities are 100% kosher and sabbath observant.
Lally
I don't care about that religious crap. Just keep my mother away from cocaine, and if you can also keep her away from multiple orgasms, that would be good too.
Pan out to nurse's shocked face.
Int. Living Room, New York, Later that Day.
Sarah is doing homework. Lally walks in.
Lally
Turn on the news.
Sarah
What?
Lally
NOW.
Sarah turns on the news.
News Anchor
Today, more violence on the West Bank. Shachar Zehavi, a 75-year old man was killed on his way to attend a rabbinic conference on, ironically, peace and coexistence. Now, Mr. Zehavi was a resident of the controversial Beth Joshua settlement. Many diplomats think that settlements like Mr. Zehavi's are major setbacks to the peace process. Stay tuned. After the break, Professer Mantos from University of Maryland and Professor Joshua from Columbia will discuss today's attack and debate this controversial topic.
Sarah
Saba?
Lally
I have us booked on the ten o'clock plane.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Sarah and Ehud: Another Scene
"As long as you were productive, that's what matters."
Sarah laughed. "That's easy for you to say - my bills don't see it that way."
"You don't have to tell me about bills - I'm a starving grad student."
"But you're not starving now", she said, gesturing to the magnificent spread that lay across the red tablecloth.
"No, I'm not" Ehud said, and he kissed her.
Then the intifada came - right after Ehud had accepted a new job at a non-profit that protected the rights of Arabs living in Sheikh Jarach. Sarah was working as an English tutor while going for a bachelor's degree in comparative literature at Hebrew U, and Tammy had just turned two. The Israelis did not stop going out; they simply put out security guards, women allowing men with pistols to rifle through their tampons before they went to the club to find their latest lay. But Sarah was not Israeli - she was American, and she always would be. "I can't take this anymore, Ehud", she cried one night, after they found out their neighbor had just been killed in the Sbarros bombing on Jaffa street.
He laughed. "Don't be a drama-queen".
Sometimes at night, she hated them when she thought of her lost lover. She felt guilty afterwards: Not for the hate, but because the hatred was for her sex life, and not the hundreds killed. On nights like those, she would lift up her down comforter, and creep softly into Tammy's room, to check on her breathing. She would lay a finger to her cheek, and cry.
Then came the morning after: The struggle not to call him on the telephone. She won - most of the time.
"Why do you think we're still married"" he asked her one night.
It was late;Tammi lay in the room upstairs, as they sat in the lobby of the Plaza, drinking wine. Sarah had just shaved her legs; she could feel Ehud's eyes admiring their smoothness as the candles sent flames up and down her ankles. Her feet were killing her, but the black pumps had been worth it. The low-necked dress and diamond necklace made her feel conscious of her chest, and she wanted so much to reach out and place his hands (or better yet: his lips) on her breasts.
"I don't know", she said. She could hear the sound the white wine made as it slipped down her throat.
"Do you want a divorce?"
"No. Do you?"
"No."
He set down his glass and reached for her wrists.
"I don't want to lose you."
"Don't be a drama-queen."
He stopped; his fingers lay over her like a bracelet, until, slowly he unclasped her wrists. He got up without a word. She sat in the sleek black chair, sipping her wine, suddenly aware that her back hurt like hell. When she got back to the room, he was asleep, the white comforter pulled up to his shoulders. She felt under the blanket to see if he was wearing underwear. He was.
She sighed and walked over to the adjoining room, to check on Tammy. She put her finger to her cheek, then pulled off her shoes, dropping them by the bed on her way to the bathroom. The carpet muffled the noise, and Ehud continued sleeping. As she brushed her teeth, she wondered what she should wear to bed: She had not brought pajamas. By the time she re-entered the bedroom, she had already decided to sleep in her black dress, since she already knew she would send it to the cleaners tomorrow.
She got in gingerly, pulling the comforter up to her waist, and closed her eyes.
"My God", she thought, "what does it mean that I'm too tired to hate?"
On the other end of the bed, Ehud opened his eys, forced himself not to turn around, to unzip her dress and kiss her back. He felt her rustling in the sheets, and closed his eyes.
"Damn! Still asleep", she thought, before turning over again, to spend a night in restless contemplation.
Sarah laughed. "That's easy for you to say - my bills don't see it that way."
"You don't have to tell me about bills - I'm a starving grad student."
"But you're not starving now", she said, gesturing to the magnificent spread that lay across the red tablecloth.
"No, I'm not" Ehud said, and he kissed her.
Then the intifada came - right after Ehud had accepted a new job at a non-profit that protected the rights of Arabs living in Sheikh Jarach. Sarah was working as an English tutor while going for a bachelor's degree in comparative literature at Hebrew U, and Tammy had just turned two. The Israelis did not stop going out; they simply put out security guards, women allowing men with pistols to rifle through their tampons before they went to the club to find their latest lay. But Sarah was not Israeli - she was American, and she always would be. "I can't take this anymore, Ehud", she cried one night, after they found out their neighbor had just been killed in the Sbarros bombing on Jaffa street.
He laughed. "Don't be a drama-queen".
Sometimes at night, she hated them when she thought of her lost lover. She felt guilty afterwards: Not for the hate, but because the hatred was for her sex life, and not the hundreds killed. On nights like those, she would lift up her down comforter, and creep softly into Tammy's room, to check on her breathing. She would lay a finger to her cheek, and cry.
Then came the morning after: The struggle not to call him on the telephone. She won - most of the time.
"Why do you think we're still married"" he asked her one night.
It was late;Tammi lay in the room upstairs, as they sat in the lobby of the Plaza, drinking wine. Sarah had just shaved her legs; she could feel Ehud's eyes admiring their smoothness as the candles sent flames up and down her ankles. Her feet were killing her, but the black pumps had been worth it. The low-necked dress and diamond necklace made her feel conscious of her chest, and she wanted so much to reach out and place his hands (or better yet: his lips) on her breasts.
"I don't know", she said. She could hear the sound the white wine made as it slipped down her throat.
"Do you want a divorce?"
"No. Do you?"
"No."
He set down his glass and reached for her wrists.
"I don't want to lose you."
"Don't be a drama-queen."
He stopped; his fingers lay over her like a bracelet, until, slowly he unclasped her wrists. He got up without a word. She sat in the sleek black chair, sipping her wine, suddenly aware that her back hurt like hell. When she got back to the room, he was asleep, the white comforter pulled up to his shoulders. She felt under the blanket to see if he was wearing underwear. He was.
She sighed and walked over to the adjoining room, to check on Tammy. She put her finger to her cheek, then pulled off her shoes, dropping them by the bed on her way to the bathroom. The carpet muffled the noise, and Ehud continued sleeping. As she brushed her teeth, she wondered what she should wear to bed: She had not brought pajamas. By the time she re-entered the bedroom, she had already decided to sleep in her black dress, since she already knew she would send it to the cleaners tomorrow.
She got in gingerly, pulling the comforter up to her waist, and closed her eyes.
"My God", she thought, "what does it mean that I'm too tired to hate?"
On the other end of the bed, Ehud opened his eys, forced himself not to turn around, to unzip her dress and kiss her back. He felt her rustling in the sheets, and closed his eyes.
"Damn! Still asleep", she thought, before turning over again, to spend a night in restless contemplation.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Vort
"Jealousy is an unflattering shade on anyone, but especially on you my
dear", he said, handing her a glass of wine. She laughed, her eyes still
focused on the happy couple that lay a few feet away, the man gently
tucking a strand of hair behind the woman's ear as she flashed a
diamond ring.
"Then get me something else to wear."
They sipped in silence.
"You've grown thorns", he said.
"Have I?"
"Yes. But the rose grows ever more beautiful."
He kissed her. His breath tasted of merlot mixed with saffron, and a little bit of sea-salt that remained on his tongue from the appetizers. "Not a bad vintage", she thought, as she sipped his lips.
"Then get me something else to wear."
They sipped in silence.
"You've grown thorns", he said.
"Have I?"
"Yes. But the rose grows ever more beautiful."
He kissed her. His breath tasted of merlot mixed with saffron, and a little bit of sea-salt that remained on his tongue from the appetizers. "Not a bad vintage", she thought, as she sipped his lips.
Ehud and Sarah: A scene
"You've grown afraid", he said.
"Does it matter?".
She took a drag on her cigarette. She could feel his thighs shifting beneath her knees.
"Have you been thinking about death again?"
"I always do."
"You think about death too much. That's your problem."
She took another drag. He could feel a slight tingling at the point where the backs of her knees touched his skin. She laughed.
"I'm waiting for you to tell me my lips taste like strawberries."
She wanted to kiss him, but she knew he hated her cigarette breath.
"I told you, I don't write poems anymore."
"Well you should".
She was not aware of her fingers crawling down his back. He laughed.
"How can I, when my muse is so far away?"
She took another drag.
"Do you fuck other women?"
He was silent. She got up, and walked towards the window. The sound of footsteps, and his body against her back. His arms reach for her breasts. She stands still, feeling the white curtains caress her cheeks, aiming her ashes out the window, towards the moonlight.
"I think you just killed a rose", he says, as they both look out over the garden. She laughs. He kisses her neck.
As their bodies weave in and out of each other, the word "love" never passes between them. But why does it hurt so much the next morning, when she leaves him behind - or is he the one leaving her? She holds her daughter's hand tighter as they turn the corner, knowing that she is the one thing that binds them together - or the one thing that tears them apart?
"Mommy, you're hurting me!"
"I'm sorry sweetheart. How would you like it if we stopped for donuts on the way home?"
Great, she thinks to herself, it's not even 7 am and I'm already breaking one of the rules in the parenting book. Ehud had bought it for her while she was pregnant, and they had mocked a different chapter everynight. "Great foreplay", she had teased him, when he triumphantly laid the book on her belly and proceeded to screw her on the couch. "So sexy. Next thing, you'll be bringing me Plato". "I'd rather bring you the Marquis de Sade", he said with a grin.
But of course, they had first bonded over their love of Rilke. He had been the starving grad student, she had been the waitress of the local cafe - like some sort of Hollywood movie. He came in while he was working on his thesis on poetry and peace. She was wandering aimlessly in her post-seminary years, having decided to stay in Israel, but not quite ready to move on to college. "You're too smart to be a waitress", he had said, and she had been too flattered to be offended. Growing up no one had ever expected her to be brilliant; as long as she got above the C-range, and was on home on Fridays in time to bake the challah, nobody really cared. She used to hang out with all the off-the-derech boys at night, smoking cigarettes and doing other things that tasted deliciously forbidden. But somehow, she could never get herself to have sex. It was the one halacha she just couldn't break, no matter how much the other girls teased her. By senior year, she had grown too resentful of their treating her like a baby because she was a virgin to stay friends with them, really, and then she had gone off to Israel and "straightened out".
He, on the other hand, had grown up in Efrat, the son of American parents, but Israeli in a way that she never could be, no matter what it said on her teudat zehut.
"Does it matter?".
She took a drag on her cigarette. She could feel his thighs shifting beneath her knees.
"Have you been thinking about death again?"
"I always do."
"You think about death too much. That's your problem."
She took another drag. He could feel a slight tingling at the point where the backs of her knees touched his skin. She laughed.
"I'm waiting for you to tell me my lips taste like strawberries."
She wanted to kiss him, but she knew he hated her cigarette breath.
"I told you, I don't write poems anymore."
"Well you should".
She was not aware of her fingers crawling down his back. He laughed.
"How can I, when my muse is so far away?"
She took another drag.
"Do you fuck other women?"
He was silent. She got up, and walked towards the window. The sound of footsteps, and his body against her back. His arms reach for her breasts. She stands still, feeling the white curtains caress her cheeks, aiming her ashes out the window, towards the moonlight.
"I think you just killed a rose", he says, as they both look out over the garden. She laughs. He kisses her neck.
As their bodies weave in and out of each other, the word "love" never passes between them. But why does it hurt so much the next morning, when she leaves him behind - or is he the one leaving her? She holds her daughter's hand tighter as they turn the corner, knowing that she is the one thing that binds them together - or the one thing that tears them apart?
"Mommy, you're hurting me!"
"I'm sorry sweetheart. How would you like it if we stopped for donuts on the way home?"
Great, she thinks to herself, it's not even 7 am and I'm already breaking one of the rules in the parenting book. Ehud had bought it for her while she was pregnant, and they had mocked a different chapter everynight. "Great foreplay", she had teased him, when he triumphantly laid the book on her belly and proceeded to screw her on the couch. "So sexy. Next thing, you'll be bringing me Plato". "I'd rather bring you the Marquis de Sade", he said with a grin.
But of course, they had first bonded over their love of Rilke. He had been the starving grad student, she had been the waitress of the local cafe - like some sort of Hollywood movie. He came in while he was working on his thesis on poetry and peace. She was wandering aimlessly in her post-seminary years, having decided to stay in Israel, but not quite ready to move on to college. "You're too smart to be a waitress", he had said, and she had been too flattered to be offended. Growing up no one had ever expected her to be brilliant; as long as she got above the C-range, and was on home on Fridays in time to bake the challah, nobody really cared. She used to hang out with all the off-the-derech boys at night, smoking cigarettes and doing other things that tasted deliciously forbidden. But somehow, she could never get herself to have sex. It was the one halacha she just couldn't break, no matter how much the other girls teased her. By senior year, she had grown too resentful of their treating her like a baby because she was a virgin to stay friends with them, really, and then she had gone off to Israel and "straightened out".
He, on the other hand, had grown up in Efrat, the son of American parents, but Israeli in a way that she never could be, no matter what it said on her teudat zehut.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Jeremiah 21
"I have turned my face against you", he said.
I could see the flames' shadows flickering on the hollows of his cheeks. His blue caftan was too bright, somehow: I wanted to look away, but I was transfixed by the movement of dark and light playing on his face, the fire's dance reflected on his skin.
"You can't hurt me anymore", I said.
We both knew it was a lie, like the lace coverlet that hid the flaws on our bodies.
He did not answer. I found myself staring into the crevice in his cheek, wondering how it could be so hollow.
"You can let yourself out.", he said. He walked through the door, and was gone.
I was left staring at the flickering shadows waltzing across the wall. I was not even worth cruelty - it was that knowledge that made me cry.
I turned my face away from the space that had once seen his shadow.
I could see the flames' shadows flickering on the hollows of his cheeks. His blue caftan was too bright, somehow: I wanted to look away, but I was transfixed by the movement of dark and light playing on his face, the fire's dance reflected on his skin.
"You can't hurt me anymore", I said.
We both knew it was a lie, like the lace coverlet that hid the flaws on our bodies.
He did not answer. I found myself staring into the crevice in his cheek, wondering how it could be so hollow.
"You can let yourself out.", he said. He walked through the door, and was gone.
I was left staring at the flickering shadows waltzing across the wall. I was not even worth cruelty - it was that knowledge that made me cry.
I turned my face away from the space that had once seen his shadow.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
The Lingerie Book at the Shabbos Table
It goes with me wherever I go. It sits on my bookshelf, patiently, waiting to be opened, trying not to grow jealous of the siddur, whose pages smile up at me on a daily basis. What is it? A history of lingerie, by Giles Neret. The title is "100 Desous", because everyone knows French is sexy. So there I am, barefoot, balancing wine and eggplant in the Jerusalem wind that floats through the open window, as we finger the book gently, passing it from palm to palm like a ritual object - this history of the rituals of dressing and undressing. "I don't think men care about underwear, they care about getting it off." "You have to know how to make a woman feel special - it's the key to her heart - and her pants." "When I was shomeret...."
The advice and confessions seep out of us, like wine spilling from a glass, and I wonder if it is the book or the inebriation. Some would say I have defaned the Sabbath, to have chanted the prayers contained in the lace panties that line these pages. But I would argue I have sanctified the day, to make it holy: This pleasure, the twining and untwining of our bodies, your palms on my thighs. "A pleasure He called the shabbat." Let me fill your glass; let us kiss slowly. When I taste the wine on your tongue, I will think of winds blowing on tree-trunks, and call you to the pleasure of my body.
Amen.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Have you forgotten how to cry?
Today I saw pomegranates lying on asphalt, their red seed-flesh spilling out of skins that remind me of crowns, or palms perhaps, cupping - what - gently? Gold, pearls, water, thighs. Lists of words and images ransack my brain, leaving only the debris - memories of nights when I felt you between my thighs, and other such trash, really much better to throw it out and leave it for the cats to mangle when they look for their supper. But the word mangle makes me tremble, and do I really want their claws on our moldy nights, rotten and crunchy like stale bread? (A redundancy, you would tell me.) No, much better to leave those crumbs inside, trying not to taste their - what? It's not bitterness exactly - a certain saltiness, perhaps, mixed with the wistfulness and sadness of the sea, who cries at night. Does she cry for me, the way they say God cries for his people? Does she imagine putting her salty waves on my palms, caressing my - (you always told me I overused the word "thighs") shoulderblades? Does she? Do you?
Thursday, October 4, 2012
This is what happens when I have too much coffee and don't feel like finishing my novel.
Anger courses through my veins like a cordial.
I would rather get drunk on love or sex,
though anger is a component of those -
at least, the Marquis de Sade tells me so.
I read the Marquis de Sade, drunkenly, on the floor:
Your lips were crawling into my earbuds like lizards,
and your hand was picking my vines.
I was a stalk, falling off of a stone castle,
like in those Disney cartoons,
where the princesses braid their hair
and forget to be afraid.
But I have not forgotten:
I weave you through my tresses,
feel your lips in my fingers,
knees on a bed of down,
curled over poetry books like rotten petals.
You used to love flowers - I could count our nights
in the wilted lillies on my pillow,
a lace of purple petals -
Will you use purple, when you paint my tears?
Actually, I was thinking of cream, or maybe a nice shade of eggplant. It can't be yellow, since I already used that to paint your fears. Maybe strawberry? Is that even a color - strawberry? Or is it just a fruit? I suppose I'll paint your hair first, a nice shade of chesnut, and see what goes with that. If chestnut is a color, strawberry should be a color, don't you think? Anyhow, I think cream will go well with the yellow of your fears.
I would rather get drunk on love or sex,
though anger is a component of those -
at least, the Marquis de Sade tells me so.
I read the Marquis de Sade, drunkenly, on the floor:
Your lips were crawling into my earbuds like lizards,
and your hand was picking my vines.
I was a stalk, falling off of a stone castle,
like in those Disney cartoons,
where the princesses braid their hair
and forget to be afraid.
But I have not forgotten:
I weave you through my tresses,
feel your lips in my fingers,
knees on a bed of down,
curled over poetry books like rotten petals.
You used to love flowers - I could count our nights
in the wilted lillies on my pillow,
a lace of purple petals -
Will you use purple, when you paint my tears?
Actually, I was thinking of cream, or maybe a nice shade of eggplant. It can't be yellow, since I already used that to paint your fears. Maybe strawberry? Is that even a color - strawberry? Or is it just a fruit? I suppose I'll paint your hair first, a nice shade of chesnut, and see what goes with that. If chestnut is a color, strawberry should be a color, don't you think? Anyhow, I think cream will go well with the yellow of your fears.
Lust. Anger - playing around with the ending
Anger courses through my veins like a cordial.
I would rather get drunk on love or sex,
though anger is a component of those -
at least, the Marquis de Sade tells me so.
I read the Marquis de Sade, drunkenly, on the floor:
Your lips were crawling into my earbuds like lizards,
and your hand was picking my vines.
I was a stalk, falling off of a stone castle,
like in those Disney cartoons,
where the princesses braid their hair
and forget to be afraid.
But I have not forgotten:
I weave you through my tresses,
feel your lips in my fingers,
knees on a bed of down,
curled over poetry books like rotten petals.
You used to love flowers - I could count our nights
in the wilted lillies on my pillow,
a lace of purple petals - is it purple, the color of my tears,
or will you use a shade of cream, or maybe yellow?
I will use the same color in which I paint your fears.
I would rather get drunk on love or sex,
though anger is a component of those -
at least, the Marquis de Sade tells me so.
I read the Marquis de Sade, drunkenly, on the floor:
Your lips were crawling into my earbuds like lizards,
and your hand was picking my vines.
I was a stalk, falling off of a stone castle,
like in those Disney cartoons,
where the princesses braid their hair
and forget to be afraid.
But I have not forgotten:
I weave you through my tresses,
feel your lips in my fingers,
knees on a bed of down,
curled over poetry books like rotten petals.
You used to love flowers - I could count our nights
in the wilted lillies on my pillow,
a lace of purple petals - is it purple, the color of my tears,
or will you use a shade of cream, or maybe yellow?
I will use the same color in which I paint your fears.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Jeremiah 20 (Fairy Tale)
"So Pashhur bound God's messenger in chains, and kept him in a dungeon overnight. When they brought Jeremiah out in the morning, mice had gnawed through his rags. His hair hung down in clumps over his tired eyelids.
"How have you faired, o lowly one?"
"Lowly one, you call me? God has told me that lowered shall be your name, when the dogs lick your remains in dust-filled streets."
"Do you duel with me now? Have you forgotten you have no sword?"
"Letters are sharper than steel's blade."
Pashhur laughed. "Let this man go.", he said. So Jeremiah stumbled away, yet he knew that he would continue to proclaim God's word, for his soul was bound to God's soul, as lovers were bound together by a kiss."
"You skipped something Mommy! Did you skip something?"
"We'll continue the story tomorrow", she says, bending down to give her daughter a kiss. She turns out the lights on her way out, leaving the seashell-shaped nightlamp to illuminate her daughter's dreaming.
When her work is done and the laptop has been put to sleep, she pours herself a cup of coffee and reads over the skipped paragraph.
"But later that night, Jeremiah cried. "Cursed is the day I was born, that I am born for such a task. Why must my heart burn with His fire? I tell myself I will speak no more of His words, but even as I mouth the letters, I feel the flames rekindling, the prophecy filling the spaces between my teeth. Sing to the Lord, who is with me as a mighty warrior, to shield me from the enemies who would raid my hearth."
Then he made himself a cup of coffee."
As she took a sip of coffee, she reassued herself that she had made the right decision: Why should she force her daughter to face the moment of disillusionment, when the hero turns out to be human?
"How have you faired, o lowly one?"
"Lowly one, you call me? God has told me that lowered shall be your name, when the dogs lick your remains in dust-filled streets."
"Do you duel with me now? Have you forgotten you have no sword?"
"Letters are sharper than steel's blade."
Pashhur laughed. "Let this man go.", he said. So Jeremiah stumbled away, yet he knew that he would continue to proclaim God's word, for his soul was bound to God's soul, as lovers were bound together by a kiss."
"You skipped something Mommy! Did you skip something?"
"We'll continue the story tomorrow", she says, bending down to give her daughter a kiss. She turns out the lights on her way out, leaving the seashell-shaped nightlamp to illuminate her daughter's dreaming.
When her work is done and the laptop has been put to sleep, she pours herself a cup of coffee and reads over the skipped paragraph.
"But later that night, Jeremiah cried. "Cursed is the day I was born, that I am born for such a task. Why must my heart burn with His fire? I tell myself I will speak no more of His words, but even as I mouth the letters, I feel the flames rekindling, the prophecy filling the spaces between my teeth. Sing to the Lord, who is with me as a mighty warrior, to shield me from the enemies who would raid my hearth."
Then he made himself a cup of coffee."
As she took a sip of coffee, she reassued herself that she had made the right decision: Why should she force her daughter to face the moment of disillusionment, when the hero turns out to be human?
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
On quotes and editing
Much of the italics in "Corruption" drafts are paraphrases from Genesis, chapter 3.
Here are some quotes I paraphrase:
3:1 "1 Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the LORD God had made. And he said unto the woman: 'Yea, hath God said: Ye shall not eat of any tree of the garden?""
3:6 "And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat; and she gave also unto her husband with her, and he did eat."
3:11 " And He said: 'Who told thee that thou wast naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree, whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat".
A note on grapes: There are exegetes who say the forbidden fruit Eve ate from was a grape. Some say it was a fig. The rabbinic claim is that God did not say which fruit it was, because He did not want to embarrass the fruit, that people would despise it and say, "through you we were exiled from the garden". God's sensitivity towards inanimate objects that cause strife, shows a lot both about how the rabbis perceived God, and about the values that they thought were worthy for people to emulate. (Of course, God has no gender, but English has no gender-neutral pronoun!).
A lot of my take on Genesis is influenced by Rashi. Although my piece is called "Corruption" the concept of Eve as corrupter of mankind, as portrayed in current Western culture, has much more to do with medieval Christian theology than with Judaism, but that's a discussion for a different time.
I wish I had an editor, both because, while obviously, a large part of me really wants cheerleaders for my work, another part of me recognizes that constructive criticism is probably a good thing, and because there are "minor" things, like whether to use "clings" or "clinging" in "Corruption" or "how" or "that" in my Jeremiah 19 piece, that I think it would be good to get some input about from a reader. Instead, I wind up agonizing and usually do nothing. I think the same way we must overcome intertia in our physical lives, there is perhaps a little bit of that creatively: there has to be enough of a motivation for you to change the word, for it to be worth it. You have a block of stone, and you don't want to wreck it by being too heavy with the chisel.
Here are some quotes I paraphrase:
3:1 "1 Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the LORD God had made. And he said unto the woman: 'Yea, hath God said: Ye shall not eat of any tree of the garden?""
3:6 "And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat; and she gave also unto her husband with her, and he did eat."
3:11 " And He said: 'Who told thee that thou wast naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree, whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat".
A note on grapes: There are exegetes who say the forbidden fruit Eve ate from was a grape. Some say it was a fig. The rabbinic claim is that God did not say which fruit it was, because He did not want to embarrass the fruit, that people would despise it and say, "through you we were exiled from the garden". God's sensitivity towards inanimate objects that cause strife, shows a lot both about how the rabbis perceived God, and about the values that they thought were worthy for people to emulate. (Of course, God has no gender, but English has no gender-neutral pronoun!).
A lot of my take on Genesis is influenced by Rashi. Although my piece is called "Corruption" the concept of Eve as corrupter of mankind, as portrayed in current Western culture, has much more to do with medieval Christian theology than with Judaism, but that's a discussion for a different time.
I wish I had an editor, both because, while obviously, a large part of me really wants cheerleaders for my work, another part of me recognizes that constructive criticism is probably a good thing, and because there are "minor" things, like whether to use "clings" or "clinging" in "Corruption" or "how" or "that" in my Jeremiah 19 piece, that I think it would be good to get some input about from a reader. Instead, I wind up agonizing and usually do nothing. I think the same way we must overcome intertia in our physical lives, there is perhaps a little bit of that creatively: there has to be enough of a motivation for you to change the word, for it to be worth it. You have a block of stone, and you don't want to wreck it by being too heavy with the chisel.
Corruption 3?
How
do we know it wasn't Eve who tempted the serpent? She was asking for
it, standing there with her nakedness, her breasts like ripe plums, and
when she climbed the apple-tree, he could see between her legs, her
cunt-hairs growing like a godammed forest.
Her hands slither down his thighs.
What choice did he have, with her skin glowing in front of him like that? Does a petal shy away from the moonlight?
"Oh God oh!"
"Don't -"
Breaths interlace with silence.
Besides, plums were his favorite fruit, so who could blame him for eating the ones between her branches? (The feel of their purple against his tongue mixed with the scent of apples as he slithered his way through the thicket that grew between her thighs.)
Has God told you not to eat from any fruits of the garden? Has he forbidden the nibble of this ear, the kiss on this thigh?
They could feel the grapes beneath their feet, then on their fingers.
She saw that the tree was good to eat, a desire to the eyes, and pleasant to give wisdom, so amid wordless voices, she bound her body to his, like a fruit clinging to a vine.
He kissed her with a grape between his lips. When she pulled apart, he could hear the crunching of her teeth, the soft sound her throat made when she swallowed.
Have you eaten from the tree, when I commanded you not to?
It was only when they heard the voice of God, that they knew they were naked; because they had climbed higher than angels, God exiled them from the garden.
In a flash of saphire, they are borne by the wings of their thighs.
Or is she just drunk from his wine?
Her hands slither down his thighs.
What choice did he have, with her skin glowing in front of him like that? Does a petal shy away from the moonlight?
"Oh God oh!"
"Don't -"
Breaths interlace with silence.
Besides, plums were his favorite fruit, so who could blame him for eating the ones between her branches? (The feel of their purple against his tongue mixed with the scent of apples as he slithered his way through the thicket that grew between her thighs.)
Has God told you not to eat from any fruits of the garden? Has he forbidden the nibble of this ear, the kiss on this thigh?
They could feel the grapes beneath their feet, then on their fingers.
She saw that the tree was good to eat, a desire to the eyes, and pleasant to give wisdom, so amid wordless voices, she bound her body to his, like a fruit clinging to a vine.
He kissed her with a grape between his lips. When she pulled apart, he could hear the crunching of her teeth, the soft sound her throat made when she swallowed.
Have you eaten from the tree, when I commanded you not to?
It was only when they heard the voice of God, that they knew they were naked; because they had climbed higher than angels, God exiled them from the garden.
In a flash of saphire, they are borne by the wings of their thighs.
Or is she just drunk from his wine?
Corruption 2
"It's too sexy".
"I'm nineteen!"
She can hear the pout in his voice.
How do we know it wasn't Eve who tempted the serpent? She was asking for it, standing there with her nakedness, her breasts like ripe plums, and when she climbed the apple-tree, he could see between her legs, her cunt-hairs growing like a godammed forest.
Her hands slither down his thighs.
What choice did he have, with her skin glowing in front of him like that? Does a petal shy away from the moonlight?
"Oh God oh God"
"Don't -"
Breaths interlace with silence.
Besides, plums were his favorite fruit, so who could blame him for eating the ones between her branches? (The feel of their purple against his tongue mixed with the scent of apples as he slithered his way through the thicket that grew between her thighs.)
Has God told you not to eat from any fruits of the garden? Has he forbidden the nibble of this ear, the kiss on this thigh?
They could feel the grapes beneath their feet, then on their fingers.
She saw that the tree was good to eat, a desire to the eyes, and pleasant to give wisdom, so amid wordless voices, she bound her body to his, like a fruit clinging to a vine.
He kissed her with a grape between his lips. When she pulled apart, he could hear the crunching of her teeth, the soft sound her throat made when she swallowed.
Have you eaten from the tree, when I commanded you not to?
It was only when they heard the voice of God, that they knew they were naked; because they had climbed higher than the angels, God exiled them from the garden.
In a flash of saphire, they are borne by the wings of their thighs.
Or is she just drunk from his wine?
"I'm nineteen!"
She can hear the pout in his voice.
How do we know it wasn't Eve who tempted the serpent? She was asking for it, standing there with her nakedness, her breasts like ripe plums, and when she climbed the apple-tree, he could see between her legs, her cunt-hairs growing like a godammed forest.
Her hands slither down his thighs.
What choice did he have, with her skin glowing in front of him like that? Does a petal shy away from the moonlight?
"Oh God oh God"
"Don't -"
Breaths interlace with silence.
Besides, plums were his favorite fruit, so who could blame him for eating the ones between her branches? (The feel of their purple against his tongue mixed with the scent of apples as he slithered his way through the thicket that grew between her thighs.)
Has God told you not to eat from any fruits of the garden? Has he forbidden the nibble of this ear, the kiss on this thigh?
They could feel the grapes beneath their feet, then on their fingers.
She saw that the tree was good to eat, a desire to the eyes, and pleasant to give wisdom, so amid wordless voices, she bound her body to his, like a fruit clinging to a vine.
He kissed her with a grape between his lips. When she pulled apart, he could hear the crunching of her teeth, the soft sound her throat made when she swallowed.
Have you eaten from the tree, when I commanded you not to?
It was only when they heard the voice of God, that they knew they were naked; because they had climbed higher than the angels, God exiled them from the garden.
In a flash of saphire, they are borne by the wings of their thighs.
Or is she just drunk from his wine?
Corruption
"It's too sexy".
"I'm nineteen!"
She can hear the pout in his voice.
How do we know it wasn't Eve who tempted the serpent? She was asking for it, standing there with her nakedness, her breasts like ripe plums, and when she climbed the apple-tree, he could see between her legs, her cunt-hairs growing like a godammed forest.
Her hands slither down his thighs.
What choice did he have, with her skin glowing in front of him like that? Does the petal shy away from the light of the moon?
"Oh God oh God"
"Don't - Oh -"
Breaths interlace with silence.
Besides, plums were his favorite fruit, so who could blame him for eating the ones between her branches? (The feel of their purple against his tongue mixed with the scent of apples as he slithered his way through the thicket that grew between her thighs.)
Has God told you not to eat from any fruits of the garden? Has he forbidden the nibble of this ear, the kiss on this thigh?
They could feel the grapes beneath their feet, then on their fingers. He placed one between his lips, and kissed her. When she pulled apart; he could hear the crunching of her teeth, the soft sound her throat made when she swallowed.
Have you eaten from the tree, when I commanded you not to? But she saw the that the tree was good to eat, a desire to the eyes, and pleasant to grow wise from, so amid wordless voices, she bound her body to his, like a fruit clinging to a vine.
It was only when they heard the voice of God, that they knew they were naked; because they had climbed higher than the angels, God exiled them from the garden.
They are borne by the wings of their thighs, in a flash of saphire. Or is she just drunk from his wine?
"I'm nineteen!"
She can hear the pout in his voice.
How do we know it wasn't Eve who tempted the serpent? She was asking for it, standing there with her nakedness, her breasts like ripe plums, and when she climbed the apple-tree, he could see between her legs, her cunt-hairs growing like a godammed forest.
Her hands slither down his thighs.
What choice did he have, with her skin glowing in front of him like that? Does the petal shy away from the light of the moon?
"Oh God oh God"
"Don't - Oh -"
Breaths interlace with silence.
Besides, plums were his favorite fruit, so who could blame him for eating the ones between her branches? (The feel of their purple against his tongue mixed with the scent of apples as he slithered his way through the thicket that grew between her thighs.)
Has God told you not to eat from any fruits of the garden? Has he forbidden the nibble of this ear, the kiss on this thigh?
They could feel the grapes beneath their feet, then on their fingers. He placed one between his lips, and kissed her. When she pulled apart; he could hear the crunching of her teeth, the soft sound her throat made when she swallowed.
Have you eaten from the tree, when I commanded you not to? But she saw the that the tree was good to eat, a desire to the eyes, and pleasant to grow wise from, so amid wordless voices, she bound her body to his, like a fruit clinging to a vine.
It was only when they heard the voice of God, that they knew they were naked; because they had climbed higher than the angels, God exiled them from the garden.
They are borne by the wings of their thighs, in a flash of saphire. Or is she just drunk from his wine?
Sunday, September 30, 2012
J19A
You are a stiff-necked people:
You burn the necks of your children
in fires I abhor.
Like this stiff vase, I will burn you
and your children.
The flesh you offer to gods,
you will taste between your lips.
Others will hiss at your desperation.
You will hiss, cursing your stiff necks.
I will cry.
The clay feels sharp between my fingers; shards shatter in the valley, mingling with bits of bone left by the altars that remind me of beds in a brothel: lined up side by side, waiting to be kindled by writhing thighs. If our necks are so stiff, why can't God just give us a massage - or that hooker I saw last night - God, she was beautiful, leaning against the pillars of the temple. Her golden bracelets reflected the moonlight, and she smelled of myrrh and roses. I'm not generally a fan of myrrh, but it worked on her, for some reason. I could just see the trace of her breasts beneath the white linen - a cloth that cannot be mixed with wool, just as our God can not be mixed with the gods of others. What would she say if I brought her wilted flowers in a shattered vase? Or if I massaged her neck? She must get stiff too, from all that standing - or does she do it lying down? I never asked - I had only five grush in my pocket, which I had to use to buy this silly vase, to show the people how they have stiff necks and could use a massage.
Next time, I will trace my words in the ashes that lie by their altars:
You are a stiff-necked people:
You burn the necks of your children
in fires I abhor.
Like this vase, you will shatter.
Over this valley, your remains will be scattered.
I will curse your stiff necks for making me cry.
After all, dead people can't really hiss, can they?
But then my fingers would get dirty. Besides, what difference would five grush make? Perhaps it is better to leave the dust unturned, the palm untouched, the words unspoken.
God, she was beautiful, leaning against the pillars of the temple. She smelled of myrrh and roses. Look at her now, her face reflecting the moonlight - what would she say if I brought her wilted flowers?
You burn the necks of your children
in fires I abhor.
Like this stiff vase, I will burn you
and your children.
The flesh you offer to gods,
you will taste between your lips.
Others will hiss at your desperation.
You will hiss, cursing your stiff necks.
I will cry.
The clay feels sharp between my fingers; shards shatter in the valley, mingling with bits of bone left by the altars that remind me of beds in a brothel: lined up side by side, waiting to be kindled by writhing thighs. If our necks are so stiff, why can't God just give us a massage - or that hooker I saw last night - God, she was beautiful, leaning against the pillars of the temple. Her golden bracelets reflected the moonlight, and she smelled of myrrh and roses. I'm not generally a fan of myrrh, but it worked on her, for some reason. I could just see the trace of her breasts beneath the white linen - a cloth that cannot be mixed with wool, just as our God can not be mixed with the gods of others. What would she say if I brought her wilted flowers in a shattered vase? Or if I massaged her neck? She must get stiff too, from all that standing - or does she do it lying down? I never asked - I had only five grush in my pocket, which I had to use to buy this silly vase, to show the people how they have stiff necks and could use a massage.
Next time, I will trace my words in the ashes that lie by their altars:
You are a stiff-necked people:
You burn the necks of your children
in fires I abhor.
Like this vase, you will shatter.
Over this valley, your remains will be scattered.
I will curse your stiff necks for making me cry.
After all, dead people can't really hiss, can they?
But then my fingers would get dirty. Besides, what difference would five grush make? Perhaps it is better to leave the dust unturned, the palm untouched, the words unspoken.
God, she was beautiful, leaning against the pillars of the temple. She smelled of myrrh and roses. Look at her now, her face reflecting the moonlight - what would she say if I brought her wilted flowers?
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Jeremiah 19
You are a stiff-necked people:
You burn the necks of your children
in fires I abhor.
Like this stiff vase, I will burn you
and your children.
The flesh you offer to gods,
you will taste between your lips.
Others will hiss at your desperation.
You will hiss, cursing your stiff necks.
I will cry.
The clay feels sharp in between my fingers; shards shatter in the valley, mingling with bits of bone left by the altars that remind me of beds in a brothel: lined up side by side, waiting to be kindled by writhing thighs. If our necks are so stiff, why can't God just give us a massage - or that hooker I saw last night - God, she was beautiful, leaning against the pillars of the temple. Her golden bracelets reflected the moonlight, and she smelled of myrrh and roses. I'm not generally a fan of myrrh, but it worked on her, for some reason. I could just see the trace of her breasts beneath the white linen - a cloth that cannot be mixed with wool, just as our God can not be mixed with the gods of others. What would she say if I brought her wilted flowers in a shattered vase? Or if I massaged her neck? She must get stiff too, from all that standing - or does she do it lying down? I never asked - I had only five grush in my pocket, which I had to use to buy this silly vase, to show the people how they have stiff necks and could use a massage.
Next time, I will trace my words in the ashes that lie by their altars. But what will I say?
You are a stiff-necked people:
You burn the necks of your children
in fires I abhor.
Like this vase, you will shatter.
Over this valley, your remains will be scattered.
I will curse your stiff necks for making me cry.
After all, dead people can't really hiss, can they?
You burn the necks of your children
in fires I abhor.
Like this stiff vase, I will burn you
and your children.
The flesh you offer to gods,
you will taste between your lips.
Others will hiss at your desperation.
You will hiss, cursing your stiff necks.
I will cry.
The clay feels sharp in between my fingers; shards shatter in the valley, mingling with bits of bone left by the altars that remind me of beds in a brothel: lined up side by side, waiting to be kindled by writhing thighs. If our necks are so stiff, why can't God just give us a massage - or that hooker I saw last night - God, she was beautiful, leaning against the pillars of the temple. Her golden bracelets reflected the moonlight, and she smelled of myrrh and roses. I'm not generally a fan of myrrh, but it worked on her, for some reason. I could just see the trace of her breasts beneath the white linen - a cloth that cannot be mixed with wool, just as our God can not be mixed with the gods of others. What would she say if I brought her wilted flowers in a shattered vase? Or if I massaged her neck? She must get stiff too, from all that standing - or does she do it lying down? I never asked - I had only five grush in my pocket, which I had to use to buy this silly vase, to show the people how they have stiff necks and could use a massage.
Next time, I will trace my words in the ashes that lie by their altars. But what will I say?
You are a stiff-necked people:
You burn the necks of your children
in fires I abhor.
Like this vase, you will shatter.
Over this valley, your remains will be scattered.
I will curse your stiff necks for making me cry.
After all, dead people can't really hiss, can they?
To Marry A Poet
"Never marry a poet", she said. "When the kiss you, they are thinking not of you, but of the words they can write about your lips. When they whisper to you at night, they are imagining metaphors with which to capture your thighs. They forget to clean the sink when they're done cooking dinner, because they're busy writing similes, and they forget to vaacum because they're too busy rhyming."
"So why do you stay?" I asked.
"Because one day, I might become his masterpiece."
"So why do you stay?" I asked.
"Because one day, I might become his masterpiece."
Jeremiah 18 (loosely modeled on "Einstein's Dreams", by A. Lightman)
The potter's hands curve smoothly around the wheel - the clay forms and reforms: dancers' legs, swans' beaks, and duck feathers get taken back to the mountain of gray that will become a glazed vase, to grace an aging dinner table.
The wood saw its master shrivel like a fig-leaf, but remembers when his face was round and purple, waiting to be squeezed like a fig into a virgin's mouth. The son's face is already yellow, burnt out from his days at the office. The yelllow girl beside him opens her legs at night, out of habit.
The table is bored: Their conversation is drier than the vase that rests upon his stomach. He likes the feel of her base, and the smooth crack on her left side.
The vase longs for the feel of water. Why didn't the yellow-man buy the fig-leaf (well, maybe she looks more like a branch) flowers? What could be more delicious than the rimming of rose-petals against her painted white - and why couldn't the potter have used eggshell?
The man takes a sip of his soup. "Delicious", he says.
The woman murmurs something he can not understand.
The potter sits in his workshop, wheeling his hands around the fresh clay. Will it be a dancer's legs, a swan's beak, or maybe even duck feathers? He's tired of white and grey: If it's a vase, he'll paint it egg-shell.
The wood saw its master shrivel like a fig-leaf, but remembers when his face was round and purple, waiting to be squeezed like a fig into a virgin's mouth. The son's face is already yellow, burnt out from his days at the office. The yelllow girl beside him opens her legs at night, out of habit.
The table is bored: Their conversation is drier than the vase that rests upon his stomach. He likes the feel of her base, and the smooth crack on her left side.
The vase longs for the feel of water. Why didn't the yellow-man buy the fig-leaf (well, maybe she looks more like a branch) flowers? What could be more delicious than the rimming of rose-petals against her painted white - and why couldn't the potter have used eggshell?
The man takes a sip of his soup. "Delicious", he says.
The woman murmurs something he can not understand.
The potter sits in his workshop, wheeling his hands around the fresh clay. Will it be a dancer's legs, a swan's beak, or maybe even duck feathers? He's tired of white and grey: If it's a vase, he'll paint it egg-shell.
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