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1.
Nitza Pnueli from Kibbutz Ein-Hamishmar repeatedly solves the radio literary quiz. She is a small, plump middle-aged woman, as appropriate, never had a steady lay, and sits glued to the small radio in her room every Friday at six, when the literary magazine is broadcast. I met her only once, running for the No. 18 bus near the Northern train station. Of course, I never knew it was she. I myself am a small, plump, middle-aged man, haven"t had a steady fuck in almost three years, but as opposed to Nitza, could never solve the radio literary quiz. Sometimes I think we are deeply, hopelessly in love.
2.
At the range, Eliezer was mockingly shooting at me. The instructor pointed out to us the safety rules, loosely dangling from the wall, held by a single yellowing strip of Scotch tape. Eliezer noted that the figure of the little Palestinian boy – someone glued it to the target the other day – resembles me in almost every detail. "He has a smaller, pointed nose," I protested. The boy was holding a green apple, his mouth half open. The aim was to root out all his teeth, one by one. As of today, only four remained. But this is just natural for a seven-year-old, I thought.
3.
For days I"ve had the image of a four-year-old girl, who actually looked and acted like 20, preparing to jump from a multi-story building. Not a skyscraper, just five or six stories: The faces of people below, looking upwards, could be clearly seen. One, a woman clutching a netlike, old-fashioned grocery bag dyed light blue, was trying to say something. It was not the distance that muted her, but the noise of an approaching train. The girl was walking back and forth along the edge, then back and forth from edge to center. There, in the middle of the roof, she stood silently for a minute, then ran. The grocery bag had two handles. When the woman below loosened her grip on one, a small can, probably tomato paste, fell. While in the air, even when upside down, she kept running. Curiously, I could clearly hear the can hitting the sidewalk, then rolling toward the road.
4.
I am listening to great singers of the ’40s and ’50s through a complicated digital device. I am losing hair, money and life by the minute. I cannot do anything about it, since I am too stupid. I am also lonely and miserable, and haven"t had a fuck in a month. I have no clue.
The savages are closing in on us every day. People, some of them remote friends, ex-lovers, or third cousins, are lying in the streets, bleeding. Nobody cares to pick them up anymore, or tries to glue the pieces together, not even the black-hat beards. I would give everything I"ve got, admittedly not much, for a piece of bread, a 40-year-old not-very-beautiful old maid, or an hour of sanity.
Who could know this would all end like this? Everybody knew, of course. Then, why didn"t they tell? They all told, they all screamed it at the top of their lungs, from the tops of the Jerusalem hills. So nobody is to blame, nobody is to blame but me.
But I can"t be blamed: I was busy picking my nose. Please, black-hat beards, pick my nose up from the side of the street. Would you? My mouth too: I"d rather be singing now, all by myself.
From Ma Yesh (Jerusalem: Kvar series, Carmel, 2007)
wow that is all i can say. amazing writing. amazing images. omi.
Thanks, Omi! Blush is all I can do in response.