Lifer

Stop the madness!

Wed, 15 Feb 2012 15:49:16 -0500

I will not pull my iPhone out every time I step into an elevator.
I will not check Facebook before I check my email
I will do my best to simply enjoy things, accepting that some people will go through life without knowing about it
I will sit in a restaurant with my phone in my pocket, and not on the table
I will not go to Facebook immediately after writing this to make sure it was shared.

Just another Love-is thingy

Thu, 09 Feb 2012 17:07:36 -0500

Love is such a slippery thing

You have it

You don’t have it

You think you have it

You think you don’t

You feel you once had it

You wonder if it was all a lie

You kneel to pick it up again

And bump the back of your head against the self

And it slips again.

I think it’s gone now.

I was there

Mon, 24 Oct 2011 15:50:54 -0400

I don’t remember it now
just remember remembering
I was there

There are days you forget
this pain you thought would kill you
There are days i cannot stand, or sit, or lie down
There are days I cannot lie

But I really was there
I know every second since

Every second since is burned into my cells
I was there when the world was created
i was there when god was invented

I am still here now.

"I came to this weird realization, reading about what’s going on in Africa and the Sudan and stuff..."

Wed, 21 Sep 2011 15:55:19 -0400

“I came to this weird realization, reading about what’s going on in Africa and the Sudan and stuff like that, that I don’t hate any music. Or at least, I don’t hate the motivations behind it. And a lot of people are like, ‘Oh, those guys are doing this shitty music so they can get money and pussy.’ Yeah, but do you know what people do to get money and pussy on this planet? Really horrible things. Like, they do horrifying things to get money and pussy and power. So, if Nickelback wants to sing ‘Photograph,’ they decide to do that instead of forming a cult and killing people, it’s hard for me to get angry at that … Every time a hipster bitches about Nickelback, they should send some money to the Red Cross, just to go, ‘Hey, look, I’m sorry that I spent one minute going off about Ke$ha and Nickelback. They’re not the best people on the planet, but I probably could’ve used that time better.’”

- Patton Oswalt, interviewed in The Onion A.V. Club (via sarahspy)

Round and Round it goes.

Thu, 24 Mar 2011 10:59:00 -0400

for 30 years the Israeli government ignored the existence of another people between the armistice line and the Jordan river. Then came the Intifada, hundreds died. The Israeli government dragged its feet to Oslo. Then years passed, and a relative quiet allowed the Israelis to build more settlements and triple the Jewish population in the occupied territories. Another Intifada begun, even more people died. Israel thought maybe a new negotiation round is needed, a lot of talks, no agreement, but some quiet time that allowed for more settlements to be built. Years of quiet and prosperity for Israelis, and wall, blockades and checkpoints for the Palestinians went by. And surprisingly a new wave of violence is upon us, but not to worry - Israel has a remedy. It is going to officially ask Facebook to remove a page that calls for a 3rd Intifada.

A matter of life and death - A short story

Fri, 25 Feb 2011 15:13:00 -0500

I think I died and gone to heaven. How else can you explain all these gorgeous women everywhere? It could, however, be that I died and just stayed here, in Manhattan. The giveaway is of course women’s total lack of interest. They look through me, as if I am transparent, which is a characteristic of ghosts, so I’ve heard. No matter how intently I stare at them they would not budge. If their stare was in my direction, it stayed there. If they were scanning their options not one of them ever stopped on my eyes. However this tall, blond, smartly dressed professional, was looking through my eyes. I quickly turned and saw behind me an ad for Aruba – One Happy Island. I can see that. I want to go to Aruba too, perhaps with this very blond. I turned back, expecting to meet her smile, but she was already into her iPhone, perhaps searching for cheap flights. She didn’t look like she needed cheap flights though. She did wear a humongous diamond on her engagement finger, she could always sell it and buy the fucking island. Her husband would not mind, as long as she doesn’t give him shit on what he was doing at work until 2 in the morning. She could enjoy Aruba all for herself, and perhaps meet a local fisherman and tell him about the subway ad and this fellow who was blocking it while smoking a fat one on his boat butt naked, on a full moon summer midnight. I looked at her again, or perhaps never stopped looking at her. She has the same shy though contemptuous smile my friend has. The one I keep trying to get love from but always seem too cool for me. of course even for people who are fully alive, a tall blond professional who has married rich is not a low hanging fruit, and I have yet to find out whether I am alive or not. I think I am going to give up, just in time for Union Square.

Never in my life have I had coffee at The Coffee Shop. This was no exception. -Vodka tonic with extra lime please, I asked in a confident voice the drop dead female bartender who seemed to wear nothing but a black buttoned down shirt. - this is the only cocktail I can drink and still feel a man. or at least claim to be one. Not sure how long I have sat there, nor how many Vodka tonicas I have had, as time plays tricks on you when you’re dead, and even when you think you are dead, or simply waiting for it, like a normal person. But at some point I raised my head to her and said in a surprisingly controlled voice - I am happy and grateful. not only I have been sitting here enjoying your beauty, I now see you twice, which is twice the enjoyment. She either didn’t hear me or already knew the joke, but one thing bothered me. I did receive my drinks, or so I thought. - Why is it important? I heard myself asking myself and didn’t hear the answer, perhaps because there is none. Every now and then I do ask myself whether I am alive or adead. –For example, take this blond from the subway ride a few hours ago, I told myself while peeing and looking at myself looking at myself in the mirror, let’s say I’m alive, do I stand a chance with her? How so? What can I do as a living being with her that I can’t do dead like me? And say I am dead, what am I missing? She’s too demanding. She will want me to be alert, and funny, interesting and interested, and then she will probably want me to hold more than 10 minutes in bed. When I’m dead I can imagine myself doing all that, what’s left to imagine when you’re alive? If you CAN imagine it, you’re immediately filled with guilt, knowing that you only live some of you life, part of it, and not the cool part. If you CAN’T imagine it, you’re probably dead anyway. Looking at myself in the mirror I was struck by my beauty and attractiveness. I smiled to myself with this self assertion of a prince who is kind to his people though he knows quite well how superior he is to all that. I finished my business and stumbled my way back to my stool. I felt my head spin and the bartender had an identical twin again. I smiled to her too. She looked at me? Her doppelganger was busying over my next drink and she looked, and smiled at me! Could it be? I checked behind me and asked her if she knew in what way I was lucky. - I am luckier than you because you only see one of me, but I see two of yous. She didn’t even smile. I could never quite get people to get my jokes though my insults were always accepted with the maximum effect. - you know what, if you don’t laugh at my jests, perhaps you’d laugh at this joke- I met my brother today, and told him I am going to call my dog Smith, so he said he has a friend with a wooden leg named Smith. So I said ‘really? What’s the name of his other leg’. She didn’t move a single muscle in her face when she said -I saw that movie when I was 6. I got the joke when I was 7. And went about her business. I was just leaving tip on the bar when the tall blond came in and sat on the stool next to me, looking at me through the mirror behind the bottles, she asked -do you want to come upstairs and have wild sex with me? I live right above the place. - Me too, I said. And disappeared.

Eyal's take on Frankies Spuntino's Tomato Sauce

Thu, 03 Feb 2011 11:46:15 -0500

Frankies Spuntino’s very useful tomato sauce, a little milder.

1 cup olive oil
10 cloves garlic
4 cans of Italian tomatoes
pinch of chilli flakes
1 tsps fine sea salt

Put oil and garlic into a large deep saucepan and cook over a medium-low heat for about 10 minutes, giving the odd stir, until he garlic is deep golden with streaks of brown, and fragrant. If it starts to smell bitter or is colouring too quickly take if off the heat and turn the heat down.

While the garlic is on, pour the tomatoes into a bowl (you’ll need a big one) and crush them with your hands. Discard the stems.

When the garlic is done, add the chilli flakes and cook them for 30 seconds or so, to infuse the spice into the oil. Throw in the tomatoes and salt and give it a good stir. Turn the heat up to medium and bring the sauce up to a gentle simmer. Leave it there for 4 hours – stirring now and again. Add water if it’s too thick or sticks to the bottom.

Check for salt at the end. You can now cook the sauce with meatballs, or leave it covered in the fridge for at least 4 days or freeze for a few months. If you are cooking the meatballs cook them in the entire quantity of sauce and then keep the leftover sauce for later – it gives it a great flavor .

Pocket

Thu, 20 May 2010 10:13:09 -0400

He fumbled about his jacket pocket inquisitively raising his eyes and fixing them on an undefined spot in the sky as to not take his focus off his busy fingers. There was a big hole in the pocket which he knew very well, and through the hole he could reach into his jacket’s lining which was in itself a huge pocket filled with lost treasures. He felt some wheat puffs he bought a few months ago; and entertained the thought of trying them. His jacket was regularly hung in a dry place, why wouldn’t the wheat puffs be good, he thought, a pantry or a closet, these are just words. So he pulled one out, only to discover it wasn’t the wheat puff he had hoped for but a seed of some fruit whose name escaped him. He flicked it away and continued to scan for pieces of memory left in his jacket knowing quite well that there was no real happiness in them or in the time they come from, only that at the time, his dreams were more realistic to him. Only a few years ago he really believed his dreams, but now he should be mad to believe anything could be anything like he ever hoped for. At most, he thought, he could spend the remainder of his life free of piercing agony. When he was 4 or so, wheat puffs were the dream itself, not an instigator of a dream, not a reminder of a lost dream, but the object of real desire, the kind that only children can have to things, or sweets. His beloved grandmother would take him in her boney hands, caress his short thick hair and offer him wheat puffs with milk, or without. He opted for without, or he used to say it “with without milk”. Yes, that’s better, he thought, as milk tends to disagree with him, especially when he is in a disagreeable mood. A black Ford Grand Victoria door was slamming besides him and he looked at the plate, like he always does, and it said “Official”. On the dashboard there was a clear sign - NY State Official on Duty. A standard overweight grayed old white man was slamming that door, carrying a pile of files, walking away determinately. How he wanted an Official license plate! And a sign for the dashboard! I could park anywhere, he thought, had he had a car. He always respected public officials and coveted the feeling of authority and entitlement he never had. Over the years, on many occasions, all that separated him from absolute bliss was an NYPD badge, or ever a Park ranger’s ID. When a truck cut him off when he was trying to legally cross the street and threw him to the curb, adding insult to injury by splashing the entire content of an old, stale puddle on his clothes, that though weren’t new, were uncharacteristically clean, he really wanted that badge, the badge that can single handily change the game. Never admitting this fully, he’s always been weak and scared of confrontation, though his temper often got the upper hand and pushed him into positions where his lack of physical strength and his natural fear assembled a deadly combination which usually left him bruised and humiliated. Any official recognition of the establishment could have avoided it. He even considered becoming a teacher, so at least children will be bound to respect him, but that required a college degree which he once vowed to attain as soon as he completes his high school degree. When none of these happened he knew he would have to find other ways to gain respect and protection from society. A beautiful woman crossed the street. Yes, beautiful women get respect and protection from society. And children too. Is it too late to be a child? A beautiful woman? Yes, the only way is to have a child. And this beautiful woman is as good as any for that purpose, so he approached her and respectfully asked her if she would want to have a child with him. In the past any word he would have to utter to a woman casted a cloak of dread of him, debilitating, freezing dread. But this one was not about the beautiful woman, but about having children, something so wholesome and acceptable by society, no woman would scold him for wanting to have children with her. To his surprise, the woman ignored him, fixed her eyes on some undefined spot in the sky as to not take her focus off ignoring him. He looked around and saw a few people looking at him with expressions he couldn’t read. The overweighted grayed middle aged white man was there too, looking worried as he was dialing his phone.

One thing you can’t hide is when you’re crippled inside

Fri, 12 Feb 2010 11:26:00 -0500

It was a mildly sunny day not unlike this one when he was walking to his class right on time, looking around and thinking different thoughts when this one thought, about him being alone and all came to mind; this one ought to be just right, the thought thought to himself, this one was leaning against her BFF in this unconcerned confidence that was casual but graceful though many years later he realize how rare this state is. Very unlike the state he was in at the moment, staring at the busy playground, filled with gorgeous mamas and their children.

As always, he was looking for her. The fair skinned girl he saw on the school yard some 40 years earlier. How would it have been had he actually approached her back then. After all he was then a nice young man, fairly intelligent and quite liked. Then he thought himself not there, or at least transparent, later life taught him what loneliness really was. It was hard, and silent, and relentless. After twenty years of silent he had no idea how to relent. They were so beautiful those young mothers, and happy and content; love made them walk on air. Should he speak to any of them? He just wanted to tell one of them how pretty she was, or how adorable her child was, but was too shy. Why, isn’t it nice to tell people what you think about them, especially when your thoughts are of beauty and goodness and kindness? He can’t bring himself to tell any of them anything, just like on that day 40 years ago on the school yard. What would’ve changed? Could this be a point of similar importance? Could he be putting his future on hold by not doing?

He thought these thoughts almost every day, but they were especially troubling when he was facing beauty. Beauty made him cry. He cried for the beauty of the world, and how much of it he would never see, he cried in excitement like when watching a really moving opera, or so he remembers, or not and then he cried for crying. His world was not an opera, maybe a play. If it’s a play he wondered by who. Definitely not Shaw. He was never funny or bright enough. One of the mothers lifted her daughter up to the monkey bars, exposing tanned flat tummy that made his thoughts a little less pure than before, so he immediately turned his eyes to the pigeons begging for some more of those cornflakes he was handing them. She may have caught a glimpse of his stare.

But then again it’s always been his problem; he’d gather the inner strength to look at a girl’s eyes and would turn away as soon as she’d look back. It didn’t matter how many times he told himself to stay the course. He’d think of himself as a god walking among men, brave and safe and good - will look at the mortal with love and acceptance, knowing what there is to know that they will never will. The subways crowds and underground hustlers and bus hangers and any other place where good number of people gather, they were all his to behold. Until they looked back. Then he would feel small, and dirty and totally misunderstood. He never though being understood was that important as he never felt there was anything in him mysterious or ever interesting enough for people to care to understand him. He was as understandable as bad weather, or any other weather for that matter.

Another mother was looking into the trunk of her stroller for a treat or something for her child and her whale tail undies showed. He took his time, knowing she can’t possibly be aware of him, when a slight movement in his pants made him remember this one time, when his girlfriend traveled to New York City and he stayed behind. She gave him a goodbye night that he never forgot. He never forgot her, wondering if she remembers him. Maybe he should call her. If only he knew her phone number. He could tell her all about himself and his whereabout for the last 30 years. But the mother straighten up and did throw him a look. I knew it! She looked back! He felt he was there, he was not transparent. He can look, and think, and love back, and hug, and put his head in her armpit and fall asleep and feel so there. So real. At last he could be how and where he felt he should be. He thought all that when he felt all too masculine hands lifting him from the bench. “you can’t be here sir”. He looked at the mother and the mothers looked back. I have love, he thought. Will always have love.

Photo

Fri, 15 Jan 2010 14:12:20 -0500