Bugger off, you bastards
Bugger off to hell
No patience for your antics
Ain’t buyin’ what you sell
I’m tired of pretending
That everything’s okay
Not taking no more crap from you
So just be on your way
You pull me in and make me want
To give you all I’ve got
You grab me with your pretty words
Then leave me there to rot
But I’ve got news for you, my friend
I broke your magic spell
So find yourself another sap
And bugger off to hell
The time difference between Israel and the East Coast of the United States is seven hours, which means that I woke up yesterday morning to learn that Osama Bin Laden had been killed by US forces at some point during the night. This being the age of new media, it’s probably not terribly surprising to anyone that I discovered this bit of news via my Facebook feed (with Lisa Goldman having the dubious distinction of being the bearer of such tidings, since her status update was the first one I read). The news websites confirmed the information that my Facebook friends (and indeed, my Twitter feed as well) were sharing – some rather giddily, and the images I saw on television shortly thereafter showed Americans in front of the White House celebrating and singing.
I didn’t cheer, nor did I jump for joy or break into spontaneous singing of a national anthem. I wasn’t sorry to hear the news, but I also found it distasteful to watch people joyously celebrating someone’s death, and in the same raucous manner that one might celebrate a major sports victory. I can’t share the view of some of my friends who believe his death was wrong, or that he should have been brought to justice instead. I think that sometimes, as disturbing as this type of retribution might be, it may be the most sensible response to a situation whose components defy the most basic elements of logic, reason and humanity that most people hold dear, regardless of nationality, religion or any other circumstances that define who we are as individuals and members of the human race. (more…)
You know your world is getting smaller when you can sit in front of your computer and have a cup of coffee with one of your favorite writers via Skype video chat. That’s what I did recently with Isabel Losada, the London-based author of “The Battersea Park Road to Enlightenment“, “For Tibet, with Love: A Beginner’s Guide to Changing the World“, “MEN!“, and the soon-to-be-released “The Battersea Park Road to Paradise“, among others. In each book, Isabel shares her true life adventures, taking readers along for the journey as she pursues interests that range from happiness to changing the world.
Introduced to Isabel’s books by a mutual Facebook friend nearly two years ago, I was intrigued – not only by the friend’s high praise for the books, but also by the quirky comments that Isabel would sometimes leave on his wall. I liked her style, and sensed that her books would set the tone I was looking for to become acquainted with ideas and concepts that interested me, but about which I knew very little. I chose to start with “The Battersea Park Road to Enlightenment, and by the end (actually, quite a bit earlier) I was hooked. I’ve since read two of her other books, pre-ordered the latest (due to be released in May 12th) and become friendly with Isabel on Facebook. I approached her several weeks ago about interviewing her for the blog, and she quickly agreed. What follows below is the result of that interview (the professional bits, anyway. I’ve left out the caterpillar…).
At this point, I’m sure it comes as no secret to anyone that I love to write. Stringing words into sentences and stories brings me a great deal of pleasure, whether I’m doing it for work or play. Sometimes, when it comes to work assignments, I do the best I can with a subject that doesn’t really resonate with me, but other times, I feel truly privileged to be able to do what I do, especially when it comes to raising awareness of important issues. This is one of those times.
Through my work as a freelance writer for the Haaretz newspaper’s Commercial Department, I was recently given the opportunity to meet with Joseph Gitler, director of Israel’s largest national food bank and food rescue organization – Leket. I was given a tour of their facilities and spoke with Joseph at great length about the amazing organization he founded as well as topics such as poverty, need, nutrition, voluntarism Leket , environmental sustainability and more.
The link below takes you to the article I wrote as a result of that meeting. It was published in Haaretz’s “The Power of Giving” supplement, which was distributed with Monday’s English-language edition of the newspaper. (more…)
A heart divided in two
Haunting me
Tempting you
And I wonder
As I imagine your eyes
Your touch, your smile
If I will somehow lose myself
A heart divided in two
Hidden by me
Found by you
Unexpectedly
Silently, recklessly, gladly
Without looking, I leap
In terrifying, joyous free fall
A heart divided in two
A piece I keep for me
The rest I give to you
To have, to hold
Hopefully to cherish
For my heart is precious
And easily broken
Sometimes you hear a blast, but other times, the first thing you hear is a siren. You pause. You wait. Do you hear another siren, perhaps several? And then you sigh sadly and pick up the telephone to place a round of calls, because you know that more than one siren usually means a terror attack has taken place and you need to make sure that everyone is accounted for.
Sometime in either 2001 or 2002, during the height of the second Intifada, I upgraded my cell phone package so that I’d be able to make international calls. I was working in Netanya at the time – a preferred target of terrorists due to its relatively close proximity to the Green Line – and needed to be able to ring my parents in the US whenever an attack occurred somewhere close by; I wanted them to hear the news from me first. Those were frightening, stressful days, when lunchtime venues were selected based on whether there was a security guard at the door (and we were all quite happy to add an extra shekel or two to the bill to ensure that the guard remained) and people eyed each other warily in the streets, looking for signs that something might not be quite right – perhaps someone wearing a jacket or coat on a warm day or carrying what looked to be an unusually heavy bag.
Adding to my stress was the fact that bombs were also exploding around the area in which I lived (and still live). Not only was Hadera – another frequent target of attacks – only 10 minutes away, but buses and shared taxis were exploding on the main highway that passes near our home. And these weren’t even my closest brushes with terror. Once I missed a bombing at my train station by mere minutes, finding out what had happened from friends and relatives calling to find out where I was, knowing that I was often at the station at that time, waiting to be picked up. Another time, I waited for a bus at a bus stop in Tel Aviv, where 24 hours later, a suicide bomber blew himself up.
I saw a little prince
Climbing in a tree
He scampered to and fro
He didn’t notice me
I watched him leap from branch to branch
He climbed so very high
And suddenly that tree became
A rainbow in the sky
Up among the clouds he went
And quickly disappeared
Then somewhere in the distance
A crowd began to cheer
I looked up at the rainbow
And knew I had to try
To climb until I reached the top
Until I reached the sky
I poked my head up through the clouds
And much to my surprise
I found a magic kingdom
Right before my eyes
Where streets were paved with cookie dough
And buildings made of cake
With lollipops that grew on trees
Beyond the chocolate lake
And candy people sang and danced
Oh how their faces shone
Joy and laughter filled the air
For now their prince was home
Not wanting to get in the way
I started to descend
Sliding down that rainbow
Until I reached the end
The next thing I remember
Was opening my eyes
And looking for the rainbow
That took me to the skies
But much to my confusion
No rainbow did I see
Just branches upon branches
Of a great big gnarled tree
Clearly I had dreamed it all
That kingdom in the clouds
Where princes coming home again
Are met by candy crowds
Sadly I stood up to go
Took one last look around
And hidden in the grass I saw
Some chocolate and a crown
Don’t know how long forever lasts
What’s done is done; what’s past is past
Don’t know what I’m supposed to do
Just want to spend my days with you
Walking, talking, holding hands
Side by side in distant lands
Sharing secrets, fleeting glances
Hold you close for stolen dances
Music meant for you and me
Close my eyes; you’re all I see
Don’t know what I’m going to do
Just want to spend my time with you
Trading kisses in the rain
Your touch is driving me insane
Fingers teasing in the night
Wrap my arms around you tight
And someday when we’re old and gray
Looking back on long lost days
Of walking, talking, kisses, dances
Holding, loving, fleeting glances
All those things we dared to do
I’ll be glad I lived my life with you
It was the hardest telephone call I’d ever had to make. “He’s gone,” I said quietly. “It’s over.” I could hear my father’s sharp intake of breath, followed by a choked sob. From my mother I heard nothing. Sitting on the narrow bed in our spartan hospital apartment with my husband by my side, I proceeded to convey the news to my parents that their six-month-old grandson had died.
The days and weeks that followed would pass in a blur, and the only thing I could recall from the funeral was the way my friend Grace grasped my hand so very tightly, and how grateful I was that she did so. I remember the friends who came to our home during the traditional week of mourning, and I remember wondering whether I’d ever be able to smile or laugh again. At the time, it seemed unimaginable. (more…)
“Let’s go for a walk,” I said to the boy
He replied with a scowl; turned back to his toys
“And what if I promise you fun on the way?”
“What if I told you it’s mud puddle day?”
Curiosity piqued, he followed me out
Still mumbling and grumbling, his face in a pout
No patience for walks and wanting to play
We wandered in silence; he had nothing to say
We walked past the houses of neighbors and friends
We traipsed past the spot where the neighborhood ends
We ran through the fields and then past the wood
And that’s when our walk began to get good
For just past the oak tree we suddenly found
Mud puddles galore – our joy knew no bounds
The boy turned to me – a sly look on his face
Then turned away and picked up his pace
I knew what was coming, but I didn’t care
For I was the one who had taken him there
As mud puddle day was simply a ploy
I desperately needed some time with my boy
To celebrate life and all that is good
We splished and we splashed – just ’cause we could
Who knew you could chase bits of sadness away
By jumping through puddles on mud puddle day
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