After sitting at the cafe in Tel Aviv for an hour I began to get the hint that she wasn't coming. I take a few last sips of my bottled water that I ordered to politely pass the time until she was to arrive. I was really looking forward to the glass of wine I was planning on drinking once she joined me, but with that prospect in the shitter, I gave her one last phone call and wasn't surprised to reach the voice mail again. My notebook that I carry with me was now ten pages deep in a new thought which is about the only positivity I can muster at the moment. Defeated, and pissed off I pay my bill, and begin to walk down Shenkin St. to kill some time. Bums, hippies, and couples line the street and I, at the moment, am contributing to this backdrop and feel merely part of the scenery as everyone passes encompassed in their respective bubbles. I make my way down to the beach where I can sit and continue the idle thoughts that will eventually add to the next chapter in Good Tidings after some editing, cutting, and repairing. On my right, I notice a bookstore with some English titles, which is a rarity in these parts so I make my way inside and the bells on the door ring as I walk inside. The clerk turns her head with her cappuccino still in her hand and shoots me a polite smile and sticks her face back into whatever it is that she's reading.

Glorious Failure of Fame

The pages lay strewn around the room like fallen leaves, some ripped, some in tact, others crumpled and coffee stained like rings on a tree stump, of which you could count to decipher the age of the words. The thoughts and meanings, scattered and confused but like anything, I suppose, come together in purpose at some time or another. And what do you do? Oh me? I'm a writer; a title that surely sounds impressive and artsy, or even dark in the eye of the beholder, but in such a title the only clarity is true confusion, and the proof is lying all over my bedroom.
In such an atmosphere of confusion, the pages mingling around the room in no particularly organized fashion, remind me of the endless parties of the Hollywood Hills in which I, at one time, fretted as painfully normal. A world now so far away from what is my norm, I can not understand, or even relate to, the simplicity of it all. The routine of Fiji water bottles, German cars, and Sunset Boulevard as a lifestyle, is what much of the world may aspire to, or even utilize as a means of entertaining the imagination. Meanwhile, the other side of the rubix cube is similar to the opposite, because problems are problems, and the routine in which we live is just that. A routine.
It has been said that the aphrodisiac of the writer is melancholy, but to truly understand this idea, is to understand the cycle of freedom seekers. All of the greatest talents from Robert Frost to Jim Morrison could relate to such a statement, and to even consider myself as a comparison would be blasphemous, but what I do know, is that all ended in a glorious failure of fame, indeed a glory I could do without. I can relate to the frustration where one reaches a point that a shot of even the strongest drink provides you with not a head buzz or sense of calm, but nothing more than acid fuck reflux.
Although depressed as I might seem, I am in fact quite the opposite. The prospects of routine simplicity are distracting and daunting as the most precarious of tasks, and I know without a doubt, that routine simplicity and its counterpart are potentially equally precarious. Cynical? Very, but with good reason, and all one really has to do is turn on one of those evangelical channels and observe the fact that there really are people who believe that if they do not abide by the rules of a book written 2000 years ago, they will undoubtedly so, burn in an eternal hell fire. All 30,000 people in that auditorium surely look happy, but I think if I were in such a scenario I would be praying to be saved too. If I am to speak in tongues, I need hallucinogenic drugs, or a very good reason of which I can not think necessary in any situation I've yet to experience. Oh, and you can buy the DVD of the sermon you've just watched for $39.99, and they're fucking serious.
I take several of the loose leaved pages from around the room and organize about 20 different thoughts in some sort of order, hole punch them, and place them carefully into a binder. Surprisingly, as I scan through what I have written I realize that the thoughts do in fact make sense, to me at least, and the reflection alone is rehabilitating, and whether or not I realize it, a story is taking form. Am I just being complacent to my own desire, or is there in fact something to make of this? At the moment, as of many moments lately, I think to ask the first person of whom I've been thinking. I open a word document and organize the pages identically to the hard copy and attach them to the email.
Hey,
they say that the more opinions you ask for, the more you get, and at the moment, I really only want one. Comments?
I type in the email address I had saved on a napkin, leave the subject blank, think twice carefully reading over my short message, and click send.

The pages lay strewn around the room like fallen leaves, some ripped, some in tact, others crumpled and coffee stained like rings on a tree stump.

The pages lay strewn around the room like fallen leaves, some ripped, some in tact, others crumpled and coffee stained like rings on a tree stump

factory made chemicals and words on a blank page

I took the last sip of beer and chucked the bottle in the overflowing garbage bin next to my house and stepped into the street. As I looked over to my left, I had all of about two seconds to throw my body up and over the hood of the oncoming car of which I slammed on the hood and rolled into the street. I got a reassuring 'fuck you' hand gesture from the Israeli woman behind the wheel of her beater and pulled myself back up to my feet. She quickly speeds off leaving me in a trail of exhaust, and in this exhaustion, I plop myself onto the curb. My shorts are filthy and my leg is bleeding.
I breathe for a moment and wipe the sweat from my forehead and pick the gravel from my calf. I was right. Leaving the safety of my apartment, even if for a moment, has proven hazardous to my body and my rather fragile psyche soothed only by factory made chemicals and words on a blank page. I light a cigarette and limp to the bench in front of my apartment. I'm not ready to trek up the four flights of stairs, where all but the National Geographic Channel waits to draw my mind from what's actually here. I feel the vibration of my phone against my other unwounded leg and without looking to see who it is, I answer,
"Hello..."
"Hey, Its Simona."
"Hey you," finally a moment of cool in the midst of sweltering heat.
"How's it goin?"
"I just got hit by a car."
"Haha, no seriously..."
"Seriously. Fuckin' bitch just plowed me down, flipped me off, and kept going."
"Are you okay?"
I wince at the pain in my leg.
"I'm great, how are you?"
"You just got hit by a car..."
"A mere detail," The sun is going down over the soviet style buildings casting shadows in an orange luminescence, which seems strangely complimentary to the voice coming through the speaker of my phone. An old man shuffles by and raises his eyebrow at me, probably because I look a bit strange bleeding and filthy... and smiling. "Maybe we can meet somewhere other than Espresso Bar sometime?"
There's a few seconds of contemplating quiet, "Sure."
"Tomorrow?"
"Sounds good. Call me."
"I will. Have a good evening." And I press the end button. The conversation ends with a beep, and in that finality there's a sense of clarity.
I lift myself back onto my feet, and limp up the four flights of stairs to my studio apartment. As I ascent, the air gets hotter and as much as I want to take my time, I want out of this environment. I may have something to look forward to tomorrow night, but until that time, I need to occupy myself in some way and I am slightly dreading the in between. I take out my keys and fumble for the one that lets me in. The door creaks and the apartment's messy, and I really couldn't give a shit. I go into my bathroom and wash the blood from my leg, dab some iodine on the scrape, and cover it with a bandage. Iodine reminds me of my grandfather. He was always working on a project and sported an orange stained finger wrapped in a band-aid. The context in which we remember people brings clarity to our memories, and I find comfort in this thought.
I turn my television on, and following some Israeli adverts I try to focus on some lions tearing apart a gazelle, but this evening carnage isn't doing it for me.
I move over to my laptop and open a word document, and label the blank page "Good Tidings to Nowhere," and I begin to type.

Row

The guy in front of me loaded a magazine into his M16, and I did the same. The officer raised his fist and gave the go ahead. The front man kicked the front door open with all of his adrenaline, and we took up positions in the living room. The officer then oddly stood up, turned on the lights and said,
"Jesse your mom's on the phone..."
My eyes winced open and the sun peaked its face over the hills and evasively through the spot between the curtain and the wall. The sun is hot even through the window, so I scoot my head over to the right of the pillow and lay there in an awkward position for a while. I review the dream for a moment and roll over on my stomach, reach over and check my cellphone. I've been sweating and this morning I want a real coffee; not the usual Nescafe' so I slide on some shorts, flip flops, my hat and my sunglasses. I grab a 20 sheckle bill, and walk out into the hallway of my studio flat. The stairway echos with each step and rattle of the pockets, and I make my way into the public sphere where various minds mingle and escape their living boxes...
The moment I reach the sidewalk, beads of sweat form on my forehead and it reminds me of my first BB-gun that I saved up for with my allowance money, only to find that there are only so many times one can be entertained by putting holes in a water bottle. My flip flops smacked my heels in rhythm, my feet carrying me along like a slave ship, similarly full of holes, I'm leaking. This heat is surreal.
I walk past the bus station where people of all kinds wait to be moved. A drunk is passed out in the shade of an overhang, and heads pass by without paying him any change or any mind. I put 5 sheckles on the ground next to him, which I am sure, will go toward his next mind numbing session of alcohol consumption. I don't blame him.
I make my way up Ben Gurion St. toward Espresso bar and the smell of the falafel stand permeates the air, and the thought of eating fried chick beans before my coffee makes my stomach churn a bit. The guy at the bakery attempts to stop me in my path to sell me rugulach... get fucked. All I want is a coffee to-go, without being disturbed, apparently too much to ask on a summer afternoon in the Middle East. The baker, who feeds his children by feeding the public, has obviously not spent enough time with my grandmother, who could make me eat by shooting a single look. I always did, and I was always grateful.
I approach espresso bar and walk inside and order a take-away cappuccino, and just as I turn to leave, I reach into my pocket and look at my cellphone. I scroll through my phone book, until I reach the S's and stare at Simona's highlighted name for a moment, and with a touch of uncertainty, I push the green button...
"Hello?"
"Hey... you feel like talking over a coffee?"
"I would love to."
So I take a seat, and the drum stops while the slaves rest.

You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.
-Gandhi

The Bobbing Heads of Conformity

The music blaring from the speakers in the villa could be heard from the beach which was a ways away. Distant voices, laughter, and the repeated bump of the techno music to which the crowd bounces into conformity, gently washed in and out with the waves, and I much prefer this scene. The sand is empty, and I carry my black leather jacket over my shoulder and shuffle along the water line; the sounds become more distant with each wave, and soon it's quiet. A little buzzed, I plopped by ass in the sand near the water and stare off for a few seconds, until the vibration of my cellphone in my back pocket snatches my attention. I lean over, dust the sand off of the phone, and unenthusiastically check to see who wants what.
1 new message from Ilana: "Where are you?"
I look at the screen for a moment, and decide how to respond.
"Took a walk. Let me know if you guys leave." Send. I don't want to get stranded without a ride home.
Whether out of concern for my social well being, or just... because, four of my friends convinced me to accompany them to this villa party. All four of them are respectively dating each other, and buses with five wheels have been deemed ineffective by various intellectuals, and as a result, I find myself on the beach tonight. Sure, I could have stood off to the side with my drink, bobbing my head repeatedly, waiting for some indication of interest from potential female counterparts, whilst occasionally glancing over at my affectionate lovestruck friends, all of whom will surely be getting laid tonight. I'm happier here, thanks.
I taste the salt from the air on my lips, reach into my pocket and pull out a cigarette. I try my best to hide the flame from the wind with my hand, and strike the lighter a few times before it lights. The tip of the cigarette catches, and begins to burn red. I ash into the sand. After a few drags, I flick the butt into the water, stand up, and brush the sand off of my jeans.
Along the shoreline, I slowly make my way back toward the bobbing heads of conformity, and think about the mid term I have next week.
I check my cellphone for the time. 12:45am; still early for a Thursday night in Israel. I scroll through the names in my phone book for a moment, and look for some name that catches my interest. I stop at Simona, the girl from the coffee shop just two days before, and decide that it might be too late to call, plus I'm buzzed and my judgment is skewed. I decide to use the better of my skewed judgment, and wait with the bobbing heads.


Ironically and tragically loveless, Simona sits up in her bed for a moment in her Herzliya loft, at that same moment and just before going to sleep, she checks her cell phone one last time, before turning out the lights.

Substituted Guidance With Pretty Things...

Simona opens her eyes mid afternoon and with her face in her pillow she kicks the covers off and slowly turns over. The air in the room is hot, the window is open, the fan is on and it doesn't seem to be helping much. She sighs, and stares at the ceiling for a few seconds. The dream from which she had just awoken fogs her brain a bit, and pieces begin to fade while others become clear, and in the end the dream had lost its story, and its meaning.
The clock flashes 12:00 because the windstorm last night must have knocked out the power for some unpronounced amount of time. She reaches over to her nightstand and looks at her cellphone to check the time. 1:24pm. Whatever. No missed calls.
She sits up in her bed and her feet touch the Persian silk rug covering the Italian travertine tile in her central Herzliya loft apartment. Mommy and Daddy might not get along but they take care of their little girl, and nothing but a high rise loft will do for their dear Simona. In reality, she knows that her parents substitute their guidance with pretty things, and do so to make time for their legal careers. What had started in Law School ironically ended in a courtroom and, to Simona, it all happened for the best in the worst way possible.
She scratches her head and loafs through the hall, past the living room, and into the kitchen where she switches on her stainless steel Bosch coffee machine, sits at her chic little corner kitchen table and turns on the television. She stares at it blankly for a few seconds and the SMS alert goes off on her phone, which is still in the bedroom, and that means she has to get up.
"Fuck you, not yet."
She notices that the light on the coffee machine has turned green, and green means go, so she gets up, grabs a green mug from the cupboard, and pours herself a cup of black coffee. The sugar is running low, but there's enough for another cup or two. She scoops it from the container, and stirs while staring blankly for a moment, adds a drop of milk, taps the spoon on the edge of the cup, and takes her first sip; one of Simona's daily routines, of which she pays little attention to or attributes much significance.
Bill O'Riley is droning on in the background about the immoral and inevitable fall of society, whilst vehemently arguing with an Asian man whom is clearly struggling with his language, let alone his nervousness about being on international television. She watches this exchange for a moment, and decides that the SMS is more interesting. She leaves the cup on the counter and walks back through the hall and into her room where she searches the bed sheets for her phone.
1 new message: Dinner tonight?
This guy doesn't seem to be getting the hint. It's been three weeks and she hadn't once written back as of yet, he hasn't had the balls to call, and she has no intention of answering even if he does grow a pair. Israelis are notorious for giving out friends numbers to other friends and acquaintances in hopes of creating a new everlasting love. Much of the time one ends up with a pain in the ass for a few weeks or an awkward encounter down the line somewhere. It's flattering, but get the hint.
Simona grabs her hemp shoulder bag and drags it carelessly behind her back into the kitchen where she sits back down at her chic little table, unzips her bag, and pulls out Huntington's Clash of Civilizations, turns off the TV, and thinks quickly for a moment about the encounter she had just the day before. She checks her phone one more time, sets it back on the table, opens the book to the last chapter, begins highlighting, and finishes the reading she had begun nearly two weeks ago.

Stirring Coffee

The rubber tip of my black cane hit the concrete with each step of my right foot, and I walk in rhythm to the Black Crowes song I heard yesterday, repeating itself in my head. The song was hardly appropriate for the atmosphere of Ben Gurion St. with its odd post-soviet, half western vibe, and the clash of these phenomena concoct a taste that could be best compared to pineapples and ketchup. I did my best to ignore the pain in my right side, and with my leather messenger bag on my left shoulder, and the cane on my right, I step awkwardly into Espresso Bar and sit on the patio. An average looking waitress walks over, hands me a menu, removes the dirty ashtray from my view, and replaces it with a clean one from another table. I unzip my bag, and pull out Huntington's Clash of Civilizations, and start reading it again for the fifth time, highlighting the same points that I'm sure I've highlighted before, and that concept strikes me as ironic, but unworthy of anymore attention.
The waitress returns and I order a croissant and a cappuccino. What I'm really craving is a cup of that shit black coffee, and a blueberry muffin from Bobby's coffee shop in LA; the place that always made me feel like I was walking into a Tarintino movie, with its black bar stools, linoleum floors and leak stained ceilings, you can not find a better, greasier, cholesterol filled breakfast on the West Coast of the States. Doesn't matter at the moment, and as Bobby's Coffee Shop sleeps on Ventura Blvd. I sit awake, watching, and waiting from the other side of the world. What for, I don't know.
The waitress quickly returns and places the croissant and the cappuccino in front of me on the glass table. Very methodically without removing my eyes from my book I take two sugars, rip open the paper, and empty the contents into my coffee. I pick up the spoon and stir hypnotically while trying to understand why 'civilizations clash.' There's something ritualistic about preparing coffee, often overlooked. Everyone goes about doing this in their own way, naturally amongst all other things, and it is in these most unapparent subtleties that we form subconscious opinions and biases, which often shapes much of what and who we are, or are not for that matter. I think it is in these subtleties that we clash with one another.
"Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but is that Huntington's?" A naturally beautiful, clearly American girl whom I have never seen before, approaches me and the first thing that comes to mind is the cane.
"No, they think it's a liver issue, but there's no conclusion yet..."
"What?" then she notices the cane.
"Oh!" she instantly starts laughing and points at the book. "Ha, no... the book."
I smile back "Yeah, and considering how many times I've had to read it, I can't even begin to understand how those Muslim kids memorize the Koran before age six."
She laughs again, and so do I, but I'm laughing at how cliche this situation is, and how I've already decided I would totally sleep with this chick.
"I'm taking a course at Tel Aviv University, and the bookstore was out of copies. You think I could borrow yours when you're done?"
At this point I know the whole thing is bullshit, and a wonderfully crafted means of starting up a conversation with a stranger. Honestly, I'm just impressed that she knows who Huntington is, and it seems to be a very lucky day for me, so fuck it.
"For sure. I'll only need it for another day or two."
"Well great, thank you so much. Why don't you give me a call when we can meet up?"
YAHTZEE!
"I will."
She takes a pen out of her shanti purse, writes her number on a napkin and signs it Simona. She smiles, leaves the cafe, and it's at this moment that the old bearded man sitting nearby, who apparently witnessed the whole interaction, raises his glass to me, and in return with a smile, I to him.
You make new friends everyday, I suppose.

Israeli Debris

I parked my Eldan, Hundai Getz Rent-a-car in the dirt lot laden with nails and other Israeli debris, shut off my engine, shoved the GPS into the glove box, grabbed my cane, and hobbled through what the administration has the balls to call a parking lot. What is supposedly the finest private learning institution that Israel has to offer has no interest in parking or any lots related. Fuck us, and fuck our tires. For the tuition paid, they should, at the very least, repair our flattened tires. The reality is that most of the shit all over the "parking lot" is there from an ingenious biblical holiday called Lag b'omer where the civil state allows people of all ages to light bonfires where ever they feel appropriate, while the fire fighters run around the country trying to control brush fires. I must admit, for the majority of these events I was intoxicated myself and probably taking part in fueling my own internal inferno, which at times, feels as though it could spark a brush fire all on its own, but maybe I'm giving myself too much credit.
I, to the best of my ability, attempted to avoid the gravel and rocks with my cane, and as I focused on this task, a small dog with an agenda sped by me, took the liberty of pissing on a bush, and still got to the gate before I did. Fuck it and the bush it pissed on.
After trudging through the parking lot for 40 years, I approached the guard gate, and as threatening as I may look, hunched over with a cane, he insists on seeing my student ID, so I lean my cane up against the wall, reach into my messenger bag, and fumble for the fucking special card that only special students at this special school, with it's shit parking lot, receive. I show it to the Russian security guard, he nods and waves me in. I grab my cane, say fuck you very much, which he clearly doesn't understand and this is confirmed by his genuine smile and blank eyes, so I smile right back and continue on the main street toward the cafeteria. Beautiful girls and dudes with aviator glasses litter the campus, and ,I stand out...the cripple with the black bag, and the black cane, and a few people stop me here and there to ask what happened. It's honestly more fun to leave that to their imaginations, so I do, and what they create is probably far more interesting than my own reality. I leave the "aught to's" to them and the "what is" remains my decision to be executed at a time I see fit, and until that time comes, people can bitch and complain about "what isn't" and I can continue to feel mysterious.
I turn left on the walkway that goes toward the Lauder School of Government, Strategy, and Diplomacy building; the structure in which I will spend the majority of the next 4 months, striving to complete the final 14 classes of my BA. I fuck with each glass door until I discover the one they decided to unlock that day, and make my way toward the elevator, and push the button with my cane. Upon entering the elevator, the first thing one sees is himself, and whether you want to or not, you have the next 15 seconds to scrutinize yourself so you look elevator exit appropriate. I walk out of the lift, the same way I walked in and take a seat in the back of room L316, pull out my laptop, plug it into the nearest outlet as my cane slides down the wall and crashes to the floor, making sure to hit the desk on the way down for extra effect. Naturally people jump to assist me, and the first thing that enters my mind makes me laugh. Uh, I can do it myself...
"Thanks, thank you, sorry..."
After the attention is drawn away, and the few pity smiles upon obligatory faces turn their heads, I open my laptop, start a new word document, and officially begin phase two of my reintegration into "what is," with a few words from a great mind about societal challenges, and pitiless smile from a very cute girl in the first row...

the judgement of society continues...

The annoying ache radiating from my upper pelvis for the past 9 weeks has given me a whole new sense of sympathy for the elderly, the disabled, and some women... some women will never get my sympathy simply because I don't believe they deserve it, and these select few are all seeds of different tales in themselves. Some grew taller than others, and some just withered out of season, apparently with or without my interest. A few still stand strong, and with these few I remain in contact, probably because of their efforts more so than my own. Sitting in a fetal ball for such an extended period of time has rendered me rather unsocial, which I soon discovered fits with cynicism, and also presents a paradox of breeding inactivity and losing things to be sinister about aside from the hospital visits and medical tests which have replaced my social life. My upcoming party consists of a color ultrasound and some prodding.
I grab my black adjustable cane, and limp out onto my balcony in my boxers, and light up a joint. Truth is, pain pills are fucking awful and anyone who feels compelled to conform to the norms of societal thought in regards to "the killer weed" is a fucking idiot. Vicodin, Norco, Tramadex, oxycontin.... Not only do these factory chemicals turn me into an asshole, they're addicting, and compell me to sleep my life away. Sitting in the hospital the other day, a small child of an Orthodox Jewish family decided to use my being as a vehicle for his own entertainment, and like a Kenyan on meth, he proceded to circle my chair, running full speed, peyot and tsit-tsit heinously flying and flapping, whilst he yelled some shit in Hebrew that I couldn't understand. His parents carelessly glanced over and proceded to do absolutely nothing about it, so like Dr. House, I stuck out my cane and tripped the little fucker. He fell face first and his hands slapped the floor, and with that loud crack, I actually felt better. Fuck it, we were in a hospital.
"Ema!!!" and then his parents carted him off, whilst he bitched.
Point is, herb eases the ache, chills me out, takes the blindfold of pain off my mind, and prevents me from hurting small children for revenge, entertainment, or any other reason, and suddenly, I feel human again. It's still chilly, but the sunlight serves to show winter turning the corner, like a cute girl you think to talk to, but just before the opportunity presents itself, she's gone. About another two weeks, and Spring takes her place, and as it does so, I will slowly but surely reintegrate into the confines of reality, and finish my last fucking semester of college. The judgment of society continues, and that's okay with me. The only difference between them and me, is I couldn't give a shit unless it gets me somewhere. four more months, and then something is supposed to happen...I guess... I just pray that they don't continue in void.
I hobble back into the apartment, sit at my computer next to my open balcony door, and for the first time in two months, I begin to write again...

“Time destroys the speculations of man, but it confirms the judgment of nature”
-Cicero