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