As I've received several emails from friends and family inquiring about the state of things here in Be'er Sheva, I thought I'd make the announcement that we are safe and fully prepared should a rocket or missile strike in our area of the city. We have three options for places to stay, including two right here in our own building and one about ten feet from the building that holds up to 100 people. All schools and universities are closed, but all pharmacies, hospitals, and supermarkets are, by law, open. IDF officials are able to figure out when and where the rockets are coming from in Gaza and are informing city officials, who then sound a siren that is heard throughout the entire city. If things should get much worse, we'll pack up some things, including little Winnie, and head to Avi's sister's home in Tel Aviv. And so all in all, we're alright! And in typical Israeli fashion, we've even managed to make friends with other tenants in the building during the 20-minute periods spent in the shelter. And as all of these new friends have joked, I'm officially an Israeli now. Don't I get a hat or something?
Happy New Year and be in touch!
31.12.08
14.7.08
Some Old Poetry
(There was Still Inside Her)
From Earth to Parcel for Paul Celan
There was still inside her, and
they broke.
They broke and broke, and as
the seconds crawled on, their fever. And they did not take
dwell,
that, so they thought, needed cast;
that, so they thought, bore all this.
They broke and thought nothing more;
they grasped blithely their hilts, uncovered no slip,
knew no halting utterance.
They broke.
There came soon a tear, there shortly came shred,
none of the favoured came.
He breaks, she breaks, and the part also breaks;
and the trouncing here snivel whispers: they broke.
O two, o three, o four, o'r her.
When will they go, when they've been through her all?
O he breaks, and he breaks, and he breaks through to maw,
and the courtesan on their fingers falls.
From Earth to Parcel for Paul Celan
There was still inside her, and
they broke.
They broke and broke, and as
the seconds crawled on, their fever. And they did not take
dwell,
that, so they thought, needed cast;
that, so they thought, bore all this.
They broke and thought nothing more;
they grasped blithely their hilts, uncovered no slip,
knew no halting utterance.
They broke.
There came soon a tear, there shortly came shred,
none of the favoured came.
He breaks, she breaks, and the part also breaks;
and the trouncing here snivel whispers: they broke.
O two, o three, o four, o'r her.
When will they go, when they've been through her all?
O he breaks, and he breaks, and he breaks through to maw,
and the courtesan on their fingers falls.
Show me the drenched howling babe,
the one that sweats
and quivers long before he speaks: and feed from drought,
milk for your too pursed lips,
dribbling liquid unhinged and warm,
and slow as breast’s pulse
through your spineless ear.
Show me the gashes, the scrapes, so that I might graze
on your skin, under damp covers where sound hums:
pillowed scripts, fingered marks; nose tip to shoulder blade
and fastened squints; tossing sheets and accusations
through stuffed holes.
You whisper to hell with the romantic, the soft
underskin of my thigh gelled in your palm,
and the stuffy foyer around our bed collapsing.
And then you sigh all the way to hell with the things you’ve read
in an old blue chair
under a dim orange light.
and I listen through the hum of the radiator
and the weakening light.
and quivers long before he speaks: and feed from drought,
milk for your too pursed lips,
dribbling liquid unhinged and warm,
and slow as breast’s pulse
through your spineless ear.
Show me the gashes, the scrapes, so that I might graze
on your skin, under damp covers where sound hums:
pillowed scripts, fingered marks; nose tip to shoulder blade
and fastened squints; tossing sheets and accusations
through stuffed holes.
You whisper to hell with the romantic, the soft
underskin of my thigh gelled in your palm,
and the stuffy foyer around our bed collapsing.
And then you sigh all the way to hell with the things you’ve read
in an old blue chair
under a dim orange light.
and I listen through the hum of the radiator
and the weakening light.
25.12.07
A Brief Call to Memory: Fragments
I suppose I couldn't help finishing this [never-ending] piece up in some way, after weeks of jotting down notes, writing, erasing, writing. Memory comes in fragments, and they are entered here as they entered my consciousness through some winding tunnel of images and time. Some may argue that childhood, especially those early years that seem most unfair, must be dropped little by little as we enter into our adult years, so as to preserve what we can of each present moment, leaving all that is tainted behind. I find that picking up each of these fragments is the key to living in this moment, for without these bits I am nothing - a timeless, spaceless spec. This piece is less about me, and more about her--this distant relative to whom I owe my life.
A Brief Call to Memory: Fragments
New York, 1985 – 1992 (approx.)
Growing up in Dix Hills, Long Island, was no impossible feat. Born and raised under the modestly built roof of 37 Cedar Ridge Lane, I was a messy, dirty-kneed kid, always in long shorts, always in the play of summer evening. I didn’t have the wildest imagination but I knew I had the time. I lived in reflection, a small light in the nucleus of a diamond.
I road my bicycle up and down the steep streets of my neighborhood, usually by myself, but sometimes with my neighbor Sandy. She belittled me. Or I felt littler than her. She was mean, strong, athletic, bossy. I was mild, skinny, clumsy.
My mother and I hugged in the kitchen for hours, sometimes days. My head buried in her big warm breasts, her forearms hung around the tops of my shoulders. She kissed the top of my head so strongly, I could feel her nosetip squishing against me.
My father took me to the local high school running track on a drizzly Saturday morning. He ran and I trailed behind him, wondering the moment I began when it would end. How strange to run in circles over and over again. The grass was green, each strand glistening against an intruding grey sky. I enjoyed the smell of the damp lawn and hoped that when we finally returned home, the rain had left earthworms under the newspapers on the sidewalk.
I imitated the once-a-week Mexican cleaning lady by stripping myself of my diaper and using it to wash the living room windows.
At the supermarket I picked up a small magazine of horoscopes in the check-out line. On each page was a list of predictions according to date of birth, including the predicted time of death. The forecast for my last year alive: 62. Grandma was almost 62. Very old.
On Passover my cousins put on a play that relayed the story the famous exile. My sister had left me out; no one even said anything about my insignificant role. The story was all wrong, and I don’t remember the part I was to play—but it was surely all wrong.
I stayed home from school one day, feeling ill. Mom dressed me in a navy blue sweater covered in large white polka-dots, and together we drove to the zoo. From a photo I know that I had fed a goat using a baby bottle. From my memory I know that as I rode the zoo amusement ride, my mother looked like a small hero with a halo of brown blowing hair, miles and miles below me.
We went once to a strawberry field, Mom and I. The red glowed only like the red of healthy berries in an autumn sunset could. My hair tickled my chapped cheeks from the breeze for most of the walk down the blooming aisles of the field. My oversized basket wobbled about, tapping my sides.
I played ‘teacher’ in my bedroom, sometimes in the afternoon, but usually very late at night, while the rest of the house slept. My students were precious and I believed in them. I offered a gold sticker to the poet, a bit of candy to the painter, an extra carton of chocolate milk to the storyteller, and a good report home to the one who asked the most questions. I kept the classroom under dim light, as to stimulate a dream-like creativity amongst my pupils. I gave them everything I had, and in their glimmering eyes under that placid pink light, I knew I was powerful.
I walked twenty minutes to the small, unkempt diner down the road to buy luke-warm ham, cheese, and mayonnaise sandwiches for Mom, Dad, and my sister Rachel one Sunday morning. I was happily responsible for relieving the hunger of three loved ones. At the diner I handed over my damp money, I asked for extra napkins, and with my small fingers wrapped around a greasy brown bag of ham and cheese, I walked home, a humble yet confident smile adorning my face.
My Aunt gave birth to a black-haired baby boy. I saw him with his mother in the hospital room an hour after the birth. How black that hair, and how high above his head it stood. And his eyebrows as thick and connected as a furry caterpillar. I hoped that my baby wouldn’t look like that.
I went skiing with Mom, Dad, and my sister. Sister had frozen toes and mom stayed with her in the lodge while Dad and I ventured up the mountain. On our ski down we came to a fork in the trail. On one side of the fork a signed warned of danger. Dad went in the right direction but I caught it too late. I wondered if this is what danger felt like.
Always reflecting, like my mother. I looked at myself in many mirrors – pharmacy windows, washrooms, Mom and Dad’s bedroom, the silent television, even spoons. Always reflecting and taking quiet notes, as if to remind my self of my own existence.
A Brief Call to Memory: Fragments
New York, 1985 – 1992 (approx.)
Growing up in Dix Hills, Long Island, was no impossible feat. Born and raised under the modestly built roof of 37 Cedar Ridge Lane, I was a messy, dirty-kneed kid, always in long shorts, always in the play of summer evening. I didn’t have the wildest imagination but I knew I had the time. I lived in reflection, a small light in the nucleus of a diamond.
I road my bicycle up and down the steep streets of my neighborhood, usually by myself, but sometimes with my neighbor Sandy. She belittled me. Or I felt littler than her. She was mean, strong, athletic, bossy. I was mild, skinny, clumsy.
My mother and I hugged in the kitchen for hours, sometimes days. My head buried in her big warm breasts, her forearms hung around the tops of my shoulders. She kissed the top of my head so strongly, I could feel her nosetip squishing against me.
My father took me to the local high school running track on a drizzly Saturday morning. He ran and I trailed behind him, wondering the moment I began when it would end. How strange to run in circles over and over again. The grass was green, each strand glistening against an intruding grey sky. I enjoyed the smell of the damp lawn and hoped that when we finally returned home, the rain had left earthworms under the newspapers on the sidewalk.
I imitated the once-a-week Mexican cleaning lady by stripping myself of my diaper and using it to wash the living room windows.
At the supermarket I picked up a small magazine of horoscopes in the check-out line. On each page was a list of predictions according to date of birth, including the predicted time of death. The forecast for my last year alive: 62. Grandma was almost 62. Very old.
On Passover my cousins put on a play that relayed the story the famous exile. My sister had left me out; no one even said anything about my insignificant role. The story was all wrong, and I don’t remember the part I was to play—but it was surely all wrong.
I stayed home from school one day, feeling ill. Mom dressed me in a navy blue sweater covered in large white polka-dots, and together we drove to the zoo. From a photo I know that I had fed a goat using a baby bottle. From my memory I know that as I rode the zoo amusement ride, my mother looked like a small hero with a halo of brown blowing hair, miles and miles below me.
We went once to a strawberry field, Mom and I. The red glowed only like the red of healthy berries in an autumn sunset could. My hair tickled my chapped cheeks from the breeze for most of the walk down the blooming aisles of the field. My oversized basket wobbled about, tapping my sides.
I played ‘teacher’ in my bedroom, sometimes in the afternoon, but usually very late at night, while the rest of the house slept. My students were precious and I believed in them. I offered a gold sticker to the poet, a bit of candy to the painter, an extra carton of chocolate milk to the storyteller, and a good report home to the one who asked the most questions. I kept the classroom under dim light, as to stimulate a dream-like creativity amongst my pupils. I gave them everything I had, and in their glimmering eyes under that placid pink light, I knew I was powerful.
I walked twenty minutes to the small, unkempt diner down the road to buy luke-warm ham, cheese, and mayonnaise sandwiches for Mom, Dad, and my sister Rachel one Sunday morning. I was happily responsible for relieving the hunger of three loved ones. At the diner I handed over my damp money, I asked for extra napkins, and with my small fingers wrapped around a greasy brown bag of ham and cheese, I walked home, a humble yet confident smile adorning my face.
My Aunt gave birth to a black-haired baby boy. I saw him with his mother in the hospital room an hour after the birth. How black that hair, and how high above his head it stood. And his eyebrows as thick and connected as a furry caterpillar. I hoped that my baby wouldn’t look like that.
I went skiing with Mom, Dad, and my sister. Sister had frozen toes and mom stayed with her in the lodge while Dad and I ventured up the mountain. On our ski down we came to a fork in the trail. On one side of the fork a signed warned of danger. Dad went in the right direction but I caught it too late. I wondered if this is what danger felt like.
Always reflecting, like my mother. I looked at myself in many mirrors – pharmacy windows, washrooms, Mom and Dad’s bedroom, the silent television, even spoons. Always reflecting and taking quiet notes, as if to remind my self of my own existence.
16.12.07
It seems like...
I see that there's some kind of theme running through the posts so far. A focus on 'mothering,' (or 'grand-mothering, for that matter) is an interesting way to continue. I think it would be great to watch "Woman Under the Influence" (dir. by John Cassavettes) - Claire and I can vouch for this one :). If anyone can get a hold of it, I think you'll really love it, especially in light of the theme of mental illness...
Don't worry, Sheli, I'm not wussing out on publishing my piece. L'at, l'at :).
I'd like to begin a discussion--if all are willing--of women, objectivity, and mental illness. It's been done a thousand times before, but maybe not in light of the kinds of stories on the blog so far. Sheli, about your piece, I find the description of your narrator's grandmother to be very revealing of the time she's come out of. As her writer, you have used her body, her dress, and the things she expresses regarding her age to confirm her social status. Yet (specifically as a woman), her status would fade if not for the great concern she has for material goods, social events, even how you describe her with her "head thrown back in elation" in the social pages photos. So this lifestyle, this attitude, this "glamour girl" way about her -- these things made her a woman of status, of importance. This position was more important to her than the livelihood of her own family. So, what happens when a woman who was once the queen of the ball begins to lose her sense of self? When she became ill, the grandmother all of a sudden attached herself to the family, re-defined herself as a loving grandmother who finally accepts that her granddaughter will call her by her family name, and not 'Gladys'. It's fascinating to me that she opened to those around her when she became ill, while many others with a disease such as this will close themselves off out of humiliation or anger. Somehow this made her more "motherly," more "grandmotherly," and in a sense, more "womanly." It's a personal piece, from what I understand, but if you're willing (and anyone else is), I think it's an interesting discussion to have, not simply about one particular woman, but about women as mothers, let's say. What does old age do to a woman's sense of female self? Let me know what you all think...
And watch that movie!
Don't worry, Sheli, I'm not wussing out on publishing my piece. L'at, l'at :).
I'd like to begin a discussion--if all are willing--of women, objectivity, and mental illness. It's been done a thousand times before, but maybe not in light of the kinds of stories on the blog so far. Sheli, about your piece, I find the description of your narrator's grandmother to be very revealing of the time she's come out of. As her writer, you have used her body, her dress, and the things she expresses regarding her age to confirm her social status. Yet (specifically as a woman), her status would fade if not for the great concern she has for material goods, social events, even how you describe her with her "head thrown back in elation" in the social pages photos. So this lifestyle, this attitude, this "glamour girl" way about her -- these things made her a woman of status, of importance. This position was more important to her than the livelihood of her own family. So, what happens when a woman who was once the queen of the ball begins to lose her sense of self? When she became ill, the grandmother all of a sudden attached herself to the family, re-defined herself as a loving grandmother who finally accepts that her granddaughter will call her by her family name, and not 'Gladys'. It's fascinating to me that she opened to those around her when she became ill, while many others with a disease such as this will close themselves off out of humiliation or anger. Somehow this made her more "motherly," more "grandmotherly," and in a sense, more "womanly." It's a personal piece, from what I understand, but if you're willing (and anyone else is), I think it's an interesting discussion to have, not simply about one particular woman, but about women as mothers, let's say. What does old age do to a woman's sense of female self? Let me know what you all think...
And watch that movie!
12.12.07
First Entry
I'd like to begin, I guess, with some ideas on how this project may be conducted. I suppose it's first interest is to bring females together. Though this may just be its broadest interest. Okay, perhaps it's first interest is to illicit interesting discussions about literature and film. This also may be its broadest interest. One more time. At its core, this blog's first interest is simply, interest. Interest in literature, interest in film, interest in being female, and interest in making connections (sometimes across oceans) with people of the same interests. Although I don't consider woman to be something of a definable status, race, or even gender, I do believe that there are important factors that place the 'Western world' female in a vast web of connections to other females of the same hemisphere. What I do know about women is that they are learners, seekers, reflective thinkers. Some say it was Eve, after all, who brought us into this beautiful mess with her silly antics. It is in this blog's interest then, to hone in on these ties--knot by knot--and to quietly (or loudly for that matter) bring to light those messages that seem to float from the page of a book, or the scene in a film, straight through our eyes and out through our mouths.
I don't believe the Blog is one based on a specific feminist ideology, but rather is founded on the simple idea that we are female--learners, seekers, reflective thinkers, and perhaps above all, phenomenal conversationalists.
I don't believe the Blog is one based on a specific feminist ideology, but rather is founded on the simple idea that we are female--learners, seekers, reflective thinkers, and perhaps above all, phenomenal conversationalists.
11.12.07
salt
Hi! Thank you for inviting me to join your blog. I am a little weepy right now, because Ihave just read Sheli's beautiful story about her grandma, who just happens to be my mother, since I am Sheli's (favourite!) auntie.......... we are SO alike. I am a writer and storyteller here in sydney, and I thought I would post a little story about my mother's mother..... just to keep the family stories slowing..... at might even go towards explaining why my mama was as she was. If you want to find out more about me, or read some of my writings, go to www.donnajacobsife.com. I might evn tell you a story or two............. Donna
My grandma was the salt of the earth. When Grandma was sixteen, she put on her good woollen coat and carried two small suitcases to the sea. “Kuk nisht tsuric” her mama told her. “Don’t look back” So my grandma looked straight ahead and left everything she knew behind.
The shtetl, like Sodom, had become a wicked place. “Better that she should get away” they reasoned, and saved every kopek to buy a one-way ticket to the New World. Like her nameless ancestor, Lot’s wife, my grandma was escaping an evil with a face of hatred and hands ready to kill on any Shabbos night.
“Kuk nisht tsuric - don’t look back” her papa whispered, with a voice thick with grief. And my little grandma climbed the ramp to the ship as it stood waiting, creaking and heaving great breaths as if it knew it was carrying broken hearts aboard. Grandma stood with her face to the sea, clutching those small suitcases to her bosom.
“Don’t look back” they warned the nameless wife of Lot as they ran across the sand. She stumbled, weeping for the ones left behind to face the cataclysm. She wept so that she could not see, so that she could not hear their screams of anguish, their cries of torment. She heaved with great breaths of despair. The rising heat burnt into her back and she cried the names of those she had left behind.Quite suddenly, Lot’s wife stopped running. She would leave a final blessing. She would send it on the great wind that was riding on the Lord’s fury. Turning, she looked back and uttered her final offering of love, and the heat and wind caused her tears to crust over, encasing her in salt. Entrusting her to an earth in need of salt.
“Kuk nisht tsuric” they had said but my grandma wanted to leave one last message of love, of courage so they would not be afraid. Turning, she looked back and saw her mama collapse on the dock And for my Grandma, the world she knew was destroyed at that moment, in the image she would always carry, the sprawled and lifeless body of her mama.
At night, as the sea tried fruitlessly to comfort her, Lot’s wife rocked my grandma in her arms and called her by her name “Leah, Leah, Leah”. For she was her sister in the timeless spiral that was their heritage. Each night she caught Grandma’s tears and granted the whispered blessing that was only hers to give, “Be the salt of the earth.”
My grandma was the salt of the earth. When Grandma was sixteen, she put on her good woollen coat and carried two small suitcases to the sea. “Kuk nisht tsuric” her mama told her. “Don’t look back” So my grandma looked straight ahead and left everything she knew behind.
The shtetl, like Sodom, had become a wicked place. “Better that she should get away” they reasoned, and saved every kopek to buy a one-way ticket to the New World. Like her nameless ancestor, Lot’s wife, my grandma was escaping an evil with a face of hatred and hands ready to kill on any Shabbos night.
“Kuk nisht tsuric - don’t look back” her papa whispered, with a voice thick with grief. And my little grandma climbed the ramp to the ship as it stood waiting, creaking and heaving great breaths as if it knew it was carrying broken hearts aboard. Grandma stood with her face to the sea, clutching those small suitcases to her bosom.
“Don’t look back” they warned the nameless wife of Lot as they ran across the sand. She stumbled, weeping for the ones left behind to face the cataclysm. She wept so that she could not see, so that she could not hear their screams of anguish, their cries of torment. She heaved with great breaths of despair. The rising heat burnt into her back and she cried the names of those she had left behind.Quite suddenly, Lot’s wife stopped running. She would leave a final blessing. She would send it on the great wind that was riding on the Lord’s fury. Turning, she looked back and uttered her final offering of love, and the heat and wind caused her tears to crust over, encasing her in salt. Entrusting her to an earth in need of salt.
“Kuk nisht tsuric” they had said but my grandma wanted to leave one last message of love, of courage so they would not be afraid. Turning, she looked back and saw her mama collapse on the dock And for my Grandma, the world she knew was destroyed at that moment, in the image she would always carry, the sprawled and lifeless body of her mama.
At night, as the sea tried fruitlessly to comfort her, Lot’s wife rocked my grandma in her arms and called her by her name “Leah, Leah, Leah”. For she was her sister in the timeless spiral that was their heritage. Each night she caught Grandma’s tears and granted the whispered blessing that was only hers to give, “Be the salt of the earth.”
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