Week 10 Theme: distance, framing, alienation

Before his magical powers were revealed he was always in Kerens’ room, buried under a growing pile of plush animals, and contributing his share to what always seems to me as a carefully choreographed mess. So I couldn’t, even if I wanted to, supply a sufficient explanation to this mystery.

I can tell you; however, that it was an unusually gray morning and it was starting to drizzle. This did not stop the driver, a young volunteer, from parking the ambulance on the side of the road, leaving my husband lying there, and walking to the other side of the road to look at the car. I went with him. It was not a pleasant sight. The car was lying on its roof that caved in, almost touching the front seats. The ambulance driver, completely unfazed, started to search the car from top to bottom explaining to me that it was as good time as any to retrieve all valuables before they will disappear forever.

Knowing the desert rules, and our nomad neighbors, I couldn’t argue with him. Anything left unattended in the desert, except for livestock, tends to disappear within minutes. After what seemed forever he emerged from the other side of the car with two trophies; my husbands’ glasses, completely intact and dubi Varod, visibly unhappy, but otherwise unharmed. Only when I pointed out to him that we were clearly drawing too much attention, he stopped his scavenger hunt and climbed back into the ambulance.  By then at least fifty cars stopped to inquire if we needed help, seeing the ambulance on the side of the road and the smashed car.

My husband rather upset, left by himself in the back of the ambulance and unable to see much without his glasses, cheered up considerably when his vision was returned to him. But when he saw the teddy bear he was completely taken aback and insisted of holding on to him. I have a hunch that because of that we were released from the ER extremely fast. Perhaps the medical personnel seeing a grown man, lying on the gurney and hugging a pink teddy bear, thought this was a matter for another, more qualified, professional evaluation. Be it what it may. Within an hour we were on our way back with instructions for a lot of rest and plenty of water.

 When we stopped, again, next to the car on the way back, he kept going on and on. He was by himself on the road that morning, he was completely alert and had no idea what made the car fly to the other side of the road and land on its roof. When I showed him where we found his glasses and the bear, on the back dashboard of the car, he just mumbled something about a miracle.

The story of the car mysteriously going off road was told in my family many times since. How the car new, shiny, and black, was driven only few times before the accident. How unhappy I was with the color, how lucky or even headed my husband was to keep his cool and let himself out of the car, being still attached to the safety belt and his head pointing down almost touching the floor. But in the end we all agree, if not for Dubi Varod this would have ended completely different.

Week 10 prompts :49. Doesn't matter where you begin, you'll end up back here.

Returning after all that time felt like traveling back in time. On the surface there were no visible changes but everything and everybody looked worn-out, disillusioned and somewhat desperate. The only thing still unchanged was the desert with its breath taking views. A meeting over lunch with my former employer, talking about new money generating ideas for her nonprofit organization and later an afternoon coffee with my old friend Rachel. All very pleasant, comfortable and so familiar, known scripts and words I heard so many times before.  After only twenty four hours I am convinced more than ever before, I am not ready to come back. Arad is a closed chapter.

In the newly built Tel-Aviv airport, everything looks bigger, showy, with chrome and glass everywhere. Three weeks have gone by so fast.  I watch the huge water fountain in the center of the departure hall, rising and falling, while reading the colorful signs around. Most of them variations on the same theme” there is no place like home,” It is so easy, to slip back into the known and familiar. Almost like sliding your feet into old worn house slippers, comfortable but not very exciting. Maybe it is time to stop, breathe, look around and choose a different path.

Sitting on a rock, my legs in the water I’m tossing small pebbles across the shallow tide pools. Each one creates, as it lands, a series of small waves, circles within circles. Pronounced at the center they become gradually less distinct until they fade. The rhythmic movement is calming; bend and pick up a stone, toss it in the air, the soft splash as it is touching the water surface, creating concentric waves. The sun so warm on my back, the water licking my feet leaving wet marks, the ocean face rise and fall and as the tide moves in, I need to retreat towards the shore. 

I remember when He looked at me and said. “You can only know who you are if you know where you came from,” I wondered then if he realized that we came from the same small neighborhood, in Jerusalem. Actually from the same four stories apartment building. I was not sure, though, if he knew that our apartments shared a common wall, my bedroom wall, and yet we had nothing in common.

So sitting with my legs in the water marveling at the tide, I ponder, is it really about a place, about where you came from, where you begin, or taking yourself with you to wherever you go.

Week 10 prompts -46. None of the people fallen on that field of battle were as real as I am /retake

It is spring again and as I am getting ready for Passover, the old stories come back to life.  Stories that were passed to me as lessons that needed to be learned, stories that I was entrusted with to pass to my own children.  Praising the heroes and denouncing those perceived to be cowards.

I roll them in my head over and over again, for some reason I have a need to search for loose threads and tug at them. In the end I end up at the same place. It’s the story teller more than the story, the man behind the tale that gets my curiosity flared up, trying to comprehend his choice in that vast battle field where so many had fallen.

So many, but not him, after all he was to become the one last standing and thus able to deliver the testimony. All the gory details, the frustration when all hope was lost, the sheer heroism and the glory of those who, unlike him, chose to die as a way to maintain their freedom.

“Masada shall not fall again”

Which part of all of this am I willing to take on as my own?

Is it the part in which six million weak Jews, did not know how to fend for themselves and perished, or the one where nine hundred and sixty extremists thought they can stand up to a force much bigger than themselves and at the end were defeated by natures’ whimsical behavior. The few opposing the many, live free or die, black and white, right and wrong, strength and weakness all so clearly defined.

Or perhaps, I wonder, there are more shades than one?

I close my eyes and I can see them clearly, the palaces and the remains of the fortified walls of Masada, almost a stone throw away from my home. I have been there many times and heard the story told time and time again like any kid in Israel.

 Every year in late spring I went up the Roman ramp with yet another group of students as part of the symbolic passage from childhood to adulthood, strengthening the bond with the land reciting the promise .Numerous times I climbed up at dawn to see the sunrise over the Dead Sea and watch the young soldiers being sworn at the end of their basic training.

“Masada shall not fall again”

And yet we keep on falling in more ways than one.

Is it because death is not the only way to leave your life behind? Or maybe because those who make less favorable choices can, in the long run, generate a bigger difference, by telling the stories that never really die.

Week 10 Prompts - 46. None of the people fallen on that field of battle were as real as I am.

Some will say it’s about treason and betrayal of the worst kind, but in the end we might all agree that it’s about leaving  your mark on history by telling a good story.

It’s also about the story teller.

In fact it’s the story of the story teller that gets my curiosity flared up and my mind to stretch to its limits, trying to comprehend one persons’ choice in that vast battle field where so many had fallen.

So many but not him, after all, he was the story teller, the one last standing and able to deliver the testimony. All the gory details, the frustration when all hope was lost, the sheer heroism and the glory of those who chose to die as a way to maintain their freedom.

 Had he fallen too, in more ways than one?  Or perhaps death, as it turned out, is not the only way to leave your life behind.

Betraying his heritage of nobility and priesthood he acted as a collaborator. An army leader, who in the midst of a battle deceived his own people and topped this act of disloyalty by defecting to the enemy’s camp. To his people he was a dead man, as he should have been had he not convinced his closest comrades to kill themselves and then walked away unharmed.

****

Titus Flavius Josephus,  also known as Joseph ben Matityahu in his former life, refused to die, or disappear. He reinvented himself, with a different name and a pen instead of a sword. He owes big part of his claim to stardom to his account of what happened on the last night, on top of Masada.  Familiar, from his own personal experience, with the act of group suicide, he was the best men for the job.

 Ironically his new occupation, documenting the big events of his time, granted him eternal life.

****

Every spring no matter where I am, as I am getting ready for Passover, the old stories are coming back to life.  Stories that were passed to me as lessons that needed to be learned, praising the heroes and denouncing those perceived to be cowards, black and white, right and wrong, strength and weakness being defined.

But in the background are those who might make less favorable choices and perhaps generate a bigger difference. I think of them too.  Once the dust settles and we can look around once again, we might be thankful for them for the story told. For the memories kept alive. 

Week 10 Prompts--51. Just calm down and begin at the beginning.

He continued for years to go through the motions, the candles on Friday night with the traditional meal, and the ritual marking the symbolic end of Shabbat. “Blessed are you, Lord, who distinguishes between the sacred and the secular."Passing around, and smelling the spices in their small silver container and concluding with the loud hiss of the braided candle dunked into the red wine.

“Why? “I asked him one day.

“There is a story,” He said after a long pause. “It is about this Rabbi who used to go to a special place in the forest with his followers light a fire, sing and dance. When he died his students would still go to that place and dance but did not know how to light the fire. When they passed away, their ancestors would still dance but the place was forgotten and the fire was long dead. What was left you ask? The story is left, of this Rabbi who used to go to the forest…”

“Is it about keeping one’s faith?” I asked, feeling put off like I did many times before when we had this talk.

 “It’s about holding on, relentlessly, to an old story that over the years became a pale shadow of itself.” He said, his voice brimming over with bitterness.

“They could have been saved, most of them, if they were willing to let go,” he added softly as if talking to himself but I knew what he was talking about.

He showed me their pictures in a falling apart album, the man, dark haired tall and good looking, his young wife next to him, holding their year old baby. It was during the war, he said.  In the face of the world crumbling around them and the facts he gave them, of Jews being taken away and killed, they refused to listen.  They would not leave their home town and hanged on, hoping against all odds that it will never get so bad. They were devout Jews and believed god will protect them.

“I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Messiah. And even if he tarries, even in the face of that, I still believe.” He muttered the known tune and I knew the conversation was over. There was no need to repeat the words, I heard them many times, I could repeat them in my sleep.

I knew I could never fully understand this dichotomy, never resolve the ambivalent feelings, not his nor mine.

 I still can’t

So I continue to hold on to the old story, trying to breathe new life into it. Like my father before me I go through the rituals, like my mother I braid the challa and when the smell fills up the house I light the candles. Looking at the two small flames dancing in the candle sticks I feel every Friday like I begin at the beginning.

_______________________

* The story - Inquiring of god - Yair Caspi

41. You never know what you have until it's gone.

Biur Chametz (Removal of chametz)

In the morning, getting dressed, I look at my closet, push back in few shirts, pull out others, turn them from side to side and shake them, they look worn but I can’t remember when the last time I wore them was. I am sure that at the time I invested a lot of thought in picking each one of them so I push them back in. I will need to make the painful decision one of these days but not today.

 The book shelves on the other side of the room are overflowing with books; I keep them for these desperate times when’ I will have nothing to read’. Paperback novels recommended to me, authors I used to like, just random books I picked in garage sales for pennies. Self –help books I purchased at this time or another, on a whim, none of them touched in the past years.

 On the desk a mounting pile of letters I need to answer. Brochures I couldn’t bring myself to throw as the information regarding motel amenities, furniture, novelties and gifts might come handy one day.

 On the couch a stack of folders representing the second step of my elaborate filling system, here it is in a nutshell. When the pile of loose paper (letters, bills, brochures) becomes too high to manage and keep sliding to the floor, it is time to push everything into a folder. This is a cleansing act in and of itself. The folder is then being laid on the couch (originally in the room for those moments in the future when I will sit, relaxed and look over the back yard) with my best intention to look at it at a later date.

Some other ends and odds; one TV that could be working if it had been hooked to the cable (too far) one DVD (the TV isn’t working). The plants I pull in every winter and fill up almost third of the room. My old desktop computer (too slow), few boxes of books in Hebrew I already read (definitely have to up my efforts to find someone to take them off my hands). Few unidentified plastic bags in the corner, I give them an inquisitive look, trying to assess the content without opening them, and give up. 

I am all geared up for the task. Sorting out the truly valuable from the piles of trash (chametz) collected over the past year.  I run in my head the three traditional methods of performing this undertaking.

Burning one's chametz – seems a bit drastic

Selling one's chametz – yeah, right

Nullifying one's chametz – Bingo!

 I recite the Aramaic statement that no one truly understands (it always feels like crossing ones fingers behind his back), nullifying all the chametz, letting go while holding on, brilliant.

42. Try one of these lists about yourself:

Life’s challenges

When I decided, at the end of my high school, to join the army and not exercise my option to get a deferment based on religious background my best friend, whom I was supposed to join on a kibbutz, felt I was betraying her.

I thought I was following my heart and being truthful to myself.

When at the end of my senior year in college, just before finals, my friend Dorit and I decided, on a moment’s whim, to buy a flight tickets and travel across Europe; just the two of us, my parents thought the timing was odd.

We thought we were being very brave, traveling like that when it was not yet the’ in’ thing to do.

When after a short, less than thirty minutes interview, I accepted a job that was clearly below my skill level so I can stay in Arad. My new boss while accepting my application, on the spot, raised an eye brow; my mother nodded her head as she did so many times before and after.

 I was excited and sure of myself, I knew I was in the right place.

When my husband and I pulled our youngest daughter out of school in the middle of her sixth grade and let her stay home, some of our best friends thought it was a challenge while others considered the act foolish, irresponsible, not to say illegal.

We thought it was the correct thing to do and that there was no other way.

When we decided after more than twenty years in one town and one house to pick up, tear our roots, and walk away, some people thought we were brave while others, while not saying anything to our face, thought we were cowards and running away from our commitments.

We thought we owe it to ourselves to try new things as we only have one life to live. 

When we decided to put all our savings into buying a small motel in Ellsworth Maine our children didn’t even flinch, they are used by now to us making off the wall decisions.

We spent many sleepless nights thinking, and rethinking this move, and then closed our eyes and jumped.

40. The best part of this story is the part I can't tell....

It is still there, the small courtyard, not more than one or two buildings. The one at the end, facing the entrance, is semi circular with two balconies on the upper floor. It is guarded at the entrance by a limestone lion with long curls and red eyes. Two slender palm trees rise above, so high they sway in the slightest wind, and make you worry they will not be able to hold their heads up much longer.

He build her a home on a virgin piece of land in the town that just emerged from the sand,’ the white city’ that in time will became the town that never stops.

Two dead-end alleys lead to the building. The balconies, on the second floor; are decorated with metal railings. The back wall with the orange stucco adds a wild variation to the Bauhaus style of the time.

He put the lion at the entrance to guard her, so the story goes. In the eyes he inserted two red lights to show her the way. He was going to call one of the alleys in her name and the other in his.

 And then she walked away.

It’s always the same story, man loves women, man trying to keep her happy and build her a beautiful home, women flee, end of story.

This one is not different.

Did he stay and waited for her? Did she ever return? Did he finally give up and found another woman to occupy the house? This part of the story I can’t tell you, you’ll have to figure it out on your own.

Week 9: Linked vignettes or literary pointillism.

Passover

Few minutes into the journey the train makes a sharp turn and enters the mountain ravine, I am ready. My face pressed to the window and I follow the brook running from one side of the tracks to the other, maybe this time I will see them. ‘Emek Refaim’ the valley of the giants, the words, like a mantra, spin in my head. Another sharp turn thrusts me back into my seat, then the piercing noise of the horn, breaking into hundred slivers against the mountain side, echoing back, giants…giants…gia, and within minutes we are out crossing the open fields.

*

In the central bus station in Tel-Aviv, lines of buses puffing and spitting smoke, ready to lurch. Dense cloud of fried foods’ odors hanging in the air. The sun so hot on my head. Sweating, my hand is clutching my mothers’, if I’ll lose her, like the last time, who will find me?

*

When the bus climbs up the last hill she says, “Be ready” .My eyes glued to the window and still it always catching me by surprise. She points out, at the lattice of greens and browns, the valley of Jezreel.

*

 I count the minutes now. The signs at the side of the road are hard to make out, as the bus accelerates on the last section of the road. Yael, Deborah, Heber the Kenite, the Hill of Moreh, images of glorious battles pale in the face of the new coming adventure, running to catch the bus to the ‘Moshav’.

*

Now the road is narrow and bumpy, the mountain of Gilboa on our right, “O mountains of Gilboa, Let not dew or rain be on you…” comes alive in view of the bald spots on the slopes. At the familiar cement brick, bus stop, we are being let off.

*

Quiet, just us and our suitcases .We are waiting for a ride in. Yellow fields of wheat, almost ripe and ready to be harvested and across the street the crumbling walls of the Ottoman – British train station. Still guarding the line from Syria to Haifa.

*

Minutes later a horse drawn wagon let us off at the back of my aunt’s house.

*

We walk inside through the back door and pile into the kitchen. “Surprise,” I scream at the top of my Lungs.

*

It’s Passover once again.

Lesson 8 prompt.35

 A knife, a pistol, two letters, and a pressed flower

The years took away its color. It used to be yellow. Not the glittery bright lemon kind but a deeper ecru shade, like a well worn silk. The subtle luster is gone now, replaced by brown streaks, like wrinkles on an aging face. The front door carved in dark wood took the worst hitting by the passing years; the wood dried and lost its color. Still it stands there, strong and proud, willing to fulfill its mission and guard against unwanted intruders, oblivious to the fact that there is no longer anyone to guard.

When it was abandoned the quiet crept from one room to another. Ice covered everything outside in the winter and in some places got inside. It climbed on the front steps, then under the door, and through the windows sills. Then the long painted glass window in the stairway shattered. It was very cold after that and at night the wind spilled in and swirled around, at times just toying with papers and old newspapers, moving them around, and other times shrieking and blowing the curtains wildly.

And then, in the spring, the rain came in and left small sparkling paddles everywhere on the kitchen floor. The burgundy rug turned deep blood color as it soaked the water. When the days became warmer the water evaporated but by then the wood floor got all stained and warped. The wood planks shifted, making soft crackling noises and creating cracks that kept growing and widening until the basement could be seen from every spot on the first floor.

What upset me more than anything, standing there, the house breathing around me, are the pictures, so many of them. Some framed and still hanging on the walls and many others in picture albums thrown all around, with their open pages facing the ceiling.  I lean forward and pick one of them. Black and white photos, yellowing around the edges, I wipe the dust off. That one draws my attention, a knife, a pistol, two letters and a pressed flower all lying on an old wooden table. I tuck the picture into my coat pocket and walk away. One day it will make a good story. 

Lesson 8 prompt 31

 Eeenie, meenie, minie, moe, catch a rabbit by the toe....

On my bed, my younger brother on one side and I’m on the other, she reads to us every night before bed time. Nursery rhymes are my favorite. Jack and Jill went up the hill, or the cow that jumped over the moon. I never question the logic and marvel at the strange pictures and the rhymes. Little Miss muffet who sat on her tuffet, Wee Willie Winkle who every night, with his lantern, walk the streets, or the fractured Humpty Dumpty. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are. I never get tired of them and their quirkiness. When she closes the books I sigh, it’s time to go to sleep.

Years later I do the same with my daughters, at bed time we sit in their room with our favorite books all around.   We recite the same rhymes and enjoy the uncanny and odd, the fantasy that light the imagination. We keep adding new favorites to the bed time literary collection. Melinda May who ate a whole whale because she said she could, there are kids underneath my bed, cried little baby monster Fred, Whosever room this is should be ashamed! His underwear is hanging on the lamp. Huh? You say it’s mine? Dear, I knew it looked familiar! And our all time favorite.” I cannot go to school today,” Said little Peggy Ann McKay. My neck is stiff, my voice is weak, I hardly whisper when I speak. My tongue is filling up my mouth; I think my hair is falling out…

I can see my daughter, now a mother, in her living room so far away, reading to my granddaughter. I look at the books and laugh to myself. Little miss muffet still sitting on her tuffet, Wee Willie Winkle with his lantern and little Peggy Ann McKay, now has a Hebrew name but still looking for the most peculiar reasons to stay home.

Lesson 8 prompt 36

 A city street—

Main Street, the one every American town, of any standards, compliments itself with. This one intersects with High Street on one side and slide downhill on the other, until it touches the river and cross over it. Burned completely in the ‘fire’ of 1933 The Street was rebuild and is now lined with post 1933 buildings. Red brick fronts, wide pane windows and even an old street clock at the corner, complete the picture of a traditional small town USA.  At dusk the lights come up and lit the tall white steeple of the church on State Street, and the colorful façade of the town hall. Dirigo, I direct, it declares in big letters surrounded by ornate golden reliefs. The river, at the bottom of the street, is muddy looking and slow. It is hard to imagine that once it was a home to a busy shipyard. Now it is hosting mostly small powerboats and sail boats. When the tide is out and the many rocks exposed, it creates an almost picture perfect scene of shimmering blues, dark browns, and slightly rocking boats.

Between the town hall and the church, on a small incline, is the Old Burying Ground Cemetery. An iron gate, closed at winter, face the street. The graves, many of which are tilted, broken or lying on the ground carry the names of those who were “the first founders.”The proximity to the towns' Main Street and daily activities seems right. Every so often I step aside from my daily  routine and walk up and down the narrow stone path, read the names, and dates, and let the feel of a bygone era engulf me.

Week 8. Vignettes

Sixth sense

She sits in the middle of the kitchen floor and her eyes are firmly fixed on an unseen spot on the white tiled ceiling. Her ears are moving back and forth as her lips, pulled back slightly produce a series of short sharp sounds. Carried by her obvious excitement I raise my eyes too. I scout the ceiling for a sign of hidden life but all I see are the brown spots reminders of last winters’ leak. I look back at her, now she is walking away, her magnificent tail wagging back and force and I swear I can hear her laugh softly “got her again, ha…ha.”

She whooshes from one side of the house to the other and all I catch in the corner of my eyes is a white splash of color.  She jumps high in the air and lands on all four in the middle of the living room couch. Her soft coat all puffs up and her skin ripples slightly. By the window she stops abruptly, short of knocking her head into the glass, and prods the curtain slightly. Alarmed I look outside for the intruder.  There is no one in sight. I swear I can detect a hidden smile as she curls into a ball in the middle of a nearby patch of sun light.

I watch her running across the floor playing with an unseen object then she stiffens suddenly and her hair stands up on ends. Her ears flat and pulled back, a grimace on her face, and I hear a low but clearly audible throaty growl.   I search high and low, under the TV (fur balls) behind the door (dust curls) I move some chairs. She is following my actions with mild interest “humans,” she must be thinking “are so blind.”

Every open door is a challenge; she peers into the indistinct darkness or tries to crawl in. I nearly trip on her, in the middle of the night, sitting in front of kitchen cabinet pondering the mystery of the closed door. She is compelled to lie on the computer keyboard to muffle (I think) the voices calling on her. At times she is as fluid as liquid and other times clumsy and awkward.  When I look into her clear blue eyes they seem to have endless depth with no bottom.

 I follow her quick and changeable body gestures and mysterious moves, striving to understand her hidden language. I try to follow her eyes, glowing bright red when she is excited or sending golden arrows, reflecting the lights.  Looking around with frustration I can’t shake the feeling that there are unseen entities all around me that she can see but I am too blind to perceive.

Week 7 Prompts

 Layers of Me

I am the sum of many people. Some through biological traits I inherited, as part of the family gene pool, without my consent. Other traits I might have adopted voluntarily by watching, assessing, evaluating and deeming useful.

Some of my fathers’ aloofness and tendency to ‘fall’ into his world, appearing totally detached and ‘out of it’.

My mothers’ judgmental predisposition that I despised as a child, and young adult, but lately detect in my own behavior.

And maybe my fathers’ intellectual tendencies that manifested themselves in a clear preference of books (over people) and my mothers’ practical nature and deep rooted restlessness and love of nature. Perhaps it’s my aunts’ clear vision of the future and social interest in the greater good, or maybe my other aunt tendencies towards writing, acting and utilizing the power of words.

***

I am thinking about that moment, maybe just a fraction of a second, when for the first time I looked at the mirror and saw my mothers' face in it. My heart skipped a beat as I froze, rubbed my eyes and looked again but by then she was gone.

 It happened again, it keeps happening more and more frequently as the years go by.

 I am my mothers' child, so why won't I look like her. I am my fathers' daughter so it should come as no big surprise to me when at times I catch myself saying things that he used to say, or finding that there is more of him in me than I ever imagined.

 Nature plays some fascinating tricks on us and I try to find the hidden humor in this peculiar phenomenon. As I grow older the same family traits I used to try and shake off condemning them out of place, old, not up with the times or plain unwanted are rapidly catching up with me.

***

At times I wonder if the different careers I had somehow rubbed on me to the point that they become an integral part of my character. 

Being a teacher for many years, do I sound like one (like my husband in more than one occasion pointed out) the tinge of authorization in the back of my voice blending in with a mixture of encouragement and sympathy to create the familiar tune.

Or being a motel owner in the past few years, did I too adopt that sing-song kind of voice, sweetness that masks cold business like calculations. Did the selling and persuasive nature of the industry entrusted me to act differently then I normally do?

***

I will never be that person who can walk into a room, any room, no matter how many people are present or how unknown there are to him and immediately feel at home.

 I will never be that person who can approach any stranger and within seconds carry a vibrant conversation, as it they have known each other for years.

 The one who is unfazed by other people criticism and just shake it off and keep on going.

 The one who can think on his feet and always fabricate a quick comeback.

The one who comes up every other day with a new idea or a brilliant invention.

The one who comes up every other day with a new idea or a brilliant invention and even follows up on it and make a fortune.

 The sportsman who get energized by setting new more strenuous goals for himself.

 The fix-it all who can attack, without stress, any glitch in the electricity, pluming, roofing, you name it and he knows what to do.

The do-gooder who is so totally invested in his chosen project sand nothing will deter him.

Or the loner, the traveler, the lone hunter, the lone photographer, the lone long-distance walker, I am none of those either.

But I’ve been all of them at some point of my life.

Week 7 Prompts/ 32

32. Who's the last person you'd want to remember? (This has at least two possible meanings--think about it!)

Settling scores

“The entire world is a very narrow bridge, and the most important thing is not to be afraid at all” Rabbi Nachman of Breslev

I run their faces one by one like in a lineup. Make them stand in a straight line facing me and then in profile, maybe facing the wall. Yes, at the time they all seemed like the ultimate villains but not anymore.

I dive into my memory to recheck the facts, shake the dust off and examine the evidence. Run the old scripts of “I said…She/he said,” over and over. From across the span of time I strive to reconstruct the hurt feelings, the anger, and the sense of betrayal. I close my eyes and try to concentrate.

Time like a miracle worker softens the angles; and portrays new ones, not seen, being blinded with rage. What doesn’t kill you make you stronger is the only thing that stands up, unchallenged, by the test of the passing years.

 I could easily pull out all those that at that split second I was ready to kill, so my face will be the last thing they’ll ever remember, even if they did not wish for it. But these moments are too far gone.

Week 7 Prompts/ 30 &31

30. Take a look at a photo of a person. What do you see?

31. Who's the first person you remember?

The young woman in the photo is my grandmother on my mothers’ side.  When I look at her picture, one of only few I have of my mothers’ side of the family, I am amazed and owed thinking that the picture was taken almost a hundred years ago.

I like the picture even though it does not match up to any of my memories of this woman who died when I was three years old, or maybe precisely because of that.

This elegant women, dressed according to the time latest fashion is beautiful and daring. The dark, rather formal overcoat is softened by the white lacy lapel, and it is at the same time somber but also festive. I like the white gloves and the hat, dress items not  often seen nowadays.    

But best of all I like this woman’s stature and bright eyes. She appears soft and confident at the same time.

She, beside my parents (and me) is the first person I remember. It’s a strange kind of memory based on my first three years of life. It is a limited collection of very few visuals, if any, combined with a vague notion of a person who was there and gone. More than anything it's a memory of a void sprinkled with some stories I heard later on but never completely manage to fill it up. It is also my first memory of death.

While a picture occupies only a tiny fraction of time  it can tell a whole story. If I had to choose I’ll pick this one of hers, in her late twenties, right after she left her hometown and married a man from another town. They settled in the big town, Vienna, and open their own business. I know from the stories that she was the mind behind the business operation.

I like this story more than the ones coming next of her struggle to survive during the war, the death of her husband (my grandfather) and her last years in Israel living, with no space of her own, in our tiny apartment. An old heavyset woman with a head cover, but that’s already from another picture.