27.09.2024

Not ten seconds 

Past ten minutes 

After the last audible blast,

Already, outside

Trucks beep as they reverse

Wolt scooters rev to life

(At first, I swear, they sound almost like azakot)

Horns blare, and

Impatient workers shout over the din 

As if nothing of potential great consequence had just happened

As if all of this was completely normal-

Our fragile lives, dependent 

Upon a technology that 

Still feels like a miracle

And although I, a sceptic, 

Do not believe in miracles, 

Here I am, now 

Showered and dressed

Legs tucked beneath me, hot

Coffee on the couch

And from my window

The bay looks particularly blue today

Stark Mediterranean contrast to the

White roofs that lay like low tables between us

And the red and white 

Candystriped arms of the bay port cranes

Turn the world from my window into 

"le Tricolore"

I pour a second cup from my Moka pot

And turn up The Beatles

To dance with myself 

The small, white puffs 

That had punctuated the sky

Have already dissipated 

No longer distinguishable from

Ordinary clouds.

Inbar Frishman

Friday, 27 September, 2024

09:23hr, Haifa

25.09.2024 II

Up here, on Carmel

Above Haifa Bay

The early Fall wind is a 

Loud, yowling banshee

Poking long fingers through cracks 

And cracked windows

Below in the street

And under the cars 

Heat cats 

Join in on her chorus

(Out of sync)

But Boisterous as Berlioz'

"L'imperiale" !

25.09.2024

Just now, I ran to do my 

Sink full of dishes 

It's been building, and 

Haunting me, this task, 

For days, but

Having heard Al Adha through my bathroom's open window,

I thought, "Maybe a break in the uncertainty 

Before the alarms might 

Abruptly wail again

And I'd have to abandon my task, and run 

To the place where I've done so much waiting of late."  

But also, 

It's a noisy task-

Doing the dishes. 

Apart from the sound of the running water, there's the 

Claques and din of wet dishes colliding

I've been afraid, you see, I'd thought

I might miss the alarms- they're not

Always that audible, but

Emboldened by the

Thought– "they'll be busy praying"

I set out to conquer my

Own Mt Everest.

Whoever would have thought that

Doing the dishes

Would become a task I looked forward to?

26.08.2024

I've just woken up after far too little, poor quality sleep, to reports of the suicide of another Nova survivor, and already, the day has its cold, clawed hand wrapped around my thoracic spine.  

I can't believe it's been almost a year. 

In 40 days, it will be a year.

A year of our burnt, crushed and crumbling innards struggling to keep us alive, while the world mocked us. 

A year of waiting for the pain to lessen– even only a little bit. 

A year where our souls have transformed into something we'd never thought we'd own in these generations,

And now, another family's first year has been reset to zero, where it all begins again.

And I can't keep up with the dishes in the sink. 

And the scrubby sponge I replaced just last week already smells sour.

And I– 

I have to shower, get dressed and do my makeup so I can get to the lawyer's office, 

but the gravity of the day 

Is nothing compared to that of the void.  

I swim furiously against it, in the 

Non-substance of hypoxic air.  

20.08.2024

 I need to feel something nice today. For a while now, I've been staying in bed, not because I'm physically unable to function (at the moment,) but because I've been deep in trauma response and depression. This is a bad way for me to be, because if I don't interrupt it, inevitably, I'll spiral into inertia to the point where that familiar little voice begins chattering away in my ears, telling me that the only way out of this rut is to die, and that's really not what I want. I'm not ready. 

It's like an addiction, suicidality; it's the soft, warm, comforting place to which I invariably disappear in the face of overwhelming helplessness. It's the only place wherein I feel I have agency, when existence is too painful, or even simply too much.  

It's a constant, patient, unjealous lover who courts me with promises of certainty and commitment, where otherwise, none can be found.  

I'm not ready though. I've other loves to explore, and I know beyond the shadow of a doubt, that when I am, she'll be there, close enough for me to surreptitiously reach out behind me- even with just my fingertips, and ever attentive, she'll take my signal, then she'll take my hand and gently say "come my love, let's go home".

13.07.2024 II

I desperately need someone to invade my life,

Stuffing rolled up bundles of 

Boisterous beauty in all its corners

To hide them in crevices I might not see for years,

In backs of shelves, 

Behind boxes and stacks of papers

And stuffed into the toes 

Of old shoes and boots

Small, soft gifts to discover in 

Moments such as this

When hungry, 

I hunt on hands and knees

Candle and feather, 

(even for crumbs)

But all that I find in these 

Strange, dusty corners, 

For what it's worth

Someone else's ghosts

An insincere, and

Badly rendered copy of 

That which I'm missing.

13.07.2024 I

It's hard to turn a house into a home when you're alone.

There's no shared memories 

Stacked haphazzardly in corners, 

Nothing to soften the sharp echos of

Bare foot slap on hard tiles 

I make my dinner at my kitchen counter, 

Alone

Cut small tomatoes into plastic bowl

Add in 

Olive oil and garlic, 

Then pasta and toss with

Pepper and cheese

I light the shabbat candles for the first time in my new apartment

But the light here isn't golden and warm

There's a blue cast to it that 

Haifa's lights outside my dark window mirror- cold diamonds tossed across a

Black, velvet valley that swallows light

And there's none of the mess from our shared life here

These walls seem extra bare, and that and the high ceilings sharply contrast with the

Warm, jewel-tone painted walls of our New York City apartment. 

Carrie

I'm so afraid that in the move, I might have 

Left your ghost behind.

I imagine you

Sitting alone in our disheveled nest

Amidst too many books and too much unopened mail crowding every surface. 

Google tells me that that mess is 5731 miles away, 

But that's probably from JFK to Ben Gurion 

And after all 

The Upper East Side isn't Queens

And Haifa isn't Lod

So it's probably even further when you consider

I wonder if maybe you might still find me in the placelessness of dreams–

(I wish you would)

And when you do, will you

Please hold onto the back of my skirt's waistband

The way you used to 

(Teasingly, I thought) 

when you didn't want me to leave the house

You see, 

I know myself

How easily I can be

Hypnotised by those 

Cold, Blue lights

And how, forgetting my step 

Fall headlong 

Into that 

Bottomless, black velvet valley that swallows light.

28.06.2024

I'm having a bad CFS day, symptoms wise. It's after 4:00 here in Israel, and I haven't yet been able to get out of bed, or even to sit up.  

I had so many dreams about Carrie: that I'd picked her up from work on the bus, but we were on a strange bus together that was taking us further and further away from home.  

At some point, I had to get off the bus, and go back to our apartment, while she continued on. 

When I got there, the hallways of the building were clogged with the remnants of disassembled boxes. I made it into our apartment, and began the painful task of selecting, and packing up our books, knowing that I had to leave this place too.

I really miss her right now. It's a physical ache. I would give my right arm to be able to hug her again. To press my face into her neck and inhale her.

These are moments I don't know how I've managed to survive her death, or how I can continue to do so, eventhough I know that that's exactly what I have to do.  

Baby steps on tender, cut-up feet that refuse to heal.

A minor international incident

A minor international incident occurred today in Rami Levy: I'm in the chumos section, when all of a sudden, the siren: red alert! 

A guy and I make eye contact, as I ask, "?יש פה מיקלט" ("is there a shelter nearby?") 

A woman in a hijab abandons her cart and runs; another woman in a mesh top with tattoos does not abandon her cart, but also runs. 

The man with whom I'd made eye contact, calmly walks over to my cart, as I too am considering abandoning it and running– SOMEWHERE, and I figure, he probably knows I'm about to split and he just wants to take my watermelon, (because it's a really perfect watermelon, practically worth taking your chances in a Chizbullah missile attack,) but no: he picks up my backpack, which I'd placed in the cart, opens the top pocket, and pulls out the culprit: my phone.

The red alert was in Majdal Shams.

He smirks, as I melt into the floor tiles.

14.04.2024, Haifa, ii

So, last night, while Iran was sending us suicide drones and ballistic missiles, I was hiding out next to our bomb shelter, with one of the sweetest guys I've ever met, Samir Khoury. 

Yes, Samir is an Arab.

Yes, I am a Jew.

No, it wasn't awkward, or weird, or tense. Samir did everything in his power to distract me from what was going on, (not that I was particularly freaked out, but Samir is a good host.)

He made us good Arabic coffee, and gave me his penultimate cigarette, which refused to stay lit for some reason, so I kept asking for his lighter. 

"Stop asking," he said, "you aren't a guest, just say 'give me fire'", so I did. 

When it was time for the "all clear" around 4 this morning, I began picking up the glass cups, with their layers of mud in the bottom, to wash. 

"What are you doing? You don't have to wash them, just leave them, I'll take care of them" he said.

"Hey, " I answered, "stop treating me like a guest."

"Ok, so maybe you do the rest of the dishes in the sink?"

"What do I look like, your maid?" 

People in the West seem incapable of imagining any world where we, Jews and Arabs live side by side, and not only appreciate one another's company, but genuinely love one another like family, and yet, this is as much a reality as the other extreme, and a far preferable one at that. 

Did I mention that Samir is my landlord, by the way?  

One of the most frustrating aspects of the protestors in the West is that they are so intent on spreading this narrative that we are natural enemies, that the animosity is an inevitable result of us mixing, but it's not. Not everything in this world is friction.  

Had one of Ali Khameini's missiles gotten through to Haifa this morning, Samir and I could have died together; same fate, Arab and Jew, both of us Israelis, equal under the law. 

Like I said in a previous post, there are many sociocultural problems here, and yes, there is racism, (show me someplace where there isn't!) and yes, we need to work on it. And we are. Stop trying to divide us, to drag us backwards.

14.04.2024, Haifa

This city, at dawn

Belongs to the birds, and I trust them

Far more than an app on my phone; I know

If suddenly a thousand wings frantically pummel the air

Outside my open window

My soul will follow them

No gentle, soft things,

Practical, stoic things, they are warriors

And I feel protected under their wings. 

They are busy at serious business this morning

A silly, yapping dog across the redandyellow rooftops knows this

He's concerned

They're convening their war council

Making their plans; I'm an interloper

Who wandered blindly into their territory

They know this

I've heard them talking, and

I'm grateful my hosts have bigger fish to fry. 

12.04.2024

 Some impressions and thoughts on coming back to Israel after so long: 

Haifa is really beautiful. The air feels like some vital nutrient my body's been woefully missing and craving for years, but settling for something artificial in its stead.  

The morning light feels "correct". 

The pigeons constantly threaten to fly in through my open window, only to turn suddenly, within its frame and disappear; they're loud, both in wing flapping and coos.

The word that keeps coming to mind when I try to describe what being back feels like, is "normal"; it's both disappointing and promising. 

There are so many Arabs here. It's honestly wonderful. There's no apparent suspicion of interpersonal animosity or awkwardness, only warmth, a sense of community and equity, and an apparent, almost passionate desire to support one another, like family: Arab and Jew alike. The outside world's accusations of apartheid feel laughable from here. On a separate note, I want to learn Arabic; it seems like the right thing to do, and a considerate way to honour this sense of fraternity/sorority. 

It's not heaven, not by a longshot. I don't think it's the greatest place in the world. I've no desire to wax poetic about it, in fact, to do so would feel like a dishonest disservice; if you love someone, truly love them, it's not because they're perfect, but because, in their imperfection, they're perfect for you. I may be falling in love again with this strange, normal, troubled, embattled, misunderstood place that nostalgia had, for so long, rendered a series of flat, simplistic elements.

21.03.2024

When my mother died, my father spent his time waiting. 

He watched TV, and he waited. 

He had his coffee and bowl 

Of Dole grapefruit every morning, and he waited. 

He slept each afternoon for hours, ate his Lean Cuisine dinners, fed Jack, then was back in bed by eight each night to watch more TV before falling asleep by 9, only to wake again at seven, and do it all again. 

When Carrie died, I thought

All that was left to me was to wait. 

To fill my laborious days with

Small distractions. 

I wrote

And I waited.

I slept

And I waited. 

I scrolled on Facebook, and YouTube, bought things I didn't need, tried to fill the hole she left, and I waited. 

On October seventh,I woke to a world that had

Torn off its mask,  and

I couldn't wait anymore. 

It's why I'm coming home. 

Not to die, but finally to live. 

I have waited long enough

To

Become

No more; it's time instead,

To be.

I have signed the papers. 

I will sweep this heavy, grey dust from my wings, and

Fly     Again

Toward blue, open air.

06.03.2024 ii

In a dream I saw myself 

High in the branches of a

Cherry blossom tree      

I read a book

My mother's book, I was so Young, unjaded; free

I said be

Ware, those thin branches are stronger than they look

They'll break your bones, even as they

Break beneath you

And at this tree's base

You'll lie bleeding

Defeated

These beautiful blossoms have 

Tasted others' blood

After all, 

This is why they are this particular shade

Of pink. 

06.03.2024

Behind me, it stretches 

Sometimes frayed, but never detached,

This root

Five thousand years long

There are knots here and there of varying size and complexity, and

Sometimes parts, worn so thin as to be imperceptible to the naked eye

The colours change

From greyed browns to the

Vividest orange

––

Today 

There is a new orange sundress– bought on a 

Cold, rainy March day in New York for 

Slow April coffees in Tel Aviv

And hot, humid, impatient waiting at bus stops 

And (Hopefully) 

Slow evening walks along the tayelet

––

It's true, I have lost so much

What I'd thought were my actual roots

My parents

My love

Artifacts of lives lived 

My sense of safety, and

I will lose yet more

This is only inevitable

Yet the root will remain

Anchored deep in five thousand years of soil 

And when finally, I too 

Am soil

This is my prayer:

That fresh shoots should spring up from what was me

And the young eat the fruit I'll have left behind.

27.02.2024

There's a page on Facebook that showed up in my suggestions, that's all about Miami Beach from the 50s - the 80s, and, scrolling through all the pictures, I'm filled with a visceral, and often painful kind of nostalgia. There's a certain blue-ish yellow cast to the light in these pictures, and I can feel the strong, acidic sun on my sunburnt arms and back; I can smell the Solarcaine, and the way the old hotel rooms smelled: slightly musty, and extra air conditioned,  and with 40 plus years of old cigarette smoke and suntan oil and perfume still clinging to their blackout curtains. 

I remember the summer we were on Hollywood beach, and that scratchy,  white, gauze shirt I wore daily. It was the summer that "Personal Best" came out, and I was 12, or 13, or 10, and I remember running on that beach, wanting to be Mariel Hemingway, feeling both excited, because her character was like me, and wanting to celebrate this visibility by embodying it, yet hoping that nobody would be able to tell that that was what I was doing, afraid of the possibility of exposure of such an intimate truth. 

I remember how- in the evenings, at Rascal House, my shirt still stuck to my body from the combination of heat and sweat and suntan lotion and Solarcaine, as I pulled the pumpernickel and onion rolls from their basket, scooping out their insides with a probing index finger and stuffing them full of the delicious "health salad" from the stainless steel bowls. I remember feeling exotic, with my wild curls untamed, my tan, and the carved, coconut wood, monkey head pendant I wore on that trip tight around my throat, a souvenir from one of the open front shops along the boardwalk.  

So much triggered by images of a gone time. 

The pain is in the reminder of the many things lost that I'd taken for granted.  The quiet presence of my father, before life had made him bitter; my mother's fat, soft hand on my side as I- sleepy from a day in the sun, lay my curly head in her lap.  The innocence and hope and naive belief that nothing would ever really change that much, because the now, back then was so interminably long.  

It all feels so close still, as if  by turning my body in some, certain way, I might still reach out, and touch it, but it's gone.  Even the places in which these memories are set have disappeared, and the people, and the culture that they'd embodied, gone. Gone. 

Gone,  and I think–

I shouldn't stare at these pictures anymore for now.  The past has a way of seducing us with its idealised perfection, and I know myself far too well;  I'm in grave danger of drowning in that blue-yellow light.

24.02.2024 II

Can we please speak again of other things, like 

How the delicate blossoms of the almond trees always remind you of my favourite Van Gogh, or 

How the brave lupines have already returned 

Painting the drowsy Jerusalem hills in purple? 

Do you remember, my love, that soon the markets will be filled with baskets of dark, shiny cherries

(Your other favourite reason for stained fingertips,  remember?)

Would you tell me how pretty I look in my

Old yellow sundress 

Eventhough I've pulled it, wrinkled

From the bottom of the clothes pile in the corner, 

How you've missed my shoulders in sunlight

Can we please just speak of 

Something soft for a moment

I know well how our world is burning

But must we constantly sit by in its 

Scorching heat? 

Others will surely watch it. Meanwhile, my love,  look up 

The harsh, winter light has already changed her slant.

24.02.2024

Broken

A stone in fragments I 

Return to the land

Coarse dust

Hoping that she will remind me 

How once,  I knew 

How to put myself back 

Together again

But she too is broken

(A finer dust)

And maybe I'm going home 

After all

To be 

Dust amidst dust

Here in this world of 

Whole     Hard       Stones 

I fall 

Settle  lost between cracks

But at home

I am buoyed, as 

Only the wadi wind knows how to do. 

11.02.2024

Please, don't ever 

stop 

pointing out the 

cracks in the walls 

where sunlight leaks in;

on my own, 

I only know how to see 

locked doors.

05.02.2024

 דברו איתי על האופן שבו כל הנשמות מנוקות לאחר שאנו משאירים מאחורינו את בשרנו; ספרו לי כיצד כאב ואובדן ושנאה וכל הדברים הנוראיים האלה הם רק חלק מהחוויה הארצית שלנו

אין לי מושג אם אאמין לך או לא, אבל יהיה סיפור נחמד

💔