Take it personally
I haven’t written here for too long, now all the events have stacked up like dirty dishes and I’ve gone and busted my thumb. The plaster cast is fat and long and half-hard and absurd, but at least I can still type one-handed.
Lag-baomer, the pseudo-religious holiday celebrating (with equal gravity) Jewish rebellion and big raucous campfires, has come and gone. For the two weeks prior to the holiday, the cops feign disinterest while packs of mischief-brave kids fan out to steal all the wood they can find at construction sites, docks and loading zones. Then, as the wood is stacked up and tallied and judged inadequate, parents get in on the action, cruising around town like Colombian kidnap squads until they spot some stray pallet or two-by-four which they can squirrel into the trunks of their cars. The night of Lag-baomer was filled with sirens and soot, the whole city aspirating in a swirl of ash flakes and burned paint and fireworks.
Visiting home was a blindfolded rollercoaster. Seeing my friends felt like taking a shore leave from the belly of a whale. Matt says that living in the Holy Land has exponentially increased my biblical references. This may be true, but the inside of my brain sure feels visceral and cavernous these days; like a deserted archive where nothing is filed or collated. I wish I could get some damn air in here. So seeing the old gang was certainly therapeutic. On the other hand, uncovering my dad’s yellow dishonesty and watching idly while romanto-sexual melodrama redraws the atlas of my social circle was disorienting at best. Then there was the passing phone call, unhurried yet compact, vapid and courteous, uncolored by the caramelizing undertones of sex or any darker, bluer pathos, which made it clear that W. was no longer in love with me. By the end of the week it was raining nighttime all day long, and I couldn’t get my hands out of my pockets. Thank god I got out of there. Now there are plenty of happy distractions.