But I am home (furrowed brow)

"So when are you coming home?" my mom's friend asked me. "Home in Tel Aviv or home in New York?" I asked. "NY silly, when are you going home?" she pressed again. Like a kid in the gan, "I am home," I whined to myself, as I furrowed my brow and pouted. How could she say that? I live here. I work here. It is home. Right?

Or is that just what they tell us?

Have I been brainwashed to believe that this is my home because it is the home of the Jewish people? Or is it simply my selfishness thinking I am so entitled because my father was born here? Either way, in the midst of my confusion, stubborness and frustration, this country has become just as much home as 23 years in New York. The air I breathe is my sustenance. I have found a community here. Still torn, my loyalties are towards two places. I hope to fuse them into one.

It's gonna be all right

Sometimes it's good to meet up with old friends even when you're so tired you feel like you might pass out mid-sentence. Last night I did what I always do when a friend is in town about to leave the country and I'm tired beyond belief - I pick myself up and go out.

We met at a bar/cafe across from the park which I realized I used to walk by all the time noticing the guitarist playing on the steps and yet never going in. We talked about the state of affairs of the country and our lives. After an attempt at defining cultural Judaism, the only clear sentence I could get out was "I need a plan." He promised that he would work one out with me by the time I got home. Turns out his stop was way before mine and I was left with the question "what are you passionate about?" In truth, I haven't a clue anymore. Honestly. What could I answer? G-d? Judaism? Torah? The idea of a family? My friends? Poetry??? I certainly can't say politics. What am I passionate about?

I thought it was a little depressing at first, so I slowly walked home in the cool Tel Aviv night alone wondering where my path will lead me and what my plan will be. As I turned the corner on my street, my iPod did that thing I love where it manages to find just the right song to suit my mood. Standing in front of my building listening to Coldplay, looking up at that lone star and appreciating the quiet moments Tel Aviv has to offer, I realized that none of that mattered anymore. I will find my passion, or rather it will find me. And in terms of a plan, I'll make it up as I go along.

Today I miss New York

For no real reason at all. I guess with my sleepiness comes nostalgia for the people, places and things I had. This morning I found myself saying that I miss my other two. Of course I do. All the time every day even when I'm unaware of it. How can I not? You take two people who know almost everything about you and then you're expected to find replacements when you leave the country? I can't do that. I trust easily, but not that easily. I don't know when to hold my tongue but I hope I can hold the things only meant to be shared with soul mates.

I miss skyscrapers and Saturday nights and American Sundays. I miss the way the city looks with the sun shining brightly in my eyes, blinding me until I squint between buildings. I miss seeing the rastas in Washington Square Park trying to sell schwag. I miss NYU students while I secretly loathe them. I miss Soho walks and Broadway and 8th. 4 AM drunken Chickpea where we forget about watching our weight and request babaganoush and fried eggplant. I miss the Park at 3 AM when they start to play bad but deliciously good 80s music. I miss dinners before I got to the point where I won't eat out anymore unless it's Kosh.

I miss the UWS crew and summers in Central Park, shopping at the flea market where you can get a fur coat fit for a pimp for cheap. I miss bagels and lemon Snapple. I miss hooka bars that feel more Israel than Israel, and places in Israel that are Mid-East enough they remind me of NY.

But I don't miss Jones Beach. Sometimes I miss Sunset Island watching the sticks on liquid diets consisting of mojitos and cigarettes. And I don't miss snow, but I do miss wearing white at Oasis that time when we...

I miss names I will never mention and I miss names I may allude to. Like soul sisters and jellybeans and Israeli princesses and a guh-guh and even a mei-mei. I also miss my piano.

And I miss summer camp days, as funny as that may sound. Basically I have an overactive mind today that is forcing me to remember everything. Like being a cute, funny-looking kid with curly hair that didn't start to grow till I was 3 and chubby little thighs being called a chicken and made to perform for the camera when asked who the president was "Wonald Weagan! Claaaaappp!!!"

Dream a little dream of me

My dreams are starting to mess with me a bit. I don't know what goes on in my mind before I drift off rather suddenly to sleep, but man do I wake up in a funk in the mornings. Latest mess with my mind dream? Someone - my parents maybe? - ask him what his plans are in the near future and he says "maybe I'll go to New York for 5 months." De ja vu, only not.

While reading the parsha this past Shabbat, there was a short commentary that said we should tune into our dreams and other people. That once we lower our egos we can realize that Hashem is sending messages to us through them. Well what kind of a message was that? I think I am destined to be a scared little mouse for the rest of my life, too chicken shit to act while acting in every moment.

Note to every one/reminder to self: I want certainty I want certainty I want certainty

New mantra and maybe if I say it enough times it will actually happen.

Tonight I will prepare myself for another message and hopefully will not be as shaken up as most mornings. Bring it.

Once there was a girl from New York

Once there was a girl from New York who had a plan and thought that having a plan was enough. Until that plan didn't work out and she realized that plans are never finite. So she stopped planning and started to live by the wind, moving wherever it took her with the clothes on her back and a MetroCard she may still have use for. She started rolling with different crews and talking to the birds to learn as much as she could. Eventually she began to make a home, however temporary it may be. And while she found a job and kept a regular schedule she still didn't have a plan. This started to scare the friends she flew from and concern the friends she flew to. And while the boys always found her so charming, even they too were left unsettled as they went with the flow, wanting to ground her but knowing she couldn't be caged. And whenever she sensed anything resembling love and commitment she flew away.

Until one day this girl from New York realized how long it had been since she actually used her MetroCard. And she began to long for the love like she had known when she once had a plan. She went from not being able to picture a stable life to feeling the pang of longing whenever she saw children. She wanted to stop flying, she wanted to feel at home, she wanted to let her guard down and stop being scared, she wanted a plan. But she didn't know how to go about it.

The girl from New York thought to seek answers from the Buddah in the road but wasn't sure if he'd talk to her. So she continued searching until she saw a local drunk she recognized sitting on a piece of cardboard on the corner. She stopped and asked him what he thought her life plan should be but the only thing she could decipher was "Get me a bottle of wine." Not the answer she was looking for, she gave him some change and continued to walk. Realizing the only thing she could do is search within herself, she felt more lost than ever. She started to cry and when she heard the sound of her tears hitting a puddle at her feet instead of the ground, she wanted to see herself. Staring down at her reflection in this puddle, she thought that maybe this is where her future laid. Like waiting for a fotune teller to interpret what the cards say, the girl from New York just stood and stared, willing something to happen.

Soon the image staring back at her began to change. Her reflection blurred and morphed into a vision of herself that she did not recognize. A mature face from the years that had passed, this version of the girl from New York looked content, if not happy.

The wind blew and ripples in the puddle began to distort the image once again. The girl from New York was left with her reflection in the puddle. Although she still did not have a plan, she was calm and reassured with a feeling that everything would work out in the end. The only thing she now had to decide was if she was going to stay or if she would fly.

Please stop

Please stop telling me where I should learn and what I should study. Please stop telling me about places I have been before. Please stop telling me what you think is good for me when I have not asked you. I have a mouth and I am sure that after 24 years of life I know how to use it. Please stop recommending and recommending. Please stop worrying. Please stop telling me what I should do with my free time that is hardly free anymore. Please stop telling me about what it means to be busy. Please stop listening to your ego and start listening to mine. Please stop making me feel bad for letting my ego get the best of me. Please stop making me feel like I am talking to a brick wall at times. Please stop turning into someone you were not. Please stop turning me into someone I'm not by imposing your expectations. Please stop telling me what I would enjoy. Please stop telling me what I need. Please stop telling me about where I should live. Please stop telling me about a place I actually live and breathe in. Please stop. Just please. Stop.

The Ex Files Part 2

I love the weekend. In fact now I think I live for it. Something to be excited for as long as I don't build up expectations that can't be met. But this weekend was nice. Kinda rainy, kinda wet, sometimes sunny, a little warm, a little cold, a little funny.

Like all good things, the weekend too must come to an end. After 2 cups of coffee, a conversation with my mom, and some 1 AM article-writing, it was time for my head to hit the pillow. With great difficulty (due to the coffee-chugging) I finally fell asleep only to realize that it would last momentarily. Soon after I dozed off, it was time to be visited by a ghost of my past again.

Somewhere I lay in that hazy spot between sleep dreaming and awake reality. My eyes wide open, I saw his head floating just underneath the covers - staring at me, saying nothing. With fear I tried to communicate telepathically - what are you doing here? Why? But nothing. Just that same stare that got to me. In my dreamstate my hand tried to touch his face but instead just went through it, making it blurry. In reality I was in a state of paralysis, my arm unable to move.

I don't know if I actually woke up at any point or just moved on to another dream. But I do wonder if on nights like these he dreams about me too. If our dream versions are transported, and if they ever cross paths on their way to returning to their rightful owners. If they regret and apologize for what they have done and try to right their wrongs.

The Ex Files

Last night was an episode of the Ex Files of the worst kind. Two (2!) exes in one (1!) dream. Well now I've truly outdone myself. The dream involved a wedding or two - I'm not very sure if it was my wedding to someone I have never met before or my ex's wedding or a friend of his or maybe all of the above. My chatan was an older Persian man I had no interest in, but who gave me an engagement ring and put it on my left middle finger, and another ring that had a diamond in it and two black (onyx?) hearts one next to the other on my right hand. The whole time there was some underlying longing for Ex #1. Big surprise.

The next section of the dream was in someone's apartment. We were eating with the food on the kitchen table while everyone else was in the living room. Sheva brachot? Ex #1 was in the living room (wearing a black kippa) and not saying anything. Ex #2 was in the kitchen when I went in to get something, looking about 10 - 15 lbs. lighter, with shorter hair and his face was red. This could have been from anger, because he was mad at someone I think over a money issue. But when I walked in and first saw him, I greeted him with a "hi sunburn!" and a big smile. I didn't like seeing his temper in my dream, it made me feel uncomfortable.

At least I didn't wake up with a stir, just rather slowly and with great confusion. Like why all the wedding talk and the ex's. I blame it on the conversation of the previous day, or my current state of mind.

The good news is that I got tucked in last night by my new bff who made me hot chocolate this morning. He's so bless! The other good news is that after a planned trip to the gym (I hope I carry through) and a nice hot shower we get to go out dancing tonight! I can't wait to dance on a bar and be sober enough to not fall off. And of course end the evening with glorious Magic Burger :) I love the weekend.

Mornin'

Because I don't know how to say "no," I went to visit the jazzmen last night. After only getting 3 or 4 hours of sleep post-poetry, my state of exhaustion was the cause of my lack of energy although I was still just as excited on the inside. There's a new trumpet player in town who reminds me of the trumpet version of my 16-yr old looking saxophonist. If only I were a pedophile (syke!).

I think I have a problem, because this morning I sacrificed an extra hour of sleep to go to the gym. My body is sore but I am still determined to look how I did a year ago.

I got out of bed in slow motion, put on my very sexy gym clothes (sweats), got my sneakers on and headed out the door. Feeling like I was back in high school on a cold morning when I could only stand to talk to one person at a time, I put my hood on over my head, my ipod playing something not too mellow but not too mizrachi - in fact it was playing "People are Strange" (how appropriate), with a partzoof that said "don't even think about making eye contact with me" and off I went to the gym.

In the 5 minute walk to gym I recognized a homeless women I first saw 5 months ago and even photographed at Nachlat Binyamin. I don't know if it's because of the booze (I'm not stereotyping, I'm talking from what I've seen) or something else, but she now has the most swollen face I've ever seen. Sometimes I feel so helpless in this city. Would she even take my help if I offered it? What would she want? What would she need? Here at my desk I envision the two of us taking swigs out of a wine bottle, chilling on a bench that lines Ben Tzion, laughing about how we have it better than the rest of the world.

I wake up from my day dream and realize there is much work and writing to be done.

Spoken word swirl Sunday topped with eclectic music

Last night poetry swirled through my head, starting from before the open mic began all the way through my sleep. In my dreams, I saw the faces of poets, heard their words, hopped from reading to reading in order to support my peers. I couldn't tell if I was awake or dreaming as I lay somewhere in a state in between. I think I tossed and turned last night in a whirl as I left one venue and suddenly arrived at the next. When I awoke this morning, I think I was still dreaming.

I now know why I can only have these open mics bi-weekly. They make me nervous and antsy and afterwards I'm in a blissful state of exhaustion and satisfaction. These days I feel like I've accomplished something, even if it's not my career. I just wish the folks back home were around to see it.

Tonight's the night tonight's the night tonight's the night

After returning from a Jerusalem state of mind, I awoke somewhat drunk, somewhat hungover, very much in a rush, and somewhat nervous about tonight.

Without feeding into my ego too much, I am proud of myself for not only the simple beauty of being in this country which I love and hate a little more each day, but for finding a void and then filling it. I've got my regular gigs that help keep my sanity (or the little bit of it I have). Open mic night that allows me to pretend even for just a couple of hours that I am back in NYC. Jazz nights that make me feel like I am Dean Moriarty as a 5 year old. Killing bottles of wine with awe-inspiring friends, many of whom have become my heroines in a way. Mothers, sisters, friends, role-models...just don't tell them I said that. I hope my friends here and in the States know just how much I love them and how much they mean to me. I guess that something I learned a long time ago from a wise lion is that it's all good all the time. And you know what? It is.

I won't lie, I have my "regrets" like we all do. Those little mistakes I once made that I believe I would take back if I could turn the hands of time. But I'm here now because of those decisions I made. And all in all, I think it's a pretty fulfilling life.

So tonight I get to play with the butterflies in my stomach, open my mouth at the mic and allow them to fly out into the crowd. I hope that they are as beautiful as I believe them to be.

Bad dreams and poetry scenes

The bad dreams came back last night. Maybe it was from the wine or the need for my body to branch out in my bed. Maybe it was sleeping with the window open. Whatever it was, I awoke twice last night shaken by my dreams. I don't know why I allow my subconscious to get to me. I often am aware that I'm dreaming and therefore am usually interested in seeing how it plays out. But not when there are random men running in allies and I become frightened by that and then one starts running in my direction. Or when I am visited by ghosts of my past. Demons lurk in every corner of my mind and appear when I let my guard down. Chalom tov, chalom shalom is all that I can say. Hopefully I'll be able to shake this feeling and start the week off on a good foot. Well, I pretty much did. I got to have a perfect lazy American Sunday consisting of the beach, hanging out with friends, and a rooftop BBQ with a good wine buzz. Nothing could be more delicious.

I also realized a few things about myself. One being that I appear to be regressing at times, reminding myself of the me I was at different stages of life years ago. I hope that I can find a nice balance and combine the best.

I also realized that I don't think I can be with someone who doesn't inspire me to write. I mean, what's the point really if I can laugh but don't have the urge to write about the way my smile reflects in his eyes? Is it crazy to think that I could never be satisfied with just a good laugh?

The jazzmen are calling me again. I can almost picture them searching for the notes above their heads. I can't wait to jump out of my chair and write furiously in my journal. Maybe I should consider dating the bassist.