Lisa saw a new shower gel in the grocery store, designed for men with “an attraction factor – infused with pheromones!” There was a picture of a ridiculously attractive woman’s silhouette on the bottle; the picture represents the exact women that would clearly be drawn to the person using this magic liquid before going out. [Read more…]


Some victories are silent. Some victories are not the Hollywood-style scream of achievement over an adversity that had finally shrunk down. Some victories are secret, not because we won’t tell anyone about them, but because we hardly notice them within the noise of disappointments and familiar stresses. Some victories are only recognized after days, months or even years, of living as we had always lived.   [Read more…]

old wounds and new hearts

Some wounds are so deep that there’s no way you can remember where they’ve started or if they’ve ever ended. You imagine that they haven’t because they come up in unexpected occasions, such as someone thanking you whole-heartedly for coming to their party or someone looking at you like you are their last hope before despair drowns them in a sea of mundane existence. Something inside of you is ignited and you remember all of a sudden, “this used to hurt so badly.” It still hurts, just in a different shade of light. You lie still on a dark brown leather couch and smoke a cigarette, you feel invincible and honest, the truth of all the struggles that brought you to this moment of freedom is lovely. You are not ashamed of your mistakes, rather feel friendly towards them. You know that there is no one there like you but so many that have been where you’ve been. You nod to an invisible presence that tells you that shit will be alright. [Read more…]

pacific coast seagulls

This is a story about pacific coast seagulls. About the perfection of the feeling of freedom that you get when you listen to their cries. Somehow, your childhood dreams, and I am not talking about the ambition, success-driven ones that you formulate later in your childhood’s life. I am talking about the actual dreams – your nightly glimpses of a different reality. These wash over your stomach when you’re there, on that boardwalk, listening to the seagulls. I am talking about all the real stuff that you’ve forgotten, all the purity of monsters and fairies that you’ve seen before you became old at 17, old at 30. [Read more…]

when a fairy comes to visit

Evea, the fairy the Richard found for me, came for a visit. I was drinking vodka-cranberries, staring at blank pages, blank memories, blank desires. She flew in through the fire place, like a sexy little female Santa. It was the first time I met her, but I knew who she was right away. She looked like everything I admire about my potential self. Free, carrying a writing desk as her backpack and completely pink and yellow. Of course, my favorite colors at the time.

I was living in a type of movie, that featured a depressing winter; I shaded the blinds, turned the AC to 40 degrees, and was listening to non-existent snow falling all over my childhood. Outside, it was July and sunny, my fairy was sweating. The illusion of cold and depression was over. Fuck fairies.

“Could you be more pink?” I attacked her.

“Could you be more blue?” She giggled.

“Funny. I know who you are.”

“Great. I know who you are.”

Moment of silence. The kind of silence you see in group therapy sessions in the movies.

I turned off the AC, got up to get a drink for my fairy (“I’m in AA, so I’ll have to say no thanks.”), and took a sit on the floor. I’m ready.

I’m ready to get some help.

Mary’s Mom

Her mother wanted to believe her. When Mary told us that she was raped by one of our friends, we were, I admit, doing some amateur psychology-detective work; we were debating whether to believe her, knowing all that we did about her. There was evidence supporting both sides of the story. When we tried to talk to Mary about it in the parking lot of her mom’s place, she ran back to her mom’s apartment. Her mom, a heavy woman with social issues and supported by welfare for the better time of her life, came outside and just stared at us. “You just raped her again, girls, by not taking her word for it.” She said. We talked for another couple of minutes, and we asked to see Mary. She was lying on her mom’s couch, received us with hopeful eyes.

A few days later, some tests at the hospital and some fights for the truth on both sides, Mary told us that despite what actually did or didn’t happen to her, that her mom was raped too. They had been so distant, for so many years, that this thing in common had the potential of bringing them together, like they had been many years ago, maybe not even in this lifetime. Her mother had finally found a way back to Mary, so she wanted to believe her. Who could blame her?

Make Art Not Sanity

“God has the talent. I have the self-discipline.” Told me Maria, the Austrian painted, as we were walking up the stairs. Her apartment, my desire to hear more.

“It’s so comforting to find someone that I actually want to listen to. I was starting to think that I was an insensitive bitch.”

“You are sensitive, baby girl. Sensitive to how boring people can get.” The door opened.

“Hmmm, I like that.”

“The apartment?”

“No, your sense of humor.”

She switched on about 15 lights. In her apartment. About 5 inside of me. I was stunned. One room, endless art.

“I was praying one afternoon,” Maria headed to the center of the room, “for God to protect me from sanity and boredom in this lifetime. I was living in the most beautiful prison cell of European architecture, fine cuisine, and happy friends. I had all the time and money I needed, but nothing I wanted. I was sitting in the bathroom, poetically peeing and couldn’t stop feeling nothing. I knew that very deep in my solar plexus, my gut, I had anger, rage, passion, hate, fear, light. But I couldn’t feel anything. Maybe guilt. For the time and money that I didn’t waste. I had no black bags under my eyes, no broken pieces in my heart, no scratches on my arms.”

An Old Bus Ride

“I believe in parallel universes, in gods of inspiration, in true love, in quantum leaps, in time machines, in talking to God and getting an answer, in my ability to disobey the past and move forward.”

“Those are your gods, then.”

“What are yours?”

“Gods of unlimited time to achieve all of my ambitions, gods of ‘there is no such thing as wasting time,’ gods of nicotine and alcohol, gods of perfect families and perfect childhoods.”

“Are there such things?”

“These are my gods, sure there are.”

“Let’s move to a different subject.”

“Let’s move to a different place.”


“Do you remember that field on the way from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem? The smell of the sun that enters the bus? The sound of our breaths in the sleepiness of the morning? The feel of our fingers inside of one another’s hand? Could we go there for a moment?”

A Letter from a Different Decade to a Different Ex-Lover

Dear you,

I am angry at the driver that murdered your sister, whom you’ve never met, in’78. I am angry at the hurt that he had left with her mother and father, who had become your mother and father six years after that.

I am angry at the scar that it left on one whole family, two continents. I am angry that your father started cheating on your mother and maybe vice versa, and that it was okay. I am angry that your family started falling apart, at your father that decided that he wants to get out of all this responsibility, of being a father, husband, man.

I am angry that he never taught you how to be a husband and a man of your word, and a father, when needed. I am angry with you for not learning so many things. I am angry with myself for not taking a stand for myself, but instead, trying to be strong for both of us, when I wanted to be weak and fall apart for myself. [Read more…]

In Sickness and In Health

And suddenly, I am my mother. I am lying in bed, having one of my bad spells, nausea and overwhelming dizziness, my head spinning, the world spinning around me and I am alone. I am lost without the health that I could count on, my body betraying me without any notice. Betrayal, after all, never comes from enemies. And my body, once a friend, is more of an acquaintance now. Someone I can talk to every so often, but do not unconditionally depend on; someone that knows me, but not really anymore. I am lying in my beautiful apartment, listening to the Mediterranean Sea waves outside my window, realizing that perhaps, despite everything I’ve achieved, accumulated, and experienced, I am indeed alone in the world. In a world that stubbornly spins for hours at a time around me, as I violently throw up some kale and nuts salad, as the pain in my sides feels unbearable, as I feel like I am falling down and there’s no one to catch me, falling down for hours, the waves outside my window are now the waves inside my blood stream, everything hurts, spins out of control, I have sweet release for a split second after the 5th time of throwing up, and then it goes back to spiraling down a hole of tormenting sickness, to helplessness, loneliness, and hope for it to be over, this time for longer than the last.

After it’s over, I sit with my hope, asking for a longer break this time, for a longer period of control over my body, my soul. My hope and I raise a glass of water, look out to the blue sea and I tell her, “Well, we always kind of knew that it’s going to be like this, didn’t we?”