Drifting thought-clouds.. one day, I want this to be some kind of thesis. Living in Israel, it's impossible for a person to avoid thinking about land. Land and People .. our connection to this physical land and space. Our claim on parts of this land is a spiritual claim, one based on Torah and a belief in Torah to begin with.
But when we get down to it, we're killing and hating because of actual earth and soil.. the rights to possess this space.
Possession. Ownership. Not the first concepts that jump to mind, when thinking of nature, of land or your environment.
How can anyone 'own' land, other than in a financial sense.. Whose rights prevail? Indigenous, or those who have civilised? Whose ownership is more powerful.. and why?

Yesterday, my heart flew to Paris.

I hope it's having a good time, while I do not know
what to do with myself.
He left, my beautiful boy
and I am lost.
In Hebrew, you might say the word 'chaver'
and people will think
that you mean 'boyfriend'.
Yesterday, i did not correct them. For a day,
it was real
and now my heart is gone.
He says he will be back, but will my heart come back to me also
and will it be in one piece?

I wonder if anybody heard it, beating its steady beat, packed between
his baseball cap
and tefillin.
I am still hugging him goodbye, I am still not wanting to leave the airport
long after the outline of his trolley
and pink tshirt
have disappeared.
My heart is at the Eiffel Tower, not thinking of Israel.
It is in his home, beating its steady beat,
keeping his cat company, learning some French.
Not thinking of Israel.

Yesterday, my heart flew to Paris.

NOISE. Noise is orange. We know about white noise. Most peoples' lives are full of white noise. My noise is orange. It surrounds me, I can't escape it. Silence eludes me, there is no quiet place. At night, live music doesn't just waft through my window, it charges through. A woman's voice, Hebrew lyrics, sometimes the beat of the reggae drums. I wake sometimes, surprised to see my windows and walls still intact. I expect to find myself beneath her microphone, curled beneath a steel drum. Next door, my neighbour loses himself in opera, night after night. Our connecting wall is thin, it hums me to sleep in Italian.
My street, rechov Bialik, is named for the poet Chaim Nachman Bialik. It was once a beautiful road, a stroll back in time from the dirty reality of Allenby, that used to be rounded off at its very end with a fountain. Work has begun to restore the old feeling of the road. Work that begins at 6.30am every day and will last until October.
He was a great poet, but I would really like the noise to stop.