Living in LA....

Just found out I have developed allergies and that's why my sinuses are wrecked so much of the time.  Pollen. Grass. Trees. Dust mites, (both D.f. and D.p.-apparently there are two different kinds, who knew??), Cats....the plagues of living in Los Angeles in this era. 

At least I am not allergic to any foods.  At least, not so far.

So I am going to do allergy shots to build up an immunity to these toxins.

They say that sea and ocean air are best for people with these kind of allergies.

Maybe I just need to move to either of my most favorite places:  Tel Aviv or Cape Town.

For medicinal purposes, of course.

About time.

http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1138418.html

Kindle this!

I've been wrestling with buying a Kindle, or a Nook or some electronic book device that will enable me to be a walking books I've-not-yet-read library.  I normally carry at least one book and magazine with me at all times lest I actually have a moment not filled with checking my twitter feed or my e-mails or my facebook notifications.  Normally I pack one fiction, one scholarly, and one travel essay collection.  Just for a weekend in San Francisco-packed with birthday party functions, I still took two books with me. The problem was my mood, and so neither hit the spot.  You know, that transported from the first page and suddenly it's hours later and you're in another universe.  Not Borges nor Graham Greene, I tried to sink into one, then the other, for some reason was not instantly immersed, so sat on the plane, frustrated.  Immediately I found the Barnes and Noble near my hotel, and bought "The Art of Travel" that I added to the San Francisco edition Moleskin birthday gift given the next day because it fit perfectly.

I am addicted to buying books.  My Amazon visa card, and before that, my American Express card, can attest to how much I feed my fix.  Lots of money and lots of trees have gone into my habit.

So I started thinking, what if I had a Kindle?  I would have at least 50 choices on there, from Tolstoy's War and Peace to Alan Furst's "The Spies of Warsaw" http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/29/books/29masl.html  I would have been able to read The New Yorker, and all the other magazines piling up all over my condo.

Everyone I ask loves theirs.  They swear by the ability to carry a literary truck load in something the size of a DVD case, and the ability to look words up immediately by pointing the curser is one helluva selling point. And they can take it anywhere.  Maybe except the bathtub, but I can't read in there anyway because my glasses keep fogging up.

I was sold, and was almost ready to click "add to cart" when I started thinking of how much I LOVE BOOKS.  Real books. I love the feel, the smell of a book.  I love turning pages.  I love to plan curling up with a book with that perfect espresso or tea or wine or scotch or martini.  My selection of drink always fits my choice of reading material. Sometimes I cheat and, trying not to read the ending, check where I am on the journey until that last page is turned.  There is something really satisfying about closing in on that last page of a tomb like the fifth Harry Potter.  Somehow I don't think it would be the same feeling coming up on the last downloaded page. How would you know?  Books have weight.

I love to go to a bookstore with someone special, new or old friend, or lover, or relative, and buy them one of my favorite books I think they will enjoy.  One of my most favorite things to do in a strange city is find the city's treasured bookstore.  I lose myself in their stacks and always buy at least one new novel, and it becomes a cherished memory of where and when I read it. 

I love to see what other people are reading.  Stop into any Starbucks anywhere and anytime and you can see who you want to meet, even who you don't.  How many great conversations and relationships begin with "what are you reading?" or "I read that, I loved it!".  And how many times has that tell tale self help book steered us clear?

I love to gaze at my bookshelves to decide what I have not read and pull it off the shelf.  And for friends, mine is a lending library with no late fees.

I love the idea that when traveling, you can find books people have left behind, and leave yours for future travelers.  It's  Used Book Diplomacy and it's a magical way to exchange ideas and cultures.  Even in doctors offices and waiting rooms. 

The Borders Bookstore near my home is closing because no one shops there anymore.  At least not enough to pay to keep it open.  It's a huge pinkish building, two stories with a cafe and it's the only bookstore in my neighborhood.  I normally make a stop there at least once a month, now that I know they are soon to be gone, I have gone more often.


Yesterday I went and bought a few more.  Even a couple of hardbacks. The place has been packed, with fire sale deals of 30% off and more.  The shelves are a bit in disarray, picked over.  Standing in line to check out, I realized something: the Kindle and all the rest of the virtual reading devices are elitist.  Libraries and even bookstores are the great equalizers of society.  Anyone can come and sit in a library and read.  Bookstores welcome people sitting on their floors and in their cafes, pursing the shelves for hours. These electronic devices will be the death of bookstores, of libraries, and that would be tragic.

Readers of the world, unite. 

Israelis and Obama...and peace initiatives

Terrific reality check by Foreign Policy Magazine on Obama's approval in Israel and the peace process.


http://www.foreignpolicy.com/articles/2009/12/11/how_israel_sees_obama

Brooks, Religous Fanatics and Chanukah...and Facebook?

My BFF Paul sent me this brilliant op-ed in the NYT by David Brooks.  http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/11/opinion/11brooks.html?_r=1  Brooks writes about the origin of Chanukah, how it resonates today, and the perils and dangers religious fanatics--all religious fanatics, pose.  Brooks also points out how history, especially those with ancient mythological status, are spun to feed propaganda's twin beasts of justification for actions and rationalizations for reactions.

So, impressed and wanting to share the article, I clicked on the Facebook link to post Brooks' article to my Facebook profile.  A message appeared that this post, an op-ed by David Brooks in the New York Times, has been flagged abusive by some Facebook members and therefore cannot be posted.

Brooks has no idea how right is is.

So what have we learned this past decade?

Apparently not a damn thing.

http://www.csmonitor.com/2009/1203/p02s16-usfp.html

Hungering...

Years ago I wrote a screenplay that dealt with the corruption of international aid organizations charged with feeding and caring for those in need in Africa.  In one scene, I used an actual menu from a hunger conference in New York.  When my agent sent the script out to be read, it was widely panned as unrealistic, and among the examples my critics pounced upon was this menu, with its Beef Wellington, Lobster Newberg, and other gourmand delights that fed the ample bellies of those deciding who goes to bed hungry at night, or worse, starves to death thousands of miles away.
And now this.  http://www1.voanews.com/english/news/a-13-2009-11-18-voa56-70423832.html

I wonder what the menu was this time...regardless, I am sure those who attended ate really well.

Hhmmmm......

http://www.jpost.com/servlet/Satellite?pagename=JPost/JPArticle/ShowFull&cid=1258027288871

Per last post

 Per my last post:

http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1122104.html

Thanks Leventine18 for the tip.

Hmmmm...

Saw via a friend on Facebook that a group of Rabbis from the Southern California area, around 20 of them, flew to Israel for intense conversations about how to foster more unity in the Jewish Community, especially as it relates to Israel advocacy. 

I think the time--the group will be in Israel for just a few days--- and money--they all flew on their own dime, but once there are hosted by the Israeli government--- would have been much better spent attending the first ever J Street Conference now happening in DC.  http://conference.jstreet.org/

.... if you want to create unity, then you need to listen to those among you who disagree....just sayin'...

And just like that....

...it happens. A moment of truth, of unconditional love, the gift of wisdom and compassion and forgiveness all rolled into one conversation with the one who wielded that pinpoint laser beam to open your heart and your mind in an attempt to free you from your constant creation of your own suffering.

And to think I had it all wrong...

Irony abounds, so does the hurt

So the infuriating irony of this past month is that the very reasons I had started to learn about how to be the Observer, and why it's such a necessary aspect of living in the moment, of holding on to your inner stillness, all that new age type spiritual stuff that rolls so easily off the tongue but in reality is so fucking hard to achieve, I REALLY needed to learn to not only save my sanity but probably save my entire being after what has transpired the rest of this month.

But instead I royally fucked up my private tutoring by responding with my emotions and fears and needs, and trying to control the situation and being attached to the outcome--yep, all the real nasty sins when you are clawing up that spiritual ladder--so now I feel like I essentially stunted whatever the future would have taught me had I not pushed for answers when I needed them and they were not ready to be given.

It hurts like hell, and even though am trying to be compassionate, and not pissed at my needy and  exhausted and kinda fragile self, I can't even get my Detached Higher Self game on.

Today the topic at the Multicultural leadership seminar at the Museum of Tolerance was Emotional Intelligence.  Amazing stuff, truly brilliant and so necessary to learn.  One of the main points made was studies have shown that when you are reacting strongly and emotionally to something, once you name the emotion, you diffuse its power over you greatly.

Wish I would have known that a few weeks ago.

Kol Nidrei

Tonight is Kol Nidrei, the eve of Yom Kippur. I'm not going to synagogue this year, I am way too burnt out on organized religion at the moment. So I am creating my own practice.

Today I went to do Tashleickt ...I threw pieces of a Starbuck bought bagel into the Marina del Rey canal while seagulls swooped down to catch every morsel. I atoned for my judgements, my failures, my actions that were not inspired--I forgave everyone else and even forgave myself.

Now, listening to a stunning recording of Kol Nidrei by Jacqueline Du Pre on You Tube, I realized that Kol Nidrei is kind of the Jewish version of living in the moment. You pray to be absolved for falling short, for simply doing the best you can do in the coming year. You release yourself from the "Shoulds and the "Should have". You live each day and do your best and if you don't quite ascend to those lofty heights, you've already created, via your prayer tonight, an absolution.

I'm not sure how I feel about this. It's too easy. Not that I really want to beat myself up (my friends can all start laughing now) that much, but, I am not that keen on pre-forgiveness. I want to try hard not to fail. I don't want it to be already okay.

But wait. That means that next year, during yet another Tashleickt, I will throw bread to the seagulls and forgive myself again. Maybe it is better to have the inner peace that Kol Nidrei represents.

May we all be inscribed in the Book of Life for a good and sweet year, a year of peace (inner and outer) and a year of knowing only love and not fear.

Mercury Retrograde vs f.8 and Be There

As I sit at home writing this I am hyper-aware that I had planned to be in Long Beach, yesterday and today, photographing His Holiness the Dali Lama. As it happens, the organization hosting the teaching event did not respond to inquiries for credentials or even basic information, even though I submitted the paperwork weeks ago. I'd heard their main media person respectfully pulled out of running the event due to complete disorganization and lack of communication.

Blame it on one of the worst Mercury Retrogrades in recent memory. It seems as though communication between people, both interpersonal and technical, for these past weeks has been fraught with every glitch possible. Egos were up while GMail was down. Everything is a balaghan, everything devolves into chaos.

But MY truth of why I am not even trying to be there and make photographs is that I am in a funk.

A few weeks ago, a new romantic interest went south. I'd put myself out there, emotionally, more than I had in a long long time. No matter how uncomfortable it felt, I stayed as vulnerable as I could be, vowed not to play games, not to hold my cards close to my chest, and, in the end, the more I revealed, the more I got slammed. And it hurt, badly, and I am still nursing my wounds.

But the saving grace of this experience is that it most definitely is, to quote the new cliche, A Teachable Moment.

I was taught by this woman how to become the Observer. To observe myself. As I am going about my day, I learned how to watch myself doing what I do, how I do them, why I do them, when I do them, where I do what I do, and when I do what I do...(okay, always the journalist here.)

I learned the concept that to be the Observer of your Self is the gateway to the Higher Self. By observing yourself, you can detach from your small self, and practice living in bliss because you are not holding on to your ego, your needs, your wants or desires, or any of those pesky things that run rampant and rob you of your inner stillness. To quote Lao Ma, "the entire world is driven by a Will...in order to transcend the limitations of that world, you need to stop willing, stop desiring..."

While observing me being me, I learned exactly how disconnected I am from me. I saw in neon lights how much I am not connected to what drives me: my passion. Specifically, my passion for making pictures. (Ironically, I took a Facebook quiz a couple days ago of what Chinese symbol are you? and I am Passion.)

What is so beautifully ironic about this, is that being the Observer is exactly what being a photographer is at its essence. The photographer is the one who elevates those non-attached-to-self-moments in time into immortality. The act of clicking the shutter is that moment of Zen, the definition of inner stillness when time stops for one-twenty-fifth of a second.

So why am I in a funk? Because there is a third place, a Netherworld, which I define as that place in between being the Observer and being fully immersed exactly what drives you: your passion, and I am stuck between the two.

How to free myself: f.8 and be there.

Lessons and more lessons

I've been neglecting posting for past couple of weeks, probably because I am now home in Los Angeles, and the truth is that I am just not that excited about what I see everyday. To be sure, there are amazing vignettes of the joy and the sorrow of the human existence everywhere, to be witnessed every moment.

So why am I so often wishing I were anywhere but here?

I've decided that the antidote to this ungrateful malaise is to document, both in images and in words, what it means to be human in Los Angeles.

Now...where did I put my M9?

Memorial Service

Last night I attended the memorial service for the two Israelis murdered last week at Gay and Lesbian center in Tel Aviv. It was held at Congregation Beth Chayim Chadashim in|Los Angeles, with the support of many of the other progressive shuls, churches and lay leaders here in the Southland. There were around 150 people there, standing room only.

I ran into an old colleague from my Israeli Consulate days, he was there representing his new gig, the right leaning more religious organization, Zionist Organization of America. He is practicing Mormon. I admit, I see red whenever I see him. And I was even more furious to see him there, at a memorial service for two Israelis killed for who they were assumed to be (Liz was apparently not a lesbian, but supported the center). And so I immediately criticized him for being there. He responded, "Why shouldn't I be here in solidarity? Israelis were murdered, and I am here to support the community." Even more pissed off now, I shot back. "Why is it okay for you to mourn us in death but not allow us our rights to get married?" His response was, "I know, I get hell from some of my relatives who are gay." Apparently he is the only Mormon in his family.

He wanted to know why there were no Orthodox Rabbis in the crowd. I shook my head and responded, "you are in denial if you think they would be here in support." Just then, the Rabbi mentioned in her remarks that the family of one of the victim's still fighting for his life in the hospital in Tel Aviv, are so shocked to find out their Son is gay, they have yet to visit him in the hospital.

I think there should be an unspoken rule: no conditional support allowed. Either you support our completely equal rights, or you don't get the privilege to be with us in joy or in sorrow.

Perspective

During my pre-Israel trip appointment with my most beloved hair guru, the one and only Paul Timlin--who buy virtue of the many Jewish women he's dated is definitely an honorary MOT--I mentioned this would be my very first to Israel. Paul nearly dropped his shears, exclaiming, "But you're a JEW!!!".

Therein lies the rub. Most people who are not Jewish, and even some who are, think that if you are a Jew, you've naturally made the journey to the Homeland at some point in your life, and probably when you were young, doing the summer kibbutz thing, or, at the very least, when you graduated college.

In reality, the statistic is something like less than 25-30% of American Jews have set foot on Israeli soil. Ever. And many have no plans to go. The folks who's job it is to worry about American Jewish support for Israel know this all too well. That's why programs like Taglit Birthright exist. http://www.birthrightisrael.com/site/PageServer

What was suddenly eye-opening to me having just returned, is that in conversations with some of my same-aged friends--some of them members of the vital organizations that raise awareness and funds--many of them have not been to Israel since their kid was a bar or bat mitzvah, and now their kids graduated law school, medical school and are years out of college.

Or some of my Orthodox friends went twenty-odd years ago to make the pilgrimage, almost, in one sense it seems, to get it over with and from now on go to Europe or the Caribbean. It's been years since they've seen Tel Aviv or Jerusalem, and when I describe my trip, with everyone in Tel Aviv having a tattoo, and the amount of religious tension in Jerusalem, they shake their heads and mutter, "I suppose I should go again", with all the enthusiasm of someone scheduling their colonoscopy.

And yet, these are the people who have opinions about pretty much anything and everything Israel does or does not do, from the war in Gaza to building settlments to dividing Jerusalem. These are the activists who weigh in with their petitions and their phone calls and e-mails to the media outlets they perceive as anti-Israel, to the White House, and who keep Israel as their escape hatch should Obama turn out to be what many of them fear he secretly is: an anti-Israel President that stokes the fires against the Jews here at home.

None of this makes any sense on the ground when you are there. This is part of the wake-up call for me now that I have been back a few weeks and friends are asking how my trip was. My answer now is the same one they gave me when they found out I had not ever been before: "You should go."

Thought provoking article on Israel

One of the most thought provoking articles I've read on Israel in a long long time.

http://www.foreignpolicy.com/articles/2009/07/20/israel_turns_on_itself

Spiritual Jet Lag

It hit me hard around an hour ago: that lightheaded, slightly dizzy disoriented feeling. It scared the hell out of me, normally it means we are about to have an earthquake (yes, I am occasionally one of those seismic psychics) or that I am about to get the flu.

But just now I figured it out: I have Spiritual Jet Lag. Today is Shabbat, I just spent my two past Shabbat's in Israel: the first one in Jerusalem at the communal Orthodox dinner provided by the Dan Boutique Hotel, and the second one in Tel Aviv at a formerly lesbian now straight Persian restaurant and dive dyke bar--- but it was still Israel. Tonight I will go to my parents for dinner and light candles (using the new candelabra I bought for them in the Carmel Craft Faire in Tel Aviv) but it's not the same. I'm in LA, the place where spirituality is a commodity to be purchased along with great abs and pseudo-blessed red string around your wrist. I'm a million steps removed from the real deal.

I am born and raised in Los Angeles but it's never ever felt like home. I don't jive with the energy, never felt like I belong, I can't seem to really hit my stride to be fully, daily, passionately alive, and I can't relate to most of the people or priorities here and all of the time I have that deep cavernous ache inside of knowing these painful things.

I want to live where I just naturally know the streets and my way around even thought I've not been there before. I have that feeling of being finally at home intensely in Cape Town, South Africa, and to a bit lesser extent in Nairobi. The times I've been on the African continent calm my entire being down immediately upon landing. Everything just settles, even in the various just ended war/famine/genocide zones I've visited, Somalia, Sudan, and Rwanda. Every time I leave Africa I can't wait to come back. I feel fully alive, all my senses are at once calm and on alert.

But in Israel, it's different. Everything doesn't settle: it's stirred up the way the Jerusalem winds coming in from the desert kicked into high gear every afternoon to coincide with the 4:30 call to prayer. There was no calming feeling the whole time I was in Israel, for me there was the complete opposite. This time all my senses were on high alert, so much so that I was on sensory overload and had to shut down some of my hearing just to maintain a sense of distance and to be able to hear my own thoughts and listen to the stirrings of my own soul. But even with all this internal Balaghan (Hebrew for Chaos) there was this overwhelming feeling that I was finally where I was supposed to be. I was in Israel, a descendant of the 600 people at Sinai, linked genetically and spiritually and everything in between. Going to Israel was my soul gone on safari, and as with any journey, ultimately the goal is to find your inner, spiritual, psychic home while wandering.

I've always been a religious tourist--calling myself a seeker would be way to intense for the truth, I bail as soon as any aspect of the practice threatens to seriously impact my comfort zone. So doing Yoga with the Sikhs here in LA--got those great abs---but give of coffee and meat? No way. I did the same thing with flirting with the Chabad form of Judaism...no great abs, but nearly a trashed liver, given the endless L'Chaims and drinking each Shabbat and celebration requires. But give up brewed coffee and driving? Not a chance. And don't even go there on the whole gay thing, seems all religons have issues with that, except maybe Wicca or Paganism...(more about my forays there later).

Earlier this afternoon, I had a lovely mixed ethnic lunch of Tikka Tacos with my BFF Paul, and he was excited to hear about my trip to Israel and Jordan. We were comparing notes and impressions, and I found I was almost unable to relate anything of mine. I'm still making sense of all the sensations, and I found it hard to describe all that I'd felt and seen in a mere two weeks in Israel and a couple of days in Jordan. I was enthralled by Paul's accounting of his journeys there, and his wrestling with the idea of making aliyah--to emigrate to Israel-- or not. I look forward to hearing more of the story soon. Sharing those stories are grounding because you looking into each other's eyes and try to make sense of the Israeli experience and then give a Middle Eastern shrug with the realization that you can't.

So I am still reeling. I was gone only two weeks, and it feels like I was gone at least a lifetime. Seriously. At least one lifetime. (One of the theories on my hearing loss is that it was part of a past life experience that kicked into high gear.)

Israel changed me in ways I cannot even begin to understand, and truthfully, when my rational mind tries to tell me that I am having a cliche reaction--not another one, gone native--it's just a place with an incredible bloody and miraculous history but still just sand and rock, my spiritual jet lag kicks into high gear and I've got to sit down before I fall down. It's that simple and that complex. It's that hard to fathom and that easy to get. Whereas before I felt a vague longing to go and experience the country I'd heard about for most of my adult life, now that I have been there, even for a short visit, there is a very tangible ache to return as soon as possible to soak up more of this incredible place.

After all, it's home.

Leaving Israel but not really.....

So I'm sitting in the lobby of Ben Gurion Airport waiting to check my bags and begin the long wait to the long flight back to LAX. Around 17 or 18 hours of flight time plus a few hours layover, just enough to go through customs in Atlanta. Hopefully the flight will be on time, because I am due to go to the Hollywood Bowl a few hours after arriving in LA.

I know on an intuitive level that I won't make sense of this trip to Israel, my first time here, for a long long time. Realizations are going to awaken me from a sound sleep, much as this trip has in all ways, and, truth be told, I resisted mightily. I'd thought I would cry my eyes out from arrival until departure, after all, this is my FIRST visit to the land I have heard so much about, especially this past decade.

You awaken to an Israeli consciousness whether you like it or not. For my entire photojournalist career, I avoided this place. I knew I would feel too much, photographing all that is Israel is something most pro-Israeli photographers don't like to do. Warts and all coverage doesn't cut it when you are a MOT. At least that is what I thought as I went to East Africa instead. I'm an American Jew, a Zionist by birth and belief.

But then coming here, the realization hits that this too is a media lie...a lie we tell to ourselves in the States. The thing about being HERE, whether it's in Tel Aviv, or Jerusalem, is that it is precisely the warts and all coverage Israelis are most comfortable with, and what they crave from the world's media. For them, showing their lives and how they face their issues is way closer to their reality than our skewed obsession of either/or. "Either you are with us or against us", that is the rallying American Jewish cry. Actually, as conversations with Israelis who actually live here attest, we've got it all wrong. Israelis don't take criticism of their policies to be anti-Israel nearly as much as American Jews do.

So, as I wait to go through the first leg of security to check my bags for the flight, I am eagerly awaiting my epiphanies.

I did not cry much at all during this trip, but my right ear did go deaf for most of my time here in Israel, the worst of it in Jerusalem. According to metaphysical website analysis of what the right ear represents----processing of information especially language and the ability to make sense of sensory experiences, I guess I went into sensory overload.

I'm not surprised.

Recent history vs ancient history

Everywhere in Israel you walk a history of amazing triumph and tragedy. Not just the ancient stories from the Bible, but current events, at least, ones that happened while I have been alive.

I am staying in central Tel Aviv, at a really modern hotel called The Savoy. It's all sleek lines and chrome and glass, a very sexy building literally steps from the beachfront. It just re-opened in January and is truly a cool place with amazing people running it, wonderful breakfast every morning, and lots of tourists--especially French--- hanging out in the lobby/restaurant planning their day. http://www.inisrael.com/savoy/

But the Savoy Hotel has a history: I've cut and pasted the following from Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Savoy_Operation

"On the night of 4 March 1975 at 11:00 PM, eight Palestinians in two teams landed by boat on the Tel Aviv beach. Shooting and throwing grenades, they captured the Savoy Hotel near the center of the city. The guests were taken hostage. The Palestinians threatened that if the Israelis did not release 20 Palestinian prisoners within four hours the hostages would be killed.

Early the next morning the Israeli counter-terrorist unit Sayeret Matkal stormed the hotel, killing seven of the perpetrators and capturing one. Five hostages were freed and eight were killed. Three soldiers, including the former Sayeret Matkal commander Uzi Yairi, were also killed. A few hours later the ship that transported the militants was captured and its crew were taken prisoner.

The Palestinian operation was planned by Abu Jihad in retaliation for a surgical raid that the Sayeret Matkal conducted in Beirut, Lebanon in April, 1973 (Operation Spring of Youth), where they killed three top PLO leaders."

Hanging with Lana in Amman and Petra with Jerusalem in the Room

Sunday morning I left most of my luggage but not my baggage at the Dan Boutique Hotel in Jerusalem and caught a taxi to the Muslim side of the Old City to catch a bus ride that would take me to the Jordanian Border. There long lines of Arabs returning to Jordan from Israel were processed through and soon enough I was bused through the Allenby Bridge (King Hussein Bridge on the Jordanian Side of the border), soon to hang out with the lovely and talented Lana Shamma. Lana's away for thirteen months on a Fulbright Scholarship in Amman. We've been best buds since the first day we met, which we think was way back even before orientation for the MPD program, on preview day.

Lana is Palestinian-American and we have worked at our friendship because geopolitics has a nasty habit of intruding. There has been a lot of Palestinian and Lebanese and Israeli blood shed during our friendship, and, it has felt sometimes like a challenge to hold on to each other.

I have never once doubted Lana--I know her belief that an eye for an eye makes the world go blind. It is me that has had to wrestle with some of the results of Israel's actions. My belief in Israel's right to exist and protect her citizens is in direct conflict with my belief that some of Israel's actions are questionable at best.

In any event, we started with the premise that both sides are bloody, both sides are tired, both sides are trapped and both sides need a better way. Lana and I also share the thought that there will never be a true peace, and it makes our friendship even more important to the both of us.

For the record, I believe both Israelis and Palestinians are desperately in need of making this a T shirt war, only to be fought with mostly lame and sometimes funny slogans hanging side by side in some cheesy souk shoppe. Chose your battles in Small, Medium and Large 100% Cotton with minimal --- or in this case, hopefully---maximum shrinkage.

Going to Amman was relatively easy because I did what I always do when I don't know my way around or the language. I found people who were kind enough to guide me to the right lines, the correct paperwork and made sure I got on the right bus. Plus, with this lack of hearing in my right ear, plus not knowing any of the language, trying to navigate around is tough. You HAVE to be fluent in Arabic (which Lana is) to make your way around here, when it really comes down to it. I hate being at that disadvantage.

I shared a ride with a couple of slightly older Americans---that is, because I still think I am a young student---who were fluent in Arabic. From the mountains of Georgia, they've been coming to the Middle East for years, and their cultural and language savvy shows. After dropping me off at the Abdoun Mall, where I continued to indulge my passion for the best coffee blends on the planet, Lana came to fetch me. She looks awesome, and very quickly it was as if no time had passed.

After an amazingly delicious late lunch of Lebanese food at this terrific restaurant---make hummus, not war---we took off late afternoon for Petra, Lana at the wheel of this slightly scary rent-a-car. Along the way we caught up on all that has been going on in our lives---G-CHAT can only cover so much--- these past few months---almost a year really---since Lana left LA. Lana has been touring around the Middle East as much as her time allows, going to Lebanon, and Syria. And, as always, she's found how wrong the American media is in their portrayal of all countries.

Arriving in Petra just after dusk, we checked into the Crown Plaza Petra and grabbed a light dinner before turning in for our big day hiking around.

We intended to get an earlier start than we did---thankfully neither of us are morning people, unless we pull all nighters--and so around ten or eleven or so we finally made it to the Petra gate. We hiked to the Treasury, this spectacular bank vault dug into the mountain, and a few miles further in until my ankle started to give way. So Lana and I bought a couple of rides on Bedouin Ferrari's--otherwise known as really stinky mules, and then hiked the rest of the way out to our hotel. This is where Indiana Jones # 4 was filmed, as many of the souvenir stands really let you know. We crashed by the hotel pool and grabbed a late lunch before heading out back to Amman.

Later that evening, after a serious shower (I am sure I have Petra dust on the brain) at Lana's we headed out to a Chinese acupuncture clinic to see what could be done about my still plugged up ear. The acupuncturist was convinced my neck is to blame. Could be. A few needles and massage and traction later, it did not give way, but the rest of me was relaxed. We had dinner at this home style Palestinian restaurant in downtown Amman, where the maitre'd proposed marriage to me. I love all this attention, really I do, but seriously, what's with the men??? Please, paging Ms Jordan.

Amman is the color of sand, with portraits and posters of King Abdullah everywhere. All the cabs have them tacked up on their windows, in various poses from family man to soldier. The women are either covered in hijab, or niqab. After dark, the women are no where to be seen, while on the streets the men are drinking coffee and playing backgammon.

Jordan is an incredibly poor society, with impossible to comprehend poverty. Its women are subservient and, for Jordan being touted as the more progressive of the Middle East Muslim states, in reality it's not even close to progressive in the ways it needs to be to uplift its people out of their poverty and stupor.

Lana and I talked a lot about Israel, or, in her case, Palestine. Her family's heritage goes back to Haifa and Safed. She wants to go to Jerusalem this weekend, and I am worried about her experience. I would love it if it were easy for her to come to Israel. I want to make sure that Israel does nothing to hurt my friend, and my heart sinks at that thought because I know that she will have to experience the checkpoints in all their hellish detail.

Since this visit to Israel, especially to Jerusalem and the Old City,I am even more convinced that nothing can be done to solve this conflict. To come here is to see how both sides do indeed live side by side, but with emotional and spiritual and psychic fences and walls more dense and impossible to dismantle than anything real either side can and has constructed.

This place needs a John Lennon transfusion. The whole region is neon proof of Karl Marx's statement that Religion is the opiate of the people and pretty much has overdosed into coma.

I believe both sides need to realize how fighting for the same grain of sand because of what was supposedly written thousands of years ago is going to destroy all chance of a future for them all.

I take all of this personally even more this time, with that ongoing schizophrenic response: I want for Israel to be able to live in peace, I want for Palestine to finally achieve statehood and for it and the rest of the Arab world to have the same amazing freedoms and quality of life most Israelis have. More than anything it breaks my heart that what I want most is for my Palestinian friend whom I love and value so much to have Palestine be the same amazing experience for her as Israel has for me on my first journey here, and I know it won't happen, at least this time.

Maybe new Tshirts need to be printed with new messages, ones that spell out exactly what the costs on all sides of this conflict truly add up to be: the body counts, the insane monies spent on weapons and security, years of each number of dead, lives wasted, you get the idea.

Ben Yehuda Mall

The wonderful Dr. Michael Goldsmith--Australian ex-pat--- made a hotel house call with his nurse around 10:00 tonight--had t0 wait until after Shabbos--to make sure nothing serious was growing inside my inner ear. Apparently I have a sinus attack plus a wicked allergy (to the rare winds that have kicked up these past few days) that spread to my ears but no infection, thankfully. Still as a precaution, I am now loaded up on different antibiotics special for ear infections (Augmentin) plus a nasal spray, antihistamine and pure menthol eucalyptus oil to inhale with steam a couple of times a day. I need to be fully cured before I fly home on July 6th as not to damage my hearing any more than it already is.

So, I hauled it in a taxi to Super Pharm, in the Ben Yehuda Pedestrian Mall to get there before they close. The Mall is in the city of Jerusalem itself, not the Old City. At close to midnight the Mall Promenade was packed with families enjoying a late stroll and ice cream post Shabbos. The hundreds of young people on the various Birthright tours, http://www.birthrightisrael.com/site/PageServer made up most of the foot traffic. In fact, these groups are everywhere. It's really incredible to see them, a few dozen high school and college age kids to each group, being escorted by adults their same age or just a bit older. But the alternate universe thing is that each of these groups are guarded by at least two young Israeli soldiers in civilian dress, like shorts, T-shirts and carrying a rifle like it was just a part of their hanging out gear. Seriously disconcerting for an American like me, but so normal for the Israelis here. If you don't know Israel's history, Ben Yehuda is like any other street mall. Think the 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica and you get the idea. In reality it is anything but pedestrian--as in boring-- you'd never know how blood stained the pavement really is. http://www.zionism-israel.com/dic/Ben_Yehuda_Bombing.htm

This is the most amazing thing to me about Israel. You'd never know the horrible events had ever happened. People go about their day, the security --and it is deserving of its legendary status---is a fact of life. Israelis are not like those of us, mostly Americans, who bitch when we have to take off our shoes to get on a plane. Israelis live with these threats every day.

And on the other side, it is equally strange to me that the Palestinians and other Arabs that make up a huge part of this country are the danger. If anything it seems sometimes that at least here in the Old City they live their daily lives trying to ignore the other. All day today I watched as Orthodox families hurried through the Shouk, the Muslim Quarter on their way to the Jewish Quarter and the Kotel, the Wailing Wall, looking past the Arabs selling their wares in the Shouk. If anything, the T-Shirt proclaiming Palestine with Arafat's face hangs next to the T-Shirt that proclaims the superiority of the IDF, and no one seems to mind.

Here in Jerusalem, the term peaceful co-existence, that buzzword tossed around by so many who are so quick to give advice on how to solve the conflict, on how to get along, including, I might add with complete chagrin, my hypocritical self, have really no idea what they are talking about. Until you are really here, until you physically are jostled by both sides just trying to walk through the Souk shoppes, you don't know a damn thing of what both sides need.

The other thing that really comes into neon bright focus is how wrong a picture the media paints of Israel, of the Palestinians, and of the Conflict.

But that will have to be my film at 11 teaser for another post coming soon....right now I have to get some sleep because I am going to Jordan and Petra tomorrow morning to hang out with Lana, Fulbright Fellow and Friend extraordinaire...

Bu for now, I wish for this Conflict to become a T-Shirt War.

Listening Versus Hearing in Jerusalem

So...on the flight here, one of the benefits to flying Biz Class in those Star Trek type pod beds is the incessant air conditioning blast. No matter what I did, even covering most of my face with a baseball hat and breathing through the blanket, my sinuses got nailed. I had a sinus headache for most of the flight and for the day and night after. And, from the stove to freezer conditions of Tel Aviv, Thursday all day I felt the blood pulsating in my ears. And then yesterday morning, Friday, I awoke to my right ear being completely blocked up. I cannot hear out of it at all. Now today, Saturday, my left ear is only slightly less so. No real pain, just feel like an entire pound of cotton are packed tightly in each side. I always travel with a precautionary ZPAK, so immediately started that course, and yesterday afternoon went to the pharmacy for Sudafed and Nose drops. So far, nothing has worked. My hotel arranged for a doctor's appointment tonight, after Shabbat. I am nervous because years ago in East Africa I flew with an ear infection and lost about half of my hearing in my right ear.

But I think there is something else at work here. I am trying to listen to myself, to my soul on this journey, and Jerusalem IS overwhelming in that respect. In Tel Aviv it is easy to be fully me, I feel at home pretty much more than anywhere else. Tel Aviv society is open, sexy, fun, vibrant, with attitude to burn, it is a place where you can be fully YOU, no matter who or what you are. It's live and let live, live for today, because, with the rest of the region gunning for you, there might not be a tomorrow. People hook up for pure joy and need for physical contact. There is literally no word for dating in the Hebrew language. You go out, you have fun, you spend time if you want to. There's no trial period, no getting to know the person cautiously. Going out to the Lesbian hot spot restaurant and newly renovated men's gay bar with my new friend Shally, (the gay brother of Israeli friends in LA), it seems that everyone is open and out in Tel Aviv.

In Jerusalem, my inner homophobia comes out. To be sure, the Gay Pride Parade was a couple of days ago, and it was peaceful this time and a couple of thousand people attended. But....and yet...I can't. There is something in me about wanting to be able to sit at the same table -- literally, and I can't get out of my head the anti-gay poison my years hanging out with those Chabadniks placed within me that make me think that if I am out that seat at the table is off limits. Last night I sat with Yitzhak, the Mischeach, the one who makes sure the food is prepared according to kosher specifications. He's a clinical psychologist in his fifties with four grown sons. He's an Orthodox Jew who keeps the laws. Immediately he tells me that his wife died years and years ago, and now that his four sons are all self-sufficient he is lonely and would like to remarry. He then said, "I have trouble finding women." I wanted to reply, "Same here." but I couldn't. One of his sons sat with us along with his Mother, a really great woman in her mid-80's. Yitzak is a really nice guy, and I feel for him. He would be catch for some nice women who wants to make an Orthodox Kosher home. He made comments that he was charmed by me, but the more he said and the more I sat there making conversation with his kids and his Mom the more my ears plugged up and created an almost out of body feeling, as if I were split off, distant to myself. I am. Being here in Jerusalem I am me as far as being a Jew, but I am not fully me.

Yesterday I went to the Kotel, to the Wailing Wall to pray. As is tradition, I placed a couple of notes in the cracks in the Wall. One is for the health of my loved ones. The other one is to find my Beshert, my soul mate. Today I went again, and just touched the Wall and prayed to be released from this ridiculous homophobia, from this torment. 

Part 2: Seven Impressions about Jerusalem

A caveat to my Jerusalem Seven: Jerusalem is everything Tel Aviv is not. They could be two separate countries. Two separate planets actually. Jerusalem is cloistered where Tel Aviv is open. Jerusalem is (as the tour guide who picked me up in Tel Aviv said on the way here) covered up whereas Tel Aviv is practically naked, both physically and metaphorically. With that in mind, here are my Jerusalem Seven:

First, Jerusalem has incredible light. All the time. No matter if it is sunny or overcast, there is something Divine about the way the light falls. At night the sky seems to glow in its darkness. Second, the History overwhelms you. It is insistent, grabbing your psychic attention. The Hell and the Glory this center of the spiritual world has experienced emanates from the hills, from the walls, from the blood soaked soil. I seriously thought I was going insane and hearing voices, singing the ancient cantorial chants, the calls to prayer, the bells of the churches. Then I realized that it is not as imagined as I thought. It's just there, non-stop, and your spiritual antenna picks it up whether you like it or not. Third, Jerusalem is INTENSE. Really truly intense. Whereas in Tel Aviv they ask you if this is your first trip to Israel and want to know if you are enjoying yourself, in Jerusalem when they ask you the same question, but with a spin: they want to also know what side of the Situation you are on: Are you pro-Settlement, are you anti-Settlement, where do you stand on dividing Jerusalem (more about that in a moment) and if you are an American, they ask about Obama, hope mixed with distrust and fear. Fourth, size and distance are relative. Jews and Muslims are cousins, and, your "enemy" is literally on the other side of the street. Literally. Across. The. Street. Fourth, Jerusalem is oppressively SMALL. just .35 of a square mile. The distances are, not to be snarky, a stones throw away from each other. In the Old City, within the Walls, the Jewish Quarter and the Muslim Quarter and the Christian Quarter and the Armenian Quarter are within mere steps of each other. And regarding the Settlements, it's like Studio City is to Beverly Hills. For that matter, the drive from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem is less than an hour. Fifth, a lot of Israeli Soldiers are really barely just out of high school. Yesterday I was at the Jaffa Gate entrance when around twenty or so fully armed IDF men and women walked past on their way inside. I was floored as to how incredibly young they are. Sixth, pretty much everything is closed for Shabbat. The Souk is open for Muslims to do their shopping, and it's level of being crowded defies description. It is every stall folded in upon itself. Seven, and for me the most important lesson so far about being here, not only in Jerusalem but in Tel Aviv and I am sure it will hold true to the rest of my visit when I head up north to Haifa and Safed: No one, especially American Jews, or, for that matter, American Christians, have the right to tell Israel what to do politically. We don't live here. We are not sending our sons and daughters into their Army, or working to break bread and find common ground with our neighbors who are our enemies. We really do not have that right, and once I finally have come here that thought has truly resonated with the same intensity as the songs from the Judean Hills.

Strolling Tel Aviv

The smartest things I did before leaving LA were to buy a pair of super light weight Vasquez hiking boots to support my ankle, along with some great wool blend special socks, and get a prescription for industrial strength Ibuprofen. I walked everywhere, and loved taking photos with my Leicas--it's film for me on this pilgrimage. I toured the Flea Market and shoppes in the old City of Yafo (Jaffa) and the stalls in the Carmel Market. The beachfront is just gorgeous. I chilled out with a Campari and soda to watch the sunset at the Tel Aviv Port at this outdoor bar called "Speedo", with, yeah, you guessed it, posters of the trunks everywhere and the logo on everything.

Tel Aviv is small enough to walk a lot of the landmarks. Everywhere there are cafes and amazing fresh fruit vendors that make the most incredible fruit drinks. I'm talking a blend of complete fresh papaya, peach, banana and mangoes. Jamba Juice would never survive here. And the coffee. Seriously. As in the Goddess of Espresso saved her best grind for the Middle East. Even the instant coffee is good. No wonder Starbucks went broke here.

Seven Impressions Part 1: Tel Aviv and Jaffa

There are seven things I learned immediately---and if you know anything about the Jewish religion, the number seven is incredibly important (http://judaism.about.com/library/3_askrabbi_o/bl_simmons_seven.htm)

So, here are my Tel Aviv Seven:

First, hanging out in Tel Aviv is like being at someone else's party where you're the new guest and everyone welcomes you and you instantly feel at home. Second, the weather is SO hot and humid everyone from taxi cabs to the lobby of my Best Western Hotel keep the air conditioning WAY up. As in freezing. So you get completely sweat-drenched outside and icicles form on your sinuses when you go inside (more about the results of that later) Third, everyone has a dog, and takes it everywhere--I love this. If I were to move here, Leica would probably have more friends than I would. Fourth, the food is a taste orgasm! Super fresh, simply prepared but way beyond gourmet. Fifth, pretty much everyone smokes like a chimney. I have resisted the urge, but it's tempting to have something to do with my hands (Paging Miss Israel)...I think that's probably what gives me away as a foreigner: I don't gesture or reach out and touch as much. Sixth, everyone asks you if this is your first time in Israel. Everyone. From shopkeepers to the waiter to the coffee vendor. And when you answer yes, they are thrilled you are here, and want to make sure you love it, if there is anything you need, and how long you are going to stay. And if you are going to come back. No one just visits once. Seventh, Tel Aviv is incredibly sexy. It is one giant eye candy bazaar, with the most gorgeous men and women I have ever seen in one place. Just when you think you have lost your heart, another one comes along.

Explaning the Theory

I suppose I should explain the Theory of the KosmikSlingshot: You are living THE life you are supposed to live, in the career you just know in your gut you are meant to have, in the relationship with the person you are meant to be with, living in the location you are sure is Home with a capital H, and you are absolutely convinced, with all of your Being, that your Life is exactly as it should be. Then, something, or someone, or some occurrence, picks your ass up, and flings you to the opposite side of the Universe, either physically, emotionally, spiritually, financially, etc. You land hard, on your ass, and as you pick yourself up, you realize that this is where you are supposed to be living, in the career you are supposed to have, in or not in a different relationship, and that this is the life you are meant to live. If you are aware and listen to muse, there are more than one or two Kosmikslingshots in your life. And so to commemorate this, I have created a Kosmikslingshot Martini, as follows: 1/4 jigger of dry vermouth, 3/4 jigger of Gin and 1 jigger of Vodka. Shaken not stirred, and served with 3 olives, or, a slice of lemon depending on my mood. So, right now, at the end of my first few days in Tel Aviv, before I leave for Jerusalem early tomorrow morning, I am going to take myself out to the lovely cafes and bars along the Tel Aviv Port, and instruct the bartender how to make a KosmikSlingshot Martini.

"But your name is YAEL..."

When I finally landed at Ben Gurion Airport--yes, I cried when I peered out the plane's window into the night to glimps the approaching Tel Aviv skyline-- I made my way to passport check. I'd heard stories of how harsh security questioning might be, and so I was more or less prepared. Behind bulletproof glass, a lovely young Ethiopian soldier, braces still on her teeth, looked at my passport photo--with long hair, not this short Euro do I am sporting now---and looked me over. "Is this your first trip to Israel?" she asked. "Yes" I answered. Incredulous, she shot back: "But your name is YAEL". "I know, I know," I replied, embarrassed. "It's taken me forever but I am here now." I paused as her stare intensified. "Don't start or I might start crying again." I added. Her face broke into this huge grin. "Welcome to Israel, Yaeli." she said. "I'm glad you are finally here."

Finally got to my hotel--the Best Western Regency Suites-- around 12:30 AM. I wanted to make a L'Chaim but didn't have any booze. Asked the night clerk, a really lovely man, if there was anywhere I could get something with a decent alcohol percentage to toast I am finally here. "This is your first trip to Israel????" he exclaimed. "But your name is Yael!!" "I know, I know...where can I buy some scotch???" I asked.

So at 1:00 AM I took a short walk a couple blocks away to the AM/PM market. Immediately I felt safe. This is Israel, not LA. And no Glenlivit to be had on the spare liquor shelves at the AM/PM, just a pint of J&B. Bought that and a incredibly juicy plum and a couple of yogurts for the morning. Back in my room after a hot shower I toasted myself for finally making it here, to Israel.

LAX TO ATL TO TLV

I am sitting in the Sky Lounge in Hartsfield Airport in Atlanta waiting for my flight to Tel Aviv. Entering the Lounge, almost everywhere I looked, young women in long denim skirts, holding mini Siddurim (prayer books) were facing the eastern window and davening Minchah, the afternoon prayer. Beautifully backlit against the sunset, lightening speed muttering of the Hebrew under their breath, they held the tradition. A couple of men around in kippah (yarmulkes) too, doing a more high tech version, using their entire prayer book application IPhones and Blackberry. In the background CNN's coverage of Iran lends a surreal overlay to this, the second part of my beginning of my own Neshama Safari.

Marion and Dad and Facebook

So it's the other side of midnight, inching towards the spectre of an unwelcome all-nighter. I've had way too much caffeine today--two large strong coffees plus two double espressos, and way too much rich food---large Israeli feast and a huge piece of the most deadly chocolate mousse cake, and too much red wine. It was my lovely Israeli-Belgian friend Marion's combo 50th birthday and bon voyage party. She's seizing the moment and moving back to Israel in a few weeks. Her heart and soul are there, and so she's decided, together with her husband and two teenage sons, to follow her bliss even if it means her husband commutes from his career here and her oldest flies off to his first year at Tufts.

I rarely if ever eat like this, but I needed to fill an emptiness that was filling me with almost out of body anxiety.

I'm going to Israel for the first time in a little over a week. I'll be gone for two weeks and I am scared to death because although I am leaving while both parents are stable, at home, and going about their business, I have to be "okay" with the fact that my Dad's health is precarious at best, that my Mom tends to fall and hurt herself, and that anything --god forbid--can happen, even with their two and a half caregivers and 24 hour care.

They are equally anxious, probably even more so, because not only am I not going to be here for sixteen days, I am also going to a place that although almost always life goes on and nothing happens, is dangerous. That has always been the refrain of why I stay home: who will take care of them if something happens to me? I can't put them through "that".

A couple of days ago my Dad figured out how to get himself on Facebook. He'd heard everyone talk about it, and, so, somehow, he found the sign on page and registered. That's a pretty amazing feat for a nearly 87 year old man who suffers from diabeties and dialysis caused-dementia, who forgets more than he remembers and understands little where he once comprehended so much. But once he created his basic page, he could not remember how to get back on. He could not remember how to sign on again, or his password. It was like the person who had succeeded has suddenly failed miserably. During my daily check in phone call, he was upset, which had my Mom asking me for help.

So remotely, from the safety of my home computer, I reset his password and created his Facebook page. I added his favorite quote, the one all of us have ingrained in our collective family memory, said at least once a day to Ruthie Dear, but now only when he remembers: "Have I ever told you you're getting more and more beautiful as the days go by?" I added his obsession with Bach, his favorite TV show Seinfeld. I gave him a status update: Hyman is in dialysis for the next few hours and then back home to Ruthie Dear...

I was feeling pretty smug about all this, and even though it was about him, for him, the truth is it was more about me: It was fun, I could feel like I did something for him and it was another distraction from seious work I didn't want to do.

I stopped by their house on my way to Marion's party. Dad was sitting at the dinner table, clearly exhausted from his dialysis treatment. I explained I fixed his Facebook page. He was confused as to the terms, like log in and password and friend request. I wanted to get out of there and brushed off his frustration with my standard refrain: "I'll be over later this week and show you how to do it...gotta jet now." Too much in a rush, always convincing myself I am just too busy, too jammed, with really important things to do, (like sit in traffic) to spend more time lest I lose what is left of my so called important independent life.

Dad just looked at me, so incredibly sad, and started to cry. "I'm sorry you have to help me, I'm sorry I don't remember how, I'm sorry....I'm a burden." I kissed him and said don't worry, I will help you, it's okay, nothing to be sorry about....

Sitting in traffic on the way to the party I began to feel it. That panic of what I will feel when the inevitable happens, and I am here alone. I am terrified of loss. Really truly terrified.

Dad has decided to go to a breakfast meeting at Cedars at 7:30 AM. It's his first one in years. The driver will pick him up along with the caregiver and he will have his beloved bagels that he's not allowed and then come home. Stay tuned for his status update.

Living.....truly living

"Everybody dies, but not everybody lives," is the personal motto of a friend of mine. The sad truth is, it's hard to really live; to chase one's dreams, achieve cherished goals, almost all of them adrenaline-pumping dangerous and none of them conventional. Instead, most of the time, all the what if's, those fears, whether they be real, imagined, hereditary (Jewish mother ones), or whatever, run us.

But then, you hear of such an awful really senseless death like Natasha Richardson's. A beginning bunny slope skiing lesson, a fall, bump on the head, and then brain dead. It hurts the heart to process this and is scary too, as if such a random fate could be contagious.

But there is another mantra to live by: " When it's your time, it's your time." As fatalistic as this belief is, at least it has the potential to move one forward on the journey, letting go of the handrails.