Page 35 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. V #7

But I can’t stop sowing seeds.
equivalent of the US Navy Seals. It was obvious from his sensitive, wary gaze and the way sheaths of muscle shifted under his skin when he moved. He still has the languid grace of a jaguar. Israeli soldiers generally aren’t GI Joes. The body type’s smaller, shorter, more slight. There are women ex-soldiers here too. They tend to smile more eas- ily but otherwise they look the same: aglow with adrenaline and seemingly slight, moving with astonishing grace.
I breathe in deeply of the eau de cow manure. Listen to the warblers and something that gives out a hoarse who-who-whoooo night and day. I take alcoholic-sized gulps of wine. I admire the baby fig tree a neighbor planted. I hope the tree survives. I groove to the indigo-lavender haze that fills much of North Israel and is a fitting backdrop to the pink orchid trees in gorgeous bloom. On the other side of some nearby hills is Judah and Samaria a.k.a. the West Bank depend- ing on your politics. On the other side of other
“Fool that I am, I will con nue to believe
that a person can make a place or a situa on holy with love.”
My neighbors are Eli; Francois who is a Christian Arab born in Nazareth; Raoul whose family has German Holocaust ancestry like mine; Fuad who is a Bedouin tracker; Ukrainian Piotr, whose skin white as the polar ice caps is getting badly sun- burned; and Neguse who’s from Ethiopia so he’s got those shining high cheekbones and that King Solomon bearing. Yes, I somehow ended up in the Handsome Young Male Israeli Ex-Soldier District.
nearby hills is Jordan a.k.a. the Palestinian state depending on your politics.
After my dinner of smoked roast almonds, olive- studded cottage cheese, vegan cornbread, and more wine, I struggle to transform another page. It’s past midnight when I stop work for the night. I pour some Argentinean beans into some water to soak so there’ll be protein tomorrow. I take a hot shower in my bathroom that doesn’t have any- thing like a shower door, just a showerhead and a toilet and sink. Then I binge-watch Netflix to three a.m. Because I fucking deserve it.
I glance back toward my window so that I’m look- ing in from outside. There she still is, steadfast or stubborn depending on your politics. Her light- less silhouette is framed by the graying wood— metaphysicians claim that spirits can exist within wood. The room visible beyond is utilitarian but surprisingly comfortable with high ceilings, an aesthetically pleasing arrangement of windows, and built-in storage. Everything’s positioned so the occasional breeze can pass through. I wonder who designed this room—a woman? A man? A So- cialist collective? The building is basically a long line of these rooms covered by crumbling stucco. Israel threw together thousands of kibbutz build- ings like this and they all look the same.
~
My neighbor Eli saunters by. A shy smile for me though I’m older and American and drinking wine even though it’s not Shabbos. Instant I met him
I knew he was ex-combat from an elite Special Forces unit like Shayetet 13, which is the Israeli
I take my own coffee outside and I sit on the stoop. Blaze of sunlight. It’s hotter than yesterday. To- morrow’s heat will be worse. A stunning quiet. I sip my brew that is the very definition of “bitter” although it has been properly boiled with a spoon-
The next morning I’m surprised as usual to wake up in Israel. I haven’t quite caught up to myself. I still remember too much from the past. Frankly I expected more from the Geographic Cure.
“Want a cup of Turkish coffee with cardamom?” I offer the ghost. She doesn’t reply.
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