lightning strikes

lightningI count 7 one thousands. If my 6th grade science class doesn’t fail me, that means the storm is 7 miles away. I wonder if the Israelites count storm distances in miles or kilometers. Something to look up later.

It’s very pretty here..My aunts backyard of kumquat trees (maybe she steals those from the neighbors), astroturf floor, and wooden outdoor furniture set (perfect for my mom’s endless afternoon jasmine tea) is getting pounded by the rain. And just when my Israelite cousins adamantly reassure my brother and I: That’s it! winter ees ovehr! another flash flood hits central Israel. Rain is rain, water is just water. We spent a good 3 hours at CafeNeto, my brother’s favorite (and only) coffeeshop a few blocks away from my cousin’s house, where he made friends with Yael, an english speaking waitress.  We sketched eachother sketching eachother, and played with Maayan, our almost 5 year old cousin who would fare well in some sort of Baby Einstein contest. She’s hilarious, independent, likes making cat noises, and won’t let guys, inluding these 2 familial idols, come close to her unless she permits. She never hugs without reason. It’s frustrating when you want to eat her but she decides to draw abstract kites and cakes full of candies that taste like olives and marshmallows.

It’s farm time on Monday. “I need some extra clothes that’ll proabably get destroyed,” I told my aunt. My uncle gave up 2 sweaters and his old army sweatshirt, that’s superwarm and allegedly unwearable in the United States. Who cares? Is Border Control really EVER going to dig through someone’s luggage and confiscate a sweater?  Plus 2 are the pants from the shuk in Tel-Aviv.

Craziness, madness.  First of all, the market, in certain areas, smell. It’s a mixture of first-rain asphalt, crushed bananas, dusty antiques and piss. shukSecond, everyone shouts in the shuk. You might think that the watermelon and fake designer shirt vendors are shouting composed, meaningful sentences in the shuk but the truth is very different.  Here are some conversations I’ve picked up, and the real message.

“My brother! You son of a bitch! What are you eating for Shabbat?” (I’m bored here, I haven’t sold a scarf yet, how are you?

“Grapes! Three shekels for a kilo! They’re good for the digestive system and diarreah (I need to get rid of this stuff. It’s late in the day and my feet hurt. Oh also, I need to check my email)

“Everything is half off! Girls, girls get in! The good watches are in the back!” (More Americans from birthright. I can finally get rid of the stuff I bought on wholesale)

The farm, the farm, the farm.  Sometimes I feel like Indiana Jones in temple of doom, when asked by his friend during the middle of a plan what happens next, responds “I don’t know. I’m making this up as I go along.”

farm

I’m asking myself now: Does everything need a purpose? Sometimes it’s just instinct and gut that takes us there. We should try to listen to them more often. They know what they’re talking about. No concrete goals for this part yet, just that I’m excited to meditate and be alone, working, planting, building with mud. We’re bombarded with messages all day. I’m excited to turn them off.

And now the mantra I need to live life by!

Slow. Down.

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urbaneskimo

I'm fascinated with people, their stories, where they're coming from and where they're headed. Met many, and now it's time to write my own. follow the footprint.

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