Seeing Red

For a moment, the heat rises from the very tips of the toes all the way to the smallest nerve-endings in the fingertips and from thence to every part of the face. The heat rushes through the veins and tendons, searching out every muscle that can be flexed and made taught. For only a moment, all this happens unfettered by thought, by reality, by anything except the pure and unending rage.

In the one, pure moment before thought, the body is entirely out of its owner’s control, ruled by temper and animal instinct. But for a moment only. Muscles taught, blood pulsing wildly, hands clenching and unclenching, the thoughts nevertheless rise to meet rationality, reality and morals. The rage fights to be heard, to be let out, and while the body might lash out, hit, rend, tear and scratch, it will now be done with the knowledge of what is right, what is wrong, and what hurt is being inflicted because of the temper.

Rage and Temper – two harsh masters of which we all would want to be free. Alas, they are part of our natures. It is only that in some they rise to the surface more quickly, while some are lucky enough to have them lie dormant most of the time.

Sometimes I Want My Ribbons Back

I didn’t write yesterday.

That was very, very, bad. Granted, the fault was not my own, since work finished late and I had to dash home and then out again within minutes because of a meeting I had planned with Sir B. F. and yet it still should not have happened.

Days that escape our control are hard. I think this is true for many people – we have our days planned a certain way, whether it is the same routine every day or whether we have a schedule we adhere to on certain days. When something gets in the way and changes things, it’s frustrating, it’s hard. We feel the control of our day wrenched cruelly out of our control, and we struggle to adapt ourselves to it.

The real strength is in adapting, and this is something I admire in more spontaneous people – the lack of worry when things don’t go as planned, the ability to drop everything and do something on a whim. Since becoming “an adult” who works and has “important things to do” I feel that I’ve become way too responsible for my own good.

Whenever I feel like this, I can’t help thinking of the Tori Amos song “Ribbons Undone” – and most specifically this line: “From school she comes home and cries ‘I don’t want to grow up, Mom. At least not tonight.'”

Anna

Curled up like a ball, hands clutching her knees close to her body, she huddled in a corner, blankets heaped over her form. She felt as if she were blowing away. The room swayed around her, lurching, trying to get her to move, to give up on herself. She couldn’t do it. She wanted to, so bad, but she couldn’t. She wanted to keep what little of herself she managed to retain in that little corner.

The room whispered to her all manner of things – promises of the good to follow when she let herself go, unveiling of the beauty she’d find, guarantees of the necessity of the situation. She tried not to listen; she tried to convince herself it wasn’t true. She knew the room’s urging voice would only sabotage her. She knew she had to concentrate on holding on, and it would have to be enough.

But she couldn’t help hearing the whispers, and she didn’t know how long she could hold herself before she’d break, letting her flesh go to waste, dazzled by false beauty and empty promises.

Yeah, Ok, And I’m Queen Elizabeth

Liars, unreasonable liars, make me cringe. Everyone tells the occasional white lie, either out of politeness [“Oh, that hat is so cool!”] or out of laziness [“Yeah, I promise I’ll clean my room today.”] But people who lie to impress give me shivers of such intense annoyance, I can’t even explain it. I know my response is exaggerated – let them lie, right? Let them tell me whatever they want to impress me, I can just smile and nod and know it’s not true.

What gets to me, though, is that I want to shake them until they tell me WHY they’re lying. I had a friend in junior high who used to tell me and my friends that her uncle knew the whole cast of this Argentinian soap-opera that was big here. She went on and on about how they’d come to Israel just to meet her in a hotel in Eilat [it’s the supposed “resort city” of Israel.]

I’ve known other people who do this since then as well. But WHY must they do it? I don’t CARE if your uncle knows someone famous, it’s not going to make me like YOU any better! The world is a cruel, cruel place if people feel they need to lie and brag about their family connections just to give themselves worth.

But then we all know that already, I guess.

Long Nails – What a Chore!

Friday night! Time to go out and meet people! Right? Right. So what does one do on this night of all nights of the week? One would want to look good, look cool, look awesome. A small, but crucial detail arises – WHAT should I do with my nails?!

If you’re like me, you really like the idea of long nails, but maintaining it is a bit more of a problem. My nails go all over the place – sometimes they’re long and pretty, but even then they’re not filed well and half the time I have two weeks-old polish on them. Like now. Now would definitely be one of those times. Some little red patches adorn these untended, unhealthy nails of mine, and it looks frankly quite horrendous.

Well, that’s easily fixable. Pull out the nail polish remover and scrub scrub scrub away. Amazing how persistent this icky old nail polish is… Ah! There, it’s all off now, though there are still red stains on my cuticles. Oh well, I’m putting black nail polish on anyway. And my pinky-nails will be green. Because I’m weird. Applying nail polish now, steady and easy… Left hand done! Now to the right. This is harder, my left hand is a bit shaky, but ah, there, relatively OK looking.

Now, I just need to be careful not to put my nails near anything… Ho-hum. Oh dang, how did THAT happen?! Urgh, now I have to do that nail all over again! Out comes the nail polish remover again…

Does this happen to you? Half the time I get so frustrated at my ruined nail polish that I just scrub all of it off and say to hell with it.

Two Years

My father died exactly two years ago. I can’t express how much I miss him. Really, I can’t. He was just the most amazing human being, and the most amazing father. He treated my brother and me as human beings, not as children, never as children. He respected us, and found so much to love and be proud of in us, which in turn made us happy, because we respected and loved him so very much.

His presence was so strong, even if he was silent. He always had the radio on, sometimes to good music and sometimes to bad, annoying music or loud and obnoxious talk shows. He never listened when it was on – he was always reading the paper or writing when the radio was on. But he didn’t like the house being silent. I think the most touching moments I’d ever seen my parents in was when a song they both loved came on, and they would start dancing together, bopping around and kissing and embarrassing my brother and I. I realize now, of course, that that was wonderful, so beautiful, so miraculous for two people to have been married for so long and to still have been so much in love.

My largest and most horrifying fear is that I’ll forget my father one day. Forget how it felt to walk hand in hand with him when I was little, forget how it was to be mad at him, forget how it was when he sang me his lullaby, forget how it was to watch him doing exercises and then sitting down to watch the news, forget how he read my papers for school and helped me improve them, forget the smell of his cigarettes and coffee in the morning and the cake or cookie he ate as his breakfast. I haven’t forgotten yet, no, but what if I will one day?

Happy-Happy-Joy-Joy

I’m not a great patriot, not when it comes to Israel, nor when it comes to the US. However, it’s an incredible feeling, knowing that when I go to college I’ll be able to actually support my government and take an acitve interest in its doings, instead of cringing whenever I hear the President’s voice- as I’ve been doing for the past eight years.

Eight is definitely enough. The United States do need change. And I am thrilled that Barack Obama is now in a position to help achieve such change. He is such an inspiring man, full of charisma and, despite his being a politician, what seems to be a genuine belief that he can make things better. Who knows? Maybe in eight years, instead of invading another country, the United States will have public health care! Maybe even gay-marriage rights. Perhaps even tax-cuts going to the right places and not to humongous corporations and people who really don’t need their money.

Let me just vent some emotion for a moment: THANK *INSERT-WHATEVER-YOU-BELIEVE-IN-HERE* THAT PALIN WON’T BE ANYWHERE NEAR THE WHITE HOUSE.

Although I will forever maintain that the US has never and will never see a president as good as Jed Bartlet, I think Obama might be really really close behind. If you don’t know who I’m talking about, LOOK IT UP. *stupidgiggle*

Reverent Reverie

Sometimes sleep is the best medicine. No matter what happens, it’s something the body will do naturally, something that can’t be fought or resisted. Sleep tells us things as well – when we don’t sleep well, it’s because we’re worried about something, or something is bothering us without our realizing it. When bad dreams awake us, shaking and sweating, in the middle of the night, more often than not some unknown or unheeded fear is coming to light or finding a way out so as not to worry us anymore.

And when we’re tired – ah! Such a feeling. It can be awful, being tired to the bone. But viewed the right way, it can be wonderful. If you let yourself surrender to it – not even by sleeping, but just by accepting it – you may feel a languor and a calmness steal over your body in a way that is completely unique. When we’re sick, or not feeling well, our body warns us of it by making us weaker, more tired, more in need of sleep. Again, in these situations being tired can feel wonderful, a deep knowledge that crawling into bed now will help, it will rest your body and mind and make you stronger to fight the germs in you.

Truly, sleep is the best medicine.

My LA Haven

This is the way it’s always been:

Once I enter the large wood-framed glass doors, whether they’re in the mall or next to Ralph’s, my world shifts subtly, becoming a place of beauty and opportunity and most of all, calm. My cares drift away, and I let myself go, knowing I’m in a safe place. I wander the carpeted walkways, the halls, sometimes going up and down escalators. I gaze appreciatively at this corner or that, checking also if any of the chairs in the nooks are taken and if I might have a chance of collapsing into one later.

As a child, my steps, guided by a parent’s or relative’s hand, led me to the section with the big “JR.s” sign above it. All the shelves were at reachable child level, there were dolls and games in a corner and there was the same hand that had led me before, pointing out titles and pictures, helping me pick and choose.

Later, as I grew older, I would venture into that section alone, looking for the taller shelves. I would find my heart’s desires there – whether they were embodied by girls who rode horses and lived in the country or by boys and their dogs or detectives or super heroes. When my hands were too full to carry any more, I would plop myself down on the floor and lean against the shelves or recline in one of the comfy chairs by the windows and wait until my mother and brother were ready to go and pay.

Today, I feel the echoes of these times with me whenever I stride confidently through the vast halls and floors of Barnes&Noble. I focus my energies on the Fantasy-and-Sci-Fi section and the Young-Adult section – for it often holds fantasy novels as well and some adorable easy reading material besides. Whenever I am in the US, most specifically my beloved LA, I beg to be left alone in the shop for a couple hours so I can make my purchases and buy myself a strong coffee and read, cracking the spines of the new books with joy.

Genes…

My mother writes for a living. She does all sorts of writing, but her main employers are a workbook company. The past few days, we’ve both been spending our days writing in our separate rooms – she, her workbooks, and I, my college application essays. It seems that while I might have inherited at least some of her incredible writing skills, I have also inherited a number of other qualities.

For one, when I’m stuck while working or studying, I’m well and truly stuck. No amount of effort or thought will help and I will only get more and more frustrated as I cannot think what to write or how to study. My mother tells me she gets this way as well.

Second, and rather recently, I have become an extreme coffee junkie. My mother cannot start the morning without two cups of coffee in her system. While I haven’t reached such an extreme quite yet, I can feel this trait growing in me, slowly and steadily. I already drink at least three cups of coffee a day, and sometimes more.

Third, and this is one I consider as a true bug, I seem to be more inspired late at night. This doesn’t mean that the products of writing at one and two in the morning are particularly good, but those are the times when I manage to write most easily, letting the thoughts flow out of me. This means most of my days are spent in a haze of tiredness due to lack of sleep.

Genes – a blessing and a curse!