How does it happen that tender jade green leaves of the watsonia are rising through the dry brown remains of the spring flowering?
How does it happen that the leaves on my tomato plant are starting to brown and shrivel?
How does it happen that when I leave my yoga class at 8 p.m. I have to turn on the headlights in my car?
How does it happen that I find a New Year's gift from Israel outside my front door?
How does it happen that it is a year since my visit to South Africa?
How does it happen that the street is full of parents dropping off their kids at school?
How and when did this all happen? It is already September, and I have only recently got used to writing 2015.
Friday, September 4, 2015
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
The New Dimension
The evening was innocent enough.
A friend invited me to dinner at a hip new restaurant on Folsom Street, in San Francisco. The city is changing, and along with it, so is Folsom Street. There are now ultra hip restaurants and new green lofts alongside the leather and chain joints and stores.
We ate at what I would term a modern diner. Delicious American food - a clientele of mixed ages, colors, and genders.
Before we left I went to the bathroom. Or at least, I thought that was where I was going. I walked to the kitchen and was redirected. The friendly hostess came up to me, pointed toward a door on the side, and said the code is 0699, or something similar. I punched in the code, a green light flashed and I entered an entirely different dimension. Pitch dark, flashing strobe lights, mirrors lining the walls, earsplitting pulsating music. I remained stock still gaping, unsure of what universe I had entered. The DJ busy with switches and what have yous happened to look up and pointed towards the back of the room - I think it was the room and I think it was the back. I stumbled my way along, unsure of whether to dance, skip or walk. In the vibrating dark I felt my way right, left, right, and saw a door with the welcome word, restroom. Inside a sign bore instructions to inform someone if you didn't like what you saw or if you felt harassed - I think it meant outside the restroom.
I then fumbled and tripped my way back. My only guiding light was the on again off again glimpse of the DJ amongst the strobe lights and the loud insistent music and the mirrors. Will I ever get back to the world I had exited, I wondered. I opened a door and there I was, back in the relative quiet of the decently lit diner.
I warned my friend who returned as surprised as I had been, even though he had been forewarned. I felt like Harry Potter opening an innocent door to an entirely new universe.
Things have changed in San Francisco, especially south of Market, and they weren't exactly sane before!
A friend invited me to dinner at a hip new restaurant on Folsom Street, in San Francisco. The city is changing, and along with it, so is Folsom Street. There are now ultra hip restaurants and new green lofts alongside the leather and chain joints and stores.
We ate at what I would term a modern diner. Delicious American food - a clientele of mixed ages, colors, and genders.
Before we left I went to the bathroom. Or at least, I thought that was where I was going. I walked to the kitchen and was redirected. The friendly hostess came up to me, pointed toward a door on the side, and said the code is 0699, or something similar. I punched in the code, a green light flashed and I entered an entirely different dimension. Pitch dark, flashing strobe lights, mirrors lining the walls, earsplitting pulsating music. I remained stock still gaping, unsure of what universe I had entered. The DJ busy with switches and what have yous happened to look up and pointed towards the back of the room - I think it was the room and I think it was the back. I stumbled my way along, unsure of whether to dance, skip or walk. In the vibrating dark I felt my way right, left, right, and saw a door with the welcome word, restroom. Inside a sign bore instructions to inform someone if you didn't like what you saw or if you felt harassed - I think it meant outside the restroom.
I then fumbled and tripped my way back. My only guiding light was the on again off again glimpse of the DJ amongst the strobe lights and the loud insistent music and the mirrors. Will I ever get back to the world I had exited, I wondered. I opened a door and there I was, back in the relative quiet of the decently lit diner.
I warned my friend who returned as surprised as I had been, even though he had been forewarned. I felt like Harry Potter opening an innocent door to an entirely new universe.
Things have changed in San Francisco, especially south of Market, and they weren't exactly sane before!
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Cherries and memories
For quite some time now I have been ruminating about the very subjective nature of memory . I was discussing this with my sister who lives in Israel. She is six years younger than me and so we have different memories of growing up in the same house.
For some reason, recently my auntie Rebecca came to mind. Ah, I know the reason. Someone in South Africa is working on a history of the Jewish families in South Africa, and my sister is in contact with this person. My sister is really the family archivist. So we were discussing memory, and a wonderful memory bubbled to the surface of my mind. Sunday mornings in Berea with Auntie Becky. She was the mother of my dad's cousins, and about once a month we would go as a family to visit. her. I remember her flat with a long corridor along which my brother, sister, and myself would run. Auntie Becky had twinkly eyes and curly (possibly permed) grey hair. She always served us tea and these wonderful things she called 'heisenblozen' - like fried dough dipped into icing sugar. Whatever they were, she made them, and they were divine. You bit into the dough and it cracked on your tongue and you licked the icing sugar and it made everything sweet. My sister and I both remembered those things, and the taste of them. What she doesn't remember are Auntie Becky's cherries. Before we left she would take a bottle of brandy out from a closet - apparently she put cherries into this bottle. She would judiciously give each one of us children a cherry, and my parents would get two each. My memory after eating the little bomb is of sugar and fire and laughter and a warm feeling that overtook me
Why do I remember this? At this moment I have boiled together sugar, water, cardamon seeds, lemon juice and brandy and I have poured it over cherries (organic of course) which I pitted.
I cannot wait for them to be ready!
For some reason, recently my auntie Rebecca came to mind. Ah, I know the reason. Someone in South Africa is working on a history of the Jewish families in South Africa, and my sister is in contact with this person. My sister is really the family archivist. So we were discussing memory, and a wonderful memory bubbled to the surface of my mind. Sunday mornings in Berea with Auntie Becky. She was the mother of my dad's cousins, and about once a month we would go as a family to visit. her. I remember her flat with a long corridor along which my brother, sister, and myself would run. Auntie Becky had twinkly eyes and curly (possibly permed) grey hair. She always served us tea and these wonderful things she called 'heisenblozen' - like fried dough dipped into icing sugar. Whatever they were, she made them, and they were divine. You bit into the dough and it cracked on your tongue and you licked the icing sugar and it made everything sweet. My sister and I both remembered those things, and the taste of them. What she doesn't remember are Auntie Becky's cherries. Before we left she would take a bottle of brandy out from a closet - apparently she put cherries into this bottle. She would judiciously give each one of us children a cherry, and my parents would get two each. My memory after eating the little bomb is of sugar and fire and laughter and a warm feeling that overtook me
Why do I remember this? At this moment I have boiled together sugar, water, cardamon seeds, lemon juice and brandy and I have poured it over cherries (organic of course) which I pitted.
I cannot wait for them to be ready!
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Artwork
OK - so I have not been writing a blog a week, (a promise quite recently made to me by me, and only now have I dared to put it on paper.) In my head of course, I have composed entries, but as you may have noticed, they don't get out of my head. However, I have not given up on creativity entirely. Below are examples of my artwork in chronological order. I began taking a class last year, the medium is acrylics.
These are my very first attempts at any artwork. I only discovered this new joy a year ago, and this is just one of the reasons there is not a weekly post. Hah.
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Friday, June 5, 2015
So Proud
I am totally intimidated by anything to do with electricity. More than intimidated, scared.
Many many years ago in South Africa I inserted a plug into a socket, and suddenly felt something moving through my hand and fingers, a strong internal current went up my arm. Whatever it was it was not pleasant, it hurt, and I didn't know what was happening. As the current buzzed it dawned upon me that it is to do with the cord in my hands. I released it and the buzzing stopped, but pain continued, flowing in tunnels up my arm. I haven't touched an electric cord since.
One night in South Africa my brother called me to his bedroom. He had made an exciting discovery he wanted me to see - he licked his forefinger and touched it on the burning lightbulb next to his bead - we heard a sizzling sound and saw a tiny puff of steam. This was great, he then dipped his finger into a glass of water and touched it to the bulb - sizzle, a loud bang, sounds of glass breaking, then darkness. The lightbulb had exploded, luckily neither of us was hurt.
Out of necessity I replace light bulbs and put cords into sockets, but that is it.
The other night I came home and turned on TV - nothing, just a dark blue screen with the words 'no signal' flashing. I turned it off and tried again, same thing. I held down the power button on the cable box for 10 seconds, nothing. When I called AT&T I went through the normal lengthy frustrating process of answering the machines questions, pressing appropriate buttons etc. until eventually a human voice (sort of) took over from the robotic voice. This voice asked my name and then proceeded to say Nesta after almost every word that came out of his mouth. After trying this and that he said my box (transformer? transponder? - whatever it is called) is kaput. "That is technology, Nesta."
He then said they would send me a new box and said I would have to install it myself. He's got to be kidding, I thought, I can't set up this box - I don't know an in from an out cable, and I won't touch anything with electrical cords. He said, "Nesta, it is easy to do. When you get the box, Nesta, log on to AT&TUVerse/fix blah blah, Nesta. Otherwise you have to pay for installation."
He said he would have the box sent, Nesta, and then- I paid no attention as I was no longer listening .
When the box arrived the afternoon of the beginning of the Warriors final play off games I had every intention of running out into the driveway of my home and calling out for some young child to come and help me. But everyone was in school. My male neighbors were not home either.
I opened the cardboard container and pulled out the box and different cables. At the bottom were some written instructions.
I pulled them out and scrupulously followed each and every diagram , and read every written word.
I removed and replaced the coaxial (???) and did the same with the power cord and input cord.Then I pointed the remote at the TV and ........... yahooooooooooooooooooo, it worked!!!
I am inordinately proud of myself and feel like this is one of my crowning achievements!
Many many years ago in South Africa I inserted a plug into a socket, and suddenly felt something moving through my hand and fingers, a strong internal current went up my arm. Whatever it was it was not pleasant, it hurt, and I didn't know what was happening. As the current buzzed it dawned upon me that it is to do with the cord in my hands. I released it and the buzzing stopped, but pain continued, flowing in tunnels up my arm. I haven't touched an electric cord since.
One night in South Africa my brother called me to his bedroom. He had made an exciting discovery he wanted me to see - he licked his forefinger and touched it on the burning lightbulb next to his bead - we heard a sizzling sound and saw a tiny puff of steam. This was great, he then dipped his finger into a glass of water and touched it to the bulb - sizzle, a loud bang, sounds of glass breaking, then darkness. The lightbulb had exploded, luckily neither of us was hurt.
Out of necessity I replace light bulbs and put cords into sockets, but that is it.
The other night I came home and turned on TV - nothing, just a dark blue screen with the words 'no signal' flashing. I turned it off and tried again, same thing. I held down the power button on the cable box for 10 seconds, nothing. When I called AT&T I went through the normal lengthy frustrating process of answering the machines questions, pressing appropriate buttons etc. until eventually a human voice (sort of) took over from the robotic voice. This voice asked my name and then proceeded to say Nesta after almost every word that came out of his mouth. After trying this and that he said my box (transformer? transponder? - whatever it is called) is kaput. "That is technology, Nesta."
He then said they would send me a new box and said I would have to install it myself. He's got to be kidding, I thought, I can't set up this box - I don't know an in from an out cable, and I won't touch anything with electrical cords. He said, "Nesta, it is easy to do. When you get the box, Nesta, log on to AT&TUVerse/fix blah blah, Nesta. Otherwise you have to pay for installation."
He said he would have the box sent, Nesta, and then- I paid no attention as I was no longer listening .
When the box arrived the afternoon of the beginning of the Warriors final play off games I had every intention of running out into the driveway of my home and calling out for some young child to come and help me. But everyone was in school. My male neighbors were not home either.
I opened the cardboard container and pulled out the box and different cables. At the bottom were some written instructions.
I pulled them out and scrupulously followed each and every diagram , and read every written word.
I removed and replaced the coaxial (???) and did the same with the power cord and input cord.Then I pointed the remote at the TV and ........... yahooooooooooooooooooo, it worked!!!
I am inordinately proud of myself and feel like this is one of my crowning achievements!
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Far Away
Thanks so much to everyone who read the entry Back. It is difficult, I know, but not so hard as actually being detained there!
Why far away ? I am now so far away from Israel.
It never ceases to be deeply unsettling, that feeling of being here and there simultaneously, and yet, as soon as I board the plane, the realization of the actual physical distance.
I have not been in Israel in springtime since I left, so very long ago. I always go back in the fall - Rosh Hashanah, when the countryside is brown and parched. I forgot the beautiful spring, especially this year after the winter's rains. Everything is green and lush. Every little patch of earth is covered in flowers - in whites, oranges, reds, deep pinks, purples. To me if feels as if nature is compensating for the war of last year, and too many years past. She reminds us that there is beauty on this planet.
As always, it is so comfortable to be with family and friends - everything familiar, and yet always different, always more ... more construction, more people, more roads...
I have not been on kibbutz for Remembrance Day since I left. I find it very hard to put into words the feeling of being surrounded by warmth and love and belonging - of shared memories, of a past that no one here in America can fathom.
And now, here I am, back with that ever constant ambivalence and dissonance. The holy trinity, Africa, Israel, America - and so it shall be.
Why far away ? I am now so far away from Israel.
It never ceases to be deeply unsettling, that feeling of being here and there simultaneously, and yet, as soon as I board the plane, the realization of the actual physical distance.
I have not been in Israel in springtime since I left, so very long ago. I always go back in the fall - Rosh Hashanah, when the countryside is brown and parched. I forgot the beautiful spring, especially this year after the winter's rains. Everything is green and lush. Every little patch of earth is covered in flowers - in whites, oranges, reds, deep pinks, purples. To me if feels as if nature is compensating for the war of last year, and too many years past. She reminds us that there is beauty on this planet.
As always, it is so comfortable to be with family and friends - everything familiar, and yet always different, always more ... more construction, more people, more roads...
I have not been on kibbutz for Remembrance Day since I left. I find it very hard to put into words the feeling of being surrounded by warmth and love and belonging - of shared memories, of a past that no one here in America can fathom.
And now, here I am, back with that ever constant ambivalence and dissonance. The holy trinity, Africa, Israel, America - and so it shall be.
Friday, May 8, 2015
Back
I am back, from where? some may ask.
I went back to Israel for 3 weeks. I shall write about my visit in an upcoming blog.
What I now want to write about, most urgently, is my one day visit to Holot - a detention center somewhere in the Negev desert - a two and a half hour bus ride from Tel Aviv.
When I posted pictures from Holot on Facebook, many asked about Holot. I posted a link to a website
Please go to this site where you will read about the refugees from Sudan and Eritrea in Israel. They also have a Facebook page where you can keep up with all that is happening, including the most recent demonstrations against discrimination in Israel - this most recent round is discrimination against Ethiopian Jews.
In other words, my friends, discrimination against people of color.
This detention camp is in the middle of the desert, opposite a large military base., and a prison where some refugees have been imprisoned. There is no protection from the brutal sun, cold desert nights, harsh sand-filled winds, even rain which has left slippery clay-like pools.
The people detained there are refugees, men who fled violence and genocide. The word in Hebrew to describe them is no longer refugees - they are known as infiltrators, obviously a loaded word.
We went down there to show solidarity, to let them know they are not forgotten, and to listen to their stories.
Nearly all citizens of Israel have fled persecution and discrimination - how is it possible that this blight is allowed in our midst?
There are valiant volunteers from Israel who do as much as they can; teaching, offering legal aid, medical services, and so on. They are not just from Israel - on our bus were NGO workers from France, the Netherlands, volunteers from America, and various other countries.
My niece has been volunteering with these refugees for a long time now and introduced me to her friends. How these people have maintained their humanity, humor, dignity, and compassion is beyond me. Each and everyone deserves our respect and care, in whichever way we are able to offer this.
The very least we can do is be aware of their plight.
I went back to Israel for 3 weeks. I shall write about my visit in an upcoming blog.
What I now want to write about, most urgently, is my one day visit to Holot - a detention center somewhere in the Negev desert - a two and a half hour bus ride from Tel Aviv.
When I posted pictures from Holot on Facebook, many asked about Holot. I posted a link to a website
 |
Please go to this site where you will read about the refugees from Sudan and Eritrea in Israel. They also have a Facebook page where you can keep up with all that is happening, including the most recent demonstrations against discrimination in Israel - this most recent round is discrimination against Ethiopian Jews.
In other words, my friends, discrimination against people of color.
This detention camp is in the middle of the desert, opposite a large military base., and a prison where some refugees have been imprisoned. There is no protection from the brutal sun, cold desert nights, harsh sand-filled winds, even rain which has left slippery clay-like pools.
The people detained there are refugees, men who fled violence and genocide. The word in Hebrew to describe them is no longer refugees - they are known as infiltrators, obviously a loaded word.
We went down there to show solidarity, to let them know they are not forgotten, and to listen to their stories.
Nearly all citizens of Israel have fled persecution and discrimination - how is it possible that this blight is allowed in our midst?
There are valiant volunteers from Israel who do as much as they can; teaching, offering legal aid, medical services, and so on. They are not just from Israel - on our bus were NGO workers from France, the Netherlands, volunteers from America, and various other countries.
My niece has been volunteering with these refugees for a long time now and introduced me to her friends. How these people have maintained their humanity, humor, dignity, and compassion is beyond me. Each and everyone deserves our respect and care, in whichever way we are able to offer this.
The very least we can do is be aware of their plight.
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