and some day in the mist of time
when they ask you if you knew me
remember that you were a friend of mine

RIP Mr Mandela
a true loss..

i have not written--written seriously, with feeling--in quite some time. my mind is blank; i can't read; i don't think; i'm preoccupied with trivialities...worries...desires

i envy those, like you, who are beautiful and creative always..who don't forget themselves in the silence

Mads Mikkelsen becomes both uglier and more beautiful the longer you look at him...

i don't have the strength to worry about you... and that frightens me

f's dialogue of the month

me: ouchhh..
f: where does it hurt?
me: here..
f:: so, stomach
me: not stomach.. lower
f: you know your stomach is not an atom, or a molecule.. it's an organ, it takes some space

what to say

i don't care if mayor Ford is a closet cocaine addict (as long as he does his job effectively)... my only concern is that he lied--repeatedly and shamefully--with that stupid bombast and attitude of his

عشق من٬

i'm so, so proud of you

מזל טוב

if it weren't for the fact that you're coming home tonight, doon doon and i would spend the night on this couch...because waking her is obviously out of the question

there's little that can be said about the range of emotions i feel when reading about some past or recent atrocity in Palestine-Israel.

there is always shame. the knowledge, as a Jew, that centuries of persecution have resulted not in understanding but in violent, reflexive counter-attack is too terrible to comprehend. i've written about this incessantly and i cannot...i cannot come to grips with it; that the blood of my relatives, senselessly and unimaginably spilled, has been replaced by something worse

at the same time, there is the pain of knowing the depth of the terror that drives people to desperation..to this utter loss of humanity

this is all a weight...a pull on my heart. i can imagine that for Ari Shavit of the New Yorker, writing "Lydda, 1948" not just as a Jew, but as an Israeli--an Israeli, moreover, who keeps this tragedy at the forefront--the weight is infinitely greater...

one thing is clear: i can't, of my own accord, listen to music anymore. i lack the mental space... i lack the energy. every so often i look through my collection,  but all i feel is the sting of avoidance...

... possibly the worst disaster of a کوکو سبزی ever
i don't even know how we'll eat it

f's phrase of the illness:

- i: "my mom called; she's very worried about you"
- f: "why, what's wrong with me?"

schmuckism

apparently my mouth starts moving as soon as i wake up--and nothing good ever comes out of it

i'm so sorry..i can't undo my stupidity

amazing how one phone call has generated so much press...and so much hope
fingers crossed and heart a-flutter

a terrible, unsettling dream: i thought it was a snow-covered rocky hill... i was sliding down, bottom-first, pausing occasionally as the snow thinned into soil. with every new slope i realized that it was an enormous mountain..

that i would never reach bottom

f's phrase of the month, in response to my threat of doing something "very unpleasant" to one of her incompetent colleagues:


even thinking of it makes me completely satisfied; you don't even have to act on it...

filled with terrible thoughts today, and worry and fear

waiting.

i don't know if age is progressively making me more emotional, but i'm terribly touched by everyone's notes and wishes and overall loveliness.. i spent half the day near tears

thank you

f's phrase of the anniversary

"1825 days...that's a lot of days"

گل من،
after all this time, it still feels brand new