how i hate the fact that i've gotten to know emma's family through her illness...

too many emotions today.

i think it's quite fitting that i spent the holiest of all holy days on the jewish calendar--not fasting, not praying, not atoning--but comforting, cheering, and caring for a sick relative; that we were able to talk without the incessant interruption of phone calls and neighbours and food deliveries; that my time was spent in quiet contemplation of her decent mood; of the fact that i made her smile

you cannot imagine how much i hate myself for not being with you right now...

a beautiful, foggy day--a day to write...

what a shame that i'm at work

why should we prefer the "softer"--egyptian, lebanese--varieties of arabic, when what's characteristic of the language is that thick, wonderful, glottal ayn?

i assume, of course, that those of us who love it, do so for the same reasons :)

among other things, it occurred to me that i might have a pleasant night after listening to snippets of the pros and cons of hitch hiking--but the reverse happened... tense, worried dreams about loved ones and old friends.. the general stupidity of broken sleep, snoozed alarms..

i made some very edible (in fact, delicious) croutons out of some extremely inedible bread
...and i'm oddly proud of myself

flexural isostasy
maybe because it's 2am, but this looks/sounds weirdly sexual

seven years, عشق من
i still can't believe it.

has europe so easily forgotten its dead?

i can't believe what i'm seeing

until i've told you, i don't feel that i've told anyone.

what i mean is... things stay with me until you've heard them

i fully support the guardian's decision to run that devastating photograph on the front page and uncensored. there are people who need to see it and to feel deeply, terribly ashamed about their objections and their ignorance and their hate.

and i'm appalled by the fact that the globe and mail--a canadian paper that also ran the photo uncensored--referred to "migrants," not "refugees," in its headline.

if it hadn't been such a trying, emotional day, the neat row of stoic, stone-faced russian seniors sitting in front of emma's building would have been hilarious

because i was reminded of it recently, and because of our guests from berlin, i dreamt of singing along to tumbalalaika among a dinner table of german-speakers
***
a unique sense of childhood accompanied by the weight of nostalgia and loss

does he kiss your eyelids in the morning
when you start to raise your head
and does he sing to you incessantly
in the space between your bed and wall...

a great, great high school song that has--shockingly, inexplicably--withstood the test of time

all night, i dreamt of homeless people. i felt quite apart from them although i, too, was looking for a place to sleep. i found what looked like a mechanic's shop, but the men there seemed rowdy and slightly drunk. i found a tiny run-down room with four people to a bed...

then, lying on a doorstep, a girl who looked so much like my sister, who had nearly drowned, and who was still soaking wet. she tried hard to speak, but nothing came out. i put my hand on her bloody belly and stayed to comfort her until she passed..

i don't know where i slept, or if i did

i returned to the area the next day to find the police doing a "sweep".. children being removed from the bike shops where they "lived".. families packing up. i was concerned they'd arrest me, for some reason, and walked in the opposite direction

جان دلم
милая моя
אני אוהבת אותך

no language is enough

warmest, dearest birthday thoughts and wishes

miss fisher's murder mysteries

maybe the best line of the series:

Isobelle, facing two policemen: so, which one of you wants to inspect me?

i haven't seen the last episode yet, but i really, really, really can't believe the daily show is over. anticipating an emotional night...