Congratulations – you will be great. Now we just need to find three talented people to replace you . . .

whoa. again...

I should make a rule of never rereading my superb university papers. (My usual debilitating modesty doesn't prevent me from saying this--they were well-written, well-researched, and well-argued.) I doubt that level of eloquence is still within my grasp, in an academic context, and the thought is extremely depressing.

I was once asked whether I look back at previous work and think, "that was brilliant." When I answered no, I was told that I wasn't old enough, yet, to do so...

Yes, I'm sure that manual will be very useful for the three people we hire to replace you.

oh man.
*sob*

f's phrase of the year

[after finding a "mini seedless watermelon" sticker attached to her sweater]

Darling, I've just thought of something. You picked up a mini seedless watermelon. See?

سال نو مبارک

دوستانم، عزیزانم،
wishing you the warmest year
the smell of spring
the sun always on your face

spell: futility

i feel ridiculous. 

i feel ridiculous because i haven't written, and i feel too ridiculous to write. 

i feel ridiculous.

I have not read one intelligent, well-reasoned argument that has convinced me of Israel's need to remain a Jewish-majority state. This experiment has failed--and failed miserably--on so many levels, beginning with injustice and ending with something that strongly resembles apartheid, whether or not you're brave enough to actually use that word.

I advocate for the two-state solution because there is no other, at this point, that realistically provides for Palestinian self-determination. But ethically, logically, the only reasonable solution is one state, granting equal citizenship and rights for all, granting the full right of return, and--come what may--a provision for the rights of a sizeable Jewish minority.

Until quite recently, listening to "Famous Blue Raincoat" had been searingly painful--memories, longings, regrets... the fortunes and misfortunes of the past wrapped up in Cohen's deep, dark voice. The sting is gone now, and in its place the peaceful melancholy of acceptance... of untroubled nostalgia.

does fog have a smell? i think it does.

i hadn't realized how much i'd banked on going until i was forced to confront the scale of my disappointment. activism doesn't need to happen on the ground, of course, but i feel so useless here... so removed from what matters. i have to join some groups .. or start some.. or do something more than.. this.

but none of it was surprising; i expected too much too quickly. i have no reach. i have no influence. and, as we say in russian, this is чтоб жизнь малиной не казалась. so you don't think life is sweet as raspberries.

no. that it isn't. i never thought my "raspberries" would be a trip to Hebron.

On the occasion of Holocaust Memorial Day I remember my own family: those who perished in the camps; those who fled and disappeared, never to be seen again; those who hid and were hidden; those who were taken; and those who, with luck and kindness--or with great and terrible foresight--survived.

I was taught, as a child, never again. Never again will the world know such horror, such suffering, such death. And not only has it happened many times over--it continues. 

On the occasion of Holocaust Memorial Day, I remember. And I pray only that others remember, too, how easily, how quickly, fear and hate and suspicion turn to evil.

On the occasion of Holocaust Memorial Day, I say Free Palestine. I say No Ban. No Wall. 

Never Again.

i have been chased for two nights straight--killers, teenagers, the police...

last night i dreamt that a child of about 14 was encouraging another to buy and take cocaine. i tried to talk to them, but they disappeared at some point. when i found the first in an abandoned victorian-style home, he was pretending to study. he sat on the roof, just outside a tiny attic window, with his notebook unfolded on a tiny desk. i said hello, carry on, and turned around. i knew he was hiding the second boy somewhere.

i approached a small shape covered by a heavy blanket and uncovered one end. the second boy was face-down on the floor. i could see white powder around the side of his face... his skin had a strange bluish tint. i knew he'd overdosed. i even--i'm ashamed to say--kicked him, in an effort to wake him up, but he was heavy as rock.

i felt the boy on the roof watching me as i left. i acted as if nothing had happened, but i took my cell phone out too quickly, before i was hidden by the fence. i started to run while calling the police. i tried to calculate how long it would take him to get downstairs and catch up with me. i wondered, in my terror, how he'd sat there so calmly--as if he was impervious to the death.

the dispatcher i spoke with was laughing at something.. she couldn't stop. i think it was the frustration that woke me.

...

last week there was a disaster of some sort, and everything around me was in ruins. later, i flew above the city--as always, much too fast, much too high, in a bizarre upright position. the people on either side of me were supposed to be friends, but i was afraid. deeply afraid.

Oshima Ryota

هیچ یک سخنی نگفتند
نه میزبان و نه میهمان و
نه گل های داوودی

[translated by Ahmad Shamlou]

No one spoke
The host, the guest,
The white chrysanthemums.

[translated by Kenneth Rexroth]

love that my mother's reasons for calling last night included the following:

- to point the phone at the TV so i could listen to a tribute show for one of our favourite russian singers

- to discuss what rafsanjani's life/death means for reformists in iran--and for iran in general

love that she always, always calls after having a political discussion with an iranian colleague

phrase of the day: miigwech ["thank you" in Ojibwe]

farzaneh recently asked if, growing up, i ever ("in a million years") imagined i'd be a voice for the palestinian cause.

no, i never did. i mean, i never thought about it. the issue was too "black and white" to warrant attention. i wonder how many there are, like me, who look back on at least a decade of inaction with the shame of ignorance.. the shame of turning a blind eye.

new year's resolution: be less "me."

all i do is hurt myself.

happiest new year, my lovelies

wishing you all everything beautiful on this earth

i guess i should thank the construction crew that i've been cursing all week; they got me to work on time this morning.

wake-up call

it never occurred to me that my own sister may find me interesting or important enough to want to read my journal. i was shocked to discover that she did and always had. i was even more shocked to discover that, although i write publicly and want to be heard, on some level, i don't really expect anyone to listen. 

maybe it wasn't "shock" after all. maybe it was disappointment--even for me, the low opinion was very low indeed.