cutting great neck

So Here I am, after an ENTIRE week out of house. I apologize for the poor quality of my last entry--I was tired, I just woke up, and the keyboard was fucking stupid. And I was so completely bored or not bored that I just felt raw and my fingers didn't slide over the keyboard like they're doing at the moment.

Today is my third full day in my favorite country (MARK--country, not place) in the world. ISRAEL! Ugly, dirty, hedonist, rude, evil Israel--and yet I love it. Jerusalem--oh my Jerusalem!--I'll come visit you in the morrow, or maybe in two days, you beauty, you. And HAIFA! I haven't been to Haifa in more than four--four!--years. Haifa, the green and golden hill rising above the old city, the Metro (if you could really call it a metro), the people--tanned and sharply cast from stone. Jaffa I miss too, and Eilat, and the Dead Sea--Salt Sea--the Gallilee Sea, baby, I miss you. The Mediterranean, blue and shining and clear.

AND MY OWN CITY OF PETACH TIKVA!

The city, the lovely city. Paper scraps all over the black roads, cars sliding all across the roads, houses old and gross, but still it's the city of ALL--ALL--ALL my childhood, darling, all my childhood I spent in a small apartment next to a big garden, once flourishing and colorful and clear, now neglected in midst of weeds. What else, the forest, the orchards are all down and out--sad, sad, terribly melancholy.

Oh, and by way, I got a haircut. I am sad. My Manliness has eroded away to an ugly, ear-enlargening, egg-headed haircut. I might just kill myself one day.

Anyway, goodbye. Talk t'you again. About Barcelona. And Israel. And all that shit, baby.

Here I am, after a day and a half in the city of Barcelona...

It had been very enjoyable--Spain, as always, has been a wonderful town--I live two blocks from the beautiful, marvelous, detailed, astounding, chilling Gaudi's Sangrada Familia, one of the most amazing buildings I have ever laid my eyes on or entered. It really is Barcelona in itself--it's an extrovert, open and accessible, stylish; what everyone seeks for in a European city.

But Barcelona is...it isn't Madrid. It isn't the red, flaring city. It isn't the royal beauty that I know. It isn't the blue skies over black houses, the orange skycrapers, the Return to Europa I've dreamt of years, years before Madrid. Barcelona is pretty, yes, but I can't link with it. It's beautiful...but we haven't seen much.

However, it is Europe. So I do feel like the luckiest person in the world.

Yesterday was a waste of time. We went up to Montjuic, which was nice but I would have rather stayed down in the city, maybe reconsider my point of view. We went to the beautiful fountain, where I had a speck of dust enter my right eye, and could not properly witness the spectacule.

"I heard my mama cried
I heard her pray the night Chicago died."

We also went to the Miro mueseum, which was fascinating, and before that we went up to the Castille-the top of the mountain, the castle--and after Miro, we went to the Spanish Village, which was a touristy beauty, but still a beauty, a marvel. It was so realistic, and yet it seemed too Disney-like.

It was a waste of a day. And my parents couldn't see how wasteful it really, truly was.

Two days ago we went to the Sangrade Familia, a truly amazing cathedral, and to Las Ramblas, which was a slight bore and a tease, with no charm as everybody else said. Maybe today we'll go there in daylight and it might be as spectacular as everybody says it is.

Today, I decided, will be a Gaudi day.

I am EXCITED.

Next time I'm on will probably be in a couple days, and I'll have pictures on; I'll try to, at least.

I will be on an airplane in less than 24 hours. I am somewhat scared, especially of terrorists or crash rather than sickness or something like that. Though I'll get over it, so many people fly nowadays I don't really care anymore.

And Barcelona! Oh, Barcelona! Spain, oh Spain, I'm coming back, just as I promised one year ago! I'll come to you, Barcelona, a city of lights, a city that never sleeps, a city of culture and beauty and exoticness, of scintillating emotion that I long to rejoice in, of freedom and love and romance and history.

How do I know? Because the blood of Barcelona blended through my own, and I can feel the rings of traffic pumping oil under my skins--I can't wait, I can't wait. This has been an object of killin time in this terrible, terrible Saint D. until the day would come--today!--that would save me from the nails of Carmel Valley, the terrible, terrible nails.

How I miss Madrid--and yet everybody's mantim is that Madrid is worse than Barcelona, which is the most wonderful city in the world. And Madrid--ah!--the darkness of the night hidden by the brown flesh of the Spaniards, the legs of ham hung like rats all across the walls, the chocolate that sticks to the bottom of the spoon and never drips like water.

"...down the murky street towards the palace, towards the December fire.

Balls of fire! Aglow with rich red, they stood in the front—the smoke was deep, and the sweat on her forehead twinkled with the stars—huge spears stood in the grass, blazing the skies. People that were shivering just a minute before were now pushing their bodies to the fire until their faces turned a shade of cherry. The woman smiled the biggest smile before marching away from the lights, towards the café.

...

The drums started, the men sang, the guitar was sobbing all over the parquet, the painting in the background shone with the candles ginger, and the three women rose up. Their shoes snapped against the floorboards, their eyes misty with the act—and then they started yelling, yelling like the African warriors, and they circled on the floor, tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tack, slow and then faster and faster, like blood their dresses faded in and out, in and out, a veil of lust, heel shoes hacking in the still air, darkness plugs inside their chests, they flamenco through the night, cheers, a standing ovation in such a crowded room is simply treacherous! T
hen it stops. The place is completely silent. Everyone shakes hands, leaves. She rises too, undresses, puts on her coat, slithers her way and climbs up the hill to fetch a taxi back home.

What a night!

Every eleven it starts…but Madrid doesn’t end with morning." -from my "Scarlet Night".

Oh, if only Barcelona were better!

-----

But between visiting Barcelona or Israel, I would obviously, infinitely, blatantly decide upon the country of my home, the home of my country, the heart of mine. There, all my family--Rony! Matan! Evelyn! Eitan! Savta Ani, Savta Nety, Savta Nety, Savta Ani. And Paula! And Friends, oh joyous, wonderful Friends! Should I just list them:

Elai, Sai, Matan, Nir, Chen, oh and So Much More!

I miss it SO TERRIBLY! The nights, the mornings, the noons, the afternoons, the loves, the hates, the dull moments, the bright moments, the air, the cars--imagine, cars and cars and crazy drivers and seas and deserts and hedonists, full of hedonists who seek nirvana in the beauty and glory of the Holy Land and the Hebrew, oh what a Wonderous Language!

How I miss the slur from the KAH! to the RAH! to the LAH! and the night, oh the night, so dark...and biking in the rain, in the sand, and the buildings, tall and orange, packed with human beings. And my own room at night. I forget how it looked like, I forget how it sounded like...

And I am not scared of bombs, or shooters, or meanies who wish to Kill Me--Israel is the country for that!

Oh, how I WANT to go! In less than a week, I will be there! And in less than two days...

Barcelona, here I come!

was today. Just an hour ago, probably.

So I hate to juggle balls and have school, Hebrew school, tennis, piano plus more and more things on my hands, right? And I had a recital today for piano. I had to play Santa Lucia, a song which I will now hate for the rest of my life.

So I went there and I was taller than everybody else by at least two feet. I was already embarassed just to step into the goddamn building, goddamn it. All the kids were either Asian or whites who had no life.

Here was I: a white, pimply guy with a huge afro and an idiotic smile.

Some kids played songs with three or four notes; some played a song all across the piano, from the highest B to the lowest C.

I had a relatively hard/medium piece, compared to all the others. Don't forget that I forgot my notes.

And I was shaking.

The piano teacher called my name and I walked to the piano, sat down, and started. (Nobody made any mistake so far.) I started off too fast--my fingers were trembling, sliding across the notes, I couldn't breathe. I stopped playing, looked back at the teacher, smiled, and asked: "Let me do this again?" Now everybody was chuckling.

I started all over again. I couldn't think, I only moved my fingers.

Goddamn shaking like a 90-year-old psycho.

And it flowed for about thirty seconds. Thirty shaking, quivering, short, happy seconds from the almight Saint--and then--cruch!--my fingers took me down, and down, and down, and I started playing my own music--C D F C E R F H J A P O K D F K L F S D O P J until a very long F or A or whatever note that was.

And I stopped.

I stood up, laughed, quivered, looked pained, sniffled, looked at the teacher, who said something unrecognizable (Maybe "Good luck next time" or, even better, "You should have studied more!" or even better than that, "I quit, you stink, learn piano by yourself.")

I think I might kill myself. I might just go to the bathroom and cut my wrists with a lollipop. (NOT.)

I hate this. Now I got a headache from eating too much candy. I am embarassed, my skin oily from sweat (long gone now, the only hint is the stench), and I have a surprise birthday party to attend in less that twenty minutes.

Guck. I am sad.

Most embarasing moment ever.