Bush, Sharon and the UN: since then they lived happily together

Reuters ©

"What Ariel Sharon and you have going:
Analyze your relationships with Ariel Sharon - in mathematical terms - for presence and strength of mutual commitment, intimacy, passion, and synergy."
© Top Synergy Corp.

I'm going to a Fortune-teller

1.

Most of the time I have no problem telling the future.

You're saying, "That's not such a difficult trick. No difference here between Past, Present and Future. Our Time is linear, following a straight line, like the cardiogram of a person unilaterally disconnected from the world.

The second law of thermodynamics claims Time is irreversible?
You're making Time laugh, baby. Turning back could be achieved only when you're moving.
Telling the future in our world is really a child's trick."

2.
I'm going to the fortune teller, and tell her straight away:
"Listen, usually I have no problem foreseeing the future. Suddenly - I'm in the dark. I see nothing."

She's gathering her skirts around her, mixes her cards, swallows her coffee, divines the residue at the bottom of her cup,
and faints.

I wipe her face with my dainty muslin handkerchief (the laundresses is for sure raising an eyebrow) and softly say,
"Maritza, don't put up a show. What is it you're seeing?"
Answers she, "Corinna, sweet lady, Nothing. Pit endless darkness, I swear."

Now I'm real scared. "You too?!"
I push the megaphone into her face and scream, "What is it you're seeing?"
Says she, scared and crying, "I see nothing, I swear by the black angel of terror and vengeance, I see nothing."

I plead with her, "Maritza, please do give me one glimpse of future. I'm not a lady, I'm the baby you've breastfed from day one. What is it I'm asking in this desert? Just one drop of future, sweet and pure.
Tell me what is it you're seeing."

Says she,
"I see a silent movie. The Future is watching, asleep, quietly waiting for a Rabin on a white horse to wake her up with a loving kiss."

read it in Hebrew;

Twice Ariel Sharon

Each Meeting Was More Fantastic than the other...
a long title for a short story, with no moral

Israel not being a kingdom it's not rare to meet some of its knights.
Yet for an Israeli humble writer to meet Sharon would be rarest than meeting the royalty in UK.
For where could she meet him?
At a rally against the invasion (we're talking Lebanon)?
No chance.

But even much earlier, here's what happened:

How I Met Ariel Sharon, #1
On the evening preceding the 1973 Yom Kippur Eve, some relatives from South America came to tour Israel.
Remember, a few days earlier Dayan, then Minister of Defense had declared, "Never before was Israel's situation safer!"
(Another reason why we feel so safe and trustful).

On the night preceding the 1973 Yom Kippur Eve - a time when the weather is still unbearably hot - we came to pay our respects to our wealthy relatives, dressed in our best attire, which in my case consisted of a long dress with a great decollete.

There we were, at the palatial Hilton Tel-Aviv, waiting for the elevator. And very soon indeed the click and ring and light flashes signaled it's arrival,the doors opened, and out comes, who if not Ariel Sharon.
He was already quite large and hence impossible to ignore.
I looked at his face to read what it says and indeed it spoke, actually his eyes alone, not to me but straight to the depths of my decollete.

How I Met Ariel Sharon, # 2

A few years later - cannot recall if it was before or after Sabra and Shatila, The Lebanon War - the exact date was not put on record among the multitude of dates assaulting us daily.
We were invited to a colleague's son Bar Mitzvah.
As an event, a Bar Mitzvah, when a son reaches the age of thirteen, is second only to a wedding in its importance.
If it's a colleague's son celebration, you better attend it if you fear for your life.

But what if this colleague happens to be a member of the central committee of your party?
Indeed, he might be only one of some two thousands, but still, these people are the ones who choose the leaders.
If you fear for your political life, you better attend it. So the word spread out: Arik Sharon is amongst us.
I went to the buffet, put a few things on my plate, and turned to go back to our table.

Rest assured I was still young and beautiful and so was my decollete.
I turned from the buffet with my plastic plate in my hand, and who do I see heading straight to the crowded buffet if not, again, the same Ariel Sharon (almost, yet much greater in stature).
I looked straight at his face and again his eager eyes spoke eloquently.

He was staring straight into my hands, at the borekas on my plastic plate.

Being vain I don't want even to contemplate the burning question:
What If I were to go up on that elevator at Hilton in the same dress, yet with a plate-full of food in my hands?
And why, after so many men have peered into my decollete and so many others have eyed the food on my plates, why do I still remember that one above all?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
read it in Polish; in Farsi in Hungarian; in Russian; in Hebrew;

A Parliament Member's Confession - February 2065

Sixty Years from Now



1.

Your Honor, The President of Shelterel, esteemed Knesset Members, Ministers, Prime Minister, Honorable Audience - -

This confession is not that easy to make.



Not that easy since - unlike during those dark times - it comes non-coerced, from the depths of my heart.



I was young then - relative to the present - and have grown older, yet the thing does not leave me alone. Her voice echoes inside my head when I go to sleep and as I awake.



Her name in Shelterel was Citizen C.

Very little I knew of her, but of course it is impossible to know all the time all about all the citizens - this is not even our duty. Enough to know that they are naive and alive, that they trust us and that on the decisive day they will know for sure to insert the right piece of paper inside the right box.



Citizen C. did trust me, I had no doubts about it whatsoever. To me she came, here and there, with the stories of citizen-with-no-citizenship Anisa, as-if-citizen Salim, corruption in the small townships and why not have a country-wide publicity against sexual harassment at the work-place - I swear to you that at our Ministry even seventy years ago such things never occurred, for sure, I told her so... etc.



I assume that my assistant took well care of her calls.



2.



Things went on smoothly, me doing my thing, she doing hers. I trusted her.



Then, one day - she'd find the right time to call! - in the midst of a most fateful elections time, really fateful for me as citizen and as chairman of a party so close to it's fall, to mine.



Sixty five years have passed. I well remember and will never forget:

"Do listen, please: Those who were children during the Holocaust times - not the death camps survivors, but the ones whose turn to be sent there had yet to come... they are still alive, here, tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, myself included - and they are not young anymore. Sick, poor, robbed of their compensations by The State of Shelterel who'd reached the Reparations Agreement with Germany in our unasked-for name, and undertook to compensate us itself.



"Shelterel had taken hold of those monies!They interrogate each claimant!Come, do come to the Justice House and see for yourself the march of the robbed and dismantled. People in their eighties, leaning on a cane or in wheel-chairs, coming to explain to the eternal judge aligned to the eternal legal representative of the Finance Ministry - explain and prove minutely, have them spread out in the court their bitter fate - all in all just to get a few more crumbs of disability percentage to enable a few additional pennies to their Holocaust Survivors' Disability Pension.



"Come and see how law representatives of the Finance Ministry interrogate at the court: a woman who was raped by German soldiers was asked to say what color the soldiers' uniform was; if it was the color of the local 'legionars' (enabled by the Nazis) then she is not entitled to compensations - that is The Word of the Law in Shelterel!

She couldn't remember the color of the uniforms - and her appeal for that meager Disability pension was denied!

She had no strength to appeal to a higher court, so appalled she was, so shaken.



Come, Come and hear the Legal Representative of The State of Shelterel uttering lightly the sentence frequent in the vocabulary of the Holocaust Denial: "It was war-time, so everybody suffered. At war-times everybody suffers."



It is mandatory to change that law once for all!Now we have Basic Human Rights and Freedom Laws!They are robbing the Holocaust Survivors!Those robbed of childhood are robbed now by The State of Shelterel!"



3.

As if I have not know all along that much.

I told her, this was sixty-five years ago, I well remember and will Never Forget:



"The naked truth is, Citizen C., that people as well as the government and all the bureaucrats are really fed up with the Holocaust.



"Look here, I'm now immersed in the elections. I give you my honorable word that immediately after the elections I'll harness myself wholly to this task of having the law changed. Take my word for it."



4.

The truth is, she gave me more than one day of grace after the elections, more than the conventional ninety days.

Then she called.

She wrote.

The secretary received her calls and letters. Passed them on to me.



I was immersed in negotiations with the Finance Ministry. A Minister of Education has great responsibility towards the children of Shelterel. Faced with that dilemma which I now share with you undisguised, I had to make a selection, to choose between the children living their childhood with us here and between those robbed of their childhood way back over there. It was not us who'd robbed them of their childhood - the German Nazis did it, let their name be erased!



We'd only robbed them of their reparations. Yet we provided them with tents, we provided them with housing and lands taken from you-know-who. We've built a Shelter State exactly as proclaimed in the Declaration of Independence.



I was busy with a multitude of activities, with the Party needs. There is a limit to the age a Minister of Education can be made responsible for, there is a limit to how much one can bargain and quarrel with the Minister of Finance and his well experienced clerks. I well knew that right away they'll throw into my face: "How much of your budget are you willing to do without?"



Their childhood had lasted three or four years. Their olden days with us weren't long either.



There is a limit to the quantity of pain a heart can hold.



The hour has come to say, without any monetary commitment - True, Mr. Minister of Finance, true? None of them is with us by now, true?



Simply, a confession:



Her voice echoes inside my head, inside my whole being, to this very day:

"Yosiniu, Yosiniu, do not forget who you are!"

The voice, the warm, hugging trust that only a naive citizen is able to express. Lost.

"Yosiniu, Yosiniu, do not forget who you are!"



Even if she is not with us at the Distingushed Guests gallery, she's here, shouting inside my head.

Enough is Enough! Have her Shut-Up! Till when?!



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Any semblance to Reality is not by chance.

read it in Russian; in Hebrew;in Hungarian;

Restaurant Life (according to Radio News)

"Good Morning! You're early today, it's only 11:45. What will you order?"

"Brunch. May I have a menu? What's up?"

"Here."

"Oh, where are my glasses... Do read it for me."

"Right. Lady, We have a special offer, a la carte, on fire!



"First Course:

"60 years old gentleman. Killed his divorcee. Passionate love. Shot her.

"Son, killed his father. Quarrel over a cigarette.

"8 years old boy. Shot in the back of the brain. At Beit Hanun. Sorry, not at our restaurant. Over there. Pity, brain is most tasteful, ha? Why don't you smile?"

"Enough."



Main Course:

"50 years old father, raped and abused daughters since they were 4 years old. Clean previous record.

"Five young men spent some nights with a girl, then sold her around. For the duration of one year. Happy she was."



"Nothing new at your place. Anything for Desert?"

"Sure! 2 years old baby, found walking alone on the road, in the cold and rain.

"Naked.

"Sweet, ha?"





read it in Hebrew; in Russian; in Polish;

An unforgettable New Year Resolution

Technorati challenges us: What is your New Year Resolution?



To tell you the truth, I'm out of resolutions this year.

Except some, not fit for print.



But I do remember one New Year Eve in New York City, back in 1990.

I was invited to a party at a lady's fancy house.

A roof apartment in the SOHO neighborhood.



The living room was lighted with candles.

People sipped wine, talked, each one presenting her or his kind resolution.

We were invited to the roof, or rather slowly people started drifting to it, passing through a little bedroom full with toys.

"My granddaughter's room," said the hostess, proudly.



The night was bright. The roof was rich with plants, actually the same plant everywhere.



People were sampling the leaves, giggling. The air filled soon with this sweetish smell I abhor.



"What plants are these?" asked Corinna.

"Joint! Grass!" said the hostess. "Want some?"



Politely I thanked the resolute grandmother, and went home to my Muse.

Musing.

On Being an Unpaid Writer

Everybody seems to be still full asleep - the first bus, the closed eyed shutters in the buildings, the butterflies in my green garden.

On the electric wire, two young crows, a wing distance between the two of them.
She's looking straight ahead.
His head is turned towards her, his beak moving.

My window is closed, I cannot decipher the crow crow monologue, yet for sure I won't open the window and invade their privacy.

She stays still, unmoved.
He ventures two tiny steps closer.

Immediately she takes flight, disappearing among the trees.
He stands still, his beak raised to the rosy fingered sky.

Then off he flies. Where to?

~~~~~~~~
read it in Russian; in Polish;

To-night I saw Farenheit 9/11

More than one question invades my mind and heart:

1.

How could it be that the death of a soldier is annouced to his parents on the phone?
In Israel the army sends at least two people, one of them will often be a physician.

The mother in this film was told by phone. She was all alone in the house at that time. All she had to hold to was the leg of a table.

At the beginning of the film Bush Junior says a President does not have to be in the office at the White House - there are faxes, e-mails, phones.

Apparently the USA Army did not have the short-sighted parents' e-mail address or fax number. Otherwise it might have sent the family an Incredimail, with flowers, animation in which the dead son waves good bye, music, the President's most warm and human handwritten signature.
How inconsiderate of the parents.

2.

Since USA is across the street from us, and getting closer by the day, I couldn't but compare each line and image in the film with the Israeli reality.

We do have, especially lately, lots of films relating to one single event or experience.

We do not have yet a probe into the pattern repeating itself throughout those last fifty years in my own country, here in Israel. Same as in USA or wherever money translated into power, power translated into money feed on the gullible honest Everyman, trained to trust blindly.

What a mutual trust: In our leaders Citizen X trusts, in Citizen X our leaders trust.





read it in Hungarian;

Trust Me

A young Israeli journalist, himself a blogger, called to ask about my Blogging Offensive.
I told him about my encounter last Saturday.
It had to be very light indeed, with the mediator cracking jokes in between speakers.

Coming upstage I whispered, "Ask me if it's true I've met Arik Sharon twice in intimate circumstances.
In the heat of my talk I forgot all about it but he hadn't. I was genuinely surprised by such an intrusive question.
In my childhood and youth my dream was to be an actress...

The audience held their breath. As I got to the story of the second meeting, when asked to guess what, they were sure it had the same outcome as in the first encounter.

Now, it's not that they thought I'm able of such banality, or that they were that gullible.
The audience simply let itself tricked into the side alley of my story, as, after mentioning as an aside the food, I was repeating that "on the second occasion my beauty and decollete were no less attractive".

I've been impersonating a vain woman and they bought the story until the last moment.

Isn't impersonation exactly what Sharon and so many politicians are performing daily from their podium?

During the last elections campaign here in Israel, it was said, and I do not know how true it is but true it sounds, that as Sharon was coached to declare in face of the camera, "I will bring Peace and Security!", at one point, while being masked with makeup powder, he muttered: "I might end up believing it myself..."



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

read it in Russian;

In the Footsteps of...

the Gibsonian male...



Since the blogosphere rages now with this crucial question, What chapter and from which Testament --

mind you, in my humble opinion there is only one Testament, the other is plain Bible --

So the question is, from where will the Gibsonian Male pick the theme of his next grand opera?



Forgive my long introduction, but I'm kind of shy.

OK. Let me say just this:



On this twice Holly day (Purim & Woman's Day), I cannot think of a better selection than the good old Meggilatt Esther!



Megillat Esther, for the information of the uninitiated, is the true love story not yet told but re-told each Purim - of King Ahashverosh the decadently benevolent tyrant, Femme Fatal Queen Esther and her scheming pimp of an uncle Mordechay, and how one woman's body saved the Jewish people, including me and Joseph, from another anti-Christ (namely Hamman the Wicked), and how this sweet man - who only wanted all Jews to be killed and Jewdaism annihilated - how much fun it was when he was carried throughout the streets of Shooshan the Capital City with a big ad all around his belly and behind, and how he never shed a tear, not even when left hanging, except this endlessly repeated mantra: "I only followed God's Orders to the letter."



Yet why give away the secret, Why not make myself this film? Hey, who volunteers for what role? Don't worry about the money - -



Wait, wait, somebody is knocking on my door. Should I open it? Is he the bearer of the first million or another man whose love I have not returned?

Should I hide the kitchen knife under the mattress?



Sorry it was just a messenger with a bunch of flowers, I won't touch it with a fingernail - it might conceal Jesus knows what thorns.



You see, I too can be a film director. What is the film industry if not a fun way to make money via the Dolorosa of manipulating primeval instincts, tear ducts, immortal stereotypes?



2.

Yes, Purim! I never thought there could be a better day to celebrate Woman's Day.

Purim "is good enough and will suffice", as Robert Frost said on Ice.



As a proof, "let me share with you" (a North American euphemism) yesterday's miracles in Tel-Aviv:



Everywhere, but everywhere I was greeted by men in black attire wearing colorful wigs on their heads:

"Come to hear the Megillat Esther being read!"

Usually only men are invited to a minyan of prayer.

Said I in genuine astonishment. "Is it to glorify Woman's Day, or are you Reform?

Anyway I don't fancy Ahashverosh, Too fat."

He ran to search for other women.

In vain.

Of course, who comes to a mall to hear the Megillah?



3.



Don't think for a moment that I was writing this post since I threatened some of you with it's arrival a couple of hours ago.



Actually I was preparing a shakshooka, which in my eyes is the real food to celebrate Purim as Woman's Day.



It's from our region and not only more dietary than the Homentashen ("Hamman's Ears") cakes but chock-full with feminist symbols.

Also, eating a dead person's ears is not appealing. We had had and still are suffering because we just use to drink blood of Christian innocent babies come Passover.



This is how to celebrate correctly:



a.



Cut a large fat onion into tiny pieces (remind me one day to tell you how Hundertwasser's Viennese girlfriend brought him onions as a gift because she heard that Jews love onions).

Onion symbolize tears, right? Fits like a glass shoe.

(You can avoid the tears by letting water run from the tap).



b.



Fry the onions in a little olive oil, from Israel.

(You won't find much Palestinian olive oil as their trees tend to disappear from over there by day and by night for the time being and until the Messiah arrives and the Law of Return applies to the olive trees and branches).



c.



Cut 12 or 24 ounces of organic tomatoes from Israel (do they grow tomatoes in Iraq?) into quarters, pile them on top of the onions and cover.

Meanwhile meditate on the meaning of tomatoes. What do they symbolize if not womanhood?



Not the once-a-month-up-to-a-certain-age thing, our film and lives must remain impeachably pure --



I was thinking of life as experienced by the battered, the molested, the killed and the murdered.



d.



Now that your appetit is bon, go for the eggs. One will suffice for dietary reasons and symbol. Careful! Do not, by any means, do not scramble the egg. You should break it, yes, sorry for not mentioning, break it directly into the pan and all over the red, by now soft, tomatoes.

Now be careful. There is a female eye there, watching you!



e.



Basil. It's sweet, it's green - exactly the state of virginhood so much worshipped by man ready to feed on it. Shredd and sprinkle all over (the basil), but only after you've turned off the fire.



... Assuming it was on.



Happy Woman's Day Purim!

Who's Calling? Janet Jackson?

I'm calling from Israel and I'm really upset.

Eric, how could you give my phone number to that Janet Jackson? Excuse me, but you were invading my privacy, and I've been trusting you all along!

She's impossible, calls every second minute.

I told her I'm not interested.



She'd asked for my son. Can you believe this! How far can somebody go just for that sacred "rating"? He's married, they're expecting, who is this lady anyway, who is she thinking herself?



Is she the most promising candidate for Presidency in your country?

Well, my due respects, but I'm not supposed to interfere in USA's internal affairs - as illustrated by your present one's non-involvment - your goverment has no influence on ours.



Is she the very lady who solved the mystery surrounding AIDS/Cancer/the Iraqi bacterial weapons/nuclear hideaways?

No?

No Nobel Prize winner either?



What is this SuperBowl she was screaming about?

Couldn't hear what she was offering in it? Popcorn? Ice-cream?

And me eternally on diet.



And what kind of "half-time"? Is she thinking herself God on Earth? I'm not the one to settle for less than Full-time, full-time of everything from now to eternity, baby.



Oh Eric, Why did you give her my phone number, why?

You want to call me back later on? No Way! You cannot call me back, in my house and all over the country and region the phone lines got burned, could not stand the stress, no line left, no cellular phone either, no Internet broad band - we sit here in darkness and all I want, up to my last breast (you see, even the speller got ruined), is to know, Why, Oh Eric, Why?



If you wish to repent, if you really want me to forgive you - give her Arik Sharon's hone number, will you?



This piece was written following an e-mail from Eric Olsen, Editor, Blogcritics -

proudly announcing yesterday over 250.000 individual surfers entered the site,

lured by some sacred words of distinction:

Janet Jackson, Super Bowl, half-time.

it seems that some earth shaking event has taken place in Great USA. As a dutiful native, how could I have ignored this?

A Call to Arms: How to Stop Spam

How many times can you see again and again these criminal intruders asking, as if we come from the same kindergarten or family:



"Do you know what Women like best?"



(No. Tell me. And since I'm empty-headed, repeat, repeat, don't give up.)



"Do you know at all what Men like best?"



(No. And why should I care? What am I, a welfare officer?)



"Enlarge, Enlarge the Holly Name, more and more!"



(What is it, a Bible contest?)



It has reached the magnitude of Chinese torture, endless dripping, dirt, dirt. How to kick them out when they see and are not seen in person.



So many rules I've laid down, more than the rules of any Parliament wherever - yet these horrible creatures, they are transparent, come in with the air.



While those rules affected only my correspondents!



So I closed both my e-mail addresses.



No mail came in.



The silence scared more than the previous noise of the trash trucks.



I reinstalled my e-mail addresses.

The trash smoothly returned.



My correspondents disappeared, assuming that the addresses are no more valid.



I called my server.



The man says, "Nothing to be done."



Sent me a link to a "MailWasher".



The software blocked indeed the content and attachments, yet the subject line continued to show up.



The Enemy couldn't care less.



I wrote the Company:



"A server is like a hotel. I've rented a room. At a hotel the contract is clear: I am the only one who gets the key. No hotel allows strangers to intrude and invade my room, or throw heaps of trash whenever I open the door. The hotel shoulders this responsibility as a matter of fact."



The laconic answer was to the point indeed: "Nothing to be done."



In an interview at an North American newspaper, one of these criminals says: "What's the big deal, all it takes is one click on Delete. But thanks to my ad someone in need for a mortgage is saved!"



Really? I have to read carefully the Subject line of over one hundred e-mails, so as to pick out my mail, not to lose any.



Can you imagine a Post Office offering this kind of service: Go to the trash bin and look through the dirty paper to find your own mail.



It turns out that only 1 in 100.000 is tricked into the Lords of Trash bait.



The rest of us should altruistically suffer, for the benefit of this bunch of no-goods.



I learn, especially from some of Eric Olsen's posts on Blogcritics, that large companies like Microsoft, AOL, Yahoo, EarthLink, are suing the trash mailers, and winning in court.



Not enough. The problem is still with us, daily.



While we've been reduced to discussing the problem as we discuss Climate.

What happens to the money won in court? It should go to each one of us. And: apart from the monetary compensation, each court should decree this punishment on the guilty invaders:



Have them seated at a computer for twenty years, and click endlessly on Delete.



Behind a glass wall.



In a Zoo.



Let's raise our voices to demand worldwide Fully Defined Laws, Comprehensive Action.



We need laws to pronounce the servers as responsible toward their clients. Then and only then we'll see servers unite globally to fight trash mail everywhere.

Before the whole system collapses in dust.



Here is my suggestion:



Let's make one day into our Day of Protest, and on this day let's close down our e-mail boxes : No mail sent, no mail received. Worldwide.



One single day of complete Silence, to exemplify the danger, to express our Just Demand.



Let's make it the 31st of December.



As in the Hebrew proverb: "Let the old year leave with it's Curses, Let the New Year arrive with it's Blessings."



Let the Law Makers, the Servers and the No-Goods come up with some Resolutions.



Don't accept, "Nothing to be done". Don't say, No chance for change, ever.



We can see this action as an experiment in Protest.



Do join, and pass the call on.

History

If it was not for Israel, the Holocaust would have never happened,

so declares on Indymedia a person who goes by the name Truth Inthemedia.

I cannot but agree.

Yet the truth goes much further:

If it was not for Israel, if there were no Jews in the world, their (our, for whoever considers themselves part of humanity) Holocaust would have never happened.

If there were no Gypsies in the world, nor would their own Holocaust have happened.

Or homosexuals.

Or those with mental or physical difficulties.



Imagine how wonderfully pure the world could have been, with the Nazis happily tilling their land.

How true.

But then, wait a minute, most Muslims don't mostly have blue eyes either.

Poor Nazis, they worked so hard and diligently on murdering whoever was different, and it only proved to be a Sisyphian job.

The truth and only the truth is that the Nazis gave up not because of the Allies' attacks.

Only out of desperate frustration.

They lost heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~

read it in Russian;