At a Loss

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Planner 2020I’m still struggling to keep up with writing in my journal. I hate that I’m using the word “struggling” in conjunction with the word “writing”. This shouldn’t be a struggle for me. I love writing and I really enjoy it. Even when whatever I’m writing has no real substance or even if it has no meaning and makes no sense, I still love writing.

But this time, I’m not struggling because my script sucks, or because I lack inspiration, or because my thoughts run faster than the speed of my longhand and the words fail to flow as fast. I think it’s that I miss the way I used to write in my journals when I was younger. Sometimes I go back and read those entries and I can’t believe that the same person who wrote these words is the same person who is reading them now.

Well, not exactly the same person. A lot has happened over the years and changed who I am accordingly in order to deal or cope or sustain or survive… And these life-changing events and their respective feelings are expressed in my past writing so coherently and eloquently.

I am still dealing with some tough shit these days, but why can’t I express these thoughts with the same ease as I used to? Why is it so difficult for me to tap into exactly what it is I’m feeling? Why do I feel compelled to use the word “struggle” when describing what it feels like to write in my journal? Just today I literally wrote “I don’t know how I feel.” What kind of person doesn’t know how they feel? Not someone who considers themselves human, and certainly not someone who is a mother. A mother should have a constant storm of emotions within, and I’m pretty sure I do, too. But my ability to tap into those emotions, understand them, and put them into words is limited.

I lost my ability to play guitar. I lost my ability to draw. I lost my ability to make any kind of art that is not zines. I don’t want to lose my ability to write too. That is all I have left. All the strength that is left in my atrophied fingers is the strength to hold a pen. If only these fingers could dance on the page to the beat of my heart like they used to. I guess that’s why I keep up with my journal writing. Maybe at some point, I’ll find the beat again.

Peace, love and longing to feel it too

Creatures of Our Nights

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The Sleeping Kid:

Last night, for the first time in two and half years, my daughter fell asleep on my lap. Lately, she’s been refusing to go to bed and it’s been frustrating as hell. Even if I somehow manage to get her into bed, it takes her forever to fall asleep. She gets out of bed and lies down on the carpet instead. She asks for no less than eight or nine dolls, a bottle of water and a band-aid (don’t even get me started on her fixation with band-aids as a good night toy). If she still doesn’t fall asleep, she calls me back to her room to shoo away the (imaginary) mosquitoes in her room. Mosquitoes are my daughter’s boogeyman. So I pretend to shoo them away and she falls asleep on the carpet surrounded by her stuffed animals and a bandaid stuck on one of them or on herself. I obviously transfer her back to her bed with a loud grunt.

But last night was pretty awesome. We were sitting on the living room sofa, and she laid her head on my lap as I was reading her a bedtime story, and fell fast asleep. My husband transferred her to bed, and she slept through the night. No dolls. no bottle, no band-aid, no mosquitoes and no tears. I was so happy about that, I decided I’ll try it out every night.

The Feline Intruder:

We have a neighbor who likes to feed the feral cats on our street. So since the municipality removed the open dumpster from our street, many of the cats relocated to our backyard. Sometimes they sit on our windowsill and scratch the fuck out of our screens (we’ll have to do something about that because once summer comes around, we’ll open our windows for two minutes and my daughter’s imaginary mosquitoes will becomes a reality). We feed them too sometimes, so I guess we’re to blame for that too.

The cats also hang around in the hallway between our front door and our neighbor’s. Then they spend the night either fucking or fighting. And they make a WHOLE. LOT. OF FUCKING. NOISE!

Last night, by the time my daughter was sleeping soundly in her bed, my husband and I settled down to watch our TV series (last night was Inhuman and Van Helsing. Tonight it’s The Outsider and Runaways). The cats in the hallway started screaming bloody catnails on chalkboard. I was scared they were going to wake my daughter up, so I told my husband to chase them away. He did, but neglected to close our door so one of them ran right in. My dog lost her mind and I got even more scared that someone was going to get hurt (either my dog, or the cat, or my husband, or my daughter sleeping in the next room in case one of the animals runs in there), so I screamed too.

It was a sight to behold. Me with my “KISHTAH!” holding my dog by the collar. My husband with his “HACHUTZA!” standing by the door. And the cat with its “HISSSSSSSSSSS!” running around the house.

And my daughter with her “Zzzzzz”.

I think I could have switched on our rumbling-on-the-verge-of-explosion dryer and she’d still be snoring away. Thank the Goddess for that.

Fucking cats. Fine, they’re cute and all. But still. Fucking cats.

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Peace, love and muted TV shows forever

Cursing in Cursive

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I’ve been keeping up with my journaling resolution, and it’s going well. I don’t write in my journal every day, but I do try to do it whenever I can. It comes out to like once or twice a week.

It’s still difficult for the same reasons I discussed before (muscular issues, tired fingers, too much focus on forming the letters and not enough on the actual topic, etc.). And I recently noticed that my handwriting has gotten pretty fucking bad over the years.

I still have my journals and diaries from ages ago. My penmanship skills were supreme! It looks like a fucking font. I have no idea how I managed that and where the fuck I found the patience to write like that. But now my handwriting looks like an abomination.

My original handwriting is cursive. The letters are attached to one another and look nothing like they do on the keyboard. I found out that people who can read cursive can also read block, but that people who can read block have a particularly hard time with cursive. My husband, for example, can’t read most of what I write in English. So when I started writing DIY, cut-and-paste, non-computerized zines, I decided to teach myself to write block so that it can be easier to read for more people.

I hate the way it looks, though. My block letters look like an ant walked into a puddle of ink and then walked all over the zine. Different font, same abomination.

So now that I’m trying to focus my energy on my handwriting with my journaling resolution, I decided to practice writing in nice block letters, make them a little rounder, write a bit slower and more carefully, and maybe reclaim some of my former supreme penmanship. What I managed to achieve so far is a font that looks like a child’s script. But I’m happy to say that it is far more legible than the ant print I’ve had before.

I still like cursive much better. Even if my letters look more like the EKG readings of a person suffering from arrhythmia, I love the classy appeal and the code-like feel of cursive, that only some people can read. And this is the way I learned to write since grade school, so of course I feel more comfortable with the curlicues.

So what looks better to you?
Fuck that shit
OR
𝐹𝓊𝒸𝓀 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓉

Peace, love and weaPen ricochet

What’s the Big Idea?

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I just bought a zine from My Heart is Non-Binary. I’ve heard of them before, but I don’t remember from where and I don’t think I’ve ever read or ever come across any of their zines. Anyway, today I saw their post on a Facebook page for perzines and decided to look into it.

The post was about a writing prompt zine they printed. I didn’t even know things like that existed. Apparently there are also writing prompt journals or books or things like that, which sound totally awesome, but of course I prefer zines.

Back when I first started writing zines, I had a fountain of ideas. I had to keep a list of them to remember them, and added more and more as the ideas kept flowing and the inspiration was gushing. I never ran out of ideas, sub-ideas, brainstorm scribbles for each idea, and it branched out in all directions eventually leading to more ideas. But lately, I feel like the ideas are starting to peter out and it’s pretty upsetting. It frustrates me mostly around the times of the year when I want to write a new issue of my perzine, during International Zine Month and ZineWriMo. I try to brainstorm but sometimes I don’t even have a starting point.

I don’t know if I became a boring person ever since I became a mother, but it’s true that I don’t do as many things as I used to back when I was still childless. I used to have art nights with my roommates, go to bars, restaurants and concerts with my husband, we used to travel to Europe for metal shows, travel around the country on holidays or anniversaries, go to the beach, play guitar together, go to the movies, get high, get drunk… all of the things we don’t get a chance to do as much anymore because of our parental responsibilities.

I’m not complaining. Like I’ve said before, I LOVE being a mother and wouldn’t trade it for all the weed in the world. What I’m saying is that this is basically the reason why I can’t come up with as many ideas as I used to back then. Today, I mostly prefer staying home instead of going out. I spend my free days organizing the house and cooking food. Any down-time I manage to get, I either read Stephen King, watch TV or sleep. Sex does happen, thank the Goddess, not as often as it used to but it still does, and in fact, it’s better than ever!

I write a perzine, so obviously I’m going to write about my life. But who the hell would want to read a perzine about me organizing my kid’s toys and folding laundry? Why the hell would I even want to write such a perzine? And I would never write one specifically about sex (though I do mention it in some of my zines sometimes) because I rather keep it in the bedroom between me and my husband.

So coming up with ideas for writing is becoming harder and harder with each issue I put out. Every once in a while I think maybe I should write a second issue of one of my one-off zines. Like, a second issue of Ima Badass about my experiences of raising a toddler, which are totally different from caring for a newborn baby which is what the first issue of Ima Badass is about. Or a second issue of Raise Your Horns with a more in-depth look at my life as a metalhead. But then, the inspiration does not happen and I go off to reading some more Stephen King. So I hope that having a writing prompt zine can help me in my quest for ideas and inspire me to fucking write already!

I really hope it works. I’m quite excited about it! 😀

Peace, love and ideazine

 


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Hibernation Nation

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JrizzyJerusalem Streets:

So 75 years ago, they liberated the concentration/death camps of Auschwitz and Birkenau, and for the occasion, they will be closing off the streets of Jerusalem. Dignitaries, representatives and politicians from 50 different countries will be coming to Jerusalem for the World Holocaust Forum, and the city is on lockdown.

Yes, it is an important event to commemorate, and of yes, of course it must be commemorated in Jerusalem. I don’t dare question that. But the closing off of streets is still a huge inconvenience for many of the city’s residents who need to get to and from work.

Some of the city’s schools have already announced that they will be closed. I’m still waiting to hear from my daughter’s gan. I, myself, will not be going to work tomorrow and Thursday because many of the city’s buses and public transportation will also be affected – either cancelled or rerouted, come around less often, and get to their destination much later than scheduled. And since public transportation is the only way I can get around these days, I’m basically stuck. Not to mention crazy fucking traffic for all those who get around by car. This means taxis are off-limits because it will take me so long to get to work by taxi, I’ll probably end up paying like 100 NIS and still get to work late. It’s not worth my day’s salary.

ALL of that besides the fact that the weather has gone from shit to super shit – crazy low temperatures, rain, hail, and oh my God, is it snowing?! FUCK THIS SHIT!!!! All we need now is a touch of freezing rain and we’re fucking Canada.

Longass Weekend:

AND SO! I will be home all day tomorrow and all day Thursday. I won’t be back to the office until Sunday. As such, I need to find ways to dis-bore myself.

  1. Invocate the order bug and reorganize the whole goddamn house, including my daughter’s toys.
  2. Cook some potato cutlets. I haven’t made them since the first time I tried and I remember them being super fucking yummy.
  3. Read some Master King (remember to take my book home from the office today!)
  4. Exercise my lazy ass! I haven’t had a decent workout in so long, I feel like an octogenarian. I need Integral Tai Chi in my life.
  5. Sleep, because let’s face it, I won’t be able to resist the temptation.
  6. If I get so bored I lose my fucking mind, I’ll take my dog out for a walk. This does require a certain amount of craziness because who in their right mind will leave their house when streets are closed AND flooded? They might very well be closed off to pedestrians as well. It has been known to happen. But walking my dog could be a fun activity if I find a decent route.
  7. Write in my diary. Get on with the only resolution I made for this year.

Peace, love and so many leaks, so little buckets

Empurpled

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Time goes by. Old wounds heal. New ones spring up. A constant fight to stop a constant flow of blood. Bruises, scars, coagulated blood zigzagging up your forearm. They tell your life’s story. You’ve suffered pain and lived to tell about it. It doesn’t make you stronger. It makes you flawed. It taints your truth, your beliefs, your very perception of things.

You’re a badass. You can stand pain. You’re a woman. You were built for pain. Your pain is your pride. “I got this one in a moshpit,” you say, pointing to a black and blue smudge on your forehead.

With the scars of c-section, you’ve created a life. With the scars of plastic surgery, you’ve recreated your body. With the scars of abuse, you’ve proven to have survived.

But your insides have empurpled with the ones that never heal. You’ve drained the blood, but they’re still engorged with unimaginable agony. Time goes by, and they still ache. Time does not heal. It only makes it easier to suppress, to ignore, to pretend to forget. You grab the memory and furiously shove its head deeper into the septic waters of your being.

A weak and thin scab holds it back. But then you’re triggered, and your insides burst with a fresh tidal wave of thick darkened blood. How long did you think you could hold that body under water? Even if you thought it died, it still manages to wash ashore in all its decomposed glory. It never dies. It torments your unconscious mind, it haunts your dreams. Your days are a veritable nightmare, and your nights are infested with a whole slew of them.

A band-aid does not cure a cancer. Nothing does.

And time does not heal. Nothing does.

It’s there. Learn to live with it. Grow empurpled with it. And then die with it.

Seasoning

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During times like these, when winter is getting on everybody’s nerves, I decided to take a step back to try and understand why some people in my midst love winter and hate summer. If you’re like me, then you must be a normal human being and simply do not understand how liking winter is even remotely possible.

One of our clients suggested that the reason people like winter is so that they can wear winter clothes. I admit, I like my long metal hoodies which I can wear only during winter. But that is far from being a satisfactory reason for which people like winter.

So if you’re a normal human being, I think we can all agree on the following pros and cons of both summer and winter.

(I will focus on seasons in Israel and more specifically Jerusalem).

Summer pros:

  • You can go to the beach and/or and outdoor pool
  • It takes you nothing of a time to get dressed
  • Blue skies
  • Blooming flowers and trees
  • Green grass
  • You can wear tank tops and shorts to show off your awesome bod
  • No need to turn on the water heater to take a shower, especially if you have a sun dude which kicks everything’s ass
  • Travelling is a breeze
  • Summer breeze in Jerusalem is warm yet constant and keeps you from getting overheated
  • A bunch of kickass summer events, festivals, open air concerts
  • Ice cream and popsicles a-plenty
  • Summer nights are nice and warm (except in Jerusalem where you will need a light jacket)
  • The sun actually exists
  • Rain? What’s that?

Summer cons:

  • Wildfires
  • Sand storms
  • Sunstroke (unless you wear a hat)
  • Dehydration (unless you drink enough water)
  • Melanoma (unless you wear sunscreen)
  • Stinky smelly sweat (which I personally don’t really mind but I’m trying to stay objective and most people don’t like that)
  • No gan, so kids get super bored and parents lose their minds
  • Moving the clock forward so you sleep less

Winter pros:

I listed them a few posts back, but I’ll add a couple more.

  • Krembo season!
  • Sunsets
  • Metal hoodies
  • Moving the clock back so you get to sleep more
  • Drinking soup becomes your life’s purpose
  • Drinking tea becomes your life’s greatest pleasure
  • The Kinneret is happy
  • Snails come out to play

Winter cons:

Oh lord, where do I begin?

  • It’s so cold you get ice forming on your cornea
  • Anything that requires use of hands takes a hell of a lot longer
  • Getting dressed takes for fucking ever
  • Getting your kids dressed is damn near impossible
  • You dread taking a shower because that involves getting naked in a freezing cold bathroom
  • Pneumonia
  • You need to get a flu shot
  • You need to get your kids vaccinated as well
  • You get sick anyway
  • Your kids get sick anyway too
  • The wind is so strong, it makes it impossible to move and makes your kids fly away
  • Floods, endless floods
  • Indoor leaks
  • Electricity bill arrives as an active grenade because you blast every heater known to humans in a futile effort to heat up your house
  • Electricity bill explodes because you turned on the water heater and forgot to shut it off
  • You leave the office when it’s pitch black outside and it’s not even 5 p.m.
  • Your player/smartphone breaks when it comes into contact with the rain because you neglected to put it in a plastic bag
  • You cover everything in plastic bags
  • Everything gets wet anyway
  • You slip, you fall, you break your face, your car won’t start, your car won’t stop and you slam into a tree
  • Rain turns dogshit into diarrhea and smears the streets with it
  • In the event of snow, plowers don’t plow your street because there’s like a grand total of three plowers in all of Jerusalem
  • Power failures a-plenty
  • You can’t decide if you should suffer the cold coming in through the windows of your house, or leaving them closed and suffer the awful smell of dirty socks in your house
  • Your body is dry as fuck, your knuckles crack and bleed, your lips are chapped and they bleed every time you try to smile
  • Your laundry takes forEVER to dry

So there you have it.

If you’re a normal human being, you should be hating winter with every miserable frozen fiber of your being.

Peace, love and drainage