Magnum opus

  לאור חג הפועלים הממשמש ובא הבא עלינו לטובה, אני מפרסם שיר שכתבתי לפני כשנה וחצי, בין היתר בהשראת משה סילמן ובאופן כללי על האופן שבו המעמד הבינוני־גבוה מעלה מסתכל על העניים, בארץ ובאופן כללי. התכונתי לתת אותו למישהו להלחין ולבצע, אבל זה לא יצא לפועל; השיר הזה מבחינתי הוא עכשיו up for grabs, כל עוד הקרדיט שמגיע לי נשמר.

                כבשת הרש
                הם לקחו לו אותה, שדדו ונגמר.
                הוא ראה: בלי בררה היא הולכת.
                ”מה עוד יש לי עכשיו? מה עכשיו?” הוא אמר,
                בדמעה מתגלגלת על לחי.
                מפצעים שקבל אז – רק חלק הגליד,
                והשאר לפחות, טוב, נקרש.
                ”כבשה יקרה, איפה את? תגלי!”
                הוא בוכה ורועד, אותו רש.

                ועדין, ברגע של קור וצמא,

                לפעמים הוא עצר ובת־קול הוא שמע:

                                רש מסכן, אל תדאג, יום יבוא,
                                ובו לא יבעטו עוד בזה הכדור
                                ואנשי כל הארץ, מכל הקצוות
                                את זורקי הכדור הם יבואו לשבות –
                                ואתה וכבשה תתאחדו.

                רק יום חורף קשה במיוחד זה דרש,
                כשחסר לו הצמר שלה;
                משהו זע בו, ושוב לא חזר בו, ברש,
                ונשבר לו: סכין הוא שלף
                ויצא. עצמותיו מנקמה בוערות,
                פרצופו היה בלתי־מצודד –
                ובן־לילה פתאום זעקו כותרות
                על אותו איש, הרש־השודד.

                 מדי פעם, עדין, בקור ובצמא,
                לפעמים הוא עצר ובת־קול הוא שמע:

                                רש מסכן, אל תדאג, יום יבוא...

                מה גרם לו לשדוד? רק כי אין לו בררה?

                סתם שנא כי נמאס מהכל?
                ובעצם, טוב, מה זה משנה ”מה קרה”,

                ולא ”למה סחב כזה עול”?

                כשכולנו חולקים תודעה אחידה

                דם מגליד – לא, הוא לא רק נקרש.

                תפקידו מסתים, כן, לזה הוא מודע...

                כי נמאס לשומעים מהרש.

                ואולי גם אתם, ביום קור וצמא,
                תעצרו שוב פתאום, ובת־קול תִשמע:

                                רש מסכן, אל תדאג, יום יבוא...

              An Cat Duḃ, 8.10.2012

  חד יומא...

  לשיר לפי המנגינה של פזמון הסיום מ”ניקוי ראש”.

  (הבהרה: נא לא לקחת את השיר כלעג לריבלין עצמו או לימנים באופן כללי. אני לא מסכים עם השקפת העולם הימנית, אבל אני מסוגל לכבד מביניהם את אלה המסוגלים לנמק את דעותיהם מבלי להסתמך על טעונים דתיים ו\או על גזענות. את ריבלין לא היתה לי הזדמנות להכיר, אם כי מאוד אהבתי אותו ב”ניקוי ראש”. היה לו קול מדהים אז שמאוד אכזב להבין מה הוא אבד בערוב ימיו. כתבתי את השיר במחשבה שהוא עצמו היה צוחק ממנו.)

זהו זה, רבותי, גמרנו,

אחרי כיובל ומחצית:

הסוף בא לפרופגנדה 

שאת האזור עוד תצית;

נשיאנו ישן בשקט –

לא יבקרוהו עוד בלי הגיון;

כי יצא הליצן ממועצת העיר

של ראשון לציון.

תומכם של יורשי האצ״ל

אורות על במה לא ידליק,

לא יוכל עוד לשאת שום נשק:

מחביתוש סולק כבר הסליק.

הנה גם ביתו של פיסטוק

מכל חתרנות נוקה:

בעליו כבר איננו בשום מעמד עוד

לשמור על זכות השתיקה.

כי הנה ספי ריבלין סוף־סוף כבר נפטר,

הו, כמה יפה יהיה המחר,

הו, כמה יפה וכמה נהדר,

כי הנה ספי ריבלין כבר מת ונקבר!

ארצ׳י בנקר וגם מיסטר בין על מרקע

לא ידברו בלשון העברית אף דקה;

ילדים צעירים לא יטעו בקולו

של אותו המסית האומר ”כן ולא” –

אך, אבוי! הוא אינו, אך דאג להותיר

לץ יורש, לץ רועש – שמו חצרוני אמיר!

גם בטאון לפשיסטים, מפליא באונו –

לשם מה ספי ריבלין, אם שלדון ישנו?

כי הנה ספי ריבלין…

ילדים עוללים בשמחה כבר צורחים:

”במכולת של דודלי יש רק מצרכים!

נתעוררה יחדיו לעולם מאוזן

כשבקיוסק בבית־ספר כבר אין אדריאן;

לא תהא דאגה עוד יומם וגם ליל

מבדרן התומך בימין משתולל:

טלויזיה נדליקה, נצפה בדממה

בבידור איכותי, בבידור ברמה.”

כי הנה ספי ריבלין…

  חד יומא…

  Would you look at that, a new poem at last. And a rather peculiar one, at least to some of you, but quite hillarious and yet thought-provoking for the rest.

Poem penned for poignant ponies, past and present,

  Who dread disasterous Discord’s day being due;

For raw reality, so opalescent

  And murky, mostly masking false and true;

For camaraderie, post sun and crescent,

  That bravely brazes, bidding binds adieu;

For Discord’s doom, and Harmony now present―

  I, with my mere man’s mind, present to you.

 

And now, for fillies future and colts to come:

  Lo! Legends lie low, lost within your mind,

    They slowly slip from harmony you know;

So idly to ideals you succumb,

  That may another hit they never find―

    And make absurd vile, violent shameful show.

An Cat Dubh, 13.4.2012

  Yes, I am a ‘Brony’ now. I’ve watched every episode aired so far. I find MLP:FIM an excellent show, and so do some of the brightest people I know. I find it good enough to forgive Canada for Justin Bieber.

  (But to be perfectly honest, aside from the excellent writing and animation and the adult-oriented jokes, what really gripped me on the most fundamental emotional level was how Twilight moves around in the hot air balloon in the opening sequence; it reminded me of my late Persephone, whom I shall always love and miss.)

  Unum diem...

  My late Persephone’s death anniversary was this Tuesday. Though I believe she must be a princess somewhere, I still lament for her. I need a new cat; her absence is making me mad, I need to move on. 

Once I’d died, Śiva, Brahmā too, / and Viṣnu sat to ponder so, |
Contemplating aloud how to / send me hither: a row fiery. ||

Lo: I was true to my dharma / and social debts so faithfully, |
I greeted every man alive / and paid each deity what he claimed. ||

Verily, I greeted every / person I met a-smiling so, |
Befriending all; alas, Viṣnu said / that yea, I should be born a man. ||

However, to a man what’s due / I gave, but while mocking foully, |
All that I could see in single looks, / and then went to gossip about. ||

In secrecy mocking every / rule and code of the great dharma; |
To gods and kings—purest, true scorn; / thus quoth Śiva: ‘He is a cat.’ ||

They argued on, egad, Viṣnu / insulting Śiva quite crudely, |
And Śiva Viṣnu, then: ‘Enough!’ / quoth Brahmā, and declared he thus. ||

‘Though he followed human traits, he / disrespected the great dharma, |
Shutting self from fellow humans / as many mysterious a cat.||

Thus I resolved: we give him due / reward at once—a soul manly, |
A spirit of a cat,’ so now / in this form I do roam the earth. ||

 

I shall now strive to splendid be / in moral codes and the right deed do, |
So that I shall be born again / as one, not a human feline. ||

An Cat Duḃ, 17.1.12

  Recently I’ve been thinking about the Furry Fandom and came to the conclusion we don’t honour our origins enough. Look it up on Wikipedia: the origin on the Fandom is in arts, but now if one should sign up to FurAffinity or InkBunny (just visiting as a quest won’t do) will show one mind-boggling amounts of pornography, which is a shame, really. If I were an artist I’d draw more respectable art myself, but instead, I can make a list of ideas for Furry art:

• Scenes from Ysengrimus. (In particular the scene when Reinardus and Ysengrimus talk after Reinardus fooled him for the first time.)
• Interactions between anthropomorphic Hindu and Egyptian deities (Hanumān playing dice with Anubis while Ganeśa keeps records, for instance).
• Artistic depictions of the roles of animals in human society via role reversals.
• Depictions of historic, mythic, and literary characters as Furry ones, in the same manner humans are.
  

  Fuck it, it’s too late now. I can’t think of anything properly. All I can imagine is the drawing I requested of my late Persephone as the Boddhisattva Avalokiteśvara.

  Good night.

  Unum diem...

THIS SWAN IS GONE

So many lovely, lovely lasses I have known―

  And I am speaking only of connaissance.

They grew, aspired, beamèd, lit; they flew, they shone―

  And I could only harm them with my presence;

 

But fortunately, they were wise and bright enough

  To race along and leave me there, just panting.

They dashed with life while I was left behind to cough

  and sat there silently, or maybe chanting.

 

I am indeed pathetic; this you know too well.

  I, like a fishing net, attempted spreading

Too far, was torn by sharks, died, and sent to Hell.

  In fact, I’m not sure whither I was heading.

 

I am a swan indeed, and wish that I were gone.

  My dream insists I live. And you, my dearest,

Should keep our distance safe, and in your life run on:

  Some day to you I’ll once again be nearest.

 

春良?.12.09

  Sorry, had to blow some emo-steam.

  A while ago I watched some programme on Channel 8 about some isolated tribes in Papua New Guinea, with whom Westerners make contact for the first time in history. The Westerners received a rather warm welcome, and noticed the tribe people were wearing plastic beads, and were more than happy to receive Western clothes from the strange visitors. The narrator, who was also one of the group members, said, ‘Although one can’t help feeling a bit guilty for having robbed them of the innocence of nakedness [because they were walking practically naked there, wearing nothing much more than a koteka], but who are we to deprive them of the novelty of clothes?’ or something of that sort. They spoke a lot on that programme about marring their tribal uniqueness and whatnot.

  I was somewhat disgusted by these silly opinions. Contact with these tribes is necessary. We easily-charmed Westerners might think in romantic terms about those supposed ‘Noble Savages’, but the thing is, they need a choice. They could choose to go dress and eat and whatnot like Westerners, or they could choose to stay in the jungle, with their own familiar and beloved customs, but the important thing is that they have a choice. Just like any other person on earth, who should be given the chance to assimilate in any culture he wish.

  However, this freedom to choose one’s culture ends when violations of human rights are included. In these tribes’ case, intervention is obligatory, because of the very horrible rites of passage they perform (the anthropologists interviewed mentioned them, but didn’t specify; I can imagine what he meant―terrible wounding, possibly even penile subincision). That is one thing that should never be tolerated anywhere.

  Because of this, because of the horrendous anti-gay law proposition in Uganda, and because of that fucking retard Robert Mugabe, I believe that the Mandate system should be reinstated. African countries clearly can’t run themselves yet, and I daresay some Middle Eastern countries can’t either. In fact, I’d be very glad if the Middle East went back under French Mandate (including Israel, which was under a British Mandate). Or at least someone would invest more in computerising and bringing internet to Africa.

  Also, I want to say that contrary to common belief, I do not think that the natural state of human beings is fear of what they don’t know; quite the contrary―I believe at least most humans would react with amusement and curiosity. This I learn from the aforementioned tribes in Papua New Guinea, as well as from a conversation I once had with a Chinese man who’s never heard of homosexuality in his life: When I told him I’m bisexual, he was mostly amused by it instead of showing disgust. This reaction is actually more common than one may think when LGBTs get a chance to really talk to homophobes, given the homophobes aren’t exceptionally violent. The only exception might be people in positions of religious power, or old people who have grown weary of the constant change, which is, in my opinion, the natural state of the happy human.

  That is, among others, the reason I am still somewhat optimistic.

  I recently found a site called QuranicPath.com. The site claims that many conceptions about the Qur'án are wrong, for instance that it should be forced upon people (10:99), that men are allowed to beat their wives, that men are allowed to marry more than one wife, and that circumcision is good (it was said that God made Man in the ‘most perfect of moulds’, and that it is Satan that persuades men to alter it). So, in a sense, true Islám is better than Catholicism.

  This is rather strange. Muhammad himself was married to three wives and performed FGM on one of his wives to cure her nymphomania. Does that mean that Muhammad was more of a hypocrite than Ron L. Hubbard, or whatever his name was?

  After having watched a documentary about India, and having watched vids about Indian techonology and spreading of culture, and was convinced India is the future. Hence, I am reading A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth.

  Unum Diem...

  I watched HaKhayim Ze Lo Hakol (an Israeli sitcom, something like the uptown Tel-Aviv married version of Seinfeld; the title translated roughly to ‘Life Ain’t All’) a while ago on V.O.D. There was a scene there in which the main character’s wife got a phone call saying she was pregnant. And it made me think that the woman who gets to call pregnant women and tell them their results are positive must have the best job in the world.

  I can’t wait to be able to lay my ear against my future wife’s (or surrogate mother’s) belly, feeling the baby kick, all excited like a little child who’s about to get a splendid toy for Christmas.

  Ah, my children, my children...

  And now for something completely different:

  I could hardly believe seeing it when I did.

  On an iCarly episode recently aired in Israel (or was it V.O.D?), Freddie said that he found the work of one FЯED (the stage name of some bloke who makes silly fast-forward vids online, which are apparently very popular) ‘not that funny’, much to the dismay of the strongly disagreeing Carly and Sam. This caused FЯED to announce that he would not be making any more videos, and consequently got Freddie shunned, bullied, and kicked out of all school clubs he was a member of. When the feud brought a much dreaded boycott of iCarly.com, the iCarly team went all the way to FЯED’s house to apologise. Freddie, who originally had Carly’s support for simply speaking his mind, was now physically forced by Sam to apologise to FЯED (whose real name was Lucas), who explained the whole feud was staged for a publicity stunt. The iCarly team and Lucas reconciliated and made a new FЯED video, and that was the end of it.

  Christ. Oh Christ almighty who art in Heaven. WHAT IN KOT’S NAME WAS THAT SUPPOSED TO BE. Hey Dan Schneider, ever heard of something called the FIRST FUCKING AMENDMENT? And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Look at the rest of Schneider’s series: Drake & Josh (Josh admitted to Drake that being cool would get him through life; Drake never dates anyone who isn’t white; the intelligent Josh is portrayed as a buffoon...), Zoe 101 (no interracial couples; clear though unspoken distinction between ‘casts’, with the attractive wasp girl at the top and the girl with the speech impediment at the bottom; complete mockery of gender issues...), All That, Kenan & Kel, The Amanda Show (I barely remember those programmes so I can’t criticise racism or things like that, but I do remember the humour there was terrible and degrading for anyone’s æsthetic sense), and again iCarly (which is really retarded). At least What I Like About You was worthwhile (support of women rights, though with a rather cynic view about the idea of ‘sex sells’; acceptance of outcasts, including―gasp!―lesbians...).

  Hence, I conclude that Dan Schneider is not a racist or whatever, but simply has no moral fiber and will produce anything profitable.

  And more than this says about Schneider himself, it says a lot about us as a society (you might argue that it’s only American decadence, but this shite is aired all over the world). What in Kot’s name are we showing are children?

  I’m not going to let my children fall into the racist, sexist, anti-democratic clutches of laissez faire. Never. Over my fucking blood-oozing dead body. There will be no telly in my home.

  And now for something completely different:

  Two new poems.

  The first is a homage to one of my favourite poets, Vladimir Vysotsky (he was like Bob Dylan, only Russian, hence better`also, he could act, and he did Hamlet’s role splendidly). It was inspired by a BBC programme about Russia I’d watched on the Israeli Channel 8 (Israelis, don’t laugh). There was some old Cossack fisherman the host was talking to. He asked the fisherman, ‘What do you think Russia is?’, and the fisherman replied, ‘Russia is the Russian folk [that’s the quoted sentence below]. [...] One day, the Bear [in Russian: Медведь, medved’] that is Russia will arise, and everything will be alright.’ I assumed he was referring to the corruption in the country, and I prefer assuming this rather than that the Russian folk will establish an even less democratic regime, abolish women and homosexual rights, become a racist country, &c. The poem below is a very optimistic one, referring either to the Russian people who I hope will understand one day the importance of human rights, or to Dmitry Medvedev, who will hopefully be strong enough to cleanse Russia thoroughly.

МЕДВЕДЬ

«Россия – это русский народ. »

   —A Cossack fisherman

 

One day I shall rise while rubbing my eyes

And move a bit, limb after limb.

Thus slowly I’ll tread, and, scratching my head,

I’ll wonder just why it’s so dim.

You, who now laugh in a lunatic’s fit—

You’ll be the ones hardest hit!

Raising an ear, I’ll suddenly hear

The shackles (a soul-binding sound!).

I’m quite bright, hence I’ll soon comprehend:

It’s me who’s by shackles here bound.

You, who have bound me by spur and by bit—

You’ll be the ones hardest hit!

As up goes the light, I’ll gasp at the sight

Of crowds, simply staring at me.

The pompous old pests! Some geezer there jests:

‘Alas, the bear’s now truly meek!’

You, who are planning to make me a ‘hit’:

You’ll be the ones hardest hit!

I’ll burn up in rage, I’ll scream in my cage!

They’ll laugh, then start screaming in awe

As I with disdain just snap off my chain

And send out a large, raging paw.

…And what happens next? I shall give you a hint:

You who good money in dark crimson tint,

You who like racist and chauvinist wit,

You who in big leather armchairs can sit—

You’ll be the ones hardest hit!

An Cat Dubh, 8.11.09

  The second poem is based on a habit I used to have, now not as much. I did it constantly when my beloved Persephone was dying (quite surprisingly on January 17th, Davíð Oddsson’s birthday), or before tests. Read the poem and understand for yourself.

A CONFESSION

 

This dreadful shame I can no longer hide:

  When doubts and troubles seize my mind and heart,

  And reason maketh hope from me depart,

I let an ‘Our Father’ slip out, sighed.

I shut my eyen and let my heart grow wide

  To welcome God’s sweet Grace, which outcharms art,

  And pray, ‘O Father, tell me where Thou art!’—

And quickly end this sinful, hellish ride.

 

I sin a truly foul sin, my brothers,

A sin who is Creator to all others:

    From Reason’s road I stray away and fall.

  Thou, reason, though Thy road show’th great aggression,

  By it alone can we defeat depression

    Within Thy kingdom, where we’ll know it all.

An Cat Dubh, 10.11.09

  To a new generation, far better than our own.

  And now for something completely different:

  Women best us. They’re involved in less car crashes, I’ve heard they were more intelligent on average (though I doubt the credibility of my source, a lesbian calling gay men stupid), they commit much less crimes (my former math tutor, who was a professinoal criminology teacher, said so), and now the National Association of Parenting Practitioners claims that lesbians are better parents.

  Did you know you can make a child out of two egg cells nowadays? You still can’t do that with sperm, but they’re working on it. Furthermore, women outnumber men, even if by a seemingly meaningless rate (54% to 46%, something like that; I’m not so sure where intersex goes).

  Are we men going to be a relic of the past? Some unnecessary piece of evolution which was only necessary for the development of science or infrastructure (assuming what I was once told, that women are better with words and men are better with conception of space), and will eventually die out? I’ve heard this ages ago on Miskhak Makhur, it seems this is true!

  Now I hope I’ll get daughters.

  Unum diem...

  (P.S.: I might soon become an Ásatrú follower. Why and how will be described in my next post.)

  I watched the first episode of the new season of the Israeli Wife Swap, in which a stupid woman from Israel named Dina Barda was 'swapped' for a gay man from New Jersey, who raises three African-American children in a Reformed Jewish religious home (and I would've called him an excellent parent, had he not circumcised his children. For fuck's sake, you're reformed! Haven't you ever heard of Brit Shalom?!). She expressed the most disgusting thoughts about homosexuality, religious Jews, and even black people, out of sheer ignorance. Therefore, I now write a short allegory that explains my views.

RAVEN WINGS

  Long ago, in a forest somewhere in India, or America, or wherever you find more sensible, there lived a community of ravens. They lived there for centuries, teaching their children the traditional raven walk, and the raven cry, and most importantly―the raven flight. Proudly they flew above the earth, making great shadows upon it with their thick black wings, crying aloud to all critters: 'Ka―h! Ka―h! Ka―h!' Indeed, a proud lot they were.

  One day, a little raven of about 15 raven years of age was flying around the forest. 'Ka―h!' Ka―h!' he cried, still celebrating his newfound masterhood of raven flight. He flew around, watching his big shadow on the ground, smirking to himself.

  'Ka―h! Ka―h! Ka―'

  Ow! In his euphoria, his left passed to closely to a local branch, several of his feathers getting clutched in between, getting plucked out as he flew away. 'OW!' he cried in sudden pain, landing on a nearby tree and examining the damage.

  'Oh Kot, my precious feathers! My wing will look horridly uneven now! Oh dear, oh―hey, this isn't so terrible, really... My wing feels a little lighter... Hmmm, I wonder if my flight will be the same...'

  He tried flying back to the branch. It wasn't so bad; it felt somewhat uneven, so he tried removing some feathers off his right wing as well, which wasn't as painful as it was now self-inflicted. When he tried flying again, the unevenness was gone, but he still couldn't fly just right. That, however, was just a matter of practice.

  Returning home after he'd removed several more feathers, content with his new discovery, he imagined how intrigued and happy his community-mates would be. Of course, all of his hopes were not to last; his community-mates were utterly shocked by the sight of his wings lacking half of their fine silk-black wings.

  'What is the meaning of this?!' Asked his mother.

  'I found a new way to make our flight much lighter!' Said the youngling in excitement, still unaware of his mother's resentment.

  'What?!'

  'Look! With less feathers, our wings can be much lighter, and―'

  'Not another word, young lad!' She abruptly stopped him. 'This is a great offence to us all, are you aware of that?'

  'What? Offence?'

  'Indeed!' said the old mayor, frowning upon our poor protagonist. 'What on earth were you thinking, plucking your precious wings like that?!'

  'Those are my wings, you know!' he said, now beginning to grasp the situation. 'I can do what I will with them!'

  'What?!'

  'And look at this!'

  Here he flew above the crowd, right below the sun, casting his shadow upon them. 'By Kot!' everyone exclaimed, gasping.

  'See? This makes the shadow of my wings lighter. That way we don't have to block the sun entirely for the critters and just scare them, we can be helpful to them with refined wings!'

  'Nonsense!' The mayor said. 'Why are we to help the critters? We're ravens, for Kot's sake. We're independent. We should, if anything, be intimidating towards them!'

  'But why? Why must we be intimidating? What good does it bring?'

  'You stop this silly arguing at once, young lad,' said his mother. 'Go home.'

  He obediently though discontentedly followed his mother, who was somewhat calmer now that she new her son's feather's would grow back, back home.

⋆　⋆　⋆

  A little boy was walking by the forest, playing on his own, as he often did. He was rolling a little metal hoop with a stick, and had his reflexes not been sharp enough to move it aside on the last second, it might've run over the little raven sitting there.

  'Oh, Kot! Look at that!'

  The raven was not an ordinary one. Its reflexes were fast enough to hop aside from the metal hoop coming towards him, but he didn't fly away from the child. Not only this, but his wings lacked some feathers.

  'Would you look at that! Hehe, little fellow, what's your name?'

  'Ka―h!' said the raven as he climbed the boy's finger. The boy was pleased with it, and gently stroked its head.

  'Hehe, you're a special one. I like you. Want to come home with me?'

  'Ka―h! Ka―h!'

  'Heh, I'll take that as a yes. I'll name you Kaw. Now come along!'

  The boy ran home happily, with the raven, now Kaw, following him home.

⋆　⋆　⋆

  The raven went on living as a grumpy old defeated rebel with the young boy till the day he died, withering away into oblivion. The heavy-winged raven community lived on many centuries after.

An Cat Dubh, 1.9.09

  Now, let us debunk the stupid myths the idiot Dina believes in:

• Homosexuality is a perversion: Not since 1973 it ain't. That's when homosexuality was taken off the DSM.
• Same-sex parenting is unnatural: If it were unnatural, why were eagles and penguins (and bonobos, if memory serves me right) spotted practicing it?
• Same-sex parenting is harmful for children: Oh really? Because here's what I found on a simple stroll to the English Wikipedia article 'LGBT parenting':

In 2006, an Amicus Brief was presented to the Supreme Court of the State of California, wherein the American Psychological Association, American Psychiatric Association and National Association of Social Workers gave their opinion that scientific research has consistently shown that lesbian and gay parents are as fit and capable as heterosexual parents, noting that researchers have concluded that lesbian mothers do not differ from heterosexual mothers in parenting ability and, while fewer studies exist on gay men and parenting, research suggests gay men may be similar in parenting ability to heterosexual men.^[18] This opinion is also held by the Canadian Psychological Association and the Australian Psychological Society,^[19][20] and there is no national professional organisation in these countries or Europe that holds a different opinion.

 

Research has documented that there is no relationship between parents' sexual orientation and child's adjustment. ^{[18][21][20][22]} The literature indicates that parents’ financial, psychological and physical well-being is enhanced by marriage and that children benefit from being raised by two parents within a legally-recognized union.^[18][21][22]

  So no. I do not think that legitimising that disgusting woman Dina's opinions is an example of 'freedom of expression'. It's more like the freedom of oppression. Hopefully that idiot will serve as a good example for what opinions one should not hold, but considering how many people said 'They deserved it' about the Bar-No'ar massacre, I can't be very optimistic.

  Unum diem...

  (P.S.: That religious bloke who came to Israel wasn't very smart himself. He should've relied on the Pittsburgh Platform §4 instead. Oh, and Bow-Boy will write a post about the episode once part II airs. Stay tuned!)

  Inspired by a certain someone, as well as a series of intriguing events.

To N―

Contrary to common belief, Venus

is not 90-60-90 with formidable breasts.

Her hair doesn’t wave about

in the marinal wind.

She doesn't get surrounded by

salacious spirits whenever she pops

out of a shell.

Botticelli was a moron.

 

Venus is, in fact, a sweet little

tomboy, her hair

is shortly trimmed.

Those surrounding her, if they’re surrounding her,

are her female friends.

They’re straight and she’s bi.

 

She doesn’t look it,

she has brown hair and eyes and her skin is tan,

But she’s German.

And they call her a Nazi

when she reads Goethe.

 

Venus is, in fact, a Buddhist,

and to see her and pursue her, you must

be mature enough

to know she isn’t Pagan.

 

And I love her very much.

An Cat Dubh, 19.7.91

  Unum diem...

  About a year and a half ago, as I was walking around Azrieli, I came across some stand selling pictures and gasped in awe.

  One of the pictures there depicted a young lad, with blond hair and blue eyes, with fine light skin, wearing a green and white garland. His face was shown from a semi-profile angle, and he smiled lightly. And he was beautiful, oh so beautiful. He was a perfect reflection of everything beautiful. He was youth, he was grace, he was charm, he was art, he was a seraph. I thought I finally had a chance to see Dorian Gray. Oh, how grieved I was not able to buy the picture...

  I wrote a chouka about the encounter. I could keep onto that. But I still missed Dorian. Dorian... Dorian... You were lost and gone forever; dreadful sorry, Dorian! Dorian drowned in a sea of manmade second-rate art. He is never to be seen again. And with time, he drowned in my memory too.

  Yesterday I went to take a haircut, after several months of letting my hair grow. The barbershop’s cleaner looked like a complete cheap skank, addicted to telenovelas and wearing grotesque make-up, who has learnt Spanish through telenovelas but doesn’t even recognise the word ‘soy’, and she even had rather dark skin (Middle-Eastern dark, not Africa dark), so I was very surprised when she answered a call and began speaking Russian. The haircut came out very nicely, though most people can’t even tell the difference, but I can and I like it.

  Well then, I went to Steimazky for a few minutes, then I started walking home, and passed by that little girly shop at the mini-mall, ‘Cinnamon’.

  Suddenly I gasped.

  Dorian, Dorian! I can’t believe it! You’re here!...

  I came into the shop and asked the saleswoman who drew the boy on the top picture, with the white garland.

  ‘You mean the fairy?’

  ‘Oh, it's a fairy? Whoa...’ (What do you mean ‘fairy’? That’s Dorian Gray!... Isn’t it?)

  ‘Ay, it was drawn by Josephine Wall. She makes greeting cards and suchlike. You can see some of her works over there (gestures with her hand towards a little pole with little metal holders, the kind you often see in malls, with greeting cards in them).’

  I went to see her other works. They were very well done, I must say that, but they were very cheesy. Lots of fairies and magical forests and the like... Looked like it was something meant for eight-year-old girls ten years ago (because today they require six-packs).

  Sigh... That was a bit of a put-down. Alas, Dorian Gray was made by a human and not by a Basil. At least I’ll be able to see him again. That was indeed worth a thirty-minute walk in each direction.

  About two and a half years ago, I thought I was lost.

  My life looked rather aimless. I was sinking into depression. My marks suffered a dreadful , and my self-esteem was in tatters.

  It was about that time that I started thinking a bit about Buddhism. I thought a lot about its ideas (for a brief while I also toyed with the idea of conversion), and I started thinking about Kaworu from Neon Genesis Evangelion (the albino boy holding the cat in the picture at the top of this page) and Jesus Christ. After a while I came to the conclusion that the three spoke of the same essence.

  Suddenly I felt a strange bliss. A transcendental tranquility came upon me, and suddenly I felt as if I were detached from everything. I was on a different mental plane, not minding any harm I could suffer or anything beyond simple pleasures, like watching a little flower bloom and a lovely fluttering bird. This was Nirvana, or Salvation.

  I began writing an article about what I perceived as Three Mental States: First, in which one is mostly concerned with one’s own society, world, &c., and one’s relation to it; Second, in which one is mostly concerned with one’s own psyche and self-image (usually characterised by acute depression); and Third (a.k.a. Angelic or Enlightened), in which one essentially doesn’t mind anything, and one’s pleasure comes mostly from very simple pleasures.

  However, this special state of mind was quick to fade, and I went back to the First State. It lasted only a few more hours, and came back for a few sparse times here and there. I never finished the article, and eventually threw it away. Last time I thought I found a way back was when I attempted to convert to Christianity. That was the main reason I wanted to convert.

  Several days ago I spoke to my friend Alex C. (from Sweden) about violence and bullying. He said violence is wrong, and hitting back a person when s/he attacks you is going down to their level, and it only produces more violence. I strongly disagreed, and said that bullies are not people you can reason with. (Yes, I think some people don’t listen to reason and never will, and it’s mostly prominent in certain cultures. Call me a racist. I’ll laugh at your face.)

  Anyway, it made me think, and eventually I came to the conclusion that humans aren't ‘naturally good’ or ‘naturally evil’, but ‘naturally aggressive’. The question is where this aggression is channelled to: creativity, sexual vigour, violence, rebellion―there are myriad options.

  After a while I spoke to my dear friend Angel about some albino-looking anime character, whom he declared the hottest anime boy ever. I disagreed, and said I found Kaworu preferable. (WARNING: Neon Genesis Evangelion Spoilers ahead!) I explained to him that to me, Kaworu is much more than just a pretty-looking bishie, but he’s a symbol of the Third State, the Nirvana. To me, he represented the pathway for Shinji from the Second State to the Third State. Shinji indeed did reach the third state, at the end of the last episode (I believe Hideaki Anno reached it as well, but then slipped back to the first or second state again), but he would’ve reached it earlier had Kaworu not died. (No spoilers hereupon.)

  That is why I put the picture of the black cat in Kaworu’s arms at the top of this blog: I saw myself not as the fine young boy sitting there, but as the black cat in his embrace. I was waiting for the right time to move on and be in the Third State. That is why I wrote ‘Unum diem...’ at the bottom of every post: I wanted to go to a coast-to-coast trip with Khavatselet, that will hopefully bring me to the Third State.

  And then it hit me: this whole Third State concept might be nothing more than a sudden sharp decline in testosterone, that neutralised my aggression. That might be why eunuchs have a much more serene view on life. It might not be (hence I still finish my posts with ‘Unum diem...’ and still wish to be at the Third State permanently), but I don’t know. Maybe there was nothing to it.

  Persephone, I still love you. You’re lying cold and motionless in my backyard, and I sin terribly when I don’t come to pray on your grave. How magestic you were! So graceful, so beautiful, so intelligent, so friendly... A feline Marlene Dietrich. Though not sexually attractive, you had an odd sex appeal. You could’ve surpassed Lust from Full Metal Alchemist as a seductress, had you been a woman.

  It was quite odd when I saw the Display Picture of a friend on MSNM with a black female cat named Morgana, who appeared healthier than you did, with greenish eyes (unlike your common yellow ones), and was also said to be very friendly and intelligent. Oh Kot...

  And yet, I did learn something.

Alas! a lad, once thought to be divine,

Is just some postcard, by a mortal signed.

Nirvana’s nothing but some hormones dud

That one can kill by feeling in the mud.

I found a feline being, like I had,

That flaunted velvet fur and silky pads.

Come, comrades bearing hearts, and listen well

Until you stop to curse this world to Hell:

The difference was that they were all my rose

Entwined within me. They’re the ones I chose.

An Cat Dubh, 9.7.09

  Unum diem...

  I don't care. I made it all the way here. I had to pass through a thick forest, with lots of poisonous bugs everywhere, in the middle of fucking nowhere. I'm crazy, he's crazy, I've heard it all.

  There it is. A cabin. I knew I'd find it. There he is, sitting on the front porch with a shotgun.

  'Who the hell are you?'

  Gulp.

  'Who the fuck are you?' he says, pointing his shotgun at me, walking slowly towards me.

  'Please, sir...'

  'Wassamatter with you, kid? Swallowed your tongue? I bet they sent you here to get me back, didn't they?'

  'Sir, please, no...'

  'Alright then, who the fuck are you?' Now he's standing about a yard away, his shotgun right to my face.

  'Jerry David, I love you.'

  His eyes open wide. He can't really believe his ears. His shotgun s on the floor, his hands shake in the air. He jumps on me with a hug, crying in joy.

  'Oh God. Oh thank God.'

  He died a few seconds later, but I don't care. He died a happy man.

An Cat Dubh, 3.6.09

  Unum diem...

  Oh how many Israelis should read this. It's bloody shocking.

  It's today, innit? I'm not sitting here for nothing. I was told he's supposed to be up here, on the roof of the square Azrieli tower. Nope, seems I wasn't fooled; here's the lightning, racing across the sky, and BAM! hitting the roof, just a few metres away from me. But it doesn't disappear; it slowly takes form: feet, hands, head, sandals, like nothing has changed for all these years.

  'Welcome back, rabi,' I say, kneeling.

  He takes his time, looking around him. He doesn't quite believe his eyes, it seems. He opens and shuts his mouth, like he's writing and erasing in his mind what he's going to say.

  'Is there something you wish to say?'

  'Whoa...' He finally manages to utter. 'Things... things have changed around here.'

  I chuckle. Naturally he'd think so.

  'No, rabi. Nothing has changed around here.'

  He tilts his head a little, looking at me a bit puzzled. 'Nothing has changed? This place looks nothing like what I remember. I... I can't even begin to explain how...'

  'No, nothing has really changed.'

  After a few seconds of silence, he finally understands. 'Ohh...'

  'We still need you, rabi. We still need you, but won't acknowledge it. Oh Kot, they never will—'

  'Ssshh...' He rests his warm hand on my head. 'The day will come, m'lud. Keep your hopes up, it will come.'

  I raise my teary eyes to him and see his reassuring smile. I smile too.

  'Thank you, rabi.'

  'Heh, you can call me Yeshu'a.'

An Cat Dubh, 25.3.09

  Unum diem...

  This poem is dedicated to my Star Outside (to whom I shall dedicate a post as soon as possible), who’s been waiting for me to write ‘something interesting’.

Sigh... Well then, Gil‘adnicks, I hope you are happy

  With all your big noise and the tent you’ve erect.

You’ve already made the new Knesset quite crappy,

  And soon you’ll give hell to the PM elect.

 

You don’t get hints, do you? You’ll see how Ehud now

  Give freely one thousand wild terrorists up,

Perhaps he’ll receive some poor joke of a Hudna,

  And then you’ll be rid of this old, foolish pup.

 

So goes it. The things one can do for a fashion,

  Ron, Vicky... Bah, old news! A new moral fad!

And yet I remember you all need compassion:

  You can’t be responsible when you are mad!

Some say that Baghrúti’s the man we have needed

  To get us some peace in this ad nauseam war.

They say he’s calmed down in the years when he feeded

  On Israel’s taxes in gaol. He’s not ‘sore’...

And yet I believe that old Mr. Haniyya

  Will blow him apart when he reaches the strip:

Barghústi’s a threat. Come on, scholars, be real:

  It seems that stupidity’s reachèd its tip―

Of the Iceberg. And yet, none of you are now reading

  This poem. Your poor English sure cannot suffice.

Alas; thus are morons. And Gea’s still bleading.

  The Gods with a smile once more throw the dice.

An Cat Dubh, 15.3.09

  At least Mad Max now agrees with me. Hopefully some more people will now wake up and snip this idiotic deal in the bud.

  (And if anyone starts using the term Gil‘adnick now, give me credit! I invented it!)

  We had Purim a while ago. I dressed up as Zeev Jabotinsky. It was quite pitiful to see how sophomore students, who had learned about him just the previous year, didn’t know who he was. Like everyone, they learned about him for the Bagrut and forgot it all. This is bloody ridiculous.

  And they brought Shakhar Khason, a less-than-mediocre comedian, who pretty much summarised everything I hate in the Israeli society. He mocked the Russians (another moron who thinks he can do a Russian accent...), he mocked the Ethiopians (with a weird, semi-Russian accent...), and he wouldn’t stop mocking gays. Oh Kot, how he mocked gays, in the most retarded way possible... And he brutally mocked some kid with braces (I would’ve cried and run off, something I never do. That brutal). But everything was ‘for the lulz’. As the Israelis say, his funny fell.

  And still my brother was envious. Why, I’ve no idea. Christ, I hate our headmistress.

  I’ve met my second cousin Daya again. Last time we spoke it didn’t come out so well (some of you may remember when I referred to her as D― back in December, and wrote some rather nasty things about her). We made up quickly; I broke many myths she had had about many things and really provoked her thought. I told my father it will be tense, and indeed it was: You should’ve seen how her family laughed nervously when I compared the town they live in to Pleasantville... (Although judging by what my brother told me later on, it bears a greater resemblance to Ramsdale...)

  I’m very glad I’ve managed to change one person’s opinions so vastly. I must admit some of mine were changed too: Since she has once been (briefly!) a Messianic Jew, we were able to have long theological discussions about Judaism and Christianity. We went to some religious article about Messianic Judaism, and one of the repliers to it said that the Jews have had many disputes with Christians about religion and have always defeated them, and gave the Disputation of Barcelona as an example. So we went to read it and found out that the argument doesn’t prove Christianity wrong altogether, just that the attempt to use the Talmud as a proof that Jesus was the Messiah are futile, and that the Jews are imbeciles who think that their way of interpereting the Tenakh is the only one possible. Then, when we looked at the sources, it turned out they were all from Jewish encyclopædiæ, which explained how it was possible for the pamphlet with the transcribed argument to be censored after having been burnt.

  I should tell my physics teacher about this...

  My father’s girlfriend has recently returned from the U.S. (she was there for work), and she brought us all some nice things. She got me a Korean study book and an Irish one, some discs, and Alan Moore's V for Vendetta, which I finished in three days.

  Go read it. NOW.

  I’ve noticed something interesting.

  Icelandic is a funny language. When you look at it written, you can’t help thinking it has something to do with bold, fearsome Vikings. Even when you go to the Samtökin website, you can’t help imagining bold, fearsome Vikings in pink armour. Well, at least I can’t. Kinda like you always imagine elves dancing in the meadow when you see Irish written...

  Unum diem...

  To approximately 70% of the residents of Israel, and a few loons from abroad:

  I was right and you were wrong.

  I WAS SO FUCKING RIGHT AND YOU WERE SO FUCKING WRONG!

  For fuck's sake, how can you be that retarded?! No-one on the Hebrew-speaking internet was allowed to speak about anything but Gil'ad Shalit, we saw his face everywhere, we couldn't get out of it! And then the satire shows say that we all forgot about him... Jesus Christ! LEAVE US ALONE!

  No, I am not cold and heartless. I know that had it been, for instance, my mother, it would destroy me. But NO! I would NOT do anything to save her, like you morons say! I will not be willing to brainwash the whole country into giving away 1,000 prisoners with blood on their hands in exchange for ONE SOLDIER!

  Oh, no. I wouldn't do that... I would think that my mother's life, the life of one person, is much more important than the security of several other millions of lives. No, I am not cold and heartless for saying this; I'm being very altruistic by making a sacrifice for YOUR LIVES.

  And you know what? I'm smarter than you. There, I said it. I AM SMARTER THAN YOU. YOU ARE ALL STUPID. I DISRESPECT YOU AND THINK YOU ARE ALL BELOW ME BECAUSE YOU ARE STUPID. Call me a snob, I don't care; your opinion doesn't count because YOU ARE STUPID. If you can't realise that you are putting your own life and many others' in danger when you scare the shite out of your own government (which is corrupt and stupid, as even you know), YOU ARE STUPID. STOP VOTING, STOP MAKING ANY OPINIONS ABOUT POLITICS, YOU ARE DESTRUCTIVELY RETARDED.

  So when your mother and father and brother and all your friends explode on a bus during the Third Intifáda, don't come crying to me. I warned you, morons.

  With great loathing,

  The Black Cat.

  The drama major had their Bagrut test today, which included performing three plays for a tester. The three plays had to be brutally chopped into 40 min., but they were still alright.

  The ones chosen this year were Best Girlfriends by Edna Mazya, Murder by Khanokh Levin, and Neumann: A Soldiers' Legend by Mikhael Gorwiéz (or however his name is spelt), in that order. Best Girlfriends and Neumann were alright: I didn't know the third one and had minor interest in it, though it was amusing; and I knew parts of the third (I saw parts of the televised version), but not the whole thing (though enough to know it was quite badly butchered, and that spare two actors, the acting was OK-plus at best). Murder, however, was a play I'd read two years prior. It was directed by B. S. and several friends of mine participated in it.

  It was stunning. B. S. decided to use clowns as a theme to make the very shocking play somewhat more 'digestable'. He added a host, wearing typical circus host clothing and withe make-up with a big black tear on it (acted rather well, though she should've had a bit more enthusiasm), who made an introduction ('Welcome to the best show in Emeq-Hefer!'). She spun a wheel with the word 'murder' written on it in Arabic and Hebrew, making it stop on the Arabic word (she spun it at the beginning of every act: when a Jew was to be killed, it was stopped on the Hebrew word; when an Arab was, it was stopped on the Arabic), then called my friend O. R., who wore a kúfiyya, to the stage. She put a red nose on him, an alarm started, and she pointed a plastic gun to his head. A few actors, wearing IDF uniform with clownish, huge stickers and red noses, started dancing around him while the Israeli Declaration of Independence, read by Ben-Guryon, was played. Occasionally they stopped to laugh at lines such as, '...irrespective of religion, race, and sex...', and at the end, the Host shot O. R. and blew a trumpet, like those festive trumpets you often see clowns wearing, after which too happy clowns came in, skipping happily, and one pushed O. R. into the other's arms, who pulled him away. (This ceremony, from the trumpet to the dragging and replacing with a doll, was repeated with every such murder.) His body was replaced with a rag doll made of a kúfiyya, and the play began.

  The Three Soldiers (among them B. S.) were dressed semi-clownishly, making fun of the Arab Boy and his father. B. S. had to censore the original play, in which they began cutting off his penis, and the father tried using it as evidence that they tortured him for no real reason (and not 'in the heat of the battle', as they'd declared), and instead they said that he was stabbed in the eye. They wanted to kill the father with a circus club, but the Host stopped them by declaring that peace is come. This act was very, very powerful, and I wanted to hug B. S. It was so powerful I became ainfully numb watching it ('Whoa! That's sheer genius!... Ow... Ow!').

  The next act was somewhat butchered, looking a bit too fake, and the girl's rape looked too bizarre and confusing (a few clowns lifted and put down her toy-parachute dress, which was very obscure, and I might not have realised it was supposed to be a rape scene, had I not read the play). The last act was badly butchered and reminded me of the beginning of the film A Clockwork Orange, which looked like an absurd collection of irrelevant scenes. There was only O. R. (who played the murdered groom in the previous act), who painted the letter צ on the middle sheet of paper between three (the other two had the letters ר and ח attached with lights, which made the word רצח, retsakh, 'murder'). The whore didn't confuse him and made it clear they charge from the beginning, and there was little relation between the first part and the murder, which was presented as a group of townsmen dancing like clowns and beating the air around the Arab painter (in a very fake way, it was a bit embarrassing). His monologue was minimised to something like 'Please stop!' and 'If they're beating me for no reason, what good will words do?'

  The final scene, in which the blinded soldier comes to tell the real last words to the old, senile father, was discarded altogether, and replaced with a repetition of the first scene (with a different volunteer), up to the point of the alarm.

  Despite the play and performance being amazing, I think it was very, very inaccurate and unrealistic, for many reasons. For instance, IDF soldiers who kill a person for no real reason will be imprisoned (an order to do so is an unlawful order). Besides, these events were very, very exaggerated; soldiers who torture Palestinians usually serve at the Border Patrol (and that's only after they've been serving for a long, long time), and it never reaches the level of whimsical murders. People who do do such things get arrested.

  Despite all that, I think B. S. is an outstanding director. If he reached this level in high school, he will do wonderous things later on. Actually, the production is now aiming to go to the Akko Theatre Festival. I wish them all luck!

  (And hopefully they'll make use of the piece of soundtrack I realised is so suitable for the play, 24hours OPEN from Cowboy Bebop: Knockin' on Heaven's Door.)

Please tell me, leaders, why it is so hard

To move from 'Bábi 'l-Wád' to 'Bábi 'l-Ward'?

  Two days ago we discussed the artistic part of our projects in Arabic. I think I've mentioned before that our groups have been re-arranged in away that I am once more in the only triplet, this time with the two girls who did the report on the Nakba. We're doing a paper about The Representation of the Jewish Soldier in Sahar Khalife's Novel Wild Thorns. We've found out that the Jewish Soldier is one of many Gestalten in Palestinian literature; others are The Child, The Old Man, The Woman &c., who are often not even given names. The Jewish Soldier (mind you, this is not 'The Israeli Soldiers', because some of the Druze serve in the army: lately, some youngsters decided they're Arabs and don't want to serve in the IDF because of that) is presented as a typical-European-looking (in this specific novel, he is blond with blue eyes and of Polish origins) heartless machine who humiliates the Palestinians at the borders, completely identifying with Israel's 'oppressive regime'.

  So I brought up the idea of making a video clip with a clockwork soldier (making it clear he's one of many) who oppresses the Palestinians, and eventually killed. I suggested that the background music be a song with the tune of Another Brick in the Wall, with the lyrics being something like, 'We don't need no bloody conquest, we don't need no tyrrany...' My teacher, however, said that songs in English are not welcomed in the Arabic major. So while the art teacher spoke to the other groups about their projects, I wrote a short song, and when she was done, I sang to them the following song, to the tune of Another Brick in the Wall:

لازمناش الدّم والقتل،

التّحقير والاحتلال؛

ألجندي السّاقي يضحك منّا:

إتركنا، يا جندي بلا قلب!

يا جندي! إهرب من النّار!

في نهاية الأمر، كلّكم أشواك في الصّبّار.

  Transliteration (not 100% accurate, but meh):

Lázimnáshi 'd-dam wa-'l-qitl,

At-tahqír wa-'l-ihtilál;

Al-jundí 's-sáqí yadhak minná:

Itrakná, ya jundí bilá qalb!

Yá jundí! Ihrab mina 'n-nár!

Fí niháyati 'l-amar, kullkum ashwák fi 's-subbár.

  Translation:

We don't need the blood and killing,

The humiliation and conquest;

The cruel soldier mocks us:

Leave us alone, you heartless soldier!

Soldier! Run away from the light!

All in all, you are all thorns on the cactus [the work was called The Cactus in the original Arabic].

  The art teacher was stunned to see I wrote it all in no-time, and I was satisfied with myself. I hope they make use of it, but not that everyone come annoy me like last time. Ah well, time will tell.

  Unum diem...

  A fit of morose inspiration came upon me. Looking it in the face, I had to cry.

I had a splendid comrade,

Whom none shall ever best.

No choir did sing, no lyre,

When he was in the pyre

And came to shameful rest.

 

And when the devil came here

And said he'll bring him back,

I was so gay and merry

Until I had to bury

More comrades' ash so black.

 

This story's so disgraceful,

It's so grotesquely built;

My face is now so vile―

I want to burn the pile

Of ever-lasting guilt.

An Cat Dubh, 20.2.09

  Never again.

  Unum diem...

  To Angel, who grew sick of my political posts.

  Snowflakes floating down, down, on the dark-green meadow ahead. Bits of smoke came rising from the Mumin's house. The sun has already set, and the sky has turned dark blue. It's so quiet, now that even the birds are cozying up in their nests.

  We both look at the valley, our faces frozen. I don't know about him, but I'm staring with a queer mixture of awe and melancholy. Funny. Then I look at him. He is so still.

  'You're silent,' I say.

  'Hm?'

  'You're silent.'

  'Heh, amn't I.'

  I'm not sure where I'm looking at, either his face or the valley. After a few more seconds of staring silently, I speak again.

  'So you're really going, huh?'

  'Ay, I am.'

  'Huh.'

  Quiet again.

  '...'

  '...'

  'You s-sure you're leaving? Everything's set? Mumin knows?'

  'Of course he does. He's already asleep, actually.'

  'Huh. ...'

  'Hm?'

  'Snufkin, why do you have to leave every winter? Look, the meadow is covered with such a beautiful white blanket... It's so peaceful over here, why don't you stay?'

  'Because I need to keep the birds company.'

  I chuckle. Then I rest my head on his shoulder.

  'I'm sorry. I can't really explain why I'm going, y'know? It's a force of nature. But I'll be back, I promise.'

  'Sigh... "Still returns the old tune you have left far behind, and the road's still expanding, it leads you to wander..."'

  'Hehe...'

  'Y'know what I think?' I suddenly say. 'I think I know why you have to go every winter!'

  'Oh?' He says, in tranquil curiosity. 'Pray tell.'

  'You're actually the Groke!'

  'Wh-what?!'

  'Ay! You tell us you "have to go" every winter, but you actually transform into the Groke!'

  'Haha! No, I'm not the Groke, remember when Little My was saved from the fire by her? Though it is a funny idea to toy with.'

  'Huh...'

  '...'

  We both gaze at the meadows again. The skies have turned darker, the smoke has disappeared altogether, and the stars shine clearly. It will be a full moon in three days.

  'Y'know, I've heard some people say you actually smoke some plants you find around the valley. I've even heard someone say we're all figments of your hallucinations.'

  'Sigh... People say the craziest things, you know. You won't believe what I've heard around the valley.'

  'Oh really? Like what?'

  'Some said I'm an anarchist. This may be true, in a sense, but I don't think so. I'd best not tell you more. But what I can tell you is that I've learned a lot through such sayings.'

  'How so?'

  'You will understand it all in due time.'

  'When's that?'

  'In due time.'

  'Ugh...'

  Silence again. Wind began blowing. It's so cold...

  'Snufkin?'

  'Hm?'

  'Why can't we all be like you?'

  'Like me? How like me?'

  'Free.'

  'Ah... Simple. You just don't want to.'

  'Of course we do! It will be so wonderful. We'll love it, I'm sure we shall.'

  'Really? Tell me, do you really want to be like me?'

  '...'

  'Hm?'

  '...Not really, no.'

  'See? But I'm sure someday you will. In due time.'

  'Hehe.'

  Whoosh... The wind is blowing.

  I smile as Snufkin starts playing his harmonica again.

An Cat Dubh, 14.2.09

  Unum diem...

  It's coming. The elections are drawing nearer and nearer. I won't vote in this election, simply because I'm not 18 yet. That, however, won't stop me from having a political opinion, and it's me we're talking about, so it must be as exceptional as possible (just kidding). I decided to explain it in a poem:

Although it sounds quite queer, I mull two stands:

One is, 'Approach by peace!', by Merets; and,

'Give not I.D.'s to those not worthy!', by

Ivet 'the Dreaded' Liebermann. Meh, sigh...

Some think now I am truly polarised

In such a manner, they trust not their eyes;

But frankly, it's quite logical: I say,

That those who tell us they have peaceful ways,

Like Abú-Mázin, who has sent his hand

Not once, not twice, not thrice, but myriad

A time, must be supported: he must have

The Knesset's word that this conflict so grave

Will be solved through him, and that he will rule

His people, using democratic tools.

However, on the other hand, are those

Who bite the hand that comes to them. They pose

A myriad of threats, and never will

Come to negotiation by free will,

As are Hamás. They must be cruelly crushed,

And even if the U.N. be so flushed

With rage, that's what third fingers are there for.

They have to understand, aye, that by war

No goals can be acheived. As you may know,

Hamás won the elections saying so:

'Four years of bold, fierce Intifáda brought

Us Gaza; ten of talking brought us nought.'

This message clearly is to be reversed;

And now, for the next subject of this verse:

Why vote ye, millions, for the parties which

Are lead by some cheap demagogue, some witch,

And some old general who always tries

To tear down every government by lies?

Do you know Livni said she wouldn't concess

To Shas's shameless politician's stress,

And not long after, she decided to

Bring back 'Religions' Ministry' anew!

She speaks of women's rights, although not once

She voted 'gainst them! Tsipi, I'm no dunce.

You've lost my vote. Now, on to Benjamin:

Want you some mafo Shas man sitting in

The Minister of Education's chair?

Know you what he can do while sitting there?

He'd not give Haredim some subjects, as

Democracy, no English and no math,

No science, not a thing! The economy

Which turned, back in his times, so cruel but meek,

Will grind again the poor within the slums,

Or start some riots, or a war... To sum

It up, he lost my vote as well. Barak,

Who tries to say he's solid as a rock,

'Not sympathetic, but a leader', has,

iIn past years, said things that could shame an ass:

'I'm not a war-lord, I'm the Minister

Of Home Security.' Meanwhile, he stirred

And undermined the government so bad

That half of them are vengeful and are mad.

Eight years he did not speak when rockets boomed

Across Sderot and crumbled every room

And every street across that town. Give him

No great rewards for these horrendous sins!

Be wise: Let Bibi go to the U.N.

And do the wonders that he's done again,

Or let him handle the exterior

Affairs, revive this country's name from yore:

No man has Israel's publicity

Restored like that. Today, people drink tea

And eat a crumpet, and condemn this land

And yell in mock-fear at its 'bloody' hand.

Barak, perhaps, has learned from his mistakes.

Perhaps he should be gi'en another take;

He was responsible for what we've seen

In Gaza: Maybe now his eyes are keen.

But Livni should be told to go away:

For her hypocrisy she has to pay!

Ye all, come vote for Merets!... Or, perhaps,

For Israel Our Home... There's still a gap,

Between the parties who should rule this place,

And votes we may submit to bring this race

Into conclusion... Maybe, when it's time,

To make the choice, we'll simply flip a dime?

The choice between security and truce,

The people's fidelity, or the E.U.,

Gay rights and first degree for free... Oh please,

Unite, you two, and bring these thoughts to cease!

An Cat Dubh

  Yesterday I saw a play by a friend of the family (he showed it to a few guests in a little studio). It's a nice children's play I'll translate to English once he gives me the written play. Anyway, one of the guests said that basically, Merets and Israel Our Home want the same thing: two countries, so there Israel will be a country without Arabs. She said even the left-wingers wouldn't want an Arab living next to them. That's an interesting thought, really.

  Unum diem...

  Persephone,

  It's been a week since you left me to the underworld. I still remember it vividly: my stepfather driving us to the vet's clinic, me in the back singing you Whiskey in the Jar and stroking you, making sure every once in a while you aren't dead... I was very relieved when we got there and you seemed far from it.

  The vet did a brief check-up, and quickly understood you most likely ate a mouse which ate mouse poison. 'I hate it when people use this kind of poison,' she said. You could barely walk, and only cry when she triggered some pain on your tail and paws to see if you respond. It was dreadful to watch; usually someone who'd annoy you like that wouldn't have their face intact for long. But then... You could hardly walk... You made a single step and collapsed... And that was my last memory of you. Oh Kot, you should've seen my mother who realised how awful your condition was; 'No, that's it! I don't want a cat!' she cried, futilely attempting to fight the tears.

  Your condition continued to worsen. My stepfather told my brother and myself that the vet rang and he didn't have much good news to tell him. My little brother wanted to see you, but my stepfather refused, saying she's connected to infusions and other machines, and it would be shocking to see her like that. We already started speakign of your virtues in the past tense, but I still remained hopeful. Eventually I went to my room to practice for a math test, but instead of practicing I just kept saying the Lord's Prayer again and again (an atheist ideal looked idiotic compared to the thought of you about to die), and eventually resigned to a half-concentrated vector practice. Till my stepfather came in and said, 'She's dead.'

  I didn't cry. Oh no. I haven't cried for the entire week. My little brother collapsed and couldn't stop crying and screaming, my mother cried rivers, and I trembled. I saw the world around me collapsing. I went into a miniature panic attack (I assume that what it was). Kot, I've never dealt with grief before. I mean, the only people I knew who died were people I didn't know that well: a relative in the south, another in the U.S., the guard in the school by my house... I called you 'my solace', and now that my solace itself was gone, I was clinging on the air without oxygen―

  My mother started looking for pictures of you in her collection of photos and videos she'd made (she's an excellent photographer). Fortunately, I wrote about the day we got you in my diary (which I've been neglecting for a long time now...), so we knew where to look for you (the files are arranged according to dates). We found videos of you as a tiny, skinny little kitten, playing with a little toy mouse. My brother was playing with you, and you looked very happy. I was very disturbed by the fact there wasn't a single picture of me with you there, and had a very hard time trying to grasp the idea that just going to make some is impossible, because you're dead, you're no more, you're gone... And everything else just can't compare to that. M. N. was a complete nobody. How can he compare to someone as noble, sweet, beautiful, virtuous, and intelligent as you? You were more intelligent than a few people I know... put together! (Fortunately, I recalled I took pictures with you on Purim 2007, with me dressed as Bashou, remember? Unfortunately, these pictures were deleted, and had only a blurry icon as a shard of a memory I have to cherish.)

  Khavatselet gave me a ring. She got the text message I'd sent quite a few of my friends, and was the only one who rang me (instead of expressing their compassion through a text message). I spoke to her for about twenty minutes or so. I told her how much I loved her, how helpless I felt, I told her about everything, and yet I felt like there's always more to say. I told her never to try kill herself or something, because I shall see it as a foul treachery. She promised me she won't, and before I hung up I asked her, 'Do you ever feel like you're in a book?' She said she does, and I told her I can often spot the literal methods some sort of 'grand writer' is using in my life. I thought about it and wondered what your death was supposed to symbolise, thinking mostly about The Lover.

  School was a challenge. Concentrating was hard. I met a very bonnie lassie whom I shall codename 'Noelle', a girl who took a book of Emily Dickenson's poems, and she's just an eighth grader. I really liked her, and I thought I might teach her English (because she's the kind of lass who would be interested in what I mostly emphasise, and that is the whole cultural background of the language). Not only it didn't work, but when I came looking for her, half of her classmates started singing a Jewish wedding song at us. Eventually, I barked at them 'SHUT UP!' so loud and suddenly they were startled and shut up (at least partially). I told them, 'Look. Usually, I tolerate your idiocity. I think, "It's not their fault that they're idiots, there's nothing they can do..." But now my cat is dead, so I have very little patience and tolerance for your nonsense.' They kept on singing at us when we came back from the library, even though I'd told them already from the start that I'm just her future-to-be English Teacher. Oh Kot, do you remember how I wouldn't let you into the house (mum wasn't happy about you going and tearing things, walking on the dishes...), and I told you it's so 'you won't catch the humans' impurity'?

  I had other misfortunes later on. I was about to break something. Oh Kot, had it not been for Obama's inauguration, Kot knows waht would've happened―

  I went through a week of mourning. Yes, I know, very Jewish of me, but that's a harmless Jewish rite (unlike almost any other rite). I could hardly eat, but when I did, I couldn't stop. Sleeping was hard. I wouldn't allow myself to laugh whole-heartedly when I watched Erets Nehederet. It was... painful. But it was worth it. For me, this was a repentance for any sign of neglection or any wrong-doing I've ever done to you. People were impressed with the week-long mourning and what it included, but that was of little importance.

  I loved you so much, Persephone. I can't believe you aren't waiting by the door for me to feed you anymore. No-one I can stroke and share all my troubles with... I wished for a cat for so long, I was so happy to have you. I can't believe I'd initially thought you're not the kind of majestic cat I wanted. Mum couldn't believe she hadn't wanted you and had threatened to send you away. I miss chasing you down to the basment and finding you miaowing innocently. Oh, how I miss your gentle voice! No cat can match that. I miss you so, I miss you so, I miss you so, I miss you so I miss you so I miss you so―

  And now you're buried in the corner of our backyard, with only two hibiscuses marking your grave, buried in a fancy shoebox with a stain from my little brother's tear and your favourite toy ball.

  Forgive me, my love, the sweetest thing ever born after Khavatselet (I hope you aren't offended by this nickname...). I went to the pet-shop to find a Russian blue only because that's the only type of cat that I know that can match your great virtues. It is a rare cat, and very hard to find in Israel. That is why I started looking for one now; once I can find one, it would've been long enough to have dignified your death properly. I'm very sorry, but I'm going insane without stroking a cat's fur. There's Ao, the cat that lives up the road, who seems to like me, but her fur isn't as soft as yours, her voice if oddly squeaky, and I can't pick her up and hug her. Oh Kot, I'm losing it―

  Yours,

  The funny hoomin.

  Obama was inaugurated. I watched it on Fox News, so I can hear Obama's speech without hearing it translated to Hebrew in the middle and get distracted, and I was very glad I did so.

  I expected them to talk about LGBT rights (the GoGay.co.il writers referred to Obama as 'most likely the most gay friendly American president ever), but it seemed I misinterprereted the magnitude of the race barrier being broken, an issue referred many times during the ceremony (and that old black reverend gave a very nice rhymed speech about it, 'Black won't be taken aback, brown can stick around...').

  It was a bit awkward, though, when that singer whose name I forgot sang My Country, 'Tis For Thee. I thought her singing style and the way she dressed were very strange, but I realised it was a demonstration of the African-American's unique culture, which I can't really relate to.

  The poet who read that poem (Something Alexander) was embarrassing. It sounded like something a child might write, and it pretty much proves that Americans have absolutely no taste when it comes to poetry (otherwise Walt Whitman could never have been their national poet). I was surprised they let her in.

  The air Yo-Yo Ma, Yitskhak Perlmann, and the other two played was... interesting. I wasn't listening that well, so I can't really judge. I should listen to it again some time and make an opinion.

  The inauguration itself was a negative surprise. Obama got confused in the middle, and I was quite scared. What was that supposed to mean? Ah well. Let's hope it means nothing. There were a few little blunders here and there, but meh.

  The speech was pretty interesting. Obama didn't speak with vague words, but actually addressed the issues he was concerned with and said it will be a long process which will require the people's patience and co-operation. I listened attentively till the end, and wasn't disappointed (well, just a little, because he didn't say a thing about LGBT rights. I interpreted it as cowardice). However, the reporters said they were surprised at the speech, saying Obama has shown his good literary taste in the past, but this speech was somewhat corny. I didn't have anything to compare it to, so it seemed alright for me. A classmate later told me he did it because he wanted to show people he is only human, and will only be able to take care of the crises as a human and make people understand he's not the sole solution for their problems.

  I was disappointed to see there was no big ceremony with all the promised artists (and a gay choir was said to perform there! I wanted to see how that turned out... I've read something like that was never done before, and it was considered controversial), and read only later these performances took place two days beforehand. Hopefully I'll find out about that on YouTube.

  The Erets Nehederet episode afterwards featured an embarrassing impression of Obama by Eli Finish. However, it was rather funny when the Bibi (done by Mariano Edelmann) said, 'We have a great president on our side, U.S. backs us up, so we can do whatever the fuck we want!', and Obama said, '...No you can't.' (So Bibi said he's a broken president and asked if they could go back to the previous one...) It was also funny when Kitsis tried asking Obama if his views of the Middle East and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict have changed, and Obama's media adviser translated it as, 'You're a darkie, we've never had to deal with a darkie before, what are we supposed to do?...'

  I have great hopes of you, Mr. President. Please don't fail me.

  I translated a poem written by Altermann. I think it is very relevant for our days. It's an untitled poem, from Altermann's Notebooks, volume III, page 60:

– – – Quoth the Devil, How can one protected well

Be defeated?

He has his courage and he has the virile skill,

His arms are with innovation by him seated.

 

Thus spake he: I shan't seize his force

Or put bridles for to restrain him,

And no weakness I shall endorse

And his strong hands I shan't as then weaken:

I shall make both his mind and spirit coarse,

And his knowing he's right be forsaken.

 

– – –

Thus spake he, and the heavens froze

And turned pale in horrid fear

As they saw how he spake and rose

This nefarious plot to bear.

An Cat Dubh, 21.1.09

  Not as good as the original, but meh. I think I should revise it and re-post a fixed version of it (I think this poem was written with a different stress system, and that's what made me think the metre is inconsistent...). But you understand the point.

  Unum diem...

TO BE READ ONE DAY

 

Oh, Robin, how I love you! Such a lad so sweet and kind,

So wholesome and so talented, so gentle and refined,

A source of praise and envy of all mothers of the town,

You never cease to please me, and you hardly make me frown.

 

And Rénard too, so keen and introspective, you too are

My pride and joy, whene'er you ponder deeply, wide and far,

Or write such words which, when they're brought to tune, astound all men:

They weep in joy and call, 'Sublime! Encore, come sing again!'

 

And how you love each other, such a fine fraternity,

Each other you will aid at will for an eternity;

Your rows will be so brief and few, and lessen every year:

You are my most beloved, both of you I most endear.

 

And then I am awoken back at my days, those in which

I've yet to find my man or wife, with whom I shall be hitched,

In which you've yet to come into this world, my lovely sons:

But fear not: you will both be born, not all is said and done.

An Cat Dubh, 25.12.08

  I've recently joined a big Furry forum, and started a discussion about Cub Art (like yiff, only with children/early-teen characters). Here is the discussion; tell me your opinions in the replies (unless you're from the Forum; in that case, reply over there).

JOHN: What do you mean, 'He should receive what's his'?!

DOE: The man's a debtor, and must pay his debt.

JOHN: HE WANTS A POUND OF FLESH.

DOE:                                                       Then so be it;

  If he was not prepared to pay him back,

  Why did he sign the contract in the first place?

JOHN: Because he needed to assist a friend!

  Wouldst thou wish to be judged by the reckless

  Decisions made in moments dire?

DOE:                                            I shan't,

  In any case, do such a foolish act

  And let my soul be put in cold gods' hands.

  If he be such a fool, he must confront

  The consequences of his foolishness.

  Is he no grown man? Has he no control

  Of what he does with his own life?

JOHN:                                          He has,

  But I am certain any man will do

  As he had done. The pleating of a friend,

  A fair lass smiling, and the likes of these,

  May cause a man to lose his common reason,

  As I am sure you've done throughout your life.

DOE: I've had enough. This argument has gone

  Ad nauseam. Perhaps, in future times,

  Mankind will have the competence to answer

  Such questions. But I must be on my way:

  I have a customer from whom a debt

  I must collect.

JOHN:              Ta-ta, be kind with him!

An Cat Dubh, 17.12.08

  Hurrah! First commission completed! I wrote my friend a poem for her and her girlfriend's six months anniversary, and I assume she'll be most pleased. I wrote her a Petrarchan sonnet, and I'm charging half price (the usual is 100 NIS). Now she just has to pay me back; she already owes me 70 NIS (in total), and she's been postponing the 20 NIS debt for far too long.

  Unum diem...