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...

  Walking across the country and calling the folk to repent, as the Kingdom of Heaven is nigh, Jesus of Nazereth was summoned by a man, weeping as few grown men dare to. Try as they might, the men surrounding him, saying unto him, ‘Sorry mate, your daughter’s dead, you ought to learn to accept it, leave the rav be,’ he would not give in and insisted to see him.

  ‘What is it, sir?’

  ‘My daughter, it’s my daughter, she’s... she won’t wake up, she won’t move... Please, help her... Help me... She’s everything to me. I am a wealthy man, I can give you anything you want, just tell me, if only you can bring her back to live again... Please...’

He wept in humility before Jesus and fell to his feet in his pleading. Jesus kneeled down unto him, looked into his eyes with a faint smile, and spake. ‘Just take me to her, sir.’

  The man’s eyes lit up in hope, and he quickly took Jesus along with him, rushing to his home. The house was made of firm stone and had two storeys, and several servants were walking about, tending to the house, frowning at him. ‘What are you doing here?’ their eyes seemed to say. ‘You’ve nothing to do here anymore, just go.’

  The father, now no longer weeping but breathing deep, full breaths, as one does after crying or laughing wholeheartedly, showed him his daughter’s bed. There lay she, eyes shut, hands held together on her chest as if praying, her breath gone. She expected, it seemed, for something, without knowing what it was.

  ‘This is her. Please, sir, please...’

  Jesus looked at her with wide eyes. He did not speak. He kneeled by her bed and looked at her as children do. He gently stroked her face, as a young boy stroking that of his beloved sister. His eyes began tearing, and he whispered:
  ‘Please, girl, wake up... Come on... Wake up, please... Please wake up...’

  He gently shook her body back and forth, as if he were handling a precious treasure, all the time whispering, ‘Wake up... Please wake up...’

  Then, the girl’s eyelids slightly slit open. Her eyes slowly opened, finally blinking at Jesus’ face. She was bewildered; she slowly looked around the room to see her father slowly beginning to tear in joy, his legs weakening in elation, barely understanding what just happened. Finally, she spoke.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she said.
  Jesus drew a sweet red apple from his coat and gave it to her with a big smile. He turned to her father and said, ‘Can you get her some bread and honey, please? Thank you sir.’

  Her father quickly left, still weeping in joy, and Jesus granted her a little stuffed cat made of fine, soft wool.

  ‘Here, take this,’ he said, and told her, ‘wash your hands before you play with it, and don’t ever forget to happily let your brothers and sisters and friends play with it together with you. If you do so, you shall inherit the earth.’

  The girl nodded happily and gave him a heartly hug, even though she didn’t understand what he was talking about. Jesus left the house before the father returned, hoping she never will.

  So the ‘FestiRabin’ is come and gone, as every year, and instead of giving my personal opinion about this annual farce, now I would like to tell you some about my own experiences with the assassination.

  See, back in the day, I was just a four-year-older. I barely knew what was going on around me, not just because of my age, but because I barely had any concept of societal norm and couldn’t decipher what was going on around me. I don’t really remember hearing about the murder, and certainly not about the circumstances, but I do remember how I felt knowing it took place.

  I was, and I mean it with no attempt to add dramatic effect or anything to this account, shocked to my very core. Suddenly death was not something that only happened to cartoon villains, it wasn’t something abstract you never actually saw taking place, just somehow knew that’s what happened to some villain or another. Suddenly it was something that could happen, no, will happen to anyone. Premature death was something real, not just for those villains―in theory, if someone wanted to, they might just kill me out of arbitrary malice. As silly at it might sound as first, it took me quite a while to get back to normal and stop being terrified of Yig'al ‘Amir.

  I did grow out of it, but I would never be the same again.

  Uni is very interesting. Not only am I taking linguistics and East Asian studies, but I’m also taking Intro to Africa as a free listener. It’s very enlightening, and seems to emphasise to some extent my opinion that people are far more divided by social class than by culture―the assumptionthat Israelis are rude and the Japanese are civilised it ridiculous, as high class Israelis are often very civilised (as you can tell if you ever visit TAU), while the Japanese in Ueno, Tokyo can get drunk and fool around on the street or even (Kot forbid!) throw a cigarette on the sidewalk instead of a bin. This also applies to the concept of India as ‘spiritual’, which any Indian can tell you is bollocks, and few Westerners can remember their own abbeys and centres of spiritual study that have existed for ages. In the last lecture in Intro to Africa I was surprised to hear that pre-colonial African kingdoms used a social system similar to that of the Shang dynasty in China. Differences in culture, save being in different stages of advancements due to this or that historic and/or geographic factor (which can be quite speedily overcome, as the Japanese demonstrated in their transition from hunter-gatherer culture back in the Yayoi culture to their situation in the Nara period), can often be explained due to this sort of class system existing and being retained in a culture’s collective memory; Jews are a classic example of this, as this effect is, in fact, expanding the common social dynamics you can find in a kindergarten or a school class. This is just a theory, and I still cannot fully explain the drastic differences between, say, the State of Japan and Islámic theocracies, but I suppose if I studied it I’d see a surprising amount of similarities. But I digress.

  My mum and stepdad were afraid I’d make myself the class nudge and make everyone grunt whenever I ask a question. I heeded their warning and decided to limit my participation in classes and lectures to as few questions as possible, comments on what someone else says, and amusing comments and/or questions (almost exclusively with true desire for an answer). So I might soon establish myself as the class clown, which is not that bad a position―comedians have a very high average I.Q.

Now, if I can just get people to stop jinxing me all the time...

When Christ sat down at Bethany,

  The home for all the poor,

He told his men, ‘Come, sit with me

  Behind this sealed door.’

 

He sat among his men to dine,

  And from the poverts’ hoard

A woman came and oil fine

  Brought to anoint her lord.

 

So humbly him to wash she bent,

  And every man did stir

As they smell’d this lavender scent―

  By God, what did occur?!

 

‘Dear rav!’ Spake Judas, ‘Give this oil

  To those in dire need!’

‘Dear Judas, must thou still so toil

  To honour thy meek creed?

 

Both poverts hunger and fate’s wrath

  This earth shall never shun,

But Jesus, man of Nazereth,

  Shall ever be but one!’

 

...Christ, chosen by the Dove thou wast,

  Thy mission was defied;

The Mandate of the Heavens lost,

  Thou shalt be crucified.

An Cat Dubh, 14.11.11

  Unum diem...

  I have read quite a few articles on many a various subject regarding the far east, particularily Japan. Among other things I came across a few articles about the opening of Japan to the West at the end of the Edo period and the cultural influence thereof, which included the peculiar loss of direction of Taishou Japan.

It wasn’t the same. The culture’s not ours, we can’t comprehend.

  No direction was there, no reliable beacon

    Or guidance was seen.

  The officers knew moral fibers had weakened

    And yet, such a scene

    So grotesque and obscene―

Miss Abe confessed she brought this mad love a terrible end.

The newspapers buzzed, the public sure read, the case was unfolded.

  The judge heard it all, and this case he sure browsed

    And finally said:

  ‘Though admittedly was I by this case aroused,

    This is grave. A man’s dead.’

    Nowadays, it’s all read,

And somehow, the one who murdered is into a heroin moulded..

 

...In many a year, in distant a land, with different a clue,

  When all that we see as obscene and defiled

    Or otherwise wrong

  Is either as virtue or norm to be filed

    And virtues so strong

    To a sin’s world belong―

I hope they remember that we were all human folk too.

An Cat Dubh

  Unum diem...

  (P.S. I finally started uni. Fuck yeah.)

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.)

  That's a question I get a lot. Why Iceland? Isn't it some rock in the middle of bumblefuck? Hence, I am posting here a list I made of advantages of living in Reykjavík, Iceland (and Iceland in general) compared to living in Sacramento or Roseville, CA (long story).

  So, ups for Reykjavík:

• Iceland’s students were among the top ten countries in the world in literacy; Iceland itself has a 100% literacy rate. The U.S. did not (I don’t know about California individually).
• Iceland is a welfare country. Sacramento is in the Capitalist U.S.
• No dogs are allowed into Reykjavík without a special exception. (I am strictly a cat person.)
• Snow comes early, and, being from Israel, I’ve been almost completely deprived of the ability to play in the snow as a child. I need to fix that, and I’d really love to see my future children’s excitement with the first snow of the year. Sacramento is usually too hot for snow, and it usually just hails there instead. Plus, after reading Alana Odegard’s column about the kósí kvöld, I got a very nice and fuzzy feeling in me, as if I could feel the cosiness myself.
• Icelanders are much like Israelis, in their sense of easy-going attitude (Israelis have their own version of þetta reddast: yihye beseder, ‘it’ll be fine’) and straight-forwardness, only they’re much more individualistic, not as militant, and much more liberal (remember the historic victory of Jóhanna Sigurðardóttir, a.k.a. ‘Jóbama’?). California is part of the U.S., a country in which people are often confusingly polite for Israelis: if an American says ‘maybe later’ about a suggestion, s/he means ‘NO’, but an Israeli would take it literally and just ask again later.
• Also, there’s little to no homophobia in Iceland, in particular not in Reykjavík. Well, at least one can’t be discriminated or encounter gay bashing there. No-one in Iceland thought it was much of a big deal Iceland’s new PM is a lesbian, and the most famous Icelandic female singer, band leader, and arguably techno musician are ‘that way inclined’ (Björk is bisexual, Jón Þór Birgisson is gay, and so is Páll Óskar). Icelandic law allows same-sex marriage and adoption, as well as developing transgender-related laws. California passed Proposition 8.
• Iceland has a globally acclaimed theatre and orchestra, as well as a spectacular music industry, and damn, it has Iceland Airwaves. Reykjavík has its own internationally famed film festival; Gerald Peary from the Boston Phoenix called the festival ‘one of the best-programmed film festivals on earth, and with some of the most exciting guests’. Well, Sacramento has equivalent festivals of its own…
• Iceland never aired Big Brother, reading is very popular there, and Icelanders visit the theatre (with a stage and not a screen) very often.
• Iceland has its Northern Lights phenomenon. That’s just plain whopper.
• The Icelanders are very, very good looking. Even if it won’t be of, um, practical use, they can still be fun to look at.
• Minimal amount of Muslim immigrants (sources vary in numbers, but none is over 1,200. There are about 200,000 people living in the Greater Reykjavík Area. This, compared to about 25% of Oslo, for instance, is almost nothing). Let’s face it: first generation, and sometimes even second generation Muslim immigrants to European countries often cause lots of trouble and threat the local liberal culture. There are some beautiful exceptions, but all in all, that is the case.
• Reykjavík is one of the greenest cities on Earth, disregarding the massive carbon emission.
• Unlike in the U.S., democracy in Iceland is so strong, the President himself can walk around without guarding without ending up like Olof Palme.
• Iceland’s healthcare system is the third best in Europe (though it might decline due to the kreppa, or maybe the other way around―some articles online indicate there’s a growing trend of establishing medical tourism in Iceland―but who knows?). The U.S. healthcare system isn’t even free.
• Even during the crisis, Icelanders have a great sense of humour. Also, Icelandic teenagers I’ve spoken to seem very nice.
• Iceland has a vast literary repertoire, written in a language that’s been almost frozen for centuries, which can be read even today.
• Iceland has a history to be quite proud of: having created one of the first parliaments in the world, having been the second country in the world to legalise abortions (after the U.S.S.R.), and having been the true first European to step on American ground. California used to be a Spanish colony.
• Iceland has E-label, which uses no live models in its catalogues and puts a middle-aged model on the front page (unlike, say, Israeli FOX). That’s progressive. I like that.
• Iceland most likely wouldn’t have many people with a good command of various languages as I would have once I’m done with all the languages I’m trying to master, which would give me a major cut above the rest when I try applying for jobs as a translator.
• According to what an acquaintance from Iceland told me, the Icelandic system of education is extremely open-minded. They actually listened to him when he layed out all of his arguments in support of his cannabis consumption, and he could actually start an intelligent discussion in class instead of being silenced in favour of ‘continuing the lesson, because we don’t have much time till the finals...’ (as always happens in Israel). In the U.S., however, it greatly depends on the teacher.

  Now, to its downsides:

• Iceland is a very tightly knit community. This makes Iceland some sort of a huge kibbutz, in a sense.
• That might make me meet my ex much more often than I would like.
• Icelanders might not be homophobic, but they have a serious xenophobia problem to cover for it. One of the best examples of this is how immigrants are required to re-attend university in Iceland.
• Also, Iceland doesn’t handle immigration very well, resulting in said xenophobia, alongside many Polish immigrants who stay in Iceland for ages without speaking any Icelandic. Teenagers I’ve spoken to, however, don’t appear racist: many of my Facebook friends and I have a mutual black friend—named Unnur.
• I’ve heard from Icelanders—on blogs, on MSNM, &c. that many people have become much meaner because of the kreppa.
• Iceland has the second highest number of rapes per 100,000 people in Scandinavia, after Greenland. I can never, ever endure belittling rape. Sacramento has similar stats (it has app. 500,000 people living in it; do the math), but it has harsher punishments.
• Iceland’s universities are not even among the top 500 of the world, while the University of Sacramento was one of the top 100 universities for an M.A. in the West in 2007. And the University College of Los Angeles, which is among the top 50 universities of the world, is several hours of driving away.
• Roseville, California, which is about half an hour away by car from Sacramento, is the skinniest city in the U.S. Iceland, on the other hand, is developing an increasing obesity problem (and damn I wish I could re-find that article I read about it…).
• Iceland’s in an endless fight over its whaling industry.
• Iceland's weather can be horrible. Even when it’s not, it’s pretty cold, and I’m sensitive to cold…
• Living in Iceland is quite expensive, at least so I’ve heard.
• They eat svið. Jesus, how the devil can you eat something that’s looking at you? And looking at you cutely?
• Iceland emits preposterous amounts of carbon.
• Aside of Iceland having created one the world’s first parliaments, Iceland also has some darker sides to its history, such as trying to ban black soldiers from serving in the American base in Keflavík.
• Iceland’s in a bloody economic crisis! (Well, actually, so is California… And it was said on the Iceland Review that the Icelandic Minister of Finance, Steingrímur J. Sigfússon, said that the restoration of the three banks that collapsed a year ago―Glítnir, Landsbanki, and Kaupþing―are to be restored by November 1st.)

  This, I suppose, sums it up. I tried making this list to choose between being with Felicia and going to Iceland after uni, or go to Sacramento with the person I was referring to a few posts ago (‘True Poverts’ Joy’). Just when I was coming to the conclusion that Felicia and Iceland probably better, she got back with her ex. Sigh...

  And while we’re at it, here’s a great site by an acquaintance who writes for Iceland Review: Iceland.co.il. Any Israeli who’s into Iceland should go read there.

  And last but not least, here’s a poem I wrote as a gesture to Sigur Rós:

TJÚ!

Teach me to sing in Hopelandic, Jón,

  And set my dumb tongues on fire!

Teach me to sit at the Gates of Dawn

  And scream from the top of my lungs: ‘Í gær!’

Teach me to dance with the little Starelf

  To a musical box in the shire!

It's a good start to put the book back on the shelf;

  Now it’s time to relinquish this lyre!

Oh give me the wind and the haystack, it’s time to be true:

Í’m riding a river of silver, becoming just T-J-Ú!!

Tjú! Æásjatjú! Nýafuatjú! Kjæjáæaaa!!!

An Cat Dubh, 14.10.09

  Jón Þór Birgisson isn't nearly acknowledged enough as a true genius. I’ll dedicate a post to analyse his work some other time.

  Unum diem...

  This is a post I've promised a good friend of mine long ago. He's very dear to me, and he's single, and I'm here to spread the wealth (id est, I'm telling other people about him to share him).

  He's very intelligent, he has a pretty good taste in music (he likes The Dresden Dolls, Sigur Rós, and lots and lots of gay icons: Liza Minelli, Patricia Kaas, the Eurovision Song Contest &c., as well as musicals―his favourite is The Cabaret), he's a great cook (at least so he claims, I haven't had the chance to taste it myself), he's extremely kind (he can go way out of his way for the ones he cherishes), he's quite wealthy (from Kfar Shmaryahu, one of the places with the highest incomes in the country), he plays tonnes of different instruments, and he speaks fluent English and a bit of French (and he wants to learn Russian). Also, he recently got a haircut, and his hair looks fabulous. Oh, and he's lots of fun when he's drunk.

  For fairness' sake, I should mention his downsides: I personally find him a bit clingy at times, he's slightly chubby, and he can show somewhat alarming empathy to those who hurt him (don't you dare hurt him, lest I kill you in your sleep. No, I'll wake you up first to make you feel it). Plus, his parents are rather conservative, although his grandparents are very nice and open-minded (and excellent cooks).

  So, if you're from the area or know someone from the area who's interested in a 17-year-old with all the above characteristics, regardless of gender (he's bisexual, though it seems he prefers males), here's his MSNM: [email protected].

  This post is too short, and I've promised Felicia to whom this poem is dedicated to write this ages ago, so I have to break my promise to the lad described above and publish it on the same post. It was written overnight, in two hours time (from midnight till two A.M., because it was the ideal time for the inspiration required; in previous opportunities I was too exhausted and lacked inspiration), and it pretty much summarises what I collected from her descriptions of her dreams, with a bit of my own interpretation.

FREEDOM

  To Felicia

 

  'Tis night again. She sipped a mug of tea,

She watched a film, she strokes her pet cat's fur,

She wrote online a philosophic thought:

Forsooth she's ready for a good night sleep.

She enters R.E.M. Within her mind,

The vortex that's been troubling her all day

Is taking other forms. First, slowing down;

Then, turning up its tail, rising slowly;

Then, entering its mouth; then, closing on it,

Becoming some odd loop of violet

And swiveling swiftly, right before her eyen.

 

  'Go round, go round, odd loop of violet...'

And on, this loop of fabric or of led,

or leather, wood, or metal... She knows not

What is her kinship with this eager knot:

Is she this loop? Or just its mad creator?

Or just a watcher? She would not know later,

For now a crimson mist does swallow her.

It's sharp like digging claws and soft like fur,

It makes the loop dissolve into a blur,

And pours wine to her senses, and she purrs.

It shows her creativity, her lust,

Her rage, her passion, every secret must:

She is the bold tyrranosaurus rex,

And some poor old chihuahua, mad for sex,

The mighty king and some bohemian poet―

It makes all those one little stack, and throws it.

 

  So now she's standing in a ground-red desert:

The golden sunlight's growing lesser and lesser―

And vanishing. The sky's Behemoth black.

She's all alone, yet folk here aren't a lack.

The space, the sand, the stones here know no end;

Time-space continua can freely bend;

And her imagination can run free

On this sand, free of rocks, or men, or trees.

Wolves come befriend her sweetly, if she wish,

Or bring her food from other warm dunes, which

The crimson mist within her mind created.

 

  An green truck came to take her: that, she hated.

They sealed her in a wooden crate of oak

They ped upon the road, and hence, it broke.

Her head hurts. Then, she hears a flicking lighter:

Ms. Indigo and Harlequin invite her

To join her for some tea and play some Chess.

A blissful feeling does her soul caress,

And they begin to play. The pawns, the rooks,

The pondering and the resilient looks,

Upon this set of fine mahogany,

Grow to the endgame stages O so near―

 

  She must be risen from her sleep so calm:

In half a stound, she is to go to school.

 

  O, but she knows, her dreams to her can grant

What even her imagination can't.

The bursting hues, the purest form of thought―

The chessboard, desert, and the swiveling knot―

Are her true self: they are her viking's oar

To row upstream, they are her wings to soar,

They sing fore her her soul's most secret lore―

They giver her what she wants, she craves for: MORE.

These hues transcend the well-known, simple seven;

They cover widest land and wider yeavon,

The mountains, rivers, field, folk, road―and Heaven.

An Cat Dubh / 春良　ܫܘܢܪܐ

8.10.09

  One more thing I should write here: I like the concept of Anglish. Not because I'm some Germanic supremacist, Kot forbid (hey, although I have much affection to the Germanic, and mostly Nordic culture, I am still a proud Slav...), but because I think there's something rather pitiful about a culture saying, 'We're not smart enough to think of our own scientific terms, accurate adjectives, complex verbs, and even very trivial concepts, so we have to take those of another culture.'

  That's why I'm somewhat annoyed by the bad connotations the word 'cunt' has. I watched the Sex and the City episode 'The Power of Female Sex' yesternight, in which Charlotte was brought to a great artist's gallery, in which she was shown his recent work that is, in his opinion, his greatest representation of the strongest, most divine force: 'the cunt'. He repeated the word many times, and she found the usage of such a word very troubling, but said nothing. It's saddening to see how English has shunned her own offspring as an obscenity in favour of a militant foreign, Latin equivalent: vagina, a word which originally meant 'sheath'.

  That's one of the reasons I'm so fond of Icelandic: they have a word of their own for almost everything. Think about the word 'family', for instance: in English it's family, in French it's famille, in German it's Familie, in Swedish it's familj, and in Spanish it's familia, but in Icelandic it's fjölskylda (fjöl comes from fleiri 'many', and skylda means 'obligation'). Japanese also behaves very similarly to English, borrowing app. 60% of its words from Han languages (in Japanese, 'family' is 家族 kazoku, a compound of originally Chinese 家 jiā and 族 zú). Hebrew has a word of its own for 'family' (משפחה mishpakha), but uses foreign words for scientific concepts almost exclusively: basic concepts, like 'matter' (חומר khomer), 'state' (מצב צבירה matsav tsvira), 'platform' (מצע matsa'), 'protein' (חלבון khelbon) have original Hebrew, but words like 'polimer' or 'atom' do not. Also, Hebrew uses absurd amounts of words of Latin/Greek origin, borrowed through Russian, and even more absurd amounts of words from English. All in all, Hebrew is either spineless or a creole language.

  Also, I started learning Icelandic again, this time quite seriously. Now I can even make light conversations almost completely in Icelandic. If anyone's interested, here are the sites I use to learn:

• http://www.icelandic.hi.is
• http://digicoll.library.wisc.edu/cgi-bin/IcelOnline/IcelOnline.TEId-idx?id=IcelOnline.IEOrd
• http://www.verbix.com/languages/icelandic.shtml

  Have fun, proud geeks.

  And I just want to say one more time I'm very sorry your special post came out this way, but I've had to write this down for a long while now...

  Unum diem...

  Maybe we all got the wrong idea? Maybe the whole idea of happiness doesn't really rely on wealth, on finding happiness in the rat-race of our careers. When I spoke to him, and he said he can't follow me, I started thinking I might've made a mistake deciding not to follow him to Sacramento.

  I started thinking that maybe we're all making a mistake over-looking the 'weaker layers of society'. We're all trapped in some absurd rat-race, trying to advance our careers, ourselves, whatnot, and somehow we're still not happy. But look at the Arabs, or the religious Jews in Israel―they always seem so... content.

  And look at him, really. His sister is 18 and she's pregnant, and his parents have to take care of four children. He lost a thousand USD that were supposed to be given to him as state assistance, but the crisis wiped those away. And he's so happy, he's going to be an uncle!

  So maybe that's it, you know. Maybe the secret to true joy is just a house full of children and a sense of a superior goal in life. Some old fool once told me one should drink the little fountains he can reach from the bottom of the waterfall of religion and not try to mount the waterfall itself. I mean, honestly, when was the last time you heard of a National Religious man or an Arab going to 'find himself'?

  My dreams are most likely secure. Volunteering to the Israeli Intelligence, then a B.A. from Tel-Aviv University, then an M.A. from Tokyo University, then off to a quiet life in Iceland with a loving wife and an average number of children. But it seems a bit pointless at the moment.

  Maybe it's just the backfire of the break-up. It was so clean, I was surprised at my own tranquility. It hit me only at night, when I tried falling asleep and the thought of never being able to hold him and love him kept me awake. I can't believe I lost him. But maybe I'm onto something here.

He was so content　when he ran through the bean field　and fell bleeding there

  Unum diem...

  (I love you, Felicia.)

  Recently I heard a nice Irish folk song dating back to the 17th century, Whiskey in the Jar. It was amusing to hear it, because the tune was used in the 50's or 60's by a band called HaDudaim (The Mandrakes) in a song called Siman sheAta Tsa'ir (This Shows You're Young), whose lyrics have no connection at all to the original lyrics: the first tells the story of a bandit who robs a British policeman (those were regarded as national patriots at the time the song was written), then betrayed by his beloved who gives his money back to the policeman and turns him in to him; the second speaks of how wonderful it is to be young―'If you have gold in your heart and not between your teeth / This shows you're young, this shows you're young, / Every day is bright springtime...'

  I Googled 'סימן שאתה צעיר לחן' (Siman sheAta Tsa'ir composition), and the results showed something like this:

1. Folk Irish
2. Folk American
3. Folk Irish
4. Folk American
5. Folk Irish
6. Folk American
7. Folk American
8. Folk American

  et cetera. This amused me, because there's a common phenomenon in Israeli music of taking (sometimes contemporary) popular songs, whose composers are known, and giving them new lyrics. They say the songs' tunes are 'folk' (sometimes 'folk Greek', less often 'folk Turkish', and rarely 'folk Armenian'), and thus they avoid paying for the rights to use the tune, though this doesn't always work (eventually, sometimes after twenty years or so, the original composer demands what is rightfully his). This is a very rare case in which the tune really is a folk tune and the composer is unknown. Pity so many of them couldn't even get the 'folk' right...

  For comparison, here's Whiskey in the Jar (performed marvellously by The Dubliners), and here's Siman sheAta Tsa'ir (performed by Gidi Gov).

  Unum diem...

  EDIT: I translated the original song to Hebrew. Enjoy, Hebrew speakers:

ויסקי בכוסות

 

בעוד לי התהלכתי בכִירִי על ההר,

פגשתי את קפטן פארל, אשר את כספו ספר.

ידי תחילה אקדח שלפה, אז דקר－ידיד־נצח,

אמרתי: "דום ותן!", כי הוא היה נוכל עז־מצח.

 

         פזמון:

Mush-a ring dum-a do dum-a da,

ובכו־נא על אבי, ובכו־נא על אבי:

יש ויסקי בכוסות.

 

ספרתי את כספו, אשר רבה עד אלפי פני,

שמתיו בכיס, הביתה שבתי, ונתתיו לג'ני.

היא נאנחה ואמרה לי כי אותי לא תרמה היא,

אך שד יקח את האשה: קשה היא עד כדי נהי.

 

                    פזמון:

 

הלכתי אל חדרי לנום, ונמתי בלא־ניע;

חלמתי על זהב ותכשיטים－אין זה מפתיע:

אך ג'ני את מחסנותי מלאה כולן במים,

ועם קפטן פארל תכננה לתפשני בנחשתים.

 

                    פזמון:

 

ועם בוא בוקר, כשרציתי להלך לי פרא,

הגיעה חבורה, ובראשה עמד לו פארל:

שלפתי אז את אקדחי, כי את דקרי לקחה היא,

אבל נאסרתי: כי אקדח אינו יורה עם מים.

 

                    פזמון:

 

יש מי שמתענג על כרכרות נוסעות בדרך,

יש מי שמתענג על משחק הרלינג וכדורת;

אך לי בא עׂנג משתית מיצי השעורה,

ובשעת־בוקר בהירה, חִזור אחרי נערה.

 

                    פזמון:

 

אם יש מי, רק אחי אשר חיל הוא יושיעני,

אם את תחנתו אמצא בכורקי או כִיל־אַרְנֶה:

ואם הוא יצטרף אלי, נתורה בכִיל־כַנִי,

והוא יטיב דרכיו עמי יותר מאותה ג'ני.

 

                    פזמון:

Translation by / תורגם על־ידי An Cat Dubh, 4-5.12.08

  There's new campaign shown on Walla! named 'Bibi? I don't believe him'. It shows a game named 'Recognise the Bluff' (in which they show some of his ridiculous lies), quotes about him by other members of the Likud party members about him, and animation videos in which politicians criticise him.

  Now, unlike my friend Yotam Berger, who decided to refer to the campaign itself and its tactics (which is also important to do), I decided to write about the politician himself, Binyamin Netanyahu. The man, in case you don't know, is a practically pathological liar. He said a lot of nonsense, like talking about how he saw the British soldiers leaving Mandatorial Palestine when the Mandate was over (funny; it was over before he was born...), speaking about Rekhav'am Zeevi and his acts as a Minister when he was a Prime Minister (and he wasn't a Minister when Netanyahu was a Prime Minister), and telling of how he rejected an invitation to be the Minister of Economy in Italy (and he was never invited). It sounds a little like we're as drunk as drunk can be.

  However, as Senia Waldberg mentioned on his blog, politicians should not be criticised for what they say, but for what they do, and when we consider what they do, we should compare their contribution to their corruption (his exact words were, 'A Minister of Economy who boosts up the economy by milliards of dollars and takes a million into his own pocket is preferable to a Minister of Economy who does the economy by milliards of dollars and donates another million to the market from his own pocket'). And so I shall:

1. He isn't consistent. He said once that he will never raise the children's stipend, which Shas wants to raise, because raising it means they get more money for making more children. Three months later, he said that raising it a little is harmless.
2. He told Yitskhak Kaduri the day before he was elected in 1996, 'The Left-Wingers forgot what it means to be Jewish.' Appealing to those who 'remember' is a very, very dangerous thing to do, because these people forget what it's like to be Western. (I'm not talking about colonialism or cowardly 'pluralism' here, I'm talking about the Lumières.)
3. He's against gay rights. This is unforgivable.
4. He wants to ban speaking of the 1948 Palestinian exodus. My Arabic teacher is already in danger of getting fired for teaching it; now he wants to tighten the ban, which is retarded. What he should to is put it in the history study material, but teach it properly: teach the students that it was done because there was no other choice (you try winning a war without territorial consistency!) and that it was done as morally as possible (the residents were warned ahead of time in the Deir Yassin massacre. How many Western countries would do that?).

  In short, this man is a potential danger. He should be sent again as the Israeli Embassador at the U.N., a job he did marvellously. Honestly, why doesn't anyone criticise all those hypocritic countries criticising Israel? (You should hear how bad it gets: Australians can tell one moment how the indigenous people of Australia were first acknowledged as humans in the 70's, and give the Israelis dirty looks the next one.)

  Just to clarify: the other candidates are terrible choices as well. Tsipi Livni, the Kadima candidate, had the nerve to tell Bush that being a Jew means living the Holocaust and passing it on to your children, which will live the Holocaust as well. How stupid can you get? In the Israeli Labour Party there is still no definite leader (they're going to have a primary election today), but hopefully, it won't be the current one, Ehud Barak, who does nothing but chaos in the Parliament and saying retarded things like, 'I am the Minister of Defence, not a war-lord,' when asked about a solution to the situation in Sderot (which, as my non-Israeli readers were probably never informed on their media, gets bombed daily by Qassam missiles from the nearby Gaza). And Shas... well, they're Shas. (And the only reason I'm not criticising more broadly is that I'm too much of a layman when it comes to politics.) Perhaps Netanyahu is the best choice.

  And I can hear the Jewish fiddles accompanying the Shas members' singing:

'You're drunk, you're drunk, you infidel fools, stop this silly fuss:

For they are devious angels that the 'Shem' has sent to us!'

  And this makes me quite cross.

'Well, it's many a day I've travelled a hundred miles or more,

But a good man more corrupt than Shas I've never seen before.'

  Let's just hope it's a phase. Maybe some day Israel will once morehave a leader that will actually have a complete term.

  Ceterum censeo Meam-She'arim Benem-Barakque esse delendas. Unum diem...

  Chaos is about to ensue.

  Every party in Israel wants the Ministry of Education under their control, including Shas, the fanatic religious party which is lead by the king of amadáns and the Likud, the right-wing party lead by that demagogue schmuck.

  One of them will get it. That's for sure. Tsipi Livni, the one who is supposed to become the next Prime Minister of Israel, keeps sucking up to them to build a strong coalition, and keeps on giving their party hundreds of bilions of shekels for their fiendish ways. It's quite likely she'll let them have their way here as well, as she'd done with their wish to increase the money given to families with many children (like all these Haredic leeches have). Either that, or Bibi, king of demagogues, will get it (or worse―he'll win the elections and does whatever he wants with the country), which means the Nakba will become a forbidden name that even whispering it will get teachers fired (actually, that'll just mean the current situation will be worsened: my two Arabic teachers might get fired for teaching the subject), and the students of Israel will have to get used to a much more militant education (just today I heard him speak about Rehav'am 'Gandhi' Zeevi and how he hated the 'shirkers'...). Either way, this country will soon go down the memory hole.

  The only question now is how.

  Looking at the present state, I feel unusually happy with Yuli Tamir. She might be a tactless idiot who wants to kick Jabotinsky out of the education programme, but at least she's the first Minister/ress of Education in Israel to have ever visited the Jerusalem Open House, and she wants to introduce the Green Line to the education programme. I feel like singing!

Rule, O Yuli! Rule us youth!

Shas's fucks are on the loose!

  Meh, it could've been worse. There might've been a Hasidic party competing for the job as well, and they are even worse than the Orthodox Jews, because they appeal to the foolish masses (and are even greater liars than they are, having the nerve to call Bono Jewish). As the Ethiopian proverb says, 'Curse God not for creating the tiger; praise him for not giving him wings.'

  Ceterum censeo Meam She'arim Benem-Barakque esse delendas.

  Here's a sweet little lullaby I wrote. Anyone wants to set it to music for me?

A Lullaby

Every evening an angel comes, planting starts in Heaven’s field;
Now they shine: with a gentle humming, the days long woes they heal.
Black silk covers the drowsy earth with tranquility’s delight,
From each bedroom a whisper’s heard: little children wish good night.

 

Sweetest boy, little, tender yawns come and bid you: rest your head;
Yes, lie still till the break of dawn by a silent night is lead.
Then you’ll wake as a healthy lad, making everyone’s day bright;
Meanwhile, dream of the day you’ve had. Go to sleep, sweet boy. Good night.

An Cat Dubh, 21.10.08

  Someday, M. F., I will lull you to sleep with this song. Don't lose faith.

  And something I should've mentioned in the previous post: Khavatselet and I finally met!

  We went to see the Russian film Mermaid (Русалка) by Anna Melikyan at the Haifa Film Festival. The film was excellent (it is a nomine for the foreign Oscar award), but I was a bit sad, feeling that I probably lacked much of the cultural background to understand the film properly. The leading actress, Masha Shalayeva, was also there to answer the audiences questions. She had an interpretor at hand, but she seemed rather redundant: the audience conversed with her in Russian, and she just translated it to the rest of the audience (which was, most likely, just a handful of people).

  I was the only one who spoke to her in Hebrew, asking if the actors really understand all the deep symbolism in the film (she said at the beginning, 'I am just the actress, not the director'). The rest of the audience asked her questions like 'How old are you?' (she replied, '43,' but it was clearly a joke; her role in the film is of a 17-year-old lass, and she is actually 26) and 'Is this your first film?', questions I thought were redundant (one can easily look these questions up on Wikipedia). Shalayeva responded, 'No, we are just black workers. All the actors actually care about is when'll they finally be able to go home.' Later on I tried telling her in Russian, 'When you become a star, I'll be able to say I've met you beforehand,' but a word or two were missing from my vocabulary, so I had to speak to her in English.

  Khavatselet said that I'm a Faltsan (Hebrew slang, basically meaning 'somewhat-ridiculously pompous' or 'pretentious', literally meaning 'farter'), and I said, 'You've known me for nearly a year. Didn't you know I'm a Faltsan?' (Of course I said it jokingly.) I told her I got the picture the whole festival is quite like that, and asked her if it's good, and she said it certainly isn't, so I quickly looked for something non-Faltsan-ish to say (she told me just to say she's cute, and so I did. Because she really is.)

  While we were waiting for a cab, I told her how I tormented my little brother:

  We betted on which album Maxwell's Silver Hammer is on. He said The Beatles (a.k.a. The White Album), and I said Abbey Road. Had I lost, I would've bought him a can of some drink. But I haven't, and thus he had to read a poem of Altermann's. I'd originally meant to let him read something light from The Seventh Column, but he kept on postponing it, so I let him read a difficult, three pages long poem: A Seas' Canopy from The Dove's City, which I think is his best book. He hated it ('It's worse than classic music!!'), and fell asleep whenever I went away (just to get something to drink). He was euphoric when he was finally over it ('Freedom!!').

  She told me she'd read all of Altermann's The Dove's City and his first book, Stars Outside. I asked her hand in marriage that moment...

  Anyway, the cab picked us up, brought her to wherever she wanted and me to the train station, thus ending the special night of my meeting with the sweetest thing ever born.

  (See, dear? I mentioned you in my blog!)

  And Mea She'arim Bene-Barakque delendæ sunt.

  I decided to post here something dedicated to a certain special someone. Since it doesn't have anything related to anything important to you, you can skip this post.

  (The name and the name of the country are censored.)

To M. F.

My distant darling! Just two months ago
  You came to me, and I was most content
  You quickly opened. Like an angel sent
From your far land; yet then, I did not know
I'd wake up from a nightmare bit by woe—
  You told me of your joy and my lament:
  'I think I like someone…' It hit me then—
'Why, 'tis a crush's prelude, or so it seems…'

 

The milion crimson roses at the square,
  My English lover, speak of happiness
    Whene'er I read that 'M― has just signed in'!
Alas, some day my kiss will help you bear
  This awful poem you've caused; when I caress
    You, it might help you bear this dreadful sin!

春良　ܫܘܢܪܐ
10.10.08

  The signature is my old signature, used for more personal works.

  Rejoice, music and Hebrew lovers. I translated today my favourite song: Svmer Is Icumen In, attributed to W. de Wycombe. It's a beautiful song, written in Middle English (Wessex dialect), celebrating the Celtic Bealtaine time. It is also the earliest musical canon in the English language, and a marvelous piece of reverdie poetry. It is splendid to find such a pearl, unmarred by men's bloodbath, and yet so fine... I'm very happy I had the priviledge to grow up on it

  So, without further ado, here's the translation:

הנה באה עת הקיץ \ וו. דה וייקומב

 

הנה באה עת הקיץ:

שאי קול, קוקיה!

רוח־אחו שוב כאן שח:

"חורשה שוב הומיה":

קוקיה!

קול כבשה אחרי השה

וקול של געיה.

רון לצבי רוקד סביב

ורון לך, קוקיה!

קו־קו, קו־קו, קול יפה לך, קוקיה:

אל־נא תפסיקי, את.

 

לווי:

קוקיה, שירי, קוקיה!

קוקיה! קוקיה, שירי!

An Cat Dubh. 7.10.08

 

  And a trans(liter)ation:

Hine ba'a et hakayits, (Here comes summertime,)

S'i kol, kukiya! (Raise your voice, cuckoo!)

Ruakh-akhu shuv kan sakh: (Meadow wind once more tells here:)

"Khursha shuv homiya": ('The woods are busy again':)

Kukiya! (Cuckoo!)

Kol kivsa akhré tale (The voice of a sheep after a lamb)

Vekol shel ge'iya. (And the voice of a bellowing.)

Ron latsvi roked saviv (Felicity to the stag dancing around)

Veron lakh, kukiya! (And felicity to you, cockoo!)

Ku-ku, ku-ku, kol yafe lakh, kukiya: (Cuc-koo, cuc-koo, you have a fine voice, cuckoo:)

Al-na tafsiki, at. (Please do not stop, you.)

 

Pes:

Kukiya, shiri, kukiya! (Cuckoo, sing, cuckoo!)

Kukiya! Kukiya, shiri! (Cuckoo! Cuckoo, sing!)

  It's not the same, but I'm still proud of myself. You've no idea how hard it was to struggle with the internal rhymes and the concise metre...

  Tell me what you think of the translation, and tell me if you want to do anything with it.

  (EDIT 8.10.08: I listened to Prokofyev's Summer Day today. It was so sweet! Together with other fantastic melodies which escorted me on the road to maturity, this sweet suite resurrected my belief in innocence, to a certain extent.)

  I’m so fed-up with people criticising Israel for its treatment of Arabs, that I decided to write this poem.

Song of the Haven

 

Walid was limping to the border:

‘Away, away from law-and-order…’

Behind he heard the Muazin:

‘To Hell, all ye who chose to sin!’

 

The Gaza strip was filled with sounds

Of blasting guns and roaring hounds.

The Fatah and Hamas both called

To send each other to the pall.

 

Walid was limping from the shot

Which in the war his leg had caught.

He was in luck: his wife and sons

Were in the room; and now they’re gone.

 

He ran from torments which awaited

Inside ‘that dark room, full of hatred’.

They pulled his nails out, and his back

Was scorched by iron. He was whacked

 

And strangled; he was nearly dead

When by a miracle he fled.

He limped and crawled towards the border,

Still wondering if he’s really sober.

 

※

 

And somewhere else, Widad too ran,

But from the members of her clan.

‘I’m innocent, ya rabb!’ she thought

Of all inquities which wrought

 

The fine-eyed boy she’d met—he loved her,

And yet, the tale was grim and sombre:

Just once alone sufficed. Some man,

Who saw them walking hand in hand,

 

Was shocked and told her father, ‘Sir,

It grievens me these news to bear:

Widad was strolling down the street—

She walked and some young lad did… meet!’

 

The father got a tantrum: ‘I

Shall not allow this, she must DIE

By HONOUR KILLING!’ Luckily,

She learned of this in time to flee.

 

She must keep wiping all the tears:

‘The hired hitman might be here…

Ya Allah, please let them be not

By there, and bring my toil to nought…’

 

※

 

Young Yusuf, too, was making haste:

‘My love… I have no time to waste…’

He came to stop a grave disaster:

‘Oh Allah, make me faster, faster!…’

 

His love was certain when he left

To go reverse the ‘hellish theft.’

His parents told him, ‘Find a wife!’

But now he went to take his life.

 

The kisses burn on Yusuf's skin:

'The sweetest kiss, the bitter sin…’

I thou thee, coward!… Khaled dear,

You fill my heart with angst and fear…’

 

Now he recalls their final row:

‘I shan’t allow it! Shan’t allow!’

‘Shut up, and look at me! Now say,

Want you what we have to dismay?

 

We have a splendid thing between us,

And even if we bring no fetus

Into the world, and people ‘round

Can’t understand what we have found

 

In one another’s arms. My lover

Damocles’ sword must not come hover

Above our heads. Let's flee at once.’

‘And then the conqueror will have won!’

 

‘Let it be so! If this be our

Dear homeland, and it be so sour

And bitter, let’s from it retire!’

But these words did nought but fire

 

Young Khaled’s heart. ‘No. I’m obliged.

Now ma salameh. Here’s my ride.’

Young Yusuf wept for long, then ran:

‘Oh, may it have not yet began…’

 

※

 

These stories’ ends are not so bright:

Walid indeed the border crossed

And got to ‘Ikhilov’; yet there

The great commotion did him scare:

 

‘He is a terrorist!’ they said;

‘We all should do what fear and dread

Command us to, and kick him out!’

From pro and con supporters, shouts

 

Were heard in all the ward. Enfin,

There were elections; and the con

Was thus declared victorious. He

In Ikhilov remained, and healed.

 

Widad did cross the border too,

But her plot did unfold with woe:

‘We must be tolerant of other

Nigh cultures…’ quoth Police. ‘Your brothers

 

Should speak to you, go make your peace!’

Widad was clearly not at ease:

‘You harlot!’ Screamed her father at her,

And then came Fate’s atrocious laughter.

 

Her family faked their calming down,

And she came back. By night, her gown

Was stained in red, but no Widad:

And all from one fine-eyèd lad…

 

And Yusuf too was not embraced

By fortune gods. ‘Now Khaled's place,

Well, is all over…’ Yusuf heard it

And swore fore’er to be a hermit.

 

He crossed the border, asked for shelter:

‘I cannot live within this cellar!

…My loved one’s there! Please, let me pass!

They… cannot see I… want no… lass…’

 

They let him cross, but he was late:

‘Now Khaled’ s gone, now Khaled’s dead.’

And Yusuf now is dressed in lilac…

In lilac clothes in an asylum.

 

※

 

Ye Palestians from the Bank,

From Hebron, Gaza, every rank,

Ye from Kafr-Qasim, from Tulkarm,

Come hear this song! Don’t cower, come!

 

Do ye enjoy a life of fear,

Unknowing when Hamas grows near?

Like ye the fundamentalism?

Is homophobia fun? Say, is it?

 

Before you speak of ‘independence’,

First cease to speak of ‘sins’, ‘repentance’,

Et cetera. Once you be a state,

We cannot help you, it’s too late.

 

This happened in Sudan: they say,

‘‘Tis OUR business!’ and dismay

Humanitary aids: ‘Do not

Invade us! We ne’er help have sought!’

 

We want to help you, but before,

You must show your advancements; or,

At least, do not drive out as ravens

The land your sons use as their haven.

 

An Cat Dubh, 5.10.08

  Whew! That was a long one. Done at last!

  I’m sick and tired of Jews. Again.

  Why now? Because Jews fail to understand that you don't always need some weird conversion to convert to another religion. Atheist and agnostic are religious identities. And no, if your mother is not Jewish, that doesn’t make her a ‘Christian’. And if you were born a Christian (yes, and baptised), that doesn’t make you one for the rest of your life, even if you don’t believe it anymore. That’s why I hate the retard from the comic in ‘7Days’. ‘What?! You’re a CHRISTIAN?! You must undergo a giyur!! You won't spawn goyim in my house!!’ I hate this close-mindedness so much I can’t describe.

  I saw today a flickering fluorescent lamp in my class.

  It flickered on and off, with changing rhythms. It looked like a perfect symbol for a film, and I looked at it, enchanted. I must’ve looked like a complete retard.

  No-one noticed it, and it was depressing.

  I was criticised today for lack of pluralism, because of my profound hatred to religious Jews. It wasn’t an accurate accusation; it’s the Haredic and the National-Religious Jews. Dickheads leeching off Israel, fucking the parliament...

  However, Reformed are fine, pretty much (as long as they do a Brit Shalom). You see, my tolerance philosophy, if you may call it so, is pretty much the same as the Wicca’s: An it harm none, do what ye will.

  The problem is, the Jewish religion doesn’t think so. When women are discriminated (and don’t really do much to change their position, which is bleeding sick), LGBTs are lynched, boys are barbarically circumcised, and the Brooklyn Jewish community won’t let the pædophiles in all of Brooklyn get caught (and pretend everything is alright), how am I supposed to stay tolerant?

  But just to show niceness and specks of pluralism, here’s a poem I was forced to write for Rosh haShana: 

Rosh haShana

 

One year’s preparing for departure now,

Another—for the next act, for its cue;

A year of happy days and angry rows

Now says, ‘Alas, old friends, my time is due.’

We wish you now prosperity and growth,

We wish you joy, that your good health be true,

We wish that you ambitions’ crops will mow:

In short, I wish you what be good for you.

            The year will soon in history books be read,

            And may a better year by it be lead!

  And a Hebrew translation, also one I was forced to write:

ראש השנה

 

שנה אחת עומדה להפרד,

  נוספת—למערכה שניה;

שנה של רון, שנה של לב חרד

אומרה: "זמני, ידידי, יבוא מיד."

גדילה לכם נאחל, שגשוג ערב,

שאפתנות, נאחל שנה בריאה,

שמחה אשר לפוג היא תסרב:

לסוף, כל מה שעמכם יטב.

          שנה זו בהסטוריה תִותר,

          והעוקבת רק תטיב יותר!

 

Ah well. at least I got to brag about my writing and translating skills. Happy new year, שנה טובה!

  (EDIT: Read the poem with this in the background.)