Friday, March 29, 2013

Stone and Relic


Jerusalem: filled with relics of old, stone walls and ancient stories in which monotheistic faith has been derived. As the great walls stand tall and the holy places are revered by those who live here; so the tourists flock as if tomorrow is the end and their pilgrimage here is the will be adorned in the afterlife.

After I walked through the loosely monitored security gate of the Western Wall yesterday, I saw exactly this: hundreds of people, at any given time moving as one embodiment to and from the Wall with prayers on their lips and awe in their eyes.

Did it feel spiritual?

No, not to me, as callous as this may sound; There was no tingling in my fingertips, no emotional response my from my eyes. When I saw it, I saw a wall, connected to rest of Old City, a wall with grasses growing out of it and people desperate to touch. I saw a men’s side and a women’s side separated by dividers. I saw tourists taking pictures from the walkway above and I saw security guards everywhere.  I don’t mean to sound irreverent. But what people make the wall to be – I just didn’t see.

The Western Wall, to me, was just that, a wall. A man made alter no different than a church or a synagogue. It was a site for praying tourists and priests and orthodox believers. I just didn’t feel anything as others might. It was a wall. And perhaps the political discord surrounding its existence has taken away from any ‘holy’ feeling I am supposed to have; nevertheless, it was interesting site and nothing more.

Though the Western Wall did not impress me, I DID find the Tower of David Museum (another wall) to be most fascinating.


Perhaps it is because of history.

Once upon a time, a King walked these walls, troubled by how he might lead a nation, raw with every move he made, even in his faltering. This truly captures my attention.

King David was a man who ran with rebels, prayed for his enemies and not just for his sake, but also for theirs. After serving a King who wanted him dead, he took care of the King’s family. He was humiliated, he tried to have a woman’s husband killed, his own heir despised him. David was human and carried the weight of a restless people on his shoulders. Walking along the walls – which are believed to have been his castle, what did he see? What did he pray? What did he know?

The view was remarkable and extends along the edge of Old City. The view and the place I stood birthed more reverence. True, the Museum (the walls) has been rebuilt, torn down and rebuilt over and again. But to know a King wept and rejoiced along the same path. To know a great example of humanity and spirit was ever more inspiring.

I wonder, as the thousands come to the Old City this week to admire the old relics, does history provide renewal as much as the knowledge & wisdom of here…and now?

Book Review: She's The Boss


Dear Tina,

I'm certain in some other life, we met and probably at some over-priced coffee shop in a cave with tattered iKea furniture. But since we're in this life and I've just finished Bossypants from a roof-top in Jerusalem (truth), I wanted to reach out and say, "Thank you. Thank you for making nerdy-white midwest American girls with glasses...cool."

The writing was terribly witty and entertaining, so much so, I often caught myself in a hearty laugh sitting in a crowded bus or at a cafe in the morning when the rest of the room wasn't awake -- staring in my direction with a lop-sided stink eye to let me know morning laughter was not welcome until coffee had been consumed. And I've caught the constructor workers on the roof below catching glimpse and looking at me funny, alone, reading a book. What could EVER be so funny?

Your awkwardness, approach to life and often raw attitude to the daily grind of growing up, working, motherhood and wifery gives hope to the younger not so 'yellow-haired' bee out there.

While there were many great quotes and one liners to add to a FB status, Twitter, or a sticky note on the mirror, one of my favorites and becoming oh so popular was, "Now every girl is expected to have: caucasian blue eyes, full Spanish lips, a classic button nose, hairless Asian skin with a California tan, a Jamaican dance hall ass, long Swedish legs, small Japanese feet, the abs of a lesbian gym owner, the hips of a nine-year old boy, the arms of Michelle Obama and doll tits. The person closes to actually achieving this look is Kim Kardashian, who, as we know, was made by Russian scientists to sabotage our athletes. Everyone else is struggling."

Not my photo, Not for sale
Found on Pinterest, ok?
In place of another photo I don't have
I'm reminded of that time when I was 14 and I was going back to public school after a year of being homeschooled (which is another story for another lifetime) and 3 weeks into the Freshman year, my mother sets up a meeting with the guidance counselor to help select my classes. Why I started the 9th grade nearly a month into the school year, I have never figured out, but nonetheless, the day turned out to be one of the most embarrassing moments (and I say one because for me High School proved to have many, then again, who's HS experience wasn't awkward?). The morning began just two days after my female 'flowering,' you know the part where mothers beam about their daughters becoming women and embarrass us all? The cramps were a crime and my mother was determined to make me prissy and pretty, so ensued the fighting and yelling and pulling on my hair as she fluffed in dreadful curls and a feathered bangs (something left over from the 80s she never got over). I was forced into her straight skirt with pastel flowers on a beige background with a white blouse. And when I say blouse, I mean the puffy sleeves, round-lacy collar and fake pearl buttons that made me look like I was 5 (and being short with a young face, I probably looked 3). To top it off, I wore big round mid-90s glasses and had a mouth full of metal topped with wax which never successfully kept the inside of my lips from being cut open and sore. I was the definition of geekdom and walking into my high school for the first time was the worst it could get especially in between classes when all the blond cheerleading monsters came out to point and laugh (they probably never even looked my way, but when you're 14, the world is out to get you).

Needless to say, my trauma is oh so laughable now, 16 years later as I look out onto the Mount of Olives trying to come up with story angle that will bring in greenbacks from a news network and perhaps a contract to keep doing this journalist thing I've been doing for nearly a decade.

And well, as you put it, (or was that Lorne Michels), "[The Show] goes on because it's 11:30." Great advice for across the board, I say.

Enough!

The point is - your book is 'a solid.' The unsolicited advice and grada-A descriptions of your SNL Days and the start of 30 Rock made it a read for the ages...or at least for all the women out there who know being Beyonce is impossible but feeling like they can, just once, during a photo shoot for a day because it's awesome. It takes a lot of hard work to be a rock-star, contrary to popular belief (and trust me, Nickelback's song is of NO help whatsoever). Frankly, you're a true rock-star in my book, if I had a book, which I don't.

Again, thank you for being just who you are - and recently doing an interview with Inside the Actor's Studio. Ms. Palin should keep a closer eye on you.

I definitely recommend all my ladies out there BUY the book because it's a worthwhile investment - for reading and eventually a great coffee cup coaster.

Perhaps one day, we'll have the opportunity to meet in person, share a cup of over-priced delicious latte in an underground rickety cafe in a strange neighborhood near the subway in New York.

Until then, from a rooftop in Old City, Jerusalem - Cheers.
Yours Truly,

Thursday, March 21, 2013

PHOTO GALLERY: Sand Paper Surf, Hani Surfboards



(Jaffa, Tel Aviv) Watching Hani Ovadia was watching an artist refine his work. It was if he was dancing in the tunnel wave, poetically turning over the board, inspecting each change, picking up a different style of sand paper for just the right touch, the right refinement.

Full article can be read @ http://www.theinertia.com/surf/israeli-shaper-sculpts-to-inspire/

Saturday, March 16, 2013

The Holiest City


Hello Reader,

We meet again. You didn’t have doubts did you?

To put it frankly, I’m a cranky traveler. Don’t get me wrong, I love the fast-paced transitions, the people watching in the airport and the chance to catch up on a little reading, writing and arithmetic or in my case: math equals movies. But I don’t sleep well, and I’m regularly trying to reattempt fetal position in airplane seats and food court chairs that provide no back or neck support.

So here we are again. In the air, crossing the US, Europe and into Istanbul a bump before reaching my final destination: Jerusalem.

The Holiest City on earth, they say. Three religions agree. And I wonder: how does such never-ending conflict continue on holy ground? I will soon find out, I’m certain.

Walking off the airplane, moving through the customs wasn’t too complicated except for all the questions I had to answer before being told to sit in the Ministry of Interior box only 2 minutes later to be handed a Visa.

But fast-forward; entering the city and meeting my hostess, we took a stroll through the market to get lunch. It was busy with beggars, buscars and visitors. The smell of bakeries and the sight of fresh produce and nuts flooded the streets. It was a colorful seen, marked with diversity and constant movement.

I am fascinated by the unique blend of community that exists.

Waking up, Day 1:  I can see the Mount of Olives from my window, in the horizon, just beyond churches, synagogues and rooftops in the Old City.  The sunrise peaked over the hills and overlapped with the moon through the mist of morning clouds.  It’s the subtle feeling I am actually here – again, across the oceans in search for the perfect story. The coming events will prove to create a sound and mood in the city which seems to be in constant change, in constant search for unique peace between enemies.

Meantime, there is a certain grace, which rests over the city’s horizon: a sense of fluidity and yes, the sacred…

To be continued, my friends.

Yours truly,

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Photo Essay: The Ride-Share






Inspired by the documentary, Craigslist Joe; I found the Craiglist ride-share to be an interesting one, my first attempt, and well, better than hopping a Greyhound bus, which I had hoped would be a cheap-last resort. A Father–Daughter pair were taking the weekend off, going to see a cousin in San Diego, just where I needed to go. After a ‘get-to-know-you’ sesh at a Gilbert Starbucks in the Arizona Desert, we agreed to travel together to SoCal. Jetta V-W packed up, CDs ready and plenty of dolls piled in the back seat; it wasn’t going to be a boring ride. I figured, a couple of new friends, a little conversation and teasing the kid would be perfect for my ride to the Ocean.  And of course, when an 8-year old girl wants to blast Taylor Swift, you smile and nod, turn it up and sing all the catchy words right along with her. The 5-hour cruise, a couple of pit stops for pictures, McD’s Mango Smoothies and the occasional bathroom break made the ride worth its weight and gold. 

Friday, March 1, 2013

Shower Scene: Take 1


1 March 2013

Dear Reader:

There’s something about the take off, more so when you’re tired: The dramatic lift off, wheels leaving the ground, the runway below you and the clouds ahead of you. Headed thousands of feet up, at an angle, your ears pop and the tightness in your stomach matches the aircraft’s roaring engine.  Still there’s a sense of anxious wonder flashing through my mind about what’s next --if this is the risk that ‘IS.’

Sleeping on an airplane is next to impossible. My mind racing too fast, and frankly I’m running through the emergency scenarios, realizing I really won’t have time to put on my mask or the person next me, we’re all screwed if we crash. I figure I’ll enjoy the ride and not think about a second time.

After the pilot finds a comfort zone in the sky, I pull out my laptop to watch Anthony Hopkins play Alfred Hitchcock. Fucking Brilliant. Yep, I said it. The masterful film recounts Hitchcock’s making of Psycho, one of his greatest works, and the relationship with his equally brilliant wife, Alma Hitchcock. I am enthralled by creative genius. It wrestles an inspirational kick in the ass to critically evaluate the angle by which to tell the story of a woman in a shower killed in suggestive terror. Truth be told; we’re all a little obsessive over the accomplishment of our next great moment in the story.  How many dare to rip open the shower curtain to expose what’s really going on in the buff?

From my window seat on an airplane, headed to the Arizona desert, far from urban poses, I sit mischievously mauling over the appealing and appalling ways to master the turbulence it takes to make the Earth move.

There is authenticity in leaving behind which presently spits out like a 4-letter expletive. What was once a vision is accomplished and moved on. No, not written off, rather pushed to the back of the line until it can meet the highest of obligations or until needed in dire circumstances…for a greater purpose, used for an agenda.

Ahead is all there is. Falling forward is still forward. The only thing I can think to do next is light it up – do it because 'they' said I can’t and who will stop the process of limitless when it is birthed in sheer insanity? I won’t. You won’t. We live for breakdown of Psycho. Like Hitchcock, there is no antidote but success, which scratches all acceptable standards.

So while I ride through the rough terrain of the sky, moments before landing – I gaze out the window, strangely confident my feet will touch the ground.

Stay with me…we’ll meet again.

Yours Truly.