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There Used to be a Fly in Town (a fly poem)

There used to be a fly in town, there used to be a fly.

He’d fly real high right to the sky then dive into the pie.

He’d fly real low just for the show then sit and lick his toe.

And everyone who’d met the fly adored and loved him so.

Oh, what a fly, my, what a fly, the baker’s wife would say.

Oh, what a fly, no day goes by without a pie to play.

Oh, what a fly, why, what a fly, the baker’s friends did speak.

Oh, what a fly, let’s go and buy another pie to lick.

And everyone who’d met the fly agreed: he’s such and such.

And everyone who’d bought a pie licked liked it very much.

There used to be a fly in town, there used to be a fly.

And I shan’t lie, I can’t deny that he was rather chic.

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In the Beginning (Nonsense Poem)

At first there was nothing. There really was none.
There was none to call or to answer the phone.
And then there was something, to put it real short.
There was sort of something all over the court.
Which court? And which which? I’m sorry to preach,
but you just said that every last bit within reach
was full of great nothing (Was empty or full?
I’m sorry to breach, but did you go to school?).
Well, hell, I can see that someone’s being smart.
Would do the mood good to go back to the start.
At first there was nothing. There really was none.
The phone that was notting just went on and on.
I’m not! Yes, I’m not! said the phone to creation,
I’m not yet at all and it’s not a vacation!
And then there was something, as some may recall
(although there was nobody there, none at all),
and then there were trees, and somebodies, and bees –
the rest they call history (even the cheese).

 

in-the-beginning

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All the Roads Lead to On the Road

All the Roads Lead to On the Road

I had a close childhood friend who once said he never reads books twice because life is too short. I couldn’t understand him. I read each of the books I loved dozens of times. Going back to a good book is like going back to a close friend. Life is too short not to go back to close friends. I’m reading a few books in parallel these days. Trying to catch up, to program my brain to think writing. A travel journal, a collection of excellent stories about lousy writers, a strange story by Mark Twain, English poems by Rudyard Kipling, one of the greatest rhymers to have ever lived, Hebrew poems by Nathan Alterman, one of the greatest rhymers to have ever lived. Tonight I want to leave everything, to stop this petty catching up, to pack an old bag, well worn out, get into bed and open Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road”. I’ve read On the Road several times. I collected it in a book store despite the dubious cover and thought it was my own private discovery. Later it turned out it was the own private discovery of millions of others. Then I found people who like to travel our country just like I do and who like On the Road as well. Life is short, who but Jack Kerouac knows life is short, too short not to open On the Road again. It sits on the shelf ready to be picked up any moment to go on the journey that is well engraved in the mind of the reader who’s already read On the Road. The aunt with the money, the apartment with the girl, Mexico, Mexico, the car that must get to the other coast, the overflowing sentences, the philosopher friend, the carefree paragraphs, paragraphs that flow on the road without an end in sight. Why go on the journey again, the philosopher reader would ask. Why go on the journey if the journey is well documented in the mind of the traveler. Why do we need the open window, the wind in the hair, the food stops, the hitchhikers, the night stops, the getting lost, the getting lost in words, the descriptions, the superlatives, the repetitions, the shortcuts. Why go on the very same journey again. Isn’t life too short to stop the travelling and sit by the road just to read the book you have already read several times. He will ask this question while sitting in an old American car, window half open, the wind in his hair, observing the landscape with a half curious, half lazy eye, seeking in it new paterns, unexpected discoveries, small thrills, big thrils, something familiar, something to hold on to, some sort of an old feeling, some sort of sincere intimacy, an outline of a house, a home, an appealing human face, something to connect between the enthusing and alienated landscape outside and the old familiar landscape within.

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Felix Baumgartner

Felix Baumgartner

I talked with Hellen about Felix Baumgartner who had skydived 39 kilometers and became the first person to break the sound barrier outside of a vehicle. About how not too many people know that apparently he wasn’t too afraid to go to outer space alone and then jump to visit New Mexico through the atmosphere but was, on the other hand, terribly afraid of the special pressurized suit he was wearing and had to go through psychological treatment for panic attacks in order to prevent his Claustrophobia from canceling the entire mission. And from here, if you may, we can do a freefall to a little free association and get a lesson in perspective. Hitchcock’s “Vertigo”, the nonexistent version. Scottie is standing on the famous third step of his friend Midge’s little stepladder. His head is resting inside the open mouth of a giant Crocodile and his eyes are staring at the floor. Midge is holding a stopwatch. 2 minutes and 38 seconds. That’s it, she says, you can take your head out now. A viewer who lacks cinematic education who had just turned on his TV would probably think Scottie is a world champion in the realm of Crocodiles. A more knowledgable viewer, on the other hand, would be able to guess that climbing up to the third step and staring at the floor did not cost Scottie any less new white hairs than putting his head inside the lovely Crocodile’s mouth, and that in that respect Scottie is not any less of a hero in the realm of Vertigos than in the realm of reptiles. Is the third step on Midge’s little stepladder, therefore, higher or lower than the point in outerspace from which Felix Baumgartner jumped? And why did Felix Baumgartner tell the journalists that sometimes you have to go up high in order to understand how small we are when in fact he, the small one, did such a big thing in overcoming Claustrophobia while Earth, big old Earth, never had to combat any fears?

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A Beatles Fascist

A Beatles Fascist

While listening to three Beatles albums in a row I have come to realize I’m probably a Beatles Fascist. A Beatles Fascist is someone who doesn’t suffice in knowing there’s a few others who admire the B side of Abbey Road. Who doesn’t suffice in knowing there’s actually millions upon millions of others who admire the B side of Abbey Road. The idea that somewhere in the world lives someone who’s not all that crazy about The Beatles, not only is it beyond his comprehension, not only is it upsetting and aggravating to the degree of paralysis, not only is it offensive to everything that is holy and pure and devine, it’s just, I don’t know, and all the Liberals and Hippies can say whatever they like, but these kind of things should get a person straight into jail, I mean, not for a year and not for two and not for three, and it’s about time someone says these things clearly, because if we don’t protect our country no one will to protect it for us, and Lennon didn’t sacrifice his life just so that people would allow themselves to be not all that crazy about The Beatles.

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Filleting Citrus Fruits

Filleting Citrus Fruits

Another day of Passover cooking with aunt Maya and at this point I’m already addicted. The thing I got addicted to the most is at the top left. Aunt Maya called it “filleting citrus fruits” and I thought it was a joke, but it turns out that filleting citrus fruits with a sharp knife is filleting indeed and furthermore – it is an experience of self filleting. Taking the better parts out of a large pile of citrus fruits, apparently, takes the best out of you. Concentration, patience, studiousness, perseverance, calmness, peace, pleasure, accuracy, expertise, complete detachment from life’s troubles – you fillet all these, put in a large bowl, cover and put in the fridge. After each filleted citrus fruit you are left with another excellent thing: an organic multi cell folder for filing and storage of little precious objects (the thing I’m holding in my hand). You can use it to file very small bills, very small old love letter, very small dried citrus fruit seeds or any other very small thing you can think of, including even income tax files of magical and very small fairies. After filleting, say, 5 pomelos, 4 red grapefruits, 2 yellow grapefruits and 6 oranges, you’ll be left with 17 multi cell and colorful folders and you’d be able immediately, without delay, to open a colorful, perfectly organic and perfectly small office and enjoy over a cup of tea, in the company of your very small customers, the organizational fruits of filleting the citrus fruits.

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Pluto’s Moon

Pluto's Moon

Wow. So that’s what the lobby of the new residential tower in the old centre of Tel Aviv looks like. A ball the size of one of Pluto’s moons hung over the night guard’s head. I don’t tend to read texts, unless they’re actual texts, I mean, but this specific text kind of tickles the eyeball. What is it trying to say, the positioning of the ball? I say, just as a text reading munch, that the positioning of the ball tries to make a stance about the saying who would guard the guards. Who would guard the guards? In our residential tower no one needs to guard the guards. Our guards are A Okay. Our guards would guard the tower with utmost responsibility. You don’t need to guard our guards to such an extent that to prove and exemplify the point we would expose them to real, continual and pompous threat. “An astroid passed today very close to earth and continued on its way. Pluto’s moon, on the other hand, collided today into the guard of the new residential tower. The guard protected earth with his body, absorbed the hit and prevented a major disaster. Needless to say the new residential tower could not have gone on existing had earth been canceled all of a sudden. The new residential tower’s management company would like to express its deep gratitude to the squashed guard and to send condolences to his family. The sharp eyeballed would surely notice that another, new, reading of the text has sneaked in. That’s it. Here it’s already the end of the text, would notice some of the sharp eyeballed. 

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