Writing in Order to Exist

Why do I continue to write this blog when (almost) nobody is reading it...

Why do I do it? 

Why do I bother? 

Why do I care if people are reading it or not? 

The truth is, I don't want to care. But I do. In a sense. The thoughts I have in my head and then transfer them to posts are mine, and are important to me. Do they mean anything for anybody else? I don't know...

Why do people write blogs? I have no idea. Maybe they have something to say. Maybe they are alone and don't have any friends in real life and maybe pouring one's thoughts on a virtual sort of diary helps them cope. I know it helps me. 

I just let the words be free and wander around in the internet - I almost see them, swimming in the ocean of information...and maybe they'll get caught in somebody's attention net. 

Maybe somebody will read them and resonate with them and with this burning desire to write and to be read.

Writing is a blessing. It helps me survive. But it is a curse, too. If I don't write, the words just go round and round in my head until I let them go, be free, to say what they want so badly to say...

I am trapped in this infinite loop of writing and feeling and writing some more and the words building themselves in my mind, ephemeral sand castles...

How do I get myself free? Do I want to be free? Would I survive if I were be free of the words in my mind and my soul? 

I am sure that without words I would die. Without being able to make them speak for me I wouldn't be able to make sense of my existence.

So, I write in order to exist. to be alive. To remember. To dare to dream a bit more. To breathe. To be amazed. To feel. To cry. To hate. To love. To live.

And if I am the only one reading them. So be it. They are mine, anyway.

Still Here

These past days have been very loaded, emotionally...My husband started chemotherapy, an innovative treatment, they say. We were worried of side effects, being a new type of treatment. We had to look out for anything out of ordinary, as if having cancer and  going through chemo is something "ordinary" or "normal". 

For us it is, in a sense. My husband has non-Hodgkin's lymphoma and in the 14 years that have passed since he was first diagnosed, this is the third treatment. With the type of lymphoma he has - follicular, you are never clean of it. Remission, yes, but never healed. It is more of a "chronic" form of cancer. 

And to think we were supposed to travel to Cluj-Napoca, Romania...Actually, today would have been our first day there. My husband was meant to attend the 50th anniversary of high school graduation. It was supposed to be a happy occasion, meeting classmates and friends. 

But, God had other plans...Instead of reunions and laughter, we are here.

I really, I mean REALLY wanted a vacation. The memory of the last war with Iran still lingers, my anxiety is still at unhealthy high levels. My husband and my daughter told me : "Go, go by yourself, have fun. It'll do you good". They almost convinced me. I mean, I paid for the lodgings, bought present for friends...and then, suddenly, I was, like "What am I doing?"; I cannot go and "have fun" while my husband is going through everything this cursed disease brings. So, I cancelled my plane ticket, lost the money for the accommodation, set aside the presents and let everybody know I am not coming. 

Yes, it would have been better to get away for a while, but now it is not the time. Now it's time to be by my husband's side and to help him cope and beat this God damned malady .

And then, if we'll survive this, we'll heal together, mentally.

 

The house is quiet. I have a few hours for myself...and what do I do? I sit in front of the computer, I s

tare blankly at the screen and I begin to cry.

I cry.

I cry for the injustice in this world, for the wars, the crimes, the hate, the indifference when it matters, 

I cry for the children, the old, the sick, the stupid, the ignorant.

I cry for the street cats that I feed every evening, waiting for me under cars in the parking lot.

I cry for the trees that are cut down, for money, for power, for nothing.

I cry for the soldiers that fell in wars and for the mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters.

I cry for the unwanted, the hated, the different, the isolated, the sacrificed and the sacrifice.

I cry for my husband who battles an unforgiving illness and when I see the pain and despair in his eyes

 I cry harder.

I cry for my daughter, she has to live in this world long after I'm gone

I cry for friends, lost.

I cry for family lost even more

I cry for my son, vanished in some world or other.

I cry for my youth, forever gone

I cry for my future, there is not much left of it

And I cry until I have no more tears left.  

Alone in Holy Land - The Book

It is finished!
Do you remember when I told you that I intend to gather all my old blog posts in a book? Well, it is done!

These posts, my blog, accompanied me through years of loneliness, immigration, motherhood, fear, absurdity, survival, and rediscovering myself. I never intended them to become a book. But somehow, together, they did.

I don't intend to sell the book, not at present. For now, I am offering it here, on my blog, free of charge. If you want it, it is yours. 

And maybe after you read it, come back and tell me what you think.  

(the cover is the work of my daughter)

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1xoKCv5QAiUxy_vRVRenGiVzt9jgkjTFG/view?usp=drive_link

Click on the link, it will take you to the book. 

Happy Birthday, My Dearest Agy!

Happy Birthday Agy !

We all have special people in our lives and I am sure that we don't tell them how much we appreciate them often enough.

I've met Agy approximately 30 years ago back in Romania. She took me under her wing and we have been friends ever since, even if we live on different continents.

Some time ago, I wrote this blog post for her. I think it applies to the present day, too. You can read it below.

Today is her birthday, so, happy birthday my dearest friend. I wish you everything that I wish for myself, and much more. You deserve it!

She is My Guardian Angel

Today I am going to tell you about a very special person...I am calling her my guardian angel, and you know what, I really believe she is one...People like her are oh, so rare, and I consider myself blessed for meeting  her.
I met Agy more than 15 years ago, back in Romania. I was a young career woman and single mother, struggling with life in a new , post-communist Romania. She was my cleaning lady...Well, that was in the beginning...because, in time, she became my friend, my confessor, she took care of me, cooked meals for my son and waited for me when I came from work exhausted, with a cup of coffee and an understanding ear. Only one year my senior she was like a mother to me because she has wisdom beyond her age. She was my sister because she has a true, tender and loving heart and she knows how to listen. Truly listen. She was my best friend because she wasn't afraid to tell me the truth even if she knew it would hurt and then it was there to wipe my tears.
After I left Romania and come to live in Israel she stayed there and took care of my "affairs" (I have an apartment that I rent) and then she "adopted" my mother-in-law and became her friend and helper and guardian angel until the her last days...When my mother in law passed away, Agy was there and not her son, and she made the funeral arrangements and now she is the one that goes to the cemetery and lights a candle on her grave...
Twice a year, on Easter and Christmas she sends us presents, each summer when we travel to Romania, she is there and takes care of everything for me, gives me one of her mobile phones, brings me flyers for take-aways and does my washing, take us fishing and spends hours entertaining Maya, which adores her.
And she is like this with everyone around her...
She is a simple woman, no higher education, no fancy life...just a simple, hard-working woman, and believe me, she works hard...but every person that knows her loves and respects her. Because she is honest, above all, and has a heart the size of a continent.
I consider myself lucky and I thank God for the day when our paths crossed because I know that He sent Agy to watch over me. She is an angel. And I love her.
The words are too poor to describe the depth of my thankfulness, to tell you more about the woman that touched our lives and made them better.
I am just telling this: Thank you Agy, from the bottom of my heart. I love you.

I thought I would get used to people being assholes by now. But I'm not. I cannot, for the love of God, understand my fellow humas. Does anybody fucking care in this entire world? And, no, no, don't get tricked by the illusion of "caring" that hides behind it all kind of interests. It is hard to believe, but people will "care" for everything if they are paid enough, if it is fashionable and trendy. 

Real care? Not so much.

And it extends from the general to the personal.

The world is filled with people suffering - disease, famine, war, hate, crimes. You name it, it is here. And yet, most of the time, we choose to look away. And something more. People that really do something, they don't shout about it, they do it quietly, without fanfare, without waiting to be praised. and because of that, nobody knows about them, acknowledge their deeds, because it is silent, because it doesn't want praise.

On a more personal level, I see it all the time, in the small reality where I live. Nobody really cares, either. I know I sound like a broken record, I know I said it so many times. But I care and it destroys me. 

My husband always says that I have to higher expectations from people. Maybe. But I judge them according to my moral compass, and because I have high expectations from myself, I guess I expect it in others. Formula for disappointment, my wise husband would say. Strangely enough, I repeat the same words to my daughter, when she comes to me with the the same complaint - that people don't care, don't do their job or do it badly. Don't expect people to be like yourself, don't expect anything from them.

Our building, for example. It was such a nice place to be. But, as years have passed, new tenants appeared, noisy, dirty, rude, in a word- assholes. They double park, throw their garbage everywhere apart from the bins and by doing so, smear everything with their leaky trash bags. They smoke in the stairwell and they put out their cigarettes on the window sills or better, they throw them on the grass while still burning. They get too many in the elevator so they get stuck and then the elevator doesn't work for three days. And you have to take the stairs to the 6th floor with the shopping. And their dog poops on your doormat and they just leave it there for you to step in it. Careless, indifferent douchebags. But, whenever there is something to be done in the building, repairs and such, they all disappear. But when there are problems, they are all very busy. 

And I have many more examples. But only thinking about them makes me sick. I don't want to write them down, do make them visible, permanent. 

So, yes, people are assholes. Nothing has changed and unfortunately, nothing will.