notes from the nice side of the fence

when I cried they would ask if I had wanted a new toy
when I was tired they would pour me a cup of coffee
when I smiled and laughed they would pat me on my back
when I was silent they’d pop a bottle open
when my fever ran there would always be medicine at hand
when it came down again, maybe a shopping trip
whenever I was bored they would switch the telly on
whenever I was angry - they’d ignore me
when I became depressed there’d be clowns balloons and trumpets
when I became ecstatic it would be met with cold reason
when things went rough they would try and hoist me onto crutches
when things went swimmingly they’d poke and spur me

now that I’ve grown closer
I guess I know a little better
I don’t see everything as in need of fixing

and I tremble at the love that must have driven them those ways
and I’d rather have life flow through me instead

I turn on the tap and check the water, then pour in some Dr. Bronner soap, Eucalyptus. if it came to that, I’d give up coffeeshopping to be able to afford my Magic Soap. luckily it doesn’t quite come to that. though who knows what I’m indirectly missing out on on account of my coffeeshopping (and soap). I check my bank account - if there’s money there I use it, if not I don’t.

I put my foot in and it tells me that the water’s too hot. I find myself thinking about the water and where it comes from. am I being wasteful? would taking a shower use up less water than a shallow wash in the bath? is it more important that I save up water in my home, or that the government explores alternatives like recycling and desalination, many of which are avoided for political reasons? I don’t know. I turn the tap off as soon as I have enough.

I soak in, and my mind drifts to the future day’s activities. I’ll write that email, submit that application form, work on that song, translate that book. all of which will involve sitting at my laptop, while something I tend to think of as “real life” will be going on outside; on the streets, in offices, in bars and cafes, in checkpoints and refugee camps. I am struck by how little I actually live. so many hours of my days are consumed by sitting across from a computer screen, and the ones that are not mostly involve maintenance and upkeep to that end, like cooking and making tea so that I can keep going. sometimes even meeting a friend for lunch is just a respite from this routine, a charge-up. I converse with people online, I do my learning online, I do much of my paid work online, I make my art online - I even do most of my political protest online. it’s all by proxy.

I live my life not in reality, but in representations of reality. is this significant? is this wrong, or unhealthy? did I choose to live like this? when was the last time something actually happened, I ask myself. as response, my mind gives me images from the events of the weekend - housewarming, clubbing, weekend papers, sex (with other people, for a change). surely, leaving the house and meeting someone is more sensual than talking to them on skype, and therefore more real, more meaningful. surely, ranting on the Occupation at a house party is more effective and powerful than doing so on facebook. it moves things. it makes things happen - faster, better.

but hang on a minute, I tell myself as I rub my scalp. what is this duality about? I mean, what is this “real life” I’ve so readily idealized? does it even exist? when I meet a friend and listen to them speak and watch their body movements, am I experiencing what’s “real”, or just a representation of something I can never have any access to in the first place? I hear the sounds coming out of their mouths and I attach them to words I’m familiar with. I then attach those words to meanings, and I go on to attach those meanings to stories from my experience that match them. I call this “understanding”. but what did I understand? I just constructed a story about what is happening in the moment of the conversation (“where did she get that scar?”, “why is he being so nervous?”, “how long have we been sitting here?”, “is it hot in here?”), and about the narratives that I’m hearing (“she’s taking too long to grieve”, “he shouldn’t have done that”, “she’s being too pushy about this”, “he’s so adorable”). not only that, but even when I’m relatively free from my own interpretations, I still rely entirely on my subjective imagination to relate to another person. someone tells me they’re upset about getting dumped, and I imagine what heartbreak must feel like. I conjure images from my past or theirs (which I can only imagine). I hear songs about breakups and see tear-jerking movie scenes. I look at their reddening eyes and connect them to all those things, and I say “oh you poor thing”. so what I react to is not reality. I react to my interpretation, based on an experience that can only ever be mine. much like I would to a blog entry or a status message. even when a hand touches my skin, when fresh air enters my nostrils, when my muscles ache from running - it’s all I ever do, all I ever can do. all my life I’ve been trapped behind these eyes. the internet, like everything else, is just another little reminder of this. it’s here to wake us up to what we already know - there is no world outside of thought. there is no pain or pleasure outside of thought. we live inside our own representations.

I get out the bath and look outside the window. I make tea and sit down to write. it’s a life.

I had a phone conversation a few months ago with a Palestinian friend of mine who lives in the UK. from the few Muslim people I know, he is certainly one of the more devout - married young, doesn’t drink, prays, the works. I don’t usually find myself connecting with people of certain lifestyles, but this guy had such a fierce and thirsty intellect when I first met him, and combined with his profound all-round kindness his friendship was just irresistible. it’s a privilege to know him.

so we talked about this and that, and eventually the conversation steered to sexuality, as it does and has done before, which I’ve always felt was a kind of last frontier in our relationship - after all, if my drinking and swearing didn’t make me a dirty heathen, surely my man-on-man tendencies would, right? it was never so much a no-go zone in our chats, but more like a drop-by-but-don’t-stay-for-tea kind of zone. so that’s ok, you know, we all have our assumptions about each other. and then he says:

“you know, Shahaf, I’ve been thinking about this lately and I figured - I mean, Allah gives life to everything. nothing excluded. so if he gives life to those people [non-straights] it must mean that that’s the way it should be. so I’m fine with that.”

an internal “wow” put a very big smile on my face. this was music to my ears. what is, is. what do we get for arguing with it? what do we get for thinking we know why something is? the terror of facing an undesirable future. the hurtful manipulations we put our children through. the energy wasted on efforts to fight, to silence - against things that may only benefit, in the long run, from our attempts. but what my friend discovered was the other option. and as an afterthought to that initial “wow”, I thought, true Islam. this is true Islam, it is true surrender. surrendering to the will of God. true humility. and that’s not to say that he would not hurt if his son or daughter ever came out as gay, nor is it to say that he condones the idea of homosexuality. but evidently, this is a man who is awake to reality, and who is able to notice two things: that acceptance and support are not the same, and that accepting things makes a lot more sense than arguing with them.

it’s already dark by the time we arrive. the Dead Sea. or, “Yam Hamelach”, the Sea of Salt, in Hebrew. as me and two friends unload the car I wonder which of these names is more descriptive. 

it’s quiet. 

very quiet. 

thoughts in my mind are like marathon runners. only this race is on a loop - someone tore out the finish line and painted the trails back to the start. no one knows. thoughts run the endless race until they face complete exhaustion, when they humbly cross the sideline into the cheering crowds who always accept them without question. there is never a sneer. everyone knows that each of them is always doing its best in trying to interpret the world, even when that interpretation is cruel or unkind. their nylon tops bear the names of their emotive sponsors: “Compassion”, “Ambition”, “Anger”, “Resentment”, “Self-Flagulation”, “Melancholy”, “Ecstacy” etc. they run with blind ambition, in complete oblivion. 

some thoughts run with abandon and bliss, endorphines flowing through their bodies. others face excrutiating pains at every footfall. new thoughts hardly ever join the race, only ones that are giving it another shot.

if this sounds tiring, well. it is. 

it takes a while for things to quiet down. given the right environment, everything slows down to a more managable pace. things become clear, movements less blurry. the crowds stop handing out water bottles from the sidelines - that endless barrage of rejuvinating stimuli that keeps the race going. suddenly each participant becomes aware of itself, aware of the moment - and suddenly a memory hits: I have been here before. I have run this course. it doesn’t ever end. how strange. 

and when this finally happens, I call it peace. 

in a place like the Dead Sea, peace is a bit of an inevitablity. 

as we spread out our picnic blankets, sleeping bags and a strangely random collection of foodstuff, I register shock in my consciousness. it isn’t used to so much quiet. I opt out of the fire-making arrangements and just sit there, wondering what my mind will come up with next to keep itself busy - to keep itself from experiencing the moment in all its glorified simplicity. I try to watch the race. after a few minutes, I figure it’s just more of the same old: money worries, romantic musings, people I don’t talk to anymore, countries I could be travelling to. situations I hadn’t handled all that well. notes for the future. comments on the past. lists. 

the next day I find a small pool of warm fountain water concealed by tall bamboos. a few people occassionally enter in the nude to wash off the mineral mud off their skin. through a manmade tunnel out of tires and wood, the water streams down and out into the sea, only several meters away. 

by the stream, two self-proclaimed Rainbow People are washing their crockery. one of them is from Bolivia, the other from Israel. 

after some small-talk (I learn that flying to Ethiopia is cheap and that a huge Rainbow Gathering is scheduled to happen there in March), we watch the water flow in silence. I see a small school of tiny silvery fish swimming vigorously upstream.

“wow! check them out.”

the Bolivian woman smiles. “yes, the water’s fresh. that’s their whole life, these little ones - swimming upstream. if they stop, they wash out to the sea and die, because of the salt.”

“that’s incredible. so much effort, just to survive. I wonder if they ever get tired of it.”