notes from the nice side of the fence

my stockings are sliding down my legs as I plod around the club in my unlaced boots. I’m not in drag per se, I just tried to bring something out in me for the occasion using clothes I’m not very used to wearing. “artist area”. I get to be in the artist area! that’s a first. venues I play never have artist areas. there’s no backstage, I just step back to the nearest table or escape outdoors with a friend who smokes. I always think of that as a really good exercise in switching. transitioning. there’s very little time, or space, to descend from whatever heights I might find myself during a show. it’s like, back to earth. bang, here it is. and I’ve come to see that as a good thing. but anyway - stockings. I pull away the curtain dividing drunk revelers in their costumes from the select team of entertainers for the night, which includes myself, a few drag artists and a one-night-only 3-piece rock band. we’re here for Wigged, a club party/concert in tribute to Hedwig and the Angry Inch, which I absolutely love.

“artist area” turns out to be not a whole lot of fun. it’s dark, the vodka’s gone, and the few seats are occupied by couples snogging and a pile of bags that people left behind in the absence of a proper cloakroom. but Diva D is there and she helps me to pull up my nylons until they reach my crotch again. “if you have another pair of underwear you might wanna wear them on top to keep it there.” why didn’t I think of that? hmm. we trod on to the stage and I look around on the way. everyone looks very happy. I like that. I play my cover of “Sugar Daddy”.

after I play I break a sweat carefully moving my piano back to the store room (a chore I wouldn’t delegate for the sake of suspending anyone’s disbelief) and then walk back to the bar, rewarding myself with a bit of ice-cold vodka. I turn around to the dancefloor and lean with my elbows back on the bar. everyone’s still happy. dancing. and I smile, feeling completely need-less.

 

my parents are fucking off to South America for a few weeks, presumably in the hope that this genocidal excuse for a war will be over by the time they get back. they haven’t written a will yet, which I see as a particularly cruel act of procrastination. 

 

“we don’t even know where all your money is stored! in like, funds, or stocks, or whatever. you don’t want the state to get everything do you?”

 

but, to no avail. 

 

so me and little sis and mom are having our last lunch together on the bank of the thickly polluted excuse for a river that is the Yarkon. people jog by. I order a cold beetroot soup. I give you: vignettes, sweet and sour. 

 

 

 

*

 

me: gosh, life without porn and alcohol is so much more intense - it’s like I’m FEELING things all the time! there’s so much more feeling.

 

mom: you mean so much more depression. HAHAHA.

 

*

 

mom: so which one of you is going to drive us to the airport? 

 

me: well, actually, I need to be home before too long. 

 

mom: why, you have something better to do? 

 

me: yeah, I need to start me a new career I guess. 

 

mom: you’re starting a new career today at 2pm?

 

me: yeah, why not? by the way, would you be interested in donating -

 

mom: no. HAHAHA.

 

*

 

me: (long sigh)

 

mom: what is it. what are you feeling now? 

 

me: I feel… it’s like this interesting mixture of slight anxiety and -

 

lil sis: it’s that disgusting beetroot soup he had. 

 

*

 

me: hey, don’t read my notes! you can read about it later in my blog. 

 

mom: you have a blog? 

 

me: yes, of course!

 

mom: what’s it about?

 

me: it’s about… things that happen to me. 

 

mom: and people find that interesting? 

 

 

 

in sloppy dedication to cOm’s i am the lotus

I just cut the locks at the back of my head, and now I look more like the Republican Gay that at least one of my friends takes me to be. I think it was a beer-related incident:

 

“you don’t drink Goldstar? oh my god, you’re such a republican gay!”

 

I’m sorry, I know it’s locally brewed but it’s the worst beer I’ve ever tasted. 

 

as this operation involved broom and dustpan, I continued from hair in the bathroom to the mud on mom’s marbles, all the way from Abed’s land in Jerusalem. we planted some olive trees and had a great lunch. there are usually jokes cracked at the vegan tendencies of many of the Israeli volunteers, but this time the atmosphere was a bit solemn due to the Israeli attacks on gaza. some of us have family members trapped there, unable to seek refuge from oncoming missiles or flee past the border into either Israel or Egypt. trapped. butchered.

 

from Abed’s, we drive down to Tel Aviv again for the big anti-war/pro-peace demonstration. I meet my little family of friends in the anarchist block, last and loudest to march, complete with an unrelenting drum section. I am full of gratitude for friends I’ve made this past year in Tel Aviv. beautiful, amazing people, each and every one. 

 

nearing the cinematheque, I find myself hungry and tired. I want to sit down and eat, but more than that I want to keep dancing to the drums. I need a drug. I go for coke. I walk past the police line, spotting a shop nearby. men wrapped in Israeli flags await me there. they don’t look pleased to see me.

 

“are you one of them?!”, this guy screams in my face. I tell him I’m one of me (this sounds cleverer in Hebrew I must say), and keep walking. this is proof enough for him that I am The Enemy. 

 

“guys! come over! I found a traitor! here he is, a stinking little traitor!” 

 

seconds later I find myself in the shop, reaching for coke, surrounded by heavy clouds of zionist hatred. they’re screaming. 

 

now, I promised myself when this gaza episode started that I would not join the war - I would not join any war, in fact, not in body, speech, action or even thought. it can be tempting, sometimes. we all know. anger is a very potent energy, especially around the dinner table when the stakes are not this high. but now, I remind myself - no war. they’re not making it easy. 

 

“you fucking traitor! you dirty motherfucker! why don’t you demonstrate for Sderot?! where the fuck were you then?! dirty nazi! go get fucked by your arab friends, traitor!” 

 

as I take out my wallet to pay for my coke, one of them shouts at the shopkeeper to not take my dirty money and takes out his own wallet. 

 

“you’re going to buy me a coke?”, I ask. that’s so generous of him, in a warped kind way. but he doesn’t come through, and a policeman grabs me and asks me to get the hell out of there. it was one of those rare moments in life where I find my gratitude extending to the presence of the Israeli police force. I walk back to the demonstration, not before casually being kicked at as the yelling continues. no serious damages.

 

the weather in Tel Aviv has been perfect. I am glad I’m not in Europe.

 

I put on my sandals and walk to Kaplan Road, outisde the Ministry of Interior. a morning demonstration is taking place, by and for Eritrean refugees. many of them are wearing white masks, so as not to be identified by government officials in their home country. their families may be put at risk. they have escaped one of the worst totalitarian regimes in the world; one that has recently closed down the only university in the country. citizens of age are conscripted into the army for an unlimited period as slaves to the system. 

 

on arrival in Israel, Eritrean refugees are denied refugee status and rights due to muddled or nonexistent policy. many of them are sent back to Egypt, where they are often maltreated or shot. a legal procedure for asylum seekers is unavailable. they are largely prevented from settling in city centres, at the same time as not having access to social and medical services whatsoever. along with Palestinians under the occupation, they are probably the most compromised demography in the areas Israel controls. 

 

 

 

 

 

back at home, my husband-in-law picks up the flyer I brought back. 

 

“why don’t they just flee somewhere else?”

 

this gets me going. 

 

“because! Israel is probably geographically the closest signatory of the 1951 Geneva Convention, which is supposed to make it a safe haven for political refugees. the whole idea is that if a dictatorship in your country is hunting you down, you have somewhere to go.”

 

“well, you don’t really think a few people demonstrating outside the Ministry of Interior is gonna make a difference, do you?” 

 

this would have actually been a rationally acceptable argument to me a few years back. outcomes were important to me. people do things to achieve something, right? why demonstrate if you’re not going to make a difference? or, for that matter, why make art if you’re not getting paid? why have sex if you don’t get commitment? why exercise if you’re not losing weight? but then my mind changed. I realized that goals cannot really guide me in life, because the truth is I never really know what’s going to happen. I don’t know how this demonstration will affect the rights of refugees in Israel just like I don’t know something as simple as whether someone’s gonna think my T-shirt is gorgeous or ugly. in either cases, sometimes I find out, and sometimes I don’t. I would need to be infinitely arrogant to believe that I can know or exactly measure how the actions of a group of people will affect the whole. I can only work with what I got. I could strategize and calculate the number of TV channels that covered the event, the number of people attending, the likelihood of considerable pressure to form around this issue in the government and in the public. and then, if I can get myself to label the imagined results as “good” according to my set of beliefs, then I might be bothered to leave the house and shout some slogans. I’d be standing there, entirely invested in future outcome, and still not know what was going to happen. I could wait and see how the government reacts, and then either congratulate or criticize. I could either become depressed or ecstatic, my engines either revved or silenced. it would be, quite simply, an unending struggle, and one where my only option for peace and contentment is to freeze reality in the frame that I consider ideal. 

 

but why should I? why pass a judgment? why on earth would I let the government or the public decide by way of their reactions whether it was a good demonstration or not? that would be ludicrous! the reality is that people came together, danced, expressed themselves, exchanged information, voiced their stories, and took a stand. that is that. I can’t think of a better reason to leave the house. if that demonstration has consequences that I would judge as “good” or as “bad”, well, so be it. can I know? and if they change the law and help these people out, and the TV coverage inspires one little madman to become a Zionist dictator - would it still have been a “good” demonstration? all I need to know is that I got a message, it touched my heart, and I showed up. I had fun, too. I danced.

 

looking back on history, enormous changes do not happen because people strategize and organize. they don’t happen because people play little gods who draw statistics and dictate what needs and doesn’t need to happen. it’s because individuals make personal decisions that are free from expectation and convention - organization happens naturally as consequence, and only when other individuals find in it themselves to follow the same path. not by education or dictation, but by inspiration. we don’t need to know the path in advance. we just need to know what step to take next. this is freightening for many people, because it involves letting go of a seeimgly clear vision of what they think the world (and people, and themselves) can and should look like. and, who knows. we might get there, we might not. whatever the case, it seems the only certainty is that things will always continue to change. 

most of the time my mind thinks it knows what’s going on.

 

“I am having lunch with my mom.”

 

“I am getting my eyes tested.”

 

“I am refusing to give change to a beggar on the street.”

 

and so on.

 

this was no exception. I am walking down Even Gvirol street in Tel Aviv. I am going to pay in a cheque at the bank. I seem to have a special talent to always be unconscious during bank opening hours, which admittedly isn’t difficult to do in Israel. so I make full use of online services and branch postal boxes.

 

my mind registers a guy in jeans and a tight white t-shirt swaying on the pavement a few meters ahead of me. his eyes find mine, and that window of opportunity opens: that half-second that offers a choice between looking away, getting on with whatever it is you think you are doing, and letting reality present something new - an interaction with mostly predictable yet ultimately unknown results. wallets are unlikely to be opened, nor telephone numbers exchanged, nor lives be saved or lost. but then again, you never do know. I go for the second option. my eyes rest on his for another twinkling, authorizing his approach.

 

“man, have you seen a grey Honda?”

 

I go in. I always strive to give truthful answers unless I have a good reason not to. he gestures at the cars parked along the pavement.

 

I see grey cars.

 

now, I’m a person who, when being asked by a parking attendant what kind of car it is that I can’t find in a lot, says “it’s grey.” I don’t own a car and so I always drive others’ - I don’t care where they bought them from as long as I’m not taking them to the garage, despite the obvious usefulness of knowing outside of that particular eventuality.

 

I see grey cars. I don’t know which is a Honda. but before I get to dwell on the matter, this guy’s body movement and the half-empty Smirnoff bottle in his hand (no brand-recognition trouble there then) suggest more urgent questions to be answered.

 

“are you alright?”

 

“what can I do man. what can I do? she left me.”

 

he tells me this not so much apologetically but in anticipation of sympathy, as if being dumped justifies any kind of behaviour.

 

“oh. um. well, maybe you should have a drink of water instead of that vodka if you’re going to drive?…”

 

“but. but I don’t have water.”

 

“then… buy some,” I say, capitalistically enough.

 

the guy’s completely drunk. not a common sight for central Tel Aviv at 4pm. his eyes widen, obviously struggling to maintain focus on anything. his mouth opens and closes randomly, and his legs lose their balance every time someone walks past.

 

“hey man, you think it’s this one? man, you gotta help me. where did I park it? d’you know?”

 

“no, I… - look. you shouldn’t be driving right now.”

 

“but I need to get to work.”

 

he’s obviously not thinking straight. I put my hand on his shoulder in a performance of affection and care. the truth is I don’t know if I want to be in this situation. I want to go to the bank. this guy has been drinking, and I don’t want to help him. especially not to find his fucking car, with which he could only harm himself and others in the state he’s in.

 

“that bitch. there she is, up there,” he looks up at the two-storey building, “three years. three fucking years, you know - just like that.”

 

“listen, I have to go to the bank. sorry.”

 

“look, man,” he takes out a car key from his pocket and puts it to the lock of the nearest car, “I think maybe it’s this one, but that shit at the back, I don’t think. I don’t think it’s mine. just - the key won’t fit. can you - just help me unlock the door man and then go.”

 

“I don’t wanna help you do that, sorry.”

 

I turn away and go. my mind begins to evaluate the situation, reviewing my taken steps and possible outcomes. if nobody stops him, he’ll probably find his car, and if he doesn’t pass out inside, he’ll probably attempt to drive it. this is likely to end in some kind of crash. traffic may come to a halt. I don’t know if that’s a bad thing. people might be outraged. I don’t know.

 

he could also try and go back to the woman. maybe violence would ensue. maybe one of them would get hurt, or both. I don’t know.

 

or maybe he runs into someone with a little more sense of responsibility for others who will sit him down and bring him some water, or a coffee. I don’t know.

 

suddenly I find myself deeply saddened by the whole affair. under different circumstances, and granted a little more resourcefulness, I would have loved to hear his story, I tell myself. for a couple of seconds I indulge in seeing us both sitting on a step, maybe even sharing the rest of that vodka, spilling our hearts out. it’s not like I don’t know heartbreak. it’s not like I don’t know self-numbing. sure, he’s being stupid, but how many times have I nursed a bottle in hopes of avoiding my pain? I can see where he’s coming from. my reaction was heartless and passive. I could have insisted a bit more, I could have listened. or maybe that would have just postponed a terrible end. maybe what he needed is to be left to his own devices. I don’t know.

 

after slipping my cheque in the hole in the wall, I turn back where I came from. I decide to buy a big bottle of water, just in case. the man at the counter offers plastic cups, and I take one, thinking the drunk guy might struggle holding a 2 liter bottle upright. should I take two? no, I’ll just drink from the bottle. what if he’s one of those hygienics though? nah, he wouldn’t mind, especially being so drunk. drinking from the same bottle would create solidarity. he’ll see I thought about him, and that I’m open to spending time with him as long as he’s willing to sober up. it’ll be good. would he still be there though? I don’t know.

 

as I approach the spot again, I see a police car parked there behind “his” car with some people gathered around it. god. too late. he tried opening that car, someone called the police. damn it. I should have been quicker, I should have asked him to wait, or come with me. would the cops let me bring him water? I guess they could give him some at the station. maybe this is for the best, maybe they’ll keep him from doing serious damage. I still don’t know.

 

I spot the white T. he’s steadily leaning against the car, in conversation with the people around him, surely there to keep him from running away. I come up to him and give him the bottle in a bag.

 

“wow, you came back. guys, check it out, he came back to bring me water.”

 

he says this with a wholly sober accent.

 

“it looks like you don’t need it anymore. the police sobered you up?”

 

“yeah,” he laughs.

 

a girl with a clipboard comes up to me. the other three people there are all excited smiles.

 

“that is so sweet of you. Eyal is actually an actor, and we’re shooting this new TV series. don’t worry, we didn’t film you.”

 

I smile and drop my head, feeling foolish but relieved. duped out of my big moment of charity. “and I see the cops are cooperating?”

 

“yeah. but it’s so sweet of you!”

 

Eyal gives me a firm handshake and hands me back the bottle. good actor.

 

“well,” I say, “I guess I thought this is what would have helped me if I’d been in the same situation.”