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.

so, I spent a week in Lotan last week where I successfully separated red worms from a very decaying heap of compost.

not before inquiring with my reluctant partner in crime, a friendly Jewish graduate who had immigrated to Israel recently and is now an Eco-Volunteer at this remote corner of the desert, or Eco-Freako in the local lingo.

“are these worms… precious?”

I was new on the scene and likely to stay a while so I was thinking when-in-rome but at the same time desperately hoped my point would not go unnoticed. people are generally intelligent but you never know, this one could have just passed them. I mean, surely this isn’t cost-effective. we could be building in mud or something sensual like that, and just dump the compost across the organic garden, worms and all. unless we go at the sifting exercise as a kind of a non-attachment meditation. as in not attaching to the most horrible stench I had ever experienced.

“they’re about a shekel a pop, apparently. in the US you can buy them by the kilo.”

so ok. the kibbutz is obviously not doing fantastically well in the financial front. which pairs great with going Green. and I could learn something from this, I told myself. and I dug in. our team leader was kind enough to equip us with little gardening tools so as not to use our bare hands, which he himself didn’t seem to mind.

the word ewww will never be quite the same after this.

in other news, me and a few friends are shooting a video this week for a song I wrote called “in my blood”. I say that, but in reality it’s an exercise a Very Talented Friend is doing for his degree in moviemaking. he wanted me for the lead, so I said “but also a video” and e-pouted slightly. he liked the song and said ok. the video is about a vampire, and hopefully will be up here soon.

love

S.

the desert