Time is the only thing separating me from who I am going to be. 

Truer words were never spoken? Perhaps. Or perhaps it's just another truth that one cannot do anything with. See, I am well aware I have no control of time. Time will move as it does, and I may feel strong, and fearless and capable, but I know tomorrow will bring a new ME to the mix. She may be stronger, or more fragile, or reveal a new texture I have yet to experience. Such is the way of life. We grow, we change, we blossom, we wilt, and we perk up again. If we're lucky to be resilient. On and on and on until we one day no longer exist, and will remain as a memory in our loved ones' hearts, or as marks on society, if we're so lucky to put our stamp somehow into the world. I don't know who I will be tomorrow, but I know I will be changed, and I welcome all new parts of me that I have yet to uncover. Bring it on, tomorrow. Bring it on, another year. Bring it on a new part of me. Bring it on another year under the glorious sun. Another year to be grateful. Another year to learn, love, and to live. Another year to be.

As I type these words, I have tears in my eyes and an eerie uncomfortable burden in my stomach. Why is it so hard to navigate around these waters? I ask myself. And literally scratch my head in wonder. A motorcycle sound outside distracts me for a moment, and the cat's meow makes me want to lean down and pet her. Anything for a distraction from the thoughts lingering in my mind for all of these long troublesome months. 

Let me begin by saying: I am the lucky one.
I get to bear (and bare) my cultural identity while being far and away in a palm tree infested Venice Beach, California bohemian apartment, surrounded by mundane pop culture refrences, avocado toasts and matcha lattes, while my family and friends and my cultural cousins - sit in shelters if they're lucky or in profound fear in their homes if not - and have to suffer through a war, a tragedy, a horror. Who am I to comment from the goodness of my privileged environment? '
I am a nobody and I shall not be a spokesperson to my identity.'
I've said that to myself over and over again since October of 2023, but I've hit the bottom pit of my repressed feelings. I've denied myself all that I can deny. These thoughts are now bobbling up in every given moment, and they have turned into words. Words that have to be spoken:
I never considered myself all that Israeli. I mean, of course I did recognize that I AM Israeli, but that part of my identity was only one of many, and far down in the Pyramid of my prioritized identities. I was simply always an ARTIST first, a HUMAN second (yes I realize most will reverse this order but that's for another post), a WOMAN third, a DAUGHTER, a SISTER, a... and the list goes on and on and then I am an ISRAELI and a JEW.

To me, nationality was a separatist idea that only keeps people apart from each other. My younger idealistic self couldn't comprehend the need for nationality altogether, the notion of boundaries in all their forms. 'Countries' were confusing to me. (Interestingly I found cultures to be important and necessary.)

Something changed for me on October 7th, and I have to say - it didn't just change there, in my home town of Israel, it changed for me here in hip Venice beach, in idyllic peaceful California, in free and democratic USA.

It changed when I deeply understood that my idealism is a privilege that I don't actually have. My pacifism is a privilege as well, as I don't live in the world I WANT to live in, but rather in the world that exists. And in THIS WORLD, the world that exists: my identity of being Israeli and Jewish is hated upon. So hated upon that I cringe at the question 'where are you from?' because I know that upon answering it - I will meet that steep reality once more. 

Oh how I wish I could live in an idyllic world... where I would be Israeli and Jewish only several titles down the totem pole... but I don't. I live in a world that views me as an 'oppressor' 'colonizer' 'settler' at best and 'devil with horns' at worst. All because I'm Jewish and Israeli. And let's face it: I am Israeli because my ancestors were refugees who barely survived persecution and fled to a place 'over the rainbow'; their ancestral land that seemed to be the best safe haven for them; the ONLY safe haven. That is my ancestral history, whether I like it or not. That is my gift, my curse, my 'where I am from' answer. 

It's fascinating that in the manifestation and visulazations obsessed culture of Los Angeles is where I found my reality. Where I am from is a real place, with real people, and real events and real pain, and real horror and terror and death and mourning and abnormal childhoods. Where my ancestors are from is persecution, and judgment, and hate, and bigotry and concentration camps and pogroms and massacares upon massacares. But where I and my ancestors are from is also from education, and resilience, and miracles and hope and community and the cherishing of a promise.

I tried to run away to a place somewhere over the rainbow, where my ideals matched up with the world I live in, but there is no place over the rainbow.
A rainbow is a dream; an illusion created by the intersection of light and water.
One can never touch a rainbow, it's merely a reminder of our fantasies and dreams and yes, sometimes also - illusions. I am scared to be proud of who I am, because I didn't choose this identity, nor did I choose my ancestry. But in the face of vilification, ignorance and hate - all I can do and must do is stand tall and stay grounded. Proud, unafraid and walking right through the rainbow. Because if not I, then who?
?אם אין אני לי, מי לי 

So here I am, הינני
Not running away from my past.
Grounded in the realities of the present.
Hopeful for the future. 

I am from Israel: A beautiful TINY piece of land many have fought over and are still fighting.
I am a Jew; I come from an indigenous tribe who sustained culture, language, traditions and beliefs through countless attempts of erasure. 

Now let me ask you then - Where are YOU from?

What we do 
To carry on
Is 

We LOVE ON

And LOVE ONWARD

And INWARD

Until there is nothing left to carry. 
​***

'Go to the beach.' 
'Get a Tan!' 
'AHHH You are blinding me!' 

These are some of the teases that I heard growing up in Jerusalem, Israel.
See, in contrary to what some *ignorant* people think who have never set foot in Israel - the majority of people there are not white. Or white looking. Or whatever the US definition is. (Sidebar - is there a definition to this term!?) Nope. The majority of people there are brown. NOT white. And I was very fair, very white, porcelain doll white. My complexion was the exception growing up, and I was teased A LOT for it. I was also teased for my last name, for my freckles, for my long finger nails, for my long and frail arms and an array of other things kids like to make fun of. But I wasn't special at that - kids tease kids. Kids bully kids. Anywhere and everywhere in the world. 

But imagine my surprise that now - some DECADES later - I find myself living in the US, and the conversation surrounds how Israelis are WHITE and are fighting brown people. Um... what? At least bullying from kids makes some sort of SENSE. 
PEOPLE: Learn history. Learn science. Learn facts. STOP the ignorance, the hate, the harmless 'trend' in revising history to fit your narrative. Think less binary and more critically. Think from a pragmatic solution-seeking place and not from a destructive separatist place. Please. Please. Please. Please. PRETTY PLEASE!!!

Putting pen to paper is something I've done ever since I learned to write. 

My first poem was written with a green crayon in third grade.
I pondered the meaning of life in that poem, questioned the notion of God, described my point of view on angels, and may have even thrown some suicide ideation into the mix. A masterpiece, obviously. 

I went on to write short stories all through my elementary school years. I am pretty sure it was because I had a bit of a childhood obsession with O. Henry. The mystery of the name "O" made me wonder who they were. And perhaps it made me believe that I myself, can also be "O."  

There was a phase in fifth grade, when I wrote magazines or newspapapers. YES - full megazine and/or newspapers that consisted of:
1. Cover Page
2. Table of Contents. 
3. Editor's note. 
4. Articles. 
5. Ads! (I wonder what for!?) 
6. 'Jokes' page.
7. 'Recipe of the day' page. 
8. My attempt at a comic/illustration. 

Clearly my writing was on a roll. And the poetry continued throughout. Never ceazed, really. Years later, screenplays entered my writing sphere, plays, monologus, even a novel, a self help book... clearly: I was now a writer. I AM now a writer!
Except that since October 7th, 2023 I have not written a thing. Does it make me not a writer? No. It makes me traumatized, sad, broken, angry, horrified, overwhelmed... all the feelings that keep my fingers too shakey to hold a pen. But I am here, now, attempting to connect to myself. To restore. To nurture. To open back the floodgates of creativity. Maybe despite the horrors of October 7th. Maybe because of them. 
​
When something wants to dim your light, SHINE BRIGHTER and blind that thing into hell.

"Art means nothing if it simply decorates the dinner table of power which holds it hostage."  ~Adrienne Rich

My industry: the entertainment; show business; ART industry, is going through a crisis right now. Art always has an existential crisis - that's its purpose after all - but this crisis is more of power play between the players of the ART in this said industry: the writers and the actors. What ART do we have without those key players!? What stories do you see? What people do you live vicariously through? The studio execs are not the artists here. They are the audience at times, and the gate keepers at other times but they are NOT the artists, and therefore any power they have, is a man-made fabrication of TRUE VALUE. The value is in the courageous act of artistry.
Power to the people, in this case - the artists.

BELIEVE 
(verb)

*Accept (something) as true; feel sure of the truth of.

Belief systems are how we cope. Are how we are taught. Are how we bond with others. Belief systems are intertwined with the ability us humans have in telling stories. For good, bad, and all the vast middle in between... what do we believe in is another root of our identity. I now am facing a crossroads in a belief: shall I go with the side of logic, of probability and statistical likelihood? O shall I go with the anomaly, the miracle, the 'off the beaten path' road? In life, my answer is simple: I am an off road kinda gal. But in my mind, miracles are so easily concealed with logic that they are, well, hard to believe.
I don't know what tomorrow brings, and if miracles do happen.
But maybe today - I BELIEVE. 

Dear Fearful artist,

What are you actually afraid of?!
Losing control? Being rejected? Disappointing others or yourself? 
Are these growing pains you're feeling? Are they childhood traumas awakening? 
What is it that keeps you up at night, wondering how to do THE WORK?
Or are you wondering why is it that you can't NOT do the work?

The artist's life is sometimes a weight to carry. A burden. A toll. A charge deep inside you. A fire that won't let go. You feel it with every breath you take. You try to calm it down. You say "Enough inspiration for one day. Leave me be. Let me live a NORMAL life for a change. A quiet, simple, disappearing life. A life that doesn't need to live forever. A life that doesn't need to be purposeful, to have meaning, to share the dream that is in my frail and mortal human eye." What is a normal life like? I wonder. And that wondering takes me on the artist's spin yet again.
'You are what you are' say people wiser than I. Yes, I am what I am and my eyes and how I see the world is  a never ending dream while I am awake. Life's biggest gift is poetry, music, dance. The languages that live beyond logic. That spiral in a different sphere. How to inhabit inhibitions is the conundrum of the social artist. How to live alone together, or together alone. How to make friends with the artist within. The artist that wants desperately to hide, and desperately to be seen. 
Oh, artist's life. You break me piece by piece, and you fill my heart with humanity with every word, and every story , and every frame, and every feeling captured in the camera's eye. 

I can say 'don't be afraid', but you will be afraid. 
Dreaming out loud is a scary act. Is a sacred act. Is a terrible act and a wonderful act. 
It's both selfish and both extremely generous.  It demands courage from every fiber of your being, and yet if there is no fear - there is no humanity. 

So be afraid, dear fearful artist. 
Make fire with your fear. Let it keep you warm. You will need to be warm to embrace your audience. 

Love,

Yet Another Fearful Artist.

There is a place
Where parents raise their children
With no borders
Where things are run
With no corruption
Where life as you know it 
Is not some status on a Tiktok Feed
A place where
To SHARE with others 
The heavy toll of Life
Is not a dirty word
A place where 
Hugs don't need to be posted 
On a street 
Because they are a thing of nature 
They are a thing of Life
Where wombs are beds 
And beds are as comforting as a womb
And kitchens are in the wilderness
And forests and seas
Where jobs are not needed 
But rather they are wanted 
And art is simply the language of nature.
That place is not here 
Nor is it by you
There at your home reading this
This place is in the mind 
Of the DREAMER. 

DARE
(verb)

*Have the courage to do something
*Defy or challenge (someone) to do something.
*Take the risk of; brave.

(noun)

*A challenge, especially to prove courage.
~~~
I DARE you to DARE. 
Dare to dream. And be the driver of your trip 
Dare to believe, because no one else will. Even your loudest supporters have their own dreams to dare. 
Dare to care. Not just about people you care about. Dare to care for you. For your inner you. For your sacred you. For that un-daring wounded child in you.