Before Yom Kippur, the religious Jewish have a tradition of requesting their friends and acquaintance's forgiveness for anything they may have said or done to hurt them during the year. This year, although I do not ordinarily participate in this tradition - I want to request Israel's forgiveness for what I have done to her. She knows what I'm talking about.

I convinced myself to go for a walk today, and took an ice-cream along with me. But not just any ice-cream. Special birthday ice-cream cones bought just for me, packaged in a misleadingly cardboard box, chocolate mousse and pecan bits on top...like you are ripped off for on the beach, only so much better. Boy was it good. It made me see the warmish late afternoon in a completely different light. I strolled by arguing preteens in a happy trance, enjoying the few gentle splashes of vitamin-D sunshine that remained of the day.
I smelled the familiar smell of onions frying as I walked down my street, gazed dreamily at some sunlit flowered branches and while crunching the best (and my favourite part) of the coffee chocolate filled bottom of the cone, I realised that I don't really hate Israel.

Sure, modern Israeli neighbourhoods do not look steeped in the tradition of ...anything much, really. But you have to get to know them to know the typical grandmotherly cooking smell, making schnitzel and rice for her grandson whom she is looking after while his parents are at work.
The familiar semi-permanent smell of fried savoury food, courtesy of a windowless corridor and some dude's applied rule of culinary aroma and buildings, sits and permeates me comfortably as I walk up the stairs to our first floor apartment. I swear it nearly knits. I know that no-one is cooking at the moment because there isn't that extra fresh and warm layer of scent on top of the base savoury one. There isn't a sound of pots and clanking cutlery coming from the little old romanian lady next door.

It's just the usual.

european fancy

european fancy
Originally uploaded by minky sue

the absolute sense of aesthetic that the decorators of prague had and hopefully still have, completely astounded me. Down to the benches in the old city, even the simplest things had such profound grace and beauty and craftmanship that it took my breath away. Things were so deliberately made and designed, a definite union of function and beauty, everywhere you looked. Casual beauty left, right, front and center. Not just plunked there so a bench would be there, Israeli style. Designed there.

And yet it was everywhere you looked. Nothing was special because maybe everything was special so you couldn't have favourites. Not that it was bad, being surrounded by so much architectural beauty. Apartment buildings had faces on the front, human faces on the second floor...something that seemed to me to be the buildings' protectors and faces of benevolent spirits. All different. I found myself thinking "if I were to live in a building like that, I'd think of a good name for that woman's lovely image. Our Lady of Number Seventeen or something like that. I'd smile at her when I came home every day. "

But would I secretly blame her if I came home and (God forbid) my apartment had been robbed or something?

(disclaimer: forgive tpos and bad grammar. come on, my fingers barely work at this hour.)

It's twelve past 5 am on the thirteenth of september. my mother's birthday and rosh hashanah.

The reason I'm awake is I had a bad dream. I went to sleep dressed too warmly and had a night-ghast, as Lyra (courtesy of fab Phil) would put it.

For some reason I dreamed of a huge airport again, very like ben gurion airport in design. I was yelling at my sister and acting like a huge grown up brat. my dad told me to repack again, my bags were falling open again. My ayurvedic doctor was there. I was so angry with my ssiter for some reason. I believe this is an echo of real life irritation with her. Then I remember waking up, the airport surrounded with fog, my family nowhere. And there were tons of people there. They were just standing around. I went into the next area and the announcer said, woow that's a clever girl for going to the seating area. then i went and looked closer at the fog through huge windows- it was showing houses at the edges. THen something said, the reason there is so much fog is that we had to make a copy of the real airport and hide this one - and then the fog formed into hands and snatched at me. The reason they had to hide the airport is because of events too horrible for me to recall. must have blocked'em out. the mysterious airporty-official horror of this all, the airline suppressed terror, my missing family - no wonder I panicked and woke myself up. I think I also have PTSD from the bad turbulence on the airplane and my sister's anxiety.

when i woke up I understood very emphatically about how we are all really afrai, not of what's out there, but what's in our selves - the very worst things we're capable of, the loki within, the smiling, pyschotically grinning, cackling little goblin with our faces on it - with glinting eyes, crouched over behind every corner, hiding behind the washbasket.

at least that's what i'm afraid of. and I think I've been watching too much tv.

as i watch these words appear on the screen of my maccy (it's a bit slow to catch up with my typing speed) I wonder if perhaps I'm paying for the delish 2-3 hour nap I had yesterday afternoon.
lord, but I am a sleep-rat and a half.

prague photos are up on flickr!

IMG_2960
Originally uploaded by minky sue

and all the font on my ie is small. why??

Flickr

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