הזמן לא מרפא

אם כולם היו יודעים מה יקרה ברגע הבא, לא היה סיפור.

בין אם אחיה לנצח או אמות בזמן כתיבת המלים האלה, הגוף שלי מזין את הזמן. כך, הזמן שנדרש להגיע למשהו בחיים אינו מבוזבז. יום אחד הבנתי שאני אוהב אנשים. אוהב אנשים אבל לא מסתדר עם כולם. בהתמודדות עם השכנים המרעישים שלי, אף פעם לא ידעתי מראש לאן יגיעו הדברים.

השינה שלי קלה. בכל זאת, הדרך של השכנים שלי להתפרקות מקשיי החיים עוברת דרך כינוסי לילה מאוחרים. החזרה לישון דורשת שיקרה משהו. או שהרעש ייפסק, או שאשקיע במשאבים לעזרה בשינה. גם עם פקקים באוזניים הרעש שלהם עוד שם. לפני מונח ההסבר לפיתוח תעשיות מלחמה על ידי האנושות.

חברה אחת רוצה משהו שמתנגש באינטרסים של החברה האחרת. ברגע שאלימות נכנסת לתמונה, מתחילה מלחמה. במקרה, המאוויים שלנו מתקיימים באותו זמן. לצידי עומד חוק עזר עירוני עלוב לבקרת רעש. לצד השכנים שלי..., נו, להם יש כל מני טיעונים.

בימים הראשונים של הסגר של מרץ 2020, הם עברו לגור בקומת הקרקע של הבית לידנו. זמן קצר לאחר מכן, העירה אותנו מסיבה פרועה עמוק לתוך הלילה. זו לא היתה הפעם הראשונה שרעש הגיע מכיוונם אבל הפעם זה היה קיצוני. כמה שעות אחר כך, בסוף ריצת הבוקר שלי, הבחנתי בבחור מעבר לחלון הפתוח. ניגשתי אליו, הצגתי את עצמי והסברתי לו את מה שעבר עלינו באותו לילה. ההתנצלויות שלו היו מיידיות ומלאות. "מצטער, זה לגמרי אשמתי. חגגתי יומהולדת. זה לא יקרה הרבה."

באותם ימים הייתי חבר מתנדב בוועדה מייעצת בעיריית וונקובר. הפגישה האחרונה שלנו בדצמבר 2020 התפזרה בפיצוץ לנוכח התנגשות בין שתי חברות וועדה.

מהציפיות הגבוהות של הוועדה המייעצת חזרתי לקונפליקט המרוסן בחצר שלי. הוא המשיך להעסיק אותי במחשבה, תכנון ופעולה. הפתרון לקונפליקט שחיפשתי היה מתעתע בפשטותו: אני רציתי לישון; השכנים רוצים להתפרק.

ההפרעות המשיכו להיות מזדמנות עד שבהדרגה הפכו לשגרה. תמיד נראה לי שלשכנים שלי יש תחושת כנות מולדת. הם רק רוצים להתפרק. הם צעירים, לרובם זו הפעם הראשונה בה הם גרים מחוץ לבית ההורים. 

בשלב כלשהו בחיי הייתי גם אני בגילם. הדירה ששכרתי עם אחי עמדה חצי קומה מעל השכנים באותו בניין. אחר צוהריים אחד שמעתי דפיקה מנומסת על הדלת. השכנה בקשה אם נוכל להנמיך קצת את המוזיקה. הדבר האחרון שרצינו להודות בו היה כמה חזק שמענו מוזיקה.

שכנים יכולים להיות מה-זה-כאב-ראש! קלטתי שעבור שלי, אני עכשיו בדיוק אותו כאב. הם עובדים למחייתם ורשומים ללימודים גבוהים כאלה או אחרים. ההזדמנויות שלהם לפורקן מוגבלות. וחוץ מזה, אני השכן היחיד שמתלונן.

הבתים שלנו מרווחים כשלושה מטרים. שבוע אחרי הקריאה הראשונה שלי למשטרה, הם שוב חגגו. דפקתי אצלם על הדלת, הפעם מגייס את היוגי הפנימי שבי. הוזמנתי פנימה וקיימתי עם השכנים שיחה לבבית. הם הבטיחו לנסות לשמור על השקט. אני הצלחתי להתעקש - בחיוך תמים - שהם צריכים לעשות יותר מלנסות.

במחשבותי, חזרתי למנחה הסדנה בה השתתפתי ב 2019. בזמן הברדק בארגנטינה של שנות השבעים הוא היה מהפכן צעיר. בין ביטויי ההתנגדות למשטר בהם השתמשו, היו הפרעות לשידורי חדשות המפלגה בטלוויזיה. עבור דיירי העיר ההפרעות האלה היוו טרדה. בשלב כלשהו הוא נתפס והושלך לכלא. אחרי שנתיים של מאסר ועינויים הוא שוחרר והובא לקנדה.

מוזר ככל שזה יישמע, השכנים שלי מגלים, בעיני, התנגדות והתרסה ראויים להערכה כמעט. אני לא נהנה מזה בעצמי, אבל נראה שהם תופסים את האינטרסים שלהם כעניין שבעקרון. אני עדיין המום ממה הם מנסים להשיג בהגנה על הזכות המפוקפקת שלהם.

המפגש שלי אתם גילה חבורה של בחורים צעירים בדרגות שונות של שיכרון וסימום. זה העציב אותי יותר מכל דבר אחר. הנה אני בחזית ההזדמנות להעביר מסר שאין לו לאן להגיע. גם למסר שלהם אין הד אצלי.

יכולתי לשמוע אותם מבעד לחלון הסגור. "אבל הוא לא עשה לנו כלום." התבכיין אחד מהם בתסכול. קול שני ענה בסמכותיות "נמעך אותם בנחמדות", הוא אמר. "נמשיך ללחוץ עד שהוא יגיב. אז יהיה לנו משהו נגדו."

הדחף לשרוף ולהרוג עלה בי מיד. אבל במהלך החיים תמיד הייתי מודע לדחף הזה. ברגע שנכנסת אלימות לתמונה, ההיסטוריה הופכת לסיפור שכל צד מספר מהזווית שלו. זה לא משנה מי צודק ומי טועה. באלימות כל אחד צודק וכולם טועים.

אנחנו לא היחידים שמתמודדים עם שכנים לא נעימים. מה היא התגובה האישית לקונפליקט וכיצד זו מיתרגמת לגישתנו לצדק חברתי או לעולם הפוליטי שלנו? האם בכלל יש לי השפעה? ההזדמנות שלי היא לאזן בין ההשפעה לאחריות. האתגר? פספוס בשתי החזיתות...

הפרדוקס המתמשך בו כולנו חיים מרתק בעיני.

ב 1989 הייתי סטודנט לעיצוב. המנחה שלי היה טייס בחיל האוויר. ב 1982, במלחמת לבנון הראשונה, הוא נשלח להפגיז כפר לבנוני מוכה מחבלים. בגישה למטרה הוא זיהה שהמבנה אליו נשלח הוא בפירוש בית ספר. הוא שבר הצידה והטיל את הפצצות בים התיכון.

"עיר היא לא רק מבנים. במובן העמוק ביותר שלה היא תולדה של תרבות. אנשים לא נולדו עם ערים סביבם. אנשים באו וגדלו וקבעו חוקים, איך לחיות יחד ואיך לא לחיות, איך לבנות ואיך לא לבנות." המנחה שלי שומר את המלים האלה קרוב לליבו. הן נכתבו ע"י אדריכל עמית וחבר יקר.

בהתמודדות עם השכנים, ניסיתי בכל הזדמנות להביט בהקשר הרחב: העיר הגדלה; האיזון בין חלל ותכלית; צרכי אנוש כקו מנחה בחלל הציבורי. לקיחת הזמן למדוד את החוטים המנתבים אותנו כחברה היא תמיד אתגר. אין הבטחה לגמול על סבלנות.

לזמן קצב משלו: ילד לבנוני שהיה עד לסטיית המפציץ הישראלי ב 1982 גדל להיות אמן. בביאנלה של 2012 הוא הציג עבודה תחת הכותרת: "מכתב לטייס שסירב".

העתיד הצפון בסיפור של שכניי ושלי יתברר בין אם אמות בזמן כתיבת המלים האלה או אחיה לנצח.

Yogurt Meltdown

No doubt, there is something special in this year we are going through. Incidents that tend to happen fast are threatening to pass as if they never happened; those that linger might never leave us at all. Either way, they fall upon us in surprise.

"You're a philosopher!", a teacher in my daughter's elementary squinted at me, tilting her head slightly. I said to her that probably we all are, yet maybe this trait is somewhat more pronounced in me.

When I return to this remark, the teacher's remark, it adds up to the array of impressions I have of everything around me and around the world. And my family, along with endless other families, familiar and foreign to me, continue to inspire me.

What is it indeed that inspires people?

A small part of an answer could be seen in the following:

Being self-obsessed always risks being blind to what's around me. I live, work, cope and explore. Sometimes I am totally frustrated, like when the company that makes my favorite yogurt replaces its packaging from 750 grams to 650. Obviously there are more serious frustrations like dysfunctional communications in the team I work. But mostly I succeed in much of what I do and even gain appreciation from said team. I solved the yogurt issue, as usual, in an unconventional way. And it always feels like a lot of luck is involved. But quick reflection reveals that a lot of planning, work and creativity took place.

And then I hear that my sister saved the life of a refugee; my brother provides heavenly treats to his satisfied clients; my sister in law continues to consult complex industries. And my mom? My mom leans back at the head of the table in a content sigh.

This is only part of the answer: I am part of this. The excellence I am trying to promote has roots somewhere. Yes. I am like this too. But not only. And not alone. I am part of something larger than me.

Occasionally, I allow myself to lean back in a content sigh.

But this happens fast and is threatening to pass as if it never happened.

- - - - - - - -

When another sister in law asks me how my yogurt issue was resolved I had to share.

- - - - - - - -

Actually, the issue is still unresolved. I just didn't want to worry anyone. Or burden anyone with redundant details. It's still in progress. Initially I sent Liberté an email asking them to urgently return the 750 grams packaging. In return I got a gift card valued at approximately two yogurts of my choice.

In short, I stopped buying the 650 grams units.

In more detail, I but another item of the same company that is still packaged in a 750 grams container.

In even more detail, I buy two products of the same company and mix them for consumption in the following days.

But I had a grandmother who had a habit of answering simple questions with elaborate stories. This one pays homage to her. We purchased a scale that is accurate to the gram. The one we had that is accurate to the 5 grams was good enough in my view. But my daughter insisted that we must have the one gram accurate scale. We could have used my three beams scale from the time I was mixing glazes. It is accurate to the tenth of the gram. To this she said "enough is enough"!

- - - - - - - -

There are days when I think of the Meltdown incidents where embarrassed parents stand beside their screaming toddler in the middle of a shop. No one really knows why and what would save the moment. Even stepping quickly out to the street makes no difference.

I had this moment today. I was surveying the yogurt shelves. The sacks below my eyelids drooped into a miserable gaze. I felt how my energies drained onto the sticky floor beneath the industrial cooler. Not only was my favorite yogurt absent, I had to confront the reminders to previous disasters lined up in front of my eye. One time I accidentally brought home a vanilla yogurt - Gosh, NO(!). Another, it was a 0% yogurt (Eeeeek!)

I can't help thinking of the Meltdown incidents and muse: I wish I could throw myself down, here on the floor so that someone could pick me up in their hugging, soothing and comforting hands.

Still, I returned home with one container of a 5% yogurt and one with 0% which I will mix together into a reasonable compromise. This in turn brings me back to my dear pottery teacher, who among other things, taught me to say: "How I envy myself!"

Treadmill + Video = Comedy

Watching a 110 Meter Hurdles race where one of the athletes sprains his ankle, throws me back to one of comedian Orny Adams' sketches. In my head I paraphrase his punch line from that sketch into: "Are you interested in an exciting career of tearing ligaments, breaking bones and risking high blood pressure? Become a world class athlete. Side effects include: toned body."

The original sketch deals with a hair loss prevention treatment. The way Adams turns ideas into absurd ones is fascinating. I have a similar tendency that produces amusement for me and my family and friends. Occasionally I enjoy putting the results of my humor in words. Here is this day's result.

So in August of last year I sprained my ankle. After a few months of healing, I returned to jogging gradually, each time adding distance to my treadmill sessions. A while ago, I realized the option to watch sports events on the treadmill screen. This is very useful in overcoming the creeping boredom a treadmill session entails.

I am amazed, in light of my reasonable fitness, with how fast those athletes run.

Today for example, I turned the speed up occasionally to 13.5 KM/H. In a marathon (42.2 K) they run on average 20! After about one (1) Kilometer I need to dial the speed down to 10 KM/H. That speed keeps me honestly satisfied. I'm not racing anyone; just admiring other athletes. Then I watch that guy who, at almost school-zone speed-limit, sprains his ankle on tripping the first hurdle (https://bit.ly/2SGd018). But then, Orny Adams washes up my memory (https://bit.ly/2UUAXiT).

The transcript? Here you are:
I was gonna take Propecia.
Yeah, everyone’s like, wo, why don’t you take Propecia!?
So I look into it and one of its side effects is erectile dysfunction.
You lose your erections!
That’s more than a side effect.
That’s more like WHAT THE PILL DOES!!
It’s more like... a, you,... loose your erections,... oh, you might grow hair.
The commercial should be like,
“Are you sick and tired of all those unwanted erections?
Try Propecia.
Side effects include hair.”
etc.

Small Matters Matter

At home, 65 centimeters exist between my eyes and the surface in front of me when I stand to pee. In most public washrooms, urinals are attached to a blank, boringly surfaced wall. That wall is typically  spaced about 35 cm away. Sometimes there is a framed picture, many times an ad, hung up to attract us, the pee-standing population. If there is some depth in the image, a slight sense of relief accompanies the process of relieving my bladder. In rare occasions there is a ledge at chest height that adds a welcome sense of space. In even rarer installations, there is a small window.

I've been enjoying the freedom of pee-standing forever, really. However, at times I simply get tired of the small accidents or even the occasional harmless splatter. As clean as I have always been, the stray drops that escape me accumulate in hidden gaps and get on my nerves. For a few years I managed to stick to pee-sitting. A seemingly small sacrifice for the sake of bathroom wellbeing. But temptations are not restricted to erotic avenues. One of my fantasies is to install a urinal at home.

However, the one I really want is just way too expensive, at least for the time being. So I stick my stick through the zipper and enjoy my musings in front of the blinded window in our humble bathroom. This morning for instance, I was wondering about the pattern of light that formed on one of the slats facing me. Light waves generate intriguing projections thanks to a variety of phenomena. When I thought of taking a picture of the light pattern, it occurred to me that until I set up the tripod and attach my camera on to it, the sun will move and the pattern might vanish with it. Still, which of the four cell-phones at our disposal would be best for the task? Why not try all? So yes. By the time I got to the fourth device, the projection changed.

Thankfully, none of the phones dropped into the toilet.

Gotta b. kiddn'

The infinitely complex undertaking that threadless is taking - to provide a platform of engagement for a massive audience - fascinates me. They started with attracting people through competitions and now we have the Artist Shop to try out.

Yes, this is Hebrew

Stumbling upon a t-shirt prints shop in Tel Aviv, in the later years of the twentieth century started my journey of turning threads of inspiration into wearables. The English version of the one on the left is shown at the top, the image in the center comes from a book by Halbritter; the shirt on the right is my expression of frustration over the introduction of caps to Tetra Pak cartons ("Return the cap to the bottle!").

At the time when printed t-shirts became a prominent item in the American culture, I was a bit dismissive of people making billboards of themselves. Then, in the early nineteen nineties my brother's designs for transfer technology exposed me to the broader side of this engagement. After moving to Canada in 2002 I walked into a place that made prints on t-shirts. I was appalled to realize how expensive making one would be, maybe three times the amount it cost me in Israel. However, the idea of finding ways and venues to continue my habit of turning ideas into objects stayed.

Not available on threadless as a t-shirt anymore

Then, in 2010 my sister sent me an orange shirt with a lovely design of a fox. This was the first time I became aware of the company named threadless. Still, the price seemed appalling to me. But why worry, here is a venue where my ideas can join a stream of like-minded people, and possibly even be purchased around the world. My first submission was kindly rejected, making me feel like, why bother…

My first submission on threadless

OK, I appreciate the way things are handled here. The concept of putting your stuff out and gathering feedback, directly and indirectly, is at the core of the design process. Moving ideas from concept to reality on the threadless platform is fun and friendly. The Artist Shop is a welcome addition to the package. I'm happy to have been able to witness its initial stages of development. It's exciting to follow a process like this (the development of an interactive, functional mechanism) and also participate in its making. Occasionally I send feedback to the threadless team. They are open to ideas and have even implemented successfully some of mine.

Some of my submissions this year, 2016

Sharing insights with unknown people for unguaranteed prospects is not easy for me. Every day requires a set of choices to be made: "Do I post a design? Should I send this feedback or keep it to myself? Is this going to be a t-shirt or a tote bag? How much more garbage does the world need?" An intangible sense of worth is constantly challenged. I solve this by trusting myself, trusting my own intentions. Whatever inspires me I try my best to keep alive and kicking.

Pendulum

In fact, maybe we are, after a phase of adjustment, situated in a new reality. Packs of commuters, pedestrians and community at large are holding a device of some sort in their hand. With it one speaks, another is messaging; one device is used to read books and on the other, articles are composed.

Like many innovations that capture our initial reservations, the electronic communications device too, in its many incarnations, attracts a variety of calls of dismissal and reproach. Whether I am among the users of the most cutting edge device or one of the many onlookers, our inclination to mock a new phenomenon feels natural. However, without much delay I become one of the many first users of a technology. I might still have a tinge of unease by succumbing to the trend but embrace the wonders of the novelty or even its limits.

Once more I am on the bus, thinking of the typical grievances that used to be or still are directed towards "the addicted" to technology. As time passes by, those who spend their time device-less look increasingly idle, like bums: "like, don't they have anything more important to do than just sit there, without doing anything? Ha! Riding a bus!"

Pendulum (Hebrew)

בעצם, אולי אנחנו מצויים אחרי תקופה של הסתגלות, במציאות חדשה. קבוצות רצופות של נוסעי תחבורה ציבורית, הולכי רגל ושאר חברי קהילה, מחזיקים בידם מכשיר כלשהו. עם המכשיר הזה אחד מדבר, אחרת מתכתבת; מכשיר אחד משמש לקריאת ספרים ובמכשיר אחר מחברים מאמרים.

כמו הרבה חידושים שתופסים אותנו מגיבים אליהם בהסתייגות ראשונית, גם אביזר התקשורת האלקטרוני על תצורותיו השונות זוכה למגוון קריאות ביטול ותוכחה. בין אם אני ממשתמשי המכשיר התורן או מאלה המבחינים בו מהצד, הנטייה לפתוח במסרים ביקורתיים על ההשלכות השליליות של התופעה מרגישה טבעית. לא עובר זמן רב בדרך כלל וגם אני בין המשתמשים הטריים בטכנולוגיה. אולי אני ממשיך לחוש באי הנחת מהכניעה לסחף אבל מגלה את נפלאות החידוש או אפילו את מגבלותיו.

ושוב אני נוסע באוטובוס וחושב על הטרוניות הראשוניות שהופנו, או עדיין מופנות כלפי "המכורים" לטכנולוגיה. ככל שהזמן עובר, המעבירים את זמנם ללא מכשיר ביד נראים יותר ויותר כמו חסרי מעש, בטלנים: "מה, אין להם משהו חשוב יותר מלשבת כך סתם, מבלי לעשות כלום? נוסעים באוטובוס!"

The age of Surface

Following the purchase of a new tablet that enables the use of and writing with a stylus, I woke up at four in the morning and decided to play with it a bit. The screenshot below provides a preliminary summary of the experience. 

Now, when I tried to switch to the keyboard, I realized that I can  attach the physical one to the device. This is a translation from my piece in Hebrew. I still can't type in Hebrew conveniently on the attached keyboard. So here is another stupidity that I'd be happy to share with someone else: Anat, my wife is still asleep and has already expressed her appreciation in the occasions when I've waited till the morning to talk with her; Sharon, my sister is in a different place, a different situation and if there is anything relevant to share with her, whatever it was that I had interest in sharing - is something else.

My initial understanding, the one that takes me back to my early life insight, is that the person most relevant to share my three O'clock in the morning swirling outbursts of musings, is me. Later it trickles its way to my communications with others. Occasionally it happens on the same day and the rest of it reaches other people some other time. Even the thought that this new device is responsible for my current joy is gently pushed aside by another one. It reminds me that in the past there have been enough occasions where I have encouraged myself to action this way or the other.

In short, I am very satisfied by the purchase of this new device, I am very satisfied with completing the mosaic I am making with Bruce, I continue to look at my employment at Paul Sangha's in a positive anticipation of our next move. And this is just the start.

The age of Surface (Hebrew)

בעקבות קניית טאבלט, המאפשר כתיבה עם מטה הפעלה אלקטרוני (סטילוס), התעוררתי בארבע בבוקר והחלטתי לשחק איתו קצת על המסך. צילום המסך שכאן מסכם את החוויה באופן ראשוני.

עכשיו עסקתי בניסיון לעבור לכתיבה במקלדת אבל קלטתי שזו הממשית, עדיין לא מציגה אותיות בעברית, אז ניתקתי אותה והמכשיר עובר אוטומטית למוד הקלדה על המסך דרך המקלדת הווירטואלית. אז הנה, עוד שטות שהייתי שמח לשתף בה מישהו אחר: ענת, אשתי ישנה ומביעה הערכה להזדמנויות בהן אני מחכה לבוקר כדי לדבר איתה, שרון, אחותי במקום אחר במצב אחר ואם יש משהו שיכול להיות רלוונטי לשתף אותה בו, הדבר שבמקור רציתי לשתף אותה בו הוא משהו אחר.

ההבנה הראשונית, שמחזירה אותי כל פעם לתובנת החיים המוקדמת, היא שהבנאדם הרלוונטי ביותר לשתף אותו באיבחות מחשבה מסתחררות כמו אלה שאני חווה בדרך כלל בשלוש בלילה, הוא אני. אחר כך זה מטפטף לתקשורת שלי עם אחרים. מדי פעם זה קורה עוד באותו יום ושאר הזמן זה מגיע איכשהו לאנשים שונים, בדרגות שונות, במקטעים כאלה או אחרים. אפילו המחשבה שהמכשיר החדש מהווה חלק מההנאה, מוצאת את עצמה נהדפת קלות ע"י זו שאומרת שבכל הזדמנות בעבר מצאתי את עצמי מדרבן את דחפי הפעולה של עצמי בדרכים מדרכים שונות.

בקיצור, אני מאד מרוצה מהקנייה של הטאבלט. אני מאוד מרוצה מהשלמת הפסיפס שאני יוצר עם ברוס, אני ממשיך להסתכל על ההעסקה שלי אצל פול סנגה בציפייה חיוביות לבאות. וזו רק ההתחלה.

Bus Ride Reading (Ignorance is bliss - The Hebrew Version)

ב 2009 כשהורי ביקרו אותנו כאן בוונקובר, יצא לי להבין בהפתעה קלה משהו, שהטריד את יוחנן בתור אבא לילדים שגדלו בבית דובר עברית. באחד מטיולי הבוקר הוא ציין את תחושת היתרון שיש לנו בהשוואה אליו, שגדל אצל הורים דוברי שפות זרות. בשיתוף הזה מצידו, היה משהו מעורר מחשבה. זו אמירה שמכילה רבדים של תחושות כמו תסכול, קנאה והערכה. לפעמים אנחנו עיוורים למכלול המציאות בה אנחנו חלק, עד שמי שאיתנו חולק מה שאצלו. את יכולת ההבעה והכתיבה אני ממילא מנסה לשפר ולזקק בלי קשר. אבל היכולת הזו מיועדת גם לקהל, שבלעדיו אין לה הרבה תכלית.

אולי פרט אירוני במחשבות העולות תוך כתיבת הדברים שכאן, הוא שאף פעם לא הבחנתי אצל אבא במגבלה ביכולת ההבעה. אבל השיחה שבה הוא הצליח להביע את ההכרה שלו באותה מגבלה, ממשיכה להעסיק אותי במפגשים עם אנשים אחרים. אלה שאני מעריך את יכולת ההבעה שלהם כטובה משלי, מהם אני מנסה ללמוד. אלה שיכולת ההבעה שלהם אולי פחותה, איתם אני מנסה להקפיד, מצד אחד על סבלנות ומצד שני על תמיכה. סבלנות בהקשבה ותמיכה במאמץ לנסות.

לקראת יום השלושים לפטירת יוחנן שטרן, הייתי עסוק בכתיבת החיבור בהמשך תוך נסיעה בתחבורה ציבורית. הקשר לפתיחה שלמעלה אולי לא מיידי אם כי טבעי עבורי במכלול החוויות העוברות עלי.

קריאה בתחבורה ציבורית (בורות היא אושר)

במה אנחנו מחפשים תעסוקה? אני קורא ספר בשם 'קריאת רשות' ('קריאה בלתי נחוצה' בתרגום לאנגלית) שאת שם המחברת אולי יום אחד אצליח לזכור ולהגות. השאלה שלמעלה מעסיקה אותי בזמן הקריאה ואחריה. אני תוהה מה מוצא חן בעיני בשורות אותן אני קורא ומה גורם לי להירתע.

בהמשך אני קורא פיסות מידע על ויסלבה שימבורסקה. הבירור הזריז הזה מחזיר אותי ל'קאמפר' הראשונות שקניתי.

ברחובות מילנו 1999, עברתי ליד חלון ראווה שבו הוצג זוג נעלים שגרם לי לעצור. כאילו מצאתי משהו שכל החיים חיפשתי. הן היו יפות באופן לא מובחן כמעט. היופי שלהן הכיל שלוה, נינוחות, ביטחון עצמי. אפשר היה לעבור לידן מבלי להרגיש בכלל. ובכל זאת הן כאילו חיכו לי. כשמדדתי, הנוחות שלהן הפתיעה רק על רקע נסיון העבר, בו מה שנראה נוח מסתבר בדרך כלל כפחות אם בכלל.

הכתיבה של שימבורסקה, המתורגמת לאנגלית, מרגישה מוכרת, בכל זאת זרה, אולי בגלל התרגום, אולי בגלל התחביר. היא "נשמעת" קצת כמו עולה חדש מרוסיה שנמצא בישראל כבר הרבה שנים. השפה רהוטה וקולחת עם מהמורה קלה פה ושם בנגינה. כשאני מדבר אנגלית, מדי פעם חסרות לי מלים. אני ממציא ביטויים שמסבירים את מה שאני מתכוון בצירופים שחדשים לחברה מסביבי. מעמדת הקורא, אני מתרשם שהשפה של שימבורסקה מעוררת בי התרשמות דומה אולי לזו של השומעים אותי במקום בו אני נמצא. מהמקום בו אני נמצא, אני מתחבר חזרה לויסלבה.

כשחזרתי מאיטליה עם הקאמפר החדשות, הסתבר לי שזה מותג ספרדי חם בשוק האפנה האירופאי, כולל ישראל. תהיתי איך הייתי מתייחס לנעליים בחלון אם הייתי יודע על כך מראש. לא מפריע לי להסתובב עם מותג. מפריע לי לקנות אותו רק בגלל שהוא זה. עודד, שקרא לי בעברית חיבור אחד מתוך הספר, חסך ממני את הפרט הלא רלוונטי של פרס הנובל בו זכתה שימבורסקה. כשפניתי לקנות את הספר חשבתי לעצמי, האם אני קונה אותו בגלל שאני מושפע מהמפגש עם עודד או כיוון שמשהו בטקסט היה באמת חזק מספיק עבורי.

אחת השאלות ששאלו את ויסלבה, משוררת פולנית ידועה, שנפטרה בת 89 ב 2012, היתה למה לא פרסמה יותר שירים. התשובה שלה מחזירה אותי לקרוא את החיבורים שלה, "הבלתי נחוצים": "יש כבר סל מיחזור אצלי בחדר".

Bus Ride Reading (Ignorance is bliss)

In 2009, my parents visited us here in Vancouver. Somewhat unexpectedly I realized an issue that had bothered Yohanan, my dad, for years. In one of our morning walks he mentioned the advantage we’d had over him. Being Israeli born to immigrant parents, he always felt that his exposure to language was compromised. He expressed awareness to the fact that we, his children, grew up in a Hebrew speaking household. That confession provoked layers of thought in me. I could sense the frustration in him, the envy as well as appreciation and respect. We are sometimes blind to the complex reality we live in until the person with us shares their own. My drive to improve and distil my own process of expression and writing is already established. However, my skills are deemed futile without an audience.

As I am writing these words, the irony in my dad’s state of mind has not escaped me. I have never considered his level of expression as missing much. But our chat in which he managed to express his awareness to that perceived fault, keeps me alert in my encounters with other people. From those I appreciate the level of expression as superior to mine I try to learn. With the ones whose level might be lower I try to be careful, on the one hand with patience and on the other - support; being patient in listening and supportive of the effort to try.

This memory came back to me as the thirty days from my dad's passing away (on 21 November 2015) approached. I was just about to complete a piece of commentary following a few days of commuting on bus to work. The link between the opening above and my commentary seems natural to me if not immediately obvious.

Bus Ride Reading (Ignorance is bliss)

What do we occupy ourselves with? I am reading a book, named ‘Non-required Reading’ (initially introduced to me in Hebrew as ‘Optional Reading’). One day I might remember its author’s name and manage to pronounce it. The question above rolls in my head as I am reading and beyond. I wonder what it is that attracts me to it and what turns me off.

Later I read snippets of information about Wislawa Szymborska. This quick exploration throws me back to the first ‘Campers’ I have purchased.

In the streets of Milan, 1999, I passed by a window where a pair of shoes made me stop. It was as if I found something I had been looking for my whole life. They were beautiful in an almost unnoticeable way. And yet they were waiting for me. When I tried them on, their comfort was only surprising in light of past experiences, where what looks comfortable turns out to be less so or even not at all.

Szymborska’s writing, translated into English, feels familiar yet still foreign. Maybe because of the translation, maybe due to its syntax. She “sounds” a bit like a new comer from Russia who’s already been away from homeland for many years. The language is fluent and flawless with a screech here and there in its music. When I speak English, occasionally my vocabulary fails me. I invent expressions that explain my ideas in combinations that are new to my listeners. From the reader’s point of view, my impression of Szymborska’s language is probably similar to that of my audience, in the place where I am. From where I am, I re-connect with Wislawa.

When I returned from Italy to Israel with my new Campers, I realized that they had been a hot Spanish brand in the European fashion world including that of Israel. I was wondering how I would have treated the shoes had I known about that in advance. Not that I am worried about being dressed in a brand name. I am simply averse to buying a brand name just because of it. Oded, my friend who introduced ‘optional reading’ to me, read one of the book’s pieces in Hebrew. He had spared me the irrelevant knowledge of Scymborska’s being a Nobel prize for literature winner. Still, when I considered buying the book I asked myself whether I was buying it just because of my meeting with Oded or thanks truly to the strength of the book’s text.

Wislawa, who died at 89 in 2012, was a well known Polish poet. She was asked once how come she hadn’t published more poems. Her response draws me back to her “non-required” essays: “My room already has a recycling bin.”

Embracing death as a joy of life

On my recent visit to Israel I had the honor of escorting my dad through some of his last days in life. I’d shared my thoughts and insights with my family, as part of our daily updates. The first one below was written early one morning following a few days of traveling and social encounters. About a week after my return to Canada my dad embraced the hold of death and passed away seven days later, Saturday, November 21 2015. My eulogy below was written in response to our last conversation.

I am grateful to have family and friends supporting us in this process of growth.
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Each of us carries an invisible load of baggage. This includes what I think of the other and what I think people think of me. My conversation with Gali, my niece, raises the notion that some issues might not require discussion. Tamar, my sister in-law, knows in advance what would offend her. We face a daily effort of dismantling this baggage of landmines and firebombs.

In one early moment of the Sterns’ visit to Vancouver last year, I waived a threatening finger in front of Yohanan. His response made me wonder what exactly happened there. My parents’ stay with us, transformed into a realization, that we can all enjoy it. With my raised finger I’ve exclaimed “If you don’t trust my good intentions and Yardena’s good intentions, we have no communication.” Yohanan jumped from his spot at the other side of the table. He then charged into the bedroom. A few seconds later we could hear him screaming at the tenant in Israel to pay his rent.

I am fascinated by our use of the comic in relating to life. Laughter relieves our breath and introduces a healthy dose of oxygen to our brain. In embarrassment and hardships it seems like laughter gives me a break. Instead of sliding into depression, laughter allows me to remove the tough issue from its threatening context. It doesn't always succeed. But a small story from my acquaintance with Gerstman, one of Yeheskely Clothing's suppliers, keeps inspiring me to employ laughter and insist on it.

Yoav, the designer I used to work with, was Gerstman's tenant for a few years. He's told me that they'd always had pleasant conversations. Some of them even included stories from the landlord's past as a Holocaust survivor. The man, bearing a smile on his face, was always happy to share amusing anecdotes. In one of Yoav's encounters with Gerstman the gentleman had confided: "So, in the concentration camps have I stopped laughing? Of course I had laughed." This was enough for me.

Yohanan Stern has been collecting clown figurines for years in a variety of forms: paintings, dolls and other creations. Some of them are sad, some are smiling. They all, in my view celebrate the light hearted side of our personality; the part that helps a healthy perspective of life. The sad clown might be mumbling "What's the point in being pessimistic; life's hard enough." The happy one is saying "Every situation entails a glimmer of bliss; the joy of life stems from that." You can notice the two clowns manifested in my dad. Occasionally I cringe embarrassedly from his fooling around. In the rest of time I tell myself that I am the same.

So where is Yardena in all of this? Let's not talk about Yardena. Taking care of Yohanan is currently top priority. She chunks a couple of pain killers in the morning and the day is settled. Never mind that their influence is receding. Just make sure they are Extra Strength. My effort in finding out how I might be the same gives me a headache. There you are, I made it! Now I can relax. We agreed that with all the difficulties we have a history and present of cooperation. In all of us, the good intentions overcome our frustrations. True, I know how to be turned off by Yohanan. And the point is that I am the one who is turned off. The other side in the story is not guilty of my being turned off but, alas, he is part of it.

So here is an idea for a scientific research in sociology: our life is built upon reducing our amount of turn off from people, especially those closest to us. Once I have already told mom that my success in life results "thanks to you as well as in spite of you." And then, doesn't Meni turn me off? Sharon? Erez? Ah,… Erez doesn't turn me off. And Yardena understands immediately. At the same time she is dead wrong. Erez doesn't turn me off because we hardly speak to each other. Yardena counts the ‘hardly’. YarOn counts the ‘speak’. Sharon comforts us in saying "that's OK." And Meni? He stopped reading in the first paragraph. And that too is OK.

This update has no immediate concrete implications. It is an intermediate summary in my line of impressions from what's up in the family. I am trying to bring to light some thoughts in hope that they allow a small window into space and a breath of fresh air. In the tough and serious situation we are all experiencing, the suffocating feeling of hopelessness might sabotage the delightful effort we are all involved in. My aspiration is that these words manage to amuse the moment a bit, until the next day.
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Yohanan,

Indeed we ate the last of the humus on your last day. Like some kind of a Hanukah miracle where you were the sacrifice. And we will continue to make humus and bake pitot (pita bread) and think of Nablus Gate, the falafel that we had to bring from the adjacent stall and the coffee that the guy poured from the boil. Much of what I could know about you came to me indirectly. Like a side observation. Something I had said off hand turned out months later to be significant to you.

Your lust for life has always entailed a measure of frightened, somewhat childish concern. As my ability to express my impression in words improved, your desire to give and nurture overcame any insult. I am grateful for the opportunity to learn something out of this. Looking from within, our life feels almost boring. Why even my effort to extract family stories for your fiftieth anniversary confronted a variety of objections from its members.

But life goes on and the memory will play its part. Much of what I will hear about you will fill the void. “I am the strongest dad in the world,” I told the impressed boy one day. At the same breath I continued “and my dad is even stronger.” Every joke has a component of truth in it. I am grateful for the opportunity to continue the joke.

Is the 'Grouse Grind' a reflection of Vancouver Culture?

If my first impression of the Grouse Grind was of a touristy experience, it still held a charm that allowed me to occasionally go back and enjoy it. The intensely corporate context of the site is still physically challenging and socially compelling.

In 2003 I took a photo that managed to capture the magic of that year's climb. The first time we took our daughter with us in 2006, she bravely slept most of the way up, sitting on my shoulders, her head resting firmly on mine.

In 2009 my parents visited us from Israel for the first time. Our relatives from Portland joined us to spend some family time with them. We all went out to enjoy the place, most of the pack taking the cable car. Phyllis, my relative's wife and I took what turned out to be the bonding experience of walking up the hill.

A few years later, my in-laws were seriously injured by a car on a visit to Germany. This happened just a month before we were scheduled to have a family vacation in Israel. The timing was such, that sticking to plan was the most helpful choice. They were helped back home by Anat's brothers. We kept on with preparing the now slightly changed context of our visit. Just two weeks before flying to Israel, we took Inbal for her first on-foot Grouse Grind. Inbal, then nine years old asked me after completing the course: "do you think grandpa would manage the climb?" "Sure." I responded. "Even grandma could." Inbal, in surprise: "You think so?" "Of course." I continued. "She might not want to, but she definitely could."

It is an atypical warm summer in Vancouver this year. Still, nothing compared with other regions in the world. Again, in a few months we are scheduled for a visit in Israel. Anat's parents are planning their vacation in Tanzania a few days from now. Inbal's second climb to the Grouse was an uneventful, enjoyable weekend experience.

However, my impression is that the place has become even more touristy; even more corporate. The socially compelling side of the physical challenge looks to me now a bit like an anthropological observation opportunity. I enjoyed walking along a family whose daughter, younger than Inbal, patiently waited for her parents, guiding her even younger sibling. The effort makes for talking to be minimal, but the occasional exchange with others gives a curious sense of community.

While my leisurely pace is still that of a fit person, the many competitive climbers make me think of the diversity of participants in this venue. In the past I was amused to think that although walking up the path is not for everyone, it could sometimes feel like you're in the middle of a downtown sidewalk. I was reminded of that thought while braving one of the narrower sections of stairs, close to the top.

Some people were a step or two in front of me, a few behind me. Not a lot of room for passing or letting others pass. You just wait patiently for the next widening of the path to make your move. If at any point someone lets you through, a quick thank you is all that is exchanged. Then the breath and steps of a quicker climber were getting closer until I hear from behind an impatient "excuse me". There isn't a lot of room to move sideways so I continue climbing. When she asks again and passes the pack I am with I'm not sure whether I'm amused or irritated. As a newly minted Canadian I probably should have said "Sorry". Being who I am I'm happy to have avoided a confrontational "Excuse me!"

Just Watching

Since my previous post, Marylee and I have shared a few interesting experiences. At the Burnaby Public Library I saw her talk about "Life from the Land". Then came Balcony Tales by Helle Windeløv-Lidzélius. Marylee saw it in DOXA. Anat and I watched it at home. Birders: The Central Park Effect by Jeffrey Kimball made me take the DVD from the library and have a home screening for the lot of us, Marylee, Anat, Inbal and I.

Our day in North Vancouver. Monday, May 18th 2015

Monday, May 18th was a bright, partly cloudy day. Inbal was handed a spare pair of binoculars and we headed towards a small pond where the ducks were doing their job caring for a bunch of ducklings that were past the chick stage. It is truly magical to watch the view magnified several times through the binoculars. It's not a bad idea to remind a ten year old about some safety issues such as removing the binoculars from the eye while walking and such.

Heron waiting patiently for its catch.

Between the four locations marked on the map there was much walking and watching. We didn't return home as fanatic birders but the fun of watching birds and hearing stories about them will stay with us. One of the highlights was the reminder that birds are everywhere in the city. Marylee wanted to show us a hanging nest she's seen the other day on 5th. When we got there she realized that the tree must be a block or two away. But then Inbal noticed another hanging nest on a tree beside us. We got there just as the parents were feeding their chicks, which were probably just a little more excited to be fed than us observing the excitement.

Robin pecking the grounds at Harbourside.

Still, the presence of humans in the environment and their influence on it always raise the awareness of the challenges wildlife face in their survival. Our own passive form of watching movies about nature and wildlife is just one step in caring for a balance in ecosystems. Some of the Central Park birders of New York express an awareness to how bizarre they might look to "outsiders". I think we should keep in mind that there would always be someone watching us and considering to join. This is the audience that should interest me. The engagement with uninterested people can come in other ways.

Pigeon Gillemot on its way from one side of the pier to the other.

Urban wildlife flock to the city because of the opportunities to feed, breed and have shelter. Our ways of building and maintaining the city are not geared towards the well being of wildlife. And yet there are many who find the benefits of our systems. Observation, one of humans' core skills responsible for the achievements of our society allows us to notice the effect of our environment on the one we grew out of.

Bushtit rushing away to find more food.

It always intrigues me to find connections. From the walks with Marylee I am reconnected to the discussion of wildlife in urban settings. Our discussion waves through endless other topics that allow me to weave another set of thoughts into the quilt of a larger story. And it doesn't end there. What remains is a fleeting moment of beauty.

Talking about sex and sexuality in school and at home

I grew up sensing that sex is not a topic of discussion. A tension between fascination and secrecy surrounded any mention of words related to sex. More than shame, embarrassment was the basic reaction I remember noticing around me. You just don't talk about it.

When I was in grade 4 the nurse came to talk with us about puberty. The most that she managed was to ask the class to be quiet and listen. The content of her talk has never registered in my memory. Kids around me were giggling and poking each other. I remember myself as a naive and curious boy. I wanted to hear a bit about this process that I already started to feel happening in me. The nurse never covered any topic of significance. If anything, she might have been just as nervous as the rest of my class.

My only claim to knowing better than when I was in grade 4 is having a grade 5 daughter. When she told me about the nurse that was about to talk with them about puberty, I thought "What is it about that poor nurse having to talk with kids in school about sex?".

There seems to be a social cloudiness surrounding issues of body, sex and sexuality. Talking about our intimate body areas involves … intimacy; the emotional journey our kids are going through or are about to go through is different with every kid and family; the availability of information today is both a blessing and a risk. In light of the layered difficulties surrounding the topic, the formal delivery of education relating to sex and sexuality is probably not enough. It's not that I have anything against the nurse talking with kids about puberty. From the handout I saw, it all looked pretty useful.

Then it struck me. Sex is fun. Sexuality is all about life. The school nurse usually deals with injuries and emergency. This ties too well with the apparent difficulty we have in society to discuss the intimate issues of life. I think we are capable of delivering a much more positive message to the audience we care most about.

We don't have to force that message upon them. Usually kids don't talk or don't want to talk much about what's going on in school. But when they do try to engage in conversation it looks to me like a good idea to be prepared. A workshop with a professional sex educator is one way of having a healthy discussion that can also be fun. We all have different ways of raising kids. We all have questions and advice. But when it comes to sex, a professional educator can help in dissolving the cloud surrounding this topic. The workshop is a stepping stone in a journey that can be exploratory yet safe.

How much practice does any of us have in life to talk about sex in a serious yet fun way? A sex educator has exposure to the experiences of many people. This exposure allows for uniquely individual questions to be addressed based on the wealth of a broad reference.

As I was thinking of raising the issue at our PAC meeting, a quick search resulted in a variety of options. There are many books out there and also web pages that provide reviews of such books. When I typed 'sex educators BC' I didn't have to sift through endless porn sites as I had anticipated.  But then, as the days went by, "my topic" became a news item. One weekend I read an article by an awarded journalist. The next weekend covered the Ontario clash around the new Sex Ed curriculum.

Here in BC, there are already calls to revisit and possibly review it. But until that happens, parents of kids who are currently in elementary school need more immediate solutions. We can employ available resources as a group for the benefit of our own family as well as society at large.

Instead of worrying, I observe life as it presents itself to me. My own past is merely a reference point. When it comes to providing a healthy launching pad for my daughter, my observations turn into insights and guidance. Our school and its PAC provide an extended opportunity to nurture a broader connection. That connection itself provides the base for the healthy sex ed we are all hoping for. 

The books we have at home:
  

From the Media:
Why improve rant (Elizabeth Renzetti)
My sexual education (Sierra Skye Gemma)
Ontario Sex Ed (Globe&Mail Editorial)
Comparison between provinces (Global News)
Improve teache training (Globe&Mail)

Videos for discussion at a future PAC meeting:
Marnie Goldenberg (< Click to reach website):

Saleema Noon (< Click to reach website):