סקיצות מחיים דיספונקציונליים

Listen you fucker, quit fucking with my brain. I am not the enemy, not someone to be seduced and impressed, definitely not to be taunted to draw my attention. You’ve achieved all that. You got my attention. I am impressed and curious and attracted and find you quite endearing though I think you are also a terrible brat. So can we relax now? Can we talk like two subjects now? Can we acknowledge the elephant in the room, which by now has turned into a mammoth? Can we just agree to fucking sublimate?

I hold you to the highest possible standard
I see the best in you
I hold the screen high & tight
I stand on my tiptoes, my whole body is tense
It’s one line of tight muscle
My hands hurt, my toes hurt
In my hands just a beaten screen
Slipping away from my sweaty palms.
I try to hold it in my last bit of energy
The screen is light, so airy, so fragile,
Like an old photo of you,
A faded image of what you could have been or what you never were
Or what you never could be,
Or a figment of my imagination
A collection of images that when put together just slightly resembles you.
What made me choose this screen?
Attach myself to this broken image
What wretched joke am I playing with myself?
What if I put down this screen right now and walk away
But I can’t
I am attached to my broken screen.
The mystery of it’s content, of it’s pull won’t let go of me.
I cannot put it down until I understand it.
Until it relinquishes me
Until you relinquish me
I am a sad person
So is your image looking at me from the screen.
I have the habit of picking up broken things, unwanted, unneeded things
Abandoned things.
Was I just picking up myself?

In her dream she was on vacation in Egypt, and had just awoken from her sleep in a big room dimly lit by a half open window with wooden shudders with arabesque motif cutouts. It was the muezzin calling for the evening prayer that woke her up and she was fumbling in bed fighting to shake off sleep and the white sheets that seemed to entangle her naked body slightly perspiring in the heavy humid heat. As she stood up in front of the window and looked at Cairo’s rooftops and behind them the pyramids glowing in orange and red in the waning daylight, the door behind her opened, and her Arab lover entered the room. He was carrying a round silver ornate tray covered with dumplings and sweets. “I brought you some food,” he said, and as she didn’t move, he put the tray on a small table next to the bed, and came toward her. She had turned to the window again and he came behind her looking at what she was looking. He hugged her body that was so thin, starved, emaciated and she felt the skin of his chest against her back through his white open shirt. He was hot too. His skin was so warm; his eyes were big and brown as he turned to look at her from behind her shoulder.