Thursday, November 24, 2011








It was my own war. It was daily. It was hourly. Sometimes it was just to get through the moment, the hour. My whole world melted around me. Everything that I loved and had lived for was in another world. I was separated by the ocean, by the airplane. The abyss that I had fallen into, the corner that I inhabited, the loss and the terror were two separate monsters that took their turns strangling and suffocating me. i could not look at pictures of my friends or of Siabonga, neither could I call them. I could speak to them when they called. I could hear their voices coming from that world that I had once been a part of and I could hear my voice speaking to them. The air around was stiff, made of immovable iron and steel. The walls that I breathed through had no entrance and exist. I could hear my voice. I could hear their voices. There was penetration but the walls did not budge and the echo from that world tormented me. It was the reminder of everything that I lost, everything that had been taken from me. Words came out and like butterflies that would never be mine to see or to draw. They came out from my spirit and from my heart. I loved them. I loved them deeply. I was afraid of the pain that would come if they forgot me, if they did not call, if they let me alone in this invisibility that was beyond darkness. I cried, locked and chained to the stakes and to the acid and to the knives and I hid nothing from them. If they were to come with me then I would spare from them nothing. They were my friends and I trusted them with my life.

Liat stayed by my side. She guarded the invisible and endless hole that I fell into. If she could not see, she could feel me into the depth of my cells. She guarded the abyss and stayed guard. She handed the job over to none. She was my angel. She was dedicated to me and her presence became a life-line. Through her I remembered who I was. Through her I could embrace myself, find compassion for my suffering, find beauty even if they were just threads. They were threads connecting me to who I used to be, to who I knew would never be taken away from me. When Liat and I spoke, I felt and heard myself reflected in her patience, in her compassion, in her soft and gentle dedication. I felt my deepest spiritual self rise above the terror and the desperation to meet her. And wherever I met her, I met myself. What I saw was so beautiful, so powerful, it was something to live for, it was something to fight for, it was something to believe in. The life sentence that I had been sentenced to was a reason to die. It was a reason to die now. Liat's devotion was an angel's voice that came from another realm. I could hear her clearly, as though the divide of our two worlds was not so great at all, as though the world that I inhabited was the same world that she inhabited, as though I had not gone completely insane. I learnt her voice more and more. I knew when she would call. I could not call her but I always received her calls. When despair had eaten my will to live like maggots at a fresh corpse, I spoke to her. My mother would come to give me the phone, her eyes with the light of salvation in them. She thanked Liat every time she called. It was beyond thanking. It was a gratitude that went to a higher source. When we spoke we thanked God that we had found each other. We thanked God that we were in each others lives. We told each other that we did not know what we would do if we were not in each others lives. Our gratitude was to a higher source, a source that felt present when we spoke to each other, a source we felt that was beyond us, whose power had united us. A source that we spoke of, in the language of gratitude, self-acceptance and devotion. If I was dead then she was there to remind me that there was nothing dead about me. If I was hopeless then she was there to remind me that there was so much ahead for me. If I was as useful as a dead man that never died but stayed forever suffocating then to me she was my best friend that stayed by my side while I suffocated constantly reminding me that my soul was there untouched by the senselessness and insanity that my body was submitting me to. Her beauty was something to live for, and my idea that her beauty was a reflection of my own gave me the strength to fight for the hope that one day the torture chambers would slow their frenzied insanity and I would be set free from the chains, free from the repetitive daily, hourly minute to minute massacre of my will to live.
If there was blood, it went unseen. It was as invisible as the crocodile teeth that were clenched to my vagina, invisible as my flesh twisting and torn to shreds, raw and wrenched, brutalized and shoved into a deathless and repetitive corridor of insanity. I dreamed of death. I was jealous of death itself. To be granted death meant to be loved by a God of mercy. There was no mercy in the plane of this existence. There was no mercy at all. There was a kaleidoscope of nightmares and terrors and the endless obsession with death and the torment of knowing that I would have to chose a way to do it. My mind winded around itself. There was nothing left of it but the spiraling images of me in the act of taking my own life. The thoughts spiraled and they spiraled and twisted and chiseled themselves into my brain as the knives plunged hundreds and thousands of time into the depths of my vagina. I wanted to be killed once, To be tortured once, to be allowed to bleed so that the life would bleed itself out of me naturally and my suffering would end. I was sentenced to be destroyed over and over again. I was losing my mind. There was nothing else. I was losing my identity. Who I was and what I was now added up to nothing. Whatever I had fought for, whatever i had believed, the coherence and the meaning that was such a huge part of the life I had lived, were like tickets to a carnival that had never existed. And yet I was holding the tickets, swearing that the carnival was taking place. I knew that it was because I had lived it, I had created it. The black hole ridiculed me. The spiraling broken machine that twisted itself through my brain that had turned into stiff and drying glue, the chasm between the world that I had inhabited and the world that I was sentenced to now was as real as two galaxies winding on different orbits. They would never meet. And if they met it would be only by crashing into each other. And then the victory of death will be a morbid and ugly tragedy that my family and my friends would have to live with for the rest of their lives. In this world the only gateway was an imagined one that existed in my mind in the future. I knew that when I lost that, I would be ready to accept that my fate was to take the life out of my own body.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011



Ever since I found the Support Group On Facebook I feel less inspired to write here. I much prefer the interaction, the communication. Still, this can be my little island that I come to visit once in a while. It seems that I am growing, out-growing, growing out-ward.

I am willing to be an artist. I would not have chosen it. But, it happened upon me. I grew into it. I accept it. I am an artist. And a healer. And i put them both together and I know the art of healing and I know the healing of art. And I admit it, I have become an artist and I have matured into a healer. I don't have much to say about it. Everyone has there own god-blessed or god-damned destiny. There is only futility in denying what I truly am. Out of fear? It isn't humility, though I can feign humility. It is simply fear. That same familiar fear. I was always different. Sometimes admired for that difference, mostly ignored for that difference. The things I saw were different. The things that I felt were different. The things I thought were different. The spiritual was always intermingled with the 'mundane'. In places where the mundane was the norm, I felt alone and misplaced. I preferred to be alone than to feel alone. I chose to be alone when the choice was to be like everyone else or not to be. I chose to be just for myself even if it meant having few friends. When I was 13 and 14 it meant having no friends. I was angry, very angry at that. My fate changed. My fate was always changing but it took me a long time to heal from the pain of having no friends for two years at school. I learnt too much and it hurt too deeply. But I was stubborn and I knew that I would not forfeit myself to whatever it took to be liked. It was mundane, clothing, make-up, boys....I refused to let go, to submit, to hand over my spiritual self to that world that was not only mundane but that was cruel. I wanted no part of the cruelty that I saw around me. I rejected it. I hated it. Inside I scoffed at it. And so I was destined to be a part of it. I accepted my fate, though it hurt me, deeply.

I was always living on different planes of reality. I was always creating new realities in my mind. Where I lived was clear to me but it sometimes baffled those around me. I lived in a deeply spiritual world, a world inhabited by animals and trees and stars, a world where stars spoke to me and where God was One with me. There was no separation between me and God. We were one and there was no doubt about this. God was compassionate and caring and cherished life deeply. God felt each squirrel that was run over and knew which soul needed a hand. I lived in my private world. Few entered that magical world with me. I learnt to not speak of it. It was weird to be connected that way to something that much larger then myself and to feel that it was me. I accepted that this space was mine to inhabit privately though I longed to share it with a friend, even one.

My relationship with that world became rockier as I grew older. I was angry more. I was desperate for answers. i was impatient and impulsive and I developed a huge appetite for travel and for change and for movement. I was thirsty for life and I felt gypped. And there was only so much time to make up for my losses. I went to India, to Africa, to South America. I traveled on  my own, I traveled with a partner, I traveled and traveled and when I was not traveling I felt that same uncomfortable and sad feeling that life was passing me by. What I wanted was to travel but I could not disconnect myself from the world of 'degrees' that I had grown up in. Yale, Harvard, Columbia...B.A., M.A., PhD....I studied psychology. It was lame and it lacked soul and spirituality. It was mundane and stupid and had no insight into healing. That was the way that it was taught in Israel. Theories and text-books and useless memorization of irrelevant facts. I felt my life as though it were a sand-castle, each tide stripping another layer and another layer away...each day another day that I payed for with my dreams. I wanted to act. I studied acting. I wanted to travel. I traveled. I wanted to love. I loved endlessly and relentlessly. I never gave up on loving even after being bruised over and over again. For a time, I hated men. The men in India left my heart filled with brutality towards them. I had been harassed endlessly. I hated them for taking away from me my dream of traveling and exploring. I learnt that I had explored enough. I learnt the painful truth about India. And I finally accepted that I was tired. India had defeated me. I wanted peace and quiet and nature and creativity and healing.
I took on Pottery. I fell in love with the Galil, the North of Israel. I felt blessed by the animals and by nature and blessed by my soul-mates that I met there. And still I was restless, still I felt that there was something missing.
Today, nothing is missing.
I know the girl.
I know the teenager and the young woman.
I know more then I ever wished or imagined I would know.
I can heal and I meet the girl and she knows that I need her to hold my soul. And she does, with patience and love and compassion. She knows that I never lost anything, that I lived with a burning passion that left me exhausted. She does not judge me. She understands. She knows exactly what I was running away from and exactly what I was slamming into. And she just stays with me. If I need to stand, she stands with me. If i can sit, she sits with me. She watches me forget the pain and when I look at her and smile, she smiles back with love and compassion in her eyes. She does not judge me or harbor jealousy or anger towards me. And when I am angry or jealous she reminds me that she loves me just the way I am and that i am exactly where i should be. Because she is by my side, I know that I have truly not lost anything. I still look at the world with compassionate eyes. I still feel pain when I see a squirrel crushed on the road. I still feel when a soul needs a hand and I still give it.

So, why then can I not call myself an artist or a healer? And why are we not permitted to call God by his name?

It really makes no difference at all. It isn't feigned humility. It just is the spiritual that needs no name and never asks to be named because it is constantly changing. And I watch it and become a part of it again. Thank God. My God would never have put me through PN. So, I still have a God to thank and a soul that is sane and as familiar as this childhood room where God and I spoke to each other with love many many nights.



You have been quiet lately

Your sharp menacing teeth
receding to the background

How kind of you
How compassionate

I love deluding myself, distracting myself, believing for a moment that you never were

REAL

you send your tentacles, their poison stings through my anus

ANUS ANUS ANUS

another god-damn word

as dirty as VAGINA?

maybe not, men have anuses too

anus anus anus

my anus is stinging me

i ignore it all day

i pretend that i am the winner in this battle

i am

anus anus anus

i am a lucky survivor

a lucky trauma victim

i am not bed-ridden any longer

anus anus anus

i have nothing creative to write about my anus

i have to get used to the word

how does butt-hole feel?

my butt-hole is full of bees

that is where all the bees of the world have disappeared to

look into my butt-hole, you will find them there

take them out and then you will have your flowers and your honey again

for now, all you get is

an anus full of bees

frenzied bees trapped in my anus

Saturday, November 12, 2011



they keep telling me that it is not because of me

abba, they insist that it is not because of me

but i know the truth

they are just trying to protect me

this never would have happened to you

if i had not suffered so

if i had not gone wild and desperate


abba, why did this happen to us?

why did this happen to you?

to me?

abba, where are you?

where did you lose your mind?

why can't i get you back?


father must a daughter live for her father if she is in desperate suffering?

abba, must i keep on living through another day of torture for you?

abba, will you please grant me permission to die

father, how many times will we walk around the same block

look through the same dark waters of the pond

afraid of the thoughts that travel our mind

back and forth

the same blades sharpened and ready

i prepare myself for the evening

curl myself into the corner of my room, on blankets

ready for the electrocutions that leave me useless and begging to die

father, how many times over will you watch me fall into the gallows

before you lose your mind

abba, where are you ?

abba, where are you?

abba, i cannot find you. abba, please come back to me. how many times

will i watch you broken and lost and scared

abba, why did you follow me?

i was your daughter, your pride and glory

father, don't come near the dungeon.

we both will be burnt, together.

burnt

alone
strips

fall, swing and slip from the sky

pink, lavender, yellows

periwinkles and light blues

pain rips through my vagina

fathers fall and i cannot lose you father

i crumble into a beautiful woman

struck

struck

beaten with bats and ripped through with glass

the fight is futile

i have lost

my youth and my will

suffering is a word with no meaning

useless and senseless

i watch my father drown in fear

i watch  the futility of my love

and all the deep breathing cannot destroy the god-damn glass that tears me to shreds

that falls from the sky

and mean nothing to me anymore

i have had too much taken away from me

that nothing adds up to anything

anymore

Monday, November 7, 2011

SACRED CHAMBER POEM

grey and black and white

a twisted fog

a rainy day

a mug

hot tea

i drink the steam

and breath out a stream

of memories

the life i left behind

the cat i could not take along

the grandmother whose bed i snuggled into and whose body i held between my arms

her soft face and feathered hair underneath my fingertips

i was on my way to Jerusalem

i joke, another saint that never made it back to the holy city

like Moses banned to die

looking into the land that he had dreamt for

no man will ever enter my land again

my holy land

my land of love and emotion

my land of child-birth and devotion

twisted and knotted


fire and flame

Now, you know

Now, you cannot deny

I give birth to myself again

I re-create

That is my power, I am woman

And I bid you to enter, to enter my land

It is soft and moist and fertile

And I invite you to feast, to feast in my land

It is fruitful and plush

And I re-inhabit this body

I reclaim what was taken, what was stolen from me

And let you taste my desire, my hunger, my lust

for everything that was taken

and for one more thing that has returned

In praise and in prayer I lead you

to the chambers

of torture that i inhabited

and there

I lead you to where i planted tulips

and to where i braided jewels

and to where i painted birds

and to where out of ashes and smoke and desolation

i transformed

devastation into desire

and breathed life

back

down

into

my

sacred

chamber