Most of my journal ideas have bungled together inside the queue in my mind since we finished sorting the olives. Here is my sampler-platter:
I have to let my knuckles heal. The skin wore off of each middle-knuckle on Sunday while I was working the punching bag that hangs off the front porch rail, swinging in front of the chickens’ alcove. The boys hung it too low so I raised it in order to get some solid punches on the denser part of the bag, for greater satisfaction. When I felt the urge to be pathetic this weekend, I found ways to push through it via my body.
I finally bought new pants. Two out of three jeans in my closet have holes on their seats. When I returned from Jericho I immediately walked to Beit Jala and found two pairs of brown corduroy pants. My sister could not wait forever to get a new computer nor could I wait to get pants that finally fit. Visitors had commented that they could tell I was American by my over-sized attire. Oddly, less give in my trousers made me more comfortable in my own skin. I look good.
I told them to keep their clothes on. The tweenagers locked themselves in the computer room by breaking off the handle and losing it. They were my therapy all day, in the same way that having your back pounded is a massage. They spun me so fast on the merry-go-round that I had welts on my back from where the metal touched me. David and Andrew came to my rescue and I collapsed in a heap on the ground, laughing, when I finally got off that thing. The Pal-American girl delights me endlessly. She makes side-comments, the type that make her unintelligible to even the Swede but that I understand because, really, we are both Americans. The best part of pretending to supervise these kids is how they use [cussword] so freely because it doesn’t register as vulgar. “Crap”.
A six-inch centipede streaked across the living-room to my bedroom. I started yelling “oh fudge my socks! Oh fudge my socks!” repeatedly (and I did not say fudge). The punch-line is that I was simultaneously on a Skype-call with two of my superiors in New York. They politely suggested that I might be suffering from burn-out and I quickly agreed with them. Centipedes are something beyond giant insects: more archaic, more other-worldly, and more venomous. Small children die from desert centipede bites yet, as I gently brushed him/her out the door with a push-broom, I felt a twinge of compassion for the panicked predator, wriggling into the darkness of the evening – terrified of me. I hope there was a big roach out there, just waiting to be eaten.
“You know, Drew, I just can’t picture her sitting out on a second-story porch in Jericho – smoking a sheesha with me.” I made that tobacco stuffed apple really smolder, drawing the evening out until I was blowing nothing but the steam from the water-pipe. Drew was feeling quieter than the night before, when we did the same down the street and talked non-stop about politics and activism. Dusk filled a banana plantation across the street, while the entire town square teemed with youth, families, and tourists like us. In Bethlehem, everyone was on their way home. “الريحا, المدينة القمر”
“Jericho, city of the moon.”
My path, long ago, diverged from my ex-girlfriend’s life. This time, though, I didn’t try to make it sound like it was destined one way or another. “I want to play things as they lie, now.”
The giant spider made my day. It looked like a wolf-spider, at first, but on closer examination it was a small tarantula of some kind. She raised her little hairy arms in aggression at my pink pen. My co-workers were slightly befuddled by my interest and affection but I insisted that I once wanted to be an entomologist. I left that dream when I fell in love with music, then left music to fall in love with writing – now I am leaving writing to fall in love with peace and conflict studies? No. I really never left any of those parts of my self behind. I love creepy-crawlers, I play trumpet in the cave whenever I have time, and I never will relinquish my dream of writing a novel that English majors will study in fifty years. My central goal right now, though, is different…
The little one is our favorite. When you try to dribble the ball past her she’ll start gleefully slapping at your hip. I think she might have authoritarian parents and saves her wild behavior for visiting our Center. She is always genuine and guileless: her anger comes out in shouts, her joy in… shouts, and her questions… come in shouts. I adore her. She is probably the only evidence in existence that I could ever be a parent because she’s not at all a model child but I am always happy to see her. For over a year, I stuck to my role, editing English on the second floor, while the kids spewed hackneyed Arabic below. My Arabic is not much better, now, but my personality changed between the first October here and the second one. It is regressing in a constructive way: I might even have fun.
I stood on Imad’s porch, glancing at the lightening over Gilo settlement and back at the moon. I felt my caldera of emotions beginning to simmer. I could say that the moon represented my past and the lightening my future, or the reverse, or nothing of that variety. What will matter more is how I learn to express feelings like that instead of drowning them in the ocean of stimuli the Internet has provided me as an escape. In a real way, I am being called to mourn my own, partial death over the past ten years. Lately, I am more focused on piecing together how I would live and where I would go while I was in the business of living and describing. In essence, I really do need to play things where they lie because I cannot undo even one happening in my life.
I made a guideline: living life with other people is most important. That is not a justification for drinking and doing party-drugs; rather, it’s a justification for going to Beit Jala with co-workers, more pants, and making soup with my boss, the Swede, and the Alabaman. We peeled carrots, chopped garlic, tested the potatoes as they boiled, and finished an entire bowl of dip. Nothing particularly noteworthy was discussed. There was a time where I would lament the time I spent away from the computer, not making ‘progress’. The problem with that time was that I never made any progress, despite having all that time alone.
A person can farm a piece of land to death – fields have to be fallow sometimes.