blur

“Gotta liiiiiiive like you’re dyinnnn…”

The song echoes, muffled in my ear. Clouds surround me, glowing green, pink, and shades of purple that are only detectable when I squint my eyes. I float like I’m in one of those space-station simulators, flipping and swimming through the air and flipping backwards and flipping forwards and flipping sideways. The song changes, and I smile. I bounce off the soft, pillowy clouds, and… wait… pillowy.

I shoot up in bed and dart my head around. The music now echoes from a peculiar cloud, one that looks eerily similar to my alarm clock, one that blares both the music and the time: 7:30.

“Shit.”

I jump out of bed, but I let the music play.

the 18

Real Hebrew in this one… again, lemme know if you need a translation.

’מזמור שיר,’
Aryeh Kunstler sings out of my small black speakers
And my mom calls from downstairs
18 minutes to go

The fan hits my sopping hair
And chills the water down my back
Sharp inhale
Taking in salty and sweet aromas of the chicken soup downstairs
“Ahhhhh”
I feel my body warming up

’ליום’
My mom calls from downstairs
10 minutes to go
My watch is tick tick ticking
Reverberating in my ear
So I grab the cool slippery perfume,
The tall bottle fitting perfectly in my hand,
And spritz the liquid on my wrist
The scent reaches my nose and I’m hit by sweet citrus

5 more minutes, calls my mom
I lean over to my bed desk and with my thumb
Turn the plastic click on the Kelly green Shabbos lamp
The time shines on the digital clock,
White bright boxy letters
And just in time I remember to turn off my alarm

’השבת,’
Croons Kunstler.

Click. Alarm is off.
Click. Music quieted.
Click. Light is off.

I smile, grab my miniature leather Siddur, and go downstairs
Time’s up.

’מזמור שיר ליום השבת.’

am dochef

Fair warning: this piece includes transliterated Hebrew. Lemme know if you want a translation.

My friends and I dive into the mob, Hinei-Rakevet style. It’s late afternoon in the Old City. The sun is sinking gradually, though the same cannot be said of the patience of the crowd. A sea of bodies attempts to move forward in a street of Jerusalem stone. Personal space ranges from 0 to -3 cm.

“DACHOF!” a man bellows out. “JUST POOSH!” “LO!” another testy Israeli shouts. “Don’t poosh! We are ole trying to geyt through!” Possibly intoxicated by the body odor surrounding us, my friends and I start to laugh. “Oh my God!” we giggle, like the Seminary Girls we look forward to being next year. “Ahhhhhh hahaha! Oh my God!” The bitter Israeli man behind me lets out a grunt. “Oh my gode!” he shouts in a frilly voice. “Oh my gode! Nu??? Dachof!!!”
The people with the strollers, we soon find out, are in a tricky situation. We see one man bench-pressing his light blue stroller as he shoves through the crowd, and from far away it looks like a floating stroller is surveying the chaos. Other parents aren’t so gallant. Most try to weave through the crowd on the ground, using their strollers as pity-play. “We all want to get through,” explains someone to a nudgy father. Where are all of the kids who belong in the empty strollers the parents are pushing? Huh.
It’s a good thing I entered the mob in a good mood, because the heat is spoiling tempers. We stand still and laugh or complain or talk, like produce in an overstuffed, defunct refrigerator. A woman’s elbow is pressing against my back, and a man’s arm is squished against my shoulder. The crowd begins to move. MOTION! Then pausing. What the hell is a car doing trying to drive down this street? The crowd starts moving around the car, but one guy stops to lecture the driver through the window. “Nu, Mah Ata Choshev??” The people behind him tap his shoulder, a gentle reminder that this would in no way get him out quicker.

We escape the sardine-packed, conveyer belt of a street, then burst into laughter. “We made it!” we jump up and shout, and we warn passersby not to enter what we just escaped.

“Never-“ I begin, still chuckling. I take a deep breath of fresh, personal-space induced air and grin. “Never have I felt so close to Am Yisrael.”

summary of my summer: a farewell tribute

I wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote
And wrote and wrote and wrote,
I read and edited pieces about
Fruit, and ‘Tubbies,
And weddings,
And walrus,
And
A special goat.

Then I packed and packed and packed
And shipped off to a space,
Where Eidah Hey
took over my mind,
Leaving pineapples in
Its trace.

Then I flew and flew and flew and flew
To San Diego and LA,
Saw the Nerd Herd,
Met the writer of Big,
Tried on some hats,
Saw a panda,
And hung with familay.

Um…

I’ve pretty much established at this point that this form totally isn’t working… New approach:

Thanks so much to everyone who made my summer crazy, and for actually reading the semi-funny stuff I decided to post! You guys are super cool, and maybe I’ll continue this at some point during the year.

For now, I’m getting ready for senior picture day tomorrow and complaining about my toe that hurts… feeling a bit more like a senior citizen at this point…

Hope everyone had a fantastic time procrastinating to the beat of my off-beat writing! Enjoy the last seconds of your summer!

HA! Get it? That was one last joke! This is slightly uber depressing!

See ya later, kiddos. Good luck!

me vs. fudgie petite cookies: a battle sequence

A bright green plastic mini-bag of fudgie petite cookies shouldn’t be that difficult to open, right?
But I honestly can’t be the only one this has happened to…

1. I am overly excited to consume the little cookies, after 5 hours of waiting.
2. I pull at the sides of the plastic bag.
3. I raise an eyebrow. Is there a reason this bag isn’t opening?
4. I pull harder, and the bag doesn’t budge.
5. “That’s it,” I speak to the bag (my sanity is all but gone at this point), “Just… OPEN!”
6. I give one last yank at the bag.
7. The little delicious fudgie cookies explode all over my floor.
8. “Damnit…”

9. Repeat stages 1-8 with barbeque potato chips.

writers’ block

…
The tree’s leaves… willow in the soft wind and
Willow’s not a verb, is it?
…
Why the hell am I writing about a tree? I don’t care about some boring made-up tree.
No one wants to read about trees anyway…

Looking for inspiration.
Preferably the kind that sparks a brilliant idea that unravels into my first bestselling novel.
Will pay. Actually, won’t pay. Still, though.

She turned her head and shouted… to the heavens…
Really, Tova? To the heavens?
Do you think you’re Dickens or something?
…
Well, I’ve never read Dickens. I’m assuming he was a good writer because everyone still knows his name
And he’s been dead for a really long time,
Like Beethoven, but I don’t even listen to classical music, and
…
Will they remember my name?
And will I want to be remembered for what I’m being remembered for
and will I want…
Will I want
…

I can’t post about a tree or the heavens or anything too emotional
and I keep getting sidetracked by monotonous rants in my mind
and I guess I should be funny but sometimes it just doesn’t work
because funny is only funny when funny isn’t forced
and I’m staring at my fingers and my mind is still
[my fingers on the white-and-grey keyboard (duh)],
and I can’t write about my fingers either
because uninspired inspiration makes for uninspired writing and
…

…
So what?

flow of words (pantoum form revision)

pantoum poem definition (except without the rhyming in this case)

I sit and I spaz.
I stare blankly at my bright green wall.
I tighten my ponytail and return my twitching fingers to the keyboard.
Sigh.

I stare blankly at my bright green wall,
Looking for some kind of revelation,
Sigh.
I sit.

Looking for some kind of revelation,
And then a burst
I sit,
Ideas flowing through my fingertips

And then a burst.
My hands dash as my brain directs
Ideas flowing through my fingertips,
Painting onto a computer screen

My hands dash as my brain directs
I sit, I edit, I smile
Painting onto a computer screen
To feel myself breathe

I sit, I edit, I smile
I write for my readers,
To feel myself breathe,
To share my thoughts, crazy or deep

I write for my readers,
For people to sit, to edit, maybe to smile
To share my thoughts, crazy or deep

I write.

questions taken out of this year’s exams

  • To the nearest integer, in how many years will the world end?
  • How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could, indeed, chuck wood?
  • Find Carmen Sandiego on the map provided below.
  • Which of the following was not a name of a European politician’s mistress?
  • In an epic battle, who would win?
    • a. God b. larvae c. yeast d. mega-turtle
  • Which of the following chemicals do you actually remember learning about?
  • James has 14 dollars. 4 dollars were stolen, then his money was divided by 5. 2 of James’ dollars then flew away in the wind. As an approximation, around when did James’ life begin to spiral downward?
  • Do you have a single sister? If so, please fill in her number in the bubbles provided below.

wanted pool slide (long island)

from Craigslist:
WANTED POOL SLIDE (LONG ISLAND)
Date: 2010-03-08, 6:52 PM EST
lOOKING TO BUY A USED POOL SLIDE FOR POOL . WILL PICK UP

Jonny, 17, wades in the middle of an indoor Olympic sized pool, looking towards Frank.
Frank, 16, stands at the top of a ladder above a pool slide.

Jonny: Dude, I… um…
Frank: What? Spit it out.
J: You’re… you’re too fat Frank. Don’t do it.
F: Voice rising- What are you worried about? I’ll break the slide? Attempts at a smile.
Jonny dunks underwater.
F: JONNY!
J: Rises from water, pulls back hair and squints his eyes- What?
F: You think I’m too fat for the slide.
J: Well, no, it’s not exactly that… just that… my parents trusted me with the pool while they’re in Switzerland and…
F: And you think my fat ass will break the slide.
J: Um… yeah. Yes.
F: You’re kidding me. I’ll pay for the freaking slide if I break it, okay? I’ll put an ad on Craigslist or something for a used slide! Laughs– Does that work for you?
J: Sighs- Whatever. Go for it, dude.

t-t-t-today, junior!

They told me junior year would be terrible. I appreciate that they tried to warn me, but no warning could have been sufficient. Junior year came straight out of hell.

September; school starts, and despite the dread, things aren’t so bad. Then again, there are only seven days of school.

October; I set my Facebook status: “History essay, math test, and physics test, all for tomorrow. Let junior year begin!” Twelve people like it, who I imagine chuckle then fade into a soft cry.

November; I’ve been pushed to the breaking point, but am determined to make it through. No mental breakdowns- is that too much to ask?
Ha.

December; I have my first breakdown. My mom suggests that I discuss with my teacher to work out some of my timing issues. I sniffle. “Not enough time,” I mutter.

January; my friend Aaron* admits to taking a mental health day. Aaron, who I have never seen fail a test or hyperventilate. “That’s it,” whispers my friend Jenna* to me, “we’re screwed.”

February; “we made it to February!!!” Jenna hollers to me over the phone. “Vacation! We ended up surviving!” After a pause, I retort, “I wasn’t aware our survival until now was in danger…” She laughed, and so did I- I totally knew the both of us were in danger of collapsing. “Just kidding! Ha!”

March; vacation again, and I’m starting to study for the AP that’s two weeks away. “For you procrastinators out there,” reads my review book, “we have a six-week plan. It’s not recommended, but gives just enough time to study.” I look at my calendar, then back to the book. “Shit,” I remark.

May; I’ve already taken the AP, so I’ve officially decided that I have no more work. My teachers disagree. One night, I don’t want to work, so I write instead. That was how I accidentally wrote my college essay.
See? Procrastination solves everything.

June; the ACTs are on my birthday, June 12th, which also happens to be in the heat of finals. I am seated at a tiny desk for the ACTs, at which point I muster up the guts to request a seat at the larger desk in the middle of the room. “Because you asked so nicely… you know what? Sure,” the proctor responded.
Best birthday ever.

June 17th; I’m just finishing up my math final, the last of the bunch. I check over the last problem and walk toward the teacher to hand in my test. As I stroll, I begin to skip. Delirious joy plants a blinding smile on my face. I do a happy-dance for the next 15 minutes or so.

I FREAKING MADE IT!

*names have been changed