leonard, not skynard

Leonard Cohen was the soundtrack to many of my youthful years spent studying in the frigid winds and pelting snows of montreal. I found something seductive about his voice, and his lyrics nipped at my ears with a weight only found in significance. His poems were accessible to me and I was inexorably drawn to the art of this man who had experienced depression deeper than any well I had ever swum in. I was generally pretty happy with the pace and progression of my life but there were notes, leonard specific notes, that he played which were intimate caresses to me. I wasn't depressed but drawn in. The world he created in his songs and poems was profound in a way that was so simple. He depressed many including himself, to the point where he had to leave montreal and cloister himself on the top of a mountain, but for me he was some sort of tonic. Whether he sung about the sisters of mercy, lady midnight, or the partisan, for a moment I lived in his song.

Leonard's landing in Tel aviv within the next few weeks to do a concert in Tel aviv with all the proceeds donated to charities under the umbrella of the Peres center for peace. Our palestinian neighbours refused a concert in their territories as long as a concert took place in israel proper. So leonard being the profound peacenik that he is decided to make some lemonade and demonstrate his commitment to developing calm and partnership in the region by inviting proposals from peace NGO's that his concert proceeds would fund. It's a brilliant idea since he receives not a penny, graces us with his presence and stays out of the political posturing by making a financial and morale contribution at what seems like a crucial time to affect the palestinian and israeli street.

I wish I could go to his show, but the price is to high for me. The tickets have already sold out anyway. Madonna is playing tonight and tommorow in Tel Aviv. I'm just not into the madonna phenomena. Her beats are fun to dance to but cost of the tickets is better spent on itunes downloads with money left over for a cycling trip in the golan.

The gift of a listener

Sometimes nothing can be said to take away someone's pain or grief. We don't always know how someone's pain feels and what we've experienced may not have been similar at all. Sometimes even suggesting that we know how someone feels is flat out wrong.

To me the best gift that can be given is the gift of listening. It seems to confirm that though we may not be understood, we can share as much as we need until our emotions recede or find a soft spot to be preserved.

It was magic at first, but let everyone down...

Indeed, things can always get stranger. Like Alice through the looking glass, I've been looking at the world mouth agape as if someone had slipped LSD into my grapefruit juice. I never could stand orange juice. Teddy Kennedy, champion of socialized health care in the U.S. is gone, so is DJAM. Shalit may be home within the week if Hamas approves the new deal within the three day deadline set by the german mediators. The strangeness that I'm experiencing is not so much in world events,as the world tends to take dramatic elliptical turns which I've come to expect. But, my world on the micro level takes me through wild jungles of tangled discontent. I'm observing myself as a detached observer in the process of living and it feels like living in a freeze frame film. I try to shed the remnants of my atavistic ineffectual approach to aspects of my life.

Last night, while I was working on a paper on myocarditis for our client, deadline fast approaching, I was distracted by a visit from one of my closest friends who lives a 45 second walk from my apartment. Within 2 minutes of her sweeping through my door, Don Juan decides to come calling. It was actually perfect timing because my friend hadn't yet properly met Don Juan. Coincidentally, she had been with Don Juan's best friend ( who I'll call pinky because it fits...) and had a one week relationship with him, only to part on antagonistic terms. Don Juan convinced me to open the bottle of argentinian red wine that I had kept for several months. Of course, I managed to drink about 1/3rd of the glass before noticing the merry go round feeling set in. I'm well aware of my inability to metabolize alchohol. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if it turns out that I'm completely missing alchohol dehydrogenase. My low tolerance is better for me anyhow as I intensely dislike the feeling of being unable to fully control my own actions and I spend enough time tuning my bodies ability to perform that I don't need to make it more difficult for myself by creating extra formeldyhyde for my liver to deal with. A glass of quality red wine here and there though feels relatively harmless and has proven cardioprotective effects.

My friend and Don Juan were unperturbed as we delved into discussion which ranged the gamut from palestinian israelis and morrocan arabs to the afteraffects of a postmodern society's militarization. As 11pm rolled into 1am, my friend left Don Juan and I alone in my place and left me to contend with how to fend off unwanted advances. Suddenly, I was entirely unsure if they were unwanted. I'm actually starting to crave touch again. It's meaningless touch but I'm the type of person who can live off kisses, so to not desire a mans affection for 8 months attests to how profoundly off kilter I was thrown this year.

At the same time that my desire returns, I realize that my ability form emotional connections through physical contact remains hampered. Thus, any satisfaction gained from any random Don Juans touch leaves me with a similar feeling that we get after cotton candy at the local fair; completely unfulfilled and a step closer to taking a vow of chastity and devoting myself to kosher nunnery. The problem is the wiring of my female brain which leads me to associate physical pleasure with intellectual pleasure. Men have it easier as physical pleasure is paramount in most cases and empty headedness is more often than not a non factor in attraction as long as it comes with a set of breasts, a body of barbie proportions,and a propensity for long romps between bedsheets. For me, adonis himself could appear in an apparition and proposition me and I would probably be bored within 30 seconds. I need a different stimulus and a connection that only comes with time and shared experience. Who knows if I can allow myself this yet.

stressball in play

There are moments where I feel like I'm a conduit for all the conflict in this country. Moments where I feel as if I'm being whipped with streams of hot air and gravelly dirt for just existing. I love this country with crazy glue like strength. I was born with it in my heart and this is why i can understand the palestinian longing for their own homeland, even if that homeland was not of their birth. But even with the incredible hulk like power of attraction to Israel, I sometimes feel a primal scream of enough welling up in my throat. I'm not sure if this is just who I've become post break-up or whether this is natural outlay of living in a region with such a profoundly aggressive culture, but at times I have to control myself to prevent a full fledge tantrum from developing. I'm not even a tantrum person. It usually takes a momentous amount to push me to the edge where I'm likely to lose my temper because I tend to rationalize away my anger. I thought to some extent that I had already become who I was going to be as an individual but living here has proved me wrong as it's challenged all my assumptions about myself and my people. Life seems to be about being a work in progress...

Houston we have liftoff...

Finally!!! Coming out of tel aviv and beer sheva in a joint cardiology/biomedical engineering project, is a cardiac revascularization patch that can be used on MI patients who are unsuitable or ineligible for CABG surgery. The patch is implanted on the omentum in the abdomen where is grows on a biological scaffold with the prompt of several growth factors. When vascularization takes place the patch is removed and reimplanted over top of ischemic heart tissue to encourage angiogenesis. It can even be used over top of scar tissue which causes strictures ordinarily and often leads straight down the road to heart failure. The patch has a ways to go yet with further helsinki approved clinical trials on schedule, but I'm so excited that I can hardly contain myself.

The rocking horse I wanted...

When I was a little kid, I couldn't have been older than 4 at the time and my middle brother would have been 2, I used to get terribly upset that my brother wouldn't respect my toys. I didn't have much. Since I wasn't a fan of Barbie, I had no dolls but I did have lots of books from the monthly luckycharm book club, a bike with pink ribbons on the handlebars, and a wooden rocking horse. I used to hide under the couch and wait until my brother would come along to sit on my rocking horse and then scare him half to death by jumping out and chasing him around the house. This was before he became a black belt in karate and ju jitsu, then it was me who was chased around the house, up the park and in circles around the cul de sac on our road. I wanted him to ask me to use my rocking horse so that I could solidify my all powerful big sister status. Of course I had not even a smidgen of power during those years. My brother had my mother wrapped around his pinky and as the eldest sister, if I didnt keep both of us out of trouble then it was surely my fault.

He was a hellfire and you would never have known it because he had the face of an angel with light blond hair and saucer wide blue eyes. My youngest brother mostly stayed out of the fray and looked on, digestive cookie in his mouth, as the two older siblings acted out WWF no holds barred ( kids version only ;-).

Eventually, I realized that I didn't actually enjoy the presents that I got unless I could share them with my brothers. Indeed, I figured out that I enjoyed everything more if I could share it with my brothers. Taking a trip with out them would have been cruel and unusual torture because we were attached at the hip. The three musketeers.

The other night, as I lay awake avoiding the calls of an undesired suitor, I thought of how happiness is so closely tied with shared experience. It doesn't have to be shared experience with a lover or a paramour but could be with family or a close friend. Some people search across continents independently seeking what they could probably find better in twos. Some people search their whole lives and cross continents on solo missions never realizing that the meaning comes from being able to share, but not with just anyone.

1/12th of a year

It takes about a month for me to feel as if my heart can beat again after each contact. The distance of a month numbs everything and allows my world to begin to revibe. Those months add up and years fly by. I don't want these years to be wasted ones. We're here to add what we can to life. Should I let the months add up, these years most certainly will allow failure to accrue. It's been about a month since his last email and I've almost reached the warm threshold of numbness again. It's not entirely myself but it's a state of function. It's a state of equilibrium.