Close your eyes Jack. Can you see it?
The
sky is powder blue porcelain, with a single white line scraped into it. In the
distance there is the sound of thunder, but there are no clouds, thus that
clatter is not thunder. It is only fire in the sky...
It
is really easy to get onto a flight, just call up the night before and buy a
ticket. With all of the talk about planning, it is less expensive to just pick
up the phone and fly tomorrow.
If
Facist American Television (FAT) News calls; Jack you have to jump. All the
linen clothes go into the silver sleek hard body Italian suitcase. Throw in the
sunblock for the stylin shaved head, throw in the bug repellent because Israel
is full of mosquitos. Throw in the hobby tool kit because it works for most
jobs and that bullshit low-end
leatherman from dad, just for luck. Throw in a few moda pills, pills are great.
Take a long look at the wife, at her soft alabaster skin, her thin red lips,
her round sweet breasts, her closed eyes and mouth lying sleeping in bed and at
the fractured shredded marrage you are trying to put back together. Then its a
car service, crowds, and a flight to Ben Gurion. Yippe.
My
suitcase comes out last, one corner of the hard case has been shattered, and
everything has been searched but nothing is missing. How nice of them. Put the
claim in with the appropriate experts at the airport. Then move
quickly through the rising white walled, sunlight streaming Ben Gurion Airport.
Here, with it's mechanical walkways, courtyard two level food court, and minimalist decor, it is
impressive. A temple to international travel, Welcome to Israel: Sorry about
the bags. Ben Gurion is a much better shit hole than the shit hole it used to
be.
Exit
into the greeting area and there is no driver. No one with a little sign, no
one looking, not even a pat on my ass, perhaps it is my toothpaste?
Typically when a broadcaster flies
an engineer in from another country for war reporting; they protect their
investment by picking him up from the airport.
Call
the numbers, but no one is answering at the FAT bureau. No worries, they are
over at the Jerusalem Captial Studios, not a big deal. Out the airport exit is where
the minivan cab services are. That is still the main way people get from the
Airport to their cities. For every major Israeli city there is a line of people
out front of the airport, get on it, a guy takes the bag puts it in the van and
the client tells him where and hands him fifteen NIS.
Go
in, go to the back row and go to a window seat to stare at a world in movment
and flux. Outside is the hustle of men and bags and motors, machines spinning
with no care or interest in me, no cares or interests at all. History is
happening out there, it has to happen somewhere. Does it have to happen for it
to be history? Could we just be dreaming it? History the nightmare from which
there is no wake. Into the van step men in white shirts and black hats.
A
small woman, thin arms and face, but colorful clothing, thin nose, full lips,
Italian, very southern, sicilian probably. She was on my flight. She sits down
in front of me.
A
different woman, full breasts, black bobbed hair, tight professional pants
huging her full hips, breasts restrained against her fashionable dress shirt,
almond eyes, full red lips, she asks in English:
-Is
this seat free?
Why
of course it is. Please love, sit. You are really well dressed, much too well dressed to be in a
shared cab ride back to Jerusalem. What could be your line of work?
She
says she is a TV Journalist, from the Czech Republic, and she has the eastern
european accent to prove it.
My
darling, how horrible for your channel not to get you a car service. It must be
those darn budget cuts. Luck for both of us that you are facinated by me, that
you want to know everything about me.
-What
do you do, where you are going, who are you working for, is this you first time
in Israel, do you know any Palestinians?
So
fast, and no lube. Maybe she wants to be zapped by the ray gun, transmogrified
from obvious narc into a moist cunt cock slut. We could get off at the American
Colony, toss your Cavalli shirt to the floor, take off Furstenberg bra with my teeth, peel off
those Calvin Klein slacks, lower your D&G underware, and place my Versace
cock up against your DKNY pink rosebud and push in a considerate yet determined
manner. Never happen, the American Colony must be booked to the hilt. Besides
my dick isn’t a real Versace, contrafatto: the logo is just written on in
lipstick.
She
gets off in the middle of a settlement in East Jerusalem, middle of nowhere,
just a road with some grey buildings a short walk away. Strange place for a TV
journalist from the Czech Republic. They must be making big savings leaving
their office out here.
The
italian chick is a sweetheart, college girl doing her masters in archeology, at
a catholic college. She is facinated by anchient hebrew. Who isn’t?
Then
its just me rolling up to the JCS. You drag your shattered bag out into the
world, out of the cab. Standing under the cutting burning sun in the clear,
powder blue sky. Powder blue sky full of smoke? Jack, close your eyes and
see...
The
streaks in the air, artillery rounds. Throughout the finger of the Galliee they
are continueally fireing artillery rounds at Hezbollah positions. A thunder
which comes from no cloud, a rain that is composed of fire.
Thunder:
the echo of Satan, the adversary, falling from Heaven. Thunder: the echo of
Eve's wails as she left paradise. Thunder: the reverberation of a Hezbollah
attack on four IDF soldiers on the norther border. The kidnaping of two
soliders, which has called forth storm.
Lean
my head against the window of the car, my driver smokes continusly, has a liter
cup of coffee with him, sweats with every vent of the air conditioner aimed
directly at him. Raginging in his flatulence, blowing his way across the
desert, blasting his inflamed prostate out his ass. He talks on his cell phone
and drives at uncalcuable speeeds through the Jordan Valley...
At
the JCS.
The
elevator exits onto the third floor at the FAT offices and a small animal
batters me about the head and neck. A bottle blond cross between a benobo chimp
and squirel, she waves her emory board and demanding:
-Where
you have been! We have been looking all over for you! The driver couldn’t find
you!
With
one red painted talon she is hurling excrement while the other hoof is hoarding
a pile of nuts. The other secratary, seated next to her, is actually working.
Dr.
Moreau's experiment returns to flirting with unfortunate men on the telephone
while the other secratary gets off the phone and says :
-Hello
Mr. Ulysses, please ignore my college, she is just exhibiting signs of a
vestigial intelligence.
Vestigial?
-Yes,
vestigial, like the appendix . One day she shall evolve beyond intelligence,
beyond reason, into pure baseless belief. Perhaps one day we all shall. That is
for the future but no matter Mr. Ulysses you are being sent to the norther
border where the fighting is. Here is an Israeli SIM card for your cell phone. Also could you bring this bag
of sandwiches up north? Who knows what kind of services they have up there.
Please have one if you are hungry. Just sit and wait for your car to arrive.
She
smiles efficiently and gestures with her short nailed hand, to a bag of
sandwiches and a chair.
The
bread is firm but relents to the teeth like fleash, a seed covered multigrain
delight for the tired and weary traveler. Layers of cucumbers, lettuce, peppers
and a salty white cheese that is ubiquitous to the nation. Land of milk and
honey. Embrace the mother culture,
go forth my and make cheese.
Look
at the monitor covered walls, mostly Israeli TV images of the damage done by
the rockets up north. Some images from the AssProbe and Rimjob Newswires showing the devastation in Lebanon. Two
clocks on the wall, one with local time and the other is New York time. GMT is
nowhere to be found.
The
blue light from the TV monitors, each cube is just a puzzle pieces for
perpetual motion jig saw. Ariel Sharon programmes of disengagement, the
following stroke he suffered, the landslide victory of Hamas in Palestinian
elections, the embargo of the Palestinian government, the closure of Gaza
strip, the kidnaping of Gilad Shalit in responce and now the Zar'it-Shtula
incident.
The
driver comes, grab some lights Jack, some flak jackets, the shattered suitcase
and the bag of sadwiches. The driver screams and smokes and drives very fast
through the Jordan Valley.
We
stop at a gas station in the desert,
small bright scar of plastic and steel on the clay. Around us are brown
hills and brown dust caught in the wind.
The
gas station serves italian coffee. The bathroom is around the back, modern and
filthy covered in flies. The stream of yellow, sandy piss coming from my dick,
sprays across the backs of the lazy fat flies.
The
driver is talking to another driver. We all shake hands and then they put me
and the gear in a different car with the new driver.
.
Israelis
are still shocked by the war. The slow leak of blood that had become the peace
process, was suitably ignorable since the news came in small short sanguine
drops. Zar'it-Shtula was a shock to everyone, had kicked them in their
existential funny bone, REMEMBER WE ARE SURROUNDED BY ENEMIES.
Remember?
You should talk Jack.Jack, what are you here for?
Money. You
can make a shitload this time. Career, do good here they can send you to Iraq,
Afganistan, next flood or famine could be your feast. You will never have to
worry about finding work again. Do good here Jack and you can have a future. So
forget what you saw, forget what you know, and Jack, keep your mouth shut.
Keep it
shut, as the land changes, slowly, green grows on the hills. Perhaps the car is
not moving, perhaps the world is just in bloom. Subtract red from brown and you
get green. The land is wounded and blood drains from her. We are at the Sea of
Galilee.
Look
past the water slides in lake tiberious. Colorful tubes rising up above pretty
pools as we past lakeside. It is green here, it is cooler. These funparks could
be in Pennsylviana, The Catskills, Lake George... strange, holiday villiage,
cute little town. The driver pulls you up to the cash machine, you take out 300
NIS. Cash n carry.
The car twists and turns up green hills,
green tree filled hills, from some poor smoke, the tounge of flame emerging
from the gray smoke and darkening sky.
We
arrive at a compond we buzz through the security gate, the chef is just putting
out the three different main courses, bottles of Bordeaux are being opened, there are miles of cable, there is makeup, and
there is red fire on the hill behind them.
The
party has just begun
Impossible Peace : Skipping
One
state solution, uni-national, Variation
Every
even day all the Arabs lock their doors and lower their shades. The family sits
about discussing the events of the day befor, watching Television, cruising the
web, listening to music, doing what ever they can to drown out the noise
outside. The sounds of busy streets, commerce, laughter and squeel of wheels on
the road, occuring outside their windows.
In
the morning of the odd day they awake to a world of life and energy. Streets
erupt with running arab familys, markets with the explosive colors of the
produce, cars honking, from Jerico to Jerusalem, In Nazzareth and Ramallah, in
Haifa and Nablus, from Gaza to Tel Aviv, it is an arab world. And behind locked
doors sit the Israelis jelously waiting for the even day to return.
Click here to enter The Electric Mosque
Click here to enter The Electric Mosque
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