MEORAV YERUSHALMI

A few weeks back I met a girl and we got on famously and it was about as fine a mental dance as it’s possible to have as we grew hooked on each others minds. But because life is life - and life is always complicated - things didn’t pan out for reasons that wouldn’t stand out in the history of why things don’t work out for people that meet. So I was feeling mopey and also burned out from the war.

I’m by no means at the epicentre of suffering in this war but fighting for nine months - using my mind and emotions as my weapons - and having to be emotionally unguarded in order to be a good writer - takes its toll and I’ve been slowing down. It’s hard to shovel out the shit at the pace it goes in and there’s a huge backlog of sludge and slime. And who even has the time to deal with their shit when there’s a war on? I keep going because, even after nine months, there aren’t many people on the substitute bench. There’s only a handful of us doing this on instinct - without any support - and some have already dropped out.

So I was feeling burned out and mopey. For my own health I’d already pivoted my advocacy away from the bleakest stuff as I couldn’t breathe that atmosphere all the time. But I’d been asked to fly to London to help raise money for the rehabilitation of Kibbutz Be’eri which was among the worst hit on October 7th. On the train platform going to the event I felt my head and heart clogging up with that familiar sodden feel and I pulled my hat low as the moist eyed bullshit started and images of dead babies popped in. And walking to the theatre I was so down over the girl and had images of a person’s flesh burned off their head and the baked case of their skull exposed and white. And the bonhomie of those at the theatre and the excited performers happy to see me and calling me a “legend” jarred with my private feelings of wanting to be alone and cry with my melancholy. And that ain’t good. When you got emotions denser than gravity that pull you to the floor it’s time to break free of that bullshit and get off your arse. Move your body and hopefully your brain and heart will catch up. So when I landed back in Israel I decided to go to Jerusalem the following day for no more than to get a meorav yerushalmi. That was it. That was my mission. To eat my favourite meal consisting of chicken hearts, liver and spleen. Admittedly there’s not a very crowded marketplace of dishes consisting of chicken hearts, liver and spleen - but inasmuch as there is - it’s meorav yerushalmi for me.

So I walked to Hagana station. Last time I did this walk I was dropping off a friend at night. The streets that night were menacing and full of piss. But now, in the daytime, the streets were quiet and the urine smells had gone. It seems urine is nocturnal? The odours prowl at night. In the day the sun blitzes them invisible. A crazy man with beer shouted at me in Hebrew. I didn’t understand but gave him a military salute and he saluted me back and smiled. I managed to get on my train with the ease of someone becoming a local, as opposed to the first time I used public transport. Today’s mission to get a meorav yerushalmi was the beginning of a broader decision to try and have two weeks “holiday” away from war stuff so I could recharge and shovel out big chunks of crap. I was tired of being hijacked by sadness and tired of feeling like shit when well meaning people told me I had helped them and made them laugh. The juxtaposition of what others apparently got from me and what I was feeling inside was tough. I needed to help myself. I needed to laugh. And man, I’m so desperate for a laugh. True, holy laughter where your soul is cleansed in the total abandonment of all self.

I arrived at Jerusalem-Yitzhak Navon Station and a frummer was playing piano by the escalator. It was appropriately melancholy and sentimental. I left the station and there was immediate bustle. People were selling grapes and berries and a guy in tefillin was playing rock music. I got a coffee and sat on Jaffa street. A man was playing saxophone. There is music everywhere here. Even in the silences.

I walked to a place I’ve been before and got my meorav yerushalmi. The purpose of the trip. It was really average. But I never expected it to be an epiphany. Life hasn’t signed any contract with our dreams. Magic isn’t summoned on command. It comes when it wants to come.

I happened to meet a police officer whose job is to monitor incitement in the Arab sector. Those who do engage in incitement - like antisemites across the world - have learned how to code their racism and murderous intent so that it camouflages itself as being on the right side of the law. It’s an ongoing challenge. I can’t remember how but she brought up the guy who had his head cut off and which terrorists tried to sell in Gaza. His head was eventually recovered and buried with his body. My holiday was so far going great. Seriously for a moment…this is an insane world we are living in. We are modern people surrounded by mediaeval barbarians.

I then thought I’d pop into the Kotel that Jews have fought and suffered and striven to see for thousands of years - and which I can now casually stroll to in my shorts whilst sipping a coke.

I went through Jaffa Gate.

In the Jewish Quarter I saw a dead lizard on the floor whilst walking through the alleys towards the wall. It was belly up. Its stomach glittered with aquamarine beauty. Like dragon skin and sapphire-emeralds undersea. There were gloopy blue shades and peacock-coloured depths and shallows of light on its tiny, implausibly intricate body. Its belly was a disco ball of sky coloured mirrors and its tiny legs were open to the universe.

The sun was baking.

I got to the Kotel plaza. A man asked me to put on tefillin but I declined. I went to a spot on the wall and rested my head against it. But no feeling came. I was sterile and blank. I just stayed in that position. With my eyes shaded by stone. It was ok to be in darkness. Then music penetrated the emptiness and entered my ears. There was a bamitzvah close by. And when they sang a happy song I got emotional. Everything has been so far from happy for so long. Joy feels like a foreign land. It’s nice to hear a message from this distant country. It feels foreign, but happiness was a country where we once lived. It was our home. And that’s why I cried to hear. I’m so sad how far we are from home. Hearing my mother tongue, reminding me of the language of the old country, made me homesick. We can’t be refugees exiled from happiness forever. We have to remember the language. The map back home is inside us. The more we remind each other the more we remember.

The sun was baking.

I went and sat in the catacombs by the wall, writing these words as men davened around me. I don’t know how to live sometimes, but I know how to write. So I wrote. The dirge of voices mumbling in prayer becomes a hypnotic din. It’s quite relaxing. Maybe that’s what heaven sounds like. A womb like pulse of prayer you lose your self in.

I popped out of the moment and gathered my stuff to go. When you know it’s time to leave you know it’s time to leave.

I walked back to the Jerusalem Light Railway. Checking my phone I saw a message inviting me to a gig tonight which I declined. Also a voicemail from a number I don’t know asking me if I’m in the market for a shidduch. I didn’t answer. I wasn’t looking for these things today. I got on the train at Jerusalem-Yitzhak Navon Station. A group of older women were noshing on something and speaking in Hebrew. I don’t know what they were saying but they started laughing and it made me laugh.

Then a Muslim lady got on and asked me in Hebrew if it was the train to Tel Aviv. I told her I didn’t know and that my Hebrew was shit and she laughed. Then she and I made eye contact and laughed privately with each other across the aisle as the train filled up with tired, harassed and angry people having a balagan with each other. One young girl absolutely horrified that people wouldn’t move further down the carriage. Then two young soldier girls came on and they were laughing hysterically with each other about something and that made me laugh. Me and the muslim girl laughed again when we made eye contact. It wasn’t the Golden Laugh that cures all. But every laugh is a jewel that heals something, I guess, and I found them because I went in search of meorav yerushalmi when feeling gloomy.

Feeling gloomy over girls and massacres! How many times have we heard that story??!!

We’ve all been there!

And then we moved and My God the hills as the train pulled out. Once again those bloody hills.

Jerusalem don’t ever stop.

Some people call you crazy?

Then you are the perfect city for life - because life is crazy.

As the train glided past Ben Gurion I felt a bit better.

Today I visited the Temple where God is closest to earth. When I got back to Tel Aviv I bought some fabric conditioner so I could put a wash on when I got back home.

And that is a good day.