Braille.
Can't live with it, can't live without it.
I tried learning it once- not because I wanted to be able to actually read Braille- but because as a teenager, I was pretty convinced that my acne patterns were trying to tell me something.
Lo and behold, they were not, but I'm pretty sure that Kabbalah was founded on similar principles, so it was worth a try.
One of the hottest trends right now in the home décor world, is decorating your walls with Braille so that you can essentially write whatever you want, without anyone really knowing what it says. But this only works in a wireless-less world, because in this day-and-age, house guests will turn on their iPhones without batting an eyelash, only to decipher that your entranceway reads "Redrum" and the axe is missing from the woodpile.
On a less morbid note, couples 'in-the-know' are opting to Braille sexual phrases in their bedroom unbeknownst to their innocent children. Of course, these are the parents that are practising co-sleeping and don't want their 8-year-old piggy in the middle hearing anything inappropz.
Speaking of young ones, Braille was actually invented by a fifteen-year-old French boy, named Louise Braille. Rumour has it that he was caressing the pages of a dirty magazine, when the idea popped up.
People who read Braille must have such sensitive fingers!
They aren't born that way, they have to train them to be sensitive. This is done by making them listen to Louis Armstrong, and read Tuesday's With Morrie. Once they pass the sensitivity test conducted by a team of Menstruating Scientists, they receive their first Braille challenge, which is to read an egg carton.
Braille placement confuses me.
Why does Ikea have Braille? How does that even make sense if it's impossible to find your way around the place with perfect vision and a working knowledge of the Swedish language? Maybe Braille makes it easier? Maybe the Braille says "Go straight, do not pay attention to the new slipcovers, do not get distracted by that PAX wardrobe system, it's always been here, it is not new, just in a new spot, what you need and came here for is at the end of the hallway, to the right, next to the table that doubles as a chair and a changing table for your baby"?
When the time comes, I am going to submit my resume in Braille and when the perplexed hiring manager gets to the bottom of the page, it will read: "The best business decision you can make is to surround yourself with people who are smarter than you".
I will write it in a sans serif typeface, because it's more legible than serif, or dots.
Until then, ::..:::...:..:...:::. !!!
Monday, July 9, 2012
Friday, July 6, 2012
Israel.
I wrote this immediately following Israel's Independence Day but never actually uploaded it. So here it is. Ok? Does that sit well with you? Is this a resurrection of my blog, you might ask? Maybe. But probably not. I might actually turn this into a design blog. But probably not.
---
Israel.
Most definitely, a thing liked by me.
As she enters into her sixty-fourth year of official existance, I cannot help but gloat about what a woman she has become. Lush, lavish, and a devil in the bedroom, Israel certainly is a force to be reckoned with.
Despite Isreal's obvious flaws (stone washed denim, peanut butter flavored treats, yet no actual peanut butter spread anywhere to be found, apartheid state, etc...) I like Israel. A lot.
The love affair started officially in grade 9, when I was shipped off to Israel in the midst of the Second Intifada, to find Arafat. Unfortunately, I couldn't find him, but I did find a snazzy fake belly button ring at the shuk, and a shirt that says "Go Fuck Yourself" upside down.
That class trip to Israel erupted a volcano of longing deep inside of my sphincter. I soon realized it was, in fact, a digestive disruption from two weeks of ingesting nothing but falafel, but once that passed, and my movements were back to normal, I still felt a need to return to the Holyland as soon as possible.
Luckily, my sister was on the brink of womanhood, which meant bat-mitzvah season, which meant the possibility of having the celebration in Israel. Possibility quickly turned into reality, and before we knew it, we were on top of Massada, in one of the oldest synogogues in the world, listening to my sister and a handful of relative strangers join us in bitter adulthood.
Alhough my father nearly sold me to Hubbly-Bubbly in the Jerusalem Market for goats on that trip, once again, Israel left it's impact on me. [To be fair, I was a highly irresistable 17-year-old Jewish girl with full braided extensions in my hair.]
After taking a third trip to the Issy, I decided to go back for a year after highschool to 'discover myself' (or whatever the kids say these days) with something other than a mirror and the internet.
I lived for several months on a couple of different Kibbutzim (aka socialist communal farms that are actually multi-bagillion dollar enterprises) near Tel-Aviv and Eilat, and realized that the kibbutz lifestyle wasn't my bag. I told my Kibbutz husband and wives that it was fun while it lasted, packed up my belongings, said a final goodbye to the cows and the jackasses, and left.
Since then, I've travelled a few more times to the land of milk and honey, and upon each return, I always wondered how Israel could have so many gays, but Iran could have none. Too bizzare.
When will I return again? That, I cannot answer. One day soon, I hope, and when I do, I will visit my love children from year's past.
As I pound away at my keyboard, fingers prancing like a goddamned puppeteer, all I can think of is how a place so physically distant, could feel so intrinsically close. It's sort of like a fart in the wind, I guess.
---
Israel.
Most definitely, a thing liked by me.
As she enters into her sixty-fourth year of official existance, I cannot help but gloat about what a woman she has become. Lush, lavish, and a devil in the bedroom, Israel certainly is a force to be reckoned with.
Despite Isreal's obvious flaws (stone washed denim, peanut butter flavored treats, yet no actual peanut butter spread anywhere to be found, apartheid state, etc...) I like Israel. A lot.
The love affair started officially in grade 9, when I was shipped off to Israel in the midst of the Second Intifada, to find Arafat. Unfortunately, I couldn't find him, but I did find a snazzy fake belly button ring at the shuk, and a shirt that says "Go Fuck Yourself" upside down.
That class trip to Israel erupted a volcano of longing deep inside of my sphincter. I soon realized it was, in fact, a digestive disruption from two weeks of ingesting nothing but falafel, but once that passed, and my movements were back to normal, I still felt a need to return to the Holyland as soon as possible.
Luckily, my sister was on the brink of womanhood, which meant bat-mitzvah season, which meant the possibility of having the celebration in Israel. Possibility quickly turned into reality, and before we knew it, we were on top of Massada, in one of the oldest synogogues in the world, listening to my sister and a handful of relative strangers join us in bitter adulthood.
Alhough my father nearly sold me to Hubbly-Bubbly in the Jerusalem Market for goats on that trip, once again, Israel left it's impact on me. [To be fair, I was a highly irresistable 17-year-old Jewish girl with full braided extensions in my hair.]
After taking a third trip to the Issy, I decided to go back for a year after highschool to 'discover myself' (or whatever the kids say these days) with something other than a mirror and the internet.
I lived for several months on a couple of different Kibbutzim (aka socialist communal farms that are actually multi-bagillion dollar enterprises) near Tel-Aviv and Eilat, and realized that the kibbutz lifestyle wasn't my bag. I told my Kibbutz husband and wives that it was fun while it lasted, packed up my belongings, said a final goodbye to the cows and the jackasses, and left.
Since then, I've travelled a few more times to the land of milk and honey, and upon each return, I always wondered how Israel could have so many gays, but Iran could have none. Too bizzare.
When will I return again? That, I cannot answer. One day soon, I hope, and when I do, I will visit my love children from year's past.
As I pound away at my keyboard, fingers prancing like a goddamned puppeteer, all I can think of is how a place so physically distant, could feel so intrinsically close. It's sort of like a fart in the wind, I guess.
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