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.

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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.