Vending Machines of Wasabi-Flavored Affection

The best stories often start with a mild “Tell me about yourself.” I was born a parent. Strangers who call me “love” reassure me. I’m not bothered by my moles. I make smooth scrambled eggs. At twelve, I was writing journal entries to John Lennon. I get a kick out of sharing good news through the intercom. I’m at ease with ambiguity. The smell of pastasciutta coming from other people’s kitchens reminds me of my grandmother, my childhood, love, freedom, the suburbs. No one taught me how to keep a plant alive. I enjoy sniffing strangers. I aim at seeming nonchalant. Few things delight me more than TV characters treating wine glasses like portals to oblivion. I don’t get who only wears black. At the English school where I teach, a three-year-old asked a five-year-old, “Why do you cry all the time?” His grandma answered, “Because he carries onions in his pocket.” Every day, I run through Texan meadows of absurdity. I adore the idea that buses only exist when we’re waiting for them. I realize that as beginners, we suck at most things. I am terrified by the speed at which my nails grow. A friend of mine realized her relationship was over while listening to Wagner’s Love Duet. I jot down untranslatable words such as pisan zapra—the time it takes to eat a banana in Malay. There’s always a story collection on my bedside table. I’d rather hurt myself than others. I don’t believe in umbrellas—the way Maude didn’t believe in driver’s licenses.¹ As a toddler, I couldn’t walk. The seven stages of dramatic tension always reawaken me. When my mom says, “I was just saying,” I remind her that Hitler also just said, “Let’s invade Poland.” I fight anxiety with the constant search for meaning. I’ve found that everything becomes possible once you’re upside down. I wonder if anyone still believes in business cards, how many times you can get up from the ring, who we are when we say ‘someone like me,’ and what happens when something we want goes against something else we want. I believe no one loves as they should—they love as they can. I get a rush from the first sip of alcohol. A clown once taught me that we need to “hug our shit.” I wish my stories arched like a perfectly rounded butt. If I were an ice cream flavor, I’d be wasabi. Among the things worth living for, I call out the fool in Gogol’s novella, who claims that the intellect doesn’t reside in our heads, but is carried by the wind from the Caspian Sea.² I love porn. What else is there for someone who has trust issues? It fascinates me that stealing sand in Sardinia could land you up to six years in prison. The view from my balcony moves me enough to consider smoking again. It amazes me that in Hebrew there are no comparatives, one can only love or hate. My mother is emotionally suburban. At four years old, I saw It sitting on the living room couch with her. At seven years old, I went to Ibiza on holiday with her. At eight years old, I smoked a water pipe in Tunis; my mother didn’t. At nine years old, I read The Interpretation of Dreams by Freud before falling asleep, curled up in my fuchsia and green bed that nearly touched the ceiling. I hold on to every detail proving my inadequacy. There’s a pad, a fortune cookie, a pair of keys, and a tube of toothpaste in my sports bag. Seeing the worst in everyone is a talent, I believe. At the end of a workshop, a guy from Rome said, “I was happy to be miserable.” After every interaction, I either love or hate myself a little more. Last year, I met a woman who reminded me of all the lives I haven’t lived. I long for moments where I can just shout: “God save the Queen!” I find it sad that some people stop reading when they grow up. I feel worthy of love only if I’m extraordinary. The grandfather of a Chilean friend of mine used to ask her, “Quita mía, shall we cry?” As if he were asking, “Shall we eat?” I find some ways of perceiving life more brutal than others—and for that, there is no cure. I’d like to tell my neighbor, “Save a party for me.” I am nostalgic about everything, yet nothing in particular. Among the things worth living for, I’d point out that the night of Victor Hugo’s funeral, prostitutes worked for free. I often dehumanize, it’s either an ideal or a monster. I believe love for myself awaits me in the yard, with scraped knees and duplicate trading cards. I ache to say things how they’ve never been said before. Netflix taught me that everyone’s a murderer—all it takes is a good reason and a bad day.³ The balance of desire and admiration for someone makes me lose my mind. I like to smell my armpits in summer; they feel like resistance. I pause at the thought that we’re human, and no one asked us to be so. In Philadelphia, a young waiter told me, “I won’t be here tomorrow, but I’ll be serving you in spirit.” I take notes of callings such as: coffee taster, wind blower, funeral director, and guardian of the museum of forgotten passions. I wonder how much pain is caused by pain. For a clown, trying to make the audience laugh is like escaping death, I think—even just for a moment. In a museum, I saw an old TV with a glowing sign: “Why us, and not some other two?” Rather than giving myself permission, I wish I’d stop seeking it. When someone says a film is going to be funny, I know it’s going to be so sad, and that makes me laugh. An American poet taught me that fish and dogs are the perfect audience for your poems. I’d like to sign up for a workshop on everything that never was. Among the lines of a hotel’s review I read: “The atmosphere is enough to awaken love.” A student of mine told me that his office is full of coffee pots—colleagues muttering on the verge of overflowing. I cultivate irresponsibility. To me, “I’m not okay” sometimes is truer than any metaphor. I trust restaurants in Florence, where a bottle of red wine is already on the table. Some people remind me of a trailer for a movie I’ve already seen. I sense you shouldn’t throw anything away, but sometimes, you have to throw away everything. A physician told me that we exist in overlapping states—what we see is simply the most probable one. I find women more interesting than men. I take note of metaphorical constructions like: dreaming time away, feeding the wolves of paradox, a culinary one-night stand. I turn off when facing too much daylight. A French man taught me that if you want a fruit to rot, you put it next to a rotten fruit, it’ll rot faster. The same goes for people, I think. At times I see myself on the wooden floor of an empty room, with Chekhov’s gun⁴ next to me—nobody shoots. I wonder whether my taste changes when I’m in love or heartbroken. I’d buy more air. I like to learn in an ironic, practical, and inspired kind of way. I’ll happily stop and ponder, but hesitantly stop and feel. I’m floored by how some people want to hurt each other as much as they love each other. I dream of a void of neon lights flashing from a vending machine of unspoken things. I guess being an adult means you have to cut the melon, wash the dishes and make coffee. I imagine a waiter asking theatrically: “Anger for two?” I wonder if getting older means not being so easily moved. I remember a moment in a French film where a man told a woman, “You exist too much.” My neighbor shouting on the notes of “Goodbye My Lover,” on a late Tuesday evening, is my concept of therapy. I believe that, sooner or later, a woman needs to hear just how breathtaking she is. I suspect that people sigh saying “It was for the best,” when they survived epic damage without completely ruining their lives. I’m dying to start each sentence with “Like those American films where…” 

1.  Harold et Maude, Hal Ashby
2. Diary of a Madman, Nikolaj Gogol 
3. Inside Man, Steven Moffat, Netflix series
4. A narrative principle stating that any element introduced in a story, such as a prop or character trait, must have relevance and purpose later in the plot.