A man who lived in a block of apartments thought it was raining and put his head out the window to check. As he did so a glass eye fell into his hand.
He looked up to see where it came from in time to see a young woman looking down. "Is this yours?" he asked. She said, "Yes, could you bring it up?" and the man agreed. On arrival she was profuse in her thanks and offered the man a drink. As she was very attractive he agreed. Shortly afterwards she said, "I'm about to have dinner. There's plenty; would you like to join me?"
He readily accepted her offer and both enjoyed a lovely meal. As the evening was drawing to a close the lady said, "I've had a marvelous evening. Would you like to stay the night?"
The man hesitated then said, "Do you act like this with every man you meet?"
"No," she replied, "only those who catch my eye
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
THE BEREAVEMENT OFFICER
This story is one hundred percent true. It actually happened, in Israel during the
first month of the Lebanon war, in '82, One morning, a bereavement officer pulls
up in a white van outside the apartment building at 62 Hillel Street in Givatayim,
a small community just east of Tel Aviv. He walks up to apartment 3. Rings the
bell. A woman answers the door. The officer says, Are you you the mother of
Corporal Tal Lavis? She says yes. He tells her he's very sorry, but her son Tal was
killed the night before in Lebanon.
The woman screams. She starts beating her chest and wailing. The neighbours
come over. The news spreads and within fifteen minutes, half the neigbourhood's
in her living room. Everyone's crying. The family's crushed. They hang posters all
over town announcing the death and the funeral and the address for the shiva.
Total mayhem.
So a few hours later, the bereavement officer shows up again. It turns out the
army made a mistake. There is another Tal Lavis who lives at 26 Hillel Street, two
blocks away. He's the one who died. Not this woman's son, who is very much
alive.
For the mother it was the happiest moment of her life! It's like her son came back
from the dead. Meanwhile, the bereavement officer drives down the street to tell
the other family that their son was killed in Lebanon. So they start screaming and
wailing, and their neighbours go over, and the whole neighbourhood moves from
the first apartment to the one down the street. They hang up new signs,
announcing a new time and location for the new funeral and a new address for
the shiva.
Its unbeleavable, but it's not the and of the story, So that night, the first family
walks down the street to pay their condolences to the second family. About an
hour later, they walk back to the apartment . And who is waiting for them at
their front door?
No, not their their son Tal Lavis. The bereavement officer. Turns out it was not a
mix-up after all. Both Tal Lavis were killed on the same day, one at 62 Hillel
Street, the other at 26 Hillel Street.
Excerpt- The 188th Cry Baby Brigade -Joel Chasnoff
For those who hope and think that war will solve all the world's ills and particularly in the middle east.
first month of the Lebanon war, in '82, One morning, a bereavement officer pulls
up in a white van outside the apartment building at 62 Hillel Street in Givatayim,
a small community just east of Tel Aviv. He walks up to apartment 3. Rings the
bell. A woman answers the door. The officer says, Are you you the mother of
Corporal Tal Lavis? She says yes. He tells her he's very sorry, but her son Tal was
killed the night before in Lebanon.
The woman screams. She starts beating her chest and wailing. The neighbours
come over. The news spreads and within fifteen minutes, half the neigbourhood's
in her living room. Everyone's crying. The family's crushed. They hang posters all
over town announcing the death and the funeral and the address for the shiva.
Total mayhem.
So a few hours later, the bereavement officer shows up again. It turns out the
army made a mistake. There is another Tal Lavis who lives at 26 Hillel Street, two
blocks away. He's the one who died. Not this woman's son, who is very much
alive.
For the mother it was the happiest moment of her life! It's like her son came back
from the dead. Meanwhile, the bereavement officer drives down the street to tell
the other family that their son was killed in Lebanon. So they start screaming and
wailing, and their neighbours go over, and the whole neighbourhood moves from
the first apartment to the one down the street. They hang up new signs,
announcing a new time and location for the new funeral and a new address for
the shiva.
Its unbeleavable, but it's not the and of the story, So that night, the first family
walks down the street to pay their condolences to the second family. About an
hour later, they walk back to the apartment . And who is waiting for them at
their front door?
No, not their their son Tal Lavis. The bereavement officer. Turns out it was not a
mix-up after all. Both Tal Lavis were killed on the same day, one at 62 Hillel
Street, the other at 26 Hillel Street.
Excerpt- The 188th Cry Baby Brigade -Joel Chasnoff
For those who hope and think that war will solve all the world's ills and particularly in the middle east.
Friday, February 26, 2010
ADVICE I TAKE TO HEART - MARK TWAIN
Dance like nobody’s watching
love like you’ve never been hurt
Sing like nobody’s listening
live like it’s heaven on earth”
love like you’ve never been hurt
Sing like nobody’s listening
live like it’s heaven on earth”
Sunday, February 21, 2010
ON SOLITUDE-FEB 2010
I seek solitude to write about it- that is, to tell how it shaped the life of one Julie Sheridan, bibliophile, fledgling poet and and aspiring author. Since childhood, she had revelled in the power of words to transport her to realms apart, and longed to acquire the skill to bestow such enchantment on others.
The role of solitude in crafting literature was a source of endless fascination. She imagined a rock-strewn cliff overlooking the ocean, no distraction save the sound of waves crashing against the shore and the whoosh of the rushing wind. She would be leaning against an uprooted tree trunk, notebook perched on upright knees, pen in hand scribbling furiously in this remote setting. Or she fantasized a cabin in rustic surroundings, where she would be inspired by, and perhaps describing, the rhythms of the seasons, the play of light and shadows as they varied from dusk to dawn.
Not to be forgotten was the darker side of the moon of solitude- the intimidation of the blank page before her and despair that it would remain so. The wellspring had run dry; where, oh where her muse? Then she felt that being alone was burdensome, more like solitary confinement, a far cry from the glorious flights of fancy she had envisioned in her youth. So it was that the siren song of solitude, once so seductive, gave way to a less romantic reality.
On silent strolls to contrived destinations, she created her "own private Idaho", the perfect opportunity to clarify stored outpourings of thought and ideas, to develop the seed of stories in-the-making. She often seized on wait-time - in line at the grocer's, in a doctor's office or at a bus stop - to continue to hone her craft. Especially practical was writing while in transit. Hours on a plane or train were ideal, with no commitments to meet, nor guilt about leaving them unfulfilled - just Julie, her ever-present notebook and pen.
In this way, she learned to integrate literary musings into the bustle of daily living. Not for a moment did Julie doubt that time spent alone was basic to creativity. Be it heaven or hell, solitude was, for her, the core of a writing life.
Amen, Julie. I couldn't have said it better myself.
The role of solitude in crafting literature was a source of endless fascination. She imagined a rock-strewn cliff overlooking the ocean, no distraction save the sound of waves crashing against the shore and the whoosh of the rushing wind. She would be leaning against an uprooted tree trunk, notebook perched on upright knees, pen in hand scribbling furiously in this remote setting. Or she fantasized a cabin in rustic surroundings, where she would be inspired by, and perhaps describing, the rhythms of the seasons, the play of light and shadows as they varied from dusk to dawn.
Not to be forgotten was the darker side of the moon of solitude- the intimidation of the blank page before her and despair that it would remain so. The wellspring had run dry; where, oh where her muse? Then she felt that being alone was burdensome, more like solitary confinement, a far cry from the glorious flights of fancy she had envisioned in her youth. So it was that the siren song of solitude, once so seductive, gave way to a less romantic reality.
On silent strolls to contrived destinations, she created her "own private Idaho", the perfect opportunity to clarify stored outpourings of thought and ideas, to develop the seed of stories in-the-making. She often seized on wait-time - in line at the grocer's, in a doctor's office or at a bus stop - to continue to hone her craft. Especially practical was writing while in transit. Hours on a plane or train were ideal, with no commitments to meet, nor guilt about leaving them unfulfilled - just Julie, her ever-present notebook and pen.
In this way, she learned to integrate literary musings into the bustle of daily living. Not for a moment did Julie doubt that time spent alone was basic to creativity. Be it heaven or hell, solitude was, for her, the core of a writing life.
Amen, Julie. I couldn't have said it better myself.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Not a love story-the ballad of eight to four- Lynn Gordon, 1980
I had a job or it had me
I didn't work in a factory
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
In at at eight and out at four
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Pay and perks but not much more
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
refrain
Waging war on unemployment
Weekdays,eight to four
Wasn't there for my enjoyment
Weekdays, eight to four
Sign in red if you are late
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
They dock your pay if you hestitate
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Pick a little, talk a little, coffee break
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Sip a little, gawk a little, goodness sake
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
refrain
Waging war on unemployment
Weekdays,eight to four
Wasn't there for my enjoyment
Weekdays, eight to four
I didn't work in a factory
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
In at at eight and out at four
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Pay and perks but not much more
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
refrain
Waging war on unemployment
Weekdays,eight to four
Wasn't there for my enjoyment
Weekdays, eight to four
Sign in red if you are late
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
They dock your pay if you hestitate
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Pick a little, talk a little, coffee break
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Sip a little, gawk a little, goodness sake
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
refrain
Waging war on unemployment
Weekdays,eight to four
Wasn't there for my enjoyment
Weekdays, eight to four
Cousin Shirley
My cousin Shirley had her funeral last sunday. Amongst her chief mourners were five caregivers who worked around the clock looking after her. I read that when Queen Elizabeth, the British Monarch, was hospitalized she had only three caregivers.
Cousin Shirley was obscenely rich .
Which reminds me of an old Jewish Proverb.
If the rich could hire the poor to die for them, the poor would make a very nice living.
Cousin Shirley was obscenely rich .
Which reminds me of an old Jewish Proverb.
If the rich could hire the poor to die for them, the poor would make a very nice living.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas Page
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas Page
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