It will be a shame not to share what is in front of my eyes, on this sunny April day. I know I’m not supposed to mention the weather as I commence my prologue, yet I must steer once more from “the proper” and share what is in front of my eyes, as I am being taxied at Puerto Plata, DR, airport on the way to across the Caribbean Sea. On this sunny April day, through the opaque rounded windows of an American Airlines plane, it seemed as if the sun the and the runway track were having an argument. The sun must have done something wrong because the tracks were steaming. The Rolls Royce engines below the wings that usually stay focused at their mission ahead, did not feel the need to stay on lines, as they were instigating the tracks, adding flair. The clouds, I guess, got the heads-up and vanished. Can you blame them? Who would want to be in the middle of this? But you know how clouds are, they'll be back in time to cool down the tracks, if things get out of hand and overheat. Meanwhile, myself, an hectic observer of steaming runway tracks below wings, am fastening a seat belt, and off we go. “All electronic devices must be switched off.” Only god knows why.......................”Ladies and Gentleman, we have arrived at Miami International Airport. Please remain seated with your seat belts fastened until the seatbelts sign has been turned off.” Clink Clank.
To put a date on it, it began in the summer of 2006, a black plastic bag was being unraveled with all its glory. My insides as well. A white coated man decided on one last and final dire attempt. What was once my whole soul carriage was intubated and was rushed by helicopter out of the statistics. In the meanwhile, the plastic black bag had found its use. Crumbled and crunchy as I was, miracles did happen. Medical Sci-Fi made its way away from fantasy, pumping life into my mash-like tissue. I was given a second chance, yet I was engraved for life, or for living, by war, (depends on how and who looks at it). I had no white tunnel to share about, nor a life-flashing-in-front-of-my-eyes moment. I had a blink long moment. My entire near-death experience lasted 14 days and I missed it all. One moment I saw an anti-tank missile making its way towards me. The second, it made its way through me. The third, I was joking with my doctors, fourteen days later. Einstein said “everything is relative.” I have to agree, so would my mom, as she wrinkled twenty years of age in a blink of my eye.
“Why do I write?” I was asked and this is what I’m writing about now, yet I believe no remedy will be found to a question as such. Moreover, there are so many answers and reasons why not to write, making it much easier to answer and portrait. Instead of counting these reasons, I will seek shelter in old words I once read (wrote), as I believes it sums-it-up:
The essence of free will is the ability to leave
The essence of our being is that we don't know how to live
The naked trees of autumn revitalize with spring
And those you left forgotten they're an end without a mean
A street without a street light leaves a shiver on your skin
A light without a shadow leaves the mystery unseen
The fallen leaves of autumn paint the loneliness in red
for all my fallen brothers and the words they never said
It's my shadow on the paper. It's my hideout in the ink.
My guitar without a G string and the ashes in my drink.
The changing breeze of autumn will keep blowing in the hay
For you I kept on living, here's to the life I will convey
Never mind the boredom, we can live without the thrill
Forget your past time lovers and remember what is real
For those I've fallen into, and for those who felt for me
This song was written for you, so tonight I raise my drink.
To put a date on it, it began in the summer of 2006, a black plastic bag was being unraveled with all its glory. My insides as well. A white coated man decided on one last and final dire attempt. What was once my whole soul carriage was intubated and was rushed by helicopter out of the statistics. In the meanwhile, the plastic black bag had found its use. Crumbled and crunchy as I was, miracles did happen. Medical Sci-Fi made its way away from fantasy, pumping life into my mash-like tissue. I was given a second chance, yet I was engraved for life, or for living, by war, (depends on how and who looks at it). I had no white tunnel to share about, nor a life-flashing-in-front-of-my-eyes moment. I had a blink long moment. My entire near-death experience lasted 14 days and I missed it all. One moment I saw an anti-tank missile making its way towards me. The second, it made its way through me. The third, I was joking with my doctors, fourteen days later. Einstein said “everything is relative.” I have to agree, so would my mom, as she wrinkled twenty years of age in a blink of my eye.
Disregard the fact that my legs were estate, and the fact that I could watch food going down my colon, snake style, due to a minor (major) shortage of stomach muscles. It was disgusting yet equivalently awesome. Never mind the fact that I looked like a rotisserie dish served with the sides half eaten, or the fear that my manhood and I will never share another morning glory. The worst was a combination of two; my paralyzed right palm, preventing me from playing guitar or piano, and my numb brain. I had no freaking clue of what was going on, and everyday seemed like Groundhog Day. I could recognize words but had no clue of what they meant. When it came to faces and people, I got the best gift God could give to men, the excuse to forget an Ex's name. It took me 6 months to start reading again and even longer to understand what I'm reading. After a year I tried to write again. Did I write about war and injuries? Hell no!
Another year had past and my alcohol/blood ratio had shifted. I was living the jet life out of a suitcase. Airport after airport, hotel after hotel, handshakes after handshakes. So many handshakes. Too many handshakes. I was the poster boy for medical achievements and wounded warriors. I was the guy who smiled at the cameras while shaking hands with god knows who, only to later drink himself to bed alone in yet another hotel room. Every other day, for 30 minutes to an hour I shared my/a story in front of hundreds of people in galas, fundraisers and other pretentious events. Anger towards society and pretty much everything else started to pile up and I became a volcano of self destruction. I needed an output, a pressure relief valve, and so I set forth to write a story about a “one day in August and some other days,” the story of me. Lines turned into paragraphs and some into lyrics. Some were added into my semi-biographical/semi-fictional book and some were just left alone as self standing anecdotes. As more KiloBytes were added, less shots were being poured. Catch phrases were quickly paired with melody and harmony, and MegaBytes of raw music were being stacked in my living room studio. Each sleepless night resulted with a new song or a chapter. Empty bottles stood without companion as a reminder for days without sun and nights without stars. Keyboards stained with coffee and cigarette ashes were a tell of a work in progress. An occasional bottle of red wine would stand beside the monitor, the ashtray, and my demons. Slowly, my past mischiefs were shackled between fonts and white screens, between ink and paper. Writing became my way to execute my demons while giving them eternal life.
Along came Columbia University with its mighty sword of literary Skills (and by Skills I mean the power tools company, chain-sawing my words ). I was terrified to say the least. Not much time had past since honesty and self was infused into my writing, and now I was forced to express not myself, but others, nonetheless the Academia, my long time nemesis. Why Long time and why nemesis? That I shall keep for my “Why don't I write” piece. On guard I triumphed, naked of arms and naked of cause. I was both Quixote and Pancho in my own story (if only the 1 line was Rocinante). I fought dragons which did not exist, and stormed castles made of Ivory bricks. Was I a horn in Jericho or was I the fool on the hill? Time and scars will tell. For a while, it seemed as if writing became a double-edged sword, and indeed there were moments I was enticed by waving the white flag. The main thing I realized from university was that from the moment ink hits paper it is no longer my story rather a story in which the reader is a part of. Finally I was a part of something.
P.S
I’m an idiot. On my way home one day from school, I was riding the M11 bus in New York, gallantly exiting the bus while leaving my backpack with my laptop in it, never to be seen again. All my writings were no longer mine. Only about 6000 words remained from the book I was trying to write, as they were published in a magazine in Israel. Since then I do everything with Google Docs, trying not to repeat the same dumb mistake again.