Arts & Culture
“At this point I observed the first example of that amazing phenomenon that was to occur again and again until I finally met my friends from outer space. For the further the woman and child went from where we were, the governor standing and I in the jeep, the taller they grew.”
“The gaze returns to the pictures: what shades over the houses? Where does the sun shine? Outside the picture? Does a sun burn in our inquiring forehead? In our single eye? Is the shadow that falls over everything our own? Is the sun sinking? The sun is sinking.”
“I like the smell of the fig, but the buzzing of the little gnats drawn to its fruits disturbs my sleep. There is nothing bad without some good in it, my aunt always says, and no good without bad.”
“Women we called grandma were fifty. The palm tree trunks dripped sweat even in the dark. The water tasted of sugar and cinnamon. Our hands were twelve. Our legs were twelve. All of our organs were twelve and completely unaware of being organs.”
“Summer switches off and we give ourselves to the same cave where praises cover the decay of our lives – our parents arguing, journeys through Ramallah, the idea that around us hangs a permanent, burning growl of injustice: the shifting of Israel and Palestine’s tectonic plates.”
“I went with Sarah my mother to the Strauss Clnic on Balfour Street and they’d give me a shot every week with the giant needle and after my portion of torments, we’d leave there, go down to Allenby Street, and Sarah my mother would buy me an ice cream at the Shnir and call it “some consolation” for what I had gone through.”
“The bed knew many things. What was buried underneath, the weight of bodies, hot memory. It knew positions and breaths of relaxation and fervor and further it knew how to dream and draw inventions from the subconscious. Is there anything beyond its imagination?