Nonna Rosa Croce Reaction Video

The Past 72 Hours

WHAT THE HECK HAPPENED? It started with the haircut. No, it started before that, it was not getting any sleep two nights ago. Wait, no, it wasn't then either, it started with the 'Yom Tov' (literally, good day , a religious holiday where, for the purposes of this writing, buses don't run). Wait, but not even, it was going to see someone I met at an Amnesty event in Jerusalem, yeah that was it. Like this, I could go back, and back, and back, to who the hell knows what, ad infinitum. In that case, a twenty-year story short: I figured it was a time for a haircut. So did all of the little kids at the Passover seder. Don't get me wrong, they loved that I was there and all. Justin Bieber had never been to Zikhron Yakov! From Biebs to a monk I went. Again, please don't get me wrong — the haircut was wonderful —— the experience of getting a haircut. What care, what precision, what speed! This guy was really something else. When my friend suggested the fifteen sheq

27 May 2017

I sit down to write as someone different. Four years ago, in April 2013, I left Tel Aviv - Yafo to return back to the United States. At the time, I was not feeling well. I came down with a bad case of something — the doctor in Jerusalem said laryngitis. I was living in a small apartment off Sderot Yerushalayim in Yafo. Life was good despite that nasty bout of laryngitis, living in a dark and damp studio apartment, and being detached from that City — Jerusalem — which had intrigued and sustained and nudged my soul since that first night on the Mount of Olives. How could I have realized it then, but I was on the cusp of a major shift in my life; isn't it funny how we are so bad at noticing times of transition? The years that followed my return to the United States have been the quickest and fullest so far in my twenty-five years doing this thing we call "life." Here I sit in Jerusalem, in what feels like forever and just a minute all at once, trying to see if I have gaine

An Unfinished Entry from University College London (September 24, 2013)

Dear Self, I am writing to Self from the University College London Main Library. More specifically, the Public Policy, Human Rights, et al. Reading Room. It's a lovely place, certainly. Just today, as I walked to this particular room, to sit down at this particular desk [ad infinitum] to write this little note-to-self, the scent of the library — mmm — I am distracted. I am rambling. What was I talking about? Right, the scent of the library. Mmmmm. To a scholar, the scent of a library excites, but also serves as a monotonous drone — right. There are a bunch of fellows here, thumbing through the books and trying to look academic, and such. I am quick to judge them as a bunch of tossers, twats, nincompoops, whatever. They are most certainly loud-mouthed people who fail miserably (and in a distracting fashion) at whispering. There, too, is a nice sir sitting diagonal from me. When I sneeze, he says "bless you". Well, bless him — how kind. It is the first time anyon

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