But I must return to the story.
9 December 2024
Journal
Tomorrow, we’ll bid farewell to Campulung, that small and grey town that seems to cloak its daily toil in a hushed breath, hidden from view. Twenty-four thousand residents orbit their routines, twenty second-hand clothing shops, five funeral parlours, and one long road that curves at its end into total darkness, as though disconnected from everywhere else...(read more)
Poetry
When I grow old, I want white hair.
Grey hair is fine too, but I want white hair.
I want to cross the streets with a long, impressive veil of age.
White is a bride. White is the Sabbath. White is Yom Kippur, a day of atonement.
When I grow old, I want white hair.
Even if it is dry and dull, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that it is white.
White like the moon, white like jasmine blossoms. White like a sleepless night.
Sometimes I’ll braid it into a plait, and it will be long, and it will be white like a ship’s rope.
When I grow old, that’s what I want—white hair.
White like the pillow it will fall onto at night, likely unseen.
But I wouldn’t want it to fall out too quickly or too much, because then none would remain.
Yet I also wouldn’t want it to fall out too slowly or too little, because that means it’s healthy, and healthy hair—darkens.
When I grow old, I want white hair. But grey hair is fine too.
Fiction
Updates
7 October 2024
On this sorrowful day, a year after the horrific massacre, I wish to extend my condolences to the entire people of Israel.
Book Reviews
In the neighbourhood where I grew up, there was a guy named Omri. Everyone knew "Omriki" because he wasn’t like everyone else. I mean, he was like everyone else; he went to school, prayed every day at the synagogue, went to the local corner shop, but he did it in his own way. He had thoughts of his own. Omri was on the spectrum. I don't know the correct term, and it's none of my business, but it was undeniable. It poured out of him—in his speech, in the structure of his face, in his behaviour...(read on)
