The blog of a brown dog

I have moved

ramboblog — Sat, 16 Jul 2011 21:27:37 +0000

Hello and Goodbye,

I moved my blog to: http://asaelk.tumblr.com I focus on writing in my native language Hebrew. Hope to see you there!

Stay with me!
Asael

The writer he writes

ramboblog — Tue, 19 Oct 2010 19:41:11 +0000

The writer he writes

The writer sits outside in the dark, he blows smoke and drinks, just like writers do, is he a real writer? well not yet, but he is making progress, he writes when they sleep and sleeps when they rise, a half moon, half a cigarette half glass empty half glass full (of clichés). He thinks about her, he sees her naked connected to another man, her body moves just like she moved when he was inside her, she thinks about the writer as the other man moves in and out, she shuts her eyes and sees him writing in the dark about her moving and she moves, and when she opens her eyes she knows he is still writing about her opening her eyes, she is in bed, she is with another man, he is not like the writer, she knows he can’t write, but he has a body and he keeps her warm. It’s so much easier to be, it so much easier to be with someone else, he lets her be, and she is all she ever wanted. But as she falls asleep she sees him write about her future and knows she is on his mind, she knows he knows she knows, they know, they always knew.

He saves a draft, he knows the alcohol lies and he knows he used to be better at this, but he knows he has to start over. And as he writes he thinks about the fact that no one reads his mind or work, he knows it’s ok, he knows it’s not good enough, he knows he is trying just like her, trying to be a better person, he knows it’s something, not something to write about home, nothing to put in an envelope, but a glimpse, a hint of the potential he had when he wrote. And the alcohol lies as he types a few more words as he takes another drag, he knows he needs to quit, but he is not a quitter, and what is a writer without a smoke? what’s a writer without the mist? what’s a writer without the darkness of his days and brightness of his nights? Night animals howl from the forest, and he suddenly remembers the night he went out of war, sweating in tears, crossing borders of confusion, and they were screaming, and howlllllling wishing him a better life and a future.

He remembers what happened when he got back, he remembers him reading her his love, he remembers how she fell for him, how she was he’s for a few seconds and he smiles. Many years have passed, love replaced love but love never replaces memories, he remembers her body and her heart beat, he remembers all she wishes to forget, and remembers giving up and letting her forget in slow motion, not without a fight, not without a war of words, not without him knowing she reads, as she wakes up and as she falls asleep, praying for his sanity, letting him go, letting him write, letting him be the person he should be.

Every few years I die, you need to die to know you are alive, you need to cry to know that you were smiling, I died that year a few times, I died and came back another soul, but with the same memories, and with the same noise, a hole in the chest and a smile in the pocket, it was a good year, you discover, you unveil, you rediscover, and when you win or fail, you find God, waiting for you, the same God, the same place, like no other God, there is no other God, thank God.

There Are Places I Remember

ramboblog — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 21:23:44 +0000

My dog, he doesn’t speak to me no more, though we meet sometimes in dreams, and he speaks and screams, but he knows I am trying, trying to be. And sometimes at night, I see him flying over my house, he smiles and wave his ears hello ”hello brown dog” I whisper and wait for his return. If it was up to me and it is up to me, I’d sit down and wait for his return, I’d wake up and sit out on the porch and wait, just sit and wait.

“Some are dead and some are living, in my life I loved them all” the Beatles

no shame and no apology

ramboblog — Sun, 17 Oct 2010 23:09:20 +0000

I want you now as if this is my last day on this planet, I want you because you left, because you gave up on me, because you made me your memory, because you no longer remember I was: your body your heart your soul, sometimes I want to let go, sometimes I want to fall apart, and when it rains I run back to my childhood and when I look in the mirror I see your reflection and I see you pregnant, the mother of my child, mother earth, heaven on my earth, and when it hurts, it hurts.

This one is for you, no shame and no apology…

I dream

ramboblog — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 16:56:35 +0000

At night I dream of my success, you need to dare in order to succeed, you need energy and speed, and I, covered with fear, a belly full of bear and dreams, in my dream I am my star, I see me on a big stage, no stage fright no fear, my dreams brought me here, I bought my freedom with blood, bleeding fingers trying to hold on to you, those I love those I loved and me, I am not ashamed – yes me, the center of my universe. I pause applause I blush, I did not prepare a speech, I dreamed about this day my entire life, thousands of nights, what brought me here are words and pictures and visions, revisions, I stared into the sun, I stared into the moon, I dug my grave and well, I came to stay and went, this journey starts with me, this journey ends with me, this was my life this is my life, I must be standing here on stage, my hostage and slave, a whore for wars that aren’t being fought, in dreams I lose my fear, in dreams I type your name over and over and over again, a hungry man, angry I did not acquire enough, that I can’t compose a feeling, I can see your tears they are running away from the center of your eye, they are sweetened by sugar, and they are leaving you like a stream on its way to the sea, can you see me standing here on stage, alive and dead alive and dead, can you see me taking off my coat, shaving my hair with sharp blade, gently pouring on my skull leaning, tilting, perfect in my eyes, finally perfect, finally standing ovation, there is nothing to be ashamed of when you try to be yourself, when your clock is your clock, can you see me when you read the lines of my cocaine, do you have a father and a mother and one truth, do you know the answer has nothing to do with the question, has nothing to do with you or us or them, do you know what I mean when you know what you mean, do we mean, don’t be mean, read just read a few more lines, if I am out of order, out of border, speak, I am listening to myself. I am throwing words at you like paint, as if your life is a just a game, or a riddle, you are we are they are the riddle, at least we ask I ask they ask, there is no answer but one, God helps those that help themselves, so help me god, I speak no more, so help, help me and be good. While I stand on stage a few miles away from my dreams, I know one truth, I am never going to read what I wrote and never say never and never say truth, I will never speak to you or me, white words on white papers, I save and can’t sleep.

no title

ramboblog — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 22:37:15 +0000

and just when i felt that i lost you i found me some words

נסיכת העיר

ramboblog — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 21:17:37 +0000

נסיכת העיר אני עובר אורח
התשמיעי לי את שירך
לא אכביד, לא אהיה לטורח
רק יאיר הבוקר ואלך

נסיכת העיר נגני בגיטרה
בפני מי שיחקו הנערים
שירי על אחד אשר נותר עד
ששקעה השמש בהרים

נגני את בכי הדמדומים, צער עולמים
איך אהבה גדולה הייתה לשווא
ואת שירת הציפורים, צבעי הפרפרים
כשהפרחים פורחים בשדות הקרב

נסיכת העיר נגני לי עוד פעם
את תמיד, דיברת אלי שירים
וספרי לי שוב, כי את יודעת
בפני מי שיחקו הנערים

נגני את בכי היתומים, צער עולמים
איך אהבה גדולה הייתה לשווא
ואת שירת הציפורים, צבעי הפרפרים
כשהפרחים פורחים בשדות הקרב

Derech – Mosh Ben Ari

ramboblog — Sun, 06 Jun 2010 14:25:19 +0000

אוניות נייר – סיפור ליום הזיכרון – עשהאל כהנא

ramboblog — Sun, 18 Apr 2010 16:37:48 +0000

אני בן חמש ומבקש מאבא שיקפל לי אוניה. הוא לוקח עיתון מלא
בקורבנות מחויכים של לבנון וצר ממנו אוניה. תודה אבא אני אומר, ורץ החוצה עם האונייה משתדל לא לפספס שלולית אחת במגפי הגומי הכחולות. רצתי לשלולית הגדולה. בדרך דיבר אלי חייל אחד הרוג מתוך האונייה: “אל תיתן לחברים שלי לטבוע בבוץ הלבנוני! אותי אתה יכול להטביע.. אני כבר מת”. שאלתי אותו איך קוראים לו והוא אמר לי: “תסתכל מתחת לתמונה”. – “שלום כהן”, קראתי כמו שלמדתי בגן – והוא אמר: “נכון, ואתה איך קוראים לך?” - ואני אמרתי: “נעים מאוד קוראים לי רון”. – נעים מאוד, הוא אמר, מגרד את ראשו פרוע התלתלים.

העיתון העלה אבק ואני התעטשתי. “לבריאות, רוני!”, הוא אמר, ואני עניתי - תודה שלום! “יש לי ילד בדיוק בגיל שלך!”, הוא אמר. “איך אתה יודע בן כמה אני?” שאלתי. - “אני יודע הכל אני מת!”, הוא אמר וחייך חיוך עצוב. “אני לא יודע כלום. רק קצת מהגן, ומה שכתוב בעיתון. כתוב שאתה בן 27, שהשארת אישה וילד אחד ושנהרגת מאש ידידותית. מה זה אש ידידותית? אש קרה כזאת שלא שורפת?”, שאלתי. הוא צחק ואמר: “שורפת.. שורפת.. התמונה שאתה רואה עכשיו זו תמונה ישנה, היום כבר אין לי רגל. חיילים ישראלים ירו עלי.. איבדתי הרבה דם.. והנה אני מת ומשוחח אתך”. – למה ירה עליך הצבא שלנו? – שאלתי. “לא בכוונה”, אמר. “זה קורה לפעמים בבלגאן של מלחמה..”. – חבל - אמרתי. גם אבא שלי חייל. הוא קצין והוא נוסע מחר חזרה למלחמה. הוא לא מת. “חס וחלילה”, הוא אמר, “שישמור על עצמו”.

אני מתעצב ופוחד שאבא ימות במלחמה בלבנון. “אל תהיה עצוב, ילד. בוא! הִנה השלולית. תשיט אותי מכאן לארץ רחוקה..”. – אני יכול לשוט אתך באוניה שאבא שלי עשה? - שאלתי. והוא ענה: “אתה – כל החיים שלך עוד לפניך. יש לך אבא ואמא שאוהבים אותך והם יצטערו מאוד אם תשוט אתי ולא תשוב לעולם..”. – מה, אתה לא תחזור לעולמים?! - “לא.”, הוא ענה. “אז אני לא משיט אותך… אתה חמודי ואני רוצה שתישאר החבר שלי!”. – אי אפשר, רון.. רון..”, הוא אמר, “קדימה! תשים את האונייה בשלולית. תן לי את הענף הזה שם מימינך”. אני מסתכל על היד עם השעון ומבין מיד איפה זה ימין ורץ להביא לו את המקל. הוא אומר – תודה, עכשיו תן דחיפה קלה ותנשוף חזק כדי שאשוט רחוק מכאן – “אני אתגעגע אליך, רוני.”. – גם אני, אני עונה. האונייה שטה רחוק רחוק ונעלמת.

ביום בו יצאנו מלבנון נזכרתי בכל החברים שנהרגו שם. דמיינתי אותם כמו שלום כהן: שטים על אוניות נייר ורגע לפני שמגיעים לחוף מבטחים, הם מתנפצים אל הסלעים ונשכחים.

In memory of my childhood friend, paratrooper, lieutenant, Ezra Asher, 22, South Lebanon. (May 24, 1993)

In memory of the nine reserve paratroopers, from my army brigade, that were killed by anti-tank missiles fired on a house in the village of Debel, in South Lebanon. (August 9, 2006)

Maj.(res.) Natan Yahav, 36, of Kiryat Ono
Capt.(res.) Yoni (Leon) Shmucher, 30, of Bet Nehemiah
Sgt.-Maj.(res.) Asher Reuven Novik, 36, of Kanaf
Sgt.-Maj.(res.) Elad Dan, 25, of Kibbutz Eilot
Sgt.-Maj.(res.) Gilad Zussman, 26, of Eli
St.-Sgt.(res.) Ben (Binyamin) Sela, 24, of Koranit
Sgt.-Maj.(res.) Idan Kobi, 26, of Eilat
St.-Sgt. Adi Salim, 22, of Beit Hashmonai
Sgt.-Maj.(res.) Naor Kalo, 25, of Kibbutz Maagan Michael

Requiem for a Dream monologue

ramboblog — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 10:35:33 +0000

Music from Requiem For a Dream By Clint Mansell.

Dudu Tasa – Eize Yom (What a Day)

ramboblog — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 22:18:55 +0000

Dudu Tasa releases one of the best Israeli songs this year, please, even if you don’t understand the words please listen to the song, enjoy!

The song “Eize Yom” (What a Day), features Jonny Greenwood, mostly known for his work as Radiohead’s guitarist and keyboard player.

Definitely Driving

ramboblog — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 19:58:27 +0000

definitelysomething.com
twitter @defsome

It’s OK I am a professional

ramboblog — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 09:11:08 +0000

A true professional falling asleep on the way back to Brooklyn! Music by Sigur Ros.

definitelysomething.com
twitter @defsome

DO what feels good

ramboblog — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 13:45:17 +0000

Lately I been having trouble communicating in writing, I just don’t write, its just not right, not right now, and so we at definitelysomething.com began to create videos, meaningful videos about life and its creation, this is just one of them, there are many more coming expect the unexpected, accept yourself, do what feels good, don’t be afraid to fall, after all tomorrow is another day!

definitelysomething.com
twitter @defsome

E.T Phone Hoe?

ramboblog — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 18:31:34 +0000

I guess we all have needs! or are the hookers coming?