[as if in dreams] A newsletter from Joseph Zitt - 03 November 2023
Opening and Colophon (Newsletter): Hi. I'm Joseph Zitt. I moved from the US to Israel in 2017. This is my newsletter about more-or-less daily life in my city in the shadow of war. You can select these links to subscribe or unsubscribe. There are more links at the bottom. Here we go...
My phone beeps just as I wake up. A WhatsApp group has sent another announcement. I take a look. It isn't a funeral this time.
They're having a foot race on Shabbat morning at the park near my office. They're doing it to raise consciousness about the hostages, particularly the two from our town.
I don't feel called to attend. I'm not in shape. I don't even run for buses.
I forward the message to a friend from work. I know he takes long early morning runs on Shabbat. He also tends to drop out of sight on weekends then return, having run a marathon on some other continent. I think the New York Marathon is tomorrow. He might be there.
I go through my email and messages, then gradually get myself dressed and out the door. I'm on a mission: the gas canister on my soda maker has run out. I have to exchange it.
The bus there isn't running. It hasn't been since the war started. The soda company's website tells me that another supermarket, about a ten-minute walk away, exchanges canisters. I go there and ask. They don't.
That store is around the corner from another bus stop. I check the app. Some lines still stop there. I crack the code, I think: only intercity lines are running. A couple of them stop at the mall.
The bus I take is almost full. More people get on as we proceed. By the time I reach the mall, it's packed. I try to get off, but a large man with ostentatious headphones, facing away from me, is blocking the door.
I try to get past him, but he doesn't notice. I say "Excuse me," repeatedly, a little louder each time. Nothing. I finally bop him in the back of the head, gently, with the gas canister. That, he notices. He steps aside.
Much of the mall is closed. When I went there last night, at the time that I usually show up when I'm there in the evening, I got in, but nothing at all was open. Some stores still had their gates up and their lights on, but I could tell that they were tidying up for the night. Even the exit that I usually use was locked. I had to circle back to the way I came in.
This didn't surprise me all that much, though I was disappointed. The government tells us that, between people called to the Reserves, evacuees from the north and south, parents who have to care for kids whose schools are closed, and people in fields that have been affected (there isn't much tourism right now), 18% of workers aren't at their jobs. At least it isn't as bad as the 28% at the peak of the lockdowns.
This time, I can get most of what I need. I had hoped to get some sugar-free date jam, but the one place that carries it is closed.
The supermarket is open. I only need some bread and to exchange the canister. I pick up a frozen package of beef on the way.
The cashier's aisles are busy. I decide to try their self-service registers. I had done OK with them at other stores.
The systems here are much more complicated. After having to tell the machine that no, I am not a member of their buyers' club and no, I really don't want to join it, I have to enter my cell phone number and wait for them to text a code to me. I don't know why. I'm not doing anything that multifactor authentication would make more secure.
I scan the bread and put it down on the indicated table. I then scan the beef. The machine beeps comfortably. I pay with my credit card and prepare to leave. It wants something more. I don't know what.
I surrender to the inevitable and call the worker over. She says something that I don't understand and points upward. I don't know what she wants. She says it again. I look up. Above my head, blocked from view by my baseball cap, there's the readout from a scale. I don't think anyone shorter than I am would see it, either.
I ask her what I should do. I don't understand her answer. I ask her again. Again, I don't understand. She leads me to the customer service desk. We wait for the clerk. We're behind another person who had been trying to use the self-service machine before me.
The worker says something to the clerk. When it's my turn, the clerk cancels my previous receipt, then rings up the beef and the bread herself. I also exchange my gas canister for a new one.
I stagger out of the store, having experienced pure Rube Goldberg technology. The equipment made the process several times less efficient.
I take the intercity bus back to as close to my house as I can, and walk the rest of the way home. I sit in the chair at my computer and check for news and messages.
Nothing seems any more catastrophic than usual. Some of the local beaches are reopening. The city has announced some services for business: Property taxes and debt collection procedures are postponed. It's promoting a Facebook page to encourage buying locally. Experts are offering financial advice to those who want it. The mayor says that they're doing everything they can to help business owners.
Some people with passports from other countries and some injured people are finally getting out from across the border. I see more pleas for fuel there, but a purported report from inside claims that the terrorists are hoarding between half a million and a million liters of it -- under a major hospital.
There's more news of an uptick in antisemitism abroad. Our government warns citizens abroad not to display Jewish symbols. Articles show how to cover mezuzot (the Jewish symbols we place on door frames) with cases for fake video systems.
I quickly fall asleep in my chair. When I wake up, I have twisted into a weird position. My back aches. I really should have put together the new chair yesterday. It's sitting in a box on the far side of the room.
I make and eat supper while listening to more podcasts. None of the news sticks with me.
I watch a bit of TV, then return to my computer. I put a couple of my bed pillows on the chair and manage to write this. I take some Acamol. That might help.
All told, it's been a quiet day. Maybe I should have used the McDonald's sticker that promised that. But I would have to figure out the software first.
Feel free to forward the newsletter to other people who might be interested.
Here’s an archive of past newsletters.
You can find me via email, Bluesky, Mastodon, Facebook, and, just out of inertia, X/Twitter. There's more about me and my books, music, and films at josephzitt.com.
The newsletter’s official mailing address is 304 S. Jones Blvd #3567, Las Vegas NV 89107. (I’m in Israel, but if physical mail comes to me there, it’ll get scanned and emailed. I don’t expect that to happen much. If you want to send me physical mail, ask me for a real address.)
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L'hitraot.