[as if in dreams] A newsletter from Joseph Zitt - 06 November 2023
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...
A poster covers an outside wall at the House of a Hundred Grandmothers. It's taller than I am and equally wide. Large photos of elderly hostages make up most of the image. The top, in white on red, has the word "kidnapped" in capital letters in English. Below the first row of seven faces, text in English, Hebrew, and Arabic fills the width of the space: "They are your grandparent's age." Three more rows of images continue downward, almost reaching the ground.
A post on WhatsApp reminds us that people are holding daily vigils at the Soldiers' Memorial across from City Hall. A photo shows a banner with similar lettering, red on black: "This could have been your daughter."
An image on other WhatsApp groups announces a national day of mourning tomorrow, exactly a month (by the secular calendar) after the October 7th massacre. It will also be at the Soldiers' Memorial. The image says to bring candles and flowers. I don't know if marigolds are common here.
I head out early this morning, cutting through the park on my way to an appointment. Monday is trash day. It's early enough that the piles of large trash are still out at the customary places along the street.
On the slab closest to me, cats play in the cardboard box from my chair. I thought about how to place it before I put it there last night. I knew that the cats love boxes. It would have taken up the least space if I had placed it with the opening facing upward, but I worried that the smaller cats, having gotten in, might have trouble getting out. I had a nightmare image of The Great Claw picking up the box and dropping it into the trash truck with the cats still inside. I lay the box down with the opening facing outward.
As I pass it this morning, the cats are darting in and out, exploring the other wrappings that I had tucked inside. It's like their own little theme park, until the humans in uniforms take it away.
Other trash heaps include a crib and a foosball table. I'm guessing that the table was imported from the States, since the word "soccer" is painted on the side. Only Americans, I think, call it that. Both the table and the crib are covered in cut-off branches and curious curled-up plant life that may be bark that has come off the palm trees.
In the park, I pass a woman on a bench next to a double-occupancy baby carriage. She is nursing one baby while wiggling the fingers of her free hand over the face of the other, who is lying in the carriage and laughing.
At work, I continue to try to work on the large project. Writing this manual might be easier if the developers could agree on what part of the interface does.
I hit another situation like this last week. It turned out then that part of the interface that I found inscrutable actually did nothing at all. It had been put there a long time ago, but didn't connect to anything behind the screen. Even when not being distracted by the news, other crises, or slipping into dream mode, I find I spend a lot of time staring at the screen, not understanding what is going on.
Throughout the day, I get more messages and emails. A Facebook post offers a free webinar on building mental resilience. In a WhatsApp post, a vegan restaurant asks for donations to help feed soldiers who might otherwise go hungry. The link in the post leads to a site with dozens of similar requests.
The theater department at a local university has put together four brief shows. They can travel around with them, entertaining children in hotels and shelters. By design, all the sets and props for each show fit into a single suitcase.
My news feed shows an article titled "How to use the stress from the war to lose weight." The link only leads to the newspaper's front page. A search on the paper's website brings up the same title, but it doesn't link to an article either. I'm guessing that some editor saw it and didn't like the idea. The war may already be triggering eating disorders.
The Finance Minister announces that aid will be extended to towns further from the border than before. Other officials from the Finance Ministry say that this is the first they're hearing of it. The plan would cost billions, and lead further areas to demand compensation.
LinkedIn wants me to congratulate a friend on his 13 years at his job. That would be easier if he hadn't died eight years ago. This keeps happening. I wonder if the site is showing decreasing turnover in the workplace, as more and more people never leave their jobs.
Late in the day, more rockets are fired at us from across the border. They drift out over the sea. A newspaper article explains why the booms from explosions over the sea are louder than those over land. Apparently, the sound waves hit fewer objects early on that would reflect them away. The waves can also bounce off of atmospheric layers and the surface of the water, which can affect the loudness. And then there's the wind. It's all quite complicated. But a boom is a boom.
My family sends me more links during the day. I look at them and think about what I'll write about them. Once home, I'm tired enough that I just have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an apple for supper. It's enough. Those links can wait for tomorrow. Hopefully, there will continue to be little news.
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.)
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.
L'hitraot.