Joseph Zitt's [as if in dreams] 2024-02-23
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. You can also read this email online here. Here we go...
I walk into the chain café and order a cappuccino. The worker asks me, "Not an americano today, Yosef?"
I haven't been there in a month. I would rarely come in more than once a week, though usually at the same time on Fridays. I don't think I had ever told him my name. But yes, I do want a cappuccino this time.
The sound system is playing the hit version of Ofra Haza's "Im Nin'alu," from 1988.1 I haven't heard that in decades, and definitely not since coming here.
Later, looking for the Ofra Haza video, I'm reminded of Madonna's "Isaac," which incorporated a performance of the song. I look at the video of the live performance of that.2 It's wonderfully staged and shot.
Watching this video, and the recent movies and livestreams of Taylor Swift's and Beyoncé's recent tours, I find myself astonished at the artistry, technology, and logistics involved in these stadium-sized performances. They make grand opera look like open mic night at a dive bar.
The Madonna video reminds me of when the studio album with "Isaac" was released. We immediately put it on in the store. When the snippet came on, I sang along. I got some odd looks, because there was no way that I could have heard the album before, and it wasn't in English.
I put on the Ofra Haza album later for my coworkers. (We could play just about anything, as long as it wasn't offensive, and we had at least one copy in stock. We did, and I had the album on my iPod.) It was a revelation.
There was another time, decades earlier, when the film of Gandhi was on TV. A friend and I were watching it, each in our own Brooklyn apartments, while talking on the phone. When one religious song came on, I sang along, which surprised them. By sheer luck, it was the one Indian song that I had learned in an ethnomusicology class.3
A comment on last night's post on Facebook challenges me to name Genesis's original guitarist and drummer. I remember the guitarist, Anthony Phillips, but not the drummer.
Walking home in the afternoon, I pull out my phone and ask the Copilot AI app, "Who was the original drummer for the band Genesis?" Unfortunately, it thinks I'm speaking Hebrew, and responds in Hebrew, "You have said that you have a large white dog. What would you like to know?" Um, OK.
In the evening, walking in the dark through the park on the way to the House of a Hundred Grandmothers, I hear a child's voice repeatedly calling out a name. "Ilan! Ilan!" I can't see where he is, or if he's in trouble.
Eventually, I hear a woman's voice, farther away. "Don't just call out 'Ilan.' You have to say, 'Come to me.'"
The child calls out, "Ilan! Come to me!" The sound of a dog barking moves from the site of the woman's voice to that of the boy's. I hear a small thud and laughter. It sounds like the dog has knocked the boy over.
The woman's voice moves toward them. "Good! Now give him a treat."
Walking down the hall at the House, I get stuck behind an impromptu caravan of wheelchairs and walkers. The wheelchair in front stops abruptly. A man is standing in our path with his back to us. People ask him to move. He appears not to hear them.
The woman in the front wheelchair pokes the man's leg. He jumps, turns around, and sees us. He steps aside and makes a gracious sweeping motion with his arm. The caravan starts up again.
There's a good crowd at Kiddush. We sing along energetically. Some folks have moved around. When I get into the dining hall, I'm surprised to see that the loudest man there isn't where he had sat until now. It doesn't take me long to hear where he is.
My family tells me that a couple of evacuees who had been staying at the House have now moved back to their home in a city near the southern border. They figure that it's safe enough there again. They have enjoyed staying at the House, but it's time to go home.
Walking back through the park after supper, I trip over something invisible on the dark path. I only stumble a little. I don't fall.
The air is chilly enough for me to zip up my hoodie. I can smell at least two fireplaces, in houses at either end of the park.
The cats are nibbling at their kibble in front of the designated trash heap. They ignore me as I pass by. I wish them a bon appétit and a Shabbat shalom as I step through the gate to my yard.
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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 at that Las Vegas address, 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.