When Winter Wind Wears Desert Boots

It's exciting putting out a new book. It's hard to describe. It all begins with an idea, a small seed, which slowly grows and creates constant turmoil in my mind. The seed becomes a story - and then the story begins to write itself. It is then that I know that a book is inside of me. And I rush to get it out, get it out before the rivers dry up and I lose my way.

But I do lose my way, many times, during the process. At times, I wonder who this is on the other side of the page. Whose story is this? Or can it belong to anyone?

A good friend read the finished draft manuscript and told me not to publish the book.
"You are risking too much by publishing it," he said.
"But it is fiction!" I exclaimed. "Why would this be putting myself at risk?"
"Because only you know what parts of it are fiction and what parts of it are not. And some people may see it all as real - an autobiography, perhaps - or maybe even a confession."
"If this is in any way a confession, then it is Daniel's confession," I said. "Although I think, if he still had a voice, he would claim it to be more of a legacy, than a confession."
"And he would want to believe that," my friend said. "As would you. Aren't you and Daniel the same person?"
"No. I am the author. Nothing more. He is my creation."

In my first book: "As I Died Laughing", there appeared to be no clear borders between the real and the unreal, between fact and fiction. In a continually fragmented plot, the author found it much easier to hide in the background. But there is nothing for the author to hide behind in: "When Winter Wind Wears Desert Boots". I stand there naked. There is truth in what I have to say, but I choose its maner of creation. The characters are real to the book. They begin and end there. Some of you will believe that you see yourselves in the book, but you are who you bring to the reading. And if you take away much more, then I have succeeded as a writer.

I have written two novels, and this second novel - "When Winter Wind Wears Desert Boots" - is the one that I believe will define me as a writer. Why do I put such emphasis on this second book? Because it is something that has been waiting to be written for a very long time. You may understand this much better when you read the book.

So, what is left? There was a time in my life when the act of writing, by itself, was enough. Just by putting words down on a page, I was in communion with self. But that is not enough, now. Not nearly enough. My words seek to be heard. They have lived in solitude, inside of me, for so long. And now, they no longer belong totally to me. They wander, seeking a new home, many new homes, as they live on and become real in the consciousness of others.

Another good friend asked me:
"What's it like knowing that there are people out there reading your most innermost thoughts at this very moment?"
I hesitated, but only for a fraction of a moment.
"As much as this may sound surprising," I answered, "it is a relief."
And I left it at that.

Can beautiful people really feel the Blues?

I first saw the movie, Bagdad Café, long before coming to live in the desert, but even then its haunting sound teased me with dark promises as to where a desert road might lead. When I first listened to the Blues, I felt very much the same way. I wasn't there yet, but it touched me in ways no other genre of music did. The Blues is like Guinness. Either you love its bitter taste, or you don't like it at all. And if Guinness is somewhat of a rarity in most Israeli restaurants and pubs, the Blues is almost non-existent on the Israeli music scene.

Why is it that Israelis have never locked into the Blues? It doesn't even appear as a genre on most Israeli music listings. The YES satellite music select station, which proudly offers over thirty music categories to choose from, does not include the Blues on its list. Nor does the Wikipedia page - Music in Israel - mention the Blues on its long list of popular Israeli music genres. Perhaps an Israeli foundation - The Israeli Blues Society - will help spread the word. It's not that Israeli music hasn't considerably evolved over the years. It has: especially Israeli rock. Why is it then that Rock has become increasingly popular with Israeli youth, but not the Blues? Are there age restrictions to feeling the Blues?

Some of us are born old. Old Souls. We flirt with this all our lives. And then time catches up with us and we are just old. That's how I felt the other night while listening to Lazer Lloyd and Ronnie Peterson play the Blues at a pub in Kibbutz Tlalim. They had come there, down a long desert road, to this little oasis in the middle of the desert.

The makeshift desert pub was full of young people - beautiful young people - for this musical event. It's not that I have anything against beautiful young people. I was almost one, once. But now my presence felt like a hiccup in the passage of time, as I appeared to be the only one over the age of forty.

My eyes slowly scanned the room as the young audience awaited the appearance of Lazer and Ronnie. What were they expecting to hear?  I asked myself. Were they here out of curiosity or had they somehow developed a passion for the Blues, down here in the desert? And then Lazer and Ronnie appeared. They sat at the front of the crowded room, without the benefit of the buffer of a large stage that usually separated them in their larger venues. Perhaps it was this that knocked them a little off-balance at first, or the strange quiet of the desert setting. Or the shock of playing to a young audience: an audience of beautiful young people with expectancy still in their eyes, Ronnie appeared to have a bit of a problem synchronizing with Lazer's changing chords. Lazer appeared to improvize, at times, as if slowly feeling his way into this irregular setting. Some people soon started to sway back and forth with the rhythm. Some simply nodded. And others just sat rooted to the spot, as the music washed over them.

Ronnie and Lazer looked at first like I felt: aged and washed out. But it didn't take long until Lazer found the groove. One might even say that he caught fire, carrying Ronnie along with him. And everything else did not matter. It was the Blues again. Only the Blues.

The crowd was appreciative. I suppose each person took away something different. And for those of us who were Old Souls, we said hello again to old ghosts, and felt the music take hold and rip out our guts, leaving us exposed, the pain a welcome old friend. And for a moment, I did feel truly alive.

The Mystery Behind the Mask

People seem to love to have a reason to wear a costume. A few weeks ago, our High School for Environmental Studies held its annual Purim parade. Students dressed up in costumes and built floats out of recycled material. Thousands of people made it down to this small oasis in the desert to cheer them on. Purim is perhaps one of the most joyous of Jewish holidays, although still keeping to the typical Jewish holiday recipe: "They persecuted us, we beat them, let's eat!"

Some people compare Purim to Halloween, mainly because of the costumes. But while Israeli schools are putting on elaborate parades and acting out the history of the Purim holiday, children on Halloween go from door to door shouting "trick and treat" and filling up on candy. And the adults, in both holidays, get to party, often drinking a little too much, but having the luxury of hiding behind the anonymity of their costume.

Who among us does not wear a mask? Some masks make us faceless in a crowd. Other masks seductively reveal just enough of ourselves to have people asking for more. Would Romeo and Juliet have ever found the courage to meet, had it not been for the mask?

But it is not just at masked parties and events, such as Purim and Halloween that people adorn costumes. People like to dress up every day, from the moment they get up, until they go to bed. Clothes: clothes for the occasion, clothes for the mood; colorful makeup, stylized haircuts, dangling jewellery and hot tattoos.

Much of this is imitation, something that begins already early in our childhood years, where children mimic their parents by putting on their shoes and clothes. Later it often becomes a means of protest, as rebellious teenagers dress in stark contrast to their parents' appearance. And much later, it is a feeble attempt to regain lost youth, in our denial of getting old.

Such are the costumes we wear, and the people we want to be. When was the last time you made that leap of faith? Did you succeed?

Does sunshine on your shoulder really make you happy?

It is the middle of November and I am still in short-sleeves and sandal mode.
28 degrees Celsius. Isn't that a little ridiculous for this time of year? Not that I am complaining... well, maybe just a little.

You see, there comes a point when sunshine may be just a tad too much.

"Too much?! My dear, you can never have too much," my Canadian friend tells me, her teeth chattering as she tightens the scarf around her neck and pulls the hood of her jacket down around her ears. "When was the last time you had to commute through snow, sleet and black ice?" she asks.
"Well, you know, I live in a desert."
"Then think about doing this seven months of the year," she adds, stamping on the ground in the attempt to feel her feet again.
"Yes, I understand," I answer, distracted for a moment as I ponder the plastic tie which is holding my sandals together. "But look at it another way. Think about seeing sunshine, only sunshine, day after day after day, seven months in a row."
It was then, in a desperate impulse to do me harm, that she picked up a lethal looking icicle, but luckily it snapped between her fingers.

The problem with Canadians is that they have trouble seeing the whole picture. Or seeing any more than five meters through the blizzard. Of course, Americans are no better. And even on a clear day, they have a problem seeing much further than the end of their nose. Imagine how John Denver would have made it through seven months of straight sunshine. What would he be singing about then?

As for Israelis, if sunshine comes bundled with happiness, why are Israelis such an irritated, loud, paranoid, aggressive and motley lot? Israelis get much more sunshine than Canadians and the whole Northern Hemisphere. You'd expect them to be filled with glee, with all that sunshine on their shoulder. Not only Israelis. Take a look at the whole Middle East. Where is the humour? Where are people sitting back, enjoying a good laugh over a bottle of Arak?

"Your problem is that you have never had much of a sunny disposition."
"Where did you come from?" I ask, looking up into the darkness.
"Just passing by. I didn't want to be rude and enter your thoughts, but..."
"When has that ever stopped you?"
"True, but where would you be without me?"
I decided to let this pass in silence.
"Have you ever considered that this may only be you?"
"Me? What?"
"This aversion to things of a sunny nature."
"It's  not a question of aversion. It is a question of what really inspires me."
"Like me."
"Well, yes. You are my muse, aren't you? Isn't that what muses are supposed to do?
"So, you want me to do the weather now?"
"Could you?"
"I don't do weather."

I am conflicted. I enjoy wearing only shorts, short-sleeves and sandals. And I couldn't comfortably do this if the sun hid itself away. But I would give this up to see the heavens open: the rain pounding down on the roof as the sound of thunder fills the skies. Maybe I should start a facebook group for people searching for the clouds behind the sunshine.

Living in constant sunshine reminds me of the movie Groundhog Day, where our hero wakes up each and every morning to the same day and must relive it again and again. But then, that had a happy ending.

"How long do you think you could weather such gloom?"
"I thought you went for an afternoon nap."
"Couldn't fall asleep. The sun is shining through the window."
"Are you making fun of me?"
"No, that would be too easy.

When the clock strikes midnight

"We are surrounded!" I wrote, fearing communication would be cut soon.
"Get out of there, fast!" my wife SMSed back.
I had visions of striking workers approaching with chains and burning tires.
"Close the windows, lock the doors from the inside and turn off the lights," I shouted to the other workers holed up in the building. "If there is smoke, lie down with your nose to the ground."
Soon the sounds of voices and singing were heard outside of the building, accompanied by pounding pots and pans. I sniffed the air, but there was no smell of smoke. I peeked through the blinds. The striking workers seemed to be having a merry old time. What unnerved me most was the laughter and dancing - especially the belly dancing.

Up until that point, I had envisaged a situation somewhat similar to when the Canadian consulate offered sanctuary to American Embassy workers in Tehran when the embassy was overrun by Iranian protesters. Two key field school personnel had fled the field school moments earlier when striking workers had closed it down, and asked if we could offer them sanctuary in the Interdisciplinary Centre and a place to work. But however compelling the similarity seemed to be at first, it lost its edge in the merry song and dancing. I imagine that Ben Affleck would have continued unperturbed and have made the most of the situation, turning it into a movie opportunity - the Canadian becoming a burned out American CIA agent trying to save his marriage to an Israeli, while helping America regain its stature in the Middle East. As for the pots and pans and merry singing - that would turn into semi-automatic gun fire and the threatening screams of a wild mob seeking blood. You've got to love Hollywood.

"I think it will be okay," I wrote my wife.
"Are you sure?" she wrote back.
"Yes, I am the last one they'd shoot. They know that they need me."

Striker 1: "You shot David?"
Striker 2: "Yes. He was working and you told me to shoot anyone who is working."
Striker 1: "Yes, but not David. You can't shoot David. We need him."
Striker 2: "Yes, but..."
Striker 3: "What happened?"
Striker 2: "He shot David."
Striker 3: "David! You can't shoot David! He's Canadian!"
Striker 2: "I thought he was Israeli."
Striker 3: "Yes, but he is also Canadian."
Striker 2: "When did he come from Canada?"
Striker 3: "I don't know. Sometime... but that's not the point. You can't shoot a Canadian. When was the last time you heard about somebody shooting a Canadian. No one even shoots UN Canadian peace keepers.
Striker 2: "They might if they mistake them for American."
Striker 4: "What happened?"
Striker 3: "They shot the Canadian."
Striker 1: "And our computer guy."
Striker 4: "They shot two people!"
Striker 2: "They... he was working!  And he said... "
Striker 1: "We have to do something. Maybe if we apologize."
Striker 3: "I don't know. He looked to be in pretty bad shape."

I guess I owe you a little background.

I work in a government trust - Midreshet Sde Boker - situated in a small desert community. The Trust was established at the request of Israel's first prime minister and visionary: David Ben Gurion. He wanted to create a seat of learning in the middle of the Negev desert which would inspire people to come from far and wide and settle in the Negev. The Trust consists of a unique High School for Environmental studies (a boarding school with students from all over Israel), a Field School, Interdisciplinary Centre and other relevant offices. It shares space in the community (Midreshet Ben Gurion) with institutions affiliated with Ben Gurion University: The Desert Research Institute, the Ben Gurion Archives and the Solar Energy Institute. In its golden years, it could have been considered as a "light unto nations". But in the last ten years, things have changed somewhat.

It all began with severe budget cuts by the government. And now, instead of investing most of its time in creating new exciting and valuable initiatives in the field of education - primarily environmental education - the Trust spends almost all of its time in surviving financially. At the same time, the workers are worried about continuing to receive a decent wage in light of the increased cost of living. In 2007 their collective workers' agreement with Midreshet Sde Boker ended, and since then - despite intensive negotiations at times - no new collective agreement has been signed. And for the last four years, the local workers union has threatened to strike if an agreement is not reached.

And last week, it finally happened. The workers went out on strike and have been out on strike since. And now, the Trust is in danger of shutting down altogether. The high school students have been sent home, and the field school cannot accept new groups (for lodging, instruction, etc.) Parents of the high school students are up in arms and are threatening to stop tuition payments and the field school, which is one of the Trust's main sources of income, will soon have no income coming in, at all.

Since I am on personal contract and am in charge of keeping the whole computer infrastructure working, I (and other managers) are still working. With mixed feelings. On the one hand, the workers deserve to have a fair collective agreement. On the other hand, if the Trust will be permanently shut down because of this strike, no one will have any work at all. Am I optimistic? Not really. Apparently the Minister of Education tried to intervene - approaching the head of the national workers union (Histadrut), to no avail. You'd think that if the Democrats and Republicans could finally reach an agreement to avert a continued, crippling government shutdown, then an agreement could be reached between some 80 workers and a government trust. You'd think.

I have been entertaining the idea of opening a pub for some time. Whitehorse, in the Canadian north, has been a major contender - or anywhere else in the Yukon region. Or I could even settle for Uxbridge or Bracebridge, beautiful spots in Ontario. And if opening a pub appears in the end to be too aspiring, then working in a pub is also an option - spending most of my free time writing. Until now, this has remained a lazy fantasy. It appears that if they don't hit me over the head and send me packing, I will stay a desert rat. But the way things are going, this might happen quite soon.

This reminds me of the last episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, where Mary turns off the light and closes the door for the last time. Is this where we are heading now?

And now the book: Why I May Still Be Canadian

A few months ago, I was approached by a publisher to turn my blog - Why I May Still Be Canadian - into a book (paperback).
"Turn a blog into a book?" I asked myself. "Isn't that going in the opposite direction?"
For blogs seem to be almost an antithesis to the printed word. One rests in cyberspace, expanding in elastic time and space - while the other is encased in a limited number of physical pages between two covers.
I may not have seriously considered this request at all, hadn't it been for a remark made by a good friend a short time earlier:
"Your blog would make a good book," he said.
"A book... yes. But what's the point?" I asked myself.

The point, according to the publisher - bloggingbooks, is quite clear:

Blogs deserve being published!
Millions of people share their point of view with the world in real time – This is how blogs have
become part of our everyday lives. Blogs focus on the present and thereby provide continuous
commentary on daily happenings. Events and content, that are presented in a chronological
order on the internet, get a new dimension through books. Books create systematic snapshots
through collecting, compiling, categorizing and commenting.

Are you convinced?

I still wasn't, although they had definitely captured my interest. I think that what may have convinced me in the end was the revelation that a blog is like sand sifting through our fingers. We see it as it passes through, but then it is swallowed up in the collecting mound of sand below. Although one may jump back in time and sporadically read earlier postings, a blog is more like a newspaper than a book. It is archived like many newspapers are, but only a small percentage of people work their way back.

I know that I am subjective, but in transforming the blog structure into book form (a huge task in itself), I really enjoyed reading the postings from old to new. A blog can make a good book, strangely enough.

So Why I May Still Be Canadian  is my second book - the one most people can understand. And this blog posting may be seen as a watershed separating the blog, which is the book, from the blog which still bravely carries onward into the virtual darkness.

If you do purchase my book, drop me a line and share your thoughts. Always good to know that you are not alone.

And where are you from, laddie?

“Where are you from?” is a question I was often asked in Scotland.
How do I answer that?
Canada? Israel? Does it really matter what I choose? For so long, my only  travelling was short visits to Canada and back, where both Canada and Israel stake their claim to who I am.
But here, in Scotland, I was in neutral territory.

“Israel.”

Canada would have been the simpler choice. Few people have reason to take any interest if you say  you are from Canada. Even less reason to throw stones. When was the last time Canada really pissed somebody off?

But to claim to be from Canada would be to deny so much of what I have become.

“I live in the desert,” I added.
That was a nice finishing touch, providing me with added immunity. For some reason, people living in deserts appear to be  beyond borders. Just ask Israelis who ask to have their passports stamped when they make their way south of Beer Sheva.

“You speak English really well.”
“I’m originally from Canada.”
“Ah.”
That tended to conveniently confuse the issue. No talk about politics tonight.

Scots, as we all know, are not new to questions of identity. They have had no reigning monarch for 300  years, are no longer considered an independent country but rather a part of The United Kingdom, and their “Pound Scots” was abruptly abolished in 1707 and replaced by Scottish money similar in denomination and value to the English bank notes, although the Scottish notes are not of legal tender.

“You see that?” I was asked by one B&B owner, as a Scottish ten pound note was flashed in front of me. “We print our own money now. And it is as good as any other. But there are always a few bastards down south who refuse to take them. They will get their comeuppance.”
I have always wondered why many Scots keep old swords hanging on their walls, swords which they also keep well sharpened.

On our last day in Edinburgh, I saw a shirt that read - “I’m for Scotland, or for anybody playing against England.” That pretty well says it all, doesn’t it.

But the Scots have their own way in getting in the last word. Long ago they discovered that if you take anything that still resembles a castle,  palace, or formidable edifice - hang up a few explanations in the various rooms as to their historical importance, you can cash in for about 6 pounds a head. And, if you can display the pivotal role that this edifice once played in the struggle against English suppression of rightful Scottish national aspirations, you can get much more than that. And for a few rousing stories of time past, you can even get 4 quid a head for a few ruins of crumbling walls and stairs leading nowhere. Factor into this that many of the tourists are from England down south and ... need I say more?

Of course, the complexity of Scottish identity is not all about the English suppression. Other factors also need to be taken into account. The Picts, for instance. “Whatever happened to the Picts?” All that appears left are inscriptions on stones.

And then there are the clans. We can never forget the clans.
I envy the Scots their surnames. My last name - “Lloyd” - is of Welsh origin. But having a Welsh name isn’t anywhere as much fun as having a name of one of the clans. With a name like “Montgomery”, you get your own coat of arms (family crest), and can purchase cups, saucers, shirts, keyrings, kilts.... you name it ... all with your coat of arms proudly displayed. And if you look hard enough, you’ll find proof that you are the next legal heir to the throne of Scotland, if the throne were ever to return. So much rich historical tradition surrounding your surname and the only question I ever get about my Welsh surname is whether I have any connection to the bank. But don’t get me wrong, I am proud of my Welsh ancestry. And don’t even get me started on how we Welsh were exploited by the English.

Walking among the ibex

“Where have all the flowers gone?” my wife asked.

“Flowers?” I suddenly remembered the image of an ibex walking past me the day before on my way back home from work, white petals sticking out of the side of his mouth.

“Yes the flowers in the garden. All of them. Suddenly gone.”

What had struck me most was his sardonic grin. Ibex are not known for expression of any type.

I shifted uneasily in my chair. “I don’t know.”

“It must be your friends,” she said, shooting me an accusing stare.

“Friends?” I replied innocently.

“Yes, the ibex.”

The thing is, you can’t really call the ibex your friends. Sure, I have a soft spot for them, and they humour my existence. I can walk among them and they accept me there. I have always seemed to have had a special connection with animals. As if they view me differently from my fellow humans. This may explain my lack of communication with people on a whole. For, when it comes to connecting to the human race, I am basically autistic.

My connection to the ibex has increased greatly over the years, especially as the dry winters forced them up from the wadi below to search for edibles on the outskirts of our community. I meet them each morning, as they breakfast on the greenery outside my office building on the edge of the wadi. And again, on my way home for lunch, while they are perched up on their hind legs trying to trim yet another circle from the bottom of the trees. But as summer wore on this year, their search for food has taken them further and further into our community.

And then, one day, it happened. I was standing out on the balcony, hanging up the laundry, when I saw them. There must have been about thirty of them, munching their way through two neighboring houses. One stood, with his mighty antlers, on the other side of the walkway, staring up at me. The ibex are great starers. They don’t even blink.

I shook my head and pointed back towards the wadi. “Don’t even think of it,” I warned.

I felt a little guilty saying these words. Here were these poor hungry ibex, who had been here far before this human community. Actually, not the exact same ibex, but you get my point. And all they wanted was to eat to survive.

Finishing with the laundry, I went in to check my mail. Soon I heard this weird crunching noise. Going back onto the balcony, I saw that about ten ibex had encroached onto our territory. A few were trying to create a diversion by seemingly munching on the grass, while others made their way to the much more promising garden at the back.

“No you don’t,” I instinctively called out, the thousands of years of genetically developed territorial imperative pulsing through my veins. I rushed down the stairs and shooed them away. They cantered back to the other houses and regrouped there.

They waited until I had gone into the house before making their way over again. Once again I shooed them away. But when it happened the third time - this time all thirty had made the move - I decided to give up. “Forces of nature,” I thought to myself. Who was I to deny them their means of survival. What was the garden, actually, other than another futile attempt to bottle up nature and make it our own trophy?

“Don’t you prefer it that way?” my wife would ask, pointing to the existence of the garden as we sat outside, reading.

“Yes,” I’d answer.

“Then stop complaining.”

And then, just as I had accepted their right to nibble our offerings, the whole herd of ibex suddenly stampeded their way past me back to the wadi. This was the first I had ever seen a stampede of ibex. They must have stumbled upon a neighbour’s dog. The ibex are a protected animal, but it appeared that they had overstepped their area of protection.

“So, that’s that,” I thought to myself. “In the end, all’s well that ends well.”

But now, a few days later, the flowers were gone.

“I’ll go down and take a look,” I said to my wife.

Despite the many green delicacies on offer, it appeared that they had only eaten the petals off of the flowers. Each and every petal, with only the stems remaining. I wondered whether the petals had added flavour, or whether the ibex were as frivolous for beauty as we were.

In the days that followed, I kept an eye on their progress. At the end of each day the stems on the plants were munched down even more. No matter their penchant for petals, the ibex didn’t seem to have much patience to wait for them to grow back. Life is just too short.

You might think that all this has significantly changed my relationship with the ibex. Well, either they have a short memory or they have forgiven me for my moment of betrayal in trying to shoo them away. For in the desert, a host honours his guests, no matter how they find their way to his abode. Live and let live. For the ibex, each new day is one of discovery, and for me, it is another opportunity to walk among them.

Pardon me while I check if I exist

I don’t know about you, but I enjoy my privacy … that is, if I really have a choice between being alone or being with others. Isn’t that what it is all about … choices?

Last night there was a power blackout in our small community down here in the desert. Started in the evening and by 10:30 pm I decided that it was time to give up to the higher powers and go to bed. At midnight I was awakened by the barking of dogs. I thought that the electricity must have come back on, but no – pitch black. I buried my head deep into the pillow and somehow got back to sleep. This morning the electricity had returned and while nursing a morning coffee I received an SMS from my wife who is presently in the States.

“I hear you’ve had air raid sirens.”

“Don’t know,” I replied, thinking back to the barking dogs in the middle of the night. “No electricity.”

I checked the news on the net and apparently rockets were falling everywhere. I checked the radio and all I got were songs that are usually played when we are at war. No connection to the outside world for a night and see what happens.

War is not a laughing matter, but sometimes the only thing we can do is laugh. (More about that when my book comes out. Stay tuned.) We struggle our way through the 24 hours of the day, with choices that we make and choices that are made for us. Choice is not something that we really appreciate until it is taken away from us. 100 TV satellite stations, Internet connection to every small corner of the world, and poof … the power goes out.

“Why was the power out?” my wife SMS’s me.

“Don’t know,” I helpfully reply.

“Just wanted to be sure that it wasn’t because they are dropping bombs on you,” she reassures me.

“Whatever.”

With that I go to make myself another cup of coffee while we still do have electricity. Although I could make coffee on the gas heater, if needed. At least there, there is a backup plan. Nothing like low tech, eh?

These sad Israeli songs are killing me. It’s time for some Pink Floyd, Neil Young … I’d even settle for the Moody Blues. So much for that, I tell myself, shutting off the radio. “You see, I had the choice to listen or not.”

“If I am in the middle of the desert and I lose my Internet connection, do I really exist?”

I can hear a thousand voices scoffing at this idea, but wait, think about it for a moment. Note that I said lose my Internet connection, which is different from not having an Internet connection in the first place. My id has been extended into my virtual identity. And without it, I am lost in the wilderness. (This is where the rotten tomatoes start flying through cyberspace in my direction.) But think about it, those of you who are brave enough to stare into the crater. What makes up the essence of you? If you have found your way somehow to read these words, you must be connected to this virtual world of elusive proportions in some way. Are you merely visiting, or are you inhabiting virtual space?  

“Truly you exaggerate,” you tell me, after having a moment to digest my flagrant statement. “Existence is not so fragile as to depend upon a lost Internet connection, or even on a sweeping power blackout. Whether or not you can hear the news or lend your voice, a world exists out there, regardless.”

“Whether a world exists out there or not is not the point at hand,” I reply. “Actually, I favour the idea of parallel universes. And I am not asking for proof that they exist. What is significant at this point of time is how they are relevant to me.”

“That is a pretty big ego, you have,” you remark.

“Yes,” I say, “it must encompass a whole world.”

Would a radio station exist if absolutely no one was listening to it? Surely the line would go dead. Or would its radio beam extend out into infinite space, where finally it would be picked up by an alien on a Sunday drive out who would smash his spacecraft into a small asteroid out of pure manic depression upon listening to this slew of sad Israeli songs.

My existence doesn’t necessarily depend upon other people. By writing this blog, I may be fooling the gods into believing that someone really is listening to me simply by speaking into the wilderness. But note that last night, when I still had about two hours of battery power left to generate my laptop, I could have written this blog then. But there didn’t appear to be any point then. “No one there to hear me.”

“But you are writing it offline, you twit,” an invisible voice says. “No one will read it until you put it online, in any case.”

“You are missing the point,” I say.

What is the point? It must go back to choices, and the choice of privacy. As some of you may know, I am a social outcast, mainly by choice, and partly because of a dysfunctional personality in any setting where any more than two people gather. Yet I have been running a successful virtual community for the last 15 years. After 21 years on the net, one might say that my virtual personality is firmly entrenched, with roots spreading out everywhere. But unlike the so-called real world, I choose when to connect and when not to. Unless there is a power blackout.

And here is my most difficult question for you.

“Are you a different person, now that you have a virtual identity?”

The faint of heart need not respond. For those of you who want to make yourselves heard, talk to us.

“Stare into the crater.”

Why Guinness always tastes better in Tel Aviv

How far would you go for a good pint of Guinness? A 5 minute drive? 20 minutes? How about two and a half hours?

There is a quaint little pub in the heart of Tel Aviv, neatly tucked away opposite the Dan Hotel, close to the American Embassy, and just a stone's throw away from the Mediterranean. One would think that I could find something a little closer to the middle of the desert, where I live. And yes, Guinness has been spotted in Beer Sheva, the sleepy southern cow town, known as the "Capital of the Negev". And yes, I have even tasted a pint or two there. But no, it cannot come anywhere close to a pint of Guinness at Molly Blooms.

So, what makes Molly special, so much so that she continually seduces me into making the long two and a half hour sojourn up into her arms from the desert? Is it the lure of the sea; the interesting assortment of people wandering in from Hayarkon Street; the unique  atmosphere created by parts shipped in from the mother country; the waitress who grows increasingly stunning as I work my way through the pints? Or is it the taste of a skillfully pulled pint, running through pipes religiously prepared for its journey.

I was once told, during my christening period into the wonders of Guinness when travelling through Ireland, that the taste could be significantly different from pub to pub – all depending on how it is drawn. It was there that I joined the quest for the perfect pint. Some feel that this quest is quite similar to the search for the perfect woman. Yet most, in their later years, seem quite content to sit back and drink their pints and watch their women, for the Irish know that both together are the closest to heaven that they will ever get – at least in this world.

A friend of mine first discovered Molly Blooms, when it was just opening, many years ago. He lives only a short jaunt away, but he convinced me to make the journey up to try out this new pub, and the rest – as they say – is history. Since then, this has become our "office" and we meet there whenever I can make it up from the desert. Ronald, my friend who will remain nameless, always waits to watch me take that first sip of Guinness. He says that my whole countenance changes. A sense of tranquility sets over me and I become a new person, or a better part of my old self. I discovered long ago that  Guinness is much more than just a beer: "mother's milk", I like to call it. Others may scoff at this. But I know what I know. My friend, however, can neither agree nor disagree, as he doesn't drink Guinness, even though he is originally from London. But at least he has left his distressing Carlsberg habit behind, now choosing a darker blend, even though it may only be Tuborg. But there is hope for him yet.

R, as I will call him, becomes increasingly insightful as he drinks.  I become amazingly brilliant, but then I am the one drinking the Guinness. We have come up with plans to become rich and famous, write the great American novel, solve the problems of the Middle East, know what it is that women really want … to have all these revelations of genius evaporate away on the train ride home. We keep promising ourselves that next time we will write it down. But we never do.

So yes, Guinness always tastes better in Tel Aviv. You know the feeling, where the best of friends meet, to share that special place and that special moment – and all seems well with the world.