Cat Gut Suture 17.10.2014

In Israel, fridges explode with wedding themed magnets, mullet hairdos are seen as high culture. Cut, stone-washed jeans are the epitome of power, tinted hair is bourgeois and ‘gangdam style’is only now receiving Youtube hits from this little sliver of democracy. Cliché and hummous drip heavily off the mouths of the inhabitants, but with the arrival of the Jewish festivals, their unique expression is abundant.Heading out the Old City, beyond the castellated walls dodging the slick light-rail, I stroll on up towards Mea’Sharim, the Charedi vein of The Holy City. The white-lettered blue street sign guiding me towards a shtetl-like past. Here the streets are gummy underfoot and their pin-hole width cause me claustrophobia.

Squeezing me, squeezing me, the oesophagus movement pulls me in. The glossless stores peddle utilitarian wares, but it’s the array of kippot, stringy, stripped garments, pewter-ed goblets and thumbed Torah books that are the treasures in this sheenless environment. Little snotty nosed kids with flailing cork-screw payors run helter skelter in their tiny whites. Hurtling, rimless cars force pedestrians to crabwalk along crowded narrow pavements. The area bristles, it is bustling. The narrow drag sprouts side winding roads that encourage cascading perspective. The suburb is bursting as an over-stuffed falafel. With it’s haphazard facade, a patchwork quilt of necessity. Beauty and harmony are stuffed in a back pocket. The organic evolution of the buildings, a creaking ship’s hull, it’s yawing grunt an expressive sound echoing beyond Jerusalem’s borders. The monotone dress and grey scale backgrounds place me in a 1940’s movie reel. Colour is left for high concentrate sodas.

This is an eye-contactless stroll.

The dark hues turn dramatically to softer greens as the stock-exchange-like Sukka-markets open to selling etrogs and lulavs. Palm leaves sprawl across the landscape softening the urban edge. The search for the perfect spear-like lulav and lemon-lime textured etrog fills the minds of many. Eye glasses, magnifying glasses, and a sense of the best ensure an intricate inspection. The air is scented by the sweetness of the 4 species tenderising the hearts of the anonymous throngs. As the night charges bull-like into the red day, spirits are high. Cutting a long diagonal swathe through the teen-heavy Ben Yehuda Street, the Cobb and I bounce through coarse Nachlaot, Jerusalem’s hipster central. The once-working class area is now home to hippy, sandal-wearing Jews. Quarters are close, and one can hear voices through walls. The temporary Sukkas abound, packed tightly, decorated in many an extraordinary kind of way each revealing its owner’s leanings. My eyes, the spies of my body, seeking , searching, oggling at the outdoor activity and the celebratory action the festival delivers. We alley-dock into Yomtov’s party.

With his huge fox-haired streimmel hovering as his halo, his white, silver embroidered kittel his regalia, and his curled-to-a slinky set of payors, Yomtov saunters confidently into his Sukka, his palace.

His guests, drawn to this heavenly body, gravitate towards his energetic pull, staring starry-eyed. Here he reigns. As he sits seated in his bear-clawed throne, he’s handed his acoustic. Plugging it deep into his Marshal, the amp hisses. From the palm-leafed covered Sukka drops his microphone. ‘I need someone on drinks’. I took the lead grabbing six bottles of wine. His nephew popping a red, presents the bottle to his uncle. Swirling the deep ruby in his giant glass goblet, the aroma tickling the flaring fancy of our host he takes a giant glug and commands us to dance. In the throes of excitement, I just stand, ponder my position, pull my lips as wide as they can stretch, feeling so out of character, and in total disbelief I glean a giggle.
As the night slipped deeper into another night, I returned to Mea’Sharim.
With my eyes open to their widest aperture, soaking up life’s sensitivities for an experience, I nervously joined Mea Sharim’s Simchas Beis Hashoeva parties. These Sukka parties abound in the most religious areas in Jerusalem.

 Entering this giant, swollen hall, pummelled black and blue by a robed throng, heaving Chassidic Jews link arms moving in a snake-like trail. We tear open the bind, grab hands, and are immediately drawn into the swirl. I have no control, no-one does. The tide pulls, it pushes. We try tread water but you’ve got to give in. In a foreign place, in an unusual setting , in a distant landscape, that gummy smile returns.

With sweated arms, we leave being cooled by the breeze of the changing seasons. The streets still athrob for another 6 days of celebration.  After my mind had been rattled by excessive thoughts and wanderings, this festival brought me to a place I could smile once again.

Tearing away the carapace of frustration and growth that’s been still-born stunted, i’m slowly regaining my taste for experience, and being once again energised to place myself in obscure situations to gain obscure stories. My awareness continues to evolve, my thinking continues to be  sharpened and my place in the world is slowly being chiselled. This is a journey about a lad, a lad named Dan.