In Some Ideal World...

Looking at the Bar-Ilan website scared me today. If only there were a simple "download application here" button...instead there are many people to write to and many programs to consider. There is housing to consider. There is being alone and scared and forgetting to do basic things.

In times like these, I look to my imagination, which takes place on the border of reality and imagination. On the one hand, the path I choose to get to "unreality" is mostly realistic (or at least possible); on the other, the new reality that emerges is nothing like reality. In some ideal world, I would be a singer-songwriter; I would compose and write songs in Hebrew.

I begin in September, upon the discovery that a decade of violin lessons has given me the ability to play guitar, backwards. I take the bus to the recording studio every Friday, with a guitar on my back and a black bag filled with only the essentials: a Hebrew-English dictionary (even though I hate to use it, I need it sometimes), a blank notepad, and a comfortable black pen. I sit down at the piano in the recording studio, glancing nervously at the Israeli businessman/producer who is new enough to have faith in me, but old enough to have some experience. I move my fingers across a few keys with my left hand, and write lyrics with my right; if reporters ever ask me "Which comes first? The music or the lyrics?," I answer "Both."

Despite not having written a poem in Hebrew for the last two months, I manage to write these lyrics, for lack of better words, like magic. The titles I pick are a little too thought-out, but the lyrics are simple and relatable. The music is simple (without the noise that can be added in production), but it develops; it does not quite sound like Aviv Geffen at his best, but it has his spirit. The themes I write about include nostalgia and longing for the nineties, fear of not being accepted in a strange society, longing for love that will not come (a Romeo and Juliet who died even before they met), some anger towards my mother, love that can be found in a new family (which I dedicate to two very special people; it is my only dedication), and a line about hating the television.

My voice is not amazing, but neither is it bad, and it works with the music and the mood I create. The album does not have my name in the title, nor does it have my picture on the cover, or even inside the lyric booklet. I decide to include a note to those who bought the CD -- a little about myself, couched in poetry (this of course happens in a month).

The CD is a hit (not a mega-hit, but still noteworthy); people wonder why an American has decided to produce an album that is entirely in Hebrew (and very well-written, at that). It sparks debates about the nature of Israeli music, both its definition and its form today. It leads to my receipt of two prizes, and even a chance to speak on a talk show. I bring a translator with me to the show, but he falls asleep; I am forced to speak to the interviewer as best I can without his help, before I realize that I don't need him as much as I thought I did (though not as little as I had hoped).

I fly back to the United States on a Saturday night, and get to my dorm slightly jet-lagged. My mom comes to see me, and asks whether I can read all the writing on the prize; I can't. She smirks. I don't like it, but I am too tired to care. I want to produce another album, though it will be a year after something comes out. At least I have proof that I can survive and profit in Israel.

Before long, I find myself living in Israel, more comfortable than I thought I would be, but less comfortable than I had hoped. My minor fame affords me the ability to write some prose, and it too provokes some interesting debate. Yehonatan Geffen eventually invites me too lunch, and we have a great talk (a great portion of which I spend fawning over him); it is imprinted in my memory forever (and made all the better because we somehow manage to avoid the annoying paparazzi, who are even more annoying than American paparazzi). I cherish the white color of the tea cups we drink from and I remember the breeze flowing through his gray hair. We talk some about love, about writing, and about politics.

Life then goes on, somehow, in Israel.