The Sometimes Blog
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Damnit, Steve

October 14, 2011 – 2:01 am

For some decades now, Steve Jobs was being Steve Jobs so we won’t have to. So now we have to – otherwise the world of technology will once again be ruled by those who “just have no taste, I mean that in a big way, in the sense that they don’t think of original ideas and don’t bring any culture into their product” – unregrettably successful but with “really, third rate products”.

My friend Tomer Lichtash wrote (or remixed) an iKaddsh for Jobs. Lots of people payed homage to the dead genius, but of all of them, the only person who’s iMac I destroyed by spilling mediocre Grappa all over it was Tomer Lichtash. They say karma can travel half way around the world. If, by spilling said Grappas on said Lichtash’s iMac ignited the fuse that ended with Job’s demise, I deeply apologize.

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Johnny, Polly, Georgy, Ringo

September 16, 2011 – 8:39 am

We stand at either bank of hell
it smiles, unknown to us. It knows:
summer’s gone, and winter’s gone, again -
from here it looks as if its tongue
would lick, between our burning feet,
its cracked, cracked lips.

I never tied your legs, I swear
but we are both so full of sin
we sinned like shopaholics, yes we did.
And now the camera finds us here:
two dusty, fading pomegranates
dangling at a dead branch’s end.

There’s hope for us, but hope is sad
and we are happy, eight of ten
at least that’s what our tagline says
but look: our secrets, sleeping in their web,
undreaming, floating embryos
too precious to be told.

I woke up to that wailing cat
and yes, I did forget of late
that there was such an thing as those.
A Jaguar, lost memories say:
Majestic, yawning, quickquickquick.
In Reykjavik
they call this thing Rausa. So the auto-translate says.

We stood with outstretched fingers, but
we had our hand behind our back.
When I was grazing stars, you headed East.
And summer went, and winter went, again, again
- so very quickquickquick.

The cat is dead, the wall still stands.
And how about that, friend?
Do you still lean against your side, and do you still,
you know?
And I don’t aim to take a hammer to your toil -
I want to come in when it’s all in heaps.

You think about that, friend, and I will think
what profits brought by tearing the cocoons
and kissing all the secrets slumbering within.
After all, it’s summer’s here, and not for long
and summers gone bring winters gone
again, again, again.

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Opening Remarks

August 23, 2011 – 10:39 am

I intend to do very little writing in here. That’s how you know I’m busy actually writing.

And yet, an online place of one’s own is so important, especially in this nano-age of social networks that own your updates and give them the shelf life of unrefrigerated milk. Everybody needs a place to stretch his own legs. A place to voice one’s opinion. To do so in the cool quiet of his own piece of land, not the hum and din of the Agora.

Somewhere, in short, to procrastinate.

This is also not a blog. It is not meant for your enjoyment. I will not entertain. It’s a sometimes-blog, meant for my own creative release. (If you inadvertently enjoy it anyway, I take no responsibility). It’s not a vehicle for fame; in fact, if you’re reading here at all, it must mean that I’ve killed eleven people and set myself on fire and you’re a reporter wondering what happened.

(If that is the case, don’t be daft. Don’t ask my neighbors if they knew. Of course they’d tell you I was quiet and polite. They don’t want their property value to go down. Ask my ex-girlfriends).

I have other places you should go read in: tryscersfic is a Twitter-enabled flash fiction experiment that goes badly for at least three years now; This Was Last Year is an online novel, written in progress, scheduled to start failing from September 6th. I also write about Internet culture and technology, though most of it is in Hebrew. Now you see I lied: this site is useful. One column to the right you could see all that – where it says grab box – plus some other short-shelf-lived witticisms I post on Twitter.

See, you’re glad you stayed all the way till the end.

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