Today was overflowing with damp minutes, a morning siren that has become almost routine but still rings eery, conversations that do not and cannot cease to rip and weigh and that left me dizzy and tearful and curled like fingers around a thumb, the crazy of the internet outdone only by the crazy of what it tells and what I imagine happening some tens of miles south of my home, suffering crawling like a sprinkle of dust up the coast, through invisible currents, on the breeze, dispersing. Is this a story? It has to be a story. Today was my July 22nd, 2014 in the cities of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem in the place that I still choose to believe has room in its cracking coasts and hollowed hills to allow itself to be described as Israel-Palestine.
As I finished writing this, the bus I was on from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv pulled to stop, in the middle of the highway. The cars around us had almost all stopped as well. Some people are crouching on the side of the road as the siren bookends this morning. Then the bus started moving again.