I met Max in the summer of 2001. He joined our class in the middle of second grade. A sweet, dark-skinned boy with freckles scattered across his face. He was the first to kiss me—Lag BaOmer, in the Ashdod dunes. The whole class sat around the bonfire, and I remember well the warm kiss on my right cheek. I also smoked my first cigarette in those sands. I liked the tingling on my tongue and the pulse in my temples. There used to be more sand dunes here; the landscape has shrunk, and nature has been trampled. So has my desire to visit the city.
As I grew older, I wandered the city streets with dubious girls. We sat under pergolas—on hot summer evenings and in the rain. We were all daughters of immigrants, laughing too loudly about meaningless things, parading around in thin stiletto heels and dark eyeshadow. We looked like a caricature of luxurious street cats. One had bouncy brown hair and doe-like eyes, another was tense and silent. The third had small, green, slanted eyes.In high school, we worked in beachfront restaurants. We waitressed. I didn’t like it, just as I don’t like anything today that isn’t photography. After night shifts, on my way home, I would see run-over cats on the road, lying there as if they had fallen asleep in unnatural positions. Most likely hit by drunk drivers.
Ashdod was full of everything you could imagine. Hash. Cocaine. Cheap vodka flowing through the southern streets. I saw but never touched. I preferred other things - I was sleepy most of the time, prone to daydreaming. I drifted into empty spaces. When my gaze wandered outward—to the street, the sky, the thin trees standing there bare—it was part of an endless cycle of destruction and healing.
Maybe with a little less luck, my life would have been painted in different shades. But I had instincts I respected. I always flossed, never drank from a stranger’s glass, and dirty fingernails made my stomach turn. I always used cynicism as a form of humor—it’s a trait of my generation, a generation unwilling to endure. I enjoy face masks and sometimes eating sandwiches while leaning over the kitchen counter. I prefer a bouquet of flowers over a formal arrangement—those belong at memorials and funerals. I love quality glassware. And solid wood. I love photographing cacti. I know when love reaches the soul. It’s rare. When it happens, you have to hold on tight and love fast. And leave slowly. Or maybe the other way around? Maybe it’s better to love slowly and leave fast? I’m not sure. But I do find comfort in memory. Even if it’s just a romanticized version of fleeting moments.
