“The man who comes back through the Door in the Wall will never be quite the same as the man who went out. He will be wiser but less sure, happier but less self-satisfied, humbler in acknowledging his ignorance yet better equipped to understand the relationship of words to things, of systematic reasoning to the unfathomable mystery which he tries, forever vainly, to comprehend.”
-Aldous Huxley
Short term memory
by Sasha Tamarin
Notre Falaise
by Guy Kushi & Yariv Fein
Scenes from a memory
by Ekaterina Bourindine
The last apartment
by Vera Vladimirsky
Untitled (Japan) 2015
by David Adika
Night Walk
by Rami Maymon
Nights in White Satin & Days of Black Milk
by Amit Epstein
It is early evening in Bochum or Hannover or maybe Bonn and I’m taking a stroll. Slowly I feel my breath getting heavier and heavier. It’s becoming an effort that I need to make, pushing air in and out my chest, and it whistles. I take a turn from the street to a path which leads me to a garden, overflowing with white flowers. I keep on walking, I’m searching for a bench to sit although my feet are floating. The path curves and now I’m in a forest. The trees are tall and thin and I think, the trees are the same trees, only I won’t hide. There’s no sun but there’s light which is carried as sound of a sweet warm voice which contains such a pain, that you physically know it. I look up and I see clouds in the shape of my grandmother’s breasts under her silky beige blouse. She smiles at me and I think, the fear is the same fear, but I won’t be afraid. I belong yet I find myself in a constant state of falling-out. I am not being followed, still this shadow is not mine. I go up a hill, and it feels like running against the wind. As I go higher a melody fades in, I understand it’s Italian even without words. In the background I hear quiet screams and ignore them. I tell myself, concentrate on your breathing. I tell myself, stop thinking, you are filling instead of feeling. I stop and stand in front of a pond, looking down in the water my reflection seems to be made of bread. I raise my hands with bended elbows and turn around. No one is threatening me but I tell myself, take no chances. I tell myself, surrender. I tell myself and repeat: you are not at risk. There’s a red line which I cross jumping with my knees squeezed tight, and beyond it there’s a hand in a white glove that escorts me and guides me out to the back exit. I wear lipstick and it tastes like blood. It is blood. I wipe it off, I raise my head and forget. It will happen again soon, but until then, I’m as safe as an island in front of a sinking ship.
Sinai Peninsula
by Tair Adato
The space between us
by Tom Kneller
Our Road
by Yael Bedarshi
Portland cars
by Ariel Tagar
The Capital
by Barr Zutra
Sneaking light
by Yoni Passy
Hate loving you
by David Havrony
Karaoke No. 3
starring Sami Zibak
It was a very good year
by Udi Sharabani
When I was seventeen, it was a very good trip
It was a very good trip for small town girls
and soft summer nights
we’d hide from the lights
on the village green
When I was seventeen.
When I was twenty-one, it was a very good trip
it was a very good trip for city girls
who lived up the stairs
with all that perfumed hair
that came undone
when I was twenty-one.
When I was thirty-five, it was a very good trip
It was a very good trip for blue-blooded girls
Of independent means
We’d ride in limousines
Their chauffeurs would drive
When I was thirty-five
But now the days are short, I’m in the autumn of the trip
And now I think of my life as vintage wine
From fine old kegs
From the brim to the dregs
It poured sweet and clear
It was a very good trip
Pata sucia
by @dariadaria69 and David Havrony
Lost Feelings
by Dudy Dayan
In process
by Elinor Salomon
Grün
by Rotem of Qiryat Gat
Selected works
by Hanna Sahar
Mixed Emotions
by Uri Gershuni
Summer day dream
by Sivan Elirazi
FOG – Soul Kitchen
by milk and honey
Frozen
by Yuli Peretz Calatchi
Odyssey
by Tomer Davidovich
look outside
by Rani Katan
emojiMandala.net
by Ron Erlih
Mix No.2 Diana I. Tzurianu
Last ferrie
by Guli Cohen
The end
of trip
“Never to go on trips with anyone you do not love.” – Ernest Hemingway
Next Issue
September 2017