Animal Review
Fanzine of Herbivorous Youth
by Zohar

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| Avner | Fyodor D.



[Four postcard]

What Happened (four totally confused dialogues)


A: What happened?

B: What is happening?

A: Why are you here?

B: Have you ever lived?

A: Are you happy now?

B: Was life worth it?

A: What have you lost?

B: Have you gained weight?

A: Wait for me, right here.



B: Wait for me, right here. The doors will open at nine-thirty sharp, our time.

A: I lost my key.

B: The keys to happiness are love, freedom, and money.

A: Money is just a means of exchange.  We exchange love for freedom, and freedom for love. We need no money.

B  [to himself, quietly] I don't search, I find (he said that, said he, not me).



A: Crooked glasses bend the world. This is called topology.  It is a relatively new science.

B: Eli, my friend from middle school, now has a terribly crooked back.  He lives on the outskirts of Beer Sheva, the capital of the Negev, all by himself.

A: With my bare hands, I bend teaspoons. It is called kinetics. This is a relatively old science.



B: Have you ever lived?

A: Once, I lived in the desert.  I was happy then.

B: Are you becoming happier as you get older?

A: Once I lived in the desert for a few weeks.  A truck stopped by every other day, unloading food.  I slept on a row of orange boxes, drank camel milk and tea.  I was happy then.


 Four Postcards


Nitza Shmueli from Kibbutz Ein-Hamifratz repeatedly solves the radio literary riddle. She is a small, plump middle-aged woman, as appropriate, never had a steady lay, and sits glued to the small radio in her room every Friday at six, when the literary magazine is broadcast. I met her only once, running for the No. 18 bus near the Northern train station. Of course, I never knew it was she. I myself am a small, plump, middle aged man, havenít had a steady fuck in almost three years, but as opposed to Nitza, could never solve the radio literary riddle. Sometimes I think we are deeply, hopelessly in love.


At the range, Eliezer was mockingly shooting at me. The instructor pointed out to us the security rules, loosely dangling from the wall, held by a single yellowing strip of Scotch tape. Eliezer noted that the figure of the little Palestinian boy - someone glued it to the target the other day - resembles me in almost every detail. ďHe has a smaller, pointed nose,Ē I protested. The boy was holding a green apple, his mouth half open. The aim was to root out all his teeth, one by one. As of today, only four remained. But this is just natural for a seven year old, I thought.


For days Iíve had the image of a four-year-old girl, who actually looked and acted like twenty, preparing to jump from a multi-storey building. Not a skyscraper, five or six storeys: The faces of people below, looking upwards, could be clearly seen. One, a woman clutching a netlike, old-fashioned grocery bag, painted light blue, was trying to say something. It was not the distance that muted her, but the noise of an approaching train. The girl was walking back and forth along the edge, then back and forth from edge to center. There, at the middle of the roof,Üshe stood silently for a minute, then ran. The grocery bag had two handles. When the woman below loosened her grip on one, a small can, probably tomato paste, fell. While in the air, even when upside down, she kept running. Curiously, I could clearly hear the can hitting the sidewalk, then rolling toward the road.


I am listening to great singers of the 40s and 50s through a complicated digital device. I am losing hair, money and life by the minute. I cannot do anything about it, since I am too stupid. I am also lonely and miserable, and havenít had a fuck in a week. I have no clue.

The savages are closing in on us every day. People, some of them remote friends, ex-lovers, or third cousins, are lying in the streets, bleeding. Nobody cares to pick them up anymore, or tries to glue the members together, not even the black-hat beards.

I will give everything Iíve got, admittedly not much, for a piece of bread, a 40-year-old not-very-beautiful old maid, or an hour of sanity.

Who could know this will all end like this? Everybody knew, of course. Then, why wouldnít they tell? They all told, they all screamed it at the top of their lungs, from the tops of the Jerusalem hills. So, nobody is to blame, nobody is to blame but me.

But I canít be blamed: I was busy picking my nose. Please, black-hat beards, pick my nose up from the side of the street. Would you? My mouth too: Iíd rather be singing now, all by myself.

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