This is the first part of my novel "he is looking at the girl in the poncho, translated by ora comings. (All rights preserved, etc.)
Take Another Piece of My Heart From Venus to Mars
Let me explain, she said sitting in a corner where you can see the sky. Making love is very scary, there’s “penetration” and a (at times very specific) dampness and an energy that is sometimes wanting. It’s all about interpretation, understand I feel for example a yearning that is more like love than some act that might anyway be forgotten tomorrow. Prologue If it’s there, between us, it’ll work out, you’ll see, she said when he pressed against her in the car, as they were parting. Don’t press me. It’s not something ‘instant’ with me, like some pudding or packaged soup. I like to take things slowly at first. I’ll call you on my day off, it’s only a week away. He explained something about the black hole in his life. She’ll call, she knows. He won’t, yet. But there’ll be another time. She awoke. He’ll come today to help scrub down the wall, the place is in bad need of some tidying up. She makes a pile on the table of the good messages together with the bad. The last account she gave in for payment. Shit. They haven’t extended the contract, the bastards. Someone had taken over the space that had been hers for five years. Alright, forget it. A list of songs to record for Mo, how sweet he is, please just let him stick around. An article she’s saving only because of the email address on it, maybe she’ll send them some of her writing. A curly edged sea shell from their last outing. A sweet picture from her dream and still fresh in her memory. She’s in the yard of their old house, watering the front garden with a dusty smell that is washing off the grass and the shrubs. Joel arrives, good, he’ll get something done at last. Suits him. She’s always dreaming of homes with gardens, like the one they lived in until very recently. Pity Joel’s not in on it. Oof, her son’s made off with her favorite gelabiya again, she’s looking for it so as to be dressed in something comfortable. Probably gone off to Sinai, good job it’s not to Thailand, like all the others. Better get a move on, when they’re done here, there’ll be some peace and quiet and I’ll be able to write the final chapter (story). Final, but there’ll still be something “open” about it, something that leaves some scrap of hope, maybe it doesn’t all come to an end right there, but – And why the hell did you have to write a novel that’s more like a collection of short stories, her agent asked, as did her editor, later, in that same grumbling tone of voice. My life, too, is a kind of chapter by chapter event, though, isn’t it? Get up in the morning. surprised that we’re still here, alive and kicking. I am not a believer, but that morning prayer of thanks to God for giving back the soul seems to me so right … recently, at least, with time seeming to be running by like a conveyer belt flying forward at a crazy speed, and still, it’s each day for itself. You count your organs and check your thoughts, and then – I do, at least – do a kind of stock taking. What’s the job for the day? Ah. Today, I’m teaching. Or doing something in the house. Sending off a recording or writing a story, trying to make some progress with my research project, dribs and drabs. That’s what my life is like. A series of free-standing episodes: you can prolong it and make time stand still. Like that moment when, after something like twenty or so years, I kissed you again. And your taste, and smell, were like they once were. Clean, innocent and magnetic. You, of course took it as an invitation, followed by a long, drawn out look, a sweet memory to lighten the darkest moments … and still, all those years as a potential pensioner in the firm, from the minute I accepted a job that was eight sizes too small for me, just so as not to make any trouble. And those eight years simply flashed by. Time, as Bergson says, depends on whoever feels it, itcan’t be measured by regular parameters. I believe it is cut according to your thoughts. In my writing, too, I prefer to leave my own stamp on posterity. And you know what? I’ll take you from the end to the beginning. It’s that much more interesting, you’ll see. I hope so, at least, and will and desire it to be so. Let’s go, then
i would like to publish this novel in english or hebrew (something like 80-90 pages. ) please contact me. .