That long, transparent thing with its metamorphic container manages to astonish, every time, again. A squeeze of the trigger producing a bond. The cartridge, unwilling, is forced toward an unknown fate. Most often, it dances its drunken sway, spills out, loses form, builds slowly, then trickles and flows beyond control. Within minutes, it steams with gleaming vapors, slides from here to there and back again, grips everything and releases nothing. Or else, lets go all at once,

I was born in Israel in 1974, nine months after the Yom Kippur War. I was five years old when my family moved to a new town. My first memory from there was getting out of the truck that was transporting our belongings and meeting a woman who asked me who we were. I told her enthusiastically that we had come to live here and that we were relatives of my aunt, who already lived there. Her response was: "Oh, another family of Farsi miduna..." *   It was my first encounter with t