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"You can suck me, it won't get hard anyway" you yell at me from the other room. I'm in the living room, thinking what the hell was I thinking when I dared to think anything. You and me under one roof. I try other techniques because spit on skin won't help me in your case. Neither will "gluing lashes on eyelids" or "painting my lip". "You'll be my project for the year," I think to myself, half mumbling. "What Ma'am?", "You'll be my project for the year."

Outside. Sun. The air is salty. You with a mouth gag and I play being your dad. What would I be like if I were your dad? I would not have left.

We are back home, our shoulders are soar from the over-the-top 4X5 I chose to walk with and now there is no moving from this fixed parameter in the equation. "But you do take into account that it only allows you to photograph a certain way?" Yes, I suppose it changes everything but I don't care".

Mother. Calling. "I haven't seen you in weeks and I heard you were in Tel Aviv. Like always, you piss on me and I say it's raining." I end the call, pick up the new sketchbook you picked out for me. "Did you hand in your shifts yet?" I shout immediacy at the isle between us, "No, by tonight," "So we're shooting on Thursday. I have a new frame in mind." You come closer, I sit at the desk, wondering what is the right shade of pencil for the fluid your cock will pee in order to understand what it really looks like when someone pees on you. Maybe she'll change her mind.

I find a piece of burnt baking paper from the toaster, etched with the message: "A small gift for you, Ma'am. I'll tidy when I get back. Sorry for the mess." You are everywhere, like a giant fly on the wall, like a zeppelin that keeps hovering above me. The "What would Danny say when he sees this?"

So when do you end and when do I begin? I haven't known too much about it for a while. I think that everything started because it is more challenging to make you laugh than make you cry.  

On what adventure will I take you today? "We are going to Beersheba tomorrow, do you know anyone who can photograph us? Omer isn't available tomorrow." Scorching sun, you and I trying to light the charcoal in the barbecue, this is almost doomed, after all. Drivers are honking at as from both sides of the junction – what do they want? We also don't know what we want. To gain. To say.

You have to have one political frame in the series, everybody knows that," I explain to you. You are listening. We will celebrate Independence Day in Beersheba, in the shade of the monument for the liberation of motherfuckingsomething. Almost late for work. Serving food to people and smiling, smiling our asses off, a baby doesn't smile that much. I see you again at night, going into the shower with your white robe, so clean, even before you took a shower. What is he thinking?! Does he think he's in Club Med?! I think and fall asleep.

 

So when did it start that I need you to hold my hand when I want to conceive something, when I try to conjure something to the air of the world imagery? When exactly did it happen that I understood that the equation of a man and a women like us can make me talk about everything I am not allowed to say about myself? About everything I am not allowed to say about you?

This house is an isolated shelter.  If I had to photograph it, it would have been a dilapidated white wood shack with a huge birdcage at its center and an enormous skylight. Hanging on a cloud that sails in a set course between Jerusalem and the atmosphere. "How much crap do I need to come up with simply to take off my clothes" you laugh. "It has to be an homage frame for 'American Beauty,' I'll order two thousand red roses and we will have to hang the 4X5 on the ceiling and shoot in ninety degrees from above.