Friday, October 31, 2014

And you, sir, are not such a hotshot!

Am I dreaming? I stare at it in great awe.
“Ah!” says Satan, noting my expression with great interest. “You are a curious creature, woman.”
“No disrespect intended, sir,” I say, “but don’t play with me. If you know my name—which I am sure you do—you would do well to use it when you talk to me.”
“Oh, I would,” he teases me, “if you were to offer me at least a token of gratitude, if you know what I mean.”
I do. And it’s not that I am not tempted... Satan is a handsome fellow, even with fine-haired goat beard on his chin, which is something I could persuade him to shave off, in time...
“Here we are,” he presses on. “All alone, apparently, in a deserted library... Now, how badly do you want your name back, woman?”
In place of an answer, I gulp.
And he says, “I am given to caprice, you know. So I may, perhaps, be persuaded to give your name back to you...”
His words go roundabout, but his gaze is quite direct. Which leaves me dumbfounded; but only for a second. After all, even as a corpse I cannot risk a scandal—and in my own village, or the copy of it, of all places! The place seems vacant at the moment—but then, who knows? 
They say, walls have ears... And gossip, my God, it would be devastating. For sure, it would kill my husband. His heart has been so weak lately. Betrayal—even a whisper of it—would crush him. It would add to the weight of his mounting woes. I still care for Job, even if I am here, trapped in this hellish replica of my birthplace, and he—somewhere up there, in the real thing.
In the silence that has fallen upon the room Satan leafs casually through the pages of the book. Then he raises the magnifying glass to his eye, and glares at me.
“I see,” he says. “Didn’t think so. Just testing; forget it.”
“I will.”
“You are not all that sexy, anyway.”
“And you, sir, are not such a hotshot.”

Job's wife and Satan in Twisted

My bronze sculpture, From Dust

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"A sensitive melding of poetry, prose, and art"



Thursday, October 30, 2014

Come join David and Bathsheba in the royal gardens!

Hope you had a great Halloween, everyone! Like to dress up in costumes, or to strike a funny pose? You've come to the right place! 

Here is Bathsheba Bathing, a lovely oil painting painting by Paolo Veronese, showing king David approaching her with a proposition in mind... I invite you to step into the scene, and help the action along! Here's how:
  1. First, join my Celebrate event (if you haven't already); 
  2. Then, give me an image of yourself--perhaps with your Halloween costume?--by sending me a PM (private message on Facebook) and using Add Photo in it.
Then I will add your image into this scene, so we can all party together in the royal garden with David and Bathsheba! There will be enough space for all of us, as the scene will expand as the party grows in size!






Join David, Bathsheba, Sherri Christian, Jane Carroll, Dellani OakesBrian Benson and yours truly
in the upcoming Celebrate  party!

Surprises and prizes, don't miss the fun!

Come celebrate with me! My book, A Peek at Bathsheba, is about to appear in an amazing audio edition, just in time for the holidays. I invite you to listen to excerpts, narrated by the gifted actor, musician and singer Justin Harmer. There will be surprises and prizes, don't miss the fun!


Click the image and click Join

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

This is a sweet moment for me, and a sad one too

So exciting! Producing the audiobook edition of A Peek at Bathsheba is quickly coming to its completion! This is a sweet moment for me, and a sad one too, because I would miss working with my wonderful narrator, Justin Harmer, who has truly become David, and every one of his wives and enemies. 

I will post more about the process of creative collaboration between us in coming days. To learn more about him, click here: About Justin HarmerMeanwhile I am hard at work, doing the graphic design for the audiobook cover. Here is the problem, maybe you can help me figure it out: how do I come up with a great cover, one that balances the following pieces of information, one that will do it without clutter, even though each one of them has quite a number of letters:

  • Author name: yours truly. 
  • Narrator's Name: most audiobook covers do not even mention the narrator, but I like to give credit where credit is due! 
  • Series name: since this is a trilogy, I would love to display its name for all three volumes, uniting them under the same theme.
  • Book title: A Peek at Bathsheba.

The audiobook will be ready just in time for the holidays. Can you wait? I know I can't!

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"She writes with exquisite prose and elegant style, 
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A wonderful read."

Monday, October 27, 2014

An intriguing novel...Buy it, Read it, LOVE it!

New review for the audiobook edition of Apart From Love:
  • Racquel10-27-14
    Overall
    Performance
    Story
"An intriguing novel...Buy it, Read it, LOVE it!"
Any additional comments?
Uvi Poznansky explores the intricate and complex world of love in ‘Apart From Love’. Very well written and engaging throughout, this novel does, as so many have indicated, reveal the multiple truths behind a dysfunctional family. This author has a real gift for getting right inside her characters' heads. I found her words possessed a special kind of tenderness. Uvi's style is like beautiful poetry. I have never read a book like this. It really stayed interesting till the very last page. The author has great talent and a true master of her craft. Highly recommend the audio


Late Lover

A diamond short, a decade late
I come to stand outside your gate
Unlock and open, let me in
Forgive me, love; what is my sin?
I fled from you across the land
But now I ask you for your hand
A decade late, a diamond short
I can't imagine why you snort
My limbs are frail, my breath is cold
I must admit I may look old
I fall, I kneel, why
I implore

You are the woman I adore
I feel so weak, I feel so brittle
Don't touch! I may be impotent a little
You loved me onceor so I thought
Stop! Take your fingers off my throat


I painted Late Lover from the point of view of the girl he had left behind. She and you, the observer, are one. He is yearning to come back home. A blue cape is flung around his shoulders, which allows the eye to stay with him, rather than drift off to the background, seen in the spaces between his flimsy ribs. More importantly, you can see the withered flowers he lays at your feet, and the ring being cast off your finger, straight onto his head. The words 'A diamond short, a decade late' are carved into the door frame, perhaps with your fingernails, scratching letter after letter over the long-drawn-out years of waiting for him... 

Having painted him all day, the voice of Late Lover came to me at night. The next morning I wrote his poem down in a single breath, and never made any corrections, never replaced a word or adjusted the rhythm--because it came to me completely ready.

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Sunday, October 26, 2014

At the sound of this word, I—I dropped to my knees

So, he drinks; after which I ask, with caution, “So—what did the doctor tell you?”
He’s raising his eyes again, but the right words can’t be found nowhere close to him—not on the ceiling, or on the wall, or the floor, in this corner, or that. So instead, Lenny shuts his eyes and, like, stumbles into saying, “The doctor, he said: Mr. Kaminsky, the tests came back.”
“At this point,” he recalls, “I took a hard swallow. The doctor paused briefly—perhaps taking another look at the test results—and then went on to say, I have some difficult news for you. Your wife, I believe, has a form of Alzheimer's.”
I take the briefcase away from him, ‘cause it’s just about to fall, anyway. 
And so Lenny can’t brace himself no more, ‘cause at this point, he don’t have nothing to hold on to, and nowhere to hide. Instead he just sits there, with the empty glass, saying, “Alzheimer's,” and then again, in a voice that is nearly gagged, “Alzheimer's.” 
And after a long pause he adds, “At the sound of this word, Natasha was confused and I—I dropped to my knees. I remember, she could not get it, could not understand what was going on and told the doctor, Wait, hold on, I cannot talk to you now. Call back later, something is wrong here. No, not with me—with my husband.” 
Lenny takes off his glasses and like, wipes something from the corner of his eye, and my heart goes out to him. And then, then the strangest thing starts happening to me. For the first time in ten years I feel not only for him—but for her, too. 

Anita in Apart From Love


In this passage, Lenny tells his new wife, Anita, how the doctors finally came to the conclusion that Natasha, his ex-wife, suffers from early onset Alzheimer's. This is not an easy conversation for him, having kept the secret to himself for such a long time.


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Saturday, October 25, 2014

They were painted quite liberally with some blood-red smear

All was quiet now, deadly quiet. You had to put your ear close to me to hear the one thing, the only thing that screwed up this silence: the crinkly sound of my hair and nails, continuing to grow, somehow. Even the crows had stopped echoing their calls between one and another. And yet, I was not alone. I could sense another presence. 
When at last I mustered the will to blow the gravel off my eyelids and force them open, the first thing I saw was sandals. Diamond-studded sandals, no less. 
Never before had I seen such an elegant design in our village—not even at my own wedding some years back, when Job could still afford spoiling me. At the time he had been considered a good catch. Rich beyond belief, and as healthy as an ox, he had not been known for being blameless or righteous until much later. Some wicked fun we had! And to please me, he would pour coins into my purse—what a delightful jingle!—so I might buy the most exotic fabrics for my dresses, and the most expensive footwear, imported by Babylonian merchants traveling through the Kingdom of Edom on their way to Egypt. 
How I had been pining lately for his attention, or—failing that—for the luxury of going on a shopping spree! It would have been a pleasant distraction from all my suffering. 
If only I could go, one last time, and buy some brand-new designer clothes, or better yet, shoes...
But now, these sandals—right there at my eye level—were sleek, but also quite strange. Their tar-black, impossibly high heels were cutting with a twist into the freshly dug earth; which at once, seems to scare away a host of worms. 
Naturally, I tried to squirm away—but could not move a muscle.
And look: inside these two contraptions were the ugliest feet I had ever seen. Toes crooked, nails spiked, with an irregular, cracked outer edge—yet they were painted quite liberally with some blood-red smear. 
Sigh. I closed my eyes. Was this a joke, or a bad dream? With such a sloppy manicure, this bitch—whoever she was—must have been even more impatient than I ever was. 
I wished that—for a spell—I could take a peek, just long enough to compare our feet. Mine, you see, are so much prettier! And what’s more, they had been cleaned the night before by the village women, washed once with water from the local well, and a second time with tears. 
But now, even without casting a look I could tell, by the chill on my skin, that under this shroud my feet were utterly bare. No  boots, no shoes, no sandals. 
Which made me envy her. 
Through the skin of my closed eyelids I could sense a sudden change. Blocking the sun, her shadow came crawling upon me, until suddenly it stopped. Which was when—with no warning, and no respect for the departed, either—she gripped my arm, rolled me aside and to my surprise, hopped in

Job's Wife in Twisted


My oil painting, Untitled

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"It is virtually impossible to resist being mesmerized"

Friday, October 24, 2014

Trick or Treat

Gnarled branches here entwine
Ghosts send shivers down your spine
If you trick or tweet tonight
I will give you such a fright

I'll stay twisted until dawn
Until then, leave the lights on
I'll scare you with a puff of heat
Apart From Love, it is my treat


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Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Still, I am unsure if her forgetfulness should be called an illness

And how could I be so dumb as to miss the early, telltale signs, back then when she started forgetting things? 
Simple things, such as the names of her students, and how to teach music, or play Beethoven's fifth. And later, how to put words on paper, and mail me a letter, and why not call me, why not tell me the truth; and how to talk to him, to my father; and most of all, how to forgive betrayal.  
So for me, home is where her illness has been buried, up to now, under a thin, undisturbed layer of memories. 
Or should I call them lies. 
I think that in the future, I should refrain from talking to my father, and especially, from asking him any more questions about her. Let him not upset that image, which I have been striving so hard to construct, the image of mom, framed by their life together, because if this image collapses, so will I. 
Still, I am unsure if her forgetfulness should be called an illness. Those doctors, they could have made a mistake. Two years in medical school taught me one thing, which is how terribly easy it can be to make an incorrect diagnosis. I recall a study of brain autopsies, in which roughly half of those diagnosed with Alzheimer's before death did not, in fact, show any evidence, I mean, evidence of the right degree of brain lesions to support the diagnosis. 
If there is one illness which—in this case—seems too far-fetched, it would be Alzheimer's. My mother is now in her early fifties: much too young, I think, for anything like that.
Yesterday, arriving at LAX, I hoped this could be a short visit, short enough just to take my father out of the hospital and make sure he is all right. I planned to spend no more than a week—but now, now that I know more about mom, and about where she is, I may have to stay longer and think about my next steps.

Ben in Apart From Love

In my novel, Ben returns to his childhood home, and reveals a closely guarded family secret, only to to deny it. His mother, Natasha, previously a renowned pianist, has been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's. Can he save her? Will he accept her fate? Can he break through her silence and reach what remains of the ruins of her mind? Throughout the story, he undergoes a profound change, and alas, so does his mother.


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