I have had a cold for a week, but today almost makes up for that. Not only I am almost well again, but the weather is somewhat warmer – so I opened all the windows and let the fresh, crisp air in. Air! It's just wonderful to be able to take deep, deep breathes without being afraid of catching another cold. It's not a spring yet – not be a long shot. But few laid-back birds chirp lazily near the windows, the ever green trees bask in the soft sunlight, and I can hear the children laughing and singing in the kindergarten next to my house.

What do I do? I want to catch up with work, but feel too ebullient for that. I want to jump and dance and run – sitting down is tiresome on such a day. Maybe I will cook.

Yes, I actually feel like cooking….and that happens about 2.6 times a year.

Well, in vain I have tried to restrain myself. Here is my take on Harry Potter.

I read the first two books when I was fourteen. I liked them moderately, nothing special. At that stage in my life I was reading at least one book every day and I felt no need to single those books out as especially entertaining or enjoyable.

When the third book came out in Hebrew, I borrowed it from my best friend as a matter of course – we always borrowed new books from each other. That time, however, the book enchanted me. I fell in love with it, and that changed my all perception of the series. Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban is still my favorite HP book. And the Quidditch scenes there are still my favorite scenes in the series. The Cup final was as exhilarating for me as a true sports event.

I had mixed feelings about the fourth book, but I was already emotionally invested enough to read it again and again. The fifth was the first I read in English, about a month after it came out. I was so impressed I sat down immediately to translate the chapter 'The Prophecy'. I worked untiringly for two days, till I had done translating this very long chapter. Later in the semester, when I was required to hand out a comprehensive project about books I read in English, I included the chapter I translated in my folder. That was the peak of my obsession.

I was eager to read the sixth book, but wasn't much moved by it. I like it, no more and no less than I like hundreds other books. Still, I can't wait to read the last book. I love the characters even when I think the plot is lame, and I will be much interested to see all the loose ends tied up.

However, it's only in the last two or three years that I came to understand the size of this phenomenon. You say kids fan-fic it? Adults do the same. A little while ago I read an article in the Guardian about a conference for people who write HP fan fiction. It left me feeling sick. The weird shippers are bad enough, but the fact that in one lecture the expert asked "who wrote about bestiality in this fiction?" and all those attending (except for one guy) raised their hands – sorry, I found it sick. That's KIDS books we are talking about, right?

I don’t blame the books at all. I don’t think they should be banned, and to the extent they have a message, it's a banally positive one. But I know of people who don't read it BECAUSE it becomes such a 'must read' (or rather, must-be-obsessed-over) and I don’t blame them. If I knew about the hype BEFORE I read the books, I might be wary as well. Although I am convinced the hype and obsession prove nothing but the fact we live in a sick, creepy world. But what else is new?

The song is called 'Here I Am' and Yehoram Gaon's voice is strong and warm and takes full care of every note. I love this voice. Huddled in my chair, I am listening, content.

I walk to you everyday of my life
I walk to you blinded
The stones wound me feet
But I don’t feel anything

I am returning from a wilderness
Reaching out to stroke your hair
Here I am, but like a wounded dove
I always fall before your gate

Here I am, like circling birds
Here I am, watching from the roofs
Here I am, like a stone in the fence
Like a rock, like a well,
I am the man who always comes back, comes back.

The unashamed sentimentality of that thrills me. It always does. And Gaon somehow makes it sound real and sincere and important. The wounded dove coos in his voice.

I am returning in a thousand reincarnations
I am an hermit, a prince and a beggar
And at night, when the foxes wail
I am dreaming and awake in you at the same time

I see you, the distant one,
Like a princess imprisoned in a tower
Sitting and waiting between the grates
G-d, G-d is great.

Here I am, like circling birds
Here I am, watching from the roofs
Here I am, like a stone in the fence
Like a rock, like a well,
I am the man who always comes back, comes back.

What a translation can do justice to the Hebrew lyrics? Not mine, I am sure. Gaon is singing, and my eyes are filled with tears because I can picture in my mind the imprisoned princess.

And you waited, like the stones
And like a well to a walker in the desert
Soft sunrises kissed your face,
Heavy sunsets kissed your neck.

And so I saw you, standing and waiting,
And in your eyes light and much sadness
And so I took you with me to wedding canopy
You, the barefoot with a gold crown.

Here I am, like circling birds
Here I am, watching from the roofs
Here I am, like a stone in the fence
Like a rock, like a well,
I am the man who always comes back, comes back.

Jerusalem is the sweetheart this song tells about. Jerusalem. Gaon is a born and bred Jerusalemite, but you don’t have to be one to understand how true this song is, how the sentimentality is actually realism, how the images and metaphors are nothing but an accurate picture of this city, barefoot with a gold crown. Stray cats walking its streets indifferently, but you lift your eyes and the hills overwhelm you. If there is another city that forces you to bow your head before its tired but ever-young body, I have never heard about such a city.

Jerusalem, barefoot with a gold crown.

I thought I would write about every round of the AO. Well, I was wrong. All the words I had to say found a loving home at Peter Bodo's Tennis World, and my journal was neglected. I sincerely apologize before it.

Roger Federer won this slam, too. You have got to add the 'too' when you write about Federer winning slams. That's his vocation, his calling and his hobby. All hail the king.

I had been extremely nervous before the final, as Federer's greatness never comes to my help at such times. I want him to win, and the likeliness of this happening somewhat fails to reassure me. Quite the opposite. I am much more given to think what a huge upset it can be. Let's hope those upsets will stay in my frightened imagination.

Federer won and was happy but businesslike in his speech, probably making sure he wouldn't burst into tears as he did last year, the most memorable (and endearing) moment of his career for me. Gonzalez was all class and heart, damp green eyes and sweet accent. He is ranked fifth in the world now, and I fully expect him to do even better.

All hail the king, all blow kisses to Gonzalez. The Federer Era isn't very kind to people whose girlfriend isn't named Mirka, but what a compensation we receive: the right to watch an ever-thrilling genius making a tennis racquet sing.

Today you are all with me, and I reach out
To touch your lives, today the sun is laughing at us
Because we think we have a light of our own. Today you
Are all holding your hands to me, and I am laughing with
The sun because we pretend it will last forever.

Today we are dancing around the clock and not
Remembering that it slowly kills us, take us away
From our magic times together. Today you are singing
With me, singing for my birthday and believing that
A birthday is an occasion for celebration, not for grief.

Today you are all with me, and I see you as you are
And you see me as I am, and everything is possible. Today
The world allows us to be bright eyed and free of tears. Today
Is just us. Today you are all with me and I can love you,
And when today is over, I can love you still.

Baghdatis was sent packing by Monfils…Dudi Sela was denied a sensational win over Safin…Federer outperformed Bjorkman, one of his most ardent fans…Serena did her job…Fish still going strong…Nadal should've won in straights, but beat Kohl only after four sets…Dementieva is overcoming her demons so far…Nieminen is the first seed to lose in the tournament – apocalypse has been postponed for now…Novak Djokovic means business…Kim Clijsters hasn't mentioned any injuries…Go Kimmy…her ex Hewitt definitely seems more focused…Sharapova was much better in her second match, or perhaps the heat was just more tolerable…Go, Roger, Go!

Down under, they are playing tennis.

All of the first round matches have been played and it's time to sum up some first impressions:

Federer looks great in pink…Djokovic is in top form…Kim Clijsters should win the title…Hewitt hasn't lost ALL of his fire…Safin is still Safin…bright yellow shirts should be banned…playing tennis after 3:00 AM is just insane – Kudos to Seppi and Reynolds for giving it all, though…Nieminen and the apocalypse are still going strong…Sharapova almost lost, but only almost…Ljubicic should repeat 100 times every day "I am able to win first round matches in slams"…Davydenko is quietly doing his work…Murray currently has more bagels than Federer, a feat he should relish since it will not last long…Serena Williams is at least trying…David Nalbandian's guardian angel is quite overworked…GO, ROGER, GO!

I love reading good children books, and my favorite books are those that feature a truly weird kid, one that is definitely different than most of the kids you remember from your childhood.

Nora Raleigh Baskin's Almost Home has exactly such a heroine. Leah is different. She daydreams, she makes believe, she plays 'Little People' with her younger sister, she writes letters to her mother – and she never sends them. And she makes friends with Will, another six-grader who doesn't fit in.

It's a story about family, and coping with the changes it goes through. It's about separation, betrayal, unanswered questions, and the extent to which parents can mess up their children's lives – and their own. But it's also about friendship and adjustment, about growing up and daring to dream.

The book is written in a gentle, unhurried prose, as it's told by a reflective, reserved Leah. It has many beautiful moments, but my favorite is the one when Leah discovers she can't play 'Little People' anymore. She's grown up and can't believe in the game.
In a scene that I found both happy and heartbreaking, Little Sis is playing and Leah is reading a book. I wonder whether this scene symbolizes what happens to many of us when we can't play anymore: we find a refuge in books. They help us suspend our disbelief when playing can no longer do it.

As I have posted before, I had to interview a young widow about her husband's last letter. Interviewing her was easy enough. Taking notes was no problem at all.

Writing the article, however, is a whole different matter.

I am not usually beset with 'I am not worthy' feelings. Every writer has to trust their ability to express themselves almost on any subject. You mustn't shy away, or blush, or tremble so much that you mistype every second word. Humble writers might well exist, but most journalists are at best gently self-confident. That's part of the job requirements.

I surely don’t lack self-confidence. And yet, this article rebels against me and refuses to be written. What right do I have to write it?

Take your time, said my editor, and I am thankful for his understanding. But I know that making it as a journalist forces you to write even when you feel unworthy. I just wish I could use my reverence to write it as it should be written, to preserve the wonder and the beauty. If I feel unworthy and incapable of managing that, perhaps these very feelings will provide the tone best suited for this article.

I hope so.

A poem that wrote itself this morning:

Time

It used to be a clock
Seconds and minutes and hours, I knew nothing else
And Time was a dwarf laughing at my face
When I was waiting for the kick-off,
Waiting for the bell ring
Waiting for the sunrise.
It used to be a calendar
Days and weeks and months
And Time was a winged fairy, landing to take a nap
When I was waiting for a wedding day
Waiting for the long vacation
Waiting for the New Year.
It used to be what I used to be
A clock, a calendar, a dwarf and a fairy
With schedules and dates and certainty colored
In imagination.

It's an ocean now. It doesn’t laugh at me, nor does
It sleep under my longing gaze.
It's an ocean now and it engulfs me, and I don’t have time anymore,
Because Time has me.