Tuesday, September 21, 2004

Are you a blog subscriber?

Hummm... this question should be actually an advertising slogan, and I'm no publicist therefore I'm not going to advertise anything, not even my blog. I'm going to talk about something totally uninteresting and empty, nothing to do with Isobel. I just want to talk about the readers of this blog and even when the note profiles to be not literarily enriching or for the same good sake interesting, I think the owner of this blog is oweing this note already for sometime. For it's far more important to talk about the readers of the blog than it is important to talk about the characters of the blog. The characters themselves might shift their sides and their encores, we've already noticed from words of the story-teller that most of them are nothing but stoppovers, odes and navigation maps in the life of Isobel and in regard to Isobel there's not much we can really know, for the mystery of her animal existence is the main concern of some series of writings included in this blog, understand Isobel is not a purpose but rather a process, a process that just like beauty or virtue is meant to be unfinished, is meant to be half-foretold, half-untold.

In my opinion there hasn't been that many people reading through these pages other than a few friends and other cronies; somehow it doesn't really make justice to the writer since many of our readers are themselves characters whose lives are vividly pictured here in the most absolute and radical abstractions, those kind of abstractions that probably can spring only from the hands of a linguist. Of a linguist who pretends to write journals, who pretends to write history, who pretends above all to be a simple blogger. Bottom line is, no justice is being made to the linguist.

The philologist is reading this blog with content, apparently he's been made the main and only purpose of this blog, but he's mistaken for he's only got to provide us with the background that would make this enriched language and elaborate discourse possible, the philologist is the one to provide us with the mustiness that is necessary to explain the lives and deers of Isobel, to explain the Isobelian tragedy with its riddles, poems and side dishes. The philologist provides with the content, he's a musty young man with context and background, a victim of the Isobelian frustrations. Cursed by the awareness granted to those softened by the arts of the muses and even by Sappho, the 10th muse as some Greek demagogist would say.

The wife of the journalist or at present simply wife was also one of our frequent readers, a critic of every word and every persona depicted here, the wife of the journalist with her little talk and acute moral understanding of other people and other dynamics was one of the most impressive features of our blogs, Ari and the wife of the journalist did manage actually to keep us entertained for a couple of weeks with their conflict and their bond. A triada between Sophoclean agonies, Victorian novels and Israeli newspapers. Together they walked the paths of wife's short life until the take over of Isobel one night of wild motions and animal breathe, when the primary instinct took over the infatuations of a rich woman and gave birth to the girl Isobel, to the woman Isobel, above all to the a more human and delicate Isobel. The wife of the journalist was a victim of post-modernism, a victim of gay American life, a victim of feminism and a victim of democracy. Even so, she read this blog. Since we're far to have completed the superstructure of this blog (and that will probably never happen) there're several future notes missing. The wife of the journalist doesn't need a biographical profile or a history of her own, there's a little bit of this little woman in each and every one of us, in every wife and in every big and strong husband. Only my notes about the victims of post-modernism (due to be published here) and some other desserts will explain the life of the wife of the journalist, the ageless "petit femme". There's something about her I truely liked, but we're not the same real persona. I don't need to regret her wrongdoings and her invasive suitcases in the journalist's life leaving Ari asides. We're just saying the wife was one of our most faithful readers.

They haven't been the only readers of this blog, there are others whose mention is definitely worthwhile. The journalist has read this blog as well but little can be told about him for there's a real persone behind the character of the journalist, a real persona about whom we'll talk by the end of this note. The journalist himself has allegedly been unnamed by Isobel. His name has become a Biblical metaphor that is outside the scope of this note. For now we shall just say Ofer is behind the note, in between the lines and hence we're indebted to him as well for this note, shall the whiskey not play up on me I'll be able to finish this note and comment the real person behind his title and what he's got to do with this note.

There have been other casual readers, other circumstancial and coincidential readers. People like Elliot has been also been reading this blog and making casual annotation about the elevated morality of our characters, our fogs and our screens of mist. Elliot has been also a passive player of this plot. Her friendship with wife has been a proof of her existence, of her circumstancial existence. How she brought herself along from centuries long gone by and spoke up her mind, in abscences, in silences.

Elliot hasn't been the only reader, there have been others whose names we're not meant to mention, there have been other odes and other poems. Dramatists, tragics, novelists and even simple story tellers, mythologic deities and people with little stories, people of little words, little people just like wife, little in their grandeur, rendez-vous.

We can count on other people as well. I have two sisters, not sisters in blood of heart but blood in arms, blood specially in arms. My sister Lola actually seems to be occupied with beatings and academic romances and anyhow she doesn't know the language good enough as to understand the leit-motifs behind this blog, despite the Kunderian letters we've exchanged over the last four years. Timeless but not meant to stay. I count with another sister, Keren, but unfortunately destiny has placed us with different standings and she hasn't been able to outreach me on such a level that would enable her to read this blog, hence she's just not reading it.

Then I have a broad circle of so-called friends, to whom I would refer as nothing but acquaintances for our communication is one-sided and we don't manage to hear each other's language in spite of speaking the same language. Language is not something that has to do with grammar, it probably has to do with Logos more than with anything else. I must be right here in the position to talk about Anne Frank, "who would believe that a thirteen years old girl feels alone in the world?". Who would believe that such a talented and overinfatuated blogger feels alone in the world? Well this blogger certainly does.

I have other friends who should be likely to read in this blog but still no mention has been made of them whatsoever. There's not many people in the world I trust for that purpose and between shades and soul Ari still constitutes an unreadable paper, a blank page in uncertainty of selfness. We can mention a few only for the good sake. Iris for example, my advisor and guide in different paths of life, the breed and breathe of motherhood in one friend, unconditional friend... yet she's too busy between morning vermouth and anti-depressant pills hence she's not very likely to stare at my blog. Friends that have come and gone in the missing, in the abscence and the yearning of other days... these friends haven't read here either, they haven't been read here either.

Many others constitute the core of passengers and different travel companions in the journey of Isobel through the hues of Indigo and ebano and jade. Childhood soulmates and adolescence soulmates that been lost on the way through the journeys of time that separate all things, that bring all things together like Hesperus, like Aurora. Despite all that we're not together in this life for Isobel has led very different lives. Thus they're not reading these pages and they're not very likely to do so in the future. They don't constitute the steady group of subscribers to this blog.

Strangers, unknown strangers and familiar strangers have also wandered down these pages, I've stranged them as well. Strangers that might just have come across these pages through a search enginge or just through scrolling down profiles in my site, maybe through my website, my fora or the different websites in which I've been writing for the last years which are quite a few. Strangers are the readers I like the most but I don't think I count with many of them for who would be really interested in the writings of a poor young philologist? Who would be interested in the stranged life of Isobel in the forest and in the peak and in the dawn?

Still I rely on strangers to keep the meaningfulness of these pages for the posterity, strangers have constituted in all times the best of readers and the most conscipicious and loyal followers, but I count with no such followers. If you're a stranger that just came across these pages and has the patience to come down here let me know who you are, not because I'm certainly interested in you as the selfish journal writer I am, but only in order to profile you for the record of my historial. Maybe one day notes about strangers will be written down here, just like I did years back during my years in college and university. All my notes were about strangers and about stranged.

The pale and sad guy and the flowers, the smells to old and to morrow, the mourn and the morning, the still smells, the smells then still, it still smells. Deja-vouz in the streets, the blonde guy with the leather jacket just next to the hotel's corner, Liad-looking girls and other categories of stars, other impersonal categorizations. That's what pleasurably I used to write back then in the days of my earlier youth.

My old lovers also fall in the category of stranged readers, of known unreaders. None of them has been invited to these pages for no one of them has ever got to know Isobel, none of them was curious enough to dig into the reality shades of Isobel and her moonly companion. Even after being simpe flirts, affairs or love stories they didn't find the way right through Isobel and very few yet have found it straight. My old lovers don't fall among these category of finders. They're not categoric readers, they constitute probably simple Hegelian and Proustian introductions to Isobel's thought, as if there was such a thing though. Heraclitus would help us to elucidate better; "If you've heard me but not the Logos, it is wise to ascertain by means of the sense that all things constitute one very thing". "Ta panda". My old lovers are as unfit to wander through these pages as the half-strangers of my phone agenda are. They don't reach the category of odes, they're stuck as simply rememebrances, not even memories.

Probably Fernando would be the most qualified reader but still he's not reading me, not because he lacks of the language or state of mind to do so. It's only because I'm still sitting on his pedestal among other Greek divinities I introduced to him in books of Jung and Kerenyi. This is not meant to be read by admirers, only by observers. He's not even stranged yet, only placed somewhere between nothingness and spaced conceptualizations. Hence he's not reading Isobel either, for in despite of being the closest of lovers and the most feeble and fervient of them, he hasn't seen Isobel yet. He was content with the distant reflexes of Ari from afar, of an Apolinear Ari that doesn't have place among tragic discourses and short poems. Not even the most loyal admirer of Ari has place among these pages for Isobel can't really tolerate, she's in the end living by herself, "when she does it she means to".

Does it mean we're simply unread? Hummm... not so sure about it. There are a few readers, very few and it's very much worthwhile to talk about them with a banal touch, with a touch not even Isobel herself would recognize.

There are probably only two readers I woud rely on but I'm prone to talk about them with a certain despise. I will refrain to do so though because who am I anyway to jump into conclusions? Who am I to draw up conclusions from Isobel's findings? She's probably known for longer than I do where she's being led to. Who am I to talk about her secret life and her private loves? I do relate to these two readers but my opinions are simply unfounded, because "one is the loneliest number that you'll ever do... one is a number just worse than two". I'm not Isobel, I'm simply Ari, the loneliest number. Ari the zweerver, a lonely number.

I might just talk a little bit about these two meant-to-be-loyal readers without going into detail for a lifetime and whole empty blog is meant to do this job. Unlike Isobel's, Ari and these two readers are enormous "muss-nicht-sein" that only adulthood and maturity will break from their unrest. Even when unnamed for Isobel those readers and eventually writers and self-contained writers do have a name for me and since I don't belong to Isobel's world I'm prone to comment on them. Simple flesh, simple bones, simple human kind. A couple of days back in time I pretended to make those two readers members of this blog but I withdrew in the last minute, they're meant to be readers and who could write about Isobel's life if not me? Yes I know it's just me being totally egoccentric, but let them make a choice. Let them spin. It's a chill out comedy. I wouldn't allow them to write in these pages as first person and I don't know if they're even interested in reading at all so I rather don't ask questions whose answers I'm afraid to foresee.

Ari and these two readers seem to lead parallel lives from different universal axes and theyr bridges although unbridged seem to have connected at some point.

Lara and Ari have been friends for already sometime and she seems to understand Isobel better than she understand Ari. She and Ari seem to lack a bit of a connection, a reality touch. Religious differences separate them, age separated them and not just age but thousands of miles and several oceans, several ships, nights and days. They haven't really outreached. Lara is more than the hilarious Anglo-Saxon woman from the tabooed Christian world, more than the kindergarden and the van, she's far beyond those little ephimerities. Ari is more than the average gay man, than little talk and post cards. More than weltschmerz and unrest. One still hasn't managed to see the other, they don't embrace and they don't seem to understand.

Lara and Isobel are something else. Lara doesn't know the world where Isobel lives although she's been already to Norway, but it's worthwhile remembering there's a world of hues and words between suburban Norway and the Isobelian nights, there's a world of differences between cosmopolitan Trondsheim and the Valhala. A world not even language can bridge. Yet they do seem to relate, they both seem to understand. Things that not language but skin can explain. Ari personally only partly likes Lara for she finds her temporarily deceiving and superficial, sometimes talkable and sometimes just filled up with the phony North American Europeans couldn't ever put up to, for these people has been nowhere beyond the Northern Sea, even when living in the Middle East they haven't left Vriesland and Ruegen. But Lara and Isobel are intimate friends, just like Elliot and wife. Lara constitutes one of the readers of our blog, one of those two readers we rely on.

Ofer and Ari are somewhere else, different planets standing on axes of the same galaxy yet distant as nothingness and selfness, distant as oxygen and decomposition. Ofer and Ari have just come out of a flirt, of a little story that never broke ground, of a little story that became a silent operetta, yet never breaking the ground, nor the waves. Ari and Ofer are not an ordinary companion but an extraordinary lack of it. An infatuated and overly smart and well spoken lack of companion. They're edges from different strings, unparallel wires. Walking together through a tempestful storm they've already parted for storms come in cycles and companion allows no repetition and American gay life allow no stronghold of sentimentalisms. Who's got time for humanity these days anyway? Ofer and Ari are heavy suitcases of "muss-nicht-sein", elaborate and overcomplicated misunderstandings. Also tons and tons of sadness, that sadness probably only Elliot and Isobel could understand.

Isobel and Ofer are nonetheless standing on a very different axe; Ofer is probably one of the only males with enough sensitivity to approach Isobel's delicate silent skin in between the lines, in between Ari's sadness and wife's overcomplicated speech and rehearsal. In the silences and in the inmortalities of blank poems Ofer and Isobel walked into each other's eyes every once in a while, and thus walked out too. He could smell Isobel the hunter, in her haunt. Isobel the animal killer, more than probably anyone else he could not just smell but also taste Isobel the animal killer, the wet smell to ground and animal beauty of Phoebus energetikos. A Demetrian unsung ode, an ode written in paper skin, in skinned paper.

The both of them and Isobel embrace in sweet brutality, in animal motions. The ones who could see her beautifully sad and angry face in between the clouds of smoke exhalling from the philologist's knowledge-starving mouth. Ari can walk on water no otherwise than by himself... Lara and Isobel, Ofer and Isobel.. they dance in the Aurora and walk on water together without letting go. Without freezing cold, unfinished and thrill-free, almost Biblical. From their different scopes they foresee what's inside the forest, a pitch dark, a spark. The bursting flame with a name, Isobel.

Without loving Isobel, without hating her... just wrapping her in motions, embracing her in delicate wishful thoughts, in pitiful prayers of bereavement and mourning that replace the irreparability of their uncanny foresight. Those are the ones who are meant to read Isobel, shall they not be Greeks but thereinafter read the Greeks and echoeing modernity. Wasteful modernity and North-American fate. Roman empires and armies being led astray, in canned thoughts.

These are the real personae who are unwillingly meant to read us, those who have sorrowfully crossed the boundaries of no man's land, who have sneaked in between philologists and novelist and outreached the untouchable forest's Isobel.

Ofer and Lara in their unwandering contemplating the wandering in Bacchants' theories, those who allow her silent crawling and demagogically encourage it, for they've understood there's no other possible way, withdrawing themselves from the symphony.

For Ofer and Lara, our only readers... this note is meant for. We aren't even certain whether they're factually reading us but on them we rely. Once upon a time I explained how love poems become mournings when unread, so let these poems become only mornings, only morrows instead of sorrows. Temporarily the journalist and the wife (not his wife, but Lara the wife) are the only subscribers of this blog and for the tragedy (in the Aristotelian plot) we need no more than two, hence here three hitherto we have.

Be unto them comfort altogether with Isobel.

The writer

PD: There might be a third reader, his name is Siggi and unheard of still but we can't count him yet for we don't know much about the Isobelian background. Reykjavik 101 will bring the answer, Kopavogurian breakfast and Akureyri midnight sun. Once into the future Isobel will reveal her realm, her steady home way up north. Then and only then he'll become our third reader, the guide for the other two into the native country and language of Isobel. In order to understand better we also need some note about Bjork Sigmundsdottir music, that shall come. "O Holy Roman Empire, you and whose army? You and your cronies? Will you take us on?".

I must confess this note was re-written for a first final version was erased by a technical failure and this final version was written right after a couple of jameson's and a long long chat on frustrations and lead-astray's. I'm satisfied with the result, I hope you're too.

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