Well it seems soon I'll have to add a "Latin America" topic entry to my blog... for my "work" in that front is turning out to be interesting.... like Israelis would say "ha davar ha nachon bezman ha nachon".
Probably Latin America is still part of my hothouse, of my glasshouse. It's a universal kind of thing, and when I say universal it makes me laugh big time because I remember the wife of the journalist is still owing me a note about Anna Frank and being universal... herself! the least universal person on earth. Well... there you go girl!
The wife of the journalist (with no journalist *yet*) is still away with Elliot, and they are not very willing to visit us these days for it's almost Jewish new year so they foresee a little bit of sadness, a little bit of thrill... and a journalist that doesn't pick up the phone. Hence they'll stay in the countryside until the end of the holidays. Even the journalist might get a surprise, for he might come back and wife might not be home. She might just not be home.
Everything else is as usual going down the trail, except my spirits... they're just going stronger. Call it a glasshouse, call it feelings, call it love, call it timelessness, or tamelessness even. My endeavour. Let wife just have an encore... as far as Ari is concerned I think he wants fireworks and zeals... it's a young soul you know ;-) The wife proves herself to be very different... more calculated and less realistic, more ephimere and less infatuated. Is Ari anyone to talk about infatuation anyway? Since hands clean... you've got a long historial boy!
The wife just wants her intimacy, and not precisely with Elliot. She wants her morning espresso, her cigarette, looking out the window... with him. For even the beauty of the most beautiful woman is spoiled if there's no gentleman to admire her beauty, and not only to admire her... but to enjoy it.
The wife of the journalist has never considered herself anything attractive, nothing sensational... just an average kind of thing (even when there's nothing average about her... in the end of the day it takes a lot to be a journalist's wife... if not go figure out from the book)... nevertheless in the last few months she's started to consider herself somehow ignorant (which is a kind of beauty), chatty (another kind of beauty whith has to do with the latter), sexy and fatal. Regardless these elevated thoughts, regardless humanism and culture.. regardless everything the wife of the journalist needs indeed a journalist to praise and above all, enjoy her beauty... otherwise this might get spoiled.
This might turn differently... not the beauty of solidity, not the beauty of serenity... not the beauty of a wife... just beauty... young and savage beauty... that kind of beauty no one really enjoys... but everyone's got it at some point in life and everyone's let it go.... It's a different thing. It's not Apolinean beauty, but rather Thesalian beauty.. the charm of the hetaire... whose worst enemy would constitute by definition, a wife.
The wife needs her journalist to interfere in this beauty and shape it... in anger, in sadness, in frustrations... in any of those extreme feelings that might turn out to be sexual and primary.... he seems to know how to exploit it. The wife herself doesn't lack of beauty, no... never. But her beauty next to the journalist is a different thing, a different shade... it's like a razorblade. The next weeks will bring a few answers.... actually many.
One of them will be, what is it like to be not the wife of the journalist, but the husband of the philologist? Don't we give them such a hard life? For the husband of a philologist is never really married to anyone. Is married to her capricious soul, to her books, to her dreams, to her poems, to her conspiciousness, to her obsessions... but never herself. For she.. as an almost religiously devoted philologist is married to herself. Who can live with that anyway? Hummm I think a journalist can, the one that stares through her dreams and aspirations that are seen like transparent shades. He can see the dreadful beauty of her soul, for she's where she belongs. Oh baby, baby is taught to run.
To live with a philologist is like to live with a few different persons (or actually many of them) and never to end knowing any of them totally, reaching one certain depth and then finding someone else's words, someone else's sensitivities. To live with a philologist is living with many different people you don't really know, and between interesting and untolerable... you can't really get to know them. For one day they read Antigone, the next day is Hesiodus and they even read Plato, sometimes Alceus and sometimes Solon, even Euripides.
In the end of the day Elliot is just an excuse, an scapegoat... and a little bit of intimacy. Elliot is cups of coffee, weightlessness, feathers, simulated smiles, moralities, the outside... the wife's got to find a way to escape her mortal heaviness, her positiveness, her positivism.
Elliot brings an answer, the journalist brings the other. I'm sure the next few weeks will bring an answer. An answer for Elliot, an answer for the wife, an answer for the philologist, an answer for the calvinist, an answer for the Jew, and even... and answer for Ari.
...Why not? An answer for Ofer too.
Manifesto.
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