Hummmm... just a short annotation, a critical note. A critical note with some personal taste, with some spice of yesterday.
In our last chapter, draft of what one day (if I'll see the light until then for the ground smells to fresh and approaches me with certainty -see below Isobel's translation of Sappho's fragment #2, in special edition for the ephoebus) will be the lives (mind the plural) and deers (not deeds) of Isobel we have started to talk about the Bible and I must reckon it is a subject that interests me deeply despite my knowledge gap; we have discussed how "his" name was apparently meant to be changed, for its meaning didn't convey the historical meaning necessary for the completion of this plot. Some names don't necessarily need historical trascendence for they are meant to be history on the make, streams that flow into larger masses of water (mind the title "stream" for it does bring us back to unfinished chapters of other story-telling still unfinished in my own flesh), Ari and Isobel are such names, they're in the make out as we mentioned previously, after achieving the glories of gods and heroes in sagas of other days, in sagas of other futures.... in the aftermath they are crawling for some present, for some living history outside books of wars and love affairs. Outside TV comedies and cheap soap.
His name is something else, it's just a name that repeats itself in the wind and even when sung as an ode it constitutes nothing but the irreparability of animal motions, a little story from a little novel. Stories for wives and little women. In the other hand Isobel can do much better than that, she's a few steps forward into the future, hence his name shall be changed. The name Roe doesn't actually represent its pharmaceutical functionality, its antisimbiotic character, and all because this is simply the name of a poem written on a bench, written on pale bareskin, written with a pen, designed to overwrite frustrations and wounds caused by history and unavoidability. His name, that name we granted him is simply the name of a poem that is not with us anymore, the name of a poem that flew with the end, that flew into the wind, the name of a poem not grandious enough to walk on water like Isobel, Ari and other creatures of the Pontos do. That name is simply the name of a poem without story, of a poem written by the throat of a thirsty woman, written by the compulsive desires of evil, in delicate and mortal sweetness.
That was just any other poem that vanished in the mist of the blue Aurora with the most unreadable thoughts, those thoughts that can arise from silences, from the silences of pains and rips that can't be described, pains and rips that only silence can explain, that only Aurora in her childish wisdom can repair. Silences which tears are no worthy to compete with. It was a timely poem, served with punctuality in delicate evening hues, but not meant for timelessness, for the echoes of timelessness bring along the aims of understanding. A poem that can't be read by the receipient is a timely poem, punctual but prone to death.
That's why most love poems are nothing but mournings, the author and the reader mourn together; they mourn their own bereavement, they mourn the feasibility of their speech. They mourn in complicity, in tea rooms, in shelves, in winter milieus.
The bible says "And God said unto him, Thy name is Yaakov: thy name shall not be called any more Yaakov, but Israel shall be thy name: and he called his name Israel".
This verse is a paradox to the lives and deers of Isobel, for obviously his name shall not be called any longer, but what shall be thy name O Phoebus? O morning star? O evening calm?
His name will remain as one of the mysteries of our book. One of those names that ancient epic written thousands of winters back in time, will reveal one day. Just like the commandments were revealed to Abraham, just like his name was revealed to Yaakov. Temporarily he's just an Isobelian creature. Another passenger, a travel companion. An Isobelian travel companion. Not allowed in the forest as yet but once upon a time a travel companion. A beneath-the-skin travel companion.
For the last cigarette was lit but the last of the operas hasn't been played. The last of the operas isn't meant to be played. Some books should begin by the middle and finish before the beginning. This is one of that kind.
The writer
No comments:
Post a Comment