Alright, today (and actually these days) I'm a lot in a Kitty's notes mood, it will probably halt my way into the literary grandeur of Isobel and her readers but however I think that it's important for me to dig into myself a little bit here and there; not into myself as Hyperion's son, as Ari the philologist and predilect first-born of the Gods, but rather into myself as the simple being of flesh and bone who stares endlessly at this screen and puts thought into wordings. I'm also a real person who writes about self-contained realities, about non-fictious realities, those realities that only the very depths of the soul can explain.
You can't really write good poetry for a job, to sit between 6 and 9 to write stanzas and sonetos, poetry is rather an affliction than a job, a four-course meal for a teary starving soul. Poetry also comes out of the greatest joys and highest palaces of thought, the psychopathic personality of the poet whose colourful animations of long bygone characters turn him into the subject of his own despair. In every poet there's a little bit of a psychopath and so there is in every genious of our world. Geniality and pathos, although opposed by default constitute a musty companion, a natural rule whose components can't broken into particles.
The views of the world the poet holds turn him into a pitiable subject, into a signifier without being himself signified for the poet crawls on the irreparability of those phenomena he can see in colourful and vivid presentations without being able to let himself released from those chains, he's indeed uncanny. A poet is someone who must be able to understand different subjects and to infere timeless ideas from them. He must reckon his ideas don't belong particularly to him but the world of the ideas itself in which he's nothing but a mere player.
Behind the poet there's also a real persona, or if it suits you better, a dramatis persona. Since this is meant to be a Kitty's note with the charm that children's journals have we will not attempt to explain this subject any better, we would have to bring light out of the Aristotelian plot and vivify other divinities. We will only imply there's a real persona behind the mask of the writer. The terming of the words "mask" and "writer" can also produce some scornful remarks, for the writer is probably better unmasked and naked than any of his contemporaries, but it is so axiomatically evident that only a few can dare into this brutal touch of reality. That is only writer-inclusive, only the writer is unmasked; the real persona of the writer is probably better hidden and masked in the figure of the writer himself, not the writer for the sake of his writings but a writer for the sake of a writer.
There's a real me behind the writer, no one particularly fascinating. Just a normal guy living a less-than-average life, a Tel-Aviv resident who wanders down the streets in sun glasses and bottles of cola. I'm just anyone else, pretending to be just anyone else without much success though. Behind the persona of the writer the awareness of a morbid thought, the writer and his real persona are aware one of the other with tremendous despise. The real persona faces challenges that are unknown to the writer whose individual principles are very well known. I as a real persona fall in love, crawl into my feelings, grow up and despair, disdain and somehow I have the impression the writer is taking on me, slowly but surely taking on me.
Somehow I've come to understand to which extent it's meant to be that way, for the writer is a timeless self. He's not concerned about my own problems or sufferings because out of them he's pulling out what's already beyond the grave. In my own words the writer is letting my own life sleep away. There's a note called "The Death of the Writer" that will see the light over the next hours, there I'll explain how prone is the writer to die, more than me, the real persona, is. Yet the real persona is not as likely to be in the make out of history as the writer is.
Yesterday for example I attempted to write a childhood note about my relationship with the poet Rimbaud and I failed in doing so, not even the world of similarities and connections between the both of us that made of Rimbaud of one the idols of my childhood was sufficient to bridge the gaps between the writer and me; I felt ignorant and simply wordly but yet meaningless. I'm not the writer but merely the real persona, the writer and me also find one another in the shade, in the night, in pleasant wishful thinking. The writer is someone I even myself like, the real persona is a far less interesting universe. He's just one other victim of post-modernism. Yes I know, I owe you the note about the victims of post-modernism for more than a week already.
Let me see my life going to waste for a couple of hours more, writer and me have an appointment tonight, unless one of our readers comes to haste. As far as I'm concerned I intended to treat a totally different subject in a long Kitty's note (the title doesn't match the note at all) but it seems the writer doesn't like me writing about those uninteresting subjects, just like wife was annoyed at a simplistic childish talk. I see the writer is prone to die, but let him sleep away with the day, no major chances.
Same goes for wife, the house seems to be falling apart and not just the house but its dwellers. This blog requires urgently some female touch only hyper-sensuality can grant. Stability, security, those little things Jewish women for which Jewish women can always put an act.
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