Looking out the window in this mild September restful dreamless day, rather thoughtless and hastened with some fragmentary imagination that couldn't be really described as thought, it's a little bit of a stream through which I wander through cold delicious paradises, old and forlorn suburban landscapes abstracted in my mind like pieces of nowhere, gathering simply everywhere.
I've been absorbed into Naomi's novel for the last three days giving little time to other thoughts, to more serious thought, feeling the shameless sparks of almost poetic intuition rambling through my newfound body. The "Sotah" has been nothing but a delightful souvenir, a little journey through familiar landscapes, too intimate to be called a novel. It's more like a film I've watched in slow candentious motions, swallowing the delicate pain of each and every page in one go, drunk in the helplessness of long bygone lust.
It's strange, despite the universal differences I don't find myself so stranged to the idea of the novel, I think I'd place myself somewhere between Joan Rosenheim and Chaya Leah, yet being a Dina Reich Gutman in the flesh, despite my cosmopolitism and overly infatuated sophistication, very much alike Joan Rosenheim, I don't find myself stranged from religion, probably not from religion as an almost motherly voice of evil and good, but more just like a mere idea, I'm not alien to the idea. I sympathize with Joan and how despite herself she places her own persona in the axes of time as a supreme deed of "chesed"; probably "chesed" is the main idea towards the end of the book. How can we really know what others need? How can we cater for their real feelings and their deliverance? Outreach their souls? For decades strangers to our own kin, how could we unhide ourselves to others? Unhide them? Somehow I think we can, the tremulous flesh is not hideous to the stranger, to unlinked pieces of thought, of pity, of "chesed".
Who can truely understand me? How could I unravel my courage and lift myself in upheaval? How could anyone? It's not a problematic sentimentalism, it's rather the joyous comfort of lightweight, of an almost sacred emptiness. How could just paper and words really understand me or comfort me? How could my body understand me? How could the young and untouched vividly mortal and wrathfully beautiful skin understand me? It's beyond linguistic unity, it's almost in the blood.
In the end of the day I believe Isobel and Dina would reach supreme and perfect understanding, I can see it at glance, thoughtlessly even. Not sure anymore about wife, I believe Dina is as timed as Isobel, far beyond wife, the ultimate victim of supermanliness, in manifold shapes. It's still early and the muse is allegedly attempting to pose over my shoulders and caress my silk-weary skin in one go, in one touch. I believe the note, "The night and the Phoebus" will definitely come through, it just needs a more human touch, a more religious and less deceiving touch.
I need to fix my surrounding a little bit, caress myself in still, nourish my recreations of life with pleasurable delight and above all, send a letter, send a letter to her.