Tuesday, September 28, 2004

Kitty, Ally McBeal and Electra - personal note

Oh well... a bit of calm down here tonight, time for the lightest of notes. One of those Kitty personal notes that reveal my real essence, the real me, behind Isobel and wife, behind Ari and writer, the real persona that wanders through these pages with the despair of better days, someone who doesn't bear the timelessness of my glorious characters.

It's been a couple of days I haven't left the apartment and no guilt falls over me, whatsoever. I think we all need periods like that, surrender to life a little bit and let it take us on. My last note on the phenomenology of existence titled after a Platonic statement has shed some light on the subject; probably not light of the phenomena that led to that note but of the "let life take us on". It's such a simple statement yet full of all the courage that I need to achieve one of my very first purposes; lead a life.

My note has shown me personally not by any means lack of knowledge but rather a need to step back, the last weeks have been a constant step back from different chains of events in my life. It's not a bad thing though, as I mentioned previously in some other note the end of my road might constitute the perfect playing field to understand that I should return to the process, where my elucidations of the ultimate man lie; needless to say much less significant though. I should return if not the beginning at least to the flow, to the flow of historicity, the only feasible alternative to my current lack of present, to my lack of universalism and my radical subjectism.

After this long crawling that has lasted for a couple of months already I think it's about time I take my life back in my hands, in my simple understanding I'm still able to fight, I'm still able to run, able to doubt and specially to wander. In these hectic times I don't have the inner power to bear any further moral responsibilities than those imposed on me by society, shall I not become a victim of postmodernism I might not pretend to change the world but follow the underman in his cause; this could perfectly constitute an understatement. I wasn't born to follow the underman, but to die as the ultimate man. Still I can try to pull myself out temporarily from such overcomplicated string of events that are brought along with existence.

Perhaps many years will go by with their summers and their winters, with their lovers and their sorrows, before I can outline the principles of my philosophical system. For now I shouldn't be concerned with anything but sketches and little poems. Let me endeavour my purpose to undertake my education once again and from scratch, it might be the only viable solution for the truely vivifying knowledge I've been searching for. The basic principles have been hardly laid out but I do have a general idea, that I lose all the more as the days sleep away, as I sleep to them away.

It's also very likely that one day I'll wake up from my race, to join the humankind. Should that day come upon me, even if I don't prove myself unsuitable to be a writer, I shall stop writing. I'm still relying on my humanistic approach, so it doesn't depend on me. Unlike my colleagues I'm romantic enough to believe in the helplessness of our kin.

Who knows? I might be eventually able to sail my ship through even darker days, I might even sink into the brighter day. I like the search, I embrace the struggle, befriend the doubt, for I'm expected to do so. Any sign of ultimate security constitutes nothing but a contradiction to my newborn maturity. That, shall refer not to my materializations but to my soul.

Today is a postmodern evening, a time for sympathetic conciliations, a faceless hue. Pathetically funny I sleep on the joys of a new divorcee life, I sleep on the joys of moral irresponsibility. Me, the heaviest of men breaking my unrest. I sympathize with all those lonely men and women of all over the world, with the rest of the ultimate race. I pace down and smoke, slowly but surely I die, in every minute and in every second. I embrace my mortality, as if it was a present from the gods, as if it was the highest of encores.

I lie naked in bed, in the supreme companion of ice cream and wedding stories. Isn't that too much to ask for? I retrieve, I believe. I make funny mental annotations about the future and in my seldom innocence imagine the future of the woman in the novel, imagine her sorrows, imagine her lovers. The air is too light tonight for any other kind of procrastination. It's an almost self-religious evening.

I think about my plans, I think about my life, the unreal life. Yet I lie in bed, I lie in still. I think about him, yeah about Ofer. Don't think I'm being carried away, I simply fantasize. I don't think about Ofer the ultimate man, he's no object for sorrow. I rather think about the Ofer I saw during our last get-together, the Ofer of flesh and bone, the insecure, the immature, the inestable, the unraveled. I truely can say I like him better that way, for being more distant from the journalist and even more from wife, he's simply Ofer. Silences were better spoken than words, the sight more factual than the touch, it was simply beautiful and kindred, yet meaningless.... heading nowhere, in no man's land.

I think about the things I truely hate about him, what I truely detest and actually I don't have a hard time finding them. It comes natural, but you know what? You know why I hate it? Because I damn like him, I think it's his sickening nature what I regard with the highest appeal. His deceive, his poorly contructed strong figure, his unfounded security, his dreadful shallowness. I probably lack of each and every of those things, even in my standing at the root of evil. I honestly adore his evil nature, hence the latest haven't managed to surprise me the slightest bit.

Probably I like the infatuated animal, the one who fades behind the American speech. For shall it be otherwise, I wouldn't be so troubled. But I'm already divorced, so let me wear the weariness of frustration, the weariness of deceive, of oversexualization. I may simply return to the icecream, the novel and other TV magazines. I might simply deceive the natural course of events in feminine surrender, in wasteful remarks.

He doesn't belong to me and I don't belong to his, it's not even worthy another song. Standing on different planets I still idealize, and you know what? I'm closer to reality than I could have ever been. I'm a son of Hesiod and by choice I'm newborn with tightly closed eyes. Call it denial, call it frustration, I'd call it chance. He's never been smaller in my eyes and that's why, my love or whatever this feeling is called has bathed in the comforting waters of surrender. I'm a humanist once again, let life take us on.

This time it's me in the still, the one allowed to silence up. Fortunately and on behalf of my own good name I never gave speeches, I never built morality. I just let myself surrender in thougths and in deeds. Tonight, half naked wrapped in towels, in the drunkenness of youth, I shall be allowed to dream, I shall be allowed to close my eyes once again and for good.

In the end of the day I'm simply twenty, aren't I?

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