Tuesday, September 21, 2004

A Kitty's note

Well in the end right before 3:33 pm I did get dressed, it gives me the ultimate feeling of occupying space in a timely and proper manner. There are several things I would like to say, although in compliance with my last note I shouldn't just waste time on complaints for nothing has got done yet. The day will sleep away with some political letters, official claims and even an asylum petition in Swedish, hummmm sounds thrilling, no?

Basically I'm still alive, even after yesterday, even today. Had running water, decent sleep, breakfast for 2, quasi-lunch, music, electricity, clean clothes, fresh blankets, etc. any of you would say I have more than everything an average man would need for comfort, yet I will claim I really don't. But those claims will not see the light on this blog, they will be rather directed towards other walls, not thick concrete walls. Surprisingly enough I did manage to sleep last night and eventually can say I had the first decent sleep I've got in more or less a month, you see? Time really flies mercilessly, Tishri will see the light soon and I'm still asleep, I'm still the sleeper.

That's worth having an ode written (despite the calcinating fears drowning me as the hours go by) about, but we don't really have the time for that. So many things I would like to talk about, I just don't see the beginning, and just like the Jewish new year seemed to me like the pseudo-end of a timeless year, this new years seems exactly alike. It's not really a new year, just an old encore.

Yesterday I held almost permanent ultimate thoughts of endlessness, fatalist thoughts, self-attempted criminal thoughts, but in my early twenties I can prove them to be just mere thoughts or at least I think so; my aunt Rivka used to say that those who attempt to suicide and succeed will be only those under the age of 20, for beyond that people usually doesn't have the courage to do it and as time goes by they seem to accept themselves with integrity. Her theory as a senior social worker doesn't really prove anything, and what Sweden knows about the world anyway? They only have Isobelian landscapes.

The history of this country has proven her sociopathic theories very different, for in this country people is killed by other phenomena than the old age and the come about of Hades, but not only. Yet as a lunar culture whose main aim is to surround death in circular motions, in this culture.... of the death-and-dread-praising people, suicide shouldn't surprise me. But it doesn't surprise me in the Finnish context either, so should death surprise me at all in any form? I don't think so.

What should surprise is how far we've come from each other in the end of times, in the end of times and in the land of Israel I've become a full time Greek, and not even of the healing elixirs of the "Iatros" I fear. I'm involved by thick frames of livelihood that protect me, just as if my name were Yaakov, just as if my name were Zayde. Death and me, in spite of my unbearable heaviness are no longer best friends, our streams don't collide, our streams are unlikely to meet. Even when the night and me sink together into the dark waters of the tree of knowledge, even there... as a divinity of the 21st century, death and me stare at each other from afar. My attemps to touch her delicate veil turn into letters, into blog notes, into G. Elliot's evening hues, into deliverances.

That's one thing, at least one thing is over and done. Then what? Well as far as I'm concerned being alive is not a timeless warranty, so it's not meant to be taken seriously. Don't take it for the granted, you just need to remember there's a ball growing somewhere in the back of my head, it might one day just blow, it might perfectly sleep forever. Probably from these little Kitty notes you can figure out much better my connections. Why would the young flesh of a twenty years old waste any time in Elliot? Particularly in the Lifted Veil, why would anyone? A diseased condition is probably more of a determinant than language is a limitant. And then you asked me why wouldn't I care about anything at all? I have more important issues, I have far more important issues. Some days the acute pain in the back of my head is one of those issues.

Now there're all kind of missing issues and I'm not sure if I really want to get into them, but probably I should. We'll be talking about maturity and the skills that are necessary to cope with frustration, we'll talk about Colombia and also about the East, we'll talk about Rehavia and Katamon, we'll talk about my condition. Probably each of these things deserve an independent note or maybe many of them.

Being alive is not yet a state of mind, it's simply a state of the affairs. Being alive is not categoric. Let me walk away this time without featuring anything smart, for I've spent too much time with my headaches and these pages. I rather waste time studying for it'll bring me closer to the ground and further from other victimizations. Anne, dear Anne... just like what you used to say "It's studying what makes us forget". Yeah, how truthful of you, it's the only cure.

I intend to dig into little books, Kerenyi's book about the Greek gods and then a little bit of Hesiodus, partly the Bible. Then Homer, firstly I'll start studying the Genesis altogether Hesiodus, I'll read little poets in the aftertimes. That's all what my pretensions are made of at the moment and I can call them simple pretensions for any strength provided by nourishment and spiritual enticement is prone to abandon my body over the next few days, but from ambitions great empires and enterprises have been formed in my thoughts, in planet Isobel.

I might eventually get alive out of it, I said yesterday. In the meantime there must be a way to pass the minutes and the hours. Philological notes, bloggical notes, Isobelian notes, little books, apple tea with milk. You see, Anne was right, there's always an answer. In the nature there's always an answer.


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