During the last three weeks I've been writing more than I did probably ever, and although my writing is still confusing and enigmatic I don't pretend to say it's good, for I don't forsake the good intentions of others. That's probably something I enthrall about the wife, her vaste knowledge and culture, which I lack thereof. I haven't pursued a fruitful education in the Classics out of simple idleness and I probably lack of the words to make this readable and pleasant for everyone. Not even myself can slide through the words without a dreadful smell of confusion, without noticing an overly wordliness. I doubt whether anyone reads me at all but I didn't really pretend to write for anyone other than Isobel. It would be interesting to know whether anyone is reading her at all.
Isobel doesn't claim to be a poet, not a writer but simply a philologist and not even to that simplistic level I can aim for I totally lack of knowledge and experience, in the river of the Logos I'm still trapped beneath. Still these pages contain more than a journal, more than a diary and more than a reflexion. These are not only words of frustration but rather elaborate cohesions, with or without the charm that sophistication grants us.
Over the next few weeks I'll do my best to spend less time with the screen and more time with books for they are of good aim to me.
Isobel requires a higher level of language, further simplicity and less wordliness. More context and less inspiration. For the sake of Isobel I'll abandon myself in the dark waters of knowledge, in the dark waters of awareness... in those waters that have corrupted my soul for so long, my timeless curse. The unavoidability that comes with the knowledge of facts, with the understanding of general laws... those hardships that shouldn't be beared upon in the young age of Ari, yet Isobel in her uniqueness thinks different, old souls always think differently, those old souls that alike Greeks and Hebrews changes our world for ever after. Still it's a heavy suitcase to carry, a heavy burden to bear.
Tomorrow will be another day, Isobel and me alone. Heading towards Rehavia as a last stop. Isobel and I already have a country, we also have a people and needless to say a language. We also have our music, operas and symphonies in different colours and smells, to morrows and yesterdays. Now we need some present, we need some history. We need to make history, to make real history, beyond little women novels and Saturday romances.
The near future will bring us to this present, we'll bring us present. Standing still. Looking at the world from afar, in the eyes of Isobel we struggle hard to keep up to our standings and flow with the hours and the days. More of a Greek I should be, should Isobel be. We're reading the bible, we're making out.
Isobel and Ari, Ari and Isobel
Isobel in the make
Heading somewhere, embracing something... caressing... wrapping simple thoughts in crystaline odes. She's still got a couple of years more to continue married to herself. Time will bring the answers, time will bring the deers, will brings the deeds. Once again in the aftermath Aurora and me will be dancing, like walking on water.