Sunday, September 19, 2004

Odes of return

Hummm..... an easy morning, a white morning. Probably the easiest morning I've been through in several months, in several years... things developed unlike my plans for it was the least productive day I could ever think of, but I don't really seem to be worried about anything, nothing really seems to trouble me.... today I'm a flow of all kind of colourful emotions flowing slowly in a stream that one day will be a river. One day I'll reach the river and will dive into his waters, for each time is a different river, each time is a different me. Today I'm no one but Isobel, married to myself.

I decided to stay up tuned with my new situation and letting myself surrender in the irreversability of events I let the morning surround me, and before Aurora would slip through the tiny rays of light from the window I went outside. I was in the outside chasing her. Aurora and me danced, just like old friends can dance - those kind of friends that aren't meant to be seen but a few times in a lifetime. She embraced me in her blue and I caressed her delicate unmaterial fingers with my sorrows, with my eyes.

In her drunkenness the wife of the journalist and me made some companion, a very different companion for she was relying on my shoulder with her clothes totally rip off, unclean make up spread all over the face and eyes lost in the sight, lost in the light, lost in the ocean, lost in Aurora and lots in mine.

I felt a bit of pity for her since there was nothing that could have been done, the last scene of the play was performed in her abscence, in her own story... the story of her short life the last scene was played out without her. In the last chapter of her story wife was left. At that time already known just as wife, for wife... a simple little wife she may perfectly be the wife of a journalist, of any journalist. Not the journalist. And in her unfinished simplicity wife was waiting outside, while the crowd inside the stage spoke in a language she couldn't understand. They spoke in the language of awareness, in the language of legitimate trascendence, in the language of alitheia, for somethings not even from the gods in heavens afar kept may be. Wife didn't understand this language.

Just next to the last scene we were all asked to hush and in despair we looked at our storylines to find out our lines were unwritten, erased by the secrets of time, erased by our own irreversability, erased by our functionality. In the end of the day we were nothing but mere elements in the come and in the go, we weren't ends that make ends meet. We were just passengers, deceived passengers, we were odes and navigation maps.

The list of complaints among ourselves was very long, from Antigone to Elliot, from Selene to Helios, from Demeter to Apolo, from god and man, from animal and kind. How could we be asked to leave in the last minute? In the scene next to the last? How could we have been betrayed by the secrets of time?

I don't really have an answer to this question for it's too much of a philosophical question whose weight exceeds my ability to cope with analogies at the moment. I just can say that once again it was a must-be, it was a chain of events which led to one common place, one simple day, in one single say. We weren't meant to be in the story, unfortunately wife wasn't able to take up to it and in her pain, in her diseased condition and disposed of her grandeur she vanished from my hands, she vanisehd by definition, she vanished like an ode that is never read... she vanished from my hands whilst Aurora and me danced in the fields, run one after the other and rediscovered the morrow. Whilst Aurora and me walked on water, in the morning..... wife just turned into a cloud, into a cloud of my smoke and disappeared.

Her pain are truely touching and outrageous, pain of destruction and pain of defeat. Pain of a life that was spent before it was lived, pain of the justice-maker, of the justice-maker who can't understand how unavoidable the intentions of time are. The wife was the Antigone of our story; and in the most bitter irony Antigone -Ari's most praised hero, and the wife just became one. Despite her musty knowledge wife failed to achieve the purpose to be a Greek or even a pagan for the same purpose. She failed to understand that somethings aren't meant to be understood, aren't meant to be dealt with, aren't meant to be taken on. In words of Goethe, "be every man a Greek his own way, but be it!". She failed to understand his timely beauty and her own timely wisdom. For some people is born with no age, the same way is to be taken away with no age.

I remember having seen wife with eyes never seen before, I could see my pain and my decomposition in her eyes. Yet I didn't seem to care once again for it was all meant to be that way, whatever the gods have closed in their secret deals is nothing we should be concerned of, for our purpose on this earth more than understanding is learning, learning, learning, observing. The eyes of the wife were frozen with music, frozen with tremblor and frozen with feeble motions. The wife just couldn't understand how one day, when everything seemed alright, one day... while she wasn't home... while she wasn't home... Isobel just returned home.

Despite her mature wisdom and simplicity the wife failed to understand we can play with fate, we can play with love, we can even play with trascendence, we can shallow ourselves in little motions and hide oursevels from the stars and from the emissaries of the gods. But from time..... from time we can't escape. Time will always place us in the right place. Time is wiser than any of us and not just wiser but as well older. The merciless thief of our youth and merciless thief of our only loves, a fair thief... who only takes his part. We humans in rebellion pretend to do things always our way and to defy him, but in the duties of time there's no control, he's a timely executor.

It's about time to return, to return to Isobel. The most beautiful of creatures, the most unreachable of creatures. A tiny savage animal that can't be caught in the shades, can't be caught in the lights, can't be caught in the water, can't be caught in the sand.... that brutally wild creature of the green waterish eyes that change with the flux of the light, that brutally wild creature of silk-weary skin and strong shoulders. Not many of us have seen Isobel, for she's well hidding on the forest, hidding among secrets of other times and timely sequences of deliverance. The most beautiful animal of the kin. Isobel, wild and married to herself, her only love Isobel, living by herself....

We've heard a lot about the uninteresting characters of our story, of our stories. We've heard a lot about the journalist, about Elliot, specially about wife... needless to say about Ari as well. In the end of the day we mistook the storyline, because hidding in the trees and laboriously fighting with dragons and knights, hidden.... animal-like, wild and untouched, perfectly unfinished and jovial... untouchable and violent... Isobel was waiting for some space. Isobel has been home, Isobel has taken us on. This story, the story we are attempting to write, is not the story of a wife and is not the story of a philologist. It's probably simply the story of Isobel.

I would like to talk about Ofer as well, but that we'll leave for our next stagaire in life. The streets of Rehavia and Nachlaot will bring Ofer and us together, will bring Ofer and Isobel together.

The writer

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