Tuesday, September 21, 2004

A tiny bit of Ari

Oh well time for the first "personal" note in a very long time, I'm a very particular kind of blogger since I'm never really writing about anything concretely personal, I wander in between the different waters and the different skies and poison my inexistent readers with puzzles, enigmas and riddles. It's a very Isobel thing to do, a very Ari thing to do. Who doesn't know it anyway? Well the answer is pretty sad, most people totally ignore it.

Here I took a break for I needed a damn fag and just couldn't find one to grab, so now I'm flying again; I got to pay a very high price for my addictions... the unintended withdrawal is always so hard, and I know what I'm talking about, sure I do. In some stupod thought (and don't let me get philosophical) I wish I could take the time back a couple of years and release myself from this chilly evening (chilly in more than one sense) with a good, thick and long line of coke. I must accept it has always been my favourite drug, the bitter ugly taste somewhere in your throat and the choky feeling, then a few seconds to dive into yourself and then a couple of hours to fly but with the feed on the ground; then painful withdrawals and the need for more... the incesant need. Well to tell the truth I remember those days with nothing but jealousy and regret, not regret of having been there but of not being there now, but oh well you grow up, don't you? It ain't no good to snif coke all day when you're 20, when you're writing, when you're responsible, when you're an adult. Ha! I should just laugh about all this cheap morality, so much unlike me. In the end I'm not in such a reasonable position to talk about morality. I've been a fighter for life and also someone who has fought life so hard that here and there tried to get out of it the most banal and irrational pleasures.

I'm that old if you ask me but I did have a wild life keeping up with a few addictions at a time only shifting some with others as the time goes by just not to be in monotony. Who could ever think that what's today a philologist who writes seriously blogs was once upon a time a cocaine addict? When did he have time for all that? Where in his uttermost short life does he have place for so much? Hummmm.... don't ask me. I just happened to be in his body at the moment, who knows where his thoughts lead anyway?

I really enjoyed the life of a philology student-bogota resident-cocaine addict, the three things actually make lots of sense, maybe not for the average man... but for those that have been through the tragedy and through the lyric, in Oxford classrooms and St. Anne's libraries, for those... it perfectly makes sense. No need to tell me about it. Probably I have much a better life now (and I really mean the probably as an understatement of hesitation).

Anyways... let me get back to the blog, well.... I'm not worried about my readers for this is almost a private blog and just like Anne Frank would say (you must be a "suscriber" of this blog to see where Anne Frank and the cocaine addict meet): Who could ever believe that a 13 years old girl feels all alone in this world? I think I perfectly match such statement, and I'm not thirteen, I'm already in the freaky twenties. Yesterday I was simply a fucking cocaine addict, a teenager, a runner, etc. tomorrow I'll simply turn thirty and once again game starts all over.

Not sure about those "tools" to cope with frustrations and impotence that "age" grants you, or I mean... at least not in the terms of Ofer, probably it's just too gay of a thing to have this kind of patronizing conversations, what are you expecting from me? And I'm however not ashamed of talking like this for I have no readers to say I've accostumed them to my explicitly high usage of language. I count no more readers than the journalist (and that's probably only my wishful thinking), sweet lara and a few cronies more that would come across my blog only in order to find out stuff about me. Yet it's a dead end, how could you being the average man find anything conclusive about me in between Isobel and Elliot? Not even being smart enough to read between lines could you do so. Or maybe you can, no need to be Ari or Isobel to do so, but understanding Isobel's writing is like understanding airport's music, it doesn't really make sense for the sake of a try. Since I don't count with all those readers then why should I care about what I write? Maybe one day I'll be a published writer, so scornful remarks won't be indifferent to me.

It's amazing how I can let myself fly, to start with this note pretended to talk exclusively about Ari and yet when I do so, Isobel pours over here and there like some sweetish disgusting liquor whose taste you can't get rid of, despite the poisonous recipe.

But let us proceed. Like every philologist I've met (except for Ronald even when he should be hating me, I think it was an argument over some white lines what tore the friendship apart thereinafter) I'm leading a pretty messed up life and I'm too infatuated among my Greek totems to talk freely about it so my frustrations can come up to the surface in those faces, with other names. They can even become unreadable poems and delight for strangers. Don't take me wrong, my life isn't messed up by default (most of it isn't) but that's just what I made of it. Yes, you can gather I'm talking like a man who is just near the end of his life, like in Xenophon's Anabasis and the impressions are mistaken, they always are I guess.

It all has a remedy, or at least we want to think so, unless you've come across Aimee Mann. Then add being a philologist, being a Jew, being an orphan, ha! Now I have all possible excuses for self pity, and you know what? That's not my kind of thing. I learnt it from wife, she was pathetically self-pitiable but I didn't really hate that about her, she just learnt from some friends of mine, from some married friends of mine, women.... oy! For my own good sake I won't say their names aloud here. I can complain though, for I'm an Israeli and nothing else could be expected. Still I'm complaining to a blank thick wall. So I rather complain to my blog. I don't really know where to start for the story is really long and I don't want it to interfere at all with Isobel, who at the moment constitutes my only passion with all what she comprises. Anything else can just fall apart without me being willing to do anything about it.

I don't really know where to start, this isn't part of my book but maybe worthwhile to be told. Maybe I should do it today for tomorrow there might be no line or even no food to feed the person behind this screen, don't know... I'll think about it for a while with an imaginary cigarette and some alcohol, for as a typical philologist I came to the state in which home holds no food, but alcohol here you'll always find.

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