Well I really didn't know under which topic to write this note as it's a little bit of everything, lots of weltschmerz and certainly unmeasurable quantities of Angst, it's a bit of the achterhuis as it's self-contained with events of my life, people, places, mood swings and disappointments. It deals with my Idischkeit and also with Israel. Nevertheless I could say it's not very philologic, but what do I know anyway? It's just me in the middle of my life, no accurate observations could made from mouth of this wandering poet. Oh yeah I like this, calling myself a wandering poet? Well it seems I'm on the road to better definitions.
Nothing has happened these days yet big moves have come down on me, with lots of fear and lots of allienation, specially allienation. Isn't that what we Jews are made of? Allienated of ourselves, allienated of history and allienated of God himself. I'm extremely tired and my thoughts aren't very clear, haven't had any time to read or eat for God's sakes and I feel a bit weak, a bit sad, a bit exhacerbated.
I moved into the new apartment and as expected I brought my luggage, my personal luggage... I bring it everywhere, the my own house, to my living room, to my bath... even to the bed of the journalist. Funny no? Geography doesn't seem to be the cure of anything, at least not for a writer. It's no big deal though, emotions are the real core of life... the idea of feeling relatively alive is an interesting concept, not sure to which extent it's true in Israel. Are we really alive? are we really a country? are we really people?
Probably I shouldn't curdle up into this topic anymore.. for the sake of what? So let's review the last hours a little bit more... well I finished moving the stuff into the apartment, which in spite of its several limitations I really like. I find lots of peace and loneliness in a way I didn't find in my previous apartment... I think it's because it's kinda spacey (!!! watch out the meanings) and I can feel a little bit more free to walk around my cage with a taste of desperation. The sight is also very limited, it's like being in nowhere, just the lemon trees and more lemon trees... the imagination doesn't fly through gardens and hills but the breeze from the ocean is watering my soul every here and there, nothing but a nice thing.
It's also interestingly different to be here right now, there's still no added background in the landscape, no pink dots and no red dotes, not even white dots... it's all clean in my mind. No hatred or love stories have wandered down these walls and eventually they'll haunt me, I know it.
But for now I enjoy the feeling of the eventless life, quiet mornings and rendered coffee. It seems like as if a stranger (which is me) is occupying some physical space to which he's trying to belong at any price. There's also a background to the place to some extent, for it was Mirjam's house and that probably doesn't say anything but I guess there's something to it, a little bit of familiarity. As strange as it may sound Mirjam and me have started to get along in a very different way lately, things you can't really understand. I've been able to see through her sensibilities and learn a few things here and there, decaffainated Dutchableness if you want to call it so, although the word is not very reliable for I just put it together... maybe it's just the Germanic disease of compound words. Go figure out.
There was this memorable conversation about Regev and Ofer, I could see a bit of a future there... a light in the shades. If Mirjam would know how much I achieved from that conversation I think she'd be a little bit freaked out. Well in the end of the day I'm a very sensitive man, and it's kind of obvious.
The morning was a bit puzzling... and I did get depressed actually, I just hugged my pillows and returned to my sleep... to my unrest, which is sleeping while you're not really sleeping. Probably just out of fear and tons, tons of sadness. Even the air can understand my immature feelings of the morning. Nature always understands I guess, for she knows all the rules. She probably pities me quite somehow, probably more than I ever pitied myself and it's not such a good feeling.
Call it silly mood. I'm really not in the mood for anything and enjoying the new place in a strange kind of way. It works like this: I really used to hate my old apartment out of many different reasons (actually it's still my apartment, debts-inclusive) which I know (don't we all?) and then I tried to find the scapegoat and just fly away, disappear and wander down streets and place, engaged in uninteresting and chatty conversations with people. Now I dwell in a place where I have nothing but neutral feelings and inexistant phone calls. It's not a big thrill, except for its glorious past and lots of fear about the uncertainties of the future, but in general lines it's just a place, somewhere I'm trying to adapt totally out of willingness, just like having at the same time this idea that it'll be a temporary place, that I'm going somewhere else, that something will come in the middle and will halt my calm. I probably triggered myself, like playing with fate and its combination of factual reality and things I'm very aware of.
Now I thought of Oren a little bit you know? But it doesn't surprise me. Sigur Ros and Oren will always have an automatic connection, but it's funny because there's no really connection between Sigur Ros and Oren. There's an obvious connection between Oren and Ari, and between Ari and Sigur Ros there's also a semi-obvious connection. Not so between Oren and Sigur Ros. The wife of the journalist and Oren don't have any connection either, despite the short time gaps they seem to be total strangers to one another. Their lives seem to have been led in different ways and specially with different words, with different attitudes. From all the previous "releases" I think I like the wife of the journalist less than I liked any of the shinier characters in this cheap John Malkovich movie, but there're remarkable things about her.
She's much less of a character but the wife of the journalist is not only sensitive but also sincere and well aware, she's not unique to her kind but very legitimate and authentic. Authentic, that's the word. The wife of the journalist is much more of an authentic person than any other chapter of the plot. The wife of the journalist is a really confused young man wandering between shades and screens of mist with the despise that maturity gives you, with that cold outlook of unavoidable reality.
No one can really point out where the difference strives, but she? I think she can, she really does. Like in Sheryl Crow's songs... the wife with no journalist and with no journal, but a wife anyhow. Like in Elliot's stories with a little bit of saga and a little bit of German romanticism. Consumated. The wife doesn't even know if she's the wife of a journalist or if she'll be ever able to bear that little from now on but she's granted the right to dream and it's legitimate. To dream based on perceptions, to dream based on simple words, to dream based on the taste of his lips and on his natural ability to deceive.
Legimitacy is an innate value for her, it's even a literary idea with a taste of today, with a taste of yesterday. A wife that doesn't receive letters, doesn't receive phone calls and a wife that doesn't expect. She just lives or half-lives through her days in her own way... picking livelihood from a wooden box and from familiar remembrances and even from scenes that were never recorded... from future defeats, from future glories. A wife with no story and with no lover, with no story other than Elliot's and with no lover other than Elliot.
Ari
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