Friday, October 08, 2004

What is the name of the game?

Oh well it's been a pretty unproductive week, full of thrills and other poorly documented movies, I haven't been able to cope with my proposed index of the weeks, I haven't even crawled into the ideas beautifully laid out there, not that I've been very busy with other thoughts, I've been just busy with nothingness. However the week couldn't just go by without me expressing some few thoughts; since my frustrating and no less beautiful encounter with Michael the blog has been a little bit abandoned, not being myself in the mood to wonder about anything at all, in rehearsal. Deceive of that kind is by definition a very powerful poison, poison and drunkenness all at once just like in the best of Odyssean times, but in the end of the day I'm an Israeli, I should be used to it, shouldn't I? Well, the answer is no, no longer.

That was probably the initial piece of some Uzbekian dishware, you never know which shape will the next piece come with, then I drank many of my daily frustration in glasses for different liquors and didn't write any stories. I believe my lifelong issues are too fundamental for the modern man as to waste time in other longings, in other belongings. Not that I'm having any serious thought about giving up on writing just like I did when my note "Phoebus and the Night" was erased by some technical failure (I'm still hungover from that), still my muse isn't visiting these days, my spirit is flying in the air (unfortunately this could be rephrased with a very high metaphor in Hebrew, but let's not torture our inexistant readers with phrases that have never been written). I'm exhausted, totally exhausted, a bit weary too, just going through the days out of some compulsive duty to keep myself standing on my own two feet, disregarding the tiredness and the storm of overwhelming forsaken thoughts, just living and leaving it up without further expectations; with dreams nevertheless, but all at once being invaded by the irreparability of my permanent reality checks whereupon I never return victorious and immaculate, rather callous and tremulous, almost feeble.

Reality is probably to dense to be tackled effectively, I lack such high-leveled executive management skills, hence I prefer to stay underneath, beneath the skin, beneath the roof and loathing the sun, my fore father. It may be even a matter of chemical disfunction, the density of the world of thoughts, ideas and deeds is basically unable to penetrate the hyper-delicacy of the horizon out there, too many molecules and fragmentary thought and too little space, there's not even enough space for ruly thought. Not enough space for justice, not enough space for me. Somehow I foresee a metaphysical end and the forecast is glorious, but I'm not really enjoying the way.... I'm in fast forward down the motorway, clinging onto something, clinging onto an empty bottle, clinging onto a milky way.

After all I'm alive pretty much out of curiosity, that's another thumb in my list of chemically produced substances that replace natural nourishing elements within my weak body complexion. The curiosity to see myself past this terribly threatening way-up into life seems to be interesting enough as to let myself sleep the days away with wasteful irrational remarks. Yet I do lead a life, a life like few writers have, a life that constitutes an unwrittable story and to the same extent constitutes the re-creation of de-creation of many other different selfish, eggoistic and self-centered sickening and wicked characters that would fill up the shelves of any down-the-street bookshop. A life whole only aim is not its end, but the maddening process of its sculpting, a terminated canvas that is needy of destruction and self-inflicted determination. It's plain interesting, George Elliot would agree with me, not so her contemporaries. Neither do mine, so we're even.

Were it my choice, I wouldn't leave the house in a couple of years but then I'd miss lots of beautiful things about life, things that aren't inclusive int he books and that you can't order online from the supermarket; those totally uncomplicated pleasures that deceive even the simplest of poets and remind him of the meaninglessness of his life, of his purpose before the greatness of the nature and the powerful echoes of time, the unruly yet governing nature of all things, in here Heraclitus would come just handy, but I'm too self-contained and selfish momentaneously for any intellectual remarks. Bottom line is, I do pretend to leave the house and poison my sensitive imagination with the delicate pleasures of modern life, probably to bring myself back to it in some kind of way, with some kind of person, but probably not a writer however.

I want to gamble a little bit more with life, my life's been saved thus. One day it will look clear like observed from some distant Icelandic peak, even my love affairs, my stories, my bank statements and my childhood. One day it'll all look clear, one day it'll be written down in between the lines, help me Marx! help me out!

Let me bit a little bit more unproductive, a little bit less sensitive, a little bit more destructive, grant me the chance to reconciliate with the purest echoes of life, with the encore. I refuse to live the life I'm living through, I refuse to take it on. I refuse to live on little romances and bitter-sweet cognac, I refuse to live on hued greys, on newspapers.

I should revert to Isobel's manifesto and stress my very first nature, totally ready to disappear I'm slowing down this way, not answering phones. I might just drive myself insane, in odes of political correctness and almost medieval-new yorker morality. Let me try to be correct and to be good to prove myself good in the end, evil is a terribly vice, he's a terrible vice. I think I need some little withdrawal.

There's no good or bad season for gambling, I only need proper clothes, like those we wore for the coffee table, still frozen, like music in my eyes.


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