Monday, February 07, 2005

Life and its magnificent grandeur - a dilettante's manifesto

The internet procrastinates in electronic heart beats and I'm still unkind, almost ready to unwind; the winter strikes with the largest curtains of rainfall seen in this small and unsignificant country all through the year, yet I can't put myself to quit smoking for more than a couple of hours and I'm uninfatuated just for a change. Finding myself simply stressed and never getting enough hours of sleep, out an endlessly-motivating-and-unreasonable excuse, maybe the weather channel, world politics or children's welfare, one can never get enough disinformation in the information era, just as waterless towns in Etiopia can never get enough cans of powder milk, with all the cynical irony it implies. Nearing 3 am in the morning I sit in front of the same cold screen to which I awoke in the morning, next to the same empty cup and empty ashtrey, only the news has changed.

A highly imaginative day, after the masochist pleasure of the world current events and sorrowful remarks on the way the world is being led, being left with nothing but the weapons that freedom of speech and grammatical accuracy granted me, yet feeling uninterested enough as to make any profitable use of them. Sleeps at 3 am and wakes up at 4, drinks some coffee, coughs and then right thereafter smokes, writes a couple of lines in a foreign language, erases, writes again and after a couple of hours the morning strikes with unmeasurable quantities of self-imagined violence and action, all of that happening just right there in front of me, outside the window, but I'm just not in the mood to go out, so I rather stay home, stay home alone. Play with the cat a little bit until he's tired of me or until I tire myself out, and then I return to the world news, to the State of Israel, and to the endless well-known topic of Religion and Democracy; having never enough of it. Swallowing every small piece of information and trying to become an objectively educated man, as far as that be possible for a Jewish gay man to accomplish.

A guy that is nothing in particular, not an average Joey neither an average Jew. Not an average queer and not a religious man, not a right wing conservative or a left wing crony, not a soldier, not an academician, not a pious person, not an atheist, not a sexist neither a feminist. Nothing in particular, unwound enough as to choose anything at all. That's who actually sits in front of this screen in control of the world affairs through the paraplexic powers of online media, not even getting to see the sun for a minute; not living down, not in the underground, not living up, not leaving, simply living. An average citizen with no name, an attractive man with no face, a smart ass with no title, a Zionist without faith.

Those facts actually used to trouble me deeply, my endless yearnings before the loving eyes of the Rabbanit and the smell of the cholent in Shabbat, the manly echoes of the evening chants and the beauty of the little children, that stubborn faith in an everlasting God, and the enlightening purpose of holiness by which those men and women of the heavenly army subjugate themselves to the laws given by the Eternal Blessed Be His Name. My endless yearnings for Zion and the verses of Rachel, the promises of a country built in the land of Israel, the glorifying past of our young nation and the stories of the pioneers, that the children no longer know by heart, neither do I... but I strive to remember those little popular stories I never heard, when sitting in cafes I never visited before, among friends I never used to know. Such as my yearnings... deep and mellow, made of yellow and almost disappearing in the greys of my clouded thoughts, smearing my regrets with a sweet and transparent feeling of comfort, a feeling that hardly ever disappears, not even when it rains, not even when the smoke is sad.

Yearnings of better days, and of worse days, a younger age and an older soul, yielding a soul in between skybreakers, handwritten pages and the smells from an old love affair; not necessarily hurt and not unnecessarily happy. Simply yearning for, maybe for the things I didn't know, for the loves I never had, for the futures I never lived, for that past that will never be. And just right here next to my screen and my pallmall filter box I can think all that over, I can think myself over, without needlessly talking about myself, decidedly preoccupied with the latest world affairs and not really giving a damn about them, in the end the philosophies are all over, and subdued to the irrationality of human understanding that we can blame for the most beautiful things that are to be found in the world, happiness, motivation, love; the little things.... the inexpensive thing... the meaningless memories and mental images of a young aunt, a car trip or maybe a childhood friend.

Yeah sure... it doesn't really get anywhere, but anyway should it? Must it be then? What should you expect? Where should the world go these days? Those questions probably trouble you when reading this hideous non-sense, but oh well... I haven't got your answers, I became a media man and therefore disinformation is my only quality, my only weapon, my only knowledge. No philosophies involved, no opinions to uphold. I forgot what I would be, what I could ever be and instead just tried to be it. I became a writer, and at this very moment I don't owe to myself anything, hence neither to you, silly reader. You who always expected from me the most intellectual and highly challenging accuracies, even provocative you liked it. But I tired myself out of it, I grew up, and I simply discovered that it's a meaningless search, it's an emptiness that never ends, it's a human quest. Hence, I'm giving you nothing today, and I haven't discovered anything that would interest you, other than having found a very attractive chin to kiss at night and a small baby to play with when I've got some free time; when I'm not frying my brains next to a almost suicidal screen that pours parallel realities through my reticular tissue and causes my brain to process informations based on the chemical reactions that your collective violence causes, that your personal violence inflicts on me.

On my busy hours I imagine beautiful landscapes and children, written letters and interesting conversations with all those women and men that live in my daydream, I find it quite close to redemption, slightly wasteful and contemptuously enjoyable. Poorly political, poorly interesting, poorly constructive... but all too enjoyable, and that's probably what I came to this world for, not in order to serve the sake of your education, which you must have pursued much better than this, in which case you wouldn't waste yourself reading the procrastinations of an educated man who actually ran out of what to say, of any opinion at all. My absolutes today fled away to Paris, they must be drunk somewhere in the rain, there must be a party downstairs. And it wouldn't really help to grab the books right now, it's a bit too late for us, for each and every one of us. It's a bit too late to educate yourself, let the morning hover on you and drink you up.

It's a bit too late to give up on hope, to give up on love. I understand it now, hence I'm unaffiliated. I don't strive to understand this country so late at night, I don't strive to understand the man of my dreams by day, he's by definition a misunderstanding and there's some awful beauty to that, an awful lot. I don't strive to understand myself for I'm a pessimist, and my only way back to primitive survival is simply living out my life, yielding up. No one of you has got any answers and you won't get them from me, that's for sure... for no less than I know you all know, I guess you even believe in anything at all, privilege which has been stolen from me as a writer, my only purpose is to remind you those things you already know, and to tell you those beautiful stories you never understood, those chapters of your life you already lived through, of those men and women who never loved you, of that God who never paid you attention, of that country where you never lived, of a milieu you actually never saw, and that's how you remember it, for a beautiful woman is not as beautiful in a frame as she was in a story.

So let me do my job as I should, and don't hasten me with questions of life, for that's the last thing I'm interested about, let me be an observer and misunderstand Israel, deconstruct the Jewish people as I please and misconceive the world. That's how you like me, in wrongdoings and faltering standards, crossing my own limits of moral circumscription only in order to satisfy your desire, always incomplete, always in your search, you need me as much as I need you to save myself from my own life, from my own endlessness, from my own loneliness. Just say you understand me, even when you don't, that's your only obligation actually.

Write critical books and interpret my sayings as you please and invest yourself with a knowledge that never existed, claim your rights and stand up for the world. Just claim you understand anything at all, so that I can feel less cold tonight. It's not so hard to be a brilliant young guy and you don't really need six years of classics, just get out of the house and look up. Realize how small you are and how little you know, trust me... it gives you a feeling of happiness that nothing can overcome.

Today, not being particularly anything at all, I'm a complete man, an objective journalist who doesn't look forward to be upright, it's easier to be happy. It's great fun to be a writer, you just need a few too many lives to kill as many women as the public wished, not my case though... with one life's being enough and I killed rather grown up men, for those were the ones I loved, the ones who loved me, my unconsiderate objects of pleasure, the criminals on whose account I wrote all those many diaries, which are nonetheless blank pages, thus for regrets I still found no words at all, I didn't write many songs.

And so early in the morning is still late enough as not to be conscious about anything at all; but of one thing I'm sure, tomorrow I'll wake up late enough as to miss the train and curse God, then an hour late to work and 50 bucks less on my account, I'll blame you for everything though, then at night you'll attack me with your life questions and I'll follow up. By tomorrow night we'll be believing there's reason in this world, that we're serious men at all. Deal?

PS: Talk this over with God, I'm dating out someone in the meantime. Leave a message after the tone, but don't leave your name or phone number at all.

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