Saturday, September 09, 2006


Unwittingly I had looked forward to this day, from all days under sun not unlike Salomon's prophetic dream, but I wanted to spend it with Mephiboshet under the shade of that more innocent friendship past the mill in Yemin Moshe and the orange fish, from a little scrap of paper containing one of Zelda's most beloved poems.

Mephiboshet (1.977)

Your flitting eyes-
Small birds sipping nectar.

When you wept
The King did not hear.

When you fell,
The world didn't revert
To void-and-chaos.

Mephiboshet, you dreamt
Of a more innocent friendship.

You abhorred the wisdom
Of the ancient serpent.

O son of Jonathan.

When I wrote down that poem from a new volume at HUC into my journal, altogether with letters from Marcuse to Heidegger I still lived in a fragmented world, in one of manifold exiles. The exile from the language and the places, from the people that I had known in such days that flourished green down a valley extending itself all the way through the Nordau Alley in Tel Aviv reaching my cage window with its bars, at a time when I no longer heard the sea-waves and withal I only cheerished breakfasts in Ashtori beneath a glowing oak that light up for himself a Marlboro light every couple of words and seemed puzzled at my never finishing my breakfast. But I had been right at the time, if at all only in not finishing the breakfast. That cup of coffee would feed me in the dark all throughout the trodden path to Jerusalem.

The exiles always made me think of Bonhoeffer, on that conversation about being an exilee and being a refuge, because usually a refugee is one forced to flee to a foreign country seeking protection. An exilee is the one who perhaps even among his own peers and language and fatherland, has been by necessity set aside. Just like the adulterous woman is set aside and forced to drink the bitter waters that will either leave her unaffected and swell in her belly until causing her the most painful of all deaths. And in some exiles not even the bitter waters are provided, only the condition in which one's temptatively forced to drink them, even from a empty glass.

At the time when I dreamt of Mephiboshet the world seemed an acquous pervertion, and only in the churches I found a seemly comfort, that palace in time that apparently had been built-in, but I semed unable to operate it. I wondered in the ancient quarters all the way up to Mt. Olives desperately lusting after passion, even in Gethsemani my hands and my journals found me slightly immaculate as to hurt. I learnt to crave for silence and for those screaming dark voices that pollute the noise until it becomes a deadly silence. I learnt often not to speak to myself. I lost weight, became interested in politics and even vowed before the Lord of the Cross. As though carrying crosses were some sort of Christian hobby for displaced impotent pilgrims.

And recognizing myself as a part of the local landscape I dreamt of Mephiboshet almost at every hue of a corner that was seemly greener or livelier. I also learnt that I'm not a screen. Needlessly obsessed with the recovery of the public world, that world I had myself obliterated and whose cunnings were nowhere to be found in a Roman misal. I aspired to be less declasse aristocrat and more burgueois, full with those petty everydaily obsessions. The hours did visit me, and so did the houses even though I did make the pilgrimage to Emmaus.

It is difficult to unlive an exile, in the capital of all possible worlds. I started to read less, because I've been often entangled with the hours. It didn't all end here, I just found once at all the train station, and those little choices that make one into a number more in a marketing survey list. This day truely means nothing, nothing at all. But from my own bed I can peep into the ugly towers that seemly flavoured my pages from Gadi's window, and even when I cannot help talking over with the TV antennas no oaks pacify my view, gloom my view. I can only stare at the sun, but my mother preached me strongly against that. It's a designer's toil. They wrote on my whiteboard that dinner was great. I did encounter Mephiboshet this time, his name is Dor.

No comments: