Flicking another cigarette, trying to effectuate a change. One of those days when you can't bring yourself to leave home as though too many exiles would await you at the door, unless you're pressed by the imperative need to inject some booze down your blood system. Thinking about some sleepful fascinations.... I've come to understand that no one reads my blog, so eventually some of my posts have been rendered useless... because they were written in the spirit of the most Kunderian form of love - that which requires among all possible characters a writer that chooses to oppose Kafka, that doesn't want to hold himself from all possible suffering and therefore jumps into the abyss of the water as though embracing an old memory that bleeds in its own pleasure until it soaks in dread. It also requires a lonely spectator, only one... and most often the spectators I've had in mind never really understand my language or take an interest. Someone said that the tragedy of modern man is that he thinks alone, and hadn't I read the Bible I'd think all alone myself, but then it couldn't be that neat, because I still write in utmost solitude.
Or rather hold myself from writing, instead of avoiding the suffering. Because everything I write is quite an obnoxious anti-statement of what I'm thinking, I'm seemly busy in obscuring my thoughts as to make them indistinguishable from otherness. The title of this blog is even a mistake; simply because I never write any philosophy here.... unlike most people I write philosophy in my hand-written journals and cheap verses for the public, perhaps an analyst could make a fortune expounding those issues. I don't see myself too much poetizing the world as to make it a dwelling place because I realized early in my youth we all live in "in-between's" that are as inescapable as the distance of God. Perhaps I'm just trying to experience the language... just like when I write my letters and then re-read the sent copies over and over, it's funny.... my most common mistake is the omission of pronouns, which seems to me an absurd deconstruction. I can't write in my mother tongue because it's subject at the moment to many a exile, or in the language of my intellect because I feel unable to take up to the challenge of being unwordly enough; therefore I'm condemned already for eight years to write in the most foreign of languages, in the one that has never produced any philosophy, at least for what I think philosophy is.
Perhaps I deliberate choose to remain in unexperienced forms of poetics to find my way out of dialectics, to remind myself that language has failed us and that insofar as this is true, in the Biblical sense, one might not dare to write philosophy. But perhaps one day the abyss will seem so close that I'll be forced to scream in the mother tongue or to realize that all possibilities have been exhausted, and like Dror being lingually impaired I will agree to live in the plainest of realities, one that doesn't know of human languages, being replaced by the petty obsessions of everyday's informed minds in the sounds of trains and tramlines. Language is the only way I can love. That's why all my loves have been able to become pasts, they're all exiles. And thus publicly I refuse to philosophize. I refuse.
Incesantly I read the philosophers and neglect the poets, they've all failed on us. They've joined the orchestras of trains and tramlines, and in the silence of the world one can neither hate or love, he's only permitted to listen. To listen in the uttermost contempt of intimacy and bodily embraces that shift one another like lingerie. It's interesting, that despite everything no one has influenced my thinking more than the Bible and the musicians, the philosophers only kill my discourse. And when I'll be able to write philosophy it won't be called philosophy anymore. I know I'll do it one day, because my life is meant to be short. But long enough yet to experience her ark once more, as one experiences salvation.
My correspondence if an epiphany of cigarettes and unanswered letters, lines without recipients.
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