Watery

At time it all seems watery and whitening from appearances into a more intensive form of representation, like when I touch D.'s skin and it suddenly burns with the hate of cupiditas, burns with litanies of far-sightedness. These waters of tearing colours often remind me of Kafka's God, particularly today being New Year. Kafka wrote a certain story the night of Yom Kippur after having attended a Kol Nidre service, and in the story there was this young man who was condemned by his father to die by drowning, who perfunctorily performs by himself the sentence dictated by his progenitor. It was interesting to see how it is universally accepted in the Jewish tradition that the pious are written in the Book of Life since the New Year and the wicked in the Book of Death; whereas most of us are being awaited with our prayers for the days in between the New Year and the Day of the Atonement, day in which our fate will be finally sealed. The prayerbook tells us about who will die by fire and who will die by water, who will be beheaded and who will be thrown from a cliff into the abyss.

Then on serious thinking it doesn't surprise me Kafka chose the metaphor of the water to portray an alleged suicide by divine orders, as though writing a tragedy into the mouth of the artist God. The whole idea makes me feel very close to him, because my idea is that the world must be recovered from God first of all in order to make it thinkable, therefore I deliberately choose the distance of the Lord of Hosts, as though my guilt had become too weary to await judgement. As though God owed me a world. Without drowning in the waters of the father, I set God on fire only by daring to pray intensely with the purpose in mind to reject his forgiveance when it will come. In that home-world, I no longer believe in.