Hours

I just received a letter from Claudia Henzler, an old acquaintance from the Theological Seminary and a prominent one at that. She says that I shouldn't swallow his struggles alone, but rather let them sink and share the burden, a quintessentially Christian saying so unessentially Christian, at least politically. It makes me think Christianity is just like the Torah in a way, Jesus is not Christianity just like the Torah is not Judaism, it is all about traditions and meaningful world-pictures. This is nonetheless unimportant and whatever I write hereunder even when necessary should not be taken for a fact, obviously I am doing a great effort to remember and not to invent anything even for the sake of literary artistry. It is also not factual because these stories are being written in the wrong language and with a bitter feeling that because of not having returned to my former home I lack much of the information to furnish this tale with accurate details, like oral records from parents and neighbours, pictures, school certificates, the touch of old clothes, of childhood books, or even speak to my sister.

Last time I spoke about 1990 and 1991; what scares me about writing this is not the nudity of my own person but the Augustinian idea that the search for one's origin is an anticipation to one's end, therefore I try to be careful and find myself somewhere in the middle of the way. I had never authentically thought about death philosophically until I read Rosenzweig and only in the last couple of months product of an unpleasant infection I harvested the idea I might actually die in a decade or so, perhaps tomorrow. But this is in fact not true. At the same time I also remembered Gillian Rose and her deathbed's biography, which I found to be a great source of inspiration when one wants to speak about philosophy, about Christianity and about love. Perhaps the three kernels of what one needs to ponder for a whole lifetime in order to become a sound Western philosopher. At around this time I also receive an invitation of Paul Mendes-Flohr to a certain personal meeting, and I follow suit with the only hope that this will not lead to a Gillian Rose chapter II, in which the old sickly teacher remains and the young philosopher dies. But I can't tell you what will be, nor have I any interest on such. I can only pray that Augustine will have a less dramatic foresight for me, which only means I should read some other of his books or even draw inspiration from the Bible, except for the Ecclesiastes.

Now I shall return to my story, but before I just want to mention as well some memories left out from 1990 and 1991. Firstly I had a small room in the basement apartment which I loved, and then moving to the larger house was just the prelude of all my sufferings. I also remeber my family meeting my aunt and her husband almost every weekend and perhaps I can recall also a visit to my beloved uncle John, who would be at the time in some evangelic institution to recover from drug abuse; after several years in between drug addiction and evangelic cults, his life was taken in 1997 or so I believe. I didn't cry at the funeral until I was almost forced to do so, I didn't understand much about death; years later when I used drugs myself I never stopped for a a second to think about my uncle, after all I belonged to a different social class and had different affections, unlike my grandmother's, my own social class did not condemn drugs, in fact many people there were socially acceptable addicts. The trick was not to speak about it ever, specially not in the steam room of the business club, in the country club it was a different story. But I never became a member of that club, because of being a Jew, at most I could be invited yet never a member. It shows how little attachment people can have to their destinities, as though they had anything else to be attached to, but what is at stake here is not the real feeling but the deliberate choices which in imprisoning us also bestows us with that kind of freedom one needs in order to break away from a marriage to escape with a maid or with another man. The result is consequentially unimportant and most likely very unhappy and shameful, like the death of Franz and the wife's most elegant dress at the wedding; Franz was a character in a novel I love. It is impossible not to bring some art into the picture when one speaks about his own life, otherwise I could see my family doctor.

The change of residence also meant a separation from my grandmother and a new school, even more provincial if such is possible at all. The name of the school had something to do with "The Holy Ghost" and we wore a turqeoise uniform with darker strips, the director of the school was a very tall black man and I would remain there for about four years. Let me remember a few things, this period was quite immaculate and eventless while at the same time quite interesting, for I experienced a lot of desire at the time. My first class teacher was named Myriam, a very short woman with a couple of wrinklings here and there and so far I can't remember much else, perhaps next year there was a teacher called Fabiola if I'm not mistaken, then Elsa and finally Sandra. I wasn't very popular among the kids perhaps out of being a weakling and not too interested in sports, even though I did have some attraction for the teacher but this might have been in another year.

Obviously no friendships are left from this period, I might have had a good friend called Julian and I can even recall his house and mother, perhaps one day when running away from home I believe I hid in his house for a few hours. I also sent him love letters I think, without knowing what it all meant at all. There was also Louise who had been my first girlfriend indeed and quite a sweet harmless and not very witty character, also quite poor, poorer than me at that. She had no siblings and her mother was seemly a countrywoman, long hair and a really typical sight for a little girl, there's little else I can tell. There might have been someone else named William, but we were friends only for a very short time and I remember he treated me to biscuits on his last day before their move out of town. There was another boy, the modern guy of the class, that wore his hair like Elvis and loved all kinds of modern music. To me that was a little heretical and had I had the chance, I would have denounced him with the local parish. I might have fancied him too but I can't remember.

I also remember myself cutting out male bodies in underwear from magazines and keeping them in a red notebook, that could have been my first homoerotic experience. One day I also felt weird, cynnical and sinful when I had erotic dreams with my sports teacher and with my father, it took me a long time to stop worrying about that terrible dream, that of course way before a long history of abuse which I shall only refer to at a later stage in life. I can't remember any other people, perhaps another friend named Willy and the computers teacher whose name I can't recall but who was the directors' son and a very strict teacher. I don't remember the religious lessons from this period and barely have a memory of Christmas, that was a period I hated because my father always punished me for something, it always ended up in a fight plus my presents were always so boring and lame, I never got what I wanted and since I never had believed in St. Klas well I knew there was no democracy in my family. I can't remember the church too well, at least from school.

I do remember myself preparing for my First Communion, and doing those long pilgrimages to the Central Cathedral. I don't think any of my parents' miracles-to-be materialized from those long hours standing to hear the Holy Mass; in fact my father was the most ineffectual Christian educator in world history, because he barely knew anything at all himself. He only cared about that being good I spoke whereof before, but to me that was all boring. I can also recall being a few times in church with him on Sunday evening just next to the school, me wearing a red jacket and leafing from my terrible boredom. I don't think I read any good books or listened to any good music during this period, in fact it was only after my move to St. John's Eudist School that I became thoroughly reformed: I embraced a very philosophical form of Catholicism that relied extensively on the writings of saints and even when I didn't quite believe the Virgin I had some Marian tendences just to go against the Kantianism of some of the teachers there, all theologians and priests in the make. Somehow I might not have even believed in God at all (and I don't think I ever did until 2004 - my first and only suicide attempt, and even when this sounds almost bone-chilling it was a rather childish one) but the social and intellectual aspect of religion was to me salvation from the stiffness of my father's intellect. Then I also had people to discuss religion with, I left for good all provincialisms and chose myself for modernity a little bit before the Greek. But this wasn't possible willy-nilly, I could only move on in life by failing a whole grade, the first one in the secondary. It was biology, never liked that bastard. I almost forget about the music teacher (only time when I studied music, and at that with very little success), he was a blond pervert-looking "educator", and today I would bet my brains that he's an homosexual. Failing a grade was the first metaphysical rebellion among many but a very trascendent one. My father didn't know that by trying to save my academic name in sending me forth to the Eudist School, he had in fact signed the termination of his contract as a father and turned me over to "the human race's education" to use the style of Lessing. Now I can remember two other friends or even three from this period up to the 5th grade, but not their names.