The Phoebus

Some letters even older but not too much wiser, from another sunk boat.

17.05.o6

...Ari. What wonder to hear from you again,
Or perhaps no wonder at all,
I resisted the temptation to write most fervently
My life is far more dilute than yours,merely work and days in the sun
It's a comfort not to feel the responsibility
To learn of and comprehend the whole extent of
Human misconception; but I suppose that is your due
Always weaving another thread; and you believe that
Soon, you'll step back and see it, eh?

I think of you, rarely; when I do it's uncommonly painful,it is, as you said 'it's just a joy of a great great height. It isbetween erotic and dreadful and sweet and irresponsible'

Shalom dear one,
I hope you find good moments of peace

24.07.05

Dear one,

It seems that you've misplaced your letter Ari....or perhaps yourintentions?....I wonder how your Shabbat went. I finished 1984 a fewdays ago...it threw me a violent curve into agnostic thought...I readyour Philologist blog at times...many things are hard for me tounderstand...but naturally you write them to be thus, so it isn'tsurprising. My thoughts wander to you at the most sporadic moments.,they are usually accompanied by a wave of sensation that I can only describe as longing...they've dimmed since the first days of my return however, cloaked by wordly matters and flippant desires. Perhaps youare wise in questioning your decision to come here Ari, despite my desire to see you I don't know what it is that I can offer you...in many ways I wish that I could hand it all over, but it's almost impossible nowadays. You stirred me from selfish chauvanist tendencyin a way that I've never known, really. In an exciting, dangerous way. I got your postcard today....it was a most pleasant surprise....afresh wind through the stagnancy of my afternoon. I wonder where your thoughts wander...and whether your heart folllows. I wonder whether you remember my touch, as you remember so many things so well; for I've almost forgotten yours. I truly do seek that sense ofrighteousness, of justice, of validation, I suppose...but it seems tobe fleeting from me, even the concept of it at time seems foggy and far-fetched. The air has cleared here, losing it's heavy leaden quality. The sun seems to shine and to warm my flesh....but I take nojoy in it; everything has taken a mechanical quality...as if I'm anight sentry...doing rounds that I've done a thousand times. The only times I feel like my soul speaks are the times that I write to you....and even then a shadow hangs over me that I cannot describe...and I long to be elevated...to write to you as would a man of brilliance; and when I fail I write and write, only to delete thatwhich was said and write nothing at all. You've lit a fire inside of me Ari, deep inside of my belly I feel it stir and flicker endlessly... but when I search for a sight of it consciously, it evades me most mercilessly.

And yet I write; and at times it is for myself; but at others it is most undoubedly, for you. I spent last night on the beach drinking and musing with Alex on the dilemma he seems to have found himself in. He's quite in love, inundeniable, reckless, overwhelming love. And yet he's terrified; terrified that she won't be faithful, that she'll betray him as he's been betrayed in the past. He came close to taking his life the firsttime such pain was inflicted ....he's afraid for his very existence in this. It seems neither one of them wants to relocate countries, and I laugh when he tells me this because it's such a paradoxal conflict; one's love for another human...and one's love for a country. I don't know what to tell him; he seems to be quite set on indecision, his mood flittering from optimistic swooning to the most negative I've yetto see him. I heard that he spoke to you the other day; I somewhat envied him that --- I wonder if me and you shall ever meet again Ari; I wonder if much will change, till then.

15.08.05

Dear Ari,I don't know how long it has been since I've written; my life hastaken the form of nights home on the train and waking at two pm toride back to work once more. I'm well but substantially desolate; thegood news of this week is that I can take my EMT test on the 18th,instead of in November as I suspected; hopefully this means that mydays of mind-numbing work packing food into plastic bags are somewhatnumbered. I truly must apoligize for not writing back; It would seemodd of me to do so considering how inundated my family has become toyour name; it seems as if you have been speaking more with them thenyou have with me. I was passing by a Jewish Bookstore and picked up anitem that caught my eye from the discount used book cart outside. Itwas the picture of a boy standing atop of a rock, hair tousled by thewind, staring down at a group of people. It ended up being the storyof a Judeo- German boy, whose family relocated to Israel early in hisyouth. Who grew up on Kibbutz and fought in Israel's war forexistence. He later attended Hebrew university and taught at Columbia;a sociologist by education; he branched that concern that he had forthe state of humanity and the seeming futility of our beaurocracies infulfilling our most essential needs into other forms of study; this isthe story of how this self-proclaimed "intellectual" set out to changethe world that we live in, with the firm belief that it was possible.I'm halfway through this personal memoir; and it took my (extremely)high stupor yesterday to bring about the clairvoyance to understandhis essential message behind it all. I've yet to discover whether myassumption will ring true; but, I'm enjoying this journey through hislife, nonetheless. I have not been keeping Shabbos and Kosher hasfallen with it, as well; I eat the pork ribs and sausage at the staffmeals that we have after work, shrugging it off to very Christianconcepts of all or nothing. Perhaps I should be building up my Mitzvahpoints; I have the feeling that when you get here, I'm going to needall of the credit that I can get; you fatal, beautiful troublemaker.
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I think he should be happily married by now, elsehow... and once I found the old picture it could only remind me this was actually the painting I had envisaged in my mind. "In proportion to the intensity of feeling, the expression of the features is intensified, and nothing is easier than to express extremes" (Lessing).