From my journal, 05.02.07, Jerusalem, 16:40
'In brief, there's no way I can mourn over my own person, again, on and on. A Hegelian escapade, a running forth. In a way the senses are corrupted by a view of reality that hardly resembles itself, that provides no meaning, no cure, no symbols or language. The circle is thoroughly incomplete and the line turns into a mellow waiting for the moment of vertigo, in which it might somehow make sense... An unwordly but extreme pain, the transformation into the animal's metamorphosis but only half way, the radical turning point that pivots itself no less than it can shatter the vantage place, the time, the sight.... (an arrival of somebody) They all turn palid, mythologic, motherly, gemütlich, wunthering; conquerors, unremarkable, drinking eternity from the very moment of their upheaval, entering the gate... being unled, unwashed, unkind. There's just not enough mourning. Zu Grunde gehen, im Anfangs.
10.02.07, 00:05, K.Y.
The dream is an unexplainable amazement, a tired landscape, an expectation.
'To this point the world spirit has got now. The last philosophy is the result of all earlier ones; nothing ia lost, all principles are conserved. This concrete idea is the result of the exertions of the spirit through almost twenty-five hundred years' -Hegel
'Not curiosity, not vanity, not the consideration of expediency, not duty and conscientiousness, but an unquenchable, unhappy thirst that brooks no compromise leads to truth' -Hegel, 1809
11.02.07, 17:05, unplaced
A great dark cloud hovers again over my unknowing roads as a ship that's about to sink and never entirely does; it isn't pain but a certain indifference before which there's no possible escapade. It's a troubling sign.
17.02.07, 18:03, unplaced
The givenness and the confussion amount to the very same, in a thrownness against life that in its rawest flesh beheads all reality. The banister reveals upon its demise a hollow abyss and the contingency of all human action relying upon infinite accounts of deliberate rebellion. The serenity is a security too, a loyal faith into the unbeknowest, namely the present, whereof we're so entirely dettached, estranged, distant... in the most miraculous amazement.
An unconditional giving of oneself to life doesn't translate in death, but can be performed only under the spell of the flame, the flame of life in which reality is dispossedssed of all possible knowledge and content, abandoning the forms to their own fate. The telos then returns from heaven to puncture all of worldly activity while altogether remains an ever-distancing drawing that runs behind the skeleton of history so that it can always remain in the heterogeneous together one step ahead of human action, the goal is the actual present. The present takes up the eyes of the stranger but this doesn't happen of their own accord.
'A pistol shot'
Perhaps this will be the last chance available, because next time I might not be as lucky and somehow it's seemly the reason behind my loveless and lifeless death. I seem to know very well what's come to be at stake and the inability to move is a barbaric form of atrophy. The distancing from the dark abyss by no means excludes the dark even but releases a heavy weight upon the burdens of the world and the individual's plight becomes the song of the world, the expectation of the festival and the bridge between one man and his immediate time. Perhaps despite my ever-approaching death, the light might not talk but chastity shine in the end. My heart is happy with longing again, yet this bliss comes in the form of a terrible estrangement. One that doesn't want to remember any more than it endeavours to live, windly transparent transformations. Sometimes his silence is a lot more becoming, happier, easier. Yet I'm somehow tired and unable to stare into somebody's eyes, I find the sight at times as oppresive and liberating as the Sinai story. Odds are that he's always looking toward the other stars and his loneliness to be checking account of longing; I might be just a shade, that disappears just as easily as books burn, my body weakens everyday, I tear apart the time. Ich muß in dieser Jeweiligkeit ungennante, nicht sterben sondern im Umkreis dieser gewisst vom Todes, zu leben.
A blissful ordinary state, powerful, just good enough to surrender all the trouble, amazed before the uncanny loves of the world and in the recurrence of my untimely death embracing life just with a little of despair. You can hear the unimportant noises of kitchen utensils and steps, lights that turn on and off, somehow the pain goes away, even if only for remote seconds that unfold in time without breaking it. Every second steals a sharp edge of pain again, turning me into my own speeches, with much more truth than statements. When I stare into him all tuns suddenly starry... because I can only mourn over my own future and the rapture, the rapture. The vultures of my immediate past haunt me with enough precision as to catch me in my best moment, in the best possible life and world. As though the grief were my only commandment. It's a dream, without characters or dialogues, a naked dream and its end turns at a certain point into the moment of security when the whole world vanishes without apologies but remains perfectly visible, I forget old acquaintances and banisters erect themselves into towers from where their sights can't escape the imprisonment, the punishment of banal curiosity. It feels rather homely, immortalized, the only reason why it can just as easily go away. Another mirror, a world ontology in reverse... old faces vanish without terror, ardient... a birth that can only causes deauth, and perhaps is this calm is sovereign it might really mean we're all but dead in our lifetime, that's why things can't be anyhow else. It's not rational but I find myself unreliable and already mourning over the love that can't become but from very far and repetitive letters, this lack of trust that fails to take the small difference and throw it into death. It's the saddest Biblical scene, the only condition for it to be so extremely real, free, comforting... comforting... like thoughts of God, and philosophy isn't the greatest matter since unlike me, she can't come home today but will unsurprisingly await in the second lane, with the silent meadows. The cair of the M. remains empty. Empty, empty, empty. It's fullness.
(Journal is lost for a couple of weeks)
25.03.07, 09:20. After the Minyan.
I'm under the shadow of the resurrecting stone, the edge of what can be told only after death... The prayers in the morning showered me with golden dust, because their expectations were so high that I could only turn to sadness, only in my after-faith I could discover their intimate beauty. I soften with the days as a diminute tree in the springs of summer and my countenance grows older but I feel more tranquil, in resignation. Not because I quietly accept my fate, instead I jump into it in haste... Not because I know how to live, but because I'm so unable to live that I can't really die, in this immanence the days wane back and forth, on and on, new and old... And I'm not able to change myself, I hardly know what I feel. Last night the hours elapsed in the sweetest sorceries of my mind, I couldn't be but restless and in between I couldn't make up my mind whether I should cry my destinty or laugh my nature... In the end I laughed but didn't know whether this language was only lying. My inner world is a garden of the city, with some mid-size towers and ecclectic sounds but altogether very much earthly... and wet from long hours of rain, of tears that laugh... quite redeemed but very far from God and I know this doesn't really make sense. I've learnt of my prudence and humility, but only yesterday. This my silent road must reverse the silence and no less the un-love, because it's the only image we dare believe today. There's no escape, every garden has its kairos, it's 'last things'. In the garden I can only keep myself company, but this is often tiresome. So tiresome, I can't love without desire, it's a mere dream and when I'll awake again, do let me know how bad this dream was, because I need to argue for its beauty.
Now I see myself obligued to face the real, and there's no possible return... I foresee the unhappiest of all possible outcomes but that's the way only available for me to hope. The fear is consuming but at the same time contains all the power in the world to relieve me from suffering, and perhaps this fear is the only relief from suffering, it's the difficult acceptance of the new life, another cycle of expectation that should never end.