“Outta Home”
Days of unbearable pain, but I am in full awareness that this statement means nothing at all… I have outgrown the Romantic ideal of always speaking of one’s suffering in terms of interesting, as if to suffer were anything interesting… That is a voyeuristic attitude which is not so bad after all except when it is the sufferer who is placing himself in the position of the spectator, as if the vanity of being possibly observed could sate anybody, but then thinking about it a second time, the sufferer knows not the metaphysics of suffering. They are meant to be disturbing to the good God, but stand on the way of salvation.
Physical pain is an empty space in a lifetime; it is like a white dot, or that corner that has to be cut off from the canvas in order to frame it. It doesn’t teach moral lessons in itself; it is but in the care of physical pain that we learn, self-learn… Extreme physical pain can, and no less than fear, lead us to a clinical death, the pain can cause our brain and heart to break their feedback and let us fall into unconscious suffering, of whose consequences we are not aware in any way. In Victorian love diseases as in “pneumatic” tuberculosis we are thought of as gifted, with a Pandora’s Box, but gifted… Making a superhuman effort to overcome the natural tendency to avoid pain, for the Greeks after all work and pain and sorrow had the same word-root, thus what a tragedy it was to be enslaved.
I am not sure what part of the anxiety is worse, if the uncertainty of an amateurish self-diagnose of the worst possible illnesses or the certainty of something having gone definitely awry and the medical care being out of reach. It is a world of practical things and shopping, something aches, you see a doctor, tell a story, receive in lieu of passionate footnotes to your story a detailed prognosis and a prescription, you walk into the pharmacy, swallow pills, trust that God is dead and get better. I am ready to accept that it has been a choice to live without doctors, at least it was while the insurance could be afforded, then it became an existential necessity, a state of affairs. I strongly believe even now that they greatly contribute to our deaths, or to the impoverishment of our lives. At any rate, I would feel so much more in peace if one of those murderers of the healthy people would tell me that I am going to die. Certainty has such a high price in this world, usually the price of acquitting the devil for great crimes in the name of some little good we derived from them. Certainty in religion comes at the price of leaving the world as it is, poor Leibniz, the best of all possible worlds?
I try to write and I know eventually I will, write a master piece that I will loath one day thereafter, but it is all part of a big whole I see only in parts. I am writing basically about myself as if it were something that could save me, as if leaving a word behind me constituted the only thing I can do not to lose the right too heaven so completely… In writing about myself it is all likely that I am getting to know myself, and perhaps it is in this knowing that I can choose myself for what I am, and only then be saved. The pain comes often during the day but the mornings are particularly bad, there’s too much noise in the environment, the air is too heavy and the people, to just see them, it is an open wound in me. It starts at the height of the teeth in the right side and slowly envelops the ear coming all the way up into the middle lateral head and all the way down to the neck. At the tact my neck is steel stiff, enlarged lymph nodes and that desecrating pain, screeching, emptying everything…
Strangely enough after some time it stops, but the minutes are eternal to me, more than the pain I dread a moment of un-heroic weakling’s death, brain stroke in the middle of a headache, and then no more essays and martinis and lovers and paintings… How strange, this is what really troubles me, not to enjoy the goods of this world I have been so committed to dread, it troubles to go to heaven without having exhausted with enough radicalism all the good in this world. When it stops I feel such calm around me, the silence of litanies, some calm as I had never experienced before, in a similar manner, no pain I experienced before equals this. In thinking and even in mourning about this world and its life, one is not that alone, one keeps himself company and he has a lot of imaginary interlocutors –friends of old, teachers, the great masters of thought, people he fancies and with whom he imagines himself in interesting conversations even in spite of not having ever crossed a word. It is only in physical pain that one is really alone.
This doesn’t take me by surprise, in my lack of tranquility I had expected this, after all leaving the world of peace and tranquility, to let them be stolen piecemeal, this is not only about courage, it does require so much talent. To suffer-only does not achieve anything but increasing the lust for tranquility, this requires an attitude. But then there’s the world of the home with foster mothers and parents, half-brothers and a dozen of other well-known but borrowed relatives… Their eyes are mirrors; they reveal the accuracy of one’s own contempt, the end of biology I suppose. The organic ties one set himself to tear have not been glued yet, they even seem now not just broken but shattered… Time seems not to have passed, neither disdain, at times we get used to an everyday comfort that doesn’t save, it just gives you the shattered illusion of an eternal tense, of the repetition of sequences without any temporal index, because any index whatsoever when temporal is charged with the ailing feel that it must end.
We become attached to parents we didn’t have, or to siblings we didn’t know, and tell ourselves little lies, in order to escape, to choose some piece of mind that had been broken already in olden times, when they still recognized you, when the gap was still something you desired, not an actuality of experience. The silence of love in the un-distance is something that I will always bear, the lack of a creative language like that of God –it is but this dearth what makes a requisite for being a denizen of this world, but the despair settles in when the language of un-love dawns on closeness between people, their living-together is only one another contingency like that of fish being thrown into a tank, in order to be fished and eaten and belched and defecated, mere dead biology. Biology and love, it is like death and cosmic order, related but one cannot know the other.
So many days elapse and I find my mattress at night an eternal purgatory, if at least we were Christians then this purgatory would have all the advantages of lewdness and Philistinism, it is as if my hiding place had to replace the world, how much meaning can there be in living in a place that can’t see, a place without windows to the external world –the most precious sight through a glass pane stained with animal fat from years of cooking sifts the outside with detour at a kitchen of bitter meals, and then you remember that kitchen, the beatings, the repetitive twenty years of the same plates and the great joy of drunkenness and oblivion. Perhaps one is to prefer the emptiness of the radical headache. Beneath the stairway, the mattress eats my health away, like fat being consumed by swine… And it is paradoxical then to think that there’s been really never any other inspiration but my very own life, under the stairway even… It seems hermetic as a glass house but one’s quick to realize the deceitful treat; the noises penetrate each and every cubic millimeter of air inside the little cave-room, the wooden panes even seem to cause the effect of maximizing the noise, making every desire or every intimate thought into the most reckless depravation, everything is turned into prohibition, privation.
Oftentimes I prefer when father doesn’t speak, then I am not so forced to lie with such blatancy, I must confess I do it only for the money… I don’t do it willy-nilly; I feel he owes me for so many years of abandonment, of spurious and abject abandonment, for the years of spiritual mediocrity and for the beatings too. The silence is tense but not like the silence of lovers, it is a silence in which all partners know that they really don’t want to break the silence, that things are cool as they are. I could die in the cave from a midnight headache, and perhaps days would elapse, they would think I am just pissed drunk or depressed, it wouldn’t be until the settlement of the smells and fungi that any alarm would be raised. This, this is my greatest fear. Whoever will say that I’ve spent my whole life running away from my fate, I will say he is absolutely right, but this possibility is my only faith.
I am frightened of the street nowadays while I hadn’t in younger years, but in Tel Aviv the nights showered with warm rays of invisible heat and the sea always offered some ideas about the endlessness of things, even when I had little patience to seize over these thoughts and preferred to wander in the lewdness of free alcohol, small talk and casual sex. I guess there were some ideas about “ends” anyways, especially in the mornings, just right before the noise blew back into the earth… It reminds me of that thing I wrote about Asaf, I think I dreamt about him the other day. In the middle of everything I never ceased to honor my people, the story goes that Rabbi Akiva couldn’t afford to learn so that he would climb up to the roof and watch the Talmudic discussions from there under the cold winter nights. In hungry days I never quit writing, I think it was precisely that what kept me alive through those years, no matter what I wrote, the letters to Katharina especially, in them I opened a savings account of my whole life, so whole that in them I included the futures that could not be, that would never be and perhaps even without knowing those that were to be.
In the end one could always study the Talmud and sing an ancient melody, grab some cookies and hide them in the pockets, roam the streets of the market at night as to pick up leftovers from whole bread loaves, gummies, some potatoes, tomatoes, a cucumber even, ah how happy were those nights! How regrettably impossible to speak on. Then when one had the money, a whole lunch from the nearby restaurant, delicious to the fucking bone… The entire day spent watching the pale clumsiness of the Protestant church and taking delight in thinking one could just be there somewhat at home, on a boat sailing right through a sea of burning fires and sins on the high-speed highway to the end of the world. To be at the church loomed easier, for it was easier to believe in Plato than to study Talmud and you would get free lunches instead of cookies, but at the price of salvation, at the price of communion, at the price of destroying the present. Then Talmud represented the uncanny reality, the exhaustion of logical possibility that leads the man of vision into the aporias of passion and therefore to action. The knowledge that man isn’t fallen, but yet he can’t be trusted… His sin was not the apple, but the idol worship, so that the damnation is not existentially applicable to the whole of universal history.
In the end, just like in those days, what I feared the most was not illness or the pain even, but to let myself be convinced that the world was emptied from love, no matter how strong my perception of reality had informed me of such being the case. Information is not a decision, then in that order of ideas I make sure to hold on, not to lose the temporal index, the fact of one’s own mortality. All my dreams are of royalties, expensive watches and designer’s clothes, not because they’re expensive but because they mean to represent universal ideas in the earthly and coward disguise of power… I am not so contemptuous of poverty as I am of living part-time, of intellectual “jobs” and “experts” in this philosopher or the other. There’s here a belittled idea of greatness, belittled only because we have cleaned it from theology and have thrown the weight of the victory and of defeat’s argument not into the wide universe, but right inside the body of the monad.
Last time I went into exile from the privileges of the home had been exactly six years and five months ago –enough time to catch a mortal disease and write a book, also enough time to have achieved quite a lot of happiness in earthly affairs. This should include an unplanned hotel booking that lasted already sixteen months; I had booked for a home-stay and was received with a cave-room, that after a few months of landing dead drunk on the cushions set upon the cold floor tiles. The janitor felt compassion for my Christian vale of tears and replaced it with a sanatorium without daylight, well; it seems like a place where I would be wont to be found. The payment policy at the hotel is crystal clear, you receive a mattress, some food and endless aggravation, and in return you pay with indifference, irresponsibility, unaccountability and disdain. No more could be asked from charitable institutions based on fundamental rights of denizens in every country such as those that entitle him to a name, a nationality, a family and so on. Institutions that of course have never collapsed and had withstood all tests of history, war and man’s lust for power. Right on.
I’m strong, I always said… But there’s so much I forgot along the way, and now in order to retrieve it, my only option is to do exactly what I did years ago, to take as much as I can from then and swiftly walk away without the sin of Lot’s wife. I might regret this so much later, in when it dawns on me that the nighttime of life has settled in, but this is my only option, lest I want to give up on all the claims I have made for myself in life. A strong drink now, then some tears and excruciating pain, but decisions made. I must be stronger even, to be able to carry out at least a few of the things I’ve been lucky enough to see in this life. An understanding is not a conclusion and a theory is not a hypothesis. It seems as if I will say something out of order bearing in mind the advantages of my position, but I will do my very best to stay alive until I can land in the far-away ports, this seems an overrated statement but it is so far the only practical truth I’ve dwelled on in the whole week of headaches and blurred visions. It didn’t hurt me to leave friendships behind at that time, and it shouldn’t now, however I am a little bit of a lot older, and I draw back over and over, but once the decision is made, fates will be up to world history.
I fear my sleep too, I don’t look properly after my cave, piles of clothes in the reduced space make it difficult to move, even to go in, but it is a pronouncement from my part, I pronounce my verdict: I am indifferent to this. This proves beyond rationale that my antinomian argument about loving the world as it is is but the greatest philosophical aporia in the moment you break it into separate congruent thoughts applicable to individual questions. I fear it because I awake from my sleep right at the same place, I fear the physical pain again, and I fear the fatherlessness so coldly striking me in the mornings when I feel like a beggar trying to make ends meet in front of a leper asylum. But I am free at night, so free… So free that I mind not the long hours walking home from drinking bouts, I fear not the long tireless day exerting its pressure over my eyelids with a surplus of daylight unnecessary for life, the nights are mine, so mine that they are like the body of a man, and because I have loved men, I know what their bodies are like, they are like this, treacherous but inevitable, and so inevitable is then the day when I will go and face the street again, less wise than when younger, but less tranquil, less persuaded, less deceived about happiness. I don’t know how I could have lived through the stations of my own life without writing, without thought, without the spirit of hell. Only those will know heaven, for the rest there’s Disneyland still. A home is always a destination, a psychological orientation, only in so far as you’re driving there, but past the entrance all newcomers are more than often disappointed, this is what happens when one goes on sojourns! World-Tourism is how one philosopher called this whole thing. I am outta home, hitting some free hotels where one prays for meals instead of lying, it is not yet practical freedom, but is rational, it is a half ticket back into the world of hotel rooms and hotel people. After salvation comes the everyday lover, that is my eschatological hope.
Days of unbearable pain, but I am in full awareness that this statement means nothing at all… I have outgrown the Romantic ideal of always speaking of one’s suffering in terms of interesting, as if to suffer were anything interesting… That is a voyeuristic attitude which is not so bad after all except when it is the sufferer who is placing himself in the position of the spectator, as if the vanity of being possibly observed could sate anybody, but then thinking about it a second time, the sufferer knows not the metaphysics of suffering. They are meant to be disturbing to the good God, but stand on the way of salvation.
Physical pain is an empty space in a lifetime; it is like a white dot, or that corner that has to be cut off from the canvas in order to frame it. It doesn’t teach moral lessons in itself; it is but in the care of physical pain that we learn, self-learn… Extreme physical pain can, and no less than fear, lead us to a clinical death, the pain can cause our brain and heart to break their feedback and let us fall into unconscious suffering, of whose consequences we are not aware in any way. In Victorian love diseases as in “pneumatic” tuberculosis we are thought of as gifted, with a Pandora’s Box, but gifted… Making a superhuman effort to overcome the natural tendency to avoid pain, for the Greeks after all work and pain and sorrow had the same word-root, thus what a tragedy it was to be enslaved.
I am not sure what part of the anxiety is worse, if the uncertainty of an amateurish self-diagnose of the worst possible illnesses or the certainty of something having gone definitely awry and the medical care being out of reach. It is a world of practical things and shopping, something aches, you see a doctor, tell a story, receive in lieu of passionate footnotes to your story a detailed prognosis and a prescription, you walk into the pharmacy, swallow pills, trust that God is dead and get better. I am ready to accept that it has been a choice to live without doctors, at least it was while the insurance could be afforded, then it became an existential necessity, a state of affairs. I strongly believe even now that they greatly contribute to our deaths, or to the impoverishment of our lives. At any rate, I would feel so much more in peace if one of those murderers of the healthy people would tell me that I am going to die. Certainty has such a high price in this world, usually the price of acquitting the devil for great crimes in the name of some little good we derived from them. Certainty in religion comes at the price of leaving the world as it is, poor Leibniz, the best of all possible worlds?
I try to write and I know eventually I will, write a master piece that I will loath one day thereafter, but it is all part of a big whole I see only in parts. I am writing basically about myself as if it were something that could save me, as if leaving a word behind me constituted the only thing I can do not to lose the right too heaven so completely… In writing about myself it is all likely that I am getting to know myself, and perhaps it is in this knowing that I can choose myself for what I am, and only then be saved. The pain comes often during the day but the mornings are particularly bad, there’s too much noise in the environment, the air is too heavy and the people, to just see them, it is an open wound in me. It starts at the height of the teeth in the right side and slowly envelops the ear coming all the way up into the middle lateral head and all the way down to the neck. At the tact my neck is steel stiff, enlarged lymph nodes and that desecrating pain, screeching, emptying everything…
Strangely enough after some time it stops, but the minutes are eternal to me, more than the pain I dread a moment of un-heroic weakling’s death, brain stroke in the middle of a headache, and then no more essays and martinis and lovers and paintings… How strange, this is what really troubles me, not to enjoy the goods of this world I have been so committed to dread, it troubles to go to heaven without having exhausted with enough radicalism all the good in this world. When it stops I feel such calm around me, the silence of litanies, some calm as I had never experienced before, in a similar manner, no pain I experienced before equals this. In thinking and even in mourning about this world and its life, one is not that alone, one keeps himself company and he has a lot of imaginary interlocutors –friends of old, teachers, the great masters of thought, people he fancies and with whom he imagines himself in interesting conversations even in spite of not having ever crossed a word. It is only in physical pain that one is really alone.
This doesn’t take me by surprise, in my lack of tranquility I had expected this, after all leaving the world of peace and tranquility, to let them be stolen piecemeal, this is not only about courage, it does require so much talent. To suffer-only does not achieve anything but increasing the lust for tranquility, this requires an attitude. But then there’s the world of the home with foster mothers and parents, half-brothers and a dozen of other well-known but borrowed relatives… Their eyes are mirrors; they reveal the accuracy of one’s own contempt, the end of biology I suppose. The organic ties one set himself to tear have not been glued yet, they even seem now not just broken but shattered… Time seems not to have passed, neither disdain, at times we get used to an everyday comfort that doesn’t save, it just gives you the shattered illusion of an eternal tense, of the repetition of sequences without any temporal index, because any index whatsoever when temporal is charged with the ailing feel that it must end.
We become attached to parents we didn’t have, or to siblings we didn’t know, and tell ourselves little lies, in order to escape, to choose some piece of mind that had been broken already in olden times, when they still recognized you, when the gap was still something you desired, not an actuality of experience. The silence of love in the un-distance is something that I will always bear, the lack of a creative language like that of God –it is but this dearth what makes a requisite for being a denizen of this world, but the despair settles in when the language of un-love dawns on closeness between people, their living-together is only one another contingency like that of fish being thrown into a tank, in order to be fished and eaten and belched and defecated, mere dead biology. Biology and love, it is like death and cosmic order, related but one cannot know the other.
So many days elapse and I find my mattress at night an eternal purgatory, if at least we were Christians then this purgatory would have all the advantages of lewdness and Philistinism, it is as if my hiding place had to replace the world, how much meaning can there be in living in a place that can’t see, a place without windows to the external world –the most precious sight through a glass pane stained with animal fat from years of cooking sifts the outside with detour at a kitchen of bitter meals, and then you remember that kitchen, the beatings, the repetitive twenty years of the same plates and the great joy of drunkenness and oblivion. Perhaps one is to prefer the emptiness of the radical headache. Beneath the stairway, the mattress eats my health away, like fat being consumed by swine… And it is paradoxical then to think that there’s been really never any other inspiration but my very own life, under the stairway even… It seems hermetic as a glass house but one’s quick to realize the deceitful treat; the noises penetrate each and every cubic millimeter of air inside the little cave-room, the wooden panes even seem to cause the effect of maximizing the noise, making every desire or every intimate thought into the most reckless depravation, everything is turned into prohibition, privation.
Oftentimes I prefer when father doesn’t speak, then I am not so forced to lie with such blatancy, I must confess I do it only for the money… I don’t do it willy-nilly; I feel he owes me for so many years of abandonment, of spurious and abject abandonment, for the years of spiritual mediocrity and for the beatings too. The silence is tense but not like the silence of lovers, it is a silence in which all partners know that they really don’t want to break the silence, that things are cool as they are. I could die in the cave from a midnight headache, and perhaps days would elapse, they would think I am just pissed drunk or depressed, it wouldn’t be until the settlement of the smells and fungi that any alarm would be raised. This, this is my greatest fear. Whoever will say that I’ve spent my whole life running away from my fate, I will say he is absolutely right, but this possibility is my only faith.
I am frightened of the street nowadays while I hadn’t in younger years, but in Tel Aviv the nights showered with warm rays of invisible heat and the sea always offered some ideas about the endlessness of things, even when I had little patience to seize over these thoughts and preferred to wander in the lewdness of free alcohol, small talk and casual sex. I guess there were some ideas about “ends” anyways, especially in the mornings, just right before the noise blew back into the earth… It reminds me of that thing I wrote about Asaf, I think I dreamt about him the other day. In the middle of everything I never ceased to honor my people, the story goes that Rabbi Akiva couldn’t afford to learn so that he would climb up to the roof and watch the Talmudic discussions from there under the cold winter nights. In hungry days I never quit writing, I think it was precisely that what kept me alive through those years, no matter what I wrote, the letters to Katharina especially, in them I opened a savings account of my whole life, so whole that in them I included the futures that could not be, that would never be and perhaps even without knowing those that were to be.
In the end one could always study the Talmud and sing an ancient melody, grab some cookies and hide them in the pockets, roam the streets of the market at night as to pick up leftovers from whole bread loaves, gummies, some potatoes, tomatoes, a cucumber even, ah how happy were those nights! How regrettably impossible to speak on. Then when one had the money, a whole lunch from the nearby restaurant, delicious to the fucking bone… The entire day spent watching the pale clumsiness of the Protestant church and taking delight in thinking one could just be there somewhat at home, on a boat sailing right through a sea of burning fires and sins on the high-speed highway to the end of the world. To be at the church loomed easier, for it was easier to believe in Plato than to study Talmud and you would get free lunches instead of cookies, but at the price of salvation, at the price of communion, at the price of destroying the present. Then Talmud represented the uncanny reality, the exhaustion of logical possibility that leads the man of vision into the aporias of passion and therefore to action. The knowledge that man isn’t fallen, but yet he can’t be trusted… His sin was not the apple, but the idol worship, so that the damnation is not existentially applicable to the whole of universal history.
In the end, just like in those days, what I feared the most was not illness or the pain even, but to let myself be convinced that the world was emptied from love, no matter how strong my perception of reality had informed me of such being the case. Information is not a decision, then in that order of ideas I make sure to hold on, not to lose the temporal index, the fact of one’s own mortality. All my dreams are of royalties, expensive watches and designer’s clothes, not because they’re expensive but because they mean to represent universal ideas in the earthly and coward disguise of power… I am not so contemptuous of poverty as I am of living part-time, of intellectual “jobs” and “experts” in this philosopher or the other. There’s here a belittled idea of greatness, belittled only because we have cleaned it from theology and have thrown the weight of the victory and of defeat’s argument not into the wide universe, but right inside the body of the monad.
Last time I went into exile from the privileges of the home had been exactly six years and five months ago –enough time to catch a mortal disease and write a book, also enough time to have achieved quite a lot of happiness in earthly affairs. This should include an unplanned hotel booking that lasted already sixteen months; I had booked for a home-stay and was received with a cave-room, that after a few months of landing dead drunk on the cushions set upon the cold floor tiles. The janitor felt compassion for my Christian vale of tears and replaced it with a sanatorium without daylight, well; it seems like a place where I would be wont to be found. The payment policy at the hotel is crystal clear, you receive a mattress, some food and endless aggravation, and in return you pay with indifference, irresponsibility, unaccountability and disdain. No more could be asked from charitable institutions based on fundamental rights of denizens in every country such as those that entitle him to a name, a nationality, a family and so on. Institutions that of course have never collapsed and had withstood all tests of history, war and man’s lust for power. Right on.
I’m strong, I always said… But there’s so much I forgot along the way, and now in order to retrieve it, my only option is to do exactly what I did years ago, to take as much as I can from then and swiftly walk away without the sin of Lot’s wife. I might regret this so much later, in when it dawns on me that the nighttime of life has settled in, but this is my only option, lest I want to give up on all the claims I have made for myself in life. A strong drink now, then some tears and excruciating pain, but decisions made. I must be stronger even, to be able to carry out at least a few of the things I’ve been lucky enough to see in this life. An understanding is not a conclusion and a theory is not a hypothesis. It seems as if I will say something out of order bearing in mind the advantages of my position, but I will do my very best to stay alive until I can land in the far-away ports, this seems an overrated statement but it is so far the only practical truth I’ve dwelled on in the whole week of headaches and blurred visions. It didn’t hurt me to leave friendships behind at that time, and it shouldn’t now, however I am a little bit of a lot older, and I draw back over and over, but once the decision is made, fates will be up to world history.
I fear my sleep too, I don’t look properly after my cave, piles of clothes in the reduced space make it difficult to move, even to go in, but it is a pronouncement from my part, I pronounce my verdict: I am indifferent to this. This proves beyond rationale that my antinomian argument about loving the world as it is is but the greatest philosophical aporia in the moment you break it into separate congruent thoughts applicable to individual questions. I fear it because I awake from my sleep right at the same place, I fear the physical pain again, and I fear the fatherlessness so coldly striking me in the mornings when I feel like a beggar trying to make ends meet in front of a leper asylum. But I am free at night, so free… So free that I mind not the long hours walking home from drinking bouts, I fear not the long tireless day exerting its pressure over my eyelids with a surplus of daylight unnecessary for life, the nights are mine, so mine that they are like the body of a man, and because I have loved men, I know what their bodies are like, they are like this, treacherous but inevitable, and so inevitable is then the day when I will go and face the street again, less wise than when younger, but less tranquil, less persuaded, less deceived about happiness. I don’t know how I could have lived through the stations of my own life without writing, without thought, without the spirit of hell. Only those will know heaven, for the rest there’s Disneyland still. A home is always a destination, a psychological orientation, only in so far as you’re driving there, but past the entrance all newcomers are more than often disappointed, this is what happens when one goes on sojourns! World-Tourism is how one philosopher called this whole thing. I am outta home, hitting some free hotels where one prays for meals instead of lying, it is not yet practical freedom, but is rational, it is a half ticket back into the world of hotel rooms and hotel people. After salvation comes the everyday lover, that is my eschatological hope.
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