Thursday, February 14, 2019

Yeah

Easier to write to someone. Who's the someone? I won't tell you. Maybe I don't even know. In any case, this is for you. Because writing to someone is an incentive to write.

How am I to combine the things I write? I write here, and there, in all these notebooks, little tidbits trudged in snow-laden paths; ideas charm my mind as I awake in the morning and I try to jot them down in my bedside Morning Pages notebook - which has actually broadened its use and now holds writings from other times as well. Oftentimes I am inspired by Etti Hillesum. That is, when I read from her diaries from 1941. In a way, she wrote the way and the words I would want to write, if I was a little more sophisticated and intellectual. She was maybe just a more intelligent version of me, maybe a type four (Enneagram), too. Indeed introspective and nonjudgmental in her self-inquiry (or liberal in her lack of constraint to dogmatic rules, but loyal only to her own truths), which, like I said, is like me, just she did it in a wiser and more systematic and clear way. And actually - she didn't know her diaries would be turned into a book so maybe she didn't even try to make them sound perfect. (She didn't know she'd be sent on one of those trains too, and toss her last diary entry from the train, in which she wrote "we left the camp singing", and later be killed by the Nazis, at the age of 29.) And there is a secret and a virtue to writing in her style, whether or not you'll die, writing really what it is that is held inside, without trying to make it pretty. One of my problems with my self-expression is that I am aware of the human tendency for aesthetics, even in our words and opinions. And therefore I do not fully trust that my opinions are the truth. They surely are not.

When I was searching last week for a candle to light in memory if Ori through the boxes in the corner behind the coats, I found an oil painting I made back in Israel. It is framed in a black frame, too large on the sides, so the edges of the paper are visible. I don't remember if I framed it back in Israel or brought it frameless and found that odd frame here. In any case, I pulled it out of that box, and decided to place it diagonally on my bedside table, and now I get to look at it when I am going to bed or waking up. It is a painting of a leafy stalk I had found and  placed inside my red mug, back in the large living room on HaTibonim street. 

Later I felt kind of overwhelmed, after all the emotions, sadness, stagnancy, also movement and inspiration (sometimes physical movement, like when Tal put Arik Berman music on and I roamed and danced around the room, with my notebook open on the kitchen counter, and occasionally landed back in front of it and took the pen to my hands and wrote a few words out of the inspiration from his music, then kept on moving).

The next morning I do things "properly". I eat a properly healthy breakfast, and do things in a slow-motion kind of Zen way, which makes me feel fake, like I am in a movie, doing it for the camera. In reality, I am clumsy, and that feels more authentic, because I don't need to put any thought into it.

Arik Berman wrote that music during a roadtrip in the US. He videographed himself and wrote music, and then made music videos out of the footage, and it made me envy that simple ability to take what you do and turn it into art (sometimes he uses the simplest ideas and words, no fancy trills of ideas), and it makes me want to revisit the things I wrote and videographed on our own long roadtrip (vanliving). I feel that the little home we are living in right now is also part of our life on the road, it's like a little vessel on wheels, because we came to it on wheels and will leave it for wheels, and in it we are still rolling, still in the midst of out travels, physically, emotionally, spiritually, whatever.

Friend, I miss you.

Yeah. 

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