“Why is writing important? Mainly, out of egotism, I suppose. Because I want to be that persona, a writer, and not because there is something I must say. Yet why not that too? With a little ego-building — such as the fait accompli this journal provides — I shall win through to the confidence that I (I) have something to say, that should be said.” (Susan Sontag)
“The fear of becoming old is born of the recognition that one is not living now the life that one wishes. It is equivalent to a sense of abusing the present.” (Susan Sontag)
“I don’t believe a word I’m saying. It’s interesting, maybe valuable — but I don’t see how “true.” (Susan Sontag)
All night long I thought about my writing, not about eidetic writing but about my journal as if this document were the most important thing I ever wrote, this is so perhaps only because I haven´t written anything valuable in a long time and whatever I´ve written, I dislike to badly. I assume that I haven´t written anything since “Katechon” and two other things I wrote, the long letter-essay to Santiago (which I assume he of course never read) and something else, but I don´t remember exactly what. Having worked in advertising also has much to do with it, because it made me very dumb and mediocre about language and ideas in general but it also made me more intelligent in the sense that I discovered what it is to think when you put aside that insane egotism of the intellectual and all that sense of refinement around one´s being; at that point one realized that thinking simple thing is so very difficult, the most difficult exercises, that´s why modern authors are for the most part such a failure, they think that too much is the new brilliant, whereas I think enough is the new acceptable. Modern writing shouldn´t be exceptionally difficult and artsy, it shouldn´t vomit prosaic statements of grandeur but at the same time it should leverage from the street language. Writing is really very difficult I think, because that´s precisely my point because of what Sontag said, that I might say very interesting stuff when I´m not lazy as to restrict myself to plain prosaic stupidity, but I don´t know what there´s of truth about it. This is why I find this article for Pablo so challenging, I don´t know myself what truth is, and my sense of loss in the world is so intense that truth doesn´t make part of my agenda now. Current preoccupations: Mental health, immigration (most important), university studies, journal writing, retrieving memories, being beautiful (at least acting it out), not to run into legal trouble, my suitcases, ability to produce any intellectual work. I have between 3 and a half and 4 hours to produce the second half of an article that must make of me one of two things: Someone really famous and polemic, or elsehow someone very stupid and too talkative. Yet I spend my time writing journal entries, but I am glad about this day because finally I can write about something other than my miser state of mind. I´m not sure I´ll be able to produce the article. Maybe yes. The modern novel or fiction shouldn´t be difficult to write because it knows no traditions. The modern essay should be very difficult to write, because it is as close as we can come to surround the shores of truth.
Success: Father is not a bad guy really, not at all, he´s too frustrated though and his notion of success is proportional to providing for his family meals and a roof which is more than what most human kind would do, but then not enough for me. If I didn´t dislike so much his attitudes, perhaps I wouldn´t have a need to say anything. My writing aspirations tend to lapse each other all the time: Sometimes I do have something to say but I´m too concerned with the artist image to do it, other times I´m too sure about the artist image but I´ve got nothing to say so I just repeat myself.
Love: I don´t think I like my brothers, I believe they´re pushy, selfish and obnoxious, worse than that: They´re ignorant, watch TV all day long and aren´t interested in anything. This doesn´t mean I don´t love them, actually I realize now how much I love them, but honest truth is, I don´t quite like them. Am I in such a contradiction? Is it so bad to love and not like? Other examples would be one´s own country (not in my case), parents (at least at a certain age range), books (not sure about this one). Lovers could be a good example: We can love very badly people we don´t like too much, love has erratic behavior and it very spoiled and immature. Back to my brothers: My not liking them is not precisely about their defects and failures, I couldn´t be any less bothered about their shortcomings, my problem is their complete lack of intellectual and emotional virtues other than the gift of childhood.
Fear: I remember that Liron had a depression onset when he was about my age, then he got fat and then he became so uninteresting; both qualities he´s kept up to this day. I can´t bear the thought of that situation. Time to write the damn article, I did nothing for two days other than dwelling on my depression, now time to get something done. I can´t complain about stress.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Fluoxetine Journal 30.01.10
Again I slept in under the effect of this shit, some thick dark clouded sleep that sets in against one´s will, a dreamless fragile and painful sleep. During the day I get no feeling whatsoever. I still didn´t write anything in 2 days, and maybe as an apology to my own idleness I´ve started out this journal again. No, the answer is very different. During the course of several years and tears writing has been the only resource available when everything else has failed; writing was the companion of Frida Kahlo during illness and of Walter Benjamin through wars. I can´t describe how difficult it is for me to write these days, to coin every single idea, to glue one word to another or to choose a sentence. It is as if I didn´t recognize my soul anymore and it isn´t about not having one, but more about having lost touch for sometime.
There´re some happy moments through the day, they´re brief and intense but often without enough strength to drive me through oceans of empty spaces of my mind that at present I can´t fill; not being able to allegedly hide myself behind philosophical curtains makes me afraid of every word I choose, my vocabulary is limited, it is as if it weren´t my language anymore, as if some major change were rising from deep inside. This weekend I´ve started to feel fat for the first time ever in my adult life and even when I know it is absolutely delusional, it tortures me deeply as if I were running out of time in life and desperately craving to hold onto some limited moments of beauty somewhere. I haven´t changed my clothes in about two weeks, and I´m not really worried, recklessness, recklessness, recklessness. Prophet Job: I want my body changed.
About journals: Reading Susan Sontag about writing journals is something almost intimate. First that journals, even intimate journals, are written to be read indiscreetly by those parents, friends and lovers about whom one is honest and cruel and merciless with a sharp razor. But it is not only about confessing to a mute dumb blank audience, it is about creating ourselves the way we want, telling our story the way we would like it told, the nuances of our love stories, our failures, the defects for which we love our enemies and the virtues of beloved ones that bore us to tears. All that jazz you know. How amazing is this, about creating yourself in the way you tell your story.
Childhood: I don´t know if it´s something to do with my depression or with meds but today I spent a long while playing with a toy plane, imagining what it would be to design an intergalactic plane that could travel through the air in all directions with special wings that would resemble those of birds that could tilt opened and closed according to the intensity of the wind. Maybe it is just a souvenir from another time. That was quite a felicitous moment but it didn´t last too long. I still haven´t written one damn line. It is all about trying to feel something and not quite getting there. But I am remembering so many things, and perhaps putting together my stories is a way to avoid unhappiness, a way to make sure not to forget. Worst symptom: I rather sleep than anything else. I thought I would just beat it today, and write all night long but perhaps I´m still too weak. And when I´m strong I watch soap operas and stuff myself with groceries. Unhealthy eating habits: Sometimes I eat as if there were no tomorrow. I want to write a journal like Sontag´s, but first I need some philosophical arsenal and even before that, I need to snap out of this ill mood. I think I should sleep, and try early in the morning.
There´re some happy moments through the day, they´re brief and intense but often without enough strength to drive me through oceans of empty spaces of my mind that at present I can´t fill; not being able to allegedly hide myself behind philosophical curtains makes me afraid of every word I choose, my vocabulary is limited, it is as if it weren´t my language anymore, as if some major change were rising from deep inside. This weekend I´ve started to feel fat for the first time ever in my adult life and even when I know it is absolutely delusional, it tortures me deeply as if I were running out of time in life and desperately craving to hold onto some limited moments of beauty somewhere. I haven´t changed my clothes in about two weeks, and I´m not really worried, recklessness, recklessness, recklessness. Prophet Job: I want my body changed.
About journals: Reading Susan Sontag about writing journals is something almost intimate. First that journals, even intimate journals, are written to be read indiscreetly by those parents, friends and lovers about whom one is honest and cruel and merciless with a sharp razor. But it is not only about confessing to a mute dumb blank audience, it is about creating ourselves the way we want, telling our story the way we would like it told, the nuances of our love stories, our failures, the defects for which we love our enemies and the virtues of beloved ones that bore us to tears. All that jazz you know. How amazing is this, about creating yourself in the way you tell your story.
Childhood: I don´t know if it´s something to do with my depression or with meds but today I spent a long while playing with a toy plane, imagining what it would be to design an intergalactic plane that could travel through the air in all directions with special wings that would resemble those of birds that could tilt opened and closed according to the intensity of the wind. Maybe it is just a souvenir from another time. That was quite a felicitous moment but it didn´t last too long. I still haven´t written one damn line. It is all about trying to feel something and not quite getting there. But I am remembering so many things, and perhaps putting together my stories is a way to avoid unhappiness, a way to make sure not to forget. Worst symptom: I rather sleep than anything else. I thought I would just beat it today, and write all night long but perhaps I´m still too weak. And when I´m strong I watch soap operas and stuff myself with groceries. Unhealthy eating habits: Sometimes I eat as if there were no tomorrow. I want to write a journal like Sontag´s, but first I need some philosophical arsenal and even before that, I need to snap out of this ill mood. I think I should sleep, and try early in the morning.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Fluoxetine Journal 29.01.10
Toxicity and Health: I was very disappointed to smoke once again, as I felt next no thing and it made me realize the toxic effect of antidepressants. Often when I quit smoking even if only for a few days, the effect when picking the habit back was overwhelming, at times I felt drowsiness and almost blackout, in general it was something extremely pleasant. After one week of taking between 20 and 40 mg of fluoxetine, I was truly disappointed. The side effects are strange though, I do feel less nervous and less tense than often although at the same time much deeper in denial of my own situation but I couldn´t be too concerned, as long as I am able to pick myself up from the gutter even if only temporarily. During the afternoon after I had my second dose it was a total blank feeling, I just laid in bed unable to think too clearly as if on some powerful drug and then this unprecedented weariness set in, I was both slumbering and unable to sleep, without much peace of mind but neither aware of what I was feeling. This stuff is definitely stronger than I expected… I toyed with it as a teenager, and perhaps I didn´t really need, I don´t know now, and I am not sure really but I might be making a huge mistake. But I said it before, as long as I can get from bed on a daily basis for other reason than avoiding misery, that´s a gain.
Thoughts from previous days: Father and I will probably never get along, but we´re reckless enough to simply avoid each other at every personal level and get away with it, it´s not too difficult, you only need to do some small talk sometime. I´m not drawn to him at all, and I don´t think I can ever forgive him for his mistakes which consist not necessarily in being a lousy father –which often he is, what I´m talking about is his permanent weakness, his refusal to live, his mediocrity before himself and his lack of ambition. There´s so much he ignores about me, and whatever he doesn´t ignore, he refuses to acknowledge and to face; it is a safe and easy way to remain sane, to avoid life. Virginia Woolf: You can´t find in peace in life by avoiding life. He´s so cheap on me, he has always been that way… I think he´s been proud of me only when we´re not even remotely close and that´s something I´ve just come to accept as a fact. I don´t think we hate each other, but I´m not sure we can bear with one another; and I guess this is where antidepressants come handy, because I´m not planning to spend one dime I shouldn´t, lest I be so stupid to remain here and then I might just as well have already earn my own grave.
I was happy to have some news from Hugo, certainly now more than ever, I was certainly very much in need to have someone say a good word about me, at least to me personally. Job 7:15 I prefer strangling and death rather than this body of mine: I shall return to this verse too often, especially when I know I like my own body but not enough and will do even less as I get older and lonelier. This reminds me of thoughts from previous days: The expression lines of my face definitely reveal my age, and this has nothing to do with the way I express myself. Somehow my thoughts about beauty should coincide with those about sickness: Refusing treatment. Yet nothing could be further from the truth. Another problem with antidepressants: Lack of interest in sex. More about Hugo: He can be nothing but a virtual flirt, because he is too far away, too young and immature, but then there´s this sense of darkness about him which I really love –however not the way I loved the same traits in Santiago and him at least I had for three nights, my feeling for Santiago was so intense that it destroyed me. I must read Larochefoucauld; he seems to be in agreement with me on so many topics: In the course of life people are most loved because of their defects than they are for their virtues which in general serve only the purpose of creating envy. This is what I myself always thought. I think it´s time to bring some philosophy back into this journal but then when one types instead of handwriting there´s not enough time to think things through and I still need sometime more to recover. Marc wrote a letter to God last night with a fountain pen asking for my recovery, that was so fucking nice to know that I couldn´t help an hysterical laughter.
Jaime told me something about tomorrow and the hour 5.30 and I wonder what this really means. I´m still at loss with words about Pablo´s refusal to refer to my petition, and I prefer to acknowledge a refusal than to deal with the tension in the course of a relationship to somebody. I will certainly miss him because he´s one of the nicest and most helpful persons I´ve met in my life, and I hope I might be able to continue seeing him. Funny detail: As a by-product of some chance, I found out that he watches porn, but then why would I be surprised at all, maybe because I do too and besides that, I love to be surprised. I´m glad to be able to write over one page a day and that´s more than what I´ve done in the course of some long months.
Moments: My life has been clearly defined by moments of luck and unluck, as if the world could change with the blink of an eye (and it actually has): 5 minutes ruined my perfect relationship with María Clara that I didn´t care to fix and eventually my inability to act permitted that such unfix would destroy kind of half of my life and would leave me with almost no social acquaintances not to mention déclassé. Then I invited that Andrés guy into what was a perfect home, and then they stole this money, and eventually from one hassle to another, I ended up coming back to my father´s home with even less clothes than last time and slight chance of recovering them unless I am open enough to take a lawyer. With the blink of an eye I ended up sleeping with Ariel. I think I mostly don´t regret any of it, except the theft, and I think that could have as well been a fair punishment for hummmm, for some stuff. Other episodes: Rupture of my friendship with Leslie, outing German, etc. But each one of those moments led to other good moments, and I can´t even tell why, but it doesn´t take away the fact that there´s something absolutely sinful, irresponsible and careless about each of those moments; most of which are connected to alcohol. 12 sober days now. Not many more. An early morning tomorrow: I need to finish that damn article, which I don´t quite dislike it.
Thoughts from previous days: Father and I will probably never get along, but we´re reckless enough to simply avoid each other at every personal level and get away with it, it´s not too difficult, you only need to do some small talk sometime. I´m not drawn to him at all, and I don´t think I can ever forgive him for his mistakes which consist not necessarily in being a lousy father –which often he is, what I´m talking about is his permanent weakness, his refusal to live, his mediocrity before himself and his lack of ambition. There´s so much he ignores about me, and whatever he doesn´t ignore, he refuses to acknowledge and to face; it is a safe and easy way to remain sane, to avoid life. Virginia Woolf: You can´t find in peace in life by avoiding life. He´s so cheap on me, he has always been that way… I think he´s been proud of me only when we´re not even remotely close and that´s something I´ve just come to accept as a fact. I don´t think we hate each other, but I´m not sure we can bear with one another; and I guess this is where antidepressants come handy, because I´m not planning to spend one dime I shouldn´t, lest I be so stupid to remain here and then I might just as well have already earn my own grave.
I was happy to have some news from Hugo, certainly now more than ever, I was certainly very much in need to have someone say a good word about me, at least to me personally. Job 7:15 I prefer strangling and death rather than this body of mine: I shall return to this verse too often, especially when I know I like my own body but not enough and will do even less as I get older and lonelier. This reminds me of thoughts from previous days: The expression lines of my face definitely reveal my age, and this has nothing to do with the way I express myself. Somehow my thoughts about beauty should coincide with those about sickness: Refusing treatment. Yet nothing could be further from the truth. Another problem with antidepressants: Lack of interest in sex. More about Hugo: He can be nothing but a virtual flirt, because he is too far away, too young and immature, but then there´s this sense of darkness about him which I really love –however not the way I loved the same traits in Santiago and him at least I had for three nights, my feeling for Santiago was so intense that it destroyed me. I must read Larochefoucauld; he seems to be in agreement with me on so many topics: In the course of life people are most loved because of their defects than they are for their virtues which in general serve only the purpose of creating envy. This is what I myself always thought. I think it´s time to bring some philosophy back into this journal but then when one types instead of handwriting there´s not enough time to think things through and I still need sometime more to recover. Marc wrote a letter to God last night with a fountain pen asking for my recovery, that was so fucking nice to know that I couldn´t help an hysterical laughter.
Jaime told me something about tomorrow and the hour 5.30 and I wonder what this really means. I´m still at loss with words about Pablo´s refusal to refer to my petition, and I prefer to acknowledge a refusal than to deal with the tension in the course of a relationship to somebody. I will certainly miss him because he´s one of the nicest and most helpful persons I´ve met in my life, and I hope I might be able to continue seeing him. Funny detail: As a by-product of some chance, I found out that he watches porn, but then why would I be surprised at all, maybe because I do too and besides that, I love to be surprised. I´m glad to be able to write over one page a day and that´s more than what I´ve done in the course of some long months.
Moments: My life has been clearly defined by moments of luck and unluck, as if the world could change with the blink of an eye (and it actually has): 5 minutes ruined my perfect relationship with María Clara that I didn´t care to fix and eventually my inability to act permitted that such unfix would destroy kind of half of my life and would leave me with almost no social acquaintances not to mention déclassé. Then I invited that Andrés guy into what was a perfect home, and then they stole this money, and eventually from one hassle to another, I ended up coming back to my father´s home with even less clothes than last time and slight chance of recovering them unless I am open enough to take a lawyer. With the blink of an eye I ended up sleeping with Ariel. I think I mostly don´t regret any of it, except the theft, and I think that could have as well been a fair punishment for hummmm, for some stuff. Other episodes: Rupture of my friendship with Leslie, outing German, etc. But each one of those moments led to other good moments, and I can´t even tell why, but it doesn´t take away the fact that there´s something absolutely sinful, irresponsible and careless about each of those moments; most of which are connected to alcohol. 12 sober days now. Not many more. An early morning tomorrow: I need to finish that damn article, which I don´t quite dislike it.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Fluoxetine Journal 28.01.10
Things I kind of regret (but I will never admit to it): Coming back from Israel, the rupture of my friendship with Leslie, sleeping with Ariel Levy, having moved in with María Clara and having left her without saying good-bye to Patricia, losing my job with Ana María (only because of how much I liked her), not writing more.
Odd: Pablo completely ignored my request for spiritual guidance in the Catholic faith; maybe does he fear some kind of Simone Weil attitude? I should try to read into the signals, but it´s still too early. Yet, I was perplexed… How could he at all miss on the opportunity to win a Jew for the faith? I think my inclination to Christianity has nothing to do with faith; it is more something about my (homo)sexuality and my obscure philosophical ambitions. It would be too superficial to say that there´s no place for this in Judaism, the problem is only that Judaism admits no idea of theology. My inclination toward contemplation is not natural either, because I am some sort of a hedonist… This has to do more with my inability to live in the world than with my desire to exclude myself from it. My religious zeal has often much to do with creating very strong passionate lasting bonds with people –at what I´ve miserably failed so badly through the whole of my life with very few exceptions, and this hasn´t in anyway diminished my willingness. I heard Sontag today talking about all the time one needs to digest one´s own experience, I can only sympathize: Today for example I remembered how I met Yoav Itamar years back in Ramat Gan at a bus stop and how our friendship grew; the depression that slowly eroded his mental health until he collapsed in my lap; I remember those day with glee, but they weren´t by any means happy. Then I also remembered the blond seminar student I met at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and the e-mail he sent me years later. I wonder if I kept it. In this case the same was true: Desire blended in with faith. These memories are now happy souvenirs from previous lifetimes even, and now they possess the strength they failed to deliver back then to my mind. I´m such a Christian in that my resolution to abhor the present is reckless, and I am not sorry for that, but I do know it is great philosophical mistake and my whole thought project If there ever be one, is to absolutely run counter to my own mind. I will not understand.
I seem to be a little hooked on fluoxetine but it´s been only a couple of days. It seems almost on a daily basis I will need 40 mg, at least for the time being. I wonder how long I will be on this, I am not so good for this kind of dope but to be honest, at present I can´t still pick myself up and need the most help I can get even to wake up from bed. Happy memories visit me often, and that´s nice, maybe it means I´ll be able to write again. Actually I´m writing already but it´s not enough yet to make me feel alive again; perhaps I do need some booze, but above all, I need some love, to love love.
Odd: Pablo completely ignored my request for spiritual guidance in the Catholic faith; maybe does he fear some kind of Simone Weil attitude? I should try to read into the signals, but it´s still too early. Yet, I was perplexed… How could he at all miss on the opportunity to win a Jew for the faith? I think my inclination to Christianity has nothing to do with faith; it is more something about my (homo)sexuality and my obscure philosophical ambitions. It would be too superficial to say that there´s no place for this in Judaism, the problem is only that Judaism admits no idea of theology. My inclination toward contemplation is not natural either, because I am some sort of a hedonist… This has to do more with my inability to live in the world than with my desire to exclude myself from it. My religious zeal has often much to do with creating very strong passionate lasting bonds with people –at what I´ve miserably failed so badly through the whole of my life with very few exceptions, and this hasn´t in anyway diminished my willingness. I heard Sontag today talking about all the time one needs to digest one´s own experience, I can only sympathize: Today for example I remembered how I met Yoav Itamar years back in Ramat Gan at a bus stop and how our friendship grew; the depression that slowly eroded his mental health until he collapsed in my lap; I remember those day with glee, but they weren´t by any means happy. Then I also remembered the blond seminar student I met at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and the e-mail he sent me years later. I wonder if I kept it. In this case the same was true: Desire blended in with faith. These memories are now happy souvenirs from previous lifetimes even, and now they possess the strength they failed to deliver back then to my mind. I´m such a Christian in that my resolution to abhor the present is reckless, and I am not sorry for that, but I do know it is great philosophical mistake and my whole thought project If there ever be one, is to absolutely run counter to my own mind. I will not understand.
I seem to be a little hooked on fluoxetine but it´s been only a couple of days. It seems almost on a daily basis I will need 40 mg, at least for the time being. I wonder how long I will be on this, I am not so good for this kind of dope but to be honest, at present I can´t still pick myself up and need the most help I can get even to wake up from bed. Happy memories visit me often, and that´s nice, maybe it means I´ll be able to write again. Actually I´m writing already but it´s not enough yet to make me feel alive again; perhaps I do need some booze, but above all, I need some love, to love love.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Fluoxetine Journal 26.01.10
I want to understand and that is why I write, with the sincere hope that at some point in this process there will be some clarity of mind, or it is not even clarity what is sought after, it is a sense of reconciliation, call it redemption even, or the moment right before redemption. I try to understand what goes on in TV, but then it is quite likely I am searching in the wrong place; then I read an alarming article in a newspaper-supplement magazine that talks about odds and wins of reaching the age of 30; how dearly pathetic of me. But it can get worse really because right now I am thankful for each day, specially for the chance to sleep and to sleep under a roof, and not to be molested or asked to leave before a certain hour, not be molested also includes not needing to hide. I am thankful because my health hasn´t collapsed all of a sudden and this is much more than my best expectations of two or three years before when I thought death loomed so close, but I can´t be all too assured – doubt is the most definite experience of my adult life. I am thankful because in spite of my endless mistakes I´m not behind bars or dead or just crazy. Fluoxetine isn´t bad, I mean, I´ve been sober for a whole week and also clean from cigarettes and the urge doesn´t feel strong enough as for now, but then at the same time I haven´t been living too fully and coming out of my shell after that sick Monday, is something I find too demanding and taxing right now but there´s no point in lingering this up to the point that it can represent a threat to my own personal security. I must face Ana María tomorrow and then try to figure out my things. Some random ideas - There´s something in common between Santiago, María Clara and me, something for the ages: Great achievers with wings a little too big for gravity and absolutely but absolutely unacknowledged by our families. That´s what you call a love story, one that ended in oblivion and indifference in the first case and despise and indifference in the latter; but what can I say? I loved Santiago, perhaps I love him still in some little way that I´ve kept hidden very much inside. I would have never been any close to utter anything like this, unless I really needed to and only to myself: I want to love, definitely. Tomorrow or I mean, today later, I hope not to sleep in too much… That is one big problem with antidepressants; they make you sleep in a lot and that´s no good for depression. Another revelation of my own: I certainly have a depression problem. I handle things, get up from bed, write articles, communicate with people and appear in the world, but I do it driven by insurmountable amounts of fear, I handle life only very miserably and have troubles with intimacy. Now a thought from the past: As a philosopher I find philosophy very scary and that´s why I happen to avoid it as much as I can, not that my neurological imbalance isn´t helping out too in avoiding serious academic work but there´s so much more than that. It is not only that I avoid it at all cost, but that I´m no good for anything else.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Fluoxetine Journal 25.01.10
Another day, yet not in jail and this is enough to be sated with life for the day, elated too. Tomorrow there might not be enough courage for such luck; I keep trying to read the signals of whatever powers that be into a sketch of a life, nothing more than a sketch. There keep coming in little shares, in little secrets, with little secrets, more faithful signals but there´s certainly no novelty in this… What defines my attitude the most at present is the fact that I´ve happened to abandon many happy moments of life, indicting them for inauthentic or false; this alongside the fact that I´ve this time abandoned in the most certain manner any attempt to right wrongdoings or to put myself together. I´ve gone along without deciding at all, carrying the heavy burden of my unrighteousness blended in together with the bitter feeling of certainty about the present and an outright lack of wonder. Lack of wonder is no miracle, but it murders all curiosity in one´s heart about the world. Some sweet chapters of my life returned fashioned by my own versions: My life with Yuval, which really seems uninteresting now, and my months at St. Simon & Anne´s House at the Rav Kook St. in Jerusalem. What´s this whole deal about me and Christianity from time to time? How can I call this radical desire for asceticism? There is probably not one bit of asceticism in me, I´ve blended with the world, turned myself in to it, in such a radical way as to lose everything mine. What a boring day to write. There´s something missing and it is not about fear or about people. It is something buried so deep inside that I can´t see it from here. Maybe it´s only a bitter lack of love, or not love even but excitement; perhaps this is what must come after philosophy but I still need to write philosophy, to try and understand even in the most futile manner, what´s surrounding me, this fascination for the unkind sides of life, my inability to fulfill my responsibilities with others. I must try and grasp some of it before I let myself be overtaken, and thus I can´t understand why I feel left at this early juncture with so much power to be set only against me, of my own will, I orchestrated all of my sorrow, perhaps because I couldn´t manage to let the reality of feelings handle me as forcefully as I would have wanted; love always failed too early or just didn´t succeed in reaching a head start. Am I directing this frustration about love endlessly against my own person? There seems to be pattern I try to walk out from, but without enough willingness and that´s why thoughts are still too poor as they fail to match the great height of my intellectual and narrative propositions. This could only mean that my thinking is not true in the purest philosophical sense and therefore hardly philosophical at all. I am not giving up though. I must strive for truth, but there´s no point if I don´t apply even minimally some standards of truth to my own life and so far for the last year I haven´t done this for one single day. And I don´t mean correspondence of facts with reality… My whole point is about honest attitudes.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Fluoxetine Journal 24.01.10
I should try to connect the signals from the past week into one “slide”, as my former boss would love to say. Let´s try and recall: I have to work on my good name (this is very stupid, but so real in this world), there´s a lot of wisdom in keeping quiet and of course not every friend is a friend, I am one of those for example, haven´t been such a good friend, but my loyalties are all too clear but all too few. There´s no such a thing as family, but there´s always family and the fact I am not another David Silva is attested by my most recent homecoming. I am open to declare now that my stepmother is not bad, she´s just plain stupid and her mother a witch, a real one, well she´s not casting spells but hiding my breakfast bread and badmouthing me, that is enough for a witch. Then this morning at the church, talking about the joy that one encounters when facing adversity… I would like to badmouth so many people here, but I am just waiting for my wit to return. I am very frustrated about my own work, or what it could be yet I am fully aware that this won´t improve with any studying whatsoever. The situation can only worsen but then I guess this is part of what philosophy is supposed to be about, and alas! Am I talking about philosophy? This is news. What a crazy enterprise is this, to write a journal without interpretation, without mediators and at the same time trying not to die from saying it aloud. It is not that the situation is not sufficiently grave but the issue is that I am so locked from inside and such locks are something to be concerned because they avoid any real feeling of unhappiness and misery but at the same time they also call off all happiness as well. It is time to try and write something.
Fluoxetine Journal 24.01.10
Remembering Virginia Woolf: We never have complete emotions about the present but only about the past, that is why the past is always beautiful. What is truly incredible about these days is that sometimes I recover little bits from the past, what shows that I actually do have a past and no matter how crude and brutal those days were, today they appear to me as cunningly beautiful. A story: In 1999 or maybe the year before, no, it was 1999, two Americans showed up at the door (I don´t think my English was too interesting then nor were they too good-looking, but heck, what could I know, they were Americans!) in order to speak with my father about some whatever religion, and my father obviously was not interested. Let´s not talk about him now. I don´t think I had been too interested in religion then, or perhaps yes, I can recall something from the year before at the Catholic school (which I badly loved) when I was giving this lecture about women and heck, about Virgin Mary, I can only laugh about it now. I think in a way this was only interesting because I obviously was erotically fascinated by Juan Carlos, the ethics teacher. I also remember all those crazy letters I wrote him, I should not know what I was doing, really, how embarrassing. But then even later in life, I wasn´t ashamed of embarrassing myself through letters so I guess there´s no point in regretting from earlier years. Once I wrote a piece about this so-called Catholic school, but all might have been a lie, or a made-up story, I will need to read it again this week. Anyway, back to the Americans: I wasn´t too interested in their talk, it was just the fact that I had friends and that my friends were foreigners. I don´t think I had any friends in school, not that year, although looking back at the years that passed afterwards, I did make some friends, right now, I remember Daniel Rojas, and I even think he is kind of a beauty, but not a beauty I feel exhilarating about. I actually think he is very interesting but I would another day or two in his company to figure out what does interest me about him. The Americans belonged to this funny Mormon Church and what now looks like a parody of something I took very seriously back then. The older I am getting, the more homosexual I feel, but also more free. This is important to notice because I have mistaken often faith with sexual desire, intellectual desire with both faith and sexual desire, sexual desire with love, love with condescendence, infatuation with passion and most sadly, abandonment with fear from love. I changed my faith, or actually betrayed my faith, only for the sake of male bonding. At my age this is now different: There is no male bonding without physicality.
Enough with sex. Back to 1999 during my times of prophecy at this church of young men, I spread the word of God to some very nice family, but like really nice with a very young little boy (that I would take to bed today, or at least would lean against a wall, after all same age than Ariel Levy) and ultimately they received the faith and were baptized and grew into it with time. Coming back and seeing them this morning was rather gleeful, because they are still as nice as they used to be back then, and they are a vivid reminder that I have a past, and that is really something so good to know right now, when I am just about to leave some miser present. I am lying, it hasn´t been miser, it´s not even about being what I want, it´s just not mine, not true or not true enough. Same as with Ivan Kellmer, I´ve changed the lives of some people, but mine I haven´t changed in one bit for years with no end. I am exaggerating again. The whole church visit seemed illusory to me, deceitful but hilarious. I am disappointed because this journal is really uninteresting and unreadable, but then again, I am glad it is not false, and after a break from writing of three years, I can´t ask for more.
Enough with sex. Back to 1999 during my times of prophecy at this church of young men, I spread the word of God to some very nice family, but like really nice with a very young little boy (that I would take to bed today, or at least would lean against a wall, after all same age than Ariel Levy) and ultimately they received the faith and were baptized and grew into it with time. Coming back and seeing them this morning was rather gleeful, because they are still as nice as they used to be back then, and they are a vivid reminder that I have a past, and that is really something so good to know right now, when I am just about to leave some miser present. I am lying, it hasn´t been miser, it´s not even about being what I want, it´s just not mine, not true or not true enough. Same as with Ivan Kellmer, I´ve changed the lives of some people, but mine I haven´t changed in one bit for years with no end. I am exaggerating again. The whole church visit seemed illusory to me, deceitful but hilarious. I am disappointed because this journal is really uninteresting and unreadable, but then again, I am glad it is not false, and after a break from writing of three years, I can´t ask for more.
Fluoxetine Journal 24.01.10
Less light notes: I just realized it is two days from now when I will have to seize upon the very real possibility of visiting jail as an inmate, because of my reckless stupidity, and then I am all this cool writing about feats. I should be pissing in my pants, but I am not. Worst of all: I am so naïve as to think I can get away with this so easily, even after the aide for my present situation was one of my close friends. All in one night, too much really… Losing a job, then losing a home, then losing many friendships at once. Got to live with it though. Only one night, then a whole week sleeping, and you wonder why. Months building up, one night to tear it all down, and weeks to recover; funny shit… I remember Levinas now, the stuff about Leon Blum, that when the present is fading away under one´s own feet, it is when one allows himself to imagine the most distant future. Yet I don´t think this is that extreme, well, not practically, but emotionally it is certainly a point of departure.
Movies: They always make things seem easier, and the ends flat and disrupted. Life is never that kind or that mediocre, so to say. Although I enjoy seeing Jude Law each time, it only bothers me that it is only a woman who kisses him. I have international experience in relationships broken because of geography, and then easily forgotten (well, not that easy, a few years let´s say, not that one didn´t have flings on the sides in one´s own country at the time). Writing e-mails is difficult and lengthy, letters I wrote only for one woman and I do it no more. Then there are all the early promises, and then those vanish too, together with the passion and with the image of the person himself. Lastly what you´re left with is an image of yourself when you were there, and overtime this serves no purpose at all. One key detail I remembered: I was obsessed with constellations as a young boy; I also used to step into the backyard with the map of the stars and would spend a long time on clear nights trying to find constellations. I am just hoping this gives me some insights about today; it does not, at least not yet.
Another memory: Summer of 2005 in Safed, Friday night walking around the old town after the sabbatical meal, the view of Galilee and that sky, open sky, bruised with as many stars as can fill any child´s mind, and the sounds… Young men, white shirts, lying on the ground of empty descending streets, just watching that broken and bruised sky. The next morning: The artists´ quarter and the religious Jew chasing after me for sexual favors. Hell, how immature I was then, but probably today I would act as erratically as well. I can´t remember if he was beautiful, but he was certainly desirable in every possible way. I wonder what could be of him today. I remember being so naïve as to look for him online once. This is but a sweet memory, so sweet. A few years later I passed by, or through somewhere very similar at least while on vacations with Nimrod at that beautiful hotel, the inner pool and the view of the Galilee with the wooden Jacuzzi outside. I smile again; I remember my shameless way to flirt with the Arab workers there.
This brings me to another topic: Men. It is funny to be gay and 26, and perhaps not one bit of the intellectual I used to be, however that is just a matter of practice. Now I fancy younger men, in fact, the youngest men, so young that they be desirable as soon as the young boys are old enough to start becoming adults. But it doesn´t end there: I still fancy mature men, but with less respect and more humor; and I think I am attracted to all kinds of men, each one his way, sort of the Bohemian lover type but a lot less patient or gentle. Then something awkward for me, or better for my prejudices: I don´t think I am not attracted to more feminine kinds of gay men, insofar as other standards are met. They´ve proven to be no less good or bad than more masculine acting men in sexual intercourse, and somehow they happen to be fascinating at times, loving, talkative, less prudish and less hypocritical. They know how to laugh. What I despise is certain type of sleaziness and the discotheque kind of guys. I will need a lot of days to get clear on this one. Well, this also has to do with Hugo, even though it is hard to talk about because I spent only one night with him, but then the same happened with Santiago, there was the same wit and charm, the same commitment of life at that very moment, but then no! I wish I had a way to complete my sentences now. Perhaps it is because Santiago never disappointed me, he angered me in crazed manners, but he never disappointed me. Never. 3 weeks to plan a life, full knowing that the plan might be shattered as soon as it is set into action. I might never reach the final destination, but after all this, which I´ve kept silent about for almost 3 years, that´s not so important. Threes, trees and teens. It seems pairs are good no more.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Fluoxetine Journal 23.01.10
Had I started this journal yesterday, or in a yester year (and this now reminds of some English poem I no longer recall – it must be a really sad one), I would have known clearly that I am unable to write yet. Of course it is the recurrent mood, yet the topic is elsewhere… So many lively days, some of them full of sun and others bereft completely. In the middle of the jolts of the city one finds it very difficult to write, there is seemly nothing of interest that one could possibly tell, then there´s more to it like fluoxetine, cocaine and booze. Not that I am too interested in discussing this, suffice it with saying that the improvement that comes along with fluoxetine is just too significant, what makes me think I should not rule out the idea of a placebo altogether. Dullness, that is the key not good word for writing, because at 26 one should be certain that the ambition of being a writer instead of just writing, is kind of doing some justice to the years one has spent drifting away from disciplined training and skills development. I have been most inconstant with this journal ever since I left Jerusalem, then I also became lazy to write letters and lastly became lazy to write at all.
It is hard for me at this point to see the 10 in the calendar, it is like realizing it is year 10, and that so far nothing has been accomplished; the idleness have got to such leverage of options between evil and horror, and in between long hours of TV and endless nights of booze and dope, I think even the language is strained, there´s none of that rigid prosaic elegant and oftentimes archaic language, and this is not free really… It is not even about being lazy, it is about being not lifelike, and this permanent lack of inspiration, lack of music and of history, and the moment when a cold drunken cynicism replaced all the beauty in the ironic laughter that once vested heroes and leaders. There has been no time for real solitary philosophy these days, sorry, what am I saying, these years! There have been only two incidents worthy of remembering: The fact that unemployment and sobriety got me this far as to write “Katechon”, a piece I am still not sure I like, but I know it is good. It might be the only witness of these years, since I parted from the golden city. Then there was what I felt during one only night when Santiago Munevar was nothing but mine, all of his soul and body, it must have been less than 8 or 6 hours… They were worth everything; there was this incredible feeling that made sure I was yet alive in some kind of way, and then the hiding and the sorrow and the cold surgical farewell (which we never said) and the despair I sank into. This is a very superficial way to look at it, but also a very honest manner after all. I must admit that I haven´t forgot him that much, I can´t remember too well what he was like though, but I remember exactly what I felt and what three months later became this letter piece about Lukacs, with whom I fell in love through those days. Everything else has been important too, but in a lesser way. Although this is something I can´t check but until I will be able to write seriously again.
Then there´s more: Home-bound, as if any of this could be called a home, but then again, there´s no other. I´ve accepted it this time, and it is not humility, it is just a little reality-check for non-philosophers (one I haven´t done personally). But there´s this strange easiness now, as if it weren´t a curse but rather a sympathetic way to bid farewell. 5 days without a fag. At least I don´t ruin my mornings so early, at least for now. For the first time, being home doesn´t seem sick, it is either that I am too cynical already to care about myself even or that it is a sign of the times. My memories of Israel become so vivid now, not even about the great feats, but more like being some places, the bus rides, the mornings, some friends, conversations, the very casual and real. Perhaps that is all I can tell in order not to make a literati cliché out of my own life. I can´t object against my mistakes but I am not lightheaded enough to see them as banal, perhaps there is no one as critical of myself as I am. Anyway, enough with this for today, I just know I will be in Israel in a few months, if not weeks, I just need to figure out how.
Remembering Virginia Woolf: We never have complete emotions about the present but only about the past, that is why the past is always beautiful. What is truly incredible about these days is that sometimes I recover little bits from the past, what shows that I actually do have a past and no matter how crude and brutal those days were, today they appear to me as cunningly beautiful. A story: In 1999 or maybe the year before, no, it was 1999, two Americans showed up at the door (I don´t think my English was too interesting then nor were they too good-looking, but heck, what could I know, they were Americans!) in order to speak with my father about some whatever religion, and my father obviously was not interested. Let´s not talk about him now. I don´t think I had been too interested in religion then, or perhaps yes, I can recall something from the year before at the Catholic school (which I badly loved) when I was giving this lecture about women and heck, about Virgin Mary, I can only laugh about it now. I think in a way this was only interesting because I obviously was erotically fascinated by Juan Carlos, the ethics teacher. I also remember all those crazy letters I wrote him, I should not know what I was doing, really, how embarrassing. But then even later in life, I wasn´t ashamed of embarrassing myself through letters so I guess there´s no point in regretting from earlier years. Once I wrote a piece about this so-called Catholic school, but all might have been a lie, or a made-up story, I will need to read it again this week. Anyway, back to the Americans: I wasn´t too interested in their talk, it was just the fact that I had friends and that my friends were foreigners. I don´t think I had any friends in school, not that year, although looking back at the years that passed afterwards, I did make some friends, right now, I remember Daniel Rojas, and I even think he is kind of a beauty, but not a beauty I feel exhilarating about. I actually think he is very interesting but I would another day or two in his company to figure out what does interest me about him. The Americans belonged to this funny Mormon Church and what now looks like a parody of something I took very seriously back then. The older I am getting, the more homosexual I feel, but also more free. This is important to notice because I have mistaken often faith with sexual desire, intellectual desire with both faith and sexual desire, sexual desire with love, love with condescendence, infatuation with passion and most sadly, abandonment with fear from love. I changed my faith, or actually betrayed my faith, only for the sake of male bonding. At my age this is now different: There is no male bonding without physicality.
Enough with sex. Back to 1999 during my times of prophecy at this church of young men, I spread the word of God to some very nice family, but like really nice with a very young little boy (that I would take to bed today, or at least would lean against a wall, after all same age than Ariel Levy) and ultimately they received the faith and were baptized and grew into it with time. Coming back and seeing them this morning was rather gleeful, because they are still as nice as they used to be back then, and they are a vivid reminder that I have a past, and that is really something so good to know right now, when I am just about to leave some miser present. I am lying, it hasn´t been miser, it´s not even about being what I want, it´s just not mine, not true or not true enough. Same as with Ivan Kellmer, I´ve changed the lives of some people, but mine I haven´t changed in one bit for years with no end. I am exaggerating again. The whole church visit seemed illusory to me, deceitful but hilarious. I am disappointed because this journal is really uninteresting and unreadable, but then again, I am glad it is not false, and after a break from writing of three years, I can´t ask for more.
I should try to connect the signals from the past week into one “slide”, as my former boss would love to say. Let´s try and recall: I have to work on my good name (this is very stupid, but so real in this world), there´s a lot of wisdom in keeping quiet and of course not every friend is a friend, I am one of those for example, haven´t been such a good friend, but my loyalties are all too clear but all too few. There´s no such a thing as family, but there´s always family and the fact I am not another David Silva is attested by my most recent homecoming. I am open to declare now that my stepmother is not bad, she´s just plain stupid and her mother a witch, a real one, well she´s not casting spells but hiding my breakfast bread and badmouthing me, that is enough for a witch. Then this morning at the church, talking about the joy that one encounters when facing adversity… I would like to badmouth so many people here, but I am just waiting for my wit to return. I am very frustrated about my own work, or what it could be yet I am fully aware that this won´t improve with any studying whatsoever. The situation can only worsen but then I guess this is part of what philosophy is supposed to be about, and alas! Am I talking about philosophy? This is news. What a crazy enterprise is this, to write a journal without interpretation, without mediators and at the same time trying not to die from saying it aloud. It is not that the situation is not sufficiently grave but the issue is that I am so locked from inside and such locks are something to be concerned because they avoid any real feeling of unhappiness and misery but at the same time they also call off all happiness as well. It is time to try and write something.
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