The day is about to end...An unusual day, a weekend without a weekend, a day without a day..
and it rained ... Rain makes me feel pregnant ... makes me feel rich ... makes me feel alive ... Tennis under the rain... wet... soaking.. muddied
به صحرا شدم عضق باریده بود و زمین از عضق تر بود
The book unfinished on my side is about a Haggadah in Sarajevo. I can die now .I could have died happily in over 30 years I can recall. My will under the pillow, my arms ready. Death has always appeared more kind, near and dear to my heart. Have I wanted to live better to die better? Or to die better in order to live better at times? "Given that we can live only a small part of what there is in us -- what happens with the rest?'
Questions of corona abound: When I am about to fall in love, I create and recreate it with reading books of love. Watching movies, creating reality where it belongs.
For some of us that have lived through war, and famine , revolution and execution, discrimination and abandonment, not finding peace in peace, nor war in war, not finding wisdom in philosophy nor mental hospitals... the question becomes living life itself.
and the answer is that in loving you, my brilliant star, I find all the humor there is.
It is only in distortion, in fiction, in literature, that a glance, a gaze of truth appears. Some times reality is the most fictitious and strange of all the surreal.
چنانکه پای مرد به مرغزار فرو شود پای من به عشق فرو رفت
I have moved to the dark room to stay with Bach, rainbow and skin. The flesh surrenders to the weight. The ears to the moist... The eyes to the horses,.. running black on the door.
To enter a plague what should one read once again? Hundred years of solitude? To live this moment fully, distorting it, lending to literature. Shall we again read love in the time of cholera? I wonder.
