FRIDAY 21 JANUARY 2005
It’s Friday morning. I made breakfast, sat down on the couch, turned on the TV, went through the channels and … Notting Hill, with William Thacker walking through the market, the starting credits still rolling.
Then I realised: this is my movie metaphor. I am the guy with the book business that doesn’t actually make money – but it’s my life, and she is the star.
“And miracles,” like the one woman said at dinner, “do happen.”
SATURDAY 22 JANUARY 2005
First something exists, and then you find words to express it. Existence precedes language and specific vocabulary.
Question: What exists that we have not been able to label with vocabulary? What exists that has not appeared to us?
Language is essential to understanding, in order to “see” or “hear” something. If something does appear in our vision or is picked up by our hearing but we lack the appropriate vocabulary, these things are often ignored or dismissed as useless – as noise around things which do make sense because we already know what to call them or how to describe them.
The repatriation theme in “Personal Agenda” is about it being necessary sometimes to leave the Source, and why it can be important to return after years outside the Source – even why it can be justified to not necessarily return “permanently”.
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From an article about Nawal El Saadawi in the China Post of 18 January 2005 entitled, “Egyptian secular writer battles religious state”: “I’m still living in exile because I cannot speak, I cannot work, I cannot have my potential here.”
I am on a dangerous frequency! Yesterday afternoon I almost knocked my shoulder out of its socket because I wasn’t focused on the mechanics of getting out of my trousers – and therefore stormed in the direction of my bedroom wall with my trousers around my ankles.
Now I stand here with a sore foot and a swollen big toe because last night I lost my rhythm coming down the stairs and reckoned, “Never mind, there’s only a few steps left,” and jumped.
This morning I was thinking of this frequency thing while frenetically looking for my keys … only to find I had already put them in my jacket pocket.
I know on what frequency I am, and that it is dangerous is not debatable. I am intoxicated; intoxicated with an idea …
I am intoxicated with an idea; that is true. It is also true that this idea has to do with a certain young woman’s existence. It can also be said that if this young woman does not contemplate similar thoughts on a specific Writer of Notes, this specific writer will compose a poem of grief and sorrow, solemnly burn it, and then go to sleep after such a miserable day … to get up the next morning and have breakfast with his usual and unquenchable Faith – and shall one dare to say, Hope? – in the Irreplaceable Third One.