Your eyes smile at me. Do you want to play? Alright then, I send a glance back. You smile harder. And I smile back at you. You turn to your fingernails. No doubt, your hands are worth a look. Long and slender are your hands. But I pretend not to notice. You look up then, again smiling. Do you count to three? I beam it back to you. Do you appreciate or is it just a game? I finger with my hair. You look straight ahead. Later you lean forward, saying something in my ear. I can’t barely hear you and slightly turn around. Does this goes too far? I am leaning back and for a quite while forget that you are there. Do you mind at all? You search for my eyes and my eyes find your eyes, you can be quite funny and I have to laugh, even if I don’t want to laugh at all. Your smile now: whimsically. And yes, you know how to smile. and I know rather not. Because you can then stand up and demonstratively talk with everyone but with me, and no, if you think I live on a sentence alone, you are wrong. Sometimes I then look over my shoulder, if I find you in the wrinkle of my eyes. Most often I fail. Do you look back at all? You play hard and I lost too often, lost too hard, lost myself too often in a gentle smile and find myself with the back at the door. I don’t know what you play for. And when you then, start again to send me a smile, I just leave. Don’t you know you might find a better place to play? You are still smiling and I look rather dryly, and no I don’t look back to you. What are you looking for?
Low is the tide and the sky is grey, but not grey alone. White clouds race along, blue dots swirling around, it is Turner weather, a weather for an easel, a weather where the world disappears behind a veil of wind and the sea. The tide might be low, but the sea is roaring on the shore line. Waves rolling forth and back. Seagulls are struggling to keep their balance. The beach is empty, just a few lonesome wanderers passing along and with them slim and fast dogs chasing the wind or the sea, who does knows what a dog is up to, when its Turner weather. A weather, too strong, a sky neither grey, nor blue, the clouds hanging deep and deeper, are they made by heaven or are we just walking on a giant canvas, walking right into the middle, of a sky made of white and black oil colors , mixed to a grayish blue? The feet sink deep in the wet, heavy mud, seashells crack, water-holes appear, the seaweed glitters dark-green and I find a black stone, shimmering, brimming in my hands with its soft surface, the clouds now racing forward, making space for the sun that glitters for half an hour, we standing still, trying to catch a beam and then run for a second before the sun sinks back into the grey, the blue, the white sky that is not men made, even when Turner draw it so perfectly, so non repeatable, this sky comes from elsewhere, the pines sway in the blowing wind and suddenly it smells of resin and wood. And so, we stand still and quiet in the midst of the sky, on the ground that soon will be swallowed up again by the flood, but now we stand here, in the midst of the sea, that roars far ashore and we get blueish and grayish, tumble and sway int he wind till we forget where the world ends and where it begins, locked up in a greater, a bigger painting than those we have known before.
Still, the speechlessness outweighs everything. And still silence seems to be one way to pay respects to all the victims.
Elsa Cayat was the only woman present when the assault took place. Elsa Cayat, a fabulous woman, a great psychoanalyst, thinker and writer is portrayed in Le Figaro. ( In French )
What we talk about, when we talk about terrorism is enlightened in an interview with Jacques Derrida after 9/ 11 but still most insightful when grasping for words.
For the first time after World War II the Grand Synagogue of Paris closed its doors for its Shabbat Service. I ask myself, if we as Jews living in Europe, just ignored that our situation becomes more and more fragile? Do we still dream the same dream as those living with us? Is it normal to all of you and all of us that Jews are murdered just while doing some grocery shopping? #JeSuisJuif
The cartoonist Soufeina Hamed draws cartoons, which can make us think more deeply.
In the meantime the blogger and political activist Raif Badawi is flogged in public. We are outrageous.
Oh no, say I, no wishes at all. Maybe not to work as much as last year, but this is more wishful thinking than anything else and I fill up D’s wineglass again. I gave up smoking many years ago and drinking even longer and so I just can shrug my shoulders, and don’t say that I am convinced that the golden times when wishing still helped one, are long gone. Nothing to wish left, I say and D’s wineglass and my water-glass cling softly. The deepest wishes I have, I never tell someone, in the light of the day, they surely would look sheepish and loose, cheap and would be overrun before their time had come. Similar to some exotic insects, which look magic from far and dead when touched from nearby.
Therefore, to the unsaid! And for all of you I wish your year may become a splendid, a sparkling, glamorous one. A veritable cornucopia it shall be, twelve months full of joy and laughter and golden jubilance, a rushing roller coaster, a long summer evening with paper lanterns and soft music all over the air. A cry for the lust for life it shall be, full of laughter in its most pleasant ways and nothing to regret till the next last night of the year.
( And if nothing helps, a bit of Yiddish Shmonzes always does. )