the marginalian and not reply. I can’t read Popova and not feel something stir that wants to record thought to paper and break through the pause of speach upon speach upon distraction.
I don’t know what I want to write, but there is a flow I want to obey.
How can I talk about Israel without falling to kitsch? It’s been ransacked and semitised, anti-semitized and genocided without ever disturbing a stone of the eternal temple on high.
I don’t know. I don’t know what to say or what I’m thinking about it, just that it pleases me. This place is unlike any other.. is it?
I do think so, but what does it really matter? No other land has produced Jesus, been the beacon for Moses, the essential wayleigh for Mohammad and the promise of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. No other slice of this planet attracts the ire and longing of so many people. And why? Because of Jewish stories? G-d? Bloodshed?
It’s irritating. This place has so much to tell for so many years and so much is absorbed in politics, a bitter dispute that never ends and signifies nothing.
If only all of the wisdom traditions could just produce one wise leader instead of so many wise asses.
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