as it would turn out, the fresh start is a paradigmatically nuanced thing – a place one steps foot in under the pretenses of experiencing some new thing, some break with the old, some sort of magic.
but, where is the magic, really, in a fresh start? where, in breaking apart & beginning again, does one experience the real magic of transformation?
in three years, three homes – in eight years i count a total of seven… but i concentrate here on the most recent of my homes: 2, rue de l’abbé patureau, paris 75018, france; kibbutz revivim, d.n. haluza 85575, israel; and currently, cholet 49300, france. and so, at this age i am as keen as ever to publish: 28, now, nearly 29… i begin to see a problem with the psychology of the fresh start, a problem with the notion that one, living a life full of choices like my own, must begin again and again, always from a place called the beginning.
being a writer, one learns to select and employ words as wisely as possible – as, developing an idea is not so far off from naming, and therefore, developing reality itself.
thus, to break with the old hurts! to begin again is redundant and fatiguing! to contend with the fresh is much like contending with the crude and unrefined – the lump of clay, neither formed, nor even yet warmed and softened, not at all ready to be moulded. emotionally unpleasant situations – but is the language that describes them really telling it like it is in the first place?
if i am not up to something categorically new, what is it that i’m up to, then? dare i call this moment a continuation of the last? dare i call this year’s experience’s on the european continent a continuation of last year’s experiences on the asian continent?
yes. and again, wholeheartedly – yes.
what we encounter in this life – no matter where we go – are but two things: those things we recognize, and those things that are new to us. even when some thing or place or experience seems categorically new, it is safe, i think, to say, that some point of reference is hiding there in the shadows in our insides – if you are quiet enough in any given moment, there will be a flash of recognition, i think – not in the sense of a déjà vu, but in a sense much more vague – much more fluid – a sense that does not seem to repeat, but this is in fact dislodged from the continuum of the present and the past.
it is in these quiet moments that we can swim – the faces on the street the same faces, from all of the same places of origin – the streets themselves the same – here the traffic is lighter, there the line of cars moves serpentine across the intersection – the sun sets and rises and the buildings change color – here as there. freedom is something that slides against our open palms in the dark waking us too slightly for us to close our hands around it… and the statue representing liberty at the center of some grassy block of land, curbed, at the center of town, has a haunting presence after dark – does she come for US with her wings spread wide, or does she go out to punish our oppressors, the men and women who whisper division in our ears?
it is another year of eating and living – watching my body change in the mirror – and practicing everything i have learned so far – and seeking, as always, grace, that lucid, nearly edgeless thing…