Vertigo – 3 – Journal day 2 and 3
Monday May 18th 18:17, the relief of a first day completed, a semblance of routine not to totally slide, some landmarks, the table from witch I write those lines, the branches grabbed and placed on a closet to figurate the french institut bookcase. The abandonned branches, the fading leaves. The feathers refusing to be assembled with wire. The impossibility to fit such a big tree in a small car, the nest that might not be one. But it must be. As Noa's step danse are created, in silence, budding choreography, glare of our common worlds. A necessity called by an intuition, little stones thrown here and there and a meaning, a context emerge, she adorns with music, I with words. She is part of my own kind.
Tuesday May 19th around 11:00, I record lines and curls of word. From a day to an other they mix up and melt. For the moment 2 lines not knowing if they will be readable. A day after an other, each one unique, in our memory at night, added to the year pile. Year in memory, just before the new one, added to a life pile. Also some words surface, unique moments, forger of our histories, symbols of what created them. When there is nothing yet, invented traces, There is space.
Tuesday May 19th 15:29, a morning bringing us back to life, to children, to passages, grounding us in link with the spiritual. Noa and Adi's son, this morning in Jerusalem, above the old city, became part of the Community of Men. Everything remain to be accomplish. From up there, we overlooked Marie Magdalena 's church and its golden dome, Al Aqsa and its black dome and relics of the second temple, a pottery kiln majestic as a baker's oven jutted out litter. The man owning the house and the kiln told me the tale. In 1939 his father fled Germany to Israel, he left again in 1955 for New York and a renown painter career. In 1965 in Amsterdam a young woman told him she had met him in Mount Zion, she was beautiful, he didn't refute the fact, and fallen in love with her. She took him where we were standing. She lived there 7 years and died. The man hit the wall "behind this wall was Jordan". I ask him if he inherited the house, "no" he told me "I bought it seven years ago, and made it a museum.". When and where start history?
