turn our backs on our excretions, how vulgar. Again and again we encounter these things with almost pornographic wonder, the diluted insult that comes with being reminded of the corporeal creatures that we are, and a bit of fear in it too (excretions are emissaries of our inner body to the world of the eyeâwe are detectives always on the watch for fecal blood).
17
Since morning, because a strike had been announced, Motti wandered restlessly around his apartment. From time to time voices of children playing rose up from the street, and he, who had his fill of children each day at work, sat down to watch television but didnât find it interesting, decided to use the time to grade exams, but this didnât fill up more than a half hour, tried to read a book but the words got away from him. Thought it was noon already and decided to sit down to eat, maybe make an omelet, even though he wasnât hungry at all, but the clock on the oven instructed him that it wasnât even ten a.m. Didnât want to pick up the phone to call anyone, and in any case who did he have to talk to, everyoneâs at work, and who is this everyone after all, and in any case there wasnât anything pressing he had to say. Tried listening to records, but the old music annoyed him for being old, whereas the new music annoyed him for being unfamiliar. Twice called for the time, went to the video store and rented a movie, but didnât feel like actually watching it, and anyway who sits down to watch a movie in the middle of the day. When he thought to take Laika out again for a walk she just opened a sleepy eye at him and remained lying on the armchair in the living room. He always complains that he has no free time, and believes that if he had some he might finally sit down to do something substantive, something with meaning, learn to play an instrument or write a book, maybe start exercising, but whoâs he kidding (plus, why bother on the day of a strike? it might end tomorrow), he doesnât even feel like sorting the weekend newspapers, doesnât even feel like collecting them and throwing them in the garbage. They say that in the military prison there are inmates who sculpt chewed-up bread, how disgusting. Itâs possible to start sculpting with clay, with plaster, with papier-mâché, with processed leather, with bonsai trees, with aluminum foil, with mixed media, only all of his artistic experiments from the past (that is to say, from childhood) failed because he gave up. He knew that it was a mistake, and yet each time he expected that he would manage to create something utterly without blemish, something complete in itselfâbut again and again his hopes were dashed (and this is one of the many differences between us: I believe that a creation must bear the scars of its creation).
Whoever might see Motti wandering around like this in his apartment might think of a butterfly or an insect imprisoned in a transparent case: fluttering back and forth. But how can one escape from inside time? You should be ashamed of yourself, he reprimands himself. In Africa people search for food for their dying children, and you, since you have nothing to do with yourself, you complain.
One day, he says to himself, someone will come (he doesnât say Ariella , even though deep in his heart he believes that one day, if he only keeps himself strong, it will indeed be her) and remove you from yourself like a banana from its blackened peel.
Eventually he did convince Laika to go out for a walk. The two of them trudged on indifferently. Laika sniffed and he stared into space. Walked the length of the block, sometimes in the shade and sometimes in the sun, according to the caprice of municipal architects and landscapers. His thinking roamed to uninteresting places, and when they turned right on one of the streets he saw a woman from far away, walking ahead of him, for a moment his mind mocked him and he thought, here is the
17
Since morning, because a strike had been announced, Motti wandered restlessly around his apartment. From time to time voices of children playing rose up from the street, and he, who had his fill of children each day at work, sat down to watch television but didnât find it interesting, decided to use the time to grade exams, but this didnât fill up more than a half hour, tried to read a book but the words got away from him. Thought it was noon already and decided to sit down to eat, maybe make an omelet, even though he wasnât hungry at all, but the clock on the oven instructed him that it wasnât even ten a.m. Didnât want to pick up the phone to call anyone, and in any case who did he have to talk to, everyoneâs at work, and who is this everyone after all, and in any case there wasnât anything pressing he had to say. Tried listening to records, but the old music annoyed him for being old, whereas the new music annoyed him for being unfamiliar. Twice called for the time, went to the video store and rented a movie, but didnât feel like actually watching it, and anyway who sits down to watch a movie in the middle of the day. When he thought to take Laika out again for a walk she just opened a sleepy eye at him and remained lying on the armchair in the living room. He always complains that he has no free time, and believes that if he had some he might finally sit down to do something substantive, something with meaning, learn to play an instrument or write a book, maybe start exercising, but whoâs he kidding (plus, why bother on the day of a strike? it might end tomorrow), he doesnât even feel like sorting the weekend newspapers, doesnât even feel like collecting them and throwing them in the garbage. They say that in the military prison there are inmates who sculpt chewed-up bread, how disgusting. Itâs possible to start sculpting with clay, with plaster, with papier-mâché, with processed leather, with bonsai trees, with aluminum foil, with mixed media, only all of his artistic experiments from the past (that is to say, from childhood) failed because he gave up. He knew that it was a mistake, and yet each time he expected that he would manage to create something utterly without blemish, something complete in itselfâbut again and again his hopes were dashed (and this is one of the many differences between us: I believe that a creation must bear the scars of its creation).
Whoever might see Motti wandering around like this in his apartment might think of a butterfly or an insect imprisoned in a transparent case: fluttering back and forth. But how can one escape from inside time? You should be ashamed of yourself, he reprimands himself. In Africa people search for food for their dying children, and you, since you have nothing to do with yourself, you complain.
One day, he says to himself, someone will come (he doesnât say Ariella , even though deep in his heart he believes that one day, if he only keeps himself strong, it will indeed be her) and remove you from yourself like a banana from its blackened peel.
Eventually he did convince Laika to go out for a walk. The two of them trudged on indifferently. Laika sniffed and he stared into space. Walked the length of the block, sometimes in the shade and sometimes in the sun, according to the caprice of municipal architects and landscapers. His thinking roamed to uninteresting places, and when they turned right on one of the streets he saw a woman from far away, walking ahead of him, for a moment his mind mocked him and he thought, here is the
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