04 October 2010

he's all wrong for me

[click image]


And only nine months younger than me, but I'm still mad for him. He sounds so sick and/or tired here, and I'm desperately hoping he's glowingly healthy now, vigorous, renewed, brimming with vitality, despite the unbearable drag of this work turning into his life's work. How could I dream of marrying this guy when I can only endure this in fits and blasts? How could he have any of those wonderful qualities I so fervently wish upon him while engaged in this battle against relentless evil for so damn long? I mean, meditating on the courage is contagious theme tonight, I went directly about thinking of Norman, whose courage is incandescent and vastly more communicable than any few hundred others on this theme.

Norman Finkelstein is a damn anomaly. Men as manly as he is are generally not scholars... or don't stay scholars. Scholars are generally not very courageous. Tony Judt definitely qualifies as a courageous scholar, rest his gorgeous soul in a cosmos of love. And there are some others way up there, but in the vast populous of scholarship, far fewer than 1% qualify in this magnitude.

He's a city-dweller. Anathema. But maybe he retreats to the sanity of pastoral bliss, or I could get him to. I feel he needs trees to hug, dirt to dig, a nice long bathe in the pounding negative ions of a waterfall or the sea, a crackling fire, clean air, weather bouncing off completely natural surfaces, perhaps a side trip into the thought experiments of the great propounders of Out There. Norman needs shaking out, a dip in a vat of health, a glimpse at the vastness of inner space, reminding of aliveness, of all the beauty... or he might just die of unremitting disappointment. Maybe he doesn't get caught up in the auditoriums full of young things who surely think he's practically God.


Oh. Right. Sure.

love, 99

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.