Hands everywhere

Modifié le : 2019/08/06

Work is pro­gress­ing. What was ini­tial­ly intend­ed to be a patch-up of a part has turned into a slight­ly more exten­sive project. I will have a use­ful cup­board, anoth­er for a pos­si­ble freez­er, the wall over­look­ing the neigh­bor will have been sound­proofed, and the elec­tri­cal cir­cuit redid. Three years ago, the win­dow was replaced. These are very mate­r­i­al con­sid­er­a­tions for me as an intellectual.

Some peo­ple have been sur­prised for the past three years to see me han­dle all the trades in this way. Some­times I won­der if I haven’t missed my voca­tion. Work­ing with my hands pleas­es me as much as nav­i­gat­ing the more capri­cious syn­tax of feel­ings. The two worlds coex­ist in my case, which has always had the effect of being con­sid­ered an intel­lec­tu­al in text­books and a squared off in the literate.

Camus, Bud­dha, and many oth­ers of whom I know absolute­ly noth­ing have said that we must walk on the nar­row line that sep­a­rates our pro­found cer­tain­ties. It is a dizzy­ing posi­tion, and I don’t think I can last in such an exercise.

I’m prob­a­bly doing what every­one else is doing. I prune my exis­tence as an excel­lent tourist of the liv­ing. I cre­ate, I rebuild a house that will sur­vive me. I have also fine-tuned some of the writ­ings that per­haps will gen­tly con­tin­ue on the shelves of future libraries. I don’t have any chil­dren, but it’s prob­a­bly just like that.

But let us return to our posi­tion on the tightrope, because of these truths, noth­ing is less cer­tain. Inch Allah.