Dan Avia is creating Poems & Photographs
0
patrons

דף ריק שלי
שנים שחיכיתי לך
לכאב הפועם
מתפשט בעיתו
לדעת חדרים
למרתף העידנים
למשמע קולות הפרוזדור
צללית אם חרישית
כבולה לפלצות
שמורה בעין החתול
ניצבת לימין הכתובים
כותל למטמון התולדות
חתומה בבשר אלוה
כאבן מוטלת לצד הנהר
מחכה שנים לחסד
.שיטילוה לעבר חיים אחרים


Hello anyone,

After years of writing, I've come upon a junction where the pieces so far need to be assembled and come out, if only to make room for something else. Realizing this is to be a natural process, it is also a most bizarre one for the person involved. I've written academic pieces, newspapers, magazines, but I had never felt remotely so exposed, so utterly naked, as I do now.  And so I've been wrestling with the idea of how to bring this work forth, as I was reluctant to give in to the editing/publishing mechanism.

My reasons for this wrestling are made of (1) the alien mind of an editor/publisher to the work, (2) my alienation from the world of modern literature, (3) and the imaginary world on mine that does not feel at home in any current erudite fashions.

To be clear, editors and publishers can be a writer's best friend, and in most cases, we need more of them, but not in what is essentially the lonely work of a persons' heart. I do, however, feel at home with a plethora of texts that have come down to us from all corners of the world, and have so far gathered many names and titles. Indeed our generation is the first to witness such richness of human culture from the dawn of time straight to the screen. For our purposes, I shall use Henri Corbin's title, The Imaginary Vision. In a nutshell, it is a work that springs from the seekers' mind, the seeker of the absolute, and so his testimony springs from the realm of the Imaginary, not his entirely own. This term is better understood in its classical and medieval context, as the intermediary dimension between the various forms of sensual life and the sublime edicts that govern them. Since our personal mind cannot, by its very limited nature, penetrate to the realm of an absolute intelligence, it is by our capacity to imagine – not a passive fantasy of the ego – which enables us to fathom the inexhaustible order and magnitude of our world. A careful reading of culture will attest to the prerequisite of a seekers passion, through the Imaginary, what we dub today a genius, which has brought us the many visions and concoction which are the very make up of our naked human life. This Ginni of past is a force entirely outside the conscious personal life, performing acts of near-divinity, amoral, insightful, truly original, and accounting for the seasonal breakthroughs in dogmatic thought.

As theories take their place in our collective mind, fulfilling our desires to be masters of body and land, we tend to forget they are but allusions to the absolute, mere intimations of cosmic order, “Truthful” only to the extent of our evanescent human affairs. It is this very forgetfulness that has eroded the place of the Imaginary in our new newfangled “rational” methods, searching only for what is measurable to the senses, reducing meaning and impetus and purpose to a pure quantitative mechanism. This "enlightened" rationale has subjugated our science to nefarious industries of endless products, made our governments into buffoon who serve these very industries, manipulated our delicate habitat into incessant commodities of dead “stuff”, and ultimately our artistry has come to exhibit their own product – the crown jewel of human creation - as a meek testimony to our discombobulated state of social and psychic affairs. Surely there are many reasons for this, and none to blame, as this historical moment does not – and can not – exceed or circumvent the laws of nature. The eroding use of the Imaginary is, therefore, only a symptom of our time, and so are all those who are still bound to find it's footing in our frantic society, or at the very least in one's own mind. And I, reluctantly, am one of those symptoms, to be burdened with such an abject load.

The Imaginary ceases a person though obsession, a tantalizing need that is seldom gratified, obscured in solitude, remaining opaque to anyone oblivious to the subtle differences between sight and image, the awake and the dreaming, the personal and the self. I dare not consider myself a poet, or writer, nor do I care to join these parties. Not that I am in any way better or worse, but that what I write has never asked for an audience or a milieu, it was set before me much like a tax, with heavy fines for missing a deposit. By chance or by nature, I seemed to have always favoured the company of the outcasts, the poor, the liminal personality, the drunk and stoned out of despair, all those who have a portion of heaven.

This work is therefore not my own, and only recently did I seem to recognize their source. I take credit only for the pains of labour, and so have also taken a pseudonym to bare the title of the abstruse. Before editors and press industry, it was common for writers to seek another name in lieu of their own, names of men and women often long since dead and buried. This same need is still present whenever a person dares to publish their visions whos' source they cannot claim their own, but a vessel. 

If only to further complicate things, I write in Hebrew, my native language, which offers far less publishing agendas then English, and still confined to the drama of Israel, a state I have abandoned for a Zion of my own. And so, in publishing these works I have set two main goals: two find neutral ground, as wide and eclectic as possible, and to be able to generate a modest rent without giving out my claim to the work.

To my non-Hebrew audience, I've added photographs, some current and most are from my days as a photojournalist. It is a profession I've since quit for much of the same reasons I find in the publishing houses, though journalism underwent a distinct metamorphosis in the digital era, photojournalism being only one feature that has vanished. These photographs are of the documentary genre, often not considered a “works of art”, though this is a modern notion, dubious and bloated to the point of absurd. Documentary or not, they are moments that have caught me, as it were, revealing occasions where and when I find beauty. This last notion is indeed ridiculed by our astute contemporary critics as being infantile and obsolete, if not outright a degenerate kitsch. But alas, to my mind, images insist and persist to be revelations, a beauty that is, simply put, divulging a truth, not sublime knowledge or hidden formula, merely a present that reflects the form of one's own mind. And so a “relative” and “subjective” truth - both being incongruous notions of truth - but none the less infallible, surely ineffable, image of a self in the world. 

The publication here will be continuous, open to any patron, covering work that spreads over 20 years. The 'goal' as the parlance of this platform suggests, is to have sufficient audience as a pretext to publish text & images in a book form. Before such time, any and all funds will be set to build my family home, as we are currently on our very first steps in establishing a small farm garden in Portugal.        

A small bag of vague apprehension is sitting beside me now, vigorously rattling. It's making funny sounds and itching along my spine. Indeed apprehension is a big word for such a small bag. The occasion for this lay with these very words, assembling and introducing my work for the first time. Before the esteemed editor started codifying arguments, vernacular, drama, and grammar, a portion of our texts were visions with no literary classification, requiring no crafty editor to iron out their idiosyncrasies, eccentricity, and peculiarity. They still endure though negligible within the vast sea of modern literary products.

I, therefore, am jittery and honoured to submit these negligible pieces of a dreading heart, with the sole aim of finding a set of reading eyes.

Sincerely,
Dan Avia


 
Tiers
Reader
$3 or more per month

Open content

Aficionado
$15 or more per month

Supporting a book form. Will get 20% discount of future book.

Enthusiast
$50 or more per month

Supporting a book form. Will get a 50% discount on future book with authors' signature. 

Admirer
$150 or more per month

All the above + I'll plant a tree in my garden with you name.

Goals
0 of 5000 patrons
When reaching 5000 patrons, I'll start to work on a book format. I'm currently working to set up a small off-grid farm garden in Portugal. Most of my waking hours are given to building the family home, and we are on a very tight budget and overworked. Naturally, should Patreon pay honest rent, I should be at liberty to publish a comprehensive edition of the work.
1 of 1

דף ריק שלי
שנים שחיכיתי לך
לכאב הפועם
מתפשט בעיתו
לדעת חדרים
למרתף העידנים
למשמע קולות הפרוזדור
צללית אם חרישית
כבולה לפלצות
שמורה בעין החתול
ניצבת לימין הכתובים
כותל למטמון התולדות
חתומה בבשר אלוה
כאבן מוטלת לצד הנהר
מחכה שנים לחסד
.שיטילוה לעבר חיים אחרים


Hello anyone,

After years of writing, I've come upon a junction where the pieces so far need to be assembled and come out, if only to make room for something else. Realizing this is to be a natural process, it is also a most bizarre one for the person involved. I've written academic pieces, newspapers, magazines, but I had never felt remotely so exposed, so utterly naked, as I do now.  And so I've been wrestling with the idea of how to bring this work forth, as I was reluctant to give in to the editing/publishing mechanism.

My reasons for this wrestling are made of (1) the alien mind of an editor/publisher to the work, (2) my alienation from the world of modern literature, (3) and the imaginary world on mine that does not feel at home in any current erudite fashions.

To be clear, editors and publishers can be a writer's best friend, and in most cases, we need more of them, but not in what is essentially the lonely work of a persons' heart. I do, however, feel at home with a plethora of texts that have come down to us from all corners of the world, and have so far gathered many names and titles. Indeed our generation is the first to witness such richness of human culture from the dawn of time straight to the screen. For our purposes, I shall use Henri Corbin's title, The Imaginary Vision. In a nutshell, it is a work that springs from the seekers' mind, the seeker of the absolute, and so his testimony springs from the realm of the Imaginary, not his entirely own. This term is better understood in its classical and medieval context, as the intermediary dimension between the various forms of sensual life and the sublime edicts that govern them. Since our personal mind cannot, by its very limited nature, penetrate to the realm of an absolute intelligence, it is by our capacity to imagine – not a passive fantasy of the ego – which enables us to fathom the inexhaustible order and magnitude of our world. A careful reading of culture will attest to the prerequisite of a seekers passion, through the Imaginary, what we dub today a genius, which has brought us the many visions and concoction which are the very make up of our naked human life. This Ginni of past is a force entirely outside the conscious personal life, performing acts of near-divinity, amoral, insightful, truly original, and accounting for the seasonal breakthroughs in dogmatic thought.

As theories take their place in our collective mind, fulfilling our desires to be masters of body and land, we tend to forget they are but allusions to the absolute, mere intimations of cosmic order, “Truthful” only to the extent of our evanescent human affairs. It is this very forgetfulness that has eroded the place of the Imaginary in our new newfangled “rational” methods, searching only for what is measurable to the senses, reducing meaning and impetus and purpose to a pure quantitative mechanism. This "enlightened" rationale has subjugated our science to nefarious industries of endless products, made our governments into buffoon who serve these very industries, manipulated our delicate habitat into incessant commodities of dead “stuff”, and ultimately our artistry has come to exhibit their own product – the crown jewel of human creation - as a meek testimony to our discombobulated state of social and psychic affairs. Surely there are many reasons for this, and none to blame, as this historical moment does not – and can not – exceed or circumvent the laws of nature. The eroding use of the Imaginary is, therefore, only a symptom of our time, and so are all those who are still bound to find it's footing in our frantic society, or at the very least in one's own mind. And I, reluctantly, am one of those symptoms, to be burdened with such an abject load.

The Imaginary ceases a person though obsession, a tantalizing need that is seldom gratified, obscured in solitude, remaining opaque to anyone oblivious to the subtle differences between sight and image, the awake and the dreaming, the personal and the self. I dare not consider myself a poet, or writer, nor do I care to join these parties. Not that I am in any way better or worse, but that what I write has never asked for an audience or a milieu, it was set before me much like a tax, with heavy fines for missing a deposit. By chance or by nature, I seemed to have always favoured the company of the outcasts, the poor, the liminal personality, the drunk and stoned out of despair, all those who have a portion of heaven.

This work is therefore not my own, and only recently did I seem to recognize their source. I take credit only for the pains of labour, and so have also taken a pseudonym to bare the title of the abstruse. Before editors and press industry, it was common for writers to seek another name in lieu of their own, names of men and women often long since dead and buried. This same need is still present whenever a person dares to publish their visions whos' source they cannot claim their own, but a vessel. 

If only to further complicate things, I write in Hebrew, my native language, which offers far less publishing agendas then English, and still confined to the drama of Israel, a state I have abandoned for a Zion of my own. And so, in publishing these works I have set two main goals: two find neutral ground, as wide and eclectic as possible, and to be able to generate a modest rent without giving out my claim to the work.

To my non-Hebrew audience, I've added photographs, some current and most are from my days as a photojournalist. It is a profession I've since quit for much of the same reasons I find in the publishing houses, though journalism underwent a distinct metamorphosis in the digital era, photojournalism being only one feature that has vanished. These photographs are of the documentary genre, often not considered a “works of art”, though this is a modern notion, dubious and bloated to the point of absurd. Documentary or not, they are moments that have caught me, as it were, revealing occasions where and when I find beauty. This last notion is indeed ridiculed by our astute contemporary critics as being infantile and obsolete, if not outright a degenerate kitsch. But alas, to my mind, images insist and persist to be revelations, a beauty that is, simply put, divulging a truth, not sublime knowledge or hidden formula, merely a present that reflects the form of one's own mind. And so a “relative” and “subjective” truth - both being incongruous notions of truth - but none the less infallible, surely ineffable, image of a self in the world. 

The publication here will be continuous, open to any patron, covering work that spreads over 20 years. The 'goal' as the parlance of this platform suggests, is to have sufficient audience as a pretext to publish text & images in a book form. Before such time, any and all funds will be set to build my family home, as we are currently on our very first steps in establishing a small farm garden in Portugal.        

A small bag of vague apprehension is sitting beside me now, vigorously rattling. It's making funny sounds and itching along my spine. Indeed apprehension is a big word for such a small bag. The occasion for this lay with these very words, assembling and introducing my work for the first time. Before the esteemed editor started codifying arguments, vernacular, drama, and grammar, a portion of our texts were visions with no literary classification, requiring no crafty editor to iron out their idiosyncrasies, eccentricity, and peculiarity. They still endure though negligible within the vast sea of modern literary products.

I, therefore, am jittery and honoured to submit these negligible pieces of a dreading heart, with the sole aim of finding a set of reading eyes.

Sincerely,
Dan Avia


 

Recent posts by Dan Avia

Tiers
Reader
$3 or more per month

Open content

Aficionado
$15 or more per month

Supporting a book form. Will get 20% discount of future book.

Enthusiast
$50 or more per month

Supporting a book form. Will get a 50% discount on future book with authors' signature. 

Admirer
$150 or more per month

All the above + I'll plant a tree in my garden with you name.