Testing…
Testing…
One — Two — Three…
Is this thing on?
…
Good evening, ladies & gentlemen…and feedback attends
Try the veal!
…
the fivethirty show’s exactly the same as the threethirty show — and thanks folks, I’ll be here all week…
Nu, that’s what he thinks.
As feedback echoes, feeds back on itself the sound cud, swells in the mouth to air raid proportions, but it’s maybe a drill, let’s hope, or a close relative screaming Name somewhere near — as the crowd alarmed, is made fidgety, restless…a buzz that is its own sting, inspiring of shock, the instinctive Amen that surprises: people whispering to each other, jawing that it’s finally, about time — unannounced, from the leftwing stageright, the cantor comes forward, arrayed in an illfitting white kittel.
Houselights of the world to dim, out; the candles guttering brighter.
They don’t know to sit or stand: there’s a great creaking, an opening of books, a mass cracking of covers, a slitting of page with the forefingernail, honey on the pagetips to encourage as the rabbi intones off the script, introduces himself, yet again; it’s a foreign language, yet another tongue’s trouble: it’s a responsorial without a response, or actually anything to respond to…how’s everybody doing tonight? we’d like to thank you all so much for coming.
Blessed Art.
A buzz at its height, as if a hive dangled down from the roof of the night: people whispering, shouting, screaming final warnings, advice; addresses overseas to be memorized, 36,000 12-Millionth Street, Apartment 3B and ring twice; times and dates…the corner of Broadway & Innocence, 1952, 6 pm; lashon hara…it seems here, the pages are different: some have books with oddnumbered pages, others just even; some of the books only have numbers: digits — and dashes; other books have photographs in them, are only photos, images black & white, and uncaptioned, or the pages, whatever they have or say or show, don’t correspond to whatever it is the rabbi or is he the cantor, the chazzan, I forget, he does, too, announces twotongued, in every translation known to this side of the ocean: page 296, two-nine-six, page number twohundred-and-ninetysix, in the white book, you can do your own conversion for the blue.
Old menschs up front flip through their books, shaking heads, muttering Substance at all the blank pages: what should be, what should’ve been, they fill it in with the lip’s drip, the tongue’s ink. Nearest the ark, the oldest menschs standing and swaying throughout as if letters themselves, though letters still in flux, still being developed, not yet bound to fixed form. O the aleph reach, the bet bend, the gimel footforward, as if symbols with bad joints, with stiff cuffs, one leg shorter than fractured heels down below; while up top, roofing: their necks twisted to cripple, though as beautiful then still ruled permissible, kosher. Their books held out as if their own ornaments, as if crowns, tags, and kotz, they’re just black covers, no pages at all. And as for how they’re pronounced, they’re stilted, not inept but unpracticed, hinged klutzy with rust, as if requiring miracle oil, rededication to the task of innermost knowledge…as if asking themselves, who knows their own name? how to say the self ’s secret, pronounceable only if known? Argumentative, they give way to grumbling, learned grumbling, studiously insistent nodding as if their very own lettered bodies in their movements and shapes would, too, give movement and shape to their sounds: arms flowing out into fingery vowels. In the back, where voices still carry, kinder play in the aisles, odd games of lots; the sacred idiot drools into the mouth of the drunk.
Late, they arrive, finally do us the honor of showing up, about time. Survivors, us all — you’re cordially invited to join together with the congregation in this staring at them down the aisle a murmur, through the mess of mismatched to their seats. Reserved. They arrive, can you blame them, as if they didn’t show up the show wouldn’t have started without them; we wait, as they fill in the last remaining seats, except one. Reserved still. One seat’s always left empty, always reserved, still remains: the empty seat and door open a draft are not quite contingencies, but gestures.
And so we might wait for an apology, but who’s listening, no one: everyone catching up, breath, asking after, brides, cousins, do you know whatever happened to her; ordnance outside, or is it just in my head; explosions, shaking the shul deeper into its foundations: every house is built upon its own grave, as if a pit for a brother, at home in a hole pitched seven years’ deep: at least it’s the earth, and as such, livable, knowable — as who can sleep in the sky, who can lie down in the air and be comfortable there? The clarinetist bends a note, and Heaven bends, brass, night’s rainbow of one widened band: darkness, the void, O the Covenant Who forgot.
Air’s typhus, from the Hellenist typhos, an impure word we’ve been infected with, fataclass="underline" meaning smoky, a blemishing haze. All around, puddles of lands-men wait to take their place, their places, ours, as brainfog, impenetrable cloud whose controlling deities are also charged with scalping and illegal recording. The first one inside and the last one inside sit next to each other, atop one another, share between them a book, but there aren’t enough books, never are. Ben Someone or Other’s summoned up to the almemar, the bima an island at middle he bridges across on the backs of his fathers; he throws up his tallis, is hugged, kissed, returned, hugged, kissed, then seated again, bound to his chair with tefillin. Outside faces press up against glass, crucified by the mullions, they’re stretched across shards, eventually shattering, each other, themselves; window glass that’s been silvered over, why not, the better to straighten yourself for what’s to come — and so, mirrors in which the waiting arrange hairs, under collars tuck ties, breathe against the panes to know they’re alive.
A sphere makes its way around a sphere, is made.
There’ll be no east one of these tomorrows, there’ll be no rising — an unleavened morning for the wrong New Year.
And the assembled, settle.
Night. Of what colors were left, half were bleached into the moon and stars, deloused into white, an assimilation to air, high and rare above smoke; the other half, though…the afternoon’s sky: only a sleeve salvaged of a coat of many colors come bleeding through the wash outside; hues ripped from rays of the sun, snapped harpstrings the strands of a rainbow — forgotten. Now dark, which nights everything passing through it, none left untainted: a black beyond black, benighting, not so much the color of death as already an aftermath, a survival, what survives dream; black, the last color: the hair of sleeping girls, sent away to work off their breasts and hips, indentured abroad only to exhaust their own fate; the effects of an infinite yellowing: passport pictures curling at corners from fires never extinguished, Never Forget! — a night of the ninth plague, not yet; a night like whole hunks of blackbread in the mouth, soon…a night by the night: its blackness bound by stars without number and nameless, a wall then the river around it of their drained radiations: greater dawn’s strain to make it through its own pricks and dings that, in truth, are the stars, dimmed.
As our rabbi, a firstborn though he doesn’t like to brag much, beadles the floorboards by the pulpit — the tenth plague readies, is kept readied in the wings: the ninth plague sets the stage for the tenth, the arch for its entrance; though the ninth plague’s also the tenth plague’s commandment, then the eleventh’s, the twelfth; how the ninth plague is, ultimately, no plague in itself but rather the condition of all plague: its blackness appropriate, the colluding, concealing dark without morning to bear witness, clear air. And, as this is the very beginning of this last night to plague and be plagued without end, this, too, is the beginning of the very last Sabbath of all time, if not just of their lives; tell me, though, how those aren’t the same, two-of-a-kind? A Shabbos eternal we’re welcoming eternally — as any sun that should ever set again would only ensure a day of rest whose holiness must blush in comparison with the sacrifice of this one, of ours, and so desecrating in retrospect, a defilement made all the graver thanks to its very posthumity. And so, a time for rest now, this day of rest now, such rationed rest that’ll last as long as light will be remembered. An idle worship, given to graven imaginings. Because, with regard to that memory, there’s not much of it left — but still, there’s hope…to be hoped for.