In the Absent Sublime April 2014 And indeed there will be time To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?" Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— [They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"] My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— [They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"] Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.      And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: "That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.  

The  Love  Song  of  J.  Alfred  Prufrock                              T.  S.  Eliot,  1888  –  1965  

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting:      The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star,                      Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting,      

 Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea  

   

               Which  brought  us  hither,      

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

                                                   Intimations  of  Immortality    

 

   Nah, im Aortenbogen im Hellblut: das Hellwort. Mutter Rachel weint nicht mehr. Rübergetragen alles Geweinte. Still, in den Kranzarterien, unumschnürt Ziw, jenes Licht. Paul Celan GesammelteWerke 2: 202 1986          

Spirituality  and  sexuality  are  not  your  qualities,  not  things  which  ye  possess  and  contain.  But  they  possess  and  contain  you;  or  they  are   powerful   deamons,   manifestations   of   the   gods,   and   are,  therefore,  things  which  reach  beyond  you,  existing  in  themselves.  No  man  hath  a  spirituality  unto  himself,  or  sexuality  unto  himself.  But  he  standeth  under  the  law  of  spirituality  and  of  sexuality.                                                                                C.G.Jung:      “Septem  Sermones  ad  Mortuos”      

 The  certainty  of  others…  Their  impoverished  beliefs…  Insufferable  and  overbearing,  The  Halachic  minutiae  of  observances  The  infractions  and  focused  obsessions  of…    The  need  for…  Absolute  control  of  behaviorisms,  The  intolerable  self-­‐righteous  enthusiasm,  The  utter  Holier-­‐than-­‐thou-­‐ness.    The  absent  voice  of  Whom?  Paul  Celan’s  hymns  to  no-­‐body?  In  the  silence  of  no-­‐response,  In  the  stillness  of  the  cosmic  no-­‐thingness,  I  lie  motionless.  Bereft  of  my  Friend  and  receiver  of  thoughts  He  who  once  might  have  listened  to  my  soliloquies  My  prior  fullness  of  being  Intimations  of  immortality  Wordsworth’s  sense  of  the  sublime    In  nature  and  music  Now  laying  fragmented  in  the  satanic  mills  of  the  soul.    

Left  with  only  the  nostalgia,  regret,  guilt  Of  what  might-­‐have-­‐been-­‐feelings  Bereft  of  certainty-­‐  of  that  sense  of  the  sublime.    After  Maa’riv    Kabbalat  Shabbat  the  tansel  In  the  customary  solemn  circle,  Unexpectedly  the  Rabbi  grabs  my  hand  and  squeezes  it  When  singing  “sanctify  me  with  Thy  Mitzvot…  Purify  our  hearts”     לבינו וטהר מצותכב קדשנו

                                                                               An  electric  shock  of  regret  fires       through  my  body  from  his  hand,    

as  a  sense  of  insufficiency  and  fraudulence  Fills  my  soul.    My  heart  cries  in  jealousy  for  his  simple  faith.    Then  again  at  the  Shabbat  table  The  candles  lend  a  golden  glow  To  the  beautiful  silver  laden  white  clothed  altar.  As  the  silent  guests  await  my  benediction קידוש  This  moment  in  time  feels  so  holy-­‐  It  catches  my  breath-­‐  as  I  hesitate  to  utter  Words  meant  to  fulfill  their  Halachic  obligation  By  one  who  can  no  longer  represent  as  a שליח  (For  heresy  disqualifies.)    I  live  in  that  space  of  desire  For  authentic  words  That  reflect  truth  Knowing  full  well  I  can  no  longer  Open  my  lips  to  produce  the  words,  Oh  for  a  doxology  I  could  die  for!  

Or  just  believe  in!  A  salvific  higher  authority!  Not  a  mere  projected  wish  for  a  return  To  a  father  figure  I  might  have  respected.  A  fulfillment  of  the  little  Julian’s  urgent  plea  for  Help  from  the  cruel  matriarch.  (left  unanswered)  Herr  Freud  put  paid  to  that  idea!  Reducing  my  once  cherished  beliefs  to  rot.  

   Facing  now  my  shame  And  the  faith-­‐less-­‐ness  Of  the  landscape-­‐that  is  my  terrain  The  absence  of  certainty  That  is  the  barren  wasteland  of  my  visual  field  It  offends  me  to  see  it  in  others  As  if  I  have  become  intolerant  to  the  very  Presence  of  faith  in  others  As  if  their  Emunah, mirrors הלכה  and בטחוו   And  exacerbates  My  own  lack,  digging  the  knife  even  further  in.  In  an  adolescent  rage  of  dis-­‐ownment,  I  am  repulsed.  It  is  too  fresh  This  wound  For  salting  by  others.    Paralyzed  by  my  inability  to  take  a  stand  to  act,  To  say  no!  despite  authority’s  ongoing  hold  Simultaneously  by  my  resentment    and  my  old  friendly  character  defects  The  wounding  of  others  The  cruelty  within  me…  Now  with  no  religious  impulse  to  confront  me  The the process חרטה  the ודוי   of  T’shuvah  

No  Higher  Authority  peering  down  from  heaven  No  allegiance  to  Rebbe  or  halachic  edicts  The  Four  Ells עמות דלד   have  dissolved  Leaving  an  open  minefield  of  explosive  rage  Ordinance  left  to  cause  amputations  of  the  heart  In  vitriolic  self  denigration  No  medicaments  in  my  medical  tool  kit  left  to  heal  These  wounds  of  the  soul  Caught  between  reverence  for  the  tradition  And  a  deep  heresy  and  suspicion  I  am  nailed  to  the  cross  of  powerlessness.    Now,  only  the  daily-­‐mirrored  self-­‐image  The  Dorian  Grayed  picture  of  decay  The  inventory  of  pain  inflicted  on  those  near  and  dear  Keep  me  from  sleep.  Dreams  of  crumbled  building  basements  Old  authority  figures  from  the  past  Pointing  accusatory  index  fingers  At  the  naughty  boy  once  more  Outside  the  classroom  for  some  misdemeanor      Yet  emerging  from  this  rubble  The  simultaneous  realization  Slowly,  slowly  An    “intimation”  That  this  rational  mind  does  not  do  justice  To  the  complexity  of  the  psyche  Cannot  reduce  it  to  mere  conscious  understanding  Of  self  or  text.  That  hidden  beneath  the  surface  calm  lies  layers  and  grottos  Of  unearthed  truth  

 That  I  am  still  open  to  the  very  core  Of  what  bubbles  up  Humbly  accepting  this  as  revelation  Must  suffice  for  now.    The  mystery  of  existence  lies  within  this  darkness  Is  born  here  in  the  recesses  And  I  do  accept  its  very  deep  and  “holy”  birthings.    That  I  live  on  the  edge  of  this  precipice  Of  life  and  knowledge  And  the  looming  end  of  things  Accepting  my  ignorance  My  pain  My  flaws  And  remain  humbled  by  the  incalcitrance    of  the  truth  Of  history,  text  and  the  self.  This  is  my  lasting  belief.