Don't have much to say.
Unable to sleep, practicing the Hebrew recitation of Kings 2:2 in bed, I walk out onto the porch in my pyjamas. Something isn't right, and I don't know what. I can't put my finger on it, and it's keeping me awake. Problems always do.
I sit wedged between the front porch posts, look out at the sky crying. This mood hit me when I was still at work, and seeing Emma kept it at bay. But I think I knew I would have to think about it eventually. I walk out into the rain, glasses slightly askew and slowly becoming useless with water droplets. This is the fringe of hurricane Rita, and I keep thinking that these are the sky's tears. Not just the sky's tears, but symbols of man's Sysiphean effort - our race, nearly two million years old, has seen countless hurricanes. Before we could speak, before homo sapiens archaica was aware of speech as a concept, we probably lamented the loss of pack members to a storm. The rain keeps me from seeing.
I've always had a weird relationship with God. The concept has never been something I took seriously, but in a way, it satisfied my need for exposition. I believe in a symbol which allows me someone to talk to who is infinitely knowledgable and infinitely ineffable, cruel and unknowable. The perfect expositionary tool. This time, I can't think of anything to say. I feel dammed inside, I feel full and unable to let go. I am only a question, a single one. I let it go, I turn my face to the rain and let it pelt along my tongue and into my throat as I speak the words. I feel lamed, alif, and sheva making their way into the sky. A speech bubble filled with graceful characters. "aniy davar?"
"Am I anything?"
Unable to sleep, practicing the Hebrew recitation of Kings 2:2 in bed, I walk out onto the porch in my pyjamas. Something isn't right, and I don't know what. I can't put my finger on it, and it's keeping me awake. Problems always do.
I sit wedged between the front porch posts, look out at the sky crying. This mood hit me when I was still at work, and seeing Emma kept it at bay. But I think I knew I would have to think about it eventually. I walk out into the rain, glasses slightly askew and slowly becoming useless with water droplets. This is the fringe of hurricane Rita, and I keep thinking that these are the sky's tears. Not just the sky's tears, but symbols of man's Sysiphean effort - our race, nearly two million years old, has seen countless hurricanes. Before we could speak, before homo sapiens archaica was aware of speech as a concept, we probably lamented the loss of pack members to a storm. The rain keeps me from seeing.
I've always had a weird relationship with God. The concept has never been something I took seriously, but in a way, it satisfied my need for exposition. I believe in a symbol which allows me someone to talk to who is infinitely knowledgable and infinitely ineffable, cruel and unknowable. The perfect expositionary tool. This time, I can't think of anything to say. I feel dammed inside, I feel full and unable to let go. I am only a question, a single one. I let it go, I turn my face to the rain and let it pelt along my tongue and into my throat as I speak the words. I feel lamed, alif, and sheva making their way into the sky. A speech bubble filled with graceful characters. "aniy davar?"
"Am I anything?"