Every so often I am assaulted by a howl. A senseless, silent thing that starets somewhere in my belly and screams its way clear up the base of my throat where it dies. Senseless, empty screaming in my ears. No one can hear it but I. It is the sound of sterility I think. A living graveyard, nothing can be born there save mould and fungi. Wrethced beast, I want to claw you clean.

See the busy, pretty diversions sitting over me like a shield. I am tired of being tired; this weariness bores me. I am as far away from god as light itself, emanating faster than anything as if it could not wait to escape the authority of the divine. I am as still as the will of Salome, her tawny eyed face the screaming star of Desire.

"I have already written you one play," He will say to it, "Salome. That was for you."

"Of course." It will say, smiling its cat smile and winking its cat eyes.

"You want more?"

"Of course." It will say, and it will blow rings of fragrant smoke into his face. He will close his eyes like a man in love and take in a trembling breath; his entire body will shake and he will ache with wanting so full of fire it is like need.

For a moment they will understand each other: but a moment only.

That is the way of it.

How still I am, how silent. I cease to exist from hour to hour, starting and stopping like a streaming music file on a slow connection. Iam defeated by every excuse. I let the others in the room be right; I allow their arguments with regal weakness, and I quiver in a way that ought to be fat and huddled, turning to food and drink to pad the fat flesh shield against fear.

But I am thin, I am very thin, I am of a consistancy that allows the light to peek through my skin and makes me look betimes like a grinning skeleton, offering a polite platitude and a basket to put your ornaments in. Senseless howling, mouth open and jaw flapping at its own comic nature, the passage of time frightening as ghost masks on all hallows eve.

Make of that what you will.

Of it all, indeed. This is the coin scattered on the ground of the rich man who has set it all up in vaults and one day stares at the massed golden heaps, wondering what it all does there, what it is worth, really? Sickness and weariness leads to such scatterings.

The Hanukkah candles are burnt out, HaShem has been blessed and remembered for the miraculous deeds performed for our ancestors at this season. But I am colder than before.

My doubt, too, is a part of the plan, is divine in nature or perhaps in direction.

Eh, meh, and blessed be.

<<agé chose>>

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