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I am Ya’akov – chapter 2 – Dinah

LiteraryLintBooks175x175_thumb.jpgDinah

How I love Dinah! My only daughter, so beautiful, so curious and intelligent. A chieftain’s daughter. A princess. She has only to say and what she wants is hers. That is the truth, believe me or not.

There are many times in my life when I should have spoken and I kept silent. One such instance is Dinah and Shechem. She asks me for Shechem. I and Hamor are in agreement – a marriage is not only acceptable, but desired by both families. What happens next is my fault. I hear Shimon and Levi discussing something in hushed voices late at night. Hushed, angry voices. I hear them move away from our camp. I think for a second that I need go and ask them what is going on, but I do not. I convince myself that they are just going after a lion or a jackal they have seen near the sheep pens. I should know better.

Shimon and Levi, always in trouble, always taking offense and getting into fights; with the servants, their brothers, with each other and with other herdsmen at the wells and watering holes.

When they show up the next morning, bloody, dusty and triumphant, I know something is wrong. I can smell it on their bloody clothes and drunken breaths.

“Now, father, all is well, our sister’s honor has been avenged,” they shout, as they empty a sack full of bloody rags at my feet, “now the world knows not to trifle with the son’s of Ya’akov!”
Then I see Dinah, red-eyed with tear-streaks down her face. She walks straight by me and her brothers, into the women’s tent.

“What have you done!? I had an agreement with Hamor.”

“But our sister was defiled by that rasha Shechem…” they try and justify their action.

“There is no defilement. Hamor’s son Shechem and your sister Dinah are betrothed. Now you have put us all in danger from the people in this land – stupid, bloodthirsty, arrogant and insolent  fools!”

I am furious at them. I am furious at myself. Maybe I still am.

When Dinah comes out of the tent again five days later, she walks up to me, slaps me twice and hisses “Murderer!” She will never speak to me again. Because I kept silent when I should have spoken, my daughter was destroyed! I hear her desolate sobs every night for a month. My heart breaks over and over, there is nothing I can do. My beloved Dinah, my Princess!

For their crime, Shimon and Levi are banished from my tents. Working as herdsmen with my bondsmen, they seldom come to camp which is good, because I do not doubt that Dinah will kill them, given the chance. I will not blame her if she does.

Maybe I should kill them myself – an eye for an eye and so on? I can’t. They are my sons, they are part of the Family Story – the story that began with Grandfather Avraham. So I keep them away from camp, away from Dinah and away from me.

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I Am Ya’akov – Chapter 1 – Esav

OldShoesPen175x175_thumb.jpg“The sunset is beautiful. I am waiting for the first stars to come out. The crickets keep me company. I hear a jackal or two calling. They do not worry me. my family, servants and livestock are safe behind the rise back yonder. It is a good night to be living. Join me at my fire, Traveler, and let me share this good night with you.

My name is Ya’akov ben Yitzhak. People call me other things in harsh undertones when I pass them at the wells and watering holes. Ya’akov the Thief. Ya’akov the Deceiver. Ya’akov the Sorcerer. My father hissed ‘Wicked, wicked boy!’ in my ear last time I saw him. I miss my father. Lavan is a bad substitute father. His names for me are ‘Lazy’ and ‘Liar’. My wives make fun of my manhood when they think I am not listening, and my sons call me ‘The Old Crank’, when they think I am dozing in the shadow of my tent. Impertinent louts! My daughter screams ‘Murderer’ at me, if she speaks to me at all. My beloved Dinah.

I suppose each and every name is correct. To some degree. Correct, but not fair.

Ah, there are the first stars. Time for one last prayer to The One, blessed be, before it is time for bed. I probably will not sleep much, but I will pray. Pray and think, it seems, is what I do most these days – pray and think.

The crickets have quieted. The moon is out and the river makes small sloshing noises to call the wildlife to drink. So it is just you, me, the moon and thirsty wildlife. I like the night. The night is gentle, soothing and so absolute in its clarity. Now that I think about it, I am sure that all my real conversations with The One, blessed be, have taken place in the lights of the night.

That reminds me. Esav. Do you know why I am here, traveler? I am here because of my brother Esav. He gave me my first name beside Ya’akov. Brother. He called me brother. That night before the unholy business with the lentil soup.

“Good night, Brother,” he said as he wrapped himself in his cloak by the fire and fell asleep.

My brother. I do not know if he still is, but back then he was a snorer. Worse than a boar. I loved my brother. I still do.

I know what our tradition says happened. That he spurned his birthright, and that I bought it from him for a bowl of lentil soup, because I am a jackass. Tradition, as usual, only has half a picture. Or pieces. It is true I am a jackass. Because it was all a stupid joke. Esav came back from a hunt, he had not caught anything that day and he was hungry. He asked me for a bowl of what I was eating – lentil soup. On a whim I said

“Sure, if you sell me your birthright.”

Either he was simply too wrung out to care at that moment, or he actually heard the note of laughter in my voice. But he answered

“Done!”

That was it. We shared that meal, not thinking more of it – why would we, we were brothers and we both knew that he was the oldest – a bowl of lentil soup wouldn’t change that. But it did. As it turned out, our mother overheard our bantering. To her it meant everything. Our mother, a schemer, in a family of people who relied on voices, visions, and visitors. I should have seen, what happened later, coming, but I did not.

I hold no doubt that my parents loved each other. Theirs was a love that exclude anything not relevant to that particular relationship. Even children. Once my brother and I were born I think their love froze. That would explain why they argued so much. I do not think my mother ever wanted children. Or if she did, she would have settled for having just one. There she was, saddled with two and no real love for either. Because of our damned Tradition.

I know my mother detested Esav, and I know he knew. I remember the exact moment I knew that he knew how much she hated him. I walked past my father’s tent. My parents were arguing. They seemed to always argue. About me. About Esav. Mother has always resented that I am second born. I hear her say,

“I want Ya’akov to go and live with my brother Lavan. I do not want him to grow up and be like Esav!”

 “What is wrong with Esav? He is a good hunter, a strong man. He will be a good husband one day.”, father responds.

Mother throws something, a vase or a bowl I guess. She does that a lot. At father, at the servants, at Esav if he is home. Once the crockery has stopped crashing she screams at father “Esav is a lout! He cares only for hunting and whoring. He stinks. He is always half-covered in blood!”

I wince and turn around to go and there is Esav standing right behind me. So much pain and sadness in his eyes.

“She really hates me! They hate me! I wish I could just get away from them both. I wish you had been  born first, Ya’akov!”

He turns right around and runs back into his beloved wilderness.

Did I secretly scheme to rid him of his birth-right? Did I somehow suspect that he wanted nothing to do with it, and tried to help him out? Now, looking back I cannot honestly say. I want to believe that it was all just in jest. I want it to be a light banter between brothers that I can somehow go back and clarify. Whatever is the truth of the matter, I know that to our mother it was very serious. She kept it to herself and let the years pass. Until father was dying. But that comes later. I have to do this in the right order, Traveler.

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Sounds of Silence

there is nothing left to say –

sitting side by side is enough

silence is all we have –

touching your hand is enough

shared pain is the bond –

seeing your eyes is all i need.

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Epitaph

PenRocks175x175

Life. A Beginning and An End. People claimed that neither mattered. What mattered was The Story in between.

He had no Story. Just endless pages filled with nonsense and punctuations; questions, exclamations, semi colons and commas.

He had turned 50 two years ago. Seven years to catch his mother. Nine years to catch his father. If he was lucky he would reach 65. He did not believe in luck. Or fate. Or destiny.

What did he believe in? G-d. Yes. Yet what that mattered in the long or short of it, he had no idea.

Death. The End. No more scribblings on the wall. The last page, a PERIOD, then nothing.

That did not scare him. Either there was a grand new adventure meeting him beyond the last page or there was nothing, not even a Yod.

Regrets. Nah. He had done what he had done because it had been before him at every turn, and he must pass through, whether he liked it or not.

Most he had not liked. What he had liked had been brief and soon lost to the inevitable conclusions of events. Looking back he thought of a shadow moving between dim lanterns through Darkness.

There were no maps in Darkness. No Landmarks to navigate by. No Stars to give even the semblance of a Universe. Still he had navigated there. The dim lanterns had never been visible at a distance. Out of nowhere there they were, in his face, and then they were not. Like fireflies.

Here and there along the way there had been small campfires and bonfires. He had even had a few campfires and bonfires of his own.

His wedding. That had glowed for miles, and it still glinted in his mind.

The first time he had sex after his transition. His first shot of T.

But that had been it. The rest had been probing and picking at Darkness from lantern to lantern. A shadow moving through Darkness. Just a speck of dark greyness against the blurred and undefined landscape.

Who had he been? Had he left behind splotches of himself behind at the campfires he had visited? Part of him wanted that to be the case. Another part of him wanted to be just a shadow passing through Darkness unnoticed. That way no one would grieve once he stepped off the road at The End.

The question kept nagging him: Who had he been? If he had been the sum of his own memories, he had been nothing to write about.

Perhaps who he had been was not for him to decide? Maybe who he had been was the sum of of the memories of the others around the campfires?

Perhaps he had been both at the same time?

Like someone drifting into a black hole. In 3rd-person view incinerated at the event horizon; in 1st-person view floating calmly in toward the singularity.

Would that be an accurate metaphor for Death?

To others his cessation in fire at the rim of the black hole at the end. To him a silent drifting beyond the rim into the black hole at the end. Into the singularity at the center of the the black hole. Was that what G-d Was? The singularity at the center of his existence?

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apologies

LiteraryLintMonster175x175i apologize for not having been around for a few days – i have been in bed with a nasty cold. the kind that makes you feel like you are dying in a thousand ways, and wishing you were dead in at least one way…

i have no idea when i will be in a state of mind and body to commence my everyday writing on this blog. hopefully soon as i do not want to disappoint my readers and followers.

here’s a bit sized piece from one of my favorite authors, to smooth you all over:

Author Q&A: Writing – Dean R. Koontz

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burning coals

PenFireSmallevery now and then one comes across a writer who leaves a burning coal behind when the web link flashes out of sight. i came across one such writer yesterday.

cheryl moore.

she shifts, holds me for a moment, like she used to, as if she welcomes the comfort, the closeness and kisses me. “hi!” she says, as if she’s been caught off guard, emotionally. our bodies connect, so briefly i’m unable to grieve properly, as she pushes me away, and gets out of bed. “i can’t. i’m sorry.”

“where are you going?”

“my piano.” she says with vodka on her breath. “i need her.”

if you get it, you do, if you do not, then i cannot explain it to you.

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since i have nothing specific to write today – i thought that i’d reblog one of my own favorites:

Literary Lint

I nicked this from Ketutar, who in turn got it from Aheila. My response to the Challenge

A photo on the wall. She is so pretty. Smiling directly into the camera. Her dress is new. Any time he wants he can recall that photo, and smile at how beautiful she is with her hair nicely done – and that smile. She’s seventeen.

A room full of people. She’s dancing. Everything about her is wild and earthy and golden. Her skirt is green, her shirt is white and her eyes shine. Any time he wants he can see her, in that skirt, that shirt, wild, earthy and golden – and those eyes. She twenty-six.

A kitchen that is home. She’s reading and making pancakes. Her skin is soft. She smells of  wheat, butter and strawberry jam. Her hands move like little ballerinas. Any time he wants he can fill his…

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