Monday, September 19, 2016

Atternen Ju, on the road from Tiberias

This short scene (3 stanzas), I present, first, direct from the heavens, and then in "normal" English. It takes place as the Eternal Jew and his wife Butkoel decide to look for a better place to live, after experiencing decades of economic and social decline in Tiberias. Ironically (I guess), it takes place just outside of Damascus, about 1170 CE. But it could be last week or last year. If that's ironic.


Meenwielz the lan it seemz gro dark.
Shimmerree shaddoez; waverree hilz.
Wut aelz us that yu skip like ramz?
Sun so brite; blienden us.
Fyureyes heet; choken gasp.
Dus haengen in the thikken aer.
We haz tu fors arselz tu breeth.
A gus a win, sullen, meen.
Travvellerz tern asside, allone,
Rest in the uvvennish shade uv a tree.

The ro emteez. A villij up ahhed.
Thers. Silens. A moeshenles werl.
A wel ahhed. A moen. A kof.
A gus. A kreek. A gate. It sweeng.
Iz that a kry? Beyon the gate.
A chile. An erchin liez a dus.
Kryz aggen, naree a breth.
Butkoel goez in. “Waerz yur mah?”
Blaenk stare. Dus-wite fase.
Mask a terrer. Mask a deth.

Silens. Butkoel noks the dor.
Skweeks open. “Hay. Hello?”
Silens. Dark inside. Ar iyz
Ajjust. The flor. Boddeez sprawl
In blak haloez; skarlet ej.
Skreemz. Butkoel. I almoes swoon.
Rush. Owtside. Butkoel grabz
The chile. Silens. Bak in the street.
Mor howzen. Mor ded.
A graybeer sits in a pool a blud.
    “Giv me the chile,” iz weeree kummand.
    “Sheez wun a mine. Thaer awl mine.
    “Now. Be gon. Nevver kno
    “Wen thayl retern.” “Hu ar ‘thay’?”
Butkoel asks. Aggen, “Be gon.
    “Revenjez bernen hot an long.
    “Beware the sown a hors. Be gon.”
He take the chile. Layz her down
In iz lap. Hiz sitz in blud.
    “Be gon.” The sun. A skorch the lan.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile the land seems to grow dark. Shimmery shadows; wavery hills. What ails us that you skip like rams? Sun so bright; blindin' us. Furious heat; choke and gasp. Dust hangs in the thickened air. We have to force ourselves to breathe. A gust of wind, sullen, mean. Travelers turn aside, alone. Rest in the ovenish shade of a tree.

The road empties. A village up ahead. Thirst. Silence. A motionless world. A well ahead. A moan. A cough. A gust. A creak. A gate. It swings. Is that a cry? Beyond the gate. A child. An urchin lies in dust. Cries again, nary a breath. Butkoel goes in. “Where's your ma?” Blank stare. Dust-white face. Mask of terror. Mask of death.

Silence. Butkoel knocks on the door. Squeaks open. “Hey. Hello?” Silence. Dark inside. Our eyes adjust. The floor. Bodies sprawl in black halos; scarlet edged. Screams. Butkoel. I almost swoon. Rush. Outside. Butkoel grabs the child. Silence. Back in the street. More houses. More dead. A greybeard sits in a pool of blood.
    “Give me the child,” his weary command. “She's one of mine. They're all mine. Now. Be gone. Never know when they'll return.”
    “Who are ‘they’?” Butkoel asks.
Again, “Be gone. Revenge burns hot and long. Beware the sound of horse. Be gone.”
He take the child. Lays her down in his lap. He sits in blood.
    “Be gone.”
The sun is scorch the land.

Thursday, September 01, 2016

In the Land of the Hashashin

Here is the latest scene in The Atternen Juez Talen. It takes place in what is modern Syria. At the time (around 1165 CE) the region was loosely controlled by the Seljuks, and it bordered Crusader (Frankish) territories. The scene begins in Homs and ends in the mountains. I have translated the poetry out of MetaEnglish, and into prose.


The rav replied with a weary sigh,
“Ever the search for a better place and a better time and a better spirit, but the world runs backwards away from the Lor, and the soul, like a man, grows weary and old. So our great feats and heroic deeds are all behind us, and unless God will send a savior, all is lost. Best to stay near the Holy Land, so when satan sets us ablaze, our passage through the furies is brief and the salvin’ land can restore us right quick.
“But I will send a sh’liakh* with you to find you a guide thru Assassia’s lands. Without a guide abandon hope ye who enter, to reach Hama.”
* agent, representative

Chiseled stone and fired brick wall us in through our narrow maze; and awnings and balconies over our heads. Neither light nor air, as the heat bakes the sewage in the street befoulin’ our feet.

A courtyard. Our sh’liakh taps on a door and we wait in the thick shadows and stench. Shuffle. Eyes peer through a crack.
“Is Master Bilal acceptin’ guests?”
The door creaks and we slip from the gloom into utter darkness as the door creaks shut. “Wait.” Footsteps shuffle away.

Slowly our eyes adjust in the dark. A tiny room and a moldering hall. Damp the air, like to breed disease. Shuffle. A tiny and wrinkled man in a white robe and a white beard. “Come.” His slow unsteady steps, like a dirge of death he leads us down the hall and down a coiling stair, like a narrow cave into the maw of the moldery earth.

There like a king of the underworld, crosslegged, sittin’ on a prayer rug, an idol of stone, its arms as thick as any man’s legs; neck like a tree trunk and a massive head made larger still by a shock of hair and  ringlets of beard that tumble and boil into his lap.

The idol talks and my heart near stops.
“Who’re you servin’ up to me, Yacoob? Offerings meant to burn in the Old Man a the Mountain’s grove?”
Our envoy smiles and climbs the stair, leaving us alone in this devil’s den.

A cascade of shock and fear and rage tumbles down the edge of me --
betrayal by that Yacoob scum or by his rav an evil sect in Homs like Sodom’s predators I remember that white robe priest serpent coiled in Palmyra’s ruins that demon boy down his cave I’m bound and gagged by Berber thieves hit him stab him gouge his eyes an idol that devours men this the idol that I serve my scarlet sins these harlot jinns is this justice my reward *v’uttah tzuddeek ulkoel habbah allanu,kee emmet ussetah, v’unnukhnu heershunnu*...--
*-* the vidui, the confession at death;
     this the last line: You are righteous
     in all that is come on us; You create 
     truth; we, wickedness.

“You two ain’t in Damascus now, and its little men and little cares. You jus’ moseyed into the lion’s den; the asp, it slithers; jackals swarm. And you, all blind, would trip along. Your sugary times is behin’ you now. Now is the tastin’ a fear and blood.”
Like a rumble from the guts of the earth, or the sound of thunder down from the hills, or maybe like a wolf’s growl when it sees you sittin’ in its lair, my thoughts continue their cascade while he growls and while I talk.

“We heard the road is straight from here -- Hama, Aleppo, Gaziantep -- and Seljuk soldiers secure the way.”

“Seljuk guards? What a pile! Offal pours from the mouth a the king and the people grovel and eat it up. Hashashin rule this countryside. There’s no imam or sheik or prince safe in sleep or on the street, safe indoors or safe with troops, but the Ismailis have their way. Aleppo is seven days from here, in the daylight and on the road. Thrice that time if you wanna live.”

“So we must find our way by night on goat paths and through wadi beds?”
He frowns like I’m some addled goose.
“I’m the way and I’m the light, and I’m the one that you’ll serve. Or else fuck off and take your chance and end up Ismaili slaves. Unless they choose to cut your froat. I leave tonight jus’ after dark. When you hear the muezzin’s call you bes’ be here. I won’t wait.”
The ancient white-robe leads us out.

And then that monologue returns,
...betrayal never trust that bull what is lie and what half-true...

Call to prayer to the faithful, with all their doubt and all their crud and all their fears and all their sins, sunk in illusions, sunk in muck. Most get sorrows, some get luck. The door creaks and we go from the gloom into utter dark as the door creaks shut.

“Carry this!” and he shoves a skin full of water into my hand. “And this!” A sack of white cheese and figs, raisins, olives, nuts and seeds, as he eyes Batkol like a horse to ride.

I have been in this place before. Bilal is here, Batkol, of course. No moon. No clouds. A star-flicker sky. A candle flickers in a hut nearby, and fades away with the deja vu.

I have a dagger strapped to my calf and my walkin’ stick will serve as a club. Butkoel has a blade in her walkin’ stick and a well-stropped razor in her belt.

We never sleep at the same time. Eye on Bilal; hand on my knife.

Fearflash. A sack over my head. A rope tightens around my neck. I try to shout but only gag, and gags beside me. My hands are bound. Then a shootin’ pain flames through my head.

My head throbs in blindin’ sears. I can’t see. I can’t move.

Kicked in the back. A bucket of swill splashes on my chest.
“Wake up you dog.”
“I can’t see. I can’t breathe.”
“Shut up. Who’s that woman with you?”
“My wife, Batkol. Where is she? Is she okay? Where is she?”

“You wanna see her? You wanna see us cut her froat? You wanna see her bound and raped, red hot iron jammed in her eyes?  You wanna see her safe and whole? You better talk.”
Searin’ pain across my back. I twist and howl. Sizzlin’ smell, my back charred. I howl and cringe.
“Who’s that woman?”
“My wife, my wife.”
“Her name?”
“Batkol. Really, Batkol.
Again the searin’ white-hot pain.
“Her name?”
“Batkol. Batkol. Batkol.”
“What kinda name is that -- Batkol? That ain’t no name. Who is she?”
“Batsheva Koltov. A Hebrew name. Batsheva -- the favorite wife of Da-ood, the prophet king. You know of him. Koltov, like ‘good in every way’. Made short to Batkol, which our Talmud says means ‘a voice from the Lor,’ ‘an inspired call.’ It’s not a Christian or Zoroastrian name. Not Seljuk or Persian. It’s a Hebrew name.”

Noise. Maybe the irons being cooked.
“Batkol. Believe me. Just Batkol. It’s a Jewish name. We’re not from here...”
I babble on for awhile. No use. Silence.
“Where have they gone?” I moan.
In fear and pain; mindless moans; horrors thinkin’ of Batkol’s fate.

Rattle of chains dragged on the floor. Grunts and panting, ‘ooof’ and ‘ecch’.
“Who’s this man and who’s he serve? You lie to me, we’ll cut his froat.”
“He’s my husband, Saadya Mishon. He don’t serve no one ‘cept maybe the Lor. We’re not from here, nor been here before. Runnin’ from the Franks and their harsh oppressors, to the far north, to Poland’s lands where we hear they welcome even us Jews.”

“She says you’re a Jew. Prove it to me.”
And I get a kick in the burn of my back. In the depths of the pain all I can say,
“*Sh’ma Yisroyel. Uddoniy Ellohanu, Uddoniy ekhud. Borukh shaem...*”
Silence. Whispers. Another kick.
“Whatsat mean in Arabic?”
*-* the most basic statement 
      of Jewish identity/faith

“Listen Israel. The Lor our God, the Lor is one. Bless the name, honored... er, also like ‘revealed’, like ‘present in our world’ or at least our soul...”
“Shut up! Sheikh, what to do?”
“ Remove the sack from his head; untie his hands. Unbind her from lash and chain. Let him read from these books in his bag. Her, we’ll test her in other ways.”

As they drag her away I blurt out,
“ Sheikh, she reads as good as me, and she bound those books, the ones I wrote. Test her right here. Show ‘em, Batkol.”

Saturday, August 20, 2016

17 Views of 28 Views of the Cathedral

Some time ago my cousins Elliott, Dee, and Bart took me to a show on the Pitt campus entitled 365 Views of the Cathedral of Learning.

Here's 17 versions of one small section of that exhibit. Click on any image and it should jump you into a slideshow so you can get a better view of each image. In the slideshow, click on the image to scroll to the next image.


















Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Visions and Revisions of Florence

Nancy was invited to present some research at the Kunsthistorische Institute in Florence earlier this summer. It's a pretty enough town but I'm not a big fan of tourist havens. Summertime in Florence? Outa control. Still...

2 views of the Duomo:



Tile in the Baptistry:


Candy, eye candy:



2 views of a garden:



A bike:


My obsession with masonry persists:



The San Niccolo hills:


Thru a portal:


2 views inside a shop:



She's the one!



And this from a short trip to Sienna...


Thursday, July 07, 2016

The Madeleine Amulet: Producing the Amulet

This brief video shows the process of designing, drawing, calligraphing, painting, and illuminating an amulet for my sweet little kabuchki Madeleine.


Brick entranceway

I'm closing in on finishing my next video, showing the production of the Madeleine Amulet. In the meantime, I work a couple of hours each day on the chain gang, breaking bricks. Here are 4 images of the progress.

Progress, as of day 19:



Now the fun part, designing the central area. Here's what I've got so far:


Now just imagine if the black granite were lapis lazuli...


Back to reality. Fortunately, there are no kids in the neighborhood, or I might have inspired them with some new, creative uses of language.


Sunday, June 05, 2016

Creating Reality as Opposed to Simply Being Part of the Creation

This short essay is part of a collection of essays in a work-in-progress entitled "Prolegomena to a New Spiritual Psychology".

If our own thinking determines, or at least has a part in shaping the reality we live in, that is, in determining the nature of that reality, and is not just a sub-function of a pre-existing reality; if it is possible that we have a part in shaping reality, then there is no stronger argument for pursuing a spiritual life, a life of purpose and meaning, a religious life. Pursuing a religious life means choosing a trajectory towards the good, towards justice and morality, towards Adonai/God. This means that inwardly thru our beliefs and thoughts, and outwardly thru our acts of compassion, justice, and creativity, we are trying to build a human reality that reflects the Jewish conception of Adonai. But tho this conception is quintessentially Jewish, its fulfillment is in no way limited to Jews.

If we accept such a possibility and choose to pursue it, then faith alone is not sufficient. Nor are good works alone sufficient. If we are creating this reality through our thoughts as well as our deeds, then both our beliefs and our actions are critically important. Thus, to reject God or exclude God from our conceptions is to pursue an incomplete, broken, and ultimately dysfunctional model. Without God, one is inevitably left with the Machiavellian/Darwinian world of blind and random nature, devoid of any inherent ethics, justice, and purpose.

[A note on atheism:] While it is undeniable that one can be deeply and consistently ethical without actively believing in God, consistent ethical behavior (as opposed to situational, self-serving ethical behavior) ultimately rests on a belief in values that transcend personal needs and personal gain. And to believe in such “transcendental” values ultimately means our inner logic is founded on some sort of God idea. Many ethical atheists prefer not to pursue the logic of their beliefs, but in the end their atheism really rests on a religious, God-based foundation. Ideas such as “for the good of society” or “for the good of humankind” or “for the good of the earth” are all ways of submerging God into one’s beliefs without having to acknowledge God.

Thursday, May 05, 2016

Designing the Madeleine Amulet

This 2 minute video shows the design stages in the production of an illuminated amulet, The Madeleine Amulet. It also describes the conceptual foundations of the images I developed for the amulet.


Tuesday, April 26, 2016

Eternal Jew: walking the 18 blessings

Composing The Atternen Juez Talen, I conceived a scene in which the events he experiences reflect the 18 blessings of the Sh'monah Esray. "Sh'monah Esray" means "18", and it is one of the names of a core part of Jewish liturgy comprised, originally, of 18 blessings (19 blessings now).

So, here's our hero on the road from Tiberias (Tiveria) to Khazaria (north of the Black Sea) and the year is about 1150 CE. To make his passage easier he and his wife Butkoel (a shortened form of Batsheva Kol Tov) try to become anonymous by taking on the role of shepherds.

This stage in their journey emulates the Kedusha, the third of the 18 blessings. In the Kedusha one reaches the pinnacle of holiness, elevated to angelic levels of awareness....

(A note on the format:
I have translated the poetry and converted it into prose to help the reader navigate my modified (dare I say, elevated) English. Thus, a prose paragraph in "old" English followed by the same text as poetry in metaEnglish.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The border on the Seljuk lands is like a desert nomad’s cloak -- ill kept and full of gapin’ holes. Seljuk Syria, that’s our goal. A two day haul thru dried out streams, wadis where branches of long dead oaks reach from their graves to pluck your eyes.

     The border on the Seljouk lanz
     Iz like a dezzert nomadz kloek --
     Ill kept an fule a gapen hoel.
     Seljouk Sureyah, thats ar goel.
     A tu2 day hawl thru dry owt streemz,
     Woddeez ware branchen a long ded oek
     Reech frum thaer graven tu pluk yur iy.

And not two weeks after that, and we’ve acquired our kingly robes to seem the shepherds we must be. Hooded cloaks of felted wool -- like walking ovens in the sun; fur-skin boots packed with felt to ease the blistering rocky road -- a rancid stench soon reeked from them; each a staff to walk by the way and help convince hungry wolves to tear necks in other folds; and naturally a willow switch to help convince a head-strong goat to join his happy flock again.

     An nor a tu2 week after that
     An we akwiyerz ar keenglee robe
     Tu seem the shepperz we mus be.
     Houded kloeks a felted wool --
           Like wokken uvvenz in the sun;
     Fer-skin boots pakt with felt
     Tu eez the blisterres rokkee rode --
           A ransid stench soon reeken them;
     Eech a staf tu wok by the way
     An help kunvins the hungree woolv
     Tu taren neks in uther foelz;
     An nacherlee a willo swich
     Tu help kunvins a hed-streng goet
     Tu join iz happee flok aggen.

Soon enough we become like goats ourselves. We see the world thru a goat’s eyes: tufts of weeds and low-hung leaves direct their path, movin’ at the slowest pace of twelve distracted, hungry beasts. Any patch of dusty turf allures their dull and beasty eyes. Passin’ this rich and varied world our eyes serve only our yammerin’ guts; a berry here, a nut there, a dusty weed looks succulent; in a death-dry wadi, a puddle of mud now appears like a cup of wine.

     Soon ennuf an we bekum
     Like goet arselz. See the werl
     Thru goetee iy: tufs a weed
     An lo-hung leevz derrekter path,
     Muven at the slowwes pase
     Uv twelv distracken, hungree beests.
     Ennee pach a dustee terf
     Allorz thaer dul an beestee iy.
     Passen this richen vareyes werl
     Ar iyz serv nor ar yammerree guts;
     A baree heer, a nut thaer,
     A dustee weed louks sukyulen;
     In a deth-dry woddee, a puddel a mud
     Now appeern like a kup a wine.

Come to a village without a name. Just one dusty lane lined by walls; the mud plaster crumblin' in piles, or cracked and buckling from the mudbrick core. Behind the walls and at open gates dogs bark; children too. Comes a young mother, babe at breast, hardly a tooth in either mouth. Sees us and slams and bolts her gate. I hears her spit three times and croak, “Accurst, accurst, accurst, a jinn! This home be rid of satan and sin.” Weren’t sure if she meant us or her, but the goats got the message and scurried on, and we too scampered, goatfully.

     Kum tu a villij withowten name,
     Jes wun dustee lane liend by wawlz;
     The mud plaster in krumbellee pielz
     Or krakt an bukkelz frum the mudbrik kor.
     Behien the wawlz an open gaet;
     Dogz a bark, an childer too.
     Kumz a yung muther, babe at bres,
     Hardlee a toothen eether mow.
     Seez us; slammen a boelter gate.
     I heerz her spit three tiem an kroek,
           “Akkerst, akkerst, akkerst; a jin!
           “This hame be rid uv saten sin.”
     Wernt shor if she meen us or her,
     But the goets got the messij an skerree on
     An we too skamperz goetfulee.

Passed a well along the road. Butkoel turns off to look in it; turns the handle, and disgusted says, “Broke and corroded all this place.”

     Past a wel allong the roed.
     Butkoel ternz of tu louks in it;
     Ternz the handel, a disgusted say,
           “Brake an kerroden in its plase.”

Passed some ruins in a rocky field. Didn’t notice till the goats all stopped to nibble clover by the rubble of a wall. Behind, on a patch of mosaic floor: a Roman caesar stands by his throne; his foot on the head of a local king. And this graffiti etched beside:“Zion, your abusers won’t endure. Their ruin will be swift to come, and sure."

     Past sum ruwenz in a rokkee feel.
     Didden notis til the goets awl stops
     Tu nibbel klover by a rubbeld wawl.
     Behien, on a pach uv mozayek flor:
     A romen sezer stanz by iz throne.
     A fout on the hed uv a lokel keeng.
     An this graffetee echen besiedz:
           “Ziyon, yur abyuzerz woen endor.
           “Thaer ruwen iz swif tu kum on shor.”

*Stopped beside a church along the way. Well, we squatted on our heels and listened to them pray.* (*-* California Dreamin'.) Psalms and supplications, like sobbin’ wails, then a preacher’s voice like a crackin’ whip replacing the sobs with his pounding fist. “Our curse will resound as long as we live, against you, Zengi**, warlord and dog. Our mouths will spit, and our tongues will sneer, and our hands will lay snares in your fields and stumbling blocks in your blind ways, until you tremble and until you fall. And we will drive you out of our world. Cursed are you, Zengi dog.” (** The Zengi were local Turkic governors serving the Seljuks, soon to be overthrown from within by Saladin.)

     *Stops besiedz a cherch allongen way.
     Waal, we skwotten on ar heelz an lissen tu em pray.*
                         *-* Mommahz an Poppahz, “Kallaffornee Dreemen”
     Salmen suplakkatenz, like sobben waelz,
     Then a preechennes vois, like a krakken wip
     Replasen a sobz with the pownded fist,
           “Ar kers iz rezownd az long az ar livz
           “Aggens yu, Zengee* wor-lorren dogz.
                         * Lokel Terkish govvannerz serven the Seljouks,
                          an soon tu be overthrone frum within
                          by Salladdin.
           “Ar mowz ar spit an ar tung iz sneer
           “An ar han iz lay a snare in yur feelz
           “An a stumbellen blok in yur blienden wayz
           “Until yur trembelz an until yur fawlz
           “An we wil drive yu owten ar werl.
           "Kerst ar yu, Zengee dog.”

Such a Kedusha is what we heard sittin’ in the shade and walking by the way. Inverted like Dante's climb thru hell, the World of Light reversed in our atoms, and we, once angels, now with animal eyes. There we wept, aware of ourselves.

     Sech a Keddueshah* az we ar herd
                         * Therd blessen uv Shmonah Esray,
                         holenes uv the Lor az experen by Hem aenjelz
     Sitten in the shade and wokken by the wayz,
     Invertenz like Dontayz klime thru helz,
     The werlz uv lite in Addom reverst,
     An we, wuns aenjel, with annammel iyz.
     Thaer we wept, awware uv arselz.

Thursday, April 21, 2016

Another book conservation project

I recently took on a project to restore a lovely book of international folktales collected by Danny Kaye in the early 1950's. The book's cover was breaking away from the book body, but fortunately the paper and sewing were in good condition. Here are a few pictures, showing the book before, during, and after conservation.

As part of the project, I also produced a pdf booklet, showing a more complete collection of images of the conservation process. The whole project took about 10 hours, altho producing the booklet consumed more than 3 of those hours.

Front cover, before and after. Not a huge change. Pencil marks and spots removed, and stains made less noticeable.



The bottom of the spine was quite worn. Matching and replacing/repairing this fabric would not have generated any structural enhancements, and it would have been difficult, time consuming, and costly, so it remained undone. Choices, eh?


The cover's edges were very worn on the bottom and front, and the corners had become rounded and mushy.



I stabilized the corners and edges, and restored the color (more or less) using non-fugitive India ink. In a one step process, the ink, made of shellac, seals and hardens the mushy edges, while adding color. With a little experimentation I produced a combination of colors that matched the existing cover papers fairly well.



Inside, the hinges were splitting, exposing old, deteriorated gauze, which was all that still held the book body in the cover. The end papers (the "Starry Night" design), naturally, were ripped the length of the boards. The edges were all crinkled and squirreled up, but fortunately, with a little care, I was able to unravel them. The results weren't bad.



Once I cut the gauze, I could get at the inner spine of the book, first to clean out the old, acidic paper, gauze, and crud, then to build a new hinge, using unbleached muslin and Japanese paper.






Naturally, attaching the new hinge can be a bit tricky and stressful, but all went well. The book is now firm, tight, and structurally sound. Storing it in an acid-free box would further enhance its longevity.