Eternal Jew's Tale, manuscript 1, binding

In this, and 2 or 3 following posts, I’ll be presenting images of some notable details of an illuminated manuscript I produced of the opening scenes of a long narrative poem I recently completed, entitled The Atternen Juez Talen (The Eternal Jew’s Tale).

I began working on this manuscript over a year ago, using a pre-bound empty book that had been given to me as a gift by my wife Nancy some number of years ago. The paper appears to be a Nepalese tissue with minimal sizing (“size” is a technical term that means ‘surface sealant’; unsized paper will allow ink to feather, therefore making it unsuitable for most calligraphy). Thus, I had to size each sheet. I used a thinned acrylic medium as my size. If you’re curious about my decision to use acrylic, contact me.

The sizing process was complicated for 3 reasons:

1. wetting the sheets meant they would become buckled and wrinkled upon drying;
2. since sizing is glue of one sort or another, it meant that if I put the pages in a press to avoid buckling, they would stick together into a solid block; and
3. since the book was already bound, pressing each sheet individually would have been prohibitively time consuming.

I’ll spare you the details of my solution, but needless to say, for this 156 sheet book it required over 2 months to complete the sizing project. But the result was quite nice. The acrylic size made the sheets somewhat pearlescent and translucent, which I liked a lot. But it meant I could only write on one side of each sheet. So suddenly, my 312 page book (156 sheets, both sides) became a 156 page book. No worries. It kept me plenty busy for another 10 months.

The production process was rather straight forward. First I did the calligraphy, using India ink. Then, using water colors, I painted small portraits on pages where the right margin of the text was wide enough to allow a miniature. Then I illuminated all the section breaks with various versions of a sunburst. There were about 20 of these illuminations. After that, I did a number of full and half-page illustrations, again using water colors. Finally, I bound the book in blue leather. Since I used a chrome-based tanned leather, it wouldn’t take gold tooling, so I painted the title on the front and spine, using acrylic paint.

In this post I’ll present images of the binding, the title page, and the end papers.
Enjoy!

Remembrances of Times to Come, 2

On Sept. 23, 2023 I posted the first impressions of a poem that was emerging thru my mind. The poem didn’t even have a name at the time, but I knew it was a powerful energy that would compel me for a long while. Since then I’ve been working assiduously on it, letting it speak, letting it rearrange my thinking, letting it come alive. It now has a name, maybe not a final name, but a first name: Remembrensenz a Tiemz tu Kum, or in standard (old) English: Remembrances of Times to Come.

It is a poem with at least two focuses:
1. preparing for the journey after death, and
2. attempting to reveal the infinite nature of all things, an infinite nature well-hidden not just by the limitation of our 5 senses and our body-focused thinking, but by language itself.

What follows is a short excerpt, first in my evolving English, and then in old English, that is, the English that people are speaking in this era.

Remembrensenz a Tiemz tu Kum, a frag

Wen I wuz nine I koud fienlee heer
the kwesten that bin asken me:
wy am I in this boddee-shel?

An wen I wuz twennee five I koud heer
the Lor Hem kawlen, ‘hu iz heer?’
an I began an anser, ‘henunnee* ………. see Gen. 22:1; Isaiah 6:8
with my broken leeng, awl limmitten krude,
awl mis-derrekten an mis-kunstruez,
awl fragmentes an fule a noiz.
A kors, I didden relize it;
I thot my iyz bin akyuret,
my leeng persise, reflekten tru.

Wen I wuz fortee nine I lern
the Torruh iz but a seengel werd
six hunnert thowzen letterz long.
An me, my werdz ar shatter glas,
three, five, sevven letterz long,
sumtime maybee a fyue mor,
my leeng a meerlee shatter glas.

But a lieftime a riten, shapen a werd,
kunstrukten fraze an parugraf,
bilden grammerz tu ullow mor liets
an ennerjeez tu emmannate,
an awl my rit, life-seel long,
tho porlee spoke an innakyuret,
an wut my ukkomplish?
I am spoke a werd or tu2,
not dissarraed babbel but Godwerd spoeks.

A kawlen respons, a Barrukhu*, ……… * a call to prayer
a breethen owt, a lissen in,
a kawl tu prae, a life-seel long.
A fyue werdbreths I wil breeng with me,
now breth-bown intu my jennek koedz.

And here, the Old English version:

When I was nine I could finally hear
the question that I’d been trying to ask:
why am I in this body-shell?

And when I was tweny five I could hear
the Lor calling, ‘who is hear*?…….. * others say: here
and I began an answer, ‘hineni*…….. * Hebrew for ‘here I am’
with my broken language, all limited and crude,
all misdirected and misconstrued,
all fragmented and full of noise.
Of course, I didn’t realize it;
I thought my eyes were accurate,
my language precise, reflecting truth.

When I was forty nine I learned
the Torah is but a single word
six hundred thousand letters long.
And me, my words are shattered glass,
three, five, seven letters long,
sometimes maybe a few more,
my language merely shattered glass.

But a lifetime of writing, shaping words,
constructing phrases and paragraphs,
building grammars to allow more light
and energy to emanate,
and all my writing, a life-soul long,
tho poorly spoken and inaccurate,
and what have I accomplished?
I have spoken a word or two,
not disarrayed babble but Godward spokes.

A call and response, a Bar’khu*, …….. * literally, ‘we praise’
a breathing out, a listening in,
a call to pray, a life-soul long.
A few word-breaths I will bring with me,
now breath-bound into my genetic code.

New beginnings...

I began working on The Atternen Juez Talen (The Eternal Jew’s Tale) back in 2009. Those days seem like something of another life now. That tale, that literary history, began in 30 CE in Judean Jerusalem, and proceeded to about 1510 CE in the Ottoman Empire’s capital, Istanbul, where it stands now. It is a compendium of tales of Jewish life, real and imagined, tales personal and lived told from a first-person p.o.v. It also includes letters, dreams, and books produced by the characters in the story; stories within stories and books within books.

In the last year I broke my tale out of its chronological trajectory. I began telling the episodes as a montage of interrelated events and ideas. I wrote a Passover montage composed of 8 Passovers in 8 different locations from 150 BCE in Hasmonean Judea to 1950 CE on an Israeli kibbutz. After that I worked on a Messiah Montage about the many and varied failed messiahs in history.

Less than a month ago I realized I had finished the Messiah Montage, or should I say, I was finished with it. And I realized I was done with The Atternen Juez Talen, too. I had begun to leave that story and that life behind already in 2020. But now, wonder of wonders, after months of transitional agony, I could feel a new energy emerging from my depths, a different story that wanted to be told.

Now the world may behold these first images of that newly emerging tale….

Remembrensenz an Deth Jurneez,
thats ware weel start.
Yu say, 'o wo,' 'o dreeree,' 'not me...'


But jes kunsidder.
We ar tole we kum tu this werl
emtee, fresh, a kleen slate.
But that iz an utter fals.
We kum swoddeld in jennettek vaelz,
vast librareez uv knowenz kumpield
uv expereyenz az arktipe us,
embedden, unkonshes intu us:
insteenkt an tallents,
emoeshenz an skilz,
vizhenz an etheks
that nacherlee unfoel
tu respon tu this werl.


Kunsidder:
How eezee an nacherrel
tu lern tu reed.
An yet not a seengel speseez els
kan reed. Not a seengel hyumen
beffor 5000 yeerz uggo
(but a momen in evvolueshennaree time)
evver haz a tex tu reed,
evver red a seengel werd.
An yet az a speseez weer obsest tu reed.
This skil, an mennee unnuther az wel --
     sum we kno:
     myuzek, arts, fillossuffee, maths;
     an sum yet tu diskuvver,
wuz laen intu the thredz uv us,
reddee wen weer reddee fer it.
We kum heer reddee.
We kum heer perpaerd.
We kum heer with a perpessen goel.

An so it mus be
wen we leev this werl
we wil awlso go perpaerd,
tho we kno not how,
tho it seem we hav no knowenz at awl.
But weel go on that jernee wel perpaerd.

So let us kunsidder wut we kno,
wut we wil karee wen we leev this shel.
Wut ar gatherz tu serv ar needz
wen we leev behien ar sensez five,
wen ar werl iz not shaept by nerv?
Wut uv us iz oenlee mien?

Uv kors!
Ar essens iz immajjinnes...

Illuminated manuscript of Atternen Ju

Some months ago I began a project to produce an illuminated manuscript of the poetry version of the Atternen Juez Talen. A prose, standard English version is being published in a weekly episodic format at the Times of Israel [https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/author/stephen-berer/], but the original poetry version remains largely inaccessible to the public. It seems the world is not yet ready for my visionary talen.

Therefore, I decided to produce an enduring and perhaps even elegant version as a stand-alone work of art. When completed, this illuminated manuscript will still only be about 1/3 to 1/4 of the whole poem, but I hope to illuminate the rest of the poem in further volumes. God Willing.

Below you can see page 103, which I penned today.

Calligraphic version, yet to be illuminated and illustrated

The Eternal Jew podcasts, #7

Continuing from the story begun in podcast #6, the ancient sheikh completes his tale of local deities and their battles against Adonai.

You can find the textual version of this particular episode at the Times of Israel website:
https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/the-eternal-jews-tale-07-in-search-of-the-garden-2/

Or go to:
https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/tales-of-the-eternal-jew/
where you can find all the published episodes (currently {18} of them). They are displayed in reverse order, so you’ll have to scroll down to the bottom to read them sequentially.

The ancient story-telling sheikh

The Eternal Jew podcasts, #5

In this episode, the Eternal Jew meets Saul of Tarsus in a local synagogue, and they discuss a letter Saul has written to a community in Rome.

You can find the textual version of these episodes at the Times of Israel website, https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/tales-of-the-eternal-jew/ . They are displayed in reverse order, so you’ll have to scroll down to the bottom to read them sequentially.

The diplomat’s little shop

The Eternal Jew podcasts, #4

In this episode the Eternal Jew sets out on the Damascus Road, with some wry comments about Rome and another famous fellow who walked this road. He may agree with Bar Yohai’s negative opinion of Roman bath houses, buuuut…

You can find the textual version of these episodes at the Times of Israel website, https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/tales-of-the-eternal-jew/ . They are displayed in reverse order, so you’ll have to scroll down to the bottom to read them sequentially.

Walkin’ that damn ass-kiss road

The Eternal Jew podcasts, #2

Let the tales begin!

This, the first episode , finds the Eternal Jew in Jerusalem around 30 CE. He recalls those troubled times and his friendship with a local revolutionary.

You can find the textual version of these episodes at the Times of Israel website, https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/tales-of-the-eternal-jew/ . They are displayed in reverse order, so you’ll have to scroll down to the bottom to read them sequentially.

Azurite Sky of Jerusalem

The Eternal Jew podcasts, #1

Here beginneth a series of readings from the epic poem The Atternen Juez Talen, aka The Eternal Jew’s Tale. This podcast series will follow the character of the Eternal Jew as portrayed in my epic as he endures, thrives, and transforms the places he lives in.

This first podcast introduces the series. Enjoy! Don’t be shy. Write to me with your thoughts. Oh, by the way, you can find the textual version of these episodes at the Times of Israel website, https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/tales-of-the-eternal-jew/ . They are displayed in reverse order, so you’ll have to scroll down to the bottom to read them sequentially.

excerpt from The Atternen Juez Talen -- the 3rd of 3 meditations

Continuing the story line from my previous two posts (April 8 and 13, 2021) in which the sage, Yose ben Halafta is being led by a child into the ruins of Betar…

And once again I feel that hand gripped in mine, tugging me. His sweet eyes look up at me.
“The sad lady. That’s her name. She likes to read Hosea to me up on the rooftop when I can’t sleep.”
A wonderment. And on we go, deeper descending inside Betar.

We come to a stark and open place, what might have been the marketplace, now deathly silent. Even the doves refrain from keening their God-taught psalms. Just a breathy mumble, like *Hannah at prayer* praying the curse be lifted from her. [Note: 1 Sam. 1:10-13]
“A vain prayer if she lived now. No more will children laugh in this place”

As if a hand is gripping my throat, and I can’t breathe. Shock and fear. What is this that knows my thoughts?
“You’re lost, old man, and no return, yet you cling to hope that there’s a path or a Halakha you know from here. Hope is a lie, white-washing the truth.”
And finally I see a faint trace of a shade, or is it a blasted oak?

The boy urgently tugs on my hand, but I must see who addresses me in such a prescient and cynic voice.
“What ails you shade that you spit these words at me as if I trespass you”
“And who be this Roman chump that intrudes?”
“I see you don’t know all my thoughts. Roman, certainly I am not! In the secret synagogues I am known as Yose the teacher; some call me ‘sage.’”
“Son of Halafta! I had heard that, along with Khutspit, you were torn to pieces and had your tongue ripped out.”
“I’m still here, at it still wags. You seem to know me. Who are you?”

Ignoring me, he continues his rant:
“How long will you flout those worn-out beliefs?”
When I don’t answer, he frowns and spits.
“*For three transgressions or even four,* I will not turn back to the path of the Lor. What my eyes have seen be proof enough that the Lor has turned away from us.” [Note: Amos 1:3]
“What are these so-called proofs of yours?”

Again he frowns and spits in the wind.
“Madness drives the human spirit. Else explain what the Zealots did, burning three years store of grain, and breaking cisterns to force a fight against a siege invincible? Madness. Then came utter ruin and massacres unknown before. Roman soldiers tore down The House, burnt the Holy of Holies to ash, murdered their ten thousands and more, and swaggered our plunder back in Rome. Humiliations followed that. Priests stripped naked, driven thru the streets, beaten, pissed on, blinded, killed. Women raped while their children looked on. Infants thrown from the Temple walls, hundreds, their bodies splattered in piles. And who survived? Cowards who fled, and sages who hid in garbage heaps. And of those sages, many a one were martyred, burnt, beheaded, flayed. And who prevails? Lupis the beast, lean and hungry, godless, wild. Caesar has seized this whole world. There’s your proof. You need more?”

My chest tightens. Words fail. Dismayed, I turn my eyes to the ground. Again, I feel the tug on my hand.
“I told you not to go in there. He yells at everyone that way.”
Stumbling on many a stump and stone, we hustle back into the welcoming ruins, the thick shadows, the silent gloom. Now the dog begins to bark. The boy stops and shushes me. A moan, a cry, a screech, a howl off in the distance, drawing near.
The boy now yanks his hand from mine and runs away. And then a shout.

“Father! I’ve been searching for you.”
The dog is yipping, scamper and skip, and the three emerge from a shattered tomb.

The first tainted shades of dawn begin to paint the eastern sky.
“Peace be upon you, prayerful man.”
“And peace be upon you, father and sage.”
“I see my son has guided you thru these ruins. No doubt you met my friend Elisha, him who once stood among the elite of Israel, til tragedies and their harsh blows broke his heart and crushed his will. Now anger’s currents ravage him like a house washed out by flood and broken up in the surge of waves. There’s still a spark of faith in him that in a gilgul, maybe two, will flare again and shine new light. A broken heart is slow to heal. But you, Reb Yose, I told you before, you shouldn’t enter a ruins to pray.”

Wonders abound. Who is this?
“I heard a voice luring me. Here just a moan of a mourning dove, there, a minyan praying psalms. Such congregations called to me.”
“You should have stayed on the road and prayed. Many a danger lurks in here.”
“True, but dangers also stalk the road, and many disruptions too.”
“Then shorten your prayer and quicken your step back to a place where Shekhina sings.”
“Master and teacher, how do you know my name? Have we met before?”
“In other bodies and other times we have met. But in this place, horizons limit all you see, all you hear, all you feel, and you can’t remember anything beyond their tight constricting curves. And so you don’t remember me.”
“And does that not apply to you, too? Or should I call you ‘Divine Envoy?’”

Tarnished silver streaks the clouds, with edges burnished to a brilliant gleam. The brighter the light, the more transparent the man and his son. Now disappeared.
All that remained, a yipping dog which followed me down the long road to Tzippori, where it too disappeared.

excerpt from The Atternen Juez Talen -- the 2nd of 3 meditations

Continuing the story line from my previous post (April 8, 2021) in which the sage, Yose ben Halafta is being led by a child into the ruins of Betar…

Now further we wander thru Betar’s streets. Are we walking in circles here? I keep repeating the same phrase...
Mellekh maymeet u’m’khiyay u’mutsme’ukh yeshu’ah...
Creator of death and life; our matrix and deliverer.

And now I hear a keening psalm with an accent foreign to this age. I urge the child to turn aside to a little house with its dome caved in. Peering into a doorway’s abyss, there, a shimmering ghostly light, like a damsel, her eyes mad with grief. Seeing me she cringes away to a corner, compelled by horror or fear.

“Go away you demon scourge. Leave me be like times before when you and your brothers had all fled from him who spake and freed me from you.”
“Fear not damsel. Look at me, a man of flesh from Adam’s world, who heard your moans among the doves and has come to see if I might salve.”

Slow her terrors wash from her face, replaced by a flickering show of moods, many full of her former despair, mixed with glimmers of doubtful hopes, which maybe inspired her to confess:
“Look at me, so empty and lost, waiting many a long year for him whose touch was purest joy to return and make me new again. Betrothed we were when he set off to his father’s house, not so far. But see how years in moments pass, and once again I am beset by demons, all prick and bite, who spew their lies and leave me besmirched with doubt and anger, hurt and hate. My troubles compile and redouble my fears that he is dead and will not return. I, who was great among the redeemed, am become a widow, become a thrall.”

“Do I hear you a-right, or wrongly infer that him you speak of is the Nazarene who claimed he was the anointed one? Surely you must know he is dead.”
“Do I hear a-right, or wrongly infer that you be a rabbi and Pharisee?”
“This much is true: rabbi I am.”

Then you are as lost as I now am! You who ever live in doubt and never know redemption’s touch.”
“Dame, you mistake your doubt for mine. Doubt is not what harrows me. Sin? Sure. Grief? Much. Wonderment at why sin exists. Exile from our Holy Land. But never exile from the Lor.”
“But then the Lor stepped down to earth. Why turn your back upon the sun?”
“Yours are words for Roman and Greek, them who seek gods they can see and touch, with human features and human faults. Give them that in a Perfect Man and see how they rush to follow him. But here you are, praying psalms in Aramaic. You are a Jew. Why do you still cling to him? You are ever present to the Lor.

“He healed me and he lifted me. He held me and loved me. My love for him is personal.”
“Then healer and husband, but not God. Look at this world, still so benighted. Him you expect to rise from his grave cannot do such a ghostly thing. Much hubris his disciples displayed, claiming he was the body of God. And vastly more by those followers who will trample this world with their hobnail boots.”
“Kind your voice but vicious your words, battering me with your hard beliefs. Is it not enough for you that demons gorge upon my soul?”

See. Like a house that slowly cracks and crumbles when an earthquake heaves. So, a bitter wailing breaks and shakes this woman to piteous sobs. And who am I to crush her hopes?
“Sister, your grief brings sorrow to me, touching my own pangs of loss. But perhaps our griefs have hardened us. We are taught, the Lor’s Presence is near at hand, fills this room, fills this ruined land, this world. Is there not a tiny flame of hope flickering in your heart? Shelter it. Don’t let it die. ”

And now the mourning dove cries out,
“Weep no more. Weep no more.”
As I turn to leave, I ask of her,
“Sister, may I know your name?”
“Miriam of Magdala...”
And now that inner light in her quickly fades and she is gone.

excerpt from The Atternen Juez Talen -- 3 meditations

Here are 3 scenes set in the Tannaitic era, after about 100 CE. The Atternen Ju (Eternal Jew) is reminiscing about some stories he heard from the mouths of the sages, stories that he is recording to be used as guided meditations.

This particular triptych of stories is told by the Tanna, Yose ben Halafta. In them he tells of meetings with remarkable men and women. The story’s setting is based on a well-known midrash, in which Elijah asks Yose why he went into a ruins to pray.

Recognizing that many people have difficulty reading my poetry, I have translated the text back into standard English (what I call “ole Eenglish), prose. Perhaps later I’ll post the poetry itself.

Here is the first of the 3 scenes. In coming days I’ll post the other two.
Thus...

One night I was walking past the ruins of Betar. A moaning dove perched on an arch lured me into the rubble to pray.
“Hail, spirit. What troubles you?”
I called to him. He moaned a reply. As I approached he lifted wing and flew to a pillar further in, and still he called, imploring me, call and response, to pray with him. And yet still further, he lit on a branch of a ghastly myrtle burnt in the siege. And there we began to pray the 18, [note: the 18 blessings, core of the 3 daily prayer sessions] and I got as far as ‘lee shanay affar,’ ‘those who sleep in the dust.’

And now, as the dove ceases his moaning and leaps from the branch and flies away, what do I hear? A weeping child?
And there, behold, he sits at my feet. Our eyes meet and he takes my hand, and I, I know not what to do. I must not interrupt my prayer. Nor may I leave this child alone.

And so, as he leads, I repeat this phrase:
Mee khummokha b’al g’vurote, u’mee do mellukh?
Who is like You, Master and strength, and who can be compared to you?

And now it seems we’re lost in a maze. There, the dove praying his moans. There the myrtle, its branches like arms, frantic, reaching to an empty sky. Now the dove, moaning his prayers on a pillar leaning in an empty lot. A twig cracks. Gravel kicked. And all around the echo of moans. And now a snarl and now a growl. And now an animal charging at us; a great wolf! It leaps at the boy.
And licks his face. Is this a dog?
“This is what I’ve been looking for.” The first words the boy has said.

Now the dog leads us deeper in, into a warren of rubble and ruins, rebels and runes. Do I see a face staring at us? Wrinkled like one who the years deform, haggard, unkempt, mournful, old. His voice intones like the joyless dead.
“I once ruled the heavenly spheres with grandeur such as none could compare. ‘Pharaoh’ they would whisper and bow low, and those that knew me called me ‘god.’ I, even I, was punished severe by that Hebrew Lor whose power I dared. Search ye now thru my opulent home, where lapis and gold once tiled the streets, now rubble and mudbrick and stinking tombs. Prophet, what further ruin will you vent on one who knows not how to repent?

In awe I dwelt on his fearsome word, until I dared to ask of him,
“What, oh pharaoh, compels you to dwell here in Betar far from your Nile?”
“For me, that river never ceased to flow in blood, bringing pestilence. But here my stony and envious heart finds pleasure, seeing how Roman gods have avenged my loss to that Adonai.”

Just then the child whispered to me,
“But he said to me, he came here to live because Betar appeared to him just like Fustat, his ancient home, which every year decays still more. Here he hopes to learn from the Jew how to repent and serve the Lor.”
“Curse you child,” that specter forswore, and disappeared back into the stones.
And once again, that dove and his moan….

Lost book by Abarbanel, 3

The following lines are an excerpt from a book within a book: a lost mystical text on meditation within The Atternen Juez Talen. In this scene the storyline is intended to act as a guided meditation, leading the spiritual explorer on an elevated path thru a troubled psychological landscape. The endpoint aspires to a state of greater clarity, undistorted by the mostly unconscious conceptual aberrations and emotional whirlpools that shape our thinking.

The scene takes as its starting point a midrash about Rabbi Yossi (ben Halafta), who turns aside one night while walking in the vicinity of Jerusalem, to pray in a ruins. He is referred to as ‘Prophet’ in the monologue below. The scene also has another important literary referent: Shelley's brilliant poem The Triumph of Life, which to my eyes is among the greatest pieces of literature ever written. Thanks, Percy. You are ever an inspiration.

This, the "old English" version in prose:

Inside the darkness I see a face, wrinkled like one who the years deform, haggard, unkempt, mournful with dread. His voice intones like the joyless dead.

"I once ruled the heavenly spheres with grandeur such as none can compare. 'Pharaoh' they whispered, them bowed low, and those who knew me trembled in fear. I, even I, was punished severe by that Hebrew Lor whose power I dared. Look ye, now at my opulent home where lapis and gold once tiled the rooms, now rubble of mudbrick, a putrid tomb. Prophet, what further ruin do you vent on one who never learnt to repent?"

Lost book by Abarbanel, 2

Continuing the topic begun in my October 8, 2020 post, here’s an excerpt from the Kabbalistic book Abarbanel and his 2 secretaries are compiling. I present first the prose translation into Old English (what you probably think of as ‘normal’ English), and then the original original version in poetry:

Ole Eenglish proze verzhen:

In that same year in Yavne I heard Shimon ben Zoma leyn a drash in the week of V’Yishlakh. He taught:

Let us walk in Yaakov’s steps. Seeing the brutes and the blades and the blood [around him], he lifted himself from cushion and tent and set out down the rocky road to find that vaunted holy home. Lain his head on the crusty earth, Kedusha’s rolling thru his mind to crack the klipas worrying(? whirling) him. Down the angel minyans came. Took his hand and up they went. There, Shekhina like a dancing flame, hot and shapely, is waiting for him. Seven levels of kippurim to open the first fold of the tent and remove the embroidered garment of her. And seven more for the second fold and the deeper desires awoken in him. Now Shekhina urges him on, to tend the flock that it increase; be it strong, be it fecund. And so a vast and devoted host informed the will of Yaakov. He wanted to return to the Adam world with all this holy host of the Lor, to bring atonements to the waiting world. He descends to the river’s edge, three finger widths from the Camp of the Lor. There Adam confronted him and wrestled him into a human shell, that the host of angel messengers could pour thru the body of his soul – Ma’aseh Merkava – and enter the vacuous Adam realms to work redeemings into us.

The errijjennel verzhen az powessee:

In them same yeerz in Yovnuh I heerz
Shemone ben Zomuh laen on a drush
In the week a Vuh’Yishlukh*. He tot:
* week wen Berraysheet/Jen 32:4-36:43 iz red
Let us wok in Yuh’Uhkoevz steps.
Seeyen the bruten the bladen the blud,
He liffen himselv frum koushennes tent
An set owt down the rokkee ro
Tu fien that vonted holee ho*.
* eka d’omray: home
Laen iz hed on the krustee erth,
Keddueshuhz* rolen thru iz mien
* holenessez; holeyes praerz
Tu krak the klepuhz werlen him.
Down the aenjel minyenz kum,
Touk iz han an up than gon.
Thaer, Shekhenuh, dansen flame,
Hottes shaepleez waten fer him.
Sevven levvelz a keporreem*
* uttoenmenz
Tu open the fers foelen the tens
An remmuve the broiderd garmen uv her.
An sevven mor fer the sekken foel
An the deepes dezziyerz a woken him.
Now Shekhenuhz erj him on
Tu tend the flok that it in krees;
Be it streng, an be fekkunt.
An so a vas devvoten hoes
In formen in tens a Yuh’Ukkoev
A wonten rettern tu Addum werlz
With awl this holee hoesten the Lor,
Tu breeng a toenz tu the watee werlz.
Dessendes him tu this rivverree ej,
Three feenger withs frum the kampen the Lor.
Thaer Addum kunfrunten him
An ressel him tu a hyumen shel,
That the hoes (uv a) aenjel messejjerz
Kan por thru the boddeyen iz seel --
Muh’uhsay maerkuvvuh --
An enter the vakyuwes Addum relmz
Tu werk reddeemenz* intu us.
* ennummeez uv the Juwen reed this az “red demenz”

Lost book by Isaac Abarbanel

My current work on The Atternen Juez Talen is taking place in Portugal and Spain in the years leading up to 1492, a momentous and disastrous year.

The Eternal Jew has become the secretary to the treasurer of Portugal, Don Isaac Abarbanel. Outside his work for the government, Don Isaac, the Eternal Jew, and Batkol (the Eternal Jew’s wife) are compiling notes on making spiritual ascents into the upper spheres of the soul.

Their researches try to create a map, to lay out the stages/levels of the soul ( what we might now call the unconscious, or in Jungian terms, the collective unconscious) and how those stages will be experienced — what will be seen, what will be felt, how to proceed, how to know where you are, and how to know where to go from where you are. You might call it ‘existential Kabbalah.’

Unfortunately, with the death of King Alfonso V, the new king, John II, is obsessed with consolidating his power over the independent princes of the kingdom. This leads to a blood bath, and Don Isaac and his retinue must flee to Castile (in modern-day Spain). Don Isaac decides to abandon his researches. Deeply disappointed, the Eternal Jew transcribes what notes they have, hoping at a later time they’ll be able to return to the project.

What follows is the introduction to the section entitled The Ladder of Ascents. Below, I present first the metaEnglish version in poetry, and then the “old English” (what you call modern English) translation in prose.

Now, I bin sor let down by this.
Shor fowndatenz kum beffor
Ubsservuttorreez on an upper dek,
But awlso shor, wen the hyumen seel
Be klaruffiez ennuf tu see
Beyon theze opake ellummenz,
An withowt unseen an distorten feelz,
Then perhaps theze noets that we kumpile
On hiten sens an speret ussents
May be uv yuse tu the arkutteks
Uv nu naeshenz an enliten seelz,
Tu aenjelfoke a nokken ar dor.
Aenjelfoke waeten on us tu urrize.
Theze noets then, may thay serv the Lor.

~~~~~~~~

Now, I been sore let down by this. Sure, foundations come before observatories on upper decks, but also, sure, when the human soul is clarified enough to see beyond these opaque elements, and without unseen and distorting feelings, then perhaps these notes that we compiled on heightened senses and spiritual ascents may be of use to the architects of new nations and enlightened souls, and to the angelfolk that knock at our door. Angelfolk waitin’ on us to arise. These notes, then, may they serve the Lor.

Eternal Jew: scenes in Majorca

Our hero has been involved in map-making, a profession surprisingly dominated by Jews in the 100 years before Columbus. These maps were fundamental to the European expeditions around the Cape of Good Hope to India and then to the New World. He is now in Palma, Majorca, arguably the capital of map-making in the mid fifteenth century.

Here’s a prose excerpt, followed by the original poetry in its altered English:

And in them days, Aragon’s noose was squeezin’ tighter on the church’s lands, trying to choke out heresy, and alternate readings of their bible tales, and personal knowledge of God in the world. And as for pagans, Muslims, and Jews, a sword was pressin’ against our necks. Hard to breathe; harder to move. Like we fell into a vortex of hell in Dante’s tale of hopeless souls; trying to find a reliable map out of these hell-lands coiled in hate.

But forgive. I’m rushin’ ahead of myself. I still must describe the secret lives hidin’ inside of Palma’s walls. And Batkol insists that I reveal the book she writ in Genoa.

Like I says, that priest hustled us thru private courtyards and mazy ways an into a house with nary a knock. Expectin’ a parlor, much surprised, we stands in a kitchen, fragrant with bread. The cook nearly drops her tray of cakes, and stifles a scream,

”O Father Enrique! You frighten me.”
“So sorry, Noor. Senor Vallseca awaits us. We came the back way to save time.”

She leads us into a sittin’ room.

Juan Vallseca
Man of stone. Face a mask. Sits like sphinx; desert winds slowly etch his mask away; slowly pit his stony eyes. Flickers of inner light escape. He taps his finger on his thigh. His stone casting begins to crack. As if an echo from a far hill, words escape from his chest, words of welcome from a distant place.

Father Enrique
“My sphinx-hearted man of faith, my dear friend, Senor Juan...”
A well-trained hound at his master’s feet, tho sharp of tooth and mastiff tall. Knows the hand that feeds him well, that makes him sit or whips his haunch. None too fawning but well restrained.

Gabriel Vallseca
Puppy scampers, yip and yap, nipping toes, yip and yap, chasin’ his tail, yip and yap...
In walks Gabby with a wide grin and a flaky pastry in his hand, crumbs flying as he says hello.

Father Enrique
The light dims and shadows streak his etched cheeks, his deep eyes now enlarged to dark pools as evening dulls the rosy clouds, and the bright sky turns deeper blue. Is that the Nazarene I see on a further hill, his robes blowing in the risen wind; or only Paul, sharp of tongue and dark of thoughts, come to Rome to challenge law? His voice is soft but his fist is clenched, and his next words transform the mood...
“What, now, are we to do?...”


Here’s the original poetry:

An in them tiemz Aruggonz noos
Bin skweezen titer on the cherchen lanz,
Tryen a choke owt harusseez
An alternet reedz a thaer bibel taelz,
An persennel knowenz a God in the werl.
An az fer pagen, Mouzlem, an Ju,
A sord wer prest uggens ar neks;
Hard tu breeth; harder tu muve.
Like we fel intu a vortex a hel
In Dontayz talen a hoeples seelz,
Tryen a fien a reliyubbel map
Tu exkape theze hel-lanz an koyelz a hate.

But fergiv. I rusht uhhed a myselv.
I stil mus deskribe the seekret lievz
Hiden inside a Pawlmuhz wawls.
An Butkoel insists that I reveel
The bouk her rit in Zhennovuh.

Like I sez, that prees husselt us
Thru privet kortyardz an mazee wayz
An intu a hows with naree a nok.
Expektenz a parler, much serpriez
We stanz in a kichen, fraegren a bred.
The kouk neerlee drops her tray a kaeks
An stifelz a skreem.
“O, Fother Enreek! Yu friten me!”
“So sawree, Noor.
“Seenyor Valsekkuh awaten us.
“We kum the bak way az saven time.”
She leed us intu a sitten room….

Hwon Valsekkuh
Man a stone. Fase a mask.
Sits like sfeenx; dezzer winz
Slolee ech hiz mask uwway,
Slolee pit hiz stonee iy.
Flikkerres inner lite exkape.
He tap iz feenger on iz thi.
Iz stone kastenz start tu krak.
Az if an ekko frum a distan hil,
Werdz exkapen frum hiz ches,
Werdz a welkum frum a far plase.

Fother Enreek
“My sfeenx-hartes man a faeth,
“My deer fren, Seenyor Hwon...”
A wel-traent hown at iz master feets,
Tho sharp a-tooth an mastif tawl;
Knoez the han az feed him wel,
That make him sitz or wip hiz honch;
Nun too fonnee, but wel-restraenz.

Eternal Jew's Rescue of Batkol

Here’s a new scene from The Atternen Juez Talen, translated out of MetaEnglish poetry into standard prose.

These events take place in the hills outside of Genoa, where Saadya, the Eternal Jew and his wife Batkol have settled. The year is about 1420 CE.

While I be bent to a draftin' desk, pourin' thru maps ...

Batkol set out on a different route. Leavin' such chaos and madness to me, she discovered that herbs and cures from extracts, infusions, oils and salves be well-developed in Liguria's hills....

So off she gone a second time, out to see them sorcerous dames, me absorbed in work, and yet concerned for her wanderin' alone. And my worries increased day by day, til after a week my mind won't bend to interpretin' sketches and decipherin' scrawl.

After mornin’ prayers I'm sittin' at the bench, and I thrown up my hands.
"I gotta find my wife, now gone over a week. That ain't right. I'm worried sick."
Out the door and up the road I hustles. I remembers a town up the river where she first gone to learn about healers in the hills. Walkin' all night, I arrived the next day, and begun askin' about women that heal. Well, men, they don't know a pimple from a pox. But women, soon as they hear me ask where that healer dwelt, they clams right up, all suspicious and evil eyes.

So nothin' for it. I'm up the road to a further hamlet. There I tells some juicy yarns about my wife. I exaggerates just a teeny bit, sayin', a wonder healer she be, with many a potion to soothe the soul. There's chitter and chatter a-plenty now. That gone on for a day or some, when a miserable crone come beggin' me to brang some potions for her sickly girl.
"I'll send my wife in a fortnight or so."
says I, and her shoulder sags like a roof on a rotten hut; she's all dismayed.
"That won't do, oh no, not at all. I needs them remedies right away. Guess I must go to that sorcerer,"
says she, and I mumbles,
"Suit yourself."
But soft and secret I watch her close. The very next morn she's out the door and up the road and down some trail and onto paths only animals use, and come to that witch.

I expected to find Batkol inside, when I knocked and gone in. And there, that witch starts screamin' at me, and pulls a knife, howlin' the while like some wild and injured animal --
What the hell was Batkol doin' there amongst such souls untouched by God? --
Thankfully, my walkin' stick kept that hyena woman at bay while I drags Batkol down the trail a ways, til she collapsed. I carried her -- fragile as a dried out stick of birch -- til I couldn't hear them howls no more. Then I built a litter to lay her on and drag her nice and comfortable thru them hills and hamlets and towns. Many a gasp and askance look we drawn, but nary an offer of help -- like I been some brute that beat my wife -- til we come to the outskirts of Genoa, where I hired a wagon for the cobbled streets.

Eternal Jew: Batkol in Lilith's den

Here’s a short excerpt from a rich and varied scene in which Batkol (the wife of the Eternal Jew, aka Saadia) has found a female healer (Lilah, Leila) with remarkable powers in the hills north of Genoa. The whole scene is full of kabbalistic elevations, as well as new midrash on biblical characters, including Joseph, Judah, and Rahav (of Jericho). I present this little tidbit first as poetry in the new language I’m developing, and then translated into standard English (which I call “old English”). Fasten your seat belts…

Doze. Straenjen frotfule dreemz.
Open my iy. Awl ullone.
Then Sodyah stannen in the dor.
Open my iy az the dor kreeks.
Lilah kum in, her armz fule
A logz draept with fresh erb.

“Sodyah wer heer. Waerz he gon?”
“Bak down a ro he kum frum, I ges.”

An she slo an kaerfule skwot in frunt
A the fiyer plase an sets down her loed.
She layz a log on the smoelderree koelz
An then sum erbz an fanz them hard
Til the room a fule with punjen smoke.
She ternt her hed an louk at me —
Sheez yung an luvlee, with a triksee grin!

“Kum! Thaerz sumwun I won yu tu meet.”

I stan up. Lo! My bak iz fine,
An I relize my hed ake bin long gon.
Fer a momen I feel Iem afloten the aerz,
Then weer stannen in a feel a brilyen bloomz,
Krimsen an swayen, the sky deep blu.
Starz ar shinen an so iz the sun.
A towwerres mownten kapt in sno
An jagged owtkrops, kristellen kworts.
I aen nevver seen sech a wunderres lan.

“Am I a dreem?” I sez tu her.

An I see now she iz nude az Eve,
An sedduktiv an wiel az Ishtar herselz.
I louk down an see, I too am stark,
An my skin like pawlish ebbonee,
An she sez, “An yu ar byutuffule too,
“An no, yu aen a sleep at awl.
“Yu mor uwwake az yu evver bin.”

————— ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ —————

And here’s the reversion to old English prose, with its constrained meanings, one-dimensional grammar, and problematic spelling:

Doze. Strange and fraught dreams. Open my eyes. All alone. Then Saadia’s standin’ in the door. Open my eyes as the door creaks. Leila comes in, her arms full of logs draped with fresh herbs.

“Saadia was here. Where’s he gone?”
“Back down the road he come from, I guess.”

And she slow and careful squats in front of the fireplace and sets down her load. She lays a log on the smolderin’ coals and then some herbs and fans them hard til the room is full of pungent smoke. She turns her head and looks at me. She’s young and lovely, with a tricksy grin!

“Come! There’s someone I want you to meet.”

I stand up. Lo! My back is fine, and I realize my headache’s been long gone. For a moment I feel like I’m afloat in the air, then we’re standin’ in a field of brilliant blooms, crimson and swayin’, the sky deep blue. Stars are shinin’ and so is the sun. A towering mountain capped in snow and jagged outcrops, crystalline quartz. I ain’t never seen such a wondrous land.

“Am I dreaming?”

I says to her. And I see now she is nude as Eve, and seductive and wild as Ishtar herself. I look down and see, I too am stark, and my skin like polished ebony, and she says,

“And you are beautiful too, and no, you ain’t asleep at all. You’re more awake than you’ve ever been.”

The Eternal Jew comes back west

Our hero has turned back from Khorasan (now Afghanistan), and made his way to Volhynia, a region largely in the Ukraine now. He meets a fellow Jew…

Just before Rovno here come a Jew
ridin’ a horse like a noble man.
*‘Shalom Aleikhem’s’ and ‘Barukh HaShem’s’.*
A little chit and a little chat
as we try to assess the taste of this land.
*-* ‘Peace be upon you and
‘Bless the Name’ (that is, God)

With a flick of his reins the horse turns aside
into a dark and narrow trail,
and the Jew beckons, “Follow me...”
Batkol yanks my sleeve and frowns.
“...And I’ll tell you about this Volhynia.”

Wary, our steps get slow and short.
“Worry not. This shorter way
“is cooler; nor wolf nor thief hide here.”
And he lifts the bag slung on my back
and loops it onto his saddle bag.
Batkol and me on high alert.
“I once was a poor man, just like you.
“Poverty wrapped herself just like a noose
“around my neck. I could hardly breath.
“Or like burrs that twist up in a boy’s hair
“so you can’t pull ‘em out, so she clung to me.
“Indentured myself to a local knight
“who was granted a fief, rewardin’ his sword.
“All gnarled and pocked his face and his heart,
“and he turned his eye on my darling child.
“Ever and again, with leer and with sneer
“he come to my cottage burnin’ for the girl.
“O, her tremblin’ and, o, her tears
“and o, the appall that blanched her face.
“She who could buy us an honorable life,
“but I, I preferred my poverty
“than to sell my child to that viperous knight.
“And so I endured indignities
“rakin’ his pigsty and makin’ cakes
“of cow dung, while he cursed and spit.
“Nor did he spare the lash to my back,
“until my heart were cold as ice.”

Then he stared at us with glassy eyes,
as the copse grew thicker and the way obscure.
And suddenly I’m chilled. Is it his stare
or the damp and sulphurous air of the wood.

“An indentured man is owned like a mule…