Sunday, August 24, 2014

Away With Words

[Rachel is furious with me for forcing her to go to Jerusalem, and refusing to join her there. She says she needs me and I have abandoned her. There she is, surrounded by friends and family who adore her, in a peaceful atmosphere that allows her to get the rest she desperately needs. But she may be right. Alone, I can eat what I want, when I want. I can watch/listen to what I want, when I want. I don't have to look at home furnishing magazines and comment on French Provincial furniture. I don't have to listen to tales of how the builders attached a toilet bowl to the ceiling in house X. And not just to the ceiling, but upside down.
So why am I miserable? Without her, there is an emptiness, a sense of desolation, a longing that has me on the edge of despair. Better that she should annoy me, nag me, criticize me, than not be here at all. And much as I hate to admit it, my wearing shmattes just to infuriate her gives me no pleasure if she isn't here.]

A  WAY  WITH  WORDS  or  AWAY  WITH  WORDS  by Moshe Chicken-Heart

Yes, I have a way with words. I use this way to hide what I really feel. I don't know if I'm afraid you will see me as I really am, or more likely, that I will see me as I really am.    
You are well aware that on my most civil days I am both anti-social and angry about just everybody.  Beyond the anger there is a hatred that scorches everything. It is not a hatred of those trying to destroy us. We live in an area surrounded by Predatory Barbarians or Barbarian Predators [take your choice], and must take every measure to protect ourselves. They can't help being what they are, and we can only help them by speeding their journey to the Paradise they long for.
My hatred is reserved for those who are technically my co-religionists.

My people are genetically deformed. No nation/people since the beginning of mankind is so intelligent and creative. No nation/people since the beginning of mankind is so lacking in common sense and the willingness to protect itself.   
We are the Chosen People. But we did not choose to be Chosen. Nor were we left a choice; 'accept or die' limits your options dramatically. From the first we have fought against the obligations the Creator demands of us. 'From the first' means from the time of Abraham. Our two thousand year exile did not cause our genetic deformation; the exile merely exacerbated it.

From politicians to Empty Talking Heads, academics to journalists, the willfully blind and the crassly stupid, we are inundated with co-religionists who work for our destruction while pretending to work for our salvation. These are the people for whom my hatred is unabated.
You cannot imagine how I envy those who believe man created G-d in order to sanctify and justify whatever man wants to do. Such a belief makes comfortable gibberish of all belief.
Those who have been reading my rants for years, and know my history, understand why I know – as opposed to merely believing – that there is a Creator. Past, present, future are all one to the Creator, and whatever the Creator does is – however difficult for me to understand – all for the best.
I am very tired. Seventy-four is my chronological age, but given all I have been through my age, as a doctor smirkingly declared, is well past ninety. There are two reasons I fight to stay alive.
The first is my passion for Rachel, who needs me to provide a host of services for her. But even with my love for her undiminished, I am breaking down at an ever-increasing rate. I have already had 40+ surgical procedures, and would need forty more from head to toe just to keep functioning. It ain't gonna happen.
The second reason I fight to stay alive is my hatred for those who work for our destruction. I don't simply want to see them dead. I want to torture them to death, to hold each and every one's head down in a feces-filled toilet bowl until they drown. Would I actually do it, if the opportunity presented itself? Probably not. I am, after all, Moshe Chicken-Heart.
But if only I were Moshe Lion-Heart….  I'd bathe in those bastards' blood.

[A curiosity:  Many people tape concerts off the radio. From the start of the current 'festivities' just about every piece is interrupted by a voice-over, "Warning! Rocket attack Ashkelon" (or wherever). Longer works can be interrupted three or four times. I wonder if those who taped these concerts will erase them, or preserve them as memorabilia of a truly unique time.]

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