In my silent attic, I’m scared.
I’m Scared in My Silent Attic
That’s it. I’m scared. I hear him walking around. Looking without calling. Closer and farther.
This hating scares me. Both of them. I’ve been listening to it.
I hear them say, it’s OK, don’t worry about it, they’re not racist.
It’s religious, any faux pas coincidental. Innocent. Righteous. Good. Holy.
I’m scared of hating being OK.
I thought it’s an evil place to come from, of Idolatry. Then I’m hearing I don’t know what I’m talking about.
I need to keep quiet.
I’m small and inadequate. I know when it catches me it’ll be bad. He’ll get me if I make a move. I mustn’t let out a squeak of shifting position on the cross-braces of The Great Oak.
I’m powerless against this some sort of normal. It’s OK. Not a problem. A way of being for HaShem that I don’t understand: I used to be smart intelligent brilliant relentless genius but now I’m only dumbfounded.
I understand? it now, but still don’t see how this realizes Greater Israel with the wolf lying with the lamb.
It seems like Jewry deified; back to a future of Jewish supremacy from white supremacy, conflated to white Jewish supremacy. Progress. Terrifying progress. Yes, I’m really scared.
It all scares me. My revered teacher says saying that comparing this to other racisms I’ve seen is being a denier: Don’t say that with your evil tongue! And that really gives me pause. Maybe it’s not being said that it’s OK, but denying what it is seems like a kind of denying, not on scale and weight, but I know that denying jobs and means of survival is deadly too, if not as messy.
I should Forgetaboutit and it’s, if not OK, not the same. So it’s OK. I’m making much adieu about little if nothing. That scares me even more. I’m dreaming while awake.
I must read about them again, and again, and add some references for perspective while my library of history is growing, I’m drinking all these books on a day and night binge. I understand it but my soul is complaining. I need to study some more. I’m ignorant.
I don’t have a problem with doing everything within reason to be secure. But this feels like the Japanese internment camps of World War II. Like Native Americans to be driven from the plains — for progress. This feels like an existential injustice when I’m hearing that existential isn’t a real word. This doesn’t feel reasonable.
Unreasonable. Is that a real word? Wrong? No?
My personal history of being discriminated against meets my fear in My Silent Attic of uncertainty; in a quiet logical association to an illogical space of condemnation for being.
I’m hearing that not everybody is the same, but I feel like the stray dog slinking around at night hoping for some scraps at the dumpster.
Still believing we’re all Human, who choose to be. That they’re human, who choose to be.
I was born to wander from a desert wilderness that I’ve resented. But, I’m blessed with insights and understanding I wouldn’t have had otherwise, a perspective of being that is now officially irrelevant and moot. As our millennia of wandering and all the lessons of our history are thrown over as the galley slave no longer needed to pull an oar.
My background of experience in understanding is blown away like a puff of smoke in a wind of Hate I can’t bring myself to embrace. I’m stuck in a purgatory of neither here nor there. Invalid. History invalid. Trying not to make a sound as they pass by. On their way to my future.
Like the Japanese soldier that died of friendly fire because he looked like ‘them,’ I was afraid of being shot for raising my head. Then I see that this is official policy, ambassadors on stools. I’ve always thought I’m a Hasid.
From before I wrote my 1973 thesis connecting Ring Shouts to Niggunim getting out of the space of the concrete encased vault that is and from my head. I vaguely remember having a hat and a name. In fantasies of dreams. Made it up. From nothing.
I’ve wanted to come home, return all my life, and Kahane says no, you’re wrong. Don’t come. Stay over there. You’re not welcome, no into the Arms of Strangers for you little ugly duckling. Eventually, starved well enough, mad with hunger for home, I put a happy face of good faith on it and made it up that it wasn’t racist but religious by overhang. My whole life, the pauper on crutches of desert wilderness injuries of Hate longingly looking through the Great Expectations window at the Sabbath dinner. I decided to knock.
I’ve been self-identifying since 1973, Noahide before, but have no interest in anybody talking about superficialities as handles for Idolatries of Hate in His space. It can’t be credible, race ethnicity is such a thin and superficial thing, specious. Idolatrous. If there are made up people, race is a made up difference in people. If birth-right is the only criteria, I can’t meet it.
I see embracing South African Apartheid, Kahane not in power then as now, and I know you don’t stand with Hate unless it’s a warm and comforting home. You don’t party with Spartans if you have issues with putting babies on stones.
Making Arab-lover lists of our new old-South has a sound and smell that is so worrying, so frightful.
Even when I cover my eyes, plug my ears, and take a snuff; My Soul Hears. Sees.
It’s really terrifying. My prayers are too close to lie in My Silent Attic, about anything.