A Thought Experiment

For my whole writing career I have pursued the belief that words are malleable and language is as much a barrier to knowledge as a means of developing knowledge. Words, like knowledge, can evolve and expand in breadth and depth of meaning and implication, and we can begin to hear undertones and after-tones as our sensitivity to each word expands.

So, remember back when you were learning a new language. At first, you equated words in your known language, 1 to 1 with new words in the foreign language. But if your learning gained any depth, you soon saw that the relationships were not 1 to 1 at all. They were hazy, with only partial overlaps, and often with layers or facets of a word in one language, that in the second language were entirely unrelated.

Now, some time ago I began to believe that the Torah had a depth to it that was beyond human. I came to this belief from the opposite direction of traditional orthodoxy that has always maintained that ‘Torah is the word of God.’ Well, there is much in Torah that I believe is all too human, which is to say, deeply flawed, or at least prone to being understood in a deeply flawed way. But I also began to see layers of causality and fore-knowledge that appeared well beyond the capability of mere humans.

I began to wonder: are we translating the Hebrew incorrectly? Are the meanings we’ve applied to words based on ancient or medieval misconceptions, or on the limited knowledge of our forebears? So, here’s a thought experiment. It’s very simple and yet I’ve found it transformative:

Instead of thinking the word ‘melekh’ means ‘king,’ imagine it means ‘consciousness.’ Simple. But watch what that does to your understanding as you say any standard blessing:

Blessed are You, Adonai, our God, Consciousness of the Universe...

Suddenly, your consciousness is bound up with the Divine, directly, palpably. Your consciousness is part of the Melekh of the Olam.

Oh, oh. What does ‘Olam’ really mean?

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.

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”

Towards an understanding of 'Soul'

Transcribing recent scenes of The Atternen Juez Talen from my notebook, I found this spiritual-psychological sketch:

Last night Jonah wailed when he was not allowed to have cake. He is 15 months old. He already knows about “fair-not fair,” about justice. This is not learned; it is innate. The essence of a life of meaning, value, intention, justice is laid into us, altho nurture can amplify or de-amplify it. I believe this innate capacity emerges from the ‘Soul.’ Thus, I unconditionally reject the belief that the world, and our own life, is random, meaningless, amoral. Meaning and purpose are so fundamental and innate that, literally, we cannot think without them (although we can surely resist them on more surface levels of thought). Thought itself emerges thru, and is infused with our sense of meaning and justice. Our sense of meaning, purpose, and justice, like consciousness itself, like a sense of “I” and “I and you” and “I and Thou” all emerge from the infinite and unknowable, and are foundational to all we think and do. This is why, when people experience a loss of meaning or purpose, they find it so existentially devastating. Their access to their foundations, to the infinite, has been blocked or disrupted. It’s like drowning, like an absence of oxygen.

Morality, the sense of justice, is more than an innate inclination created by evolution. Genetics “channels” morality and a sense of meaning, but does not create them. The actual ability to seek meaning, justice, order precedes the physical. It precedes our existence. Its origins are from the infinite, the divine.

Let me state that in another way: Moral judgement is not an evolutionary innovation randomly derived. It is a capacity that has been evolutionarily facilitated, but it transcends and precedes physical being. It originates beyond being, in what may be called soul. The soul is not created by the body or by evolution. Rather, it is expressed, or given the capacity to be expressed thru the evolutionary development of the animal body (and perhaps even the plant body, as well). The body is but a physical vessel for life, for the soul. Indeed, the soul shapes the body, calling it into organization in a way that we might liken to a magnet rearranging iron filings.

The realization that life is distinct from the body can generate a startling sense of wonder. What once seemed bounded and finite (our lives) now expands to the infinite. It is a moment of divine contact. For many it causes a dormant spiritual inclination to awake from its ancient sleep.

Singt frum the upper werlz

Three fragments excavated from my current notebook….

The first is a piece of poetry from the upper worlds. Our language down here, so limited, will have trouble making sense of it, tho pieces of it will sound familiar. This is what I transcribed:

… He heerd Davee play.
He iz a reed uv iz werd.
He iz heer
selammen seen in iz song,
drippen iz hunnee fraegren a spise.
He iz rae Izayah an Hozayah too
an iz hert iz braken it
in winder abownz.
Ammajjin aer seengen the upper werlz.
I wil breeng em aer fer the aenjelz be heer…

And this opening to a parable…

There was a king who lived in a castle unknown to his people. He employed many ministers and envoys. He was a modern king. He spoke to them by texting!
One of his envoys was determined to meet the king in person. He texted to him, “How can I meet you in your castle?” The king texted in response, “You are too deceitful to meet me. Not only your thoughts, but your senses too are full of deceit.…”

And finally this…

The closer I get to the truth, the more alienated I am from myself and the world.
The closer I get to the truth, the less rational my thinking.
The infinite is not confined by human ratios.

Mystical musings by the Atternen Ju (Eternal Jew)

The following short excerpt is from a scene in The Atternen Juez Talen. Our hero has recently migrated to Poland (around 1320 CE) to start a new life, yet again. He is reflecting on a line from the daily prayers, that the Master of the Universe daily renews the act of creation (often interpreted to mean that the world, and each individual in it, is created anew each day, or even each moment). Reflecting on his own renewal, he goes off on a riff.

Here is a prose translation into standard English (what I call 'old English'), and then the original text as it was composed...

I, the Eternal Jew am a voice in the streaming world a-coil in you -- a recurring face, a recurring place, unknown, familiar, a recurring embrace. Hate me and I will choke you with hate. Fear me and I will hound you with fear. Love me and I will ignite a desire that consumes but can’t be satisfied ...

Blink and look into your mirror. I am behind you. Blink again. I am you. Was it always so? Blink. I’m gone. Was I ever there? Blink. You stand in a room well known. Blink. You are lost, and no way home. Blink. I am with you leading the way. Blink. A stranger has led you astray. Blink. You walk with your father instead. Blink. You awake. Your father is dead....

Each moment the world is created anew. And I, sub-atom, an orbit in you. Where I am, and where I will be... you cannot determine the point of me. Whoever I was and who I can be, you can’t compute that continuity. Accept me. Is this how you mean to be free?

The original text:

I, the Atternen Ju ar a vois
In the streemen werl a-koyellen yu -- 
A rekkerren fase, a rekkerren plase,
Unknoen, fammilyer, a rekkerren embrase.
Hate me an I wil choke yu with hate.
Feer me an I wil hownd yu with feer.
Luv me an I wil ignite a deziyer
That kunsuemz but woen be a sattisfy.
Studdee my bouks an yu may untwist
The okkulten thredz that taengel yur seel
In the annammah grip uv this Addom shel.
Louk tu me az the Proffetten God
An I wil kumpoze divvine skaelz
That reverben myuzeks owt uv the speerz
Koyellen yu in infinnitteez.

Bleenk an louk intu yur meerer,
An I am behien yu; bleenk aggen
An I am yu. Wuz it awl wayz so?
Bleenk. Iem gon. Wuz I evver thaer?
Bleenk. Yu stan in a rume wel knoen.
Bleenk. Yu ar los, an no way home.
Bleenk. Iem with yu leeden the way.
Bleenk. A straenjer iz led yu astray.
Bleenk. Yu wok with yur father insted.
Bleenk. Yu awwake. Yur fother iz ded....

Eech momen the werl iz kreyaten a-nu.
An I, sub-Addom, an orbitten yu.
Ware I am, an ware I wil be,
Yu kant determin the point uv me.
Hu evver I wuz an hu I kan be,
Yu kant kumpyute that kontinnuwittee.
Assep me. Iz this how yu meen tu be free?