You have to understand, the Nachmachen’s saying dark later from under the shadow of a modeled hood, the latest sent sample of the Temple’s onorder ecclesiastical robes, these for nominal Levites: talking to the Doctors Tweiss, asking them to get the idea, to delve with him and explore the depths, knowing they won’t but God in Heaven do they ever follow orders (it’s like those scissor-dashes on the flesh they cut by, the particular focus of the eyes, up or down, by which their pads and pens prescribe: happy, or sad, here or there, ready or not, now/then), I want you to make sure He never reproduces, that He’s unaware. And so, another a deceit, like ever, there’s nothing new under that slight of sun, the moon: changing, undressing to underwear, bare pale and sickly skinny in sockless feet and flagpole legs, the Nachmachen standing discourse in the doorway of one of their offices presently slipping into the priests’ holiday vestments to be custom chalked for the tailoring (the tailor, he’s already an hour late; his apologies, though, they’ll leave everyone in stitches), it’s just not a legacy we want to leave, he says…the priestly breatsplate thumped and clanking, urim and thumming, the oracle’s settings left unjeweled as if to keep down the overhead in humble; this interest’s not about posterity, about what we want to leave behind: all returns are in the present, the here and now, today…who knows how long this’ll last, how long we want it to last, you know. The Last One, the right real God’s honest Last One is what makes money, so we’ve heard, we’ve seen — people want what people want. If they know another One’s in the works, then is He still that special, I don’t think so (no one else will either). Doctor Abuya’s collapsed on the analysand’s couch, exhausted from his meeting, its negotiations, subsequent argumentation over an appropriate tip. Nurse de Presser enters with an accentuated bust that’s only a tray of mugs, but then never brings the tea or coffee. Plus, the Nachmachen asks himself or them or who, questions, questions, questions — what’re the ramifications of descendants? How long are we really going to be around? We’re not in this racket forever, especially not with all these recent Affiliations going on. Conversion, it’ll be the death of us. No, we make what we make, then we get out. No need to speculate on kin, they’re just more problems…and of problems they already have enough.
You want we should tie the tubes? the psychoanalyst Tweiss is dying to know.
Knot Him up before He knocks her up? adds Tweiss the mad plastician.
Wouldn’t want any mongrels or mutts running around, stray halfholies, those partichosen bastards…the Nachmachen removing the High Priest’s shading miknefet to bare his bald, gauntgraved face — the line would be muddled along with the Image, he says, the blood and the buck stop here, are we understood? Or, if not, like will you go ahead and blur the balking points, dust away the processes particular, the impetus impotent, and just do your job, what you’re paid and more than you’re worth to get us done: anesthetize, sanitize, sharpen what needs sharpening then slice right in. Make us the Messiah we so terribly deserve: a machermensch, an exilarch — a king who can issue no prince, a God That can manifest no son.
