This tour, it’s a survey of the Garden’s fall, openaired: the State owns all of this now, owns this as they own almost everything, the public absorbed, assimilated finally to its power, a People. Their sleighs leave the city every halfhour, and on the halfhour nine to sunset, accommodating those who’ve purchased their tickets at least a Shabbos in advance, or, if sameday, maybe they know someone important, someone high up in the business of memory…I don’t, I forget, what’s his name. These workers, former Garden employees lately re-hired to work unrecompensed penance at the site of their sin: they have nails in their mouths, dulled, piggish teeth, they wave hands at the Groups with their hammers, then set to work, sparking the dim with their din. They’re re-raising the fallen, resurrecting what’s better left buried, graved underground. A Group makes its way to the furthest project, their present worksite, situated just past a score of glassed enclosures, up against a wall hewn from rock, the objects encased there (photographs, souvenir Garden products, personal effects of Garden employees) labeled with tiny tacked placards: naming names, materials, date, place. A lintel is mirrored, the workers hammer fiercely, another plank’s nailed below, there at bottom…a plank as long as the other above, both shorter than the central length, which is longer and goldengray. Another sign, this hung in the corner and rather beaten and crumpled, its letters handblocked, or in this pitch poorly stenciled, says—Please Excuse Our Appearance During Renovations. We’re reasonably sorry. And so they excuse, grumble and nod. A worker falls from a ladder, his nails scatter, and in the frozen darkness and noise the Group hews unto stone. Be right with you. Cleavage it’s called, giving a laugh. Then receiving, confirmed. Other workers don’t give any notice, though: they work on…now nailing two short vertical boards to the lintel lower, place two posts in a V between the lintels lower and upper, then place two more between the upper and the placement of the keystone atop, the crown of the construct: you’ll notice how they now have two Vs, openfacing, in the shape of a valley, think of a diamond, iyiyi, if you must — not to support, their Guide affirms, not to strengthen, and the Group nods its neck sore, approval. To open. Understand, more. This begins with a cross. All begins with a Crucifix. These wooden posts make the frame for the arch, are the frame for the arch, the structural support, he says, its strengthened foundation — to hold all up, he says, to keep it from falling down before the crown’s placed, he says, before the arch becomes crowned, they say now and so everything’s explained all over again how he says it. The keystone, the key to the stones as much as their lock. And then, a lick of a laugh. Every hour, this is. And again. On. The hour. Outside, even the sky’s stone, it’s goldening late, the sun the sky’s keystone falling the day into night, the night into dark and its scatter of stars. Ice holds firm under the freshgreased runners of sleighs. But it’s a walkingtour, and so might we suggest you wear comfortable shoes. People become Groups just beyond the entrance to the Great Hall, its steps, the Registry a floor aboveground, are then herded into Groups by age and by sex, hauled around by their time of arrival here, and there of departure, let’s go. There’s a mysticism to the making of a Group, it’s been said. In any Group, in every, there must be weakness and there must be strength, curiosity and complacency in equal measure, they’re told — the askers and the answerers, the talky then the mass, shushing silent. An arch — the height of a question, its mark. Photograph the video for posterity’s sake, then meet me in the giftshop for food, drink, and toilets. All groups are equal in function if not in form, in pressures, their pushes and pulls. What I’m saying is this — a person alone’s unsupportable. Be aware. Be burdened aware. Don’t forget to crown your Guide. A tip, always appreciated.
