As Kislev turns over, December remains, another notch, another tooth, a soul departed in part. After Kislev comes the month of Tevet, its first this year and in the opposite month a Friday, which is the beginning of the Sabbath, or Shabbos, the day a king of Judah was exiled from Jerusalem, along with the nobility and all of our interpreting Sages. However mournful, it merits no fast. That occurs, though, on the eighth of that month, when we go without in memory of the decree of Ptolemy of Egypt, a king, successor to Alexander of Macedonia, his order that the Law of the people, the Torah, be translated from the language of God into the language of gods, which is Greek: hoping to expose disputation and so falsehood in the Law, Ptolemy summoning the exiled Sages from eight days ago, dispersing their future into separate prisons each to a mensch and there ordering them each to translate the Law and each inspired, guided by God Who knows all languages and has all tongues in His hand, separately translating the Law entire identically, even when they, again always separately if unified in the purpose that is God that is known as survival, intentionally altered their translations to avoid offense to the king, if and when this or that passage might have been misunderstood by those lacking faith; these identical Laws being finished on the eighth of the fourth month, which is the tenth month if our year would be counted from spring, whose name of Tevet cannot itself be translated, as its meaning is unknown, or means nothing. And then there’s Shabbos, the next day, which now exhaustedly falls upon the ninth of the month of Tevet and might also have been a day of privation, of fast (if not for the fact of the Sabbath, which supersedes such), when we are so told to remember the deaths of a scribe and a prophet, specifically Ezra and Nechemiah they were, leaders of the people in their return from Babylonia’s exile, which would capture their souls. And finally, turning wheels, reversing events, chronology, causality, there’s the fast of the next day, if you’re prepared, which is the tenth, embodied in December but beyond it as well, infamously, upon which we have sworn to curse Nebuchadnezzar, Babylon’s king, and his siege of the holy Jerusalem that began on this date and lasted three years more until the walls of the city were finally breached upon the ninth day of the tenth month in the eleventh year of the reign of a king whose name it is forbidden to pronounce as it’s impossible and, anyway, manyvoweled; this siege ending, events unto events, wheels within wheels, bad breeding worse then bringing it up without a Father Who art, in the destruction of the Holy Temple — whose observance in memory of shall be as festivals upon the coming of the Messiah; which Temple whether fallen forever or still with the potential to rise we anyway rededicate year after year, with the festival of lights that illuminates the days to the pagan millennium about to arrive, with the end of the world and our water stockpiled, our flashlights and our guns and our rope, a rush on jars of honey, powdered milk.
And so verily we have been given three days of fasts, only to gorge ourselves on the Sabbath, which we know as Shabbos, the night of Friday or the morning of Saturday, whether the fifth, sixth, or seventh day of the week depending on how it’s observed or it’s not — made holy even without the sanctification offered in death, which is theirs, which is ours, and though observed, though made that very holy and sanctified, still a Sabbath like others, even a Shabbos like every other day of the week, any of them with the sun and moon and the stars that are three and above; which day the nations of the world this year know as Xmas, the eve of the holiday of the tree and the baby just born, of the fiery sales at department stores and how they’re malled much different from shops, and of their kings, too, who are also one and yet three, coupons for camels, the jollity of a fat skinny who in a hat; that and the day of His bris to be, His circumcision aborted: scheduled for tomorrow with the caterers, did you confirm, remember to pick up the bagels — and so you can clock it, understand, the sense of history at work here and of wheeling, of palpable past, of immense weight, fates visited down upon heads unsuspecting, covered, uncovered; why everything’s been so confused these past few days, insane out of sorts; why it’s been just a crazy week this week, Israel’s explaining what with her laid up, Hanna, what with the past, its preparations and ours, rendering due to the meaning and worth of each day to its month to its — and the expectation of it all, with Israel so late, almost too late this once though he’s remembered this time, thank God: the bought braided bread, the challah, two loaves, again she’d been unable to bake…
