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Tuesday
Feb012011

the golem story

in most versions of the story the ghetto is a primarily or exclusively jewish ghetto...in my view this is an irrelevancy...suffice it to say that there came a time of great distress in the ghetto...the great distress caused the residents of the neighborhood (the word i shall use henceforth) to seek the help of a man thought to be wise or holy or above, a man usually depicted as a rabbi...the residents urged the old man to bring to life the golem, a fierce agent of retribution they had heard about in the religious and mystical stories circulated amongst their kind over generations...the source of these stories and their factuality are beyond investigation now, it would seem...at any rate it was said that the old man could bring the creature to life... it may very well be that the golem already existed as a statue or clay figurine...i prefer to think the old man built or sculpted the golem of his own design rather than simply animating or reanimating an existing form...the golem's various pre-existences, real or mythic, are beyond the scope of this version of the tale...i like to think that the old man tried numerous clay and sand and mud and putty based variations and worked under myriad mental and physical states in every different type of weather indoors and out before one magical night when everything was perfectly sympathetic for his creation to begin actually existing...at that point the old man had to answer the golem when asked why his cosmic slumber had been disturbed...the old man had to put up or shut up and it was about that time.

so the old man said "listen, the locals are restless...the other tribes come into the neighborhood and act like they own it...the women get raped, the shopkeepers get robbed and even the children run frightened"...the golem said "i think i heard something about this...it's always the young ones who complain first"..."it's not just the young'uns" the old man said, "the old ones too"..."the old and the young, like i said," said the golem..."what do they want from me?"..."what they always want," said the old man..."they want blood and violence and righteousness and they want you to handle it without hesitation or complaint...they want a massacre that is bloodless insofar as their own eyes and ears are concerned...they want god's fury without knowledge of god which they consider a prospect far more terrifying than rape, murder or molestation...you think you can handle all of that?"...the golem thought about this but not for too long...this was his job after all, from a long ways back and thinking was not an activity he particularly enjoyed..."of course i can handle it," he said..."i'll get right on it."

for months the stalked the ghetto streets plodding, lumbering, lurking and killing any and every stranger without discrimination and with prejudice... he mostly enjoyed the work and found that it served as a sort of escape valve for somnambulant tensions elevated by -- what?...years, decades, centuries, millenia?...he had no way of knowing and almost no sense of time...that lack of temporal navigation however did not shield him from one more pedestrian altogether human reality...namely, that all things come to their end...such was the situation confronting the beast when the last of the greedy fascists had been dismembered and burnt...the golem's ceramic skin was covered almost entirely with dried blood...it was at about this time he began to notice the locals talking about him behind cupped hands and even tossing around the word 'nigger'...he clearly sensed animosity...he went in search of the old man and some sort of dignified death or return to hibernation at least...the old man could not be found...it was rumored that he had absconded with funds entrusted to him by the neighborhood association...he had taken with him one of the younger girls in the neighborhood it was said..there were even rumors of the old man's demise...none of it affected the golem other than to solidify in him the conviction that this one would be a long tour of duty...he began to consider his future even though he had little concept of time...but it was impossible not to notice the young'uns becoming adults and then middle aged adults and then elderly and fragile...there weren't any miscreants to kill and there was nothing to do...he wandered and lumbered and lurked all the while kindling a nascent hatred for those he was enlivened and expected to protect...he decided to become an artist as a way of at least partially satisfying his conflicting responsibilities.

for this reason the golem decamped to a spot outside the neighborhood where there were some shabby trees for shade and a trickling stream through which passed the garbage and shit produced by the people of the ghetto...the stream became for him a seemingly never unstocked store of the raw materials with which to create...art!...the idea thrilled him in its simplicity and its efficiency... so he crafted and built and assembled and painted and sometimes simply smashed materials together in a near orgy of creation in a state of near human joy...he felt for whatever length of time like something more than an homunculus of clay and composite rock...this feeling was the illusion of freedom in all its lysergic insistency and vividness...he came up with clocks and water fountains, moving vehicles and lampshades...he used discarded plastics, metal, bottles, bits of paper and cardboard and cloth...he often used raw sewage in preparing clays and putties...he amassed a collection of objects that drew the attentions of many, many people some of whom seemed to know more about his background than did he himself...he was expecting more of that sort of irritation on the day the kid showed up picking around the easels and pipes and bowls and busts and shelves and rocks and vases and vessels of ever kind initially yet tentatively proffering himself a kind of freelance, no-fee art critic..."some of these are quite good," he said by way of introduction and then, somewhat dismissively, "i take it these are earlier works"... he continued without waiting for a response..."i've actually been watching your progress for quite some time...that is from afar...just visiting occasionally...i like a lot of it and you obviously work hard at it...

"everyone's a fucking critic," said the golem.  "same shit i ran into back living in the neighborhood.  people think they're experts on shit they know nothing about"...

the kid, whose name was bray, became very much a regular visitor, noticing all of the golem's artwork and even getting some of his parents' wealthy friends to buy pieces. the golem used the money for clay and paint and matches. the kid became a daily visitor.

bray began to notice a change in the golem... the artist was becoming skinnier and his skin scratchier...  his ash grey pallor began to turn off-white... bray became worried and complained to his parents. "is there a medical facility nearby that could help him?" he asked... on a daily basis he watched his artistic mentor become quite sullen and unresponsive (the boy was a blossoming artist himself by now, you see)... he approached the golem to ask him simply "what is going on with you?"

the golem sighed over his best and most recent clay figurine... he scratched an armpit and winced -- there was nothing much left of the armpit and he had inadvertantly scratched right through the shoulder.

"all i have to work with is clay," he said... the boy looked puzzled for only a moment... "clay and garbage, and it's been that way for a while now and i can't do much with it than what i've already done."

"i knew something was not right."
" and i knew that you knew," said the golem... "i will give you the quickest and most honest explanation i can."

bray nodded.

"where do you think i came from?" said the golem. he proceeded without asking. "where do you think i've been getting this thick rich brown clay to make these lovely sculptures which you seem so eager to criticize? and why do you think i have been so stoic in the face of your juvenile and untutored criticism?

the boy was entirely undaunted by the artist's outburst... he continued to visit the worksite for months, some said years. he became a connoisseur of the golem's art even as he grew more knowledgeable -- and therefore more critical -- of it. the boy visited sometimes twice a day, always respectful but rarely able or in the mood to buy any actual artworks. the golem was often wearied by the presence of bray but he grudgingly came to appreciate the boy's visits. what no one seemed to appreciate was the fact that the golem was losing significant weight and was thinning commensurately with the thinning of his audience. the day came when bray was his single visitor. the golem was rail thin then and barely able to stand. "where in hell do you think i get the raw material i use for these sculptures?" he howled at the boy in a voice filled with muddled pain, misunderstanding and defeat.

the next day when bray visited he was confused... the outdoor atelier was as it had been the day before but the golem was nowhere to be found... in the center of the camp though there was a small mound of what looked like melted black clay.

 

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    あなたは、簡単に時間を持つことができますが、簡単にヴァシュロンコンスタンタンを持つことはできません
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    Response: uk essay
    Parents should be aware before admitting a child in school. It is important to choose a school where a mental growth of a child can be possible. Effective learning environment is the most important thing when it comes to formal education system.

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