The itch on my palms is not a real itch, and yet all the same, it demands to be scratched. I can scrub my paws down over my front or rub them over my thighs and gain momentary relief, but it will always come back when tensions run high.
Many things will plague me when tensions run high. I will tic — a jerk of the head to the side with a squeak or a yelp or a quiet grunt. I will pace in an abbreviated line, my steps spelling out an ellipsis. My stammer will get ever worse.
-I maintain that these are an integral part of me, that I will never strive to rid myself of them. I say to myself that I will never cease pacing, that my tics are a form of communication, that scrubbing my paws over my tunic or trousers is simply a part of the way that I live. I promise myself — and you, whoever you are — that I will not elide my stammering. When tensions are running high, these are cemented within me as a part of my existence.
+I maintain that these are an integral part of me, just as is bearing the form of an anthropomorphic skunk, and that I will never strive to rid myself of them. I say to myself that I will never cease pacing, that my tics are a form of communication, that scrubbing my paws over my tunic or trousers is simply a part of the way that I live. I promise myself — and you, whoever you are — that I will not elide my stammering. When tensions are running high, these are cemented within me as a part of my existence.
Tensions are running high.
I am supposed to be calm. Relaxed. Professional. I am supposed to do anything other than scrub my paws over my front and fidget with the hem of my tunic or visibly restrain myself from pacing. I am not supposed to yelp or squeak in the middle of someone speaking — least of all Rav From Whence! — and I am definitely not supposed to scuttle off stage to go lay down on the cushion I keep beneath my desk for high-anxiety moments such as these.
I explain to myself and to others that the entire reason that I exist is to outlive the part of me that speaks in should-statements. I am not supposed to do any of these things, but ‘suppose’ is a ‘should’ in disguise. Reframe it: “I should not do–”
@@ -43,6 +43,15 @@Instead, I feel fear of myself, of so many intrusive thoughts.
“Baruch ata Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha’olam, hagomel lahayavim tovot, sheg’molani kol tov,” I call out. I never stammer in Hebrew, and have never questioned why.
The response comes from only a quarter of the assembled — a mumbled, “Amen. Mi sheg’malcha kol tov, hu yigmolchem kol tov selah,” that I cannot help but sound out in my head in time — but it is enough to show that I am not speaking solely to politicians and bureaucrats (or whatever passes for such, sys-side).
+“I… ah, I am What Right Have I of the Ode clade, member of the committee dedicated to… ah, to this occasion,” I say, bowing toward the assembled. “It is, as my down-tree says, one year since the recovery from the Century Attack and… ah, and thus two years, one month, and eleven days since each and everyone of us died. We died!”
+Silence, just as planned. I stifle a tic to keep that silence silent.
+“To the last, everyone present here– ah, that is, everyone present sys-side, spent one year, one month, and eleven days in some hidden Sheol. We were… ah, I mean, to phys-side, we were your memories only, just as the dead have been since the beginning of memory. We missed our own Yahrzeit, yes? We slept in death, yes? We were late to the party?” I shrug, wry smile on my face. “We are… ah, we are not sorry. We were dead at the time.”
+Chuckles, just as planned. Give an ex-theatre teacher a stage, and you will get gallows humor.
+“We debated celebrating our own Yahrzeit as an intentional holiday, and… mm, well, and perhaps some of us do, yes? Perhaps on New Year’s Eve, we recited our own Kaddish. I did not. I argued from… ah, from the beginning, that we hold instead this day in our hearts. This is a day worth celebrating. This is the day we lived again. This is the day that we — that the committee on… ah, on the Century Attack at the New Reform Association of Synagogues — have decided to dedicate our energy to. It is my honor to announce that…”
+I turn to face west and, with timing on my side, need to wait only some few seconds before the final sliver of the sun slides below the horizon.
+“It is my honor to announce… ah, to announce that it is now Yom HaShichzur. Today is the day of our restoration and… ah, and the first celebration of our return to life. May we take this day every year, the 41st day, February tenth, to… ah, to rejoice with each other that we are here, that despite the wills of others who would have otherwise, we are still here.” I bow once more and gesture at the open space before the stage, cueing the oneirotects standing to the side to dream up the banquet that will be our first feast. “Chag sameach.”
+And now, I am free. I linger a polite five seconds on the stage before turning and stepping down the stairs, carefully making sure that I walk unhurried, to pad back to the synagogue, to my office, to comfort and softness and the dark beneath my desk.
+There will be merriment or tears. There will be feasting and chatting or small, awkward silences. I do not know. I do not care. I will not be there. This has been too much, and the tensions are high.