when I dream of joseph, does joseph dream of me—

So. I'm reading this passage for Zohar class.

That should be enough right there, really. Reading Zohar, the ' I ' disappears. And so does the passage. And Zohar. And class.  They're all just gone.

And all that's left are these levels. They're not the levels from pshat (simple and concrete) to sod (the hidden and ineffable). No—they're the levels that start with—well, Joseph. Joseph dreaming. So. Level 1, we're inside Genesis with him, hearing his (somewhat woeful) tale. And I'm wondering if Joseph invented the movie arc, because he sure thrives on drama. Then again, what is biblical text if not the bad choices of one generation after another?

I don't like Joseph very much, although—give me enough evidence to the contrary and I'd be willing to reconsider. I find him self-absorbed and self-serving. A preening pretty-boy. Not too much on the ball—but yah, with survival skills and damned good intuition. And he's great at how to rub people exactly the wrong way. He's got that attraction/repulsion thing going on full force. For me—I'm fairly repulsed. Go ahead. Sell him to the Egyptians. See if I care.

Arthur Green calls Zohar 'sacred fantasy' —and then he builds on that. That sounds like Torah to me for starters. Zohar, I think, is a tale of dreamers dreaming together—building on the dreams of the past, and handing those dreams off to us, if we want them.

Level 2. That would be the Chevraya of Rabbi Hiyya and his buddies.  Gathered around R' Shim'on ben Yohai. I picture all of them sitting around deep into the night, sipping the Turkish, smoking a little kif, and trying to figure it all out. Wandering around together having adventures—somewhere in-between Easy Rider and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. On the Road.  Zohar is the original boys' buddy flick.

Like my dad, the Tzaddik, running off with the impulsive Rabbi K...

I grew up on the tales of the Tzaddik's wanderings across half the globe with his buddy, Rabbi K. Frightening adventures of keeping him out of trouble.  Tales of eaten documents and stolen artifacts. Of charisma and misadventure. And then, before you knew it—I was old enough to go with them on their adventures. And then—suddenly, they were following me, on mine.

I have no business being jealous of R' Hiyya and his pals. He's got nothin' on me. But I am truly and deeply jealous. I mean, being an anthropologist is one great encounter after another, sure—in a universe where everything, everything is very good data.  There's no truth, no falsehood. There's only perspective. And that's what I collect.

Still. It would be nice not to have to go it alone so much of the time.

So I dream of R' Hiyya dreaming of Joseph, and Joseph who's dreaming up a storm. I dream of my father and his love affair with adventure. My protector, the collector, the museum director. I'm in India with them. Or Egypt. I'm in Tunisia—finding the Maltese mermaid chanukkiyah for him. (That's me playing Bogart playing the garment of my dad). Finding—finding the Maltese mermaid
—for my father.

I'd do anything, anything at all for my father.

And now, we're on the Island of Djerba. And now, the Middle Atlas. And it's Paris. Tracking down some ancient enameled fibula made by Jewish jewelers in Tiznit on the edge of the desert. I'm a child, in the Mother Lode—and we're searching for cemeteries. Trying to find every last one of them...

Open your eyes. What was the passage again? I think I was dreaming.

And so it goes.

Level 3. We're in Castile, land of my ancestors. It's the 13th century outside. But then again, here in Toledo, it's always the 13th or 14th century outside. The tourists love it. They say we're sitting under a shade of a tree in a garden or a grove of trees. But I don't buy it. There are no groves of trees inside the walls of Toledo. Medieval cities just weren't made that way, and it's a long climb down from the walled city to the farmlands below the mountain town. But look: there's a secret room in the back of the Santa Maria, that used to be a synagogue. And there's a shady spot in the courtyard of the Muséo Sepharad, as well. Right there, under what once must have been a trailing jasmine. So that when the wind would blow, the air would be as sweet and drunken as boys deep inside the text.

And we're sitting there, and the breeze lifts. And a bird rises—

What was the passage again—?

Level 4. There are too many people. Or maybe it's just that I don't know most of them. And of those I know, we have a study group of our own. Study group inside study group inside... And there, we sit in the Library of Beit Malkhut, well into the night, and we let our dreams wander and meet.

But we have no Reb Shim'on. And no Moses de Leon to lead us. We wander. Often very far afield. We stumble. But we can bring the dreams.

And each of the chevra in our Zohar class has something penetrating to add. And if only we could follow each and every thread to form this garment. Ah! But I don't know where we're going, and I'm not sure where we've been. I've not journeyed with these people very long—they're heading somewhere down a narrow tunnel—and I am way outside.

Anthropologist. Can't get past the problem of context.

Joseph went to Egypt. And there he encountered Nuit and Geb. Nuit held up the sky so the stars would have some room to breathe. Geb kept the earth together in one piece, below. And souls would journey between the two—upper world, underworld, in circles of transmigration, in cycles of time—solving the problem of death. And Egyptian artists painted this vision, and even the common man could be comforted by the cycle they were part of.

But the heroes of Zohar are forbidden image making, except with their minds. And so they wave their hands about, trying to conjure up the journeys of their soul. They stitch garments in the air for their astral body. But those garments, they have no form, no matter, and no substance. They are tapestries woven of the heavens themselves.

In Egypt, they could see everywhere these icons and depictions. And that's what Joseph saw. They could see the vivid, vibrant colors of the passage of their souls. Ideas and abstractions took artistic form for all to see. Geb and Nuit—as clear as day and night. Here is a picture of time. Here is the journey of our soul. It's all quite clear.

The rabbis struggle, I believe, because they cannot paint.  But no one has taken away their dreams.

And so, I dream. I dream of rabbis painting. And Joseph weaving a garment of his own. And the Levels—they collapse. Nuit holds up the heavens above. Geb supports the earth below. And in the middle Joseph, dreaming...

Is it blasphemy to want to paint a canvas instead of waving desperate fingers in the air?

Sorry, what page are we on?

ding dong the witch is dead —

Ding dong the witch is dead — and Malkah cried some, but mostly was in shock.  Malkah was sure she'd live forever, in her witchy way, casting evil spells to disable opponents and take your breath clean away.  Her magic was formidable.

If you told her about a new girlfriend, finally one you'd thought she'd finally approve, she glared and gave her curse:


You'll only hurt her.

And from her mouth to God's ear, that would become the truth.

If she asked you, well, when she's dead do you promise to live in the house and keep it exactly as is, everything in its place? And you're evasive, and talk about how beautiful the dome of the Great Room would be with the ancient Egyptian goddess Nuit painted across the ceiling along with deep blue sky and gold and silver stars — she'd respond with her signature,

I'll curse you from the grave.

Scary shit.  Because when she said it, it sounded really real. Not something you could laugh at.  Not something she'd smile about afterwards.  More like you better duck right now because the sky is falling. Or it will be soon.

She liked to assert preemptive control from the afterlife a lot in those days.

But then, something strange happened as she lay dying for a few years.

She got nicer. Supportive.  Still scary. But scary helpful, instead of scary scary.  She insisted on helping.  On being there for you. On healing you. On telling you how to heal, like you had no idea how to take care of yourself.

Imperious never went away.

Demanding. Penetrating. Glaring.  Regally holding court from her hospital bed.  Looking all the queen of heaven and earth.  She glowed as she reigned. She captured and she captivated. And she still cursed, of course.  You don't give up power like that so easily, right?

But she softened.  Or rather, she let her soft side show.  Well, maybe not to everyone, but at least to Malkah, who was shocked beyond words.  She gave Malkah compliments.

Who knew you could be so competent? she'd say.

I can't believe you're still here taking care of me!  She'd say. Expecting her daughter to up and go poof any second now.

In truth, she had cause not to expect Malkah's care for her at all.  How many of the hired help had up and fled in tears after her rebuke and wildfire rage?  And these were trained professionals, or well, some of them were, with experience of the abuses the elderly can mete out on others.

Ah, that wicked wicked tongue! She was so proud of it.  She boasted of it. Repeated to Malkah over and over some nasty thing she'd said to some good friend or other. And Malkah always wondered why those folks they stuck around.

She loved cursing them. In writing, especially.  How many people have kept copies of her loquacious and lengthy curses?  She was a poet after all. She had a well-oiled facility with words.

Abra-ca-dabra.  I create as I speak. Just like God, the poet uses words to bring evil and good into the world. Which is why it's good idea to keep your mouth shut no matter what just in case you can't tell the difference.

I was silent.  For months on end, I could not write nor speak a word.  I was stunned at her departure.  Yes, I put my shovel full of dirt upon her grave, as did we all, still expecting her to rise once more. To direct me. Forbid me. Coerce me. Condemn me. Demand of me. And to critique my posture, when she just couldn't think of anything else to say.

And then suddenly she was nice. Just like that.

It wasn't her seductive nice that she saved for handsome men.  No, it was the nice that comes from just plain letting go of forcing the world into her mold, her blueprint and requisite dimensions.

Well, okay, I overspoke.  Suddenly she was nice to Malkah at least.

I wonder if this is what Confession is for in religious traditions not my own.  Does letting go bring purity or relief? Especially at the end of life?  I have no idea.  But she let go. She cut the umbilicus that tethered Malkah to her rages.

I'm left here with an emptiness, a dearth of evil.  It seems to be entirely gone inside my being.  No curses from the grave (not even mild admonitions) press down upon my shoulders.  The world feels emptier now.  And emptiness became a theme upon her exit from her gilded stage.

I emptied out her house and gave away or sold her things.  I took the orphaned plants into my garden and watched them up and bloom.  I got a lot of help dismantling her universe. The emptiness feels almost Buddhist in its peaceful glory.

Malkah sold her house to a family of Egyptians.

I'm hoping they'll paint the ancient goddess Nuit upon the dome of that extraordinary Great Room. With deep blue skies and gold and silver stars twinkling from above the vaulted hall.  Bringing peace on earth, of course, and good will to absolutely all.