Before an event which interrupted my account, I was telling the story I had recently started, about my dozen years homeless. Yes, it so happens to be an interesting number like twelve, a dozen, three sets of four, two of six, six couplets. Two and ten.
You're not interested in numerology? So sorry. This has been a secret fascination of mine for years. One of my acquaintances on the streets of Memphis was a Black man, a Moslem but not a Black Moslem, better he can be described as Sufi. I wish I could remember his name.
He was steeped in the lore of the Qabalah. (This was way before the revival of interest in the Qabalah, years before it was known Madonna was into it). About as much as any amateur scholar who hasn't been lucky enough to learn his Hebrew or Arabic, who hasn't been Yeshiva educated. He and I had some good talks in Midtown, walking the dark streets of Memphis, occasionally in a cafe' or the Piggly Wiggly on Madison.
Strange to say... oh never mind. Time will reveal all things.
On the subject of surviving homeless, and on the subject of scholars, Qabalah, philosophy, you see, a place like a library or a cafe that lets a solitary man or woman sit at at place nursing a cold cup of something, or even so lucky as to get the occasional refill of coffee or water, is a boon to the survival of the spirit as well as a place to rest, to get out from the weather, to be safe from assaults.
My wife has gone to bed, to get some precious sleep before she wakes to go deliver the newspapers. She had wanted some company, just to feel able to fall asleep. I must go now. Bonne nuit, o monde, o peuple.
Recent Comments