Yeshiva University - Masmid Yearbook (New York, NY)

Page 16 text:

14 MASMID %de By A. Herbert Greenberg Youth T IS the youth in me, seething like ' TTjf carefree laughter stemmed by a re- 1 straining palm, that is drawn to the J vigor of the ocean. We exchange secrets and histories and often ar t- less boasts until the hush of the sunset puts weariness into our talks. And then we dream. In my dreams the longings I have confided to the ocean are fulfilled — and I always feel the near- ness of the ocean. At sunset the ocean is mighty. The setting sun showers it with golden tints. At the edge of this gold-strewn expanse the sun sinks like a fiery galleon, to be lost in the cold bosom of the sea. Then a breeze freshens and the ocean laps soft lullabies and caressing endearments. . . The ocean is sincere — with the sincerity of Dostoyevsky ' s Idiot. Sometimes, when the ocean is raging and bellowing, I sit on the beach with my knees clasped and I exult in its mighty idiotic fretting. Its moods are not intensified or dissipated by pretentious thoughts. They are spasms of naive outbursts and — presto! they are spent. The enormous strength surging through its bosom can be surly, and it can gurgle like a cooing child — as if its burly spirit were being curbed by our God of Tides. Then the ocean is silent and hides deeply within itself. And I watch it and I am amused, for I know its mood will pass like a fleet, chill breeze, and its quips and pranks return. The ocean is a fine story-teller. It boasts of sturdy seamen who had set out along its shores in frail vessels. The ocean laughed at their puny, futile voyages. In cruel, capricious amuse- ment it tossed their tiny vessels against cliffs or swallowed them into its depths. And once in pure fun it let a dreaming sailor from Genoa traverse its wide bosom. . . . Then ships with metal sides undertook the same voyages; darkening the heavens with black smoke and spattering the ocean with oil. Their proud efforts were amusing and very often an- noying. What had been before a prank was now becoming commonplace. And the ocean would heave its mighty shoulders and would swallow a ship and its terror-stricken passengers in a mighty gulp. Survivors claimed they had heard screams of hysteria rising from the ocean; but the ocean knew it was no hysteria they had heard. It was only a chuckle. . . . That was my youth ' s version — the impetuous, carefree version of my youth. Age Many years have elapsed and I have become old and feeble. Cares have taken me away from the ocean. The flush of water through a faucet makes me start at times with pangs of memories. I see my ocean evaporating — and its water run through labyrinthean pipes; its freshness tum- bling into fetid, rusty sinks, its green clearness in clean tiled basins. Then the heavens mollify the fretting ocean with stinging downpours of rain. And the ocean smarts with the joy of the sting- ing and lashes and fumes in maniacal ecstasy. But I am old and feeble. I despair to think of how my mind has become musty and worn, while the ancient, childish ocean lives so vigor- ously — perennially young. I sometimes feel the ocean has fooled me. Our talks seem to have been just puppy-tales and not the mighty confidences I used to enjoy. I still long, nonetheless, for the ocean ' s companionship Besides, my youth has passed so blandly and with such soothing indifi erence. . . . My life has receded into the impotence of retrospect. I cannot come to grips with myself I cannot identify the laughing, mythical youth who spent carefree hours musing with the ocean a half-century ago. Eternities seem to have passed before me and they are merely chipped fragments of colossal existence. I have hoped that the ocean would grow aged, too. It would be nice for two o!d friends to bask in the sun- shine and swap stories. Across arid waste-lands, through bustling cities and finally to the brink of the ocean — exultant! So Balboa must have felt when he gazed across the huge expanse of peaceful waters that sep- arated him from the horizon. My own waters are peaceful, too, now. Night is falling and above the oppressive hush I can hear the soft, endless lapping — like a m-ghty cat lapping up milk. It soothes me, that lapping! Like a mighty, passive cat lapping up the edge of the beach with inward peace and ease. It has set a chord athrobbing within mc and a gu ' p at my throat. Between its lapping I can feci the staid, mystic ocean telling me: It is the beginning of all things. The Spirit

Page 15 text:

MASMID 15 of God moved upon the face of the waters — the purity, the deep fathoms of the waters. . . . Generations come and generations go and every- thing stands in place; but the Spirit of God had moved upon the face of the sacred waters and had left there the silent wisdom of His creation. Impetuous generations, heedlessly unaware of the sentiment of the creation of the ocean where the Divine had traced the infinite permanence and the order of things. Generations are feeble, everything is moving, hurtling — except the silent, permanent waters. Creation astounds me — its simplicity, its utter permanence and enduring wisdom and aloofness from trivialities. My Bible and Koheleth are forgotten. The ocean is telling me all this! Night has fallen silently. The lapping goes on incessantly and omnipresently. I am not iso- lated and querulous any more. I am part of the rhythm of the lapping, I am part of the glow of the reflected moon, I am part of the vast ex- panse of ocean. No! I feel equally vast and immense. But time is moving. Night will fade into day and with it this night ' s glamour. Every moment now is pregnant with fervor and futile understanding. I see now that it is the transcen- dental that stirs me; the groping in the darkness that hurts and enthuses me. Tonight alone will remain poignant for me forever; it cannot be utterly dispelled by the dawn. Nor can it be continued by the dawn for the beguiling, insipid cares of Life ' s living will shackle me. Life will blur my vision and my brain become unwieldy. If time could but stop now and things cease to be. Despair is my pain and refuge. I know there will shackle me. Life will blur my vision and I suffer with the knowledge of their inevitable regime. I would evade life in the rapture of my despair — like heavy clouds crammed into my head. Stop! This treachery is within me. I seek refuge in the gloom of the shadows, but time will pierce them. Then I will have sad, recurring memories but not the intense melan- cholia of shrugging off life. Bah! The utter will be more moods, oppressive with reality; and treachery of everything! DIARY There are times we set out in the morning, Open-mouthed, for light; And we are prepared to gulp down The sun in the heavens With the thirst of a giant To quench the emotions of youth. And times come when there falls upon our heads But one solitary ray; And our souls, from this small quantity of light. Bow down, become weary, Yearn for darkness, And, subdued, retire into the shadow. B. Z. A.

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MASMID 15 of God moved upon the face of the waters — the purity, the deep fathoms of the waters. . . . Generations come and generations go and every- thing stands in place; but the Spirit of God had moved upon the face of the sacred waters and had left there the silent wisdom of His creation. Impetuous generations, heedlessly unaware of the sentiment of the creation of the ocean where the Divine had traced the infinite permanence and the order of things. Generations are feeble, everything is moving, hurtling — except the silent, permanent waters. Creation astounds me — its simplicity, its utter permanence and enduring wisdom and aloofness from trivialities. My Bible and Koheleth are forgotten. The ocean is telling me all this! Night has fallen silently. The lapping goes on incessantly and omnipresently. I am not iso- lated and querulous any more. I am part of the rhythm of the lapping, I am part of the glow of the reflected moon, I am part of the vast ex- panse of ocean. No! I feel equally vast and immense. But time is moving. Night will fade into day and with it this night ' s glamour. Every moment now is pregnant with fervor and futile understanding. I see now that it is the transcen- dental that stirs me; the groping in the darkness that hurts and enthuses me. Tonight alone will remain poignant for me forever; it cannot be utterly dispelled by the dawn. Nor can it be continued by the dawn for the beguiling, insipid cares of Life ' s living will shackle me. Life ■will blur my vision and my brain become unwieldy. If time could but stop now and things cease to be. Despair is my pain and refuge. I know there will shackle me. Life will blur my vision and I suffer with the knowledge of their inevitable regime. I would evade life in the rapture of my despair — like heavy clouds crammed into my head. Stop! This treachery is within me. I seek refuge in the gloom of the shadows, but time will pierce them. Then I will have sad, recurring memories but not the intense melan ' cholia of shrugging off life. Bah! The utter will be more moods, oppressive with reality; and treachery of everything! DIARY There are times we set out in the morning, Open-mouthed, for light; And we are prepared to gulp down The sun in the heavens With the thirst of a giant To quench the emotions of youth. And times come when there falls upon our heads But one solitary ray; And our souls, from this small quantity of light. Bow down, become weary. Yearn for darkness. And, subdued, retire into the shadow. B. Z. A.