Last night as I listened to Keane's Killeresque "The Lovers are Losing" I had visions of what the cover of my 2nd book ("The Holocaust") might look like. It was vivid. It was ascendant. And it was charged with light.
And then I remembered back to when I was a little boy. Six years old. At Aunt Muriel and Uncle Hymie for Friday Night dinner. The Yom Kippur War was raging. Everyone was serious. Shocked. Kind of numb.
I remember a photograph on the cover of the newspaper. An Israeli soldier, head bandaged, sitting on top of a tank. This made me feel good in a way. And tender. I think he was smiling. Perhaps waving. This was a long time ago but I do remember that, also, I was afraid. Afraid like when, staring out my bedroom window at night, I thought I saw tsotis climbing over our fence.
(A similar kind of fear or unease that I felt, suddenly and for no good reason at all, when, in a dream, I was playing backgammon with Matthew Zapruder, drenched in beautiful, gold sunlight...
Months ago I dreamed that I was at a banquet. Like a Jewish wedding. Everybody dancing and singing. And suddenly Matthew Zapruder's got the mic and he's announcing that I've just won some big prize and he's holding up a trophy and he's beaming. And we're embracing. Matthew Zapruder. And I. Embracing.)
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