Points and Dates

At the beginning there is a date. Not one on a calendar, but the small brown fruit that has spent months taking in heat and light.

Anyone buying dates knows the modest ceremony. Fingers touch one, reject another, choose a third. This one. It may take two seconds. The fruit took months. A surprisingly large part of human life consists of such disproportion. It is shown in my Yiddish poem at the end of 5786 on the way to 5787.

טײטלעך הענגען אױפֿן בױם און שפּאַנען זיך אָפּ,
זײ טרינקען די זון פּאַמעלעך, װערן פֿולער,
קלעפּיקער און זיסער ־
אַ טײַטל װײַזט אױף זײ תּיכּף:

Dates hang from the tree and stretch themselves out,
they drink the sun slowly, grow fuller,
stickier and sweeter –
a pointer points at them at once:

אָט דער, אָט יענער ־ נעם!,
אין אײן רגע אַלץ דאָס צוזאַמען,
װאָס האָט געדאַרפֿט חדשים צו װערן.
דער טײַטל האָט זײַן צײַט, דער טײַטל מאַכט אַ פּינטל אין דער צײַט,

This one, that one – take it!
In a single instant, all of it together,
what needed months to become.
The pointer has its time, the pointer makes a dot in time,

Yiddish gives the poem its small engine: teytl, the date-fruit, beside taytl, a pointer or indicator. One ripens; the other points. Between them comes Hebrew-Aramaic תּיכּף — teykef: immediately, at once.

Human beings use “immediately” rather generously. “I’m coming immediately” can mean seconds or considerably longer. The word itself needs time.

ער בלײַבט צװײ סעקונדעס שטײן ־ אַ דריטל,
אַ שלישייה, אַ קלײנע הפֿסקה ־
תּיכּף קען זײַן גיך, נאָר אױך אַ רגע
און עס האַלט בכּװנה,

It stands still for two seconds – a third,
a shlishiyah, a little pause –
teykef may mean quickly, but also an instant,
and it holds deliberately,

ביז דאָס אױג פֿאַרשטײט פּאַמעלעך
װאָס דער פֿינגער האָט שױן געװיזן.
דער אלף שטײט שטיל בײַם אָנהײב, לערנט זיך אָן אַ קול,
דער תּו שטעלט אַ סימן, אַ צלם, אַ קריץ ־ ביז אַהער.

until the eye slowly understands
what the finger has already shown.
The aleph stands silent at the beginning, learning itself a voice,
the tav sets down a sign, an image, a scratch – thus far.

A child can be shown an aleph in a second. Learning to read takes longer; understanding what has been read may take years. The finger is often faster than the mind.

צװישן א און תּ לױפֿט דער תּיכּף, נאָר דאָס לײענען גײט פּאַמעלעך,
אַן אות קען מען װײַזן אין אַ רגע ־ פֿאַרשטײן נעמט אָבער אָפֿט יאָרן.
און תּיכּף שרײַבט די צײַט ־ ניט קײן האָפֿענונג, ניט קײן װאַרטן,
נאָר תּיכּף אַלײן דאַרף אַ מאָל בלײַבן שטײן, כּדי מע זאָל אים פֿילן ־

Between aleph and tav the teykef runs, but reading goes slowly;
a letter can be pointed out in an instant – understanding often takes years.
And teykef writes time  – neither hope nor waiting,
yet teykef itself must sometimes stand still, so that it may be felt –

דער טײַטל רירט דעם אות, דער טײטל רײַפֿט נאָר אױפֿן בױם ־
און צװישן בײדע װערט אַ רגע לאַנג גענוג צו טראָגן צײַט.

For billions of years the world needed no calendar. Light changed, seasons turned, things grew and disappeared without knowing their dates.

Later, human memory had to live inside people. A name survived because somebody repeated it. A story travelled because one mouth told it and another ear caught it –  sometimes imperfectly. Someone forgot; someone else corrected. Memory was already transmission.

מיליאַרדן יאָרן האָט די װעלט געלעבט אָן לוח, אָן זײגער,
די צײַט איז געלאָפֿן אָן שמות און אָן אַ פּינטל,
ביז שפּעטער די נשמה האָט געצײלט זכרונות,
מױל־צו־אױער, פֿון זכּרון צו פֿאַרשטאַנד

For billions of years the world lived without calendar, without clock,
time ran without names and without a dot,
until later the soul began counting memories,
mouth to ear, from memory to understanding,

Then marks remained after the hand had gone. The dead could leave something that the living might still read.

און אותיות האָבן זיך אױפֿגעכאַפּט
פֿון שטײַן און לײַם.
און איצט בלינקן די סימנים אױף עקראַנען,
תּיכּף ־ נעם, נעם ניט, גלױב, װיש אַװעק ־

and letters rose up
from stone and clay.
And now the signs blink upon screens:
teykef – take, do not take, believe, wipe away –

Today law, גילוי – giluy, revelation, family photographs, news and jokes can appear on the same screen. Our finger approaches them with similar gestures: open, accept, reject, erase.

This does not make digital technology an enemy of tradition. Jews and Christians argued with texts long before screens existed. What has changed is the rhythm.

אַ געזעץ, אַ גילױ גײן אַריבער די ליכטיקע פּינטל־אותיות
און דער טײטל װײסט ניט
צי ער װײזט ־ צי ער באַשליסט אַ תּקופֿה.
די מײַלדכּה הערט, קוקט, לײגט אַ האַנט און װאַרט נאָך אַ דריטל,

a law, a revelation pass through the luminous dotted letters,
and the pointer no longer knows
whether it points – or decides an epoch.
The little nurse hears, looks, lays down a hand and waits another third;

Clocks are unreliable creatures. Five minutes over coffee disappear; five minutes beside someone in pain can become a small age. The meyldkhe (midwife) listens, looks, puts down a hand and waits a few seconds more for the baby.

ניט יעדער תּיכּף מײַנט שפּרינגען ־ אַ מאָל האַלט ער זיך נאָך סעקונדלעכקעס,
צװישן אַ װײ און דער קורצסטער רגע װערט אַ גאַנצע צײַט
און געװאַקסענע חדשים גײן אַריבער שמאַלע טױערן.
דער מענטש איז דאָך תּקיף, ער בױט, ער צעשטערט,

not every teykef means a leap – sometimes it holds itself for a few more seconds;
between an ache and the shortest instant, a whole stretch of time comes to be,
and months that have grown pass through narrow gates.
Man, after all, is takif, mighty: he builds, he destroys,

The body has its own teykef, and it does not always consult the clock.

Man is indeed תּקיף – takif, powerful. He blocks openings, pierces others, regulates temperature and rearranges landscapes. Then, in the desert heat, he sits beneath an air-conditioner and eats the fruit produced by precisely the climate from which he has escaped.

ער פֿאַרשטאָפּט שפּאַלטן, שטעכט לעכער,
ער קילט די היץ און הײצט די קעלט ־
דערנאָך זיצט ער אונטער אַ קילמאַשין
און עסט טײטלעך פֿון מדבר.

he stops up cracks, pierces holes,
he cools the heat and heats the cold –
then sits beneath an air-conditioner
and eats dates from the desert.

און דער קלוגער מענטש טראַכט זיך ,קרעכצנדיק:
די נאַטור דאַרף זיך שױן צופּאַסן…
דער טײַטל װײַזט אױף דער מאַפּע: דאָ טרינקט, דאָ ברענט,
תּיכּף קומען נײַע פּינטלעך ־ רױטע, שאַרפֿע ־

And clever man thinks to himself, groaning:
Nature really ought to adapt by now…
The pointer points upon the map: here it drinks, here it burns;
at once new dots appear—red, sharp –

Our maps increasingly come already annotated. A dot tells us where we are; another where to go. Colours warn of traffic, heat, fire or danger. This is immensely useful. The sign necessarily makes reality smaller.

The date, meanwhile, remains obstinately material.

דאָך דער טײטל האָט שױן דורכגעגאַנגען זײַן פסק
און קײַענדיק אים מיט פֿאַרגעניגען
פֿאַרשטײט אפֿשר אַ שכל־אין־שאַרבן אַ ביסל פֿון תּיכּף
די סודות פֿון דער בריאה…

yet the date has already undergone its judgment,
and chewing it with pleasure,
perhaps a brain-within-a-skull understands, for a little teykef,
the secrets of Creation…

This seems an appropriate situation for our שכל־אין־שאַרבן, “sense in the skull,” to contemplate בריאה – briyah, Creation. Theology, ecology and appetite have unexpectedly met in the mouth. It grants our clever human being only a little teykef of illumination.

The other taytl, however, has become restless.

אָבער דער טײַטל האָט געלערנט צו פֿיל, ער װערט נערװעז,
ער װײַזט אױף א, אױף תּ, אױף דיר, אױף מיר, אױף אלץ װאָס רירט זיך ־
תּיכּף אהין, תּיכּף אהער ־ ער שפּרינגט שױן גיכער װי אַלע געדאַנקען,
און קײנער באַגרײַפֿט צי ער װײַזט דעם װעג אָדער איז פֿאַרלױרן געגאַנגען.

But the pointer has learned too much; it grows nervous,
it points at aleph, at tav, at you, at me, at everything that moves –
teykef there, teykef here – it leaps faster now than all our thoughts,
and no one understands whether it is showing the way or has itself become lost.

There was no golden age of perfect attention before screens. People have always been impatient, forgotten things and misunderstood one another. What is new is the quantity and speed of pointing.

We receive more indications than we can interpret. The pointer races ahead; understanding arrives later.

The hand pointed before the cursor existed. It also learned to write. A child still follows a finger from one letter to another; somebody hurriedly scribbles a name; another hand writes something important and then folds the paper badly.

די האַנט שרײַבט, די האַנט װײַזט אױך: אָט דאָ,
דער פֿינגער װערט אַ טײַטל, אַ שפּיץ, אַ פּען ־
די האַנט פֿירט אַ קינד פֿון אות צו אות, קריצט סימנים אין פּאַפּיר
אױכעט אין זאַמד אָדער אײַז,

The hand writes; the hand also points: here,
the finger becomes a pointer, a point, a pen –
the hand leads a child from letter to letter, scratches signs into paper,
and also into sand or ice,

און אײן קלײַנער ריר לערנט, שטעכט, צילט ־ אָדער שרײַבט.
און אױב דער טײַטל װיל זיך נאָך אַ מאָל צעפּײַטשן איבער דער װעלט,
גיט מען אים װױל אַ טײטל: זיץ, קײַ, װאַרט נאָר אַ דריטל ־
אַ פּײַטש פֿאַרגײט, אַ װאָרט באַשטײט ־ דער פּתקאַ קומט װידער פֿון װײַטנס

and one small touch teaches, pricks, aims—or writes.
And if the pointer wants once again to lash itself across the world,
we might give it a date: sit, chew, wait just a third –
a lash passes, a word endures – the pitka comes back again from afar,

The פּתקא – pitka, the little written note, returns at the end. At the Western Wall such folded papers accumulate between the stones and are periodically removed with respect. The gesture is almost comically physical in a digital age.

Once the pitka has been pushed between the stones, the writer leaves. There is no tracking number and no button confirming receipt. The note cannot blink for attention.

This need not become nostalgia for paper. A prayer sent through a screen can be perfectly sincere. The gesture of relinquishing control is the point. The pitka carries its words somewhere and waits.

און תּיכּף עפֿנט אַ טיר, ניט צום סוף
נאָר אַן אָרט װאוּ דאָס פֿאַרבאָרגענע װערט קענטיק
עד־גמירא.

and teykef opens a door, not toward the end,
but toward a place where what was hidden becomes visible,
ad-gemira.

עד־גמירא – ad-gemira suggests completion, yet the poem does not close the door. Something hidden becomes visible without necessarily becoming completely explained.

We have travelled a considerable distance from stone and clay to luminous letters. Ancient words can now cross continents in seconds. That is an achievement, not a calamity. But immediate access has never guaranteed immediate understanding.

The finger still arrives first.

Between teytl and taytl stand two different experiences of time. The date needs sun, water and months. The pointer needs scarcely a movement. Between them stands the ordinary human being: waiting beside a bed, teaching a child a letter, touching a screen, forgetting something, chewing a date, asking someone to telephone, occasionally deleting too quickly -and sometimes understanding years after somebody first pointed something out.

Somewhere between stone and screen remains the small pitka: written, folded, pushed into a crack and left there.

The pointer can show where it lies. It cannot make it ripen.