"I'm not amused," said Nathan.
"How does Israel, in all it's complexity, beauty, crisis, confusion and glory, get celebrated on its sixty-fourth birthday with one of the worst and cheesiest Beatles songs ever written? How? Why?"
Take it easy, boy. Perhaps it's a generational thing.
What's that in your mouth?
"I noticed the moon tonight, over Park Slope. That luminous sliver of light, that radiant reflection, already a memory of the sun's fire, now past. What is it about a partial moon, hanging low in the sky, that brings to mind..."
Amichai comes to mind.
" 'I know a man who took pictures of the landscape he saw from the window of the room where he loved and not of the face of the one he loved.' "
Interesting choice, old boy.
"I hear one loves in Jerusalem in that way," Nathan continued. "Bound by geographic mandates as much as by the urgency of romance. The moon, axiomatically, bridges both realities."
For a dog, you're a deeply feeling creature.
" 'I brought my children to the mound where once I fought battles, for them to understand the things I did do, and forgive me for the things I didn't do.' "
From "Anniversaries of War," one of Amichai's great series. Good choice. And yet, I know you--I'm suspicious.
"I ripped the head off a stuffed dog and tore a hole in a polar bear today. I couldn't help myself," Nathan confessed.
Nevertheless, I love you.
"Few seem to understand my occasionally irrational, dog-like instincts. I appreciate your devotion."
And I yours, pal. It must be the moon. It gives us hope.