I hate Judaism; I hate it so much. The division of life into days and weeks, seasons and years, all under the constant flowing and ushering of our prayers and stars: "Baruch ata adonai, hamavdil ban yom ovan layla", "baruch ata adonai, hamavdil ban kodesh lechol"; Rosh Hashanah, followed by Yom Kippur; the clean slate, followed by the steady accumulation of sins; each year, mourning for the lost Temple, each year, celebrating in the giving of the Torah; the Torah, a book of truth, a book of wisdom for the ages, perfect in every word, complete, whole; the prophets, the first givers of sermons, the first admonishers, the first rabbis; the wisdom of Solomon for every occasion, the weddings and Song of Songs; birth, life, death, and the cycles of the seasons: "Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances, / ripeness and decadence; and home to the mother"; the Talmud and the accumulation of commentaries, proof of the enduring cycle.

But looking on it all, only the words of the Kohelet remain constant throughout, seem to predict the end: "O vanity of vanities; all is vanity"; in the end the cycle spins out of itself, out of control, out into eternity -- the coming of the m'shiach, the ressurection of the dead, meaning: death is joined with life, the poles of each cycle are dissolved together, the tension between suffering and joy that holds up the world collapses finally as if all of this life, all of this creation, were simply the woof and warp of an old lady's scarf threading meticulously between two spindles; and she will bunch them together and decide finally to put it away, the work -- she closes her eyes and she sleeps -- or she heaves a last breath and dies on the beat up couch, the apartment filled with cats, the ancient antiques, the crusty carpets, stained, and the beat up furniture.