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ph_logs2024-03-24 05:28 pm
daemoniumexmachina) wrote in ph_logs2024-03-24 05:28 pm
March Sadness
Who: Efrain, the Prince of Sorrow's Song, and you!
What: Sadboy open mic night
When: March 24th
Where: Empty Pockets
Warning(s): I'm not sure how to describe it other than it's a huge bummer.
-Lover, come to the kitchen floor; the tiles are cold and so am I-
In late March, posters begin cropping up around town and on the bulletin board. They are beautifully made, on gray paper with swooping white letters, advertising a "Sing Your Heart Out" event at the Empty Pockets Performance Bar.
The bar in question, seated in a cozy location in Downtown Hollow, is well known for hosting musical, theatrical, and poetic talent of all sorts on its stage. Many of them are planned, but "open stage nights" are fairly common as well. So when the posters begin appearing, advertising an opportunity for residents to come and showcase or simply enjoy emotionally vulnerable music and poetry as a community bonding exercise, it comes as no particular surprise. The staff aren't sure who planned it, nor were they informed it would be occurring, but hey. It's an opportunity for them to sell more drinks. They don't intend to look a gift horse in the mouth.
And so it is that on the evening of March 24th, performing arts lovers of Pumpkin Hollow come to Empty Pockets to move or be moved by songs and sonnets that tug upon the heartstrings. It's a quirky event, and strange that it'd be so popular. Were this many people looking for an emotional outlet by happenstance? Or did those with sorrow in their hearts feel called by some unheard song?
Empty Pockets is a dimly lit space, intimate and close. A carved wooden bar, polished with care, features a winding piece of wall art, little marble tiles in black and white, cut to look like piano keys, sprawling in a flowing trail along the well-stocked backbar. Cormac Bowen, of Cormac and the Banshees, can be seen chatting excitedly before his act, banjo strapped to his back as he downs a pint and jokes with anyone he talks to. Before too long, he and the aforementioned "banshees" ascend the stage, happy to be the opening act as they play some of their more emotionally stirring pieces.
Get comfortable. Grab a drink. Enjoy the scene. It won't be peaceful for long.
-I can feel your sorrow pouring out of your skin; and I don't want to be alone-
Not long after Cormac and the Banshees excuse themselves from the stage, the bar becomes... strangely quieter. As if a shroud of grey has fallen over the crowd, hushing it by just a few decibels.
A band of strange people file onto the stage, hardly noticed by the crowd despite their unusual appearances. A starkly pale woman wearing a blindfold, dressed all in lace and gossamer finery and wearing a halo-like crown over her veil. A grey-skinned man whose mouth and chest are fitted with shiny brass piping, which looks terribly painful. And lastly, a shrouded figure with four arms, carrying a massive stringed instrument decorated with skulls. The group does not introduce themselves, or even announce the start of their act, they simply begin to play.
First, the man with the heart of brass begins to sing a low note, which presses air through all the pipes to sound like a harmonization between a hurdy gurdy, an organ, and a tuba. The shrouded figure takes a bow to his strange instrument, which creates a unique and eerie sound that blends the deep, rich tones of a bass with the sliding, mysterious notes of a dilruba or sitar. And at last, the woman begins to sing, her haunting voice climbing and descending through numerous octaves with unrivalled skill, her Latin lyrics telling a tale that cannot be understood, but felt.
It is the most beautiful music you have ever heard. You are immediately filled with the urge to weep, your heart breaking for a memory you can't quite reach, a life you never lived, a moment you forgot, a loved one whose face you can no longer picture. The pain overwhelms you. The desire to wrench your heart from your chest simply to get it to stop aching, because the pain of its severance would be tame compared to the emotional torment you suffer, becomes very real in your mind. And then the song ends, and more painful than the sound of the song is its loss.
You must find a way to release it.
-So take from me, what you want, what you need-
Efrain and his band vacate the stage, leaving it opened. It calls to you, even if it hadn't before, though you very well may have come here with a song in mind. However, now releasing your pain into the room feels imperative, like there's something rotting you from the inside if you don't. Or you can simply opt to turn to the person next to you and spill your pain to the nearest person. The idea of leaving simply... doesn't occur to you. As if this is all that matters.
Efrain himself sits in the corner. He reaches out a hand to you. "You poor, miserable soul," he croons, his voice soft and breathy but somehow still crisp and clear. He beckons you near. "Come to me. Sing your song of pain. And I will give you what you need."
What: Sadboy open mic night
When: March 24th
Where: Empty Pockets
Warning(s): I'm not sure how to describe it other than it's a huge bummer.
-Lover, come to the kitchen floor; the tiles are cold and so am I-
In late March, posters begin cropping up around town and on the bulletin board. They are beautifully made, on gray paper with swooping white letters, advertising a "Sing Your Heart Out" event at the Empty Pockets Performance Bar.
The bar in question, seated in a cozy location in Downtown Hollow, is well known for hosting musical, theatrical, and poetic talent of all sorts on its stage. Many of them are planned, but "open stage nights" are fairly common as well. So when the posters begin appearing, advertising an opportunity for residents to come and showcase or simply enjoy emotionally vulnerable music and poetry as a community bonding exercise, it comes as no particular surprise. The staff aren't sure who planned it, nor were they informed it would be occurring, but hey. It's an opportunity for them to sell more drinks. They don't intend to look a gift horse in the mouth.
And so it is that on the evening of March 24th, performing arts lovers of Pumpkin Hollow come to Empty Pockets to move or be moved by songs and sonnets that tug upon the heartstrings. It's a quirky event, and strange that it'd be so popular. Were this many people looking for an emotional outlet by happenstance? Or did those with sorrow in their hearts feel called by some unheard song?
Empty Pockets is a dimly lit space, intimate and close. A carved wooden bar, polished with care, features a winding piece of wall art, little marble tiles in black and white, cut to look like piano keys, sprawling in a flowing trail along the well-stocked backbar. Cormac Bowen, of Cormac and the Banshees, can be seen chatting excitedly before his act, banjo strapped to his back as he downs a pint and jokes with anyone he talks to. Before too long, he and the aforementioned "banshees" ascend the stage, happy to be the opening act as they play some of their more emotionally stirring pieces.
Get comfortable. Grab a drink. Enjoy the scene. It won't be peaceful for long.
-I can feel your sorrow pouring out of your skin; and I don't want to be alone-
Not long after Cormac and the Banshees excuse themselves from the stage, the bar becomes... strangely quieter. As if a shroud of grey has fallen over the crowd, hushing it by just a few decibels.
A band of strange people file onto the stage, hardly noticed by the crowd despite their unusual appearances. A starkly pale woman wearing a blindfold, dressed all in lace and gossamer finery and wearing a halo-like crown over her veil. A grey-skinned man whose mouth and chest are fitted with shiny brass piping, which looks terribly painful. And lastly, a shrouded figure with four arms, carrying a massive stringed instrument decorated with skulls. The group does not introduce themselves, or even announce the start of their act, they simply begin to play.
First, the man with the heart of brass begins to sing a low note, which presses air through all the pipes to sound like a harmonization between a hurdy gurdy, an organ, and a tuba. The shrouded figure takes a bow to his strange instrument, which creates a unique and eerie sound that blends the deep, rich tones of a bass with the sliding, mysterious notes of a dilruba or sitar. And at last, the woman begins to sing, her haunting voice climbing and descending through numerous octaves with unrivalled skill, her Latin lyrics telling a tale that cannot be understood, but felt.
It is the most beautiful music you have ever heard. You are immediately filled with the urge to weep, your heart breaking for a memory you can't quite reach, a life you never lived, a moment you forgot, a loved one whose face you can no longer picture. The pain overwhelms you. The desire to wrench your heart from your chest simply to get it to stop aching, because the pain of its severance would be tame compared to the emotional torment you suffer, becomes very real in your mind. And then the song ends, and more painful than the sound of the song is its loss.
You must find a way to release it.
-So take from me, what you want, what you need-
Efrain and his band vacate the stage, leaving it opened. It calls to you, even if it hadn't before, though you very well may have come here with a song in mind. However, now releasing your pain into the room feels imperative, like there's something rotting you from the inside if you don't. Or you can simply opt to turn to the person next to you and spill your pain to the nearest person. The idea of leaving simply... doesn't occur to you. As if this is all that matters.
Efrain himself sits in the corner. He reaches out a hand to you. "You poor, miserable soul," he croons, his voice soft and breathy but somehow still crisp and clear. He beckons you near. "Come to me. Sing your song of pain. And I will give you what you need."
he's more than welcome to!
He sizes them up in turn. The names ring something of a bell, and when his eyes find the yarmulke, the cogs sluggishly turning in his head spin a little faster.
"Oh! You're the rabbi, yes? I saw your flyer. I meant to speak with you earlier than this, but--" a muffled cough through a face mask and his arm, "--I've, ah... been a little busy. Please forgive me for showing up like I have. I thought I would just escape from my bed for a while and listen. The night hasn't quite turned out like I expected it to."
Mulcahy pauses, working out how to introduce himself and answer them. He nods politely to both Anzu and Rov Morgenshtern. "My name is Father Mulcahy. I'm a priest. The Judge of that song is the Lord our God, Jesus Christ."
will tag in with Anzu's account when he has anything to say directly, then!
Lev and Anzu exchange glances, then look at Father Mulcahy—Father Mulcahy? Priest?
Anzu, noticing the dog collar, catches on quicker than his husband, having lived in Lita, where the Universal rite of the Apollonians holds firm—he nudges Lev, and whispers, in Yiddish, "I think, kitten, he's a fisher of men."
Lev, who's only ever seen the Eastern rite priests, doesn't think Mulcahy looks like a priest, but decides that, given that he doesn't always look like people's idea of a rabbi (the fact he can't grow a beard being the most common stumbling block), he's in no position to quibble.
But then, if this man's a rıbak priest, and knows what a rabbi is, then why's he being so friendly? And for that matter, who is—
"Um, like," says Lev, a little awkwardly. "Thou hast us at a disadvantage. I'm sorry to hear of thy illness—" he considers offering to say MiSheberakh, then decides that can wait until later. "Uhm, like, nu. Pardon mine ignorance, but thy lord and god ... who?"
He's got some knowledge of Hellenic, mostly via trying to read the old secular translation of the TaNaKh—but what's a priest doing, talking about anointing with oil? Why is he referring to this mysterious anointed character in a manner heard countless times at Shakhris and Minkha and Ma'ariv?
Maybe it's for the best, all things considered, that Lev and Anzu's first encounter with Christians is someone as dedicated to interfaith dialogue and co-existence as Father Mulcahy.
no subject
"The Lord Jesus Christ," he repeats. "I, ah, don't suppose you're familiar with Catholics?" Wait, he's got to be less specific-- "Or Christians, for that matter...?"
Anzu has added two and two and gotten negative four
It's Anzu who realises first, given that he has some knowledge of the language of Rome, and that he's studied what Mulcahy may recognise as the language of the Gospels, but what Anzu knows as a language once spoken by some Jews as a vernacular, useful for reading obscure old texts from one of the trillion little movements from the last decades of the Second Temple.
As he puts the pieces together, his expression grows more and more bewildered, and then for just a brief moment, he looks alarmed and sad. Eventually, he says, carefully, "darling, please be alarmed not, but I must ask. How is our Temple doing? Went'st thou by in recent years, or dwell'st thou in Bovel and beyond?"
His husband, the rabbi, who always took the stance of if it wasn't in the Masoretic Text or in the Talmud or if my grandmas didn't know about it, it's not relevant to me, stands by, still bewildered.
no subject
“… Beyond, I suppose—I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of a place known as Bovel.”
He takes a moment in thought.
“I-I believe we may… ah, if I may, would you please tell me of your home? What year is it by the calendar you use? What are your cities, what has been happening lately in the world?”
no subject
Anzu bites his lip, now having serious doubts about the conclusion he jumped to, and then says, hesitantly, "it was 5786 by ours, and 2026 by the Julian and Gregorian. Nu, darling, just, ah. The name thou mentioned ... I took thee for ... ah." He shrugs, and gestures. "I took thee for an Essene. Or I suppose thou might be of the Manichaeans, though ah, I rather recall they're not too fond of us, by and large. And the Ishmaelites, they call the man something else, and he's hardly central to them."
He's very close to the mark, and yet, he has no idea just how far off said mark he really is.
He looks up at Fr Mulcahy, curiousity and bafflement written starkly on his face. He's not even bothering to control his expression—this is too strange a thing, by him.
me trying to guess what he would know as a priest in the early 1950s
"I think it's quite safe to say that if my particular faith exists in your world, you've probably never heard of it. And that's even besides the fact that the last time I was on my world, it was 1953 by the Julian and Gregorian calendar. Ah, but I have heard of the Jews and the Manichaeans, and... not the Essenes nor the Ishmaelites, although I do know of Ishmael. But my faith, the Catholics, we did originate out of Judaism, and..."
... ah! Ah! Wait! "The Julian calendar! So the Roman Empire exists for you, then? Wait, so then what event marked 'Year 0' for the Romans?"
no subject
"Exists, in the present tense? Okh, darling, I should hope not!" Anzu exclaims, and then laughs. "The Romans existed and they razed our Second Temple, and they took our menorah and the priestly breastplates and the robes, and they built a triumphant arch. Feh, a little premature for triumph, such an occasion was, but surely nobody asked me. And their Year Zero were the ..." his brow creases and then he says, a little apologetically, "I have not a clue. Something to do with the birth of the mortal vessel what would accept the spirit of their immortal sun idol, I suppose. They've been claiming the man were one of us, see'st thou? So the faith would be truly universal."
He shrugs; he's starting to put the pieces together and for once, he doesn't want to speak too carelessly. Clearly the place of the imperial sun cult was taken by something else entirely in Mulcahy's world, though the connection to the faith of the children of Yisroel is still here, clearly.
"I hold not like those what say we need a universal faith, though those what hold like that can hold as they like, nu?"
But he looks unhappy and troubled about something still. But he's not going to bring it up just yet. And in any case, it's not his faith Mulcahy's never heard of. Just the faith of friends and the more distant in-laws.