April 1, 2010
Not to worry, just foolery--seeing if I was still paying attention to this already decayed decade! As a matter of fact, so lovingly, so without tact, opening day I say: Bury Code! Bar Concentration! O Barry, lie in thy library, surrounded by spineless books without thy looks, at last at ease between Maimon and Maimonides! For this bliss is the ever-ending of the thin king, in deed (by far) the leaving of the cleaving, the passing of the BAR!
Yet this ill illuminating is just ruminating. His baseball, aging and religion become but my hymn to his acronym--each field covered before discovered, imprecise borders come from dim precise orders.
The “circus of circuitous circumstances” leading to my abandonment, my fighting alone his war against Old-timer’s Disease at the California Home, has to do (unsurprisingly, living in Codell’s so-called “world”) with nearly everything, incidentally, but last year’s twin incidents that one day, I am sure, will be commonly associated with it. For the record, these would be, on consecutive days 1) the seemingly advertant locking of the still-growing and absonant Rabbi Lipshits in the ice cream parlor on Yom Kippur, and 2) the legendary laughing fit of that ceaselessly unsmiling Bingo cheat Ida Factor during the “tendance” portion of a maieutic session with Codell, both occurrences resulting not only in evidently sudden deaths, but after the Home’s untypical investment in investigation, final absolution for one Barry Codell!
(The aforementioned affirmations will be examined hopefully in more thorough and excruciating detail in my upcoming, soon to be unpublished tome, Things That Happened to the White Sox or The Autobiography of Barry Codell.)
As a dutiful dreamer, I assume Barry’s story will end happily, if not snappily. It is, at this point of my “pointlessness” (his word), that I resolve to re-solve Codell’s allusions via my own illustrious illusions. Take, for instant instance, his ostensibly innocuous presentation of the “Proper Season” terminology in one of the “hidden in plain sight” articles on the Barry Code website. I know it is my responsibility only to unveil that reference from Clementine homily, inserted by the BAR as a “certain man,” to plant Clement’s first century letters to James in our ballgame consciousness for his Abramist purposes!
Who else to argue that my Jacob of Kfar Sachania is not Codell’s “James the Just for Fun” but the Second Jacob for whom “heaven and earth were created” and was so named “True Ruler of Jerusalem” by the Second Jedidiah (Philo Judaeus, himself renamed fourteen centuries later by that master of rhyming prose Azariah dei Ross, whose biography, retrieved from Codell’s hidden genizah, handily won last week’s book fight decision over a more academic study of Rabbi Judah Loew of Prague, de Rossi’s contrarian contemporary. All of Barry’s followers should see the condition of that old book now!)?
Unweeping, now tired of sleeping, am I a wake? For my sake, forsake! Was not today a way away? Here, I am but a cob of Jacob! O Job, is this my job? Is this the dun of a dunce? I must err and errand at once!
Abrahamically, apologetically,
Abram
