The Great Glass Elevator

The air vaporises as he exhales, his facial protrudents are fresh and cold, icy cold. The wooden bench slats each neatly arranged just over an inch apart, dig into his cold hands that are sandwiched beneath his thighs. The glass elevator endlessly shuttles organisms, up and down. Madness, sheer madness, he thinks.

It is a new building, quite perfect, quite beautiful, with its huge front wall of glass allowing him to sit outside and observe. The adjacent bench on which he sits, how appropriately placed. The huge glass wall eight storeys high and a vast uncountable number of rooms and halls across. All of which exist so that he can sit on the adjacent bench, and gaze.  So that he can observe the madness, the futility.

On the second and third floor, books, thousands upon thousands of them, lined up in long arrays.  Ink upon paper that is all they are. Organisms quite a few of them standing erect, hold them and stare. Stare upon those shapes of ink dotted upon those sheets of paper, meshed together, bound.

The wall of glass, is not a single pane. A steel checkered frame, holds each sheet. Joints welded and angles screwed, thousands of them, so that he can sit on the bench outside and observe.

White coats, organisms wear, the room bright, clean yet messy colourful yet bleak. Some have hair cropped short and some long. Some have curved bodies, and some quite flat. They seem to do stuff in pairs. There seems to be no pattern, no rule. But white coats they all wear. They measure they record, they chart they heat. Flames burn blue, tubes are orange, glass containing coloured fluid. Some tubes rest, others spin, the spinners rotate at various speeds.  All in front of the huge glass wall, so that he can sit on the bench outside and observe the madness, the futility.

Down below, organisms sit upon frames of metal with fabric seats. Light on a screen, the focal point seems to be. All eyes are upon the light and must reflect the same light dance. Yet one organism stands again erect. No order no rule if all sit why must one stand. He talks and gestures, they listen.

The light seems to show a tree, a tree. That all for a tree. Organisms, eighty? more?, all sit and focus on a tree, reflected on a canvas, by a light that hangs on the underside of the floor above.

The floor above has black-grey cubes. In front of each cube an organism sits. They press and push buttons on a tray. The cube also reflects some light. Various pigments he cannot tell what on them they see. But they are silent. No movement and no motion. Wait, one has just got up, he walks to a large grey tower. It has a mouth, its tongue is paper. The organism removes the tongue, and returns to his cube.  All in front of the huge glass wall, so that he can sit on the bench outside and observe.

How did organisms achieve this level of orderly disorder? He wonders and reflects. Such beauty, such perfection such entertaining madness. The elevator still shuttles organisms, up and down.

Organisms as these have designed elevators, glass panes, cubes that reflect light, that reflect trees as they hang from above. They have designed huge glass walls, white coats for work, structures storeys high. Structures that stand and do not fall. They learn to build, to draw, and to map from beyond this glass sheet.

Organisms such as these, must have designed much of what he sees. Organisms such as these, people, real people, learn to heal the sick, how to grow crops and trees in the abundance that there is.

There is no elevator at his Yeshiva, Yeshivas Lekach Tov. There is no huge glass wall, no perfect checkered frame, no bench outside. No one gazes from outside in. No one gazes from inside out.

Organisms such as these, must have built Yeshivas Lekach Tov. Why did they omit the huge glass wall, and the perfect checkered frame. Why is there no bench outside.

It has begun to rain. His face is wet. He gets up and parts from the huge glass wall. The organisms are still there, although no one watches them from the adjacent bench, and the elevator still shuttles organisms, up and down.

He quickens his pace and gets on the bus,  a cube, a cube on wheels he thinks. A cube that organisms such as those he had observed have designed.

In Yeshivas Lekach Tov it is said with fervour:

אנו משכימים והם משכימים,

אנו משכימים לדברי תורה, והם משכימים לדברים בטלים

אנו עמלים והם עמלים,

אנו עמלים ומקבלים שכר, והם עמלים ואינם מקבלים שכר

אנו רצים והם רצים,

אנו רצים לחיי העולם הבא, והם רצים לבאר שחת

We rise and they rise,

We rise to words of Torah, and they to words of futility,

We toil and they toil,

We toil and gain pay, and they toil and gain no pay,

We run and they run,

We run to the life of the world to come, and they to the wells of oblivion.

Yet, why is there no huge glass wall, no perfect checkered frame, no bench outside.  Why is it that no one gazes from outside in?

No one gazes from inside out but he. Why? Do they really think there is nothing to see?