When I was twenty-one, I walked to Stonehenge.
Not from here.
I was in England at the time. A train got me to the town of Salisbury, but then I walked across the Salisbury Plain to where the bunch of big rocks are. I'll talk about how big in a minute.
I won't get into why I was in England; it'd take too long. Let's just say I'd never been so far from home. I had already been gone weeks and weeks.
Perhaps that's why the letter I got from home that morning stung me. It was from a friend telling me how much fun she was having with another of my friends in my absence. My friends! Having fun! And I wasn't there!
So, yeah, I'm the jealous type. And jealousy's a funny emotion; it fills you with an incredible amount of energy, you feel like you could just shoot lightning bolts off the tips of your fingers. We jealous types all have to come up with ways to cope, to use that energy constructively. Me, I walked to Stonehenge.
Not on purpose. It was the cathedral's fault. I'd gotten off the train in Salisbury town. It was a bright day and the sun glinting off Salisbury Cathedral drew me to it. I'm always drawn to shiny things. "Ooh, pretty," I think. So I didn't get the bus I wanted, the one that would have taken me straight to Stonehenge. I missed it 'cause I was hanging around the church--as if there weren't churches in every other town I visited, as if there were megaliths around every corner. The next bus wouldn't come for quite a while.
I knew by the schedule the trip to Stonehenge by bus would take half an hour. Well, I'd gone places by bus in St. Louis, and then a half-hour bus trip would take me someplace four or five miles away. I figured I could walk it. So I didn't wait around. I just went--out of the town, onto the Plain. Maybe I could catch the bus along the way.
Now it's a pretty romantic place name, the Salisbury Plain. I don't know what sort of image it may conjure for you as you sit reading this, but when you're walking it--first of all, it's not designed to be walked. It's military property, that's what protects it from becoming Salisbury Suburbia, the fact that men in uniform practice killing each other on it. So there's no hiking trail. There's just the road, a two-lane highway with a weedy ditch on either side. And then past the ditch is a barbed-wire fence and then a wide expance like never-ending farmland. That's the Salisbury Plain. It's flat, it's dull, and I walked it on the road when I could and in the ditch, among the weeds and the thorns, when I couldn't. There was an occasional tree.
I probably walked four miles before it started to dawn on me that maybe this Stonehenge thing was farther away than I thought. This wasn't so much like a city bus ride with all the starts and stops, red lights and traffic. This was like a highway trip--what if the bus would be going 60 miles an hour?
The worst was not knowing how much farther I had to go. I couldn't turn around and head back without worrying I was already more than halfway there. It could be just around the next bend. But something else was sinking in--the fact that I wasn't carrying any ID, no driver's license, no credit card. I'd already bought the roundtrip bus and train tickets, so I did have a way of going back--other than that, I had 65 pence on me and I was alone in this world. On this trip I had done a few foolhardy things--I went to a punk club in Milan called the Anarchist's Laboratory and I hung out with bums in a seedy part of London--but this felt like I was really pushing it. Like this whole trip I was on a tightrope, daring myself to fall off, continually surprised when I wouldn't, trying something riskier next time.
Besides the train tickets and the 65 pence, I carried a notebook (useless because I'd left my pen on the train), a juice box and some cheese and crackers. As I walked on and on, no end in sight, my pilgrimage started taking on the character of a death march. I sang songs to keep up my spirits--folk songs with endless verses, my favorite songs by my favorite bands. I rationed the juice and crackers--one sip of juice after rounding this next bend, one cracker after five cars pass.
Tourbuses nearly ran me over (that's why I kept jumping into the ditch), several cars honked, but no one offered me a ride and I never flagged anyone down. I was going to be tough if I had to be. My only worry really--other than wondering I was on the right road--was that by the time I got to Stonehenge, it might be after 6 o'clock. Six o'clock was when the last bus would leave going back to town.
The walking, the singing and the worrying went on far longer than I can give you any sense of. Then the road I was on ended where it met another road, forming a T. A sign with a stick-figure megalith pointed toward the right, so that's where I went. Up ahead I saw a parking lot, a line of trees in the distance, and a grey something-or-other. I couldn't tell how far away the grey something was. Its proportions were confusing. It looked to be as tall as the trees in the distance, but seemed closer, but if it was closer it had to be huge, and my mind couldn't conjure anything that could possibly be that size...
And that's when I stopped in the middle of the road and my jaw dropped open. I spoke out loud. "Oh my God."
I had walked about ten miles; it had taken me three and a half hours.
And I couldn't even get close to the megaliths because I didn't have enough money on me for the tour ticket. Not that I could have touched them, anyhow--these days they are a barrier away from human contact. I stayed on the other side of a chain link fence, in the free seats as it were, with other poor pilgrims. I walked back and forth and watched the stones change configuration depending on my angle. Sometimes they were all bunched together, sometimes they were all in a line, they were always perfect.
Eventually it occurred to me I owed Stonehenge something, some measure of gratitude, so I tossed a 5 pence piece inside the fence when no one was looking. This left me, as you might have figured already, with 60p. I caught the last bus back to Salisbury and then the train back to the town of Lewes, where I was living. There was a soda machine in the first train station, and sodas were 65p. Just another of my life's little quirks.
Last time I tried to update this weblog it didn't work, so I stopped using it for a while. A while lasted rather longer than I thought it would. So now I'm going to use it again. Let the games resume...
The home computer is making funny noises. Just in case you're wondering where I went.
Later Ellen walked west, back toward her car, on another broad avenue. She kicked a wrinkly green cypress seed as she went. She was thinking of the fairy tale where a princess plays with a gold ball. The ball lands in a well and a frog rescues it for her. The frog, of course, becomes a prince by the end.
Down the path past a brightly painted wooden bridge she saw a woman on a bench. How many times does the girl in a story meet an old woman in the forest? Ellen kicked her makeshift soccer ball but it veered off course into the grass. The rules said she had to kick it back onto the path. Her aim steadily worsened. She had to chase the ball from one side to the other. She kicked it toward the bridge; it veered foul to the left. Before she reached it she heard a noise; load squirrels were quarrel-chuckling down a tree. They heard her approach and froze: one on the ground, one at the base of the trunk. They both acted like they were caught at something, as though theyíd been engaged in behavior a non-squirrel shouldnít be privy to. By the time theyíd wandered off, fake-nonchalant, Ellen had completely forgotten where the ball had landed. She gave up, crossed the bridge, approached the bench.
Passing by the woman without an acknowledgment of some kind would have been rude. She had to at least look in her direction; if the woman ignored her or returned a cold stare, she would feel no further obligation. Ellen shifted her gaze from the road to the woman, who, she discovered, was already looking at her. Perhaps she had been for some time.
The woman was wearing a white jogging suit. Hair curlers covered her headóbright blue, hot pink, green, yellow, red. Ellen returned her attention to the road after giving the woman a nod of greeting.
ìGood morning.î
Apparently a nod wasnít going to be enough. Ellen looked back. ìGood morning.î She continued walking.
îExcuse me.î Ellen stopped. ìI donít mean to bother you, I hope you donít mind, but I havenít slept all night, Iím tired, Iím wore out, Iím not drunk, people think I might be drunk but Iím not, and Iím not on drugs eitheróIím just looking for someone to talk to, surely you can understand, and I really donít mean to bother you, donít need to tell you all my business, but I was trying to get to Kansas City, thatís where my baby is, but now Iíve got a house on Shenandoah, donít need to be kicked out, oh and by the way Iím Anita.î She rose from the bench and shook Ellenís hand.
ìNice to meet you,î Ellen said without offering her name.
Anita sat back down. She had a cigarette in her hand and a plastic tumbler on the bench filled with water or something else. Also on the bench were the cigarette pack and a pile of quarters.
ìIím sorry. Iím sorry.î Anita covered her face with her hands. Ellen made encouraging noises or nodded at any of the many repetitions of ìYou understand? You get what Iím saying?î No alarm bells were going off, no appeals for money were being made, Anita was just rambling in the way anyone might ramble after a night without sleep.
ìAnd I do have a drink sometimes or a bud, that donít solve no problems, that just...mellows you out. But I donít want to go to jail.î She shook her head. Ellen was trying to figure out which of the womanís eyes was actually fixed on hers. She chose the left and ignored the eye that didnít seem to be involved in this conversation. ìDonít like jail. Donít like noplace too tight. I wanna move around. And I donít wanna have to serve nobody either. Only ones on earth I answer to are my momma and daddy. You believe in God?î
Ellen replied in the affirmative.
ìI do too. And heís a jealous God. You get what Iím saying? Donít wanna go around saying ëYessirí or ënossirí to no one else. Was telling my baby and now Iíll tell you, if you wish for it youíll get it, so watch out! Wanna go back to church. Used to sing in the choir, you believe that? Itís been a while.î
ìYou sing?î
ìWhat? Yeah, I sing. Sang with my family, used to go around singing gospel, we went all over. Just us sometimes, no music.î
ìA cappella?î
ìWhat?î
ìWill you sing for me?î
ìRight now?î
ìYeah. Sing me a song.î
ìYou donít really want me to sing...î
Ellen kept up the coaxing. The womanís shy smile told her it wouldnít take much.
ìWhat should I sing? Just any song?î
ìSure. What you used to sing. Gospel.î
ìCome here and sit. You make me nervous, standing there.î
Ellen sat on the bench and lowered her eyes, careful lest her attentiveness prove a distraction. Anita kept almost-starting and laughing.
ìI sing baritone, so this isnít gonna sound like nothing. There were all these parts, this is just what I sang:
Itís so deep
Itís so deep
Itís so deep, Lord and itís so wide
If you wanna see your mother gotta cross over the river
But itís so deep, Lord itís so deep.
Wanna hear it again?î
Ellen sang along this time. Anita guided her through another verse and showed patience toward the novice who kept trying to force the melody to meet her expectations. There voices were in perfect blend when Ellen found the right notes. The sharing of the song made each of them louder; they were confident with it now. The baritone part didnít sound so bad on its ownólonely, maybe, but only because the whole world wasnít singing too. Ellen kept remembering another wise womanís advice: ìWade in the water, itís gonna be troubled water.î
They sang it twice through, tapping time on the bench, while other walkers strolled past. And when they were done Anita laughed and Ellen laughed and they clasped hands like theyíd won a victory.
It was time for one of them to go. They said their goodbyes with a hug and promises of remembrance. Ellen sang her way to the car. Every person she met the rest of the day was smiling.
Ellenís second choice was Tower Grove Park. She had wanted to walk elsewhere, but the elsewhere she had in mind was charging an admittance fee. So she came to the park, found a place for her car near the central fountain and began her march. It had rained recently. The sky was overcast, the ground was damp. Her shoes sank at every step. Mosquitoes, she thought. I should have remembered there would be mosquitoes. It was still early in the morningóthough not as early as she would have preferredóthat was her fault for not dawdling, not the earthís fault for turning. The wet grass, the muck of it, made the journey a trudge. She reached a path and resolved to stay with it.
Ellen stopped briefly at the fountain, the pool of shallow water nearest the path, looking in at rocks and candy wrappers and a glass bottle standing upright. The bottleís neck stood above the water like the arm of the Lady of the Lake. She wondered if a message might be inside. But the trophy was too far to reach, and anyway shallow pools are breeding grounds for mosquitoes. She walked on.
She was headed east. The sun flickered occasionally behind clouds, behind the trees in full green summer leaf. The path was a wide avenue of streaked asphalt. Regularly spaced in that Victorian sense of order were wrought-iron benches, painted drinking fountains, stone bridges over drainage ditches. Ellen was trying to think of nothing in particular. On some visits she could contemplate her past history with the park or imbibe its atmosphere or release herself from a bad mood by constant motion. The plan today was simple recreation, being awake, aware, taking no distraction from present circumstance.
A car slowed down on the parallel road. Quick anxiety flashed through her but then she remembered the speed bumps. The wheels complained over the obstacle and then the car sped off.
Ellen caught a scent and with it a mood. Both the scent and the mood she found difficult to name. They had to do with a mystery about this park, what it was really beneath its seasonal faces. Sheíd come here for yearsóto bike, to picnic, to writeóhad been drawn to this orderly forest again and again, had perhaps always sensed its strange energy but had rarely attempted to name it. She struggled with the question now. She knew she had to try to pin some fragment of it down in her mind if she ever hoped to describe it to another. As she walked down the corridor with its overhang of Osage orange and maple and sweetgum, she fixed the sight of the pathís absolute, unswerving forward sweep in her memory. What word could she give this? Gothic, maybe, and autumnal, even if it was still high summer. The wild part that did not fit a rational view of the world, even if her path had been laid with fanatically geometric precision.
Something new hereóa small pond to the left with cattails and other bog plants, brown, green, high-stalked, chaotic. Beyond this another bridge, another drainage ditch. No water flowed here though, just rich textured soil at the bottom of a cut running across what had been flat landscape.
Ellen veered from the path. Sometimes, coming to this park, she followed rules. They were older or wilder or part of some private conception of a quest. They were like the rules you meet in fairy talesóyou have to go into the woods, ask directions from those you meet, be kind to the old woman who asks you for something. In turn she may give you a gift. Going into the woods seems to be an important step. Once there, you have to keep your eyes open for anything out of the ordinary. You also have to be careful when you stray off the path.
Ellen examined the banks and the course where the stream had once run. Something copper caught her eye. It was the size and shape of a scouring pad. Fairy tales didnít provide a guide for possibilities like these. Ellen in similar situations had made up her own rules. Yes, they were arbitrary, but once she decided on them she followed them. She decided the rule here was that she could not step into the place where the stream had been. (This was a convenient rule because it was likely muddy.) She looked for a stick she could use to prod the copper thingóit seemed to have some kind of tag that she couldnít see at this angle. Perhaps if the copper thing was interesting enough, she could fish it out with the stick and get some treasure out of this quest. She found a stick. Poked with it. The tag said ìCopper scouring pad.î Ellen wrinkled her brow, puzzled by the padís presence but not fascinated enough to rescue it from the ditch.
The rules said she should follow the course of the stream to the north. She had to keep jumping from one bank to the other to do this because bushes and trees kept blocking her way. It was against the rules to walk around these obstacles on the far side. Ellen traveled nearly all the way to another park path and road before she found something else sufficiently out of the ordinary. It was a tree with jade green, broadleafed ivy covering the trunk completely to the height of a man. She moved away from the bank for a closer lookóthis was permissibleóand discovered the tree was a cypress. In fact she now stood in a grove of cypresses. Another strange mood flickered just beyond her grasp. Tall, solemn trees, each removed from the othersóa grove of solitary forms. Green light, the color of spring growth, fell through the tracery of lace-soft needles. She stared, turned, blinked, listened. On another path a young man was walking a large dog. She wondered if she should try to tell him about the cypress. Was he part of this journey too? The chances were slim, she decided. Besides, she still lacked the words.
Robins were all aroundóan elderly one on the ground a few paces away, others flying from tree to tree. One piped a note and another quickly echoed it. She got out a piece of paper and wrote:
ìThe things robins say begin with one bird, travel to another, and on from bird to bird until a whole thought is expressed. No one robin owns the whole message. Sometimes a contradiction comes right in the middle, but that is all right. Rarely does a dissenting voice lead to argument.î
She could set a story here, maybe. Ellen headed back to the path. It was no longer necessary to follow the stream. Sheíd gotten what sheíd come for.
include:
reading St. Augustine sermons
doing the dishes
doing the laundry
checking jimski's marvellous site every few minutes
calling a friend to see if she'd managed to kill that wasp she was trying to kill yesterday
turning down an invitation to dinner: "no, no, I have to write"
creating a Radiohead mixtape
eating garlic cheese bread
updating this weblog
I first heard of Bill Christman because his "Stations of the Cross" were being exhibited at St. Louis' Forum for Contemporary Art. They were exceptional--the traditional Catholic meditations on different scenes along Jesus' journey to Calvary (when He fell along the way, when Simon of Cyrene helped carry the cross) rendered in neon and bold 1950s style graphics. They were deeply profound, subversive without being cynical, modern but past-honoring, and I loved them. I also couldn't forget the name. You don't forget the name "Christman" when you associate it first with the Stations of the Cross.
Later I worked for him at City Museum, on Washington Avenue in downtown St. Louis, in his Museum of Mirth, Mystery and Mayhem. (I manned a concession stand which advertised itself as the "Shrine of Shameless Hucksterism.") I've also attended concerts-cum-happenings he's staged with the band Switchback. One such event showed off a new buffalo sculpture in a neighborhood park. Attendees were encouraged to wear hobo attire, eat communal stew, and toast marshmallows at a bonfire. Naturally, this was known as the "Buffalo Hobo Inferno."
Christman's an interesting guy to know.
read Christman's comments about the artistic life here.
For St. Louis people reading this--I'm the "featured artist" at an open mic at The World Cafe this Thursday the 19th at 7. The World Cafe is in the Baraka building, 5001 Mardel near the intersection of Chippewa and Kingshighway. There's a $3 cover and a sign-up sheet for anyone who wants to bring writing to share.
Let me know if you have any special requests--I'm planning to do some of the poetry I've posted here, maybe a short prose piece or two, songs even.
Listen. It happened. I remember it.
I'm trying to convince us both. It hardly seems real anymore, but I couldn't have made it up. I can still feel the wings fanning my skin.
I was too young for a job, or between jobs, maybe. Or was it during the school year? I was in high school at the time. Maybe I was going out there after school, out to the backyard in late afternoon early evening, always around the same time, to stand at the corner of the house. I would be between the raspberry bushes and the air conditioner, just under a pattern on the bricks of the house that made me think of a sword. I'd stand and wait.
The butterfly would be there already, resting near the sword on the house or flying round the corner of the balcony.
He was a Red Admiral. His marking was like the inverse of a monarch, mostly black with spots of gold and white at the wing tips. Monarchs haunted the dark hallway between the houses where the live-forevers grew. They were skittish, vaulting from the pink star-shaped flowers at anyone's approach. Red Admirals seemed friendly by comparison, tame and companionable.
The first time--it must have been an accident. Did I startle him into flight, did he circle back as if curious? Was he testing me, could I be trusted?
I presented myself as another object in the landscape, a pillar on the lawn he'd never seen before. The butterfly went round and round, closer each time, touched my shoulder, flew off.
I knew the secret. I just had to stand still.
Day after day, I went back. My reward for patience would be to serve as a perch for some moments or minutes and to be slowly fanned by black and gold wings. I would hold my arm out, palm up, a statue-allegory on the act of offering. He rarely settled where I wanted him to.
A tiny touch, then gone. He would sense a bird shadow and take off in pursuit. He careened after whatever flew by. I finally understood what he was looking for when he chased the shadow that happened to be made by another butterfly. He flew up, they danced together, a sparrow shot past. This threw a shadow he could not resist, so he abandoned the dance to chase an impossible dream. The other butterfly dropped down to mope on me. I tried to be there for her even if I didn't know what to say. Eventually she flew away too.
I would wait, afternoon after afternoon, for either of them to return. Sometimes they would; mostly they wouldn't.
This is what I did for I don't know how long--until other things caught my interest, I suppose. But in a way I am out there even now, just barely feeling the weight as he touches my arm, just barely feeling the air move when the wings fan. Standing still, hoping the touch will come, powerless to grab tight, clutch or keep.
Go here.
It will explain everything.
Everything I lose, I mourn. There was a little brass art deco lion that may have been a stylized key. It jumped out of my pocket one winter night when I was about 11 and I have never found anything remotely like it since, though at intervals I resume the search. There was a cloissonne necklace with the Egyptian goddess Isis pictured with rainbow wings. When I lost that, I went back to the store where I had bought it and discovered that those who had made it had "broken the mold."
These are the things that have stayed lost. Sometimes things come back. This week I was on a cycle of return. I had a United Nations pin from my friend A. who had gotten it when Kofi Annan's wife visited her school--it was gone for a couple of years but I found it this week wedged in the sole of my shoe after I cleaned the apartment. (Actually, the pin I found may have been one A. lost when she came to visit me. But she says I earned this one and she's letting me keep it.) A couple of days later my friend G. asked if I wanted the pirate shirt back that he had borrowed for Halloween some years ago. I had been wondering where it had gone...
My life is chaotic, I know, and the things I own are so jumbled together and randomly scattered that they might as well be thrown into the ocean. But oceans have tides, and the detritus sometimes returns. And then I can go treasure-hunting.
The copper glint catches my eye as I step out of Vicki's car. "Ooh, lucky penny," I say, stooping to pick it up.
Seems a strange place and time for it--the wasteland of broken glass and assorted debris on the side of Highway 70, Maundy Thursday, the morning a tire on my mom's car blew on my way to work.
Had it not been potentially life-threatening the near-accident would have been funny: the only reason I was driving Mom's car was because I'd just taken mine to the shop. I was trundling happily down the highway, not a quarter of a mile from my exit, when I heard the pop and the sigh of escaping air and felt the car's insistent pull to the right.
I find the penny back where I'd abandoned the little blue Metro. I'd talked my co-worker into driving me here to wait for the tow truck. The truck has arrived. I slip my penny in my pocket and open the cab door to sign the paperwork. I see another copper glint as I hop back out. "Ooh, lucky penny."
Soon the tow truck driver is kneeling by the Metro, lug wrench in hand. I've sent Vicki back to work. I wonder how I should keep myself amused. Shall I stare into space? Nah. I look down. Yes, there's another penny, and another. I walk the strip of wasteland casually; without the slightest effort I'm up to nine pennies. Nine will never do, of course. The fee for the inconvenience of this morning is at least ten cents. The tenth is in a spot I had passed over earlier; the eleventh shows up immediately afterward. By the time the man straightens up and puts the old tire in my mom's trunk, there are seventeen pennies in my pocket, all found within about a 25-foot stretch. "Hope the rest of your day goes better," he says before driving off, and I almost laugh out loud. How could it? I'm rich!
But I find four more pennies just outside the door of the tire shop that night.
read the rest at Thunderstruck.org.
You would only notice if you were watching them carefully. Peter often stares at Jesusówe all do. The preacher does not seem to be aware of it; while he speaks he isnít looking at anyone. But if Peter turns his attention elsewhere, Jesus watches him. I suppose heís making sure Peter isnít getting into troubleóa common enough occurrence that everyone guards against it together. Itís a shame he conducts this surveillance surreptitiously, since from the look of it Peter is begging to be seen. We all are.
There is strong physical resemblance between Peter and Jesus, so strong that sometimes they are mistaken for brothers. One difference is that Jesus wears a beard; Peter sometimes does but more often savages it away with his knife. Peterís real brother, Andrew, is a bit older than him and looks more like Jonah, their gruff old father. Looking at Andrew is like meeting Peterís future. Heís one of the Twelve but not in the inner circle. ìIs he jealous of Peter because of that, do you think?î I ask Mary while contemplating whom to approach at supper.
ìI wouldnít be, if I were Andrew. Thereís so much more scrutiny of Peter, James and John. He seems content in the background.î
ìBut Peter wouldnít be content with that.î
ìPeter couldnít be hidden away if he tried.î
James and John are brothers, sons of Zebedee, an even gruffer man than Jonah. Jonah talks tough but Zebedee is a brawler, even with gray in his beard. Jesus calls him ìThunder,î so James and John became ìsons of Thunderîóa gentle mocking, perhaps, as neither of them possess much rumbling wrath. John is the youngest of the Twelve, shy, socially awkward. Jesus treats him like a beloved baby brother; in return, John is intensely loyal to him, more loyal than anyone. Whatever Jesus says, John doesóeven if it means stretching far outside what his solitary nature prefers. And it does. John is often sent in every direction running errands for the travelers. He has to bargain for supplies and arrange for sleeping quarters. He never complains, but when he returns from his missions, you canít talk to him. He has already used up all the words he has portioned out for the day.
James is Johnís opposite, as relaxed and easygoing as his brother is tightly wound. While John is youngest, James is older than the rest, including Jesus. Not much olderóage-wise the inner circle is packed tight togetheróand James projects only the faintest aura of being superior in wisdom and experience. He is the sophisticate (the first trait I thought of was arrogance); John is the child. And while his brother is so close to Jesus that they seem to communicate in thoughts alone, James is the insider on the outside. From my distant vantage point I thought he was deliberately pushing Jesus away. Now that I view him from up close, I donít know if itís that or something else.
The three of them are a unit. You never see them apart. People run their names together into one: PeterJamesandJohn. Jesus is somebody else, even when he is with him. He is the first bright spark of a falling star; PeterJamesandJohn comprise the tail trailing behind.
When I approach, theyíre eating together. Their conversation is grunts between mouthfuls. ìWhereíd Jesus go?î I ask.
ìUp the mountains,î James answers. His tone make it clear that itís all right with him if that preacher wants to wander cold in the wilderness, but he knows where to get a cheery fire and broiled fish.
ìHeís praying,î Peter says, and his tone suggests he might as well have said ìHeís sticking thorns into his flesh.î ìAt least thatís what he told us he was going to do. He goes off like this all the time. You ever come by and Jesus isnít around, tell yourself, ëHeís praying.íî
ìItíll save us the trouble of talking to you,î John says, and the others snort into their fish.
Peter scoots aside to give me a place to sit. ìDonít mind him. Ask whatever you want to ask.î His arms sweep out. ìIím feeling generous.î
Iím very good at Rorschach ink blot tests. Iíve always seen more in something than what is actually there. The walls of the kitchen, for example, have random blue splotches and interlacing strands of gold. As a child I would pick out figuresóa man putting on a coat, an elephant taking a shower. I saw a monkey in old dried glue in the stairway, a bird lying prone in the wood grain of a church pew.
In high school I went through an abstract art phase. I cut patterned blue wrapping paper into random shapes and stuck them to my bedroom walls just so I could stare at them and tease out the images.
What are these things you can see when you stare at chaos long enough? They are not images of you, but in the world they may be recognized only by you. They were not there without the inkblot, the wallpaper design, the wood panel. You give birth to the image, in a way, when you invest meaning in the random.
How many pieces of wrapping paper did I have to cut, my scissors slashing in jagged lines, sharkís teeth, before I had my favoriteóa girl admiring herself in a mirror? I took a pencil and drew her, defining her with eyes and hands to make her a shared vision, persuading others to see it too. I am into persuasion, not the veiling of meaning. This is no private revelation.
If you and I both see the girl with the mirror, she is ours.
If you ask someone, ìWhat do you think of Jesus?î expect one of only three responses. The first is that he has no opinion; the name is unfamiliar to him. (There are few who will answer this way.)
The second response is overwhelming adoration. My student Mark is a good example. He did not immediately speak in worshipful tones, but that may have been because his cautious nature prevented it. He started speaking instead of how he thought Jesus was ìa very good teacher;î he was positive but vague. Once I pressed him for details, however, his descriptions of the man grew ever more glowing. It was clear that if I had allowed it, Mark could have talked about this ìvery good teacherî until the early watches of the morning, only stopping if exhaustion felled him. Whatís more, every admirer of Jesus I met reacted the same way. I found the unanimity of responses puzzling and a little disturbing. I was talking with people of many different backgrounds, from tax men in Jerusalem to shepherds outside the Decapolis. All of them, once I mentioned Jesus, could talk of nothing else.
Then there is the last category of opinions on the subject. For those who do know who he is but have not been let in on the secret of his appeal, Jesus is a monster. It is as startling as that. I never heard, ìHe is not the kind of preacher I like, but thatís all right.î I heard, ìHe is an abomination.î
Varieties of opinion donít exist here. Anyone in any category reacts to Jesus exactly like everyone else in that category. And oneís options only include extremes: utter love, utter hate, or complete apathy. (I count even the apathy as a strong opinion because I could sense people were clinging to it. Perhaps they could sense how divisive this figure was and made up their minds not to learn anything about him.)
When I was researching the subject, I wondered what sustained the hatred. I soon discovered people grew more vehement as reports of Jesusí good works increased. At market one day I overheard an old man scoffing: ìI saw him up close, you know. He had that ridiculous smile, that ëI love you allí look in his eyes. And they said he had cast out demons. Why donít they see him for what he is?î
I did not consider this attitude very strange. I, too, had been convinced at first that all the good reports of this teacher were the product of fakery. And the better the report, the more my suspicions seemed confirmed. It didnít even occur to me to believe the things said about Jesus could be true. No one could be that good. The more healings there were, the more miracles, the more monstrous the lie became. All of my experience had conditioned me to expect nothing but insincerity.
Once I took the time to learn who he was, I knew goodness did sing in him. And yet. And yet I could not call myself a disciple. Jesus had never asked me to follow him, and I hoped he never would. Why? Because I could never understand the disciples. ìThey follow him around like toddlers their mother,î I complained once to Mary Magdalene. ìThey are unquestioning in their devotion.î
Men and women came every day to prostrate themselves at his feet. ìWe are yours,î they say. Itís not that I thought Jesus would lead them, or me, down the wrong path. Itís that I did not want to be led at all. I would not surrender my will to any man, and I did not understand the impulse others obviously felt to do so.
ìWhy doesnít Jesus do something about them?î I asked Mary.
ìWhat do you want him to do?î
ìTell them to go away! Live their own lives! Quit using him to decide what they should be deciding for themselves!î
Mary looked at me. A faint smile crept to her lips. ìYou have no idea what youíve just said, have you?î
ìWhatís wrong with it?î
ìYou want Jesus to say ëDonít let me tell you what to do,í right? But then if they obeyed, theyíd still be following his orders. He canít tell them ëDonít listen to me.í Theyíre the ones who have to decide whether they will or not. He canít prevent them.î
We spent the better part of the evening discussing the issue. The more time we spent on it, the more amused Mary looked. Finally I asked, ìWhat?î
She grinned, showing her teeth. She wasnít shy, so she didnít hide her smile behind her hand as the young women do. ìYou told me once how amazed you were that those interested in Jesus could talk and talk about him and never tire of the subject,î she explained.
We had begun our debate in the early evening; it was now full dark. ìWe havenít been talking about Jesus,î I pointed out. ìJust his followers.î
She nodded, still grinning.
This bit of story comes before the part I posted last time, so Nicodemus hasn't reconnected with Mary Magdalen yet. (Novel in progress. Slowly slowly.)
Five people were standing by the side of the road when I walked up: a young man who hardly seemed older than a boy, a woman dressed like a beggar, a man in fine clothes, and two young men I thought might be students. These last two had their heads leaned in toward each other, talking quietly. The others were spaced a polite distance apart from them and from each other. The boyish one was shifting his weight from foot to foot. When I got closer I saw the beggar woman was doing some sewing. All five looked down the road every few moments, shielding their eyes from the noon sun. They turned and nodded as I approached. They were not surprised to see meónot me exactly, just someone else at this vigil.
Word had gotten around about Jesusí movements. Anyone who cared to know could find out what town he planned to visit next. Word had also gotten around that he often stopped to talk with people as he went from one place to another. ìIf you want to meet Jesus, you can,î my student Nathaniel had told me. ìI have.î
I stepped into the midst of the road-watchers. This wasnít so much about meeting Jesus, I told myself, as it was about meeting people like this. I needed to know about what they were doing and why they were doing it.
ìHas anyone said when Jesus would be coming?î I asked the expensively dressed man. At occasions like these, itís good to start with casual questions.
ìOn travel days he leaves early in the morning,î he said. ìWe thought heíd be here by now.î
ìThere are probably more of us further up the road,î the taller of the two students commented. ìTheyíre holding him up.î
ìHow long have you been waiting?î I met everyoneís eyes as I asked this.
Their grins seemed sheepish. The students said theyíd been there since daybreak, the beggar woman had brought her son shortly afterward, the rich man had just preceded me. ìBut Iíve met him before,î the rich man added, introducing himself as Ezra. ìI saw him just after he preached in Nazareth. That trip hadnít gone well for him, so he wasnít in much of a mood for talking. But some friends of mine met him later and he invited them for supper! Just off the street like that!î Ezra turned; there was dust up the road. We watched in silence until it was clear there was only a solitary cart.
I talked to the students next. Yes, they had abandoned school for the day, ìbut our parents understand. The scrolls will still be there tomorrow, they saidóthis might be our only chance to see Jesus.î
The beggar woman wanted Jesus to give her son a blessing. ìHe is good to children. The people around him arenít always so accommodating with them.î
ìNot with any of us,î Ezra interrupted. ìWhen I met him outside Nazareth, one of the disciples nearly shoved me away.î
ìTheyíre just trying to protect him,î the tall student, Mark, said. ìSometimes I think Jesus is too generous with his attention. More and more people have found out how accessible he is. Surely someone who does not have Jesusí best interests in mind will show up on one of these roads one of these days.î
This set off lengthy discussion: should Jesus be more concerned for his safety? Most of the group said no, one way or another. ìHeís a good judge of character. He can tell whoís dangerous and whoís harmless. We only think heís not being careful because heís not careful around us, but he knows he doesnít have to be.î
ìHe understands how you want to meet someone youíve heard so much about. Didnít he seek out John the Baptist?î
ìHe has great faith. He trusts God will watch over him and protect him. And he treats everyone he meets with such respect. It inspires everyone to live up to his expectations.î
It was important to them that Jesus remain open to encounters with those who waited by the side of the road. I supposed I should have been able to predict that.
ìYou say youíve met Jesus before,î I said to Ezra to change the subject. ìWhy wait for him a second time?î
ìItís worse than you think.î His smile was feeble. ìThis may be the tenth time Iíve done this.î
ìThe tenth?î How could he afford his rich clothes if he spent his days chasing preachers?
Ezra shrank back from the question and its tone of harsh judgment. ìIím not the worst! I just wait for Jesus and go home when he is gone. What about the ones following him from town to town? He chose twelve men as students, but dozens chose him as teacher. He is never rid of them!î
I apologized as best as I could. We watched another cart pass. In a low voice Ezra confessed, ìI donít even know why I keep coming back. I donít know what I want from him.î
The disapproval I had not been able to mask had not actually been for Ezra. I was wondering if I was seeing my future in him. Had he started as I have, skeptical of this new preacher but curious about his appeal? Did he find himself drawn more and more by reports of what he said and did, until finally he had to see Jesus for himself? Was it inevitable, then, that I would latch onto any chance to be near Jesus? Would I soon spend all my time waiting by the sides of roads?
The beggar woman put her sewing in her cloak and started taking out bits of bread from another pouch. As she was fussing with the cloak she was facing up the road. We heard her say, ìThereís more dust.î
Everyone stopped to watch. We were on a flat stretch; we could see a good distance. At first I could cover the cloud of dust with my thumb. In a little while shapes emerged from it. ìNo animals,î Ezra noted. We squinted harder. We all knew Jesus and his whole band would be traveling by foot. Mark laughed suddenly.
ìArenít we ridiculous?î he asked, throwing up his hands. ìWeíll know for certain whether or not itís Jesus if we just wait, but instead weíre all trying to make our eyes run up the road for us!î
We agreed it was foolish, but we didnít stop. Then Ezra said, ìIt is Jesus. I see Peter at the front of the group, where he always is.î
ìWhereís Jesus?î the beggar womanís son asked, showing more interest in the proceedings than he had as yet.
ìHeís probably at the very center. Everyone crowds him all the time, you know.î
ìPoor man,î the beggar woman sighed, clucking her tongue.
My heart was beating faster. Things started to seem less real. My mind could not quite accept that this same man whom thousands gathered to hear would soon pass in front of the six of us, nor that he might stop to talk. With sudden panic I realized I could not remember anything Iíd wanted to say.
The whole group was in sight now. Seeing Jesus among his friends was like looking at a pictureóhe was in a world entirely separate from mine. He was laughing at something someone near him was saying. I had the sudden odd urge to be the person who could make Jesus laugh.
I didnít want it to be like this. This would be an awkward encounterówe knew so much more about him than he knew about us. How could we really talk with him?
Our entire group stood still as pillars of salt. The one Ezra said was Peter glanced at us and shook his head almost imperceptibly. I felt a stab of embarrassment. What was I doing here? I was a respectable man, yet here I was waiting by the side of the road likeólike this beggar woman.
Then Jesus came walking out of the cage of bodies surrounding him. He said ìI hope you havenít been waiting here long.î
He spoke with the woman and her son first. He asked for and repeated her name. ìDeborah, is it? The judge and prophetess?î He said something I could not quite hear which made her laugh. She covered her mouth quickly, blushing. She stood straighter than she had before and smoothed her cloak without hiding the patches. Deborah pushed her son forward. Jesus talked with him, then with him and his mother together, finally saying a blessing over them both. They turned to go but the son ran back to throw his arms around Jesus. The students were already moving forward.
I was distracted during everyone elseís turn with Jesus. He had learned Deborahís name right away, and I had spent the afternoon with her without ever learning it. I wanted to see how everyone would act around the preacher, but I kept thinking of how he treated her like nobility and how she looked noble under his gaze.
Ezraís hand pushed me forward. I could speak with Jesus next.
If you're in a hospital, and you're plugged in to one of those displays that monitors your heart rate, blood pressure, temperature, etc., and you've just been on a 24-hour liquid diet and haven't had anything to eat or drink for nine hours, it's probably not the time to play "Fun with Biofeedback." Don't look at the screen that says your heart rate is 71 (beep) 68 (beep) 70 and think, "I wonder if I can make it go down?"
Because, you know, when it hits 50 it's not a green number on a black background anymore. It's a black number on a red background, and it goes BEEP!!!
And then the lady who's my demi-boss announced we'd be better off not helping anybody ever, since it's not appreciated. "Do we do it to be liked or because it's the right thing to do?" I asked.
"We shouldn't do it at all. We should help ourselves and forget everybody else."
I came around the corner. "Don't start," she warned, giggling reflexively, seeing the look on my face.
"We'll just put you on your own little island where you can live by yourself with your dog."
"That'd be fine."
Later she said, "I change my mind. If someone wants our help, we should help them. If they don't, we shouldn't."
I had to take a phone call. Afterward I announced, "I have an amendment to your proposal."
"What is it?"
"We help those who want our help. We don't help those who don't want our help. And when those who want our help lob missiles at us, we stop helping them."
This amendment was accepted. The entire office agreed that we should be the ones running the world.
During the afternoon we threw a paper airplane around, coughing on it before launching it into the next cubicle, threatening each other with germ warfare.
Didn't end up doing much writing yesterday--hung out with the nieces and nephews instead. This was after talk of war with Mom. We discussed Patrick Henry (he was not the first to say that men cry "Peace! Peace!" when there is no peace--he got that line from Jeremiah) and World War II.
I took Irish bookmarks to Z and E who were in the middle of a backgammon game. Z talked me into taking over for E, who had lost interest. Z, at six-soon-to-be-seven, is very much the Big Brother of E, who at five is very much the Little Girl. So when after a quick restating of the rules (been a long time since Aunt Jelle has played backgammon), I triumphantly took one of Z's pieces out of play, he looked at me with his most serious, sorrowful expression. He had expected something so much better from me, I suppose. "It's not about capturing, Aunt Jelle," he chastised. "Really little kids think it's about capturing, but it's not. That just wastes time."
He was right, of course. And of course at his next opportunity he took one of my pieces out of play. I parroted, "It's not about capturing!"
He smiled. "Well, you did it first!"
Mom asked me to help her do two things today--move a dumpster and go phone shopping. Someone had positioned the alley dumpster in front of our garage, so she couldn't park in it. And her phone's keypad had mysteriously quit allowing her to dial. I wanted to concentrate my energy today on writing, but I figured these chores wouldn't take much time, so I said all right.
We trooped out together through the backyard, through the hallway between our neighbor's garage and ours, and stopped short when we reached the alley. The dumpster had already been moved out of the way of our garage. Well! That was easy! So we trooped back inside again.
"Is there anything we need to know about this phone before we buy a new one?" Mom asked. I picked up the receiver and punched a number just to test it again. The number made its little "beep" into my ear as if nothing had ever been wrong. I handed the phone to Mom. It worked perfectly fine for her too.
Huh.
"Thanks for helping me move the dumpster and get a new phone!" she said to me cheerily.
I guess this means I really should do some writing today.
ìI donít want to just follow Jesus around from a distance. That tells me nothing about what he and his followers are really like. I wish there was some way I could spend time among them, but they seem to be a closed circle.î Plus, as a member of the Sanhedrin I had to be careful about my associations, but I didnít need to mention this to Gamaliel.
He didnít look up from his scroll. He just said casually, ìDo you know whoís with them? Your friend from Magdala.î
ìMaryís son?î
ìNo.î
It couldnít be. ìMary?î
ìShe has found a new charity.î
ìButÖwhat about herÖ?î
ìMaybe you should try to see her yourself.î
I had met Mary Magdelene years ago. She was one of the most generous patrons to the school where I taught. Sheíd been married to a wealthy aromatic oils merchant; after he died their son took over the business and kept her well provided for. She went with him every year to Jerusalem for Passover. While in the city one year she discovered our school. She learned we wanted to seek out and teach poor students with a talent for the scribeís craft. Without any advance notice she began sending us whatever we needed for their room and board and supplies. Every time she came back to Jerusalem she visited the school and thus got to know the teachers.
I was fond of her. The first time we met was a day I was late getting to the school. I came in my room and this voice, harsh as a ravenís caw, challenged me: ìYour students wish to learn from someone. They deserve a teacher who will be here on time.î
I had been told a generous benefactress would be making a visit, so this strange womanís presence was not a shock. I looked at her lined face and in her sharp eyes and saw the hint of a smile. I said, ìWhat teacher they deserve matters little; I am the teacher they have. Let us begin with Leviticus today, class.î
From then on she greeted me with insults. She was fond of me too.
Mary Magdelene possessed a strange spirit; restless, intense. Though she came faithfully to crowded Jerusalem for the biggest festival of the year, she disliked being around so many people at once (she was there to humor her son, who used the occasion of a religious holiday to make business contacts). She spent much of the time in our quiet classrooms. Sheíd be foul-tempered on arrival and as demure as a kitten on departureóor the other way around. There was no way to predict it.
I spoke with her son about her sometimes when he came looking for her. ìMy fatherís death did this to her, I think,î he whispered to me when she was busy terrorizing a student. ìShe used to enjoy life so much more. Now she sleeps for days or walks the house for hours. When she is active, sheís furiously active, as if sheís making up for lost time. I wonder if she isnít ruled by contrary forces.î
The last time I saw Mary was the time she couldnít recognize me. She was standing in the street, staring up at the sky with her jaw slack and her frame trembling. I said ìMary!î She turned her face toward the sound of her name, but her eyes were dead blank.
ìIím so scared of it,î she said. ìIím so scared. Iím so scared.î Her voice was high and thin, a wind through reeds, nothing like her usual throaty tone. And still she shook so hard I wished I had a dozen blankets to wrap her in.
ìLook at me,î I begged, the hairs on my neck rising without my knowing why. ìItís me. Itís Nicodemus.î
ìIím so scared.î
When I tried to grab her by the shoulders (desperate for any way to help), she pulled back as if from fire, then turned and ran. I ran after her. I caught up with her on an unfamiliar street. She sank to the ground, alternately gulping air and wailing.
When her breath was back she knew me again. ìI saw the Angel of Death in the sky,î she confessed, head down and held in her hands. ìIt was huge and black. Its shadow covered everything. It wanted to swallow me up.î
I couldnít think what to say. We found our way back to where she and her son were staying. He pulled at my arm as I was leaving. ìThe priest has told me seven devilsówhy would any woman have seven devils, Nicodemus? Why would my mother? And what can I do?î
I couldnít think of anything to say to him either. They stopped visiting the school and I stopped hearing anything about how she was doing.
And now, it seemed, I could find her with Jesus.
The preacher, I determined through careful inquiry, had a base of operations in Capernaum near all the fishing boats. I set off for the town with the stated intention of recruiting new students. I visited the market several days before I saw her.
She looked just as I remembered, which was strange as she should have looked much older. Her eyes were still sharp but the lines around them curved differently; she was smiling more. She was at the head of a small army of women, arms laden with loaves.
ìMary!î I called. Her head turned. She gasped and walked over quickly, first handing her bread to her companions and issuing some kind of orders.
ìNicodemus! What are you doing here?î
I smiled. ìLooking for you.î
We walked the length of the market and back, almost shouting our catching-up stories to be heard over the criers at the stalls. I kept getting distracted by the smells of the fruitóI hadnít eatenóand finally bought some grapes to feast on with my old friend.
She must have known what I really wanted to ask. ìIím cured, Nicodemus. Jesus cured me.î
ìWhat did he do?î
ìI donít know,î she admitted with a laugh. (It was so good to hear her laugh.) ìBut the devils are gone. I no longer see terrors in the sky or hear things other people canít. Even my rest is better. I donít sleep a full day anymore.î
îAnd now you are a disciple?î
ìI take care of them. I organized a group of womenómostly widows like me, women of means. We travel with Jesus and the apostles making sure they have enough to eat; we arrange places for everyone to stay as they go from town to town. They are not themselves practical, weíve found. Oh, Jesus is very practical, but all the rest have been taken care of by their women all their lives. They donít know the first thing about providing for their survival.î
ìBut you say Jesus does?î
ìOh, yes,î she said with another laugh. ìJesus knows the first thing. He knows who to ask for help!î
She took another grape, chewing it slowly, watching the crowds as they jostled past. I realized suddenly what I was seeing. ìCrowds donít bother you anymore?î
She shook her head. ìI am determined that nothing will bother me anymore. Itís hard work but thatís what I want.
ìYou know what remember about being cured? Hearing Jesusí voice saying, ëYouíre free.í I remember thinking, ëI donít know what that word means.í Itís what I intend to find out. I will not live like a captive. I will live a deliberate life, now that Iíve been given the chance.î She gave me a challenge with her eyes just like she used to. Many a time Iíd withered under that glare. ìSo what about you, Nicodemus? Youíre not here to see an old woman, with or without devils.î
ìYouíre not an old woman.î
ìIím older than you, and youíre not young.î
ìNot as young as your current traveling companions.î
ìOh!î she shrieked in mock rage. ìI see what you think of me!î
I lowered my voice. ìI want to know more about them, Mary.î