Pensées by Blaise

I picked up Pascal’s Pensées for a reread in 1991 (having read them first about five years earlier) and jotted down the following notes:

Like a casual conversation over tea–casual, easygoing, pithy, humorous–and yet matters of such weight, intensity, honesty, transparency, and truth. Pascal is like Kierkegaard sans angst and misanthropy–someone you would genuinely like to meet.

My favorite: “Man is so inevitably mad that not to be mad would be to put a mad twist to madness.”

Yeah! I think I’m due for another reread. Korrektiv Summer Reading Klub, anyone?

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka

I read The Metamorphosis back in 1992, and scribbled down these notes:

“How we treat the marginalized and the suffering of others. Impatience, indifference, disgust. (Auden’s poem.) That’s one thought this story prompted. An interesting story but I was a little disappointed. I expected more or a tour de force. Maybe it was the translation, but it struck me as almost amateurish. Kafka is a conundrum. I guess style and technique may not be his forte; as C.S. Lewis pointed out, myth making is.”

Now I’m wondering if my judgment was impaired; thinking I need to re-read. Korrektiv Summer Reading Klub, anyone?

Roadtripping to Christ in the Desert

In the year 2000, a year after we got married, my wife and I took a four-month roadtrip. Just the two of us, in a Subaru wagon, with a tent, a cell phone, and a laptop. About a month into our journey, we found ourselves at a monastery in the New Mexican desert. What follows is a description of day two of that visit.

Four a.m. comes and incredibly we are awake and slipping into the church just as Abbot Philip announces the page number in the yellow book. We’re the only lay folk in attendance – the only other guest present is Fr. Shields, the retired priest from Yakima. During the hour-long Vigils service, the sandstone cliffs loom darkly through the high windows of the church. The stars, which last night formed a thick silvery white blanket just above the lightless abbey, are beginning to thin out. My eyelids are heavy, my blood wants caffeine.

After vigils, Ashley goes back to bed; I grab my guest-issue rechargeable lantern and take a shower in its dim glow. I read a bit of Desert Solitaire – the chapter on “Industrial Tourism” and the good life it will deprive Abbey of. This book has some very delectable prose, but Abbey has an egotistical edge to him that puts me off at times.

The remainder of the morning follows a monastic routine. We attend Lauds at 5:45, followed immediately by Mass. A professor of religious studies from UNM shows up for Mass with about a dozen or so students, packing the small guest seating area of the abbey church. Guestmaster Andre shows them around afterwards, and continues to ignore Ashley and me for the most part. I wonder if it’s commonplace among monasteries that the most socially inept monk gets appointed as guestmaster. After Mass, we have breakfast with the monks in the refectory. Ashley catches sight of the abbot in the library and we seize the opportunity to go up and introduce ourselves. He embraces us both – which I interpret as both a genuine gesture of goodwill as well as a sly, fight-fire-with-fire approach to overly needy guests. I deliver the “Fr. Michael Sweeney from Seattle says hello” – and the abbot responds to the Seattle part but not the Fr. Michael part. Maybe he doesn’t remember who the hell Fr. Michael Sweeney is.

After breakfast we have an hour before Terce. Ashley showers and I write a postcard or two. We pack up our things so we can make a quick escape after lunch. Terce, at 8:45, turns out to be my favorite hour. The sun is beginning to warm the church and the Cliffside rocks are beginning to radiate in the glow of daylight. The psalms are calm and simple ones, as are the melodies of the chant. There is no straining to reach notes. Everything is peaceful and hopeful about the day’s enterprises.

After Terce, we meet Br. Christian who chats us up in the friendliest way we’ve yet experienced here, then takes us to the garden to pull weeds with Br. Joachin. Br. Joachin is a classic type of wizard-like monk, long gray beard and hood pulled up to shield the sun climbing higher overhead. He is friendly, but soft-spoken to point of near silence, and somewhat vague when we ask for direction in our pulling. We get good and hot and grimy and down a couple of bottles of water. My back is aching. Br. Joachin never slows down and never pauses for so much as a drink. We bail out at 11:30, retreat to the guesthouse showers. I find a lizard munching on a moth at the window next to the Men’s shower stalls.

Looking for fresh linens to re-make our beds, we meet another friendly monk, Br. Aalrud, and have a conversation about how amazing pizza delivery is and when did Kentucky Fried Chicken stop delivering and did they ever.

At one o’clock, it’s time for Sext, a brief service like Terce, which precedes lunch, which is the main and most formal meal for the monks. Outside the church door, we encounter yet another talkative and friendly monk, Br. Bernard, who used to be a priest at Blessed Sacrament.

Guestmaster Andre leads us to lunch again, hurriedly explaining the formalities of it. When we get to the napkin basket in the library, he flatly states that he “tossed out” our napkins. (We were supposed to use the same napkin for all our meals.) “I didn’t know if you would be staying for lunch,” he says. For lunch we have a tuna dish that looks like roast beef but definitely smells and tastes like tuna, a garbanzo bean dish, and white rice. We get through it and make our departure. Br. Christian and Br. Bernard wish us warm farewells and thank us for the work we did in the garden. Andre says, “Now, where are you guys from?”

We put it in four-wheel drive and get on the dirt road out of the desert, hit Hwy 84, get gas in Abiquiu, and don’t stop until we get to the KOA north of Albuquerque. We’re back in Sprint PCS coverage, and the first day of a new billing period, so Ashley starts making calls like the telecommunications maniac she is.

Dinner at a New Mexican place with outdoor seating near the Rio Grande, and back here and soon to bed in our cozy tent.

If you’d like to follow along after the fact, the trip begins here.

A Time to Keep Silence by Patrick Leigh Fermor


Read April 1993. Beautifully written, meditative, scholarly. This unassuming little book seems to partake, in a very genuine way, of the monastic silence, placidness, and intensity which is its subject.

The radical reorganization of Fermor’s way of seeing, thinking, feeling, being — his mental and physical habits and his experience of reality — during the first few days at St. Wandrille (p. 27-30)

The main principle of monastic life is a belief in the necessity and efficacy of prayer — “a principle so utterly remote from every tendency of modern secular thought” (p. 31-5)

Fermor combines these musings with more objective historical material, concluding with the fascinating and enigmatic caves of Cappadocia.

Notes for a Novel I Never Managed to Write

[1997]

The Continual Feast

Characters:

Jeremiah Hezekiah Claiborne: Youngest of the Claiborne brothers (21, born in Nepal in 1976), resident of South Bend, WA, where he has lived since leaving college shortly after beginning his Junior year; sometime fishing boat worker, logger, bartender at the World’s End Tavern, artist, poet; lives in a studio apartment overlooking Willapa Harbor (the apartment is one of three apartments making up the second floor of a house, the first floor of which is occupied by the Mudds, the family of four who own the house; the other two apartments are inhabited by (1) Patrick Welt, an odd, (mildly autistic?) chess-playing Catholic lad who just purchased a cheap organ and is taking organ lessons and (2) Joe, a fireman who spends most of his time either at the fire station or at his girlfriend’s and so is rarely seen by Jeremiah. Jeremiah stands just under six foot, has an athletic build, black hair, sports a beard in winter which he shaves off each April Fool’s Day, suffers from Seasonal depression in the winter and tends to exist in a semi-hibernative state from late November through early February. He has been seeing Delia Swan since Sophomore year of college and is deeply in love and lust with her. They fornicate often and with abandon. Jeremiah writes erotic sonnets to her and paints images of her. He is building a treehouse in a secret place in the woods. Jeremiah vaguely believes in the God of his father (Luther, a Lutheran minister), but combines this with a kind of nature-boy zest for life, beatnik romanticism of the road, and a zen eschewing of definitions. He studies Karatedo at a dojo in Aberdeen and reads books about Zen and such. Occasionally he golfs with his uncle William Claiborne who was once a Hanford engineer and is now an Episcopalian priest in Aberdeen. Jeremiah’s mother, Elizabeth, died when he was 3 years old — of a wasp sting in Nepal, where she and Luther and were missionaries for five years. Of his two elder brothers, Jeremiah is closest to Calvin (the middle brother, with whom he occasionally gets into trouble). His eldest brother, George, is somewhat aloof, although they have occasions of connectedness and brotherly affection.

Delia Meria Swan. Attended college with Jeremiah in Walla Walla; is from Aberdeen, where her mother works in law enforcement. Her father is absent, in Seattle somewhere (has been since she was 5; she still has the book he was reading her when he left, marked where he left off). Delia is taking a year’s leave-of-absence from college (whereas Jeremiah simply dropped out and has no intention of returning), living in her old room in the basement, in constant semi-hysterical conflict with her mother and her mother’s alcoholic boyfriend, Hank; works as a waitress at the Red Apple, hacks around the Internet at night, often stays with Jeremiah for days at a time. Is embarrassed to be living in such a backwater; wants to live a comfortable, elegant life somewhere after the fashion of Beverly Hills 90210 (her favorite TV show); she is conflicted though: in love with Jeremiah but strong misgivings about whether he will provide the life she wants.

Calvin Coolidge Claiborne. The middle of the three brothers (26); English instructor at Snohomish River Community College; a tall, dark-haired, engagingly derisive fellow, his name is the result of his father’s whimsy and sense of family history (Luther the father of Calvin; but also Calvin Coolidge was his great great uncle). He has been at SRCC since completing his MA at the University of Washington at the early age of 20 (having entered college at 16, obtained a BA at 19 followed by one year of graduate study). He is married to but recently separated from Estelle Savoy, who once attended his College Writing 101 course. They have a five-year-old son named Sid who stays with Calvin on weekends. Calvin is an atheist but believes the coherence of Christianity and western civilization in general is superior to eastern murkiness. He understands and admires his father’s and elder brother’s beliefs, but doesnt believe. He is scandalized and chagrined over Estelle’s belief that Sid is the reincarnation of a Tibetan lama. He also has violent impulses towards Terrence, Estelle’s Buddhism-teacher with whom she is probably having an affair.

Estelle Louise Savoy Claiborne. Calvin’s estranged wife; 30 years old. Gave up a life of drugs and porn movies (her moniker was “Starr 69” and she still is sometimes called by the nickname “Star”), joined AA, turned her life around, moved to from L.A. to Seattle, ended up in Everett, enrolled in courses at SRCC where she met Calvin during his first year of teaching, got pregnant by Calvin whereupon Luther was called upon to perform a wedding ceremony. During the pregnancy she attended a lecture given by Terrence McBride, an Irishman Buddhist, on “Christianity as Buddhism” and was so taken with his Irish brogue and exotic ideas that she began to take private instruction in “breathing and meditation” from him. Became convinced, due to dreams and prophetic correspondences, that the child inside her wd be the reincarnation of a great Tibetan lama who had died earlier that year. Calvin’s intransigence on this point, his unwillingness to take it seriously, has led Estelle to leave him and even to consider an affair with Terrence (her pride and dignity, which are highly developed, have thus far prevented her from succumbing to Terrence’s advances, however). She is considering taking Sid to a monastery in Nepal, where he will receive training appropriate to his destiny as a lama. Coincidentally, the monastery is near the same village where Calvin spent part of his childhood.

Siddhartha Francis Claiborne. 5 year old son of Calvin and Estelle. Likes Power Rangers, Bill Nye the Science Guy, hot wheels and model rockets. Has an entrepreneurial sensibility, is always scheming how to make money; e.g. selling seeds, lemonade stand, selling rocks. Estelle is teaching him to recite mantras and be kind to insects. Calvin is teaching him to play baseball.

George Washington Claiborne. Eldest of the brothers (30). A monk at St. Albert’s, a Benedictine abbey Near White Bluffs, WA and the Hanford nuclear site. George and several other of the monks (some of them former Hanford scientists) have formed an apostolate whereby they subcontract themselves as information specialists for the other groups working on the Hanford clean-up (in effect, they are the librarians of the clean-up effort). The monastery also has a vineyard and a cherry orchard. The monks also operate a jet-boat tour of the Hanford Reach. There is a legend of gold buried somewhere on the abbey grounds from the days when the wagon train line brought in gold from Montana to ship by riverboat from White Bluffs to Portland.

Luther Paul Claiborne. The father of Jeremiah, Calvin and George, a 58 year old Lutheran minister and widower since 1979, when his wife Elizabeth died of a toxic reaction to a wasp sting during their fifth year of missionary work in Nepal. At that time, Luther returned to the states with his three young sons and took up residence in Coeur d’Alene, ID, where he has been a pastor at Lord of Life Lutheran Church since 1980. A gruffly humorous bear of a man who holds dear the memory of his wife but doesn’t let grief slow him down. The truth is he’s a bit frenetic and could stand to slow down. Lately he has been spearheading an effort to establish a “Human Rights” collection at the local library (focusing on holocaust information) and has been receiving threatening calls from the local neo-nazi contingent.

John Peregrine Smith. Mysterious resident of Coeur d’Alene, professor of Philosophy at Gonzaga University, Internet enthusiast, dialectition, Jew? Christian? He is secretly involved in the activities of a white militia group in North Idaho but it is unclear whether he is merely trying to stir up trouble or whether he earnestly espouses the anti-federal dogma of the group.

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The Feast of Corpus Christi (May 29)

Jeremiah Claiborne lived upstairs from the Mudds. His was one of three studio apartments which occupied the upper floor of the house. Mr. Mudd was an electrician whose free time was devoted to the use of metal detector and shovel to hunt for buried treasures. Mrs. Mudd was a Mary Kay representative who drove a pink Honda Civic which she hoped someday to upgrade to a pink Cadillac.

One morning in May, Jeremiah looked out his window and saw Mrs. Mudd speeding away in her pink Honda. He had been stirred from his late-morning sleep by enraged shrieks which shaped themselves into a distinctly female hand with vivid pink fingernails clawing at the cerebral chalkboard of Jeremiah’s dream. When he sat up in his couch-bed and looked out the window, the pink Honda was halfway down the block and Mr. Mudd and the two young muddlings were standing in the yard looking sullen and stunned. Mr. Mudd was leaning on a shovel and had evidently been digging a hole in the middle of Mrs. Mudd’s rose garden, and the two children were astride their bicycles, helmets askew and looking like someone had just let the air out of their tires.

In the distance, down the hill towards the Willipa River and the harbor beyond, piles of oyster shells glistened in the sun under a sky so fair Jeremiah spontaneously entertained a vision of Aphrodite standing atop the shells, her long locks making cloudy wisps against the blue sky. Then he imagined her stubbing her toe on the sharp shells and looking up at Jeremiah, saying, “Get me off this damn pile of shells! I don’t want to play Aphrodite anymore.” The goddess had become his girlfriend Delia. Jeremiah thought perhaps he would paint her picture that way sometime. He had already painted Delia, or at least sketched her in his mind’s eye, as various and sundry goddesses, nymphs, whores, moviestars and