posted July 27, 2010 10:49 PM              

Like an alien
or a visitor from the future.

It used to be excruciating.

I'm very lucky for my friends.

posted July 28, 2010 11:07 PM              

We sit here in the silence, in the wake of some noble young person's passing. A monk who went unrecognized among us; unfed, among us. And all our thoughts lie down like animals, sluggish and fat. Like men who have discovered they are not men, but only beasts involved in some elaborate pretense. Our thoughts curl up in the dust with us, for they could not reach, could not take hold of anything fitting the occasion. We curl up with our well-worn vanity. Our poor emotions. A few coins clinking in the poverty of our empty hearts.

Maybe, from the death of this one, so much better than ourselves, we might be able to squeeze a poem, or at least a little prose. We turn the death of a good man into the poorest self-display. But what else can we do? We never prepared for this. The silence was too hard, the stillness too forbidding. All our time was spent in restless scratching, bickering, place-seeking. Excitement at something shiny. While the dear man stood apart, swathed in shadows, unassuming, and too considerate to seek our help. We were playing with our vanity, and we play still. Oh, leave us alone! We are not men enough to hear ourselves disclosed. We are shameless.

What is the death of this young man for us? Surely, it must be something for us! There must be some use we can put it to. How shall we train our vanity in the direction of this abyss, that swallows up the last stronghold of our pride? We cannot sit with this. We cannot see ourselves. Our eyes glance off the mirror's surface. We feign that we are deep. How can we enter the discomfort that has no easy end? And what does it accomplish, to call ourselves accursed? To shame ourselves for our inability, our incapacity, to feel this shame?

The wind shakes our walls and whines, but what is that? A sound outside us. While we cannot hear the sounds within. A friend is dead. And we choke on the word, we cannot get it down. We were no friend to him. Even now, we cannot do him the courtesy of leaving ourselves out. We are the living, after all. Where do we fit in? How do we interpret this so as to impart meaning to our lives, -- we who have our lives? While he is dead, and deader.

In our walks, we try to reflect it. But we only end up kicking snow clumps. Watching the snow break up. Taking simple pleasure in our mindlessness. While he is dead. And somewhere there is suffering like a vortex, whooshing. Pain we cannot imagine. Hunger we try not to think of. And we don't think of. Vanity, like a broken toy that still shines.

posted July 28, 2010 11:09 PM              

Not one of us can say we knew you, or the softness in your soul.

May you find the peace that was not granted you in this life...

And better friends among the angels than we have been.

posted August 17, 2010 02:03 AM              

Chapter 1
"A Little Madness"

The grackle stooped by the wall, inspecting the bits of blood with her beak. Dried blood, crusting the sand in places around the base of the dappled rock. It was a peasant, Piotr, who had witnessed the struggle, and the subsequent death of the man. When the bird lost interest, Piotr continued to stare at the dark splotches, and in his mind he could clearly see how they had fallen, like rats abandoning ship, from the head as it knocked against the stones. He could see the monstrous hands of the assailant, all but eclipsing that head, which they held almost by the fingers.

Seven times, the brute had smacked the man's skull hard on the wall before receiving satisfaction. Had it been six, the man, who was a local merchant, not unknown to Piotr, and not unfriendly to him, might have lived. And he was sure the brute had not stopped because of his victim's death, but merely because seven blows, for whatever reason, seemed fitting to him. Not that this thought occurred to him consciously, or that he bothered to count them, -- only that his rage burned out after seven. Just as the merchant's life.

"Did you see it?" shouted an old woman, clapping Piotr on the side of his face, her bony hand disappearing beneath her black shawl as swiftly as it had emerged. She was the mother of a soldier, gone to war some decades ago and never returned. Now her mouth crumpled into a kind of fist, awaiting his response.

"I did, yes. I saw it all."

Leaving her, Piotr crossed the courtyard hurriedly, then lurched through a shuddering puddle of chickens before coming to the door of his earthen hut. He clasped the dirty ledge to give him strength, and, after a moment's breath, went in seeking the solace of his wife.

Several years his senior, she was a woman renowned for her careful attentions, and the warm, peaceful manner which never seemed to leave her, even in the midst of the most harrowing difficulties. Many times, she had coddled her husband, a nervous and restless man, back to a condition of sobriety and joy. Her power to heal was, to Piotr, almost miraculous. Now, his desperate hope was that this dear woman would be capable, with all the sympathy of her heart, of effacing these terrible visions which continued to present themselves, in all their horror, before his mind's eye. Alas, she could only hold him and weep her peaceful tears, as he recounted the morning's madness in graphic detail.

He saw it all. All too clearly, he saw it. Saw the stiff fingertips gripping the merchant's head like an ice clamp... saw the blood scattering. For weeks he saw these things. Even the old woman's face, more crippled and crumpled than ever, came back to him in waking dreams, and filled his vision with a mottled cloud. Along with the scenes, all of them violent and grotesque, came migraine headaches, like swarms of bullets ricocheting inside his skull and shredding his brain. As the months wore on, his symptoms increased, in both number and veracity.

Several times, he started in his chair, to see what ought to have been a familiar face, and seemed to recognize no one apart from his gentle wife. The voices outside the hut, he said, belonged to foreigners. They must be avoided at all costs. He impressed the importance of this upon her by pressing two red marks into her face with his thumbs. The smallest things were suddenly formidable. A simple whiff of food, even fresh bread, became a torment. Revulsion, unspeakable revulsion, quivered like a flash through his muscles and settled in his bones. A deep nausea seemed to pull at the back of his teeth. Whenever he closed his eyes to sleep, he was accosted by new scenes of horror; shimmering images of blackened skulls and burnt, contorted wrists. What was this madness?

It was not long before the villagers became frightened of his appearance, for he had barely taken food. They stared, almost transfixed by the fierce angles of his face, where bone threatened to pierce the waxy flesh. His eyes, too, had changed. They either darted from perch to perch, unable to find their feet, or else they fixed madly on some definite object or individual, as though seeking to immolate whatever they saw. People began trading stories and keeping their distance. It was no longer settled, just who had killed the merchant. True, the brute had a temper, and nobody could deny he was easily capable of beating a man to death, with or without the help of a stone wall. But this Piotr Gregorivich, at first no more than an innocent witness, was clearly showing the signs of a guilty conscience. Everyone was agreed.

"What did he do? Look at him. The devils are at work in him, I have no doubt."

"Most certainly, they are. Busily, busily at work."

"He keeps them very busy, all night and day."

Such was their talk, simple and destructive, as village gossip tends to be. It was not long before Piotr's wife, who had been running all the errands now that her husband was so desperately indisposed, began to suffer the same stigma in the eyes of the tiny community. Vendors and tradesmen would raise their prices for her, or refuse to sell her their goods and services altogether. The men, women, and children in the street would cast fearsome and scornful looks at her, or else pretend as though they did not see her at all. And she had only ever treated them with the most sincere kindness.

"She's a witch. I'll bet my harvest on it."

"A horrible witch! They're in it together."

"It's as dark as night, and as plain as day."

In his heart, Piotr knew that he was quickly descending into madness, and his only wish was to preserve his dear wife from the scandal and calumny that his presence wrought in her life. So when a rare moment of clarity emerged, he lifted himself up, gathered together a few essentials, and set off to find himself a destiny apart. All he left behind was a simple note, for she had taught him to read and write some in the early years of their marriage.

"My Dearest Katya,

Forgive me. I must leave, to spare you my disgrace.
I will return to you only when I have returned to myself.
You must not expect my return. Only my love.

Your Faithful Piotr"

Chapter 2
"Katya"

Katya's father was a strange and legendary figure. A kind of holy pilgrim. Born into the nobility, he had never felt comfortable with privilege. He used to blush before the servants, and always avoided high society like the plague. For a while, it seemed like he might become an artist, perhaps a writer, but before the age of twenty, it became clear that his intentions were firmly rooted in the religious life. When the time came, he attended seminary with hopes of becoming a priest, but soon, as his inner life grew stronger, the outward forms of religion began to lose their significance for him, and he entered a monastery.

Even as a novice monk, his taciturn and independent character was well established, and well understood by his superiors. The Abbott, in particular, was a lenient man, who knew well how to tailor the monastic life so as to suit the disposition of each individual. Though the townspeople, and some of the monks, often wondered at the allowances he made, it was generally accepted that he was a true man of God, inspired in his administrative dealings.

Hence, Katya's father, whose name was Ivan, was allowed to inhabit a small cave on the outskirts of the monastery, and to practice a form of devotion which was far more hermetic than monastic in character. Strangely, nobody seemed perturbed by this uncustomary disruption of protocol, and the monks, when they would speak of Ivan, would affectionately refer to him as their "little hermit".

He would tend a small garden and care for a few goats, and retire happy to his cave. For a while, this seemed like an ideal arrangement. Yet, even there, he could not find the relationship with God which he so fervently sought, and he left one night without making explanations. This was still in his early twenties.

For many years thereafter, he wandered around, begging or doing odd jobs for food, dependent on the charity and generosity of strangers. It was by no means an easy life, but a life full of the rewards he had always imagined in his heart of hearts. For Ivan, almost nothing, -- nothing but the experience of God which he encountered in the depths of his private contemplations, -- could compare with the warm smile on the face of a stranger.

At this point, the reader, no doubt, will be wondering how it was, then, that Ivan came to father a child. And, indeed, this is the most difficult part of his story to relate. But, then, it is not necessary to attempt an explanation of the human heart, or how it is that a man, a wanderer, devoted to the love of God, might suddenly decide to settle down and give himself to the love of a mortal woman. Much has been written, and more will always be written, about the twists and upheavals in the heart, and any reader who is not determined to find fault, will surely understand without much words, what had happened in the heart of this man, Ivan Nikulin.

It should suffice to give a word or two about Katya's mother. To say that she was herself a devout woman of rare beauty and wit, who often sheltered the poor and the religious folk who passed through her village. Of the latter, some were on a pilgrimage to specific holy sites, and some, like Ivan, had immersed themselves in a stream in which no distinction could be made between the holy journey and the holy destination. They loved each other instantly.

Maria, Katya's mother, was regarded by some in her tiny community as a saint. She was often spoken of in hushed tones, and always with respect. Some of the people, who were not always eager to entertain guests of their own, were yet kind enough to bring gifts of bread and milk and vegetables grown in their gardens, for Maria to use in feeding the many strangers she always seemed to have staying with her. She received their gifts with the deepest humility and gratitude and always said a special blessing for them -- though this was rarely delivered before their eyes (and only when they specifically requested it), but in her private time of daily prayer.

One cannot say that a decision was ever made, on either of their parts, to stay together. Always, it was understood that Ivan might leave at any moment, if the Spirit called him away, though it was never suspected that Maria might ask him to do so (and, of course, she never did). Somehow, it was understood between them that they belonged together, and that God had a purpose requiring the two of them. For a while, it seemed as though this purpose was only to jointly minister to, and care for, the many people who stayed with them for short periods of time. But, after a few years, it became clear that what God had in mind was something else. A daughter.

Katya Ivanovna, as it has already been related, was a woman after her mother's heart; kind and modest, gentle and generous in all her dealings. As a child, she was the apple of every eye; a genuine joy to her parents, to the guests, and to the people of the village, who all considered her a blessed and holy child. While the tenderest of children were out picking flowers, Katya, -- or Katushka, as she was then called, -- would only lie down beside them, admiring their simple beauty, and not daring to end their lives prematurely for the sake of carrying them back to her own place of residence. She had always this custom of not interfering, especially with things that seemed to her already beautiful. And there were many such things.

As she grew older, Ivan taught her to read and write, -- a rare distinction in her small village, and one for which she became even more popular than before. It wasn't long before people were coming to her with their papers and books for her to read aloud, and a great deal of her childhood, it must be noted, was spent reading stories, novels, fables, and parables, to the local people, and especially to the children, who would stare up at her with the sweetest, wide-eyed interest and admiration, as she told them of saints and repentant sinners, swashbucklers and kings, terrible wars and great cities of the ancient world.

Often, the villagers would gather their money together to purchase a new book for her to read. They would congregate outside the door of her family's little cottage and request, sometimes meekly and sometimes with a flood of uncontained enthusiasm, that she come out and read the book to them as soon as she found a moment. So, much of her time was accounted for in this way, while the rest of it she mostly spent wandering in the fields, or sitting beneath the trees beside the rivers and ponds, admiring the majesty of nature.

It was not long after her sixteenth birthday that she developed a powerful desire to live as her father had lived for so many years, as a pilgrim. Though her parents assured her that it was unsafe, especially for a young woman, to be traveling alone, and though the people of her village wept bitterly to see her go, Katya was resolved. And this, too, is a feature of her character well worth delineating. Though she went for long periods of time without seeming to have much conviction, or much of a voice or will of her own, on rare occasions, when she felt strongly about a course of action, she would make up her mind to do something and nothing in this world would be able to stand against her. Such an occasion was this, and her parents well knew it when they perceived the determined look in her eyes, which usually shone only with the dearest softness. Some simple provisions were made, and, with a last flurry of hugs and tears and kisses, at last, she went on her way.

The children followed her almost as far as the next village, some of them weeping and begging her to stay, though they knew she would not. Others walked quietly and solemnly beside her, and dreamed of a day when they too might set out alone in search of God. One small girl, the brightest of the group, who had always loved and admired Katya more deeply than the others, untied a light green ribbon from her hair, her most prized possession in the world, and gave it to Katya, to tie up her own hair.

"I would be honored if you would wear this for me," the girl told her. "I have no doubt that blessings will come to me through you, as long as you wear my ribbon."

"Thank you, Sonechka. I will remove it only to wash my hair. I will keep it with me always."

And this is the origin of the green ribbon which she still wears, and which she has never been seen without. I do not know what happened to the little girl, Sonya, but I am sure that she must have led a relatively charmed life, if only on account if this simple gesture made when she was a small child.

We will consider the story of Katya's journey presently. For now, we must look some years ahead, to her meeting with Piotr.

Chapter 3
"Katya and Piotr"

It has been said that he was a nervous, restless man, and this is barely touching on the truth of it. Piotr was always anxious, always fidgeting with something, always worried that some great calamity might befall him. He had been a frail and sickly child, and, for this reason, had managed to avoid much of the labor which was the lot of young men who had neither wealth nor sickliness to recommend them to another line. This had the two-fold effect of increasing his lazy, retiring disposition, but also of engendering in him a tender sensitivity to the beauty of the world.

An obvious outsider, Piotr, when he was not confined to his sickbed, spent his youth wandering in the countryside, taking in the fresh air which his mother nervously and religiously recommended to him. He learned, by spending time in nature and quietly in doors, to calm his nerves a great deal, and occasionally he was able to experience moments of the most profound and gratifying peacefulness. But the rule of his life was a strange inward chaos, and always he returned from these bouts of sweetness to a mind and body riddled with anxious care.

So, it is not very difficult to see how he might acquire the sympathetic love of a woman like Katya, whose nature it was to give, to heal, and to comfort others in all manner of affliction. This is not to say that Piotr had nothing else to recommend him, or that Katya's love was purely out of pity. But it should be understood that pity is not such a shameful motive, and that the love inspired by it may be of a very high order, infused with compassion, tenderness, and selflessness. She also loved him for his quick mind, his sensitivity to beauty, and religious beauty in particular, but I do not think she would have stayed with him, and given up her wandering life, had he not been afflicted. His weakness gave her purpose.

posted August 18, 2010 12:57 AM              

Stories don't really end, do they?

posted August 20, 2010 01:39 PM              

Thank you for the link.
Camus is not an especially impressive aphorist, --
I may even have coined more impressive statements, --
but his books are terrifying in their brilliance.

I disagree with many of these sayings,
even to the point of not seeing so much as
a kernel of truth in them.

Love these, though:

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.

In order to understand the world,
one has to turn away from it on occasion.

The only way to deal with an unfree world
is to become so absolutely free that your
very existence is an act of rebellion.

We are all special cases.

And I don't understand why he idolizes scorn,
when he calls it an attribute of nobility and
says that it surmounts every fate.

To my mind,
the chief condition of nobility
is a vigorous generosity of soul,
and the man who scorns his misfortune
suffers at the hands of it twice.

But perhaps I'm misunderstanding him.

Yin,