There's always room.

 There’s always room. 

I have been cleaning house, a room at a time, a room a day. Dusting, vacuuming - but not in the usual way, not the usual dusting and vacuuming. Moving the furniture; hoovering the walls as well as the floors; pulling books out of shelves one by one; washing the baseboards, lintels, jambs, and doors; touching up the woodwork, healing nicks and scratches.

     It’s a mania of sorts, not in the strict, psychological, DSM-IV sense,* but still a deep, desperate desire for order, a “blessed rage,” though not, as in the poem, for natural order, or for being able to see order, or even sing order. Rather a fury for grappling things into order and commanding them to stay there, to shake off all dust and dullness and to shine in place.

     The dust and the grit and the grime - the specks that have gathered together, known one another, and damply multiplied - are to be corralled, wiped up, scrubbed, or sucked up, and carted away. Every crumb is to be lifted from every surface. Stray hair is to be plucked out of the carpet by the roots. Mildew is to be bleached off the ceiling. Scratches and dents will be disappeared.

the foundation of the universe (artificial color added)

    But is anything entirely expunged? Or does it all shrink and go into hiding. The cleaning is begun with an eye to order but the eye soon comes to see - I only have to walk next door into the room I cleaned the day before yesterday - that there will never be more than an appearance of order soon to disappear itself. Underneath: erosion, collapse, crumble, things falling apart, degradation, entropy. The order that sustains the universe is an illusion, for beneath it is jello older than the universe itself.

06.15.18

_______________

 * “abnormally and persistently elevated, expansive, or irritable mood . . . accompanied by at least three additional symptoms,” for example “inflated self-esteem or grandiosity, decreased need for sleep, pressure of speech, flight of ideas, distractibility, increased involvement in goal-directed activities or psycho-motor, agitation, [or] excessive involvement in pleasurable activities with a high potential for painful consequences”

Conundrum roll, please.

 Conundrum roll, please. 

co·nun·drum kəˈnəndrəm 

noun     plural conundrums

confusing problem or question.

question asked for amusement; riddle.*

in a glass dimly

Dr. Feight** asked me Monday how I thought things were going.

     At first, it felt an odd question, unsettling, as if he were not sure himself and needed reassurance from me. Surely that was not the case?

     I just said, “Fine.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

     Later, I thought he was trying to throw me off-guard. And he had, but why?

     Still later, I decided it was just a casual question. He wasn’t asking how things were going in my Therapy or in my Life but just that day, that minute. He wasn’t asking how I thought things were going but just “How’s it going?” But why, then, had he added, “do you think”? “How are things going, do you think?” That’s what I remembered his saying.

It’s hard to admit this, but while I have acquaintances, I have no friends. We - my “friends” and I - can talk about religion and politics, but I can’t talk about myself.

     The only person I could ask what he thought Dr. Feight was up to is Dr. Feight.

01.04.18

_______________

  * The word may have been coined by Thomas Nashe as a term of abuse for a crank or pedant. It later came to mean “whim or fancy.” Its current senses apparently date from the late 17th century.

 ** Dr. Feight has been my psychotherapist since January of last year. See here for more.

Silence is . . . not

 Silence is . . . not 

“You’re a theologian,” Uncle Albert was saying to Nils Sundstrøm. Nils held up his hand. It said, “Wait a minute.”

     “You’re thinking of my brother,” Nils said.

     “But you, too,” Uncle Albert said.

     “Dishonorably retired.” Nils smiled, the smile we smile when something ought to be funny but it isn’t really - or it is funny but it oughtn’t to be.

     “All the better,” Uncle Albert said. He was not to be deterred. And Nils shrugged. “Go ahead,” the shrug said. “Clearly, I’m not going to stop you.”

    “So, our rector has this framed saying in her office,” he said. “It says, ‘Silence is God’s first language, and everything else is a poor translation.’”

     “Jesus Christ,” Nils said. “Which modern mystical moron said that?”

     Uncle Albert looked at me. It was the three of us, back this past Friday morning at Corner Coffee. We were eating crullers. Nils and Uncle Albert were drinking coffee. I was drinking water because I’d had my cup of coffee for the morning and because Roz has been saying every day - every day - that I need to drink more water if I ever want to get straightened out.

     “Thomas Keating,” I said. “I took a picture.” I showed it to Nils. He took my phone and handed it back.

     “Ah,” he said. Then, “Jesus Christ,” he said again.

“And I am not taking the Lord’s name in vain,” Nils said a sip of coffee later.” “Jesus Christ,” he said a third time, “is the Word of God, God’s final language whatever the first. And - what does Father Keating say? - ‘every other is a poor substitute.’”

     “‘Translation,’” I said.

     “Whatever.” Nils stood up without pushing back from the table; the feet of his chair rasped against the floor. “I’ve got to get another cruller,” he said though he had half of the first left. “Anyone else?” I shook my head. “No,” Uncle Albert said.

Nils started toward the counter but then turned abruptly and walked out the door onto the street.

     “His brother,* I like him a lot,” Uncle Albert said, “but he isn’t as much fun.”
     I shook my head, but I didn't mean anything by it; it wasn't a judgment.
     “The barista,” Uncle Albert said, “what's her name?”
     “Carmen, I think.” 
     “She's wearing contacts,” Uncle Albert said. I didn't ask him how he knew.

Nils was gone almost ten minutes. “It’s idiocy,” he said while he was sitting down. “But it’s also heresy.”

     “From the Lutheran point of view,” Uncle Albert said, as much question as response.

     “From the Christian point of view,” Nils said. “From the Christian point of view,” he said again, “in the simplest terms possible, we’re looking at a God of creation who reveals himself in Jesus Christ. He is the revelation of God, not silence.

     “I mean: What does silence reveal?” He held up an index finger: “Not a damn thing except . . . exactly what, in this case, Father Keating wants it to. Let him explain it to you.

     “I mean, did he say ‘Silence is God’s first language, and everything else is a poor translation’ - did he say that, that one sentence, and then shut up forever?

     “He did not, I’m pretty sure of it. This is one sentence in the middle of hundreds of other sentences, in the middle of thousands of paragraphs in the middle of scores of books - books and more books and then classes and lectures and retreats . . . all about what this silence means. ‘Sorry, friends. Jesus wasn’t it.’ He wasn’t it, he isn’t it, he can’t be it. He’s not enough, he’s not big enough, he’s not grand enough. And especially he’s too, too solid flesh; he’s too solid period. He’s too specific. God spoke in a rabbi without portfolio from a punk town in Galilee. Not enough. Not amorphous enough. Not aery enough, too blood and bones, maybe even too circumcised. Not a vapor that can expand to fill, or contracts to fit, the mystic’s soul. So: ‘Let me explain,’ he says. Let me explain.

     “Then 32 or 132 books later he’s still explaining. And it’s not because the gas has gotten loose from the container and now can’t be contained. That might describe the Holy Spirit. It’s that the container keeps changing shape. Or, it keeps meeting new people with new needs, and . . . .” Nils stopped. He sighed. He dropped his head into his hands.

     “Sorry,” he said.

     “No,” Uncle Albert said. “Don’t be.”

06.11.18

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­_______________

 * meaning the marginally calmer - or seemingly calmer - Axel Sundstrøm. For more about Nils, the more labile, see here.

the Young Men's Cyrenaic Association pool

 the Young Men’s Cyrenaic Association pool 

Aristippos, having tired of Diogenes’ claim that only he was truly free, asked him: “Thursday midnight?”

     “What?”

     “Are you free then?”

     “Of course.”

     “Come swimming with me.”

     “It’s January.”

     “What better time?”

     “True. Of course.”

They met up where they’d left off, and the Hedonist led the Cynic to the local Y, to which he had a key to the back door.

     They undressed in the locker room and swam naked in the - to Diogenes’ apparent disgust - heated pool.

     Aristippos climbed out first. “Swim a little more,” he said to his friend. “I want to shower before I dress. And you won’t.”

     “No,” Diogenes agreed because he was free never to shower.

As was Aristippos. So he simply dried off, then put on Diogenes’ clothes, the torn t-shirt, the ragged, itchy sweater, the cargo pants and crocs. He stuck his head back into the pool area. “I’ll wait for you outside,” he told the free man.

     Fewer than ten minutes later, Diogenes emerged, naked, Aristippos’ soft slacks, soft shirt, and soft sweater, his soft pea-coat, his soft socks and comfortable shoes in his hands.

     “What am I to do with these?” he roared. “Give me back my clothes.”

     “Wear them,” Aristippos said. “Or are you not free to appear comfortable?”

06.06.18

Behold, I stand at the bathroom door . . .

 Behold, I stand at the bathroom door and knock. 

“It was a Luther-an moment,” Axel was saying.* “Eschatological, scatological. Demons rush in where even fools fear to tread.”

     “Nice,” I said. “You’ve been working on that.”

     “What?” he said.

     “Don’t play innocent,” I said. “That sentence.”

     “Maybe,” he said.

“Last night,” he said. “Ten o’clock. There’s a knock on the bathroom door. The outside. I’m on the inside, engaged in my business, which hasn’t been as productive as I’d like lately. But some success.

     “Then, a knock.”

“Is this a ghost story?” I said.

     “No. ‘Who’s there?’ I say. I wonder, ‘Did I leave the front door unlocked?’ - but I don’t think so? I think, ‘Who has a key?’

     “‘Are you all right?’ a woman’s voice says. 
     “‘Who is it?’ I say again. 
     “‘Bel,’ she says. 
     “‘What are you doing here?’ 
     “‘Are you all right?’ she says again. 
     “‘What are you doing here?’

     “‘The church called.’ 
     “‘What do you mean? - it’s ten o’clock at night.’

     “‘Someone from the church called - a Frank something.’ 
     “‘Why?’ 
     “‘Someone died.’

     “‘No. I meant, Why did he call you?’ 
     “‘I don’t know. You didn’t answer your phone? Are you all right?’

     “‘My phone didn’t ring. Who died?’

     “‘I don’t know. He said if I could get hold of you, you should call him.’”

“Bel has a key?” I asked. “And Frank Something knows she has a key?” I asked Axel.

     “I don’t know what Frank Something knows,” Axel said.

     “Who died?” I asked.
      “No one,” Axel said. “No one died.”

06.04.18

______________

 *  About Axel, click here. About Bel Monk, click here.