Burning our bushes behind us
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| Yab-Yum in a fishbowl |
“Vajrayāna,” Axel said. “Nils is an idiot. He’s a Marxist, then he’s a Buddhist; and somehow he is going to hold those in tension ‘within himself.’ It’s bullshit. It’s impossible bullshit.”
I started to say, “How so?” for what do I know about either? But Axel rushed right on: “They’re both bullshit to start with. Marxism is bullshit. And Vajrayāna Buddhism is bullshit.
“At least in Nils’ hands,” he added after a pause.
“How so?” I wanted to say again, but it didn’t seem like the right question at this point, so I said, “Oh.”
We were in Axel’s study at Grace, a cavern of a room with bookshelves on two walls and windows on a third, the shades pulled against the afternoon sun. Axel was in his big leather chair behind his big mahogany desk. He was leaning back, hands behind his head, trying to decide whether to put his feet up.
I was opposite in one of the two overstuffed parishioners’ chairs. The whole office felt over-stuffed. There were too many books on the shelves, the blinds trapped too much air in the room. (You know, how water in a fish tank looks denser than water in a pond.) Axel had eaten too much for lunch; his stomach was rumbling. There were too many ideas in his head. Maybe it was his brain that was rumbling.
There were too many butterflies in my stomach. There are always butterflies in my stomach. I am always anxious. That’s what I take medicine for, to kill the butterflies. But at best it only wounds them: some sink to the bottom where they continue to flutter their enfeebled wings. Others continue to sail drunkenly about bumping into one another. The few that manage somehow to escape the poison altogether yell at the others: “Get up, you lazy jackass!” “Watch where you’re going, you besotted son-of-a-bitch!”
“What about Bel?” And I found myself wondering if I’d said that out loud. It’s a delicate subject, I keep thinking.
“Eff Bel,” Axel said, except he didn’t say “eff.” Then he must have wondered if he’d said that out loud. He decided he had. “I’m sorry,” he interrupted himself in a rush. “I shouldn’t have said that.
“She’s an artist.” He stopped. He started again: “Not a wonderful artist,” he went on, “though I like her work. But she’s serious about it. So for her,” he hesitated.
“Anything for art’s sake,” he decided. “She thinks this stuff may help. Somehow.”
I was trying not to say anything out loud.
“And maybe it will,” Axel said and pursed his lips.
“Today’s Thursday,” I said after a long silence. We’d come to the church after taking Uncle Albert home from Thursday lunch.
“It is, Einstein. So?”
“What’s this week’s sermon about?”
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