Eschatological Psychosis

"There's a reason there so few photos of Marlissa and me," she said. "For Marlissa, the explanation is fascinating, but sad, too. For me, though, it's just ego plain and simple. I'm a proud old broad who can't stand the way she looks, especially when compared to the way I used to look. Ego, pride."

More?

 She wagged her eyes and took a sip of her drink--chartreuse and soda, an exotic liqueur unfamiliar to me. "Name a conceit. I delude myself that it's okay because I admit that I'm vain. I haven't reached the age where my body only embarrasses others. Why advertise what you've lost and can never recover?"

I have the honor of presenting you with a little present from my bees and ask your blessing for this my production. I am also desirous of obtaining your portrait as a souvenir and as a blessing. 

Second, I would like to present my bee gift to our young Sovereign. This gift I would like to present for the year 1893, for the bee-keeping exhibition. This exhibition enlightened me, it showed me all there was to know about raising bees and I wish to thank [him] for the way which was shown to me. 

But I am a peasant and barely literate, I learned at home I was never in any school anywhere, but I was in Moscow at the coronation of Alexander III. And also at Nicholas II. ... The monarchs gave me an honorary certificate in bee-keeping. I would like to thank him for all of this but because I am a peasant and don't know who I can send it through please tell me how I might.

I have never had to encounter confessees like the ones in Odessa...and because of this it is hard for me to absolve great sins at confession. At the same time, I don't see how I can apply the church strictures in all their force, and so I am utterly baffled as to what to do . Here are the most puzzling questions:

1. May one absolve a murderer who has committed this sin only a few days before confessing it, and what sort of an epitimia (penance) should one give him? 

2. May one absolve--and give the Holy Mysteries to: 1) a fornicator; 2) an adulterer; 3) men who commit bestiality (скотоложник); 4) a pederast (мужеложник)--who committed the sin a few days ago? What sort of penance should I give him? 

3. What do I say to people who are living in sin, and do not want to stop? 

4. What do I say to a married couple that practices withdrawal to avoid having children? 

5. What do I say to men who lie with men, and women who lie with women? 

6. Can lawful spouses who have had intercourse the previous night be allowed to communion? 

7. May lawful spouses who have had relations "through the back way" be absolved? What about unlawful [unmarried] ones? And what sort of penance should they receive?

This connection between food and drink and a lack of spiritual vigilance led Father John to develop careful and elaborate rules for "using" food similar to those of the ascetics of the desert. The rules covered combinations of foods he considered bad ("No horseradish with vinegar!"), quantities consumed ("You may drink three cups of coffee with cream after dinner, after about three hours; four [cups] is excessive and sinful. Or mixing tea and coffee--it won't do"), types of food ("buckwheat kasha is good, cream bad"). 

Finally, nearly in despair, he gave up the various careful rules he had devised and sought to reduce them to one terse rule, written in capital letters: "NEVER EAT SUPPER!"  

First, however, we should pause to consider the kind of pilgrimage envisaged here. Victor Turner forged the current terminology of pilgrimage. It is rooted in the metaphor of the journey, of "being on the way" toward a transformative (in)sight. Capacious as his paradigm is, it is inevitably both late and Western, and I should like to suggest instead a paradigm derived from a ninth-century Byzantine narrative about a major pilgrimage site. 

This is the story of the miracle at Chonai. The story is clearly intended to give pilgrimage status to a great site, but I think it also offers us a paradigm of the pilgrim, in the figure of its protagonist, Archippos. Archippos is not in any literal sense on a journey. Instead, he is in a state of veneration: for sixty years he has tended the shrine of the Archangel Michael. This is his pilgrimage. It culminates when he is invited to avail himself of the  access that loyalty has earned him, and to come into the very presence of the archangel: "Rise, just soul," the Archangel bids him, "...  take the access offered  you,  and  come  towards me." 

Now, with synaesthetic intensity, he adores the mighty presence of holy power. More than one who traveled, the Byzantine pilgrim was aproskynetes, one who venerated; the critical movement was over the threshold of access to the one venerated. The space claimed was one less of distance than of presence... 

...the icon of Symeon the New Theologian [plays a role] in several posthumous miracles that can be exemplified by the story of a middle-aged man of substance led by a pilgrimage to abandon his life in the world and become a monk in Symeon's monastery. But soon a demon of envy overcame him, and he saw Symeon's icon taunting and making faces at him. Clearly, the man's monastic profession had been prompted  by a vainglorious infatuation with his own presumed spirituality. Symeon's taunting visage showed him that he must shed his affectation and begin the pilgrimage of his monastic profession over again.

'Alone with Billie's even worse - "I cant see anything to do now," she says by the fire like an ancient Salem housewife ("Or Salem witch?" I'm leering) - "I could have Elliott taken care of in a private home or an orphanage and just go to a nunnery myself, there's a lot of them around - or I could kill myself and Elliott both" - 

"Dont talk like that" - 

"There's no other way to talk when there's no more directions to take" - 

"You've got me all wrong I wouldnt be any good for you" - 

"I know that now, you want to be a hermit you say but you dont do it much I noticed, you're just tired of life and wanta sleep, in a way that's how I feel too only I've got Elliott to worry about... I could take both our lives and solve that" - 

"You, creepy talk" - 

"You told me the first night you loved me, that I was most interesting, that you hadn't met anyone you liked so much then you just went on drinking, I really can see now what they say about you is true: and all the others like you: O I realize you're a writer and suffer through too much but you're really ratty sometimes... but even that I know you cant help and I know you're not really ratty but awfully broken up like you explained to me, the reasons... but you're always groaning about how sick you are, you really dont think about others enough and I KNOW you cant help it, it's a curious disease a lot of us have anyway only better hidden sometimes... but what you said the first night and even just now about me being St Carolyn in the Sea, why dont you follow through with what your heart knows is Good and best and true, you give up so easy to discouragement... then I guess too you dont really want me and just wanta go home and resume your own life maybe with Louise your girlfriend" -

"No I couldn't with her either. I'm just bound up inside like constipation, I cant move emotionally like you'd say emotionally as tho that was some big grand magic mystery everybody saying "O how wonderful life is, how miraculous, God made this and God made that", how do you know he doesnt hate what He did: He might even be drunk and not noticing what he went and done tho of course that's not true" - 

"Maybe God is dead" -

"No, God cant be dead because He's the unborn"-

"But you have all those philosophies and sutras you were talking about" - 

"But dont you see they've all become empty words, I realize I've been playing like a happy child with words words words in a big serious tragedy, look around" - 

"You could make some effort, damn it!" 

But what's even ineffably worse is that the more she advises me and discusses the trouble the worse and worse it gets, it's as tho she didn't know what she was doing, like an unconscious witch, the more she tries to help the more I tremble almost too realizing she's doing it on purpose and knows she's witching me but it's all gotta be formally understood as "help" dingblast it - She must be some kind of chemical counterpart to me, I just cant stand her for a minute, I'm racked with guilt because all the evidence there seems to say she's a wonderful person sympathizing in her quiet sad musical voice with an obvious rogue nevertheless none of these rational guilts stick - All I feel is the invisible stab from her - She's hurting me! - At some points in our conversation I'm a veritable ham actor jumping up to twitch my head, that's the effect she has - 

"What's the matter?" she asks softly - Which makes me almost scream and I've never screamed in my life - It's the first time in my life I'm not confident I can hold myself together no matter what happens and be inly calm enough to even smile with condescension at the screaming hysterias of women in madwards - I'm in the same madward all of a sudden - And what's happened? what's caused it - 

"Are you driving me mad on purpose?" I finally blurt... But naturally she protests I'm talking out of my head, there's no such evident intention anywhere, we're just on a happy weekend in the country with friends. 

"Then there's something wrong with ME!" I yell - 

"That's obvious but why dont you try to calm down and for instance like make love to me, I've been begging you all day and all you do is groan and turn away as tho I was an ugly old bat" - She comes and offers herself to me softly and gently but I just stare at my quivering wrists - It's really very awful - It's hard to explain - Besides then the little boy is constantly coming at Billie when she kneels at my lap or sits on it or tries to soothe my hair and comfort me, he keeps saying in the same pitiful voice "Dont do it Billie dont do it Billie dont do it Billie" till finally she has to give up that sweet patience of hers where she answers his every little pathetic question and yell "Shut up! Elliott will you shut up! DO I have to beat you again!" and I groan "No!" but Elliott yells louder "Dont do it Billie dont do it Billie dont do it Billie!" so she sweeps him off and starts whacking him screamingly on the porch and I am about to throw in the towel and gasp up my last, it's horrible. 

Besides when she beats Elliott she herself cries and then will be yelling madwoman things like "I'll kill both of us if you dont stop, you leave me no alternative! O my child!" suddenly picking him up and embracing him rocking tears, and gnashing of hair and all under those old peaceful blue-jay trees where in fact the jays are still waiting for their food and watching all this - Even so Alf the Sacred Burro is in the yard waiting for somebody to give him an apple - I look up at the sun going down golden throughout the insane shivering canyon, that blasted rogue wind comes topping down trees a mile away with an advancing roar that when it hits the broken cries of mother and son in grief are blown away with all those crazy scattering leaves - The creek screeches - A door bangs horribly, a shutter follows suit, the house shakes - I'm beating my knees in the din and cant even hear that. 

"What's I got to do with you committing suicide anyway?" I'm yelling - 

"Alright, it has nothing to do with you" - 

"So okay you have no husband but at least you've got little Elliott, he'll grow up and be okay, you can always meanwhile go on with your job, get married, move away, do something, maybe it's Cody but more than that I'd say it's all those mad characters making you insane and wanta kill yourself like that - Perry..." - 

"Dont talk about Perry, he's wonderful and sweet and I love him and he's much kinder to me than you'll ever be: at least he gives of himself"- 

"But what's all this giving of ourselves, what's there to give that'll help anybody" - 

"You'll never know you're so wrapped up in yourself" - 

We're now starting to insult each other which would be a healthy sign except she keeps breaking down and crying on my shoulder more or less again insisting I'm her last chance (which isnt true) - 

"Let's go to a monastery together," she adds madly -  

"Evelyn, I mean Billie you might go to a nunnery at that, by God get thee to a nunnery, you look like you'd make a nun, maybe that's what you need all that talk about Cody about religion maybe all this worldly horror is just holding you back from what you call your true realizing, you could become a big reverend mother someday with not a worry on your mind tho I met a reverend mother once who cried... ah it's all so sad" - 

"What did she cry about?" - 

"I dont know, after talking to me, I remember I said some silly things like 'the universe is a woman because it's round' but I think she cried because she was remembering her early days when she had a romance with some soldier who died, at least that's what they say, she was the greatest woman I ever saw, big blue eyes, big smart woman... you could do that, get out of this awful mess and leave it all behind" - 

"But I love love too much for that" - 

"And not because you're sensual either you poor kid" - 

In fact we quiet down a little and do actually make love in spite of Elliott pulling at her "Billie don't do it don't do it Billie don't do it" till right in the middle I'm yelling "Don't do what? what's he mean? - can it be he's right and Billie you shouldnt do it? can it be we're sinning after all's said and done? O this is insane! - but he's the most insane of them all," in fact the child is up on bed with us tugging at her shoulder just like a grownup jealous lover trying to pull a woman off another man (she being on top indication of exactly how helpless and busted down I've become and here it is only four in the afternoon) - A little drama going on in the cabin maybe a little different than what cabins are intended for or the local neighbors are imagining.'

"The American Dairy Goats Association (ADGA), one of the United States' two major dairy goat registries (organizations that keep official lists of goats within a specific breed, provide registration certificates, and compile pedigrees), recognizes eight different dairy goat breeds... The other registry, the American Goat Society (AGS) registers only purebreeds and also recognizes the Pygmy as a dairy breed...  

Neither of these registries recognizes the mini crossbreeds that have captured the hearts of urban goat owners, so two new registries have sprung up: The Miniature Goat Registry (TMGR) and the Miniature Dairy Goat Association (MDGA)."

Raising Goats for Dummies, Cheryl Smith

Also, I have finally finished all of Ms West's truly phenomenal (if long) Black Lamb, Grey Falcon, and plan to write something of a 'and thus I have learned' post sometime this week, so stay tuned!

I've written about Rebecca West's wonderful Black Lamb and Grey Falcon before, and as I get farther in it seems only to improve. While I'm barely a tenth into the 1200 page work, the last chapter of the section on Croatia ("Zagreb VII") will certainly rank highly among my favorites when all is said and done. There's much to chew on in its scant eight pages, but I'll begin with this passage, which touches beautifully on melodrama, farce, the self-seriousness demanded by the juxtaposition of peasant and bourgeoisie, and dog shit. Here Rebecca, her husband (English both), and their Serb guide Constantine are visiting the family of the Croat journalist Grigorievitch:

"'Ah! Ah! Ah! cried Constantine, pointing his forefinger. We all wheeled about and saw that the poodle was relieving itself on the carpet. ... Grigorievitch and his wife started forward with tragic faces...

The dog was put out into the passage: but the incident could not be considered as ended. There remained in the middle of the carpet the results of its protest. We endeavoured to take the matter lightly, but we found that the Grigorievitches were evidently hurt by our frivolity; it was as if we had chanced to be with them when a son of theirs has returned home drunk or wearing the badge of the Croat Separatist Party, and we had tried to tamper with the horror of the moment by laughter. The atmosphere was tense beyond bearing; so Constantine, who had assumed an air of gravity, walked to the piano in the manner of an official taking charge in an emergency, and played a majestic motet by Bach, which recognizes the fact of tragedy and examines it in the light of an intuitive certainty that the universe will ultimately be found to be reasonable. The Grigorievitches, who had sunk into two armchairs facing each other, sat with their arms and legs immensely extended before them, nodding their heads to the music and showing signs of deriving sober comfort from its message. There entered presently with a brush and dust-pan an elderly servant, in peasant costume, who was grinning from ear to ear at the joke the dog's nature had played on the gentry.

As she proceeded with her task Constantine passed into the calmer and less transcendental music of a Mozart sonata, suitable to the re-establishment of an earthly decorum; and when she had left the room he played a brief triumphal passage from Handel and then rose from the piano. Madame Grigorievitch bowed to him, as if to thank him for having handled a social catastrophe with the tact of a true gentleman, and he acknowledged the bow very much as Heine would have done. ... Meanwhile her husband took mine aside, ostensibly to show him a fine print representing the death of an early Croatian king, but really to murmur in a voice hoarse with resentment that he had owned both the poodle's father and grandmother, and that neither of them would ever have dreamed of behaving in such a way. 'Nothing, man or beast, is as it was. Our ideals, think what has happened to our ideals... what has happened to our patriots...'"

Black Lamb and Grey Falcon is a travelogue/amateur anthropological work about interwar Yugoslavia written by Englishwoman Rebecca West published in 1941. It was given to me as a 21st birthday present shortly after my return from Russia, and despite its nigh-1200-page length is incredibly engaging and eminently readable, regardless of whether you know much about the Balkans (though it is clearly more enjoyable if you do!).

"'A woman must not spring about like a man to show how strong she is and she must not laugh like a man to show how happy she is. She has something else to do. She must go round wearing heavy clothes, not light at all, but heavy, heavy clothes, so that she is stiff, like an icon, and when she dances she must move without seeming to move, as if she were an icon held up before the people. It is something you cannot understand, but for us it is right. Many things in our culture accord with it.'"

"There was Constantine, the poet, a Serb, thaht is to say a Slav member of the Orthodox Church, from Serbia. ... He is perpetually drunk on what comes out of his mouth, not what goes into it. ... Of all human beings I have ever met he is the most like Heine: and since Heine was the most Jewish of writers it follows that Constantine is Jew as well as Serb."

"Nikon changed the traditional Russian reading in the creed that Christ's kingdom 'has no end' to 'shall have no end.' From representing Christ as 'sitting' at the right hand of God, the new creed read 'was seated'; and from affirming belief in the 'true and life-giving Holy Spirit,' the new creed substituted 'life-giving Holy Spirit'.

Though these changes were intended merely to rid the Russian church of uncanonical accretions, their effect to the fundamentalists was to imply that Christ was now sometimes on and sometimes off his throne (like a seventeenth-century monarch) and that the Holy Spirit merely participates in truth (like any student of the worldly sciences)."

"Some extremists among the Russian fundamentalists even took the position that the Bible itself was s secular book, since it contained many worldly and even pornographic stories and had first come to Russia by means of the 'guileful' printing presses of corrupted Western Slavs."