Burly Men

Dick Balls pranced around the Abbey after he shit on the lawn and after he spilled the coffee over the front seat, map and Jacket. He’s totally fine until you turn his back on him. I needed to get out of town, to church of some sort. We were two, that was enough and the dog and another woman (possibly the Porter). We three sat in that chapel for a good hour, listening to the rain fall, watching the candle through its red glass enclosure, smelling the incense burn as it mixed with the raw earth. My prayer was mostly a confession of pain, I wasn’t angry with god or the like but I hurt. The presence of my self in any way was disturbing so my thoughts drifted there and I ended up thinking about that. Like, I’m selfish and I know I’m selfish and I’ve thought of “I” about four times now since ‘I’ started praying and fuck there ‘I’ go again, God damn it, shit ‘I’ didn’t mean that in vain but it was, ‘I’ was…, Fuck ‘I’ can’t stop the ‘I’ thing, how about those people killed today, the ones in Idaho or Bagdad, yes ‘I’ll think of those, shit me again, can’t escape it, ‘I’ love you ‘I’ love you ‘I’ love you, shit, love you love you love you love you, love love love love love love love love love love love. Only more tortured and private and it wasn’t really torture, it was more of a gift. We didn’t see any monk except for a brief moment when one poked his head through the rear door of the chapel then turned and left abruptly as if he had forgotten something. Distracted, I looked at the structure of the place, the brilliance of the stone and wood. Earthen things feel right. I looked for a good long time listening still to the rain and then to Sara’s stomach gurgling for lack of food and then mine and the little fart I let escape that sounded more like a gong in that finely crafted hall. As I followed each beam from its joist down to and over the stone I spied a camera watching over the alter. Must be someone’s artwork but I knew it was security. It would be better as artwork, I thought. It was tempting to feel violated by it. I mean, I was fairly certain there was no surveillance equipment in the restroom although it would have been justified to capture the brilliance of the red tile and the serenity of the place even when shitting (which I had been). There it was, a camera protecting the solid investment of catholic propriety. I looked to Sara, nodded and we left. On the way to the heavy gilded wooden doors I caught the headline of the catholic publication, “Spitzer’s Abortion Amendment Decried!” Jesus Fucking Christ. Did I just think that. There ‘I’ go with the ‘I’ again. Lord’s name in vain. Abortion. Babies. Too much. Clear that shit out. Fuck. Love love love love love love love love love love love love…

The rain cleared, poked through a shifting gray sky and birds were chirping and cooing songs just as we exited those heavy doors. I recalled the psalm I had read earlier in the waiting room, hand written in clear ornate calligraphy, Psalm 25, with a bic blue ink ‘25’ scrawled in the top left corner. Teach me your paths… Pardon my guilt… Consider how many are my foes… I wait for you… Redeem Israel… and the like. Redeem Israel. I looked at my Teva sandals, Israeli. I looked up at Sara, half Jew. Schwabby, a Rabbi now, my good friend, the man who officiated my marriage, who read the book of Ruth to my then fiancé and I in the days when the Mormon boys came knocking. The man who gave me “As a Driven Leaf” by Milton Steinberg that warned of the dangers of losing faith. A story where, in the end, a faithless Rabbi who lost his path, is forgotten and literally has his ass hanging out of a shallow grave as lightening strikes his debauched lifeless corpse. Impossible tasks handed down through generations over impossible odds. Guilt, a weapon. The shame of where my wife may be, the shame of losing faith, losing control. The shame of letting good men down who carry impossible tasks and the uselessness that follows. “Babe!” I look up and smile but my shoulders are hunched from stress and I know she knows. “Let’s go see Letchworth.” That was the original plan anyway.

At Letchworth the attendant handed a park map, a receipt and a bone shaped cookie for the dog through the window of the Cadillac with a smile. “The civil war reenactment starts in half an hour, 2 miles up the road.” We pulled away munching on chips and headed straight for it. I read Sara the brochure and added in my own information in the same tone and style. “As you hike these powerful and ancient lands beware the dangers of this unique landscape. Be on the lookout for ticks, chiggers and burly men. Burly Men have been known to tackle and violate unsuspecting hikers especially in early season before the thick mane of manhair has shed.” “Thursdays and alternate Tuesday’s are fag friendly. Look for the rainbow colored flag at all park entrances. Burly Men will be more active on such days so please take extra precaution while visiting your state park during these times.” “Your good at that,” Sara said laughing. “I know. I should write brochures or something.” When we got to the battle the canons were already firing. We took Goose to the front line and he was unfazed by the noise of the canons, guns and horses. He must be a war animal. I thought of him in Japanese armor, Kurosawa style. The battle was amazing really. The guys that do this look a lot like I imagined Burly Men to look like. They fired muskets and canons and made formations for a good hour on the battle field. Gun powder was everywhere. I looked down at my painted toenails and felt a twinge of panic as I looked back up the ropes at leather skinned patriotic women, and men, caps in hand, children close about, observing the battle fiercely. When it was done and after the horses were finished prancing (which is in some way always hilarious to me) we headed back to Roc so Sara could make work on time and I could read papers and set about some type of plan for the next week or month or lifetime.