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Chronicles
by anah childes




olstoy, at the end of his PROPHET, SAINT, LITERARY GIANT LIFE, had a tiny, squirm of a man -- Tolstoy's personal physician, following him, writing down every jot and tittle of living Tolstoy participated in. Tolstoy did not like this inconvenience so the physician-scribe began writing of the LITERARY GIANT inconspicuously. The scribbling squirm toted a small, well-sharpened pencil and secreted in his right pocket learned to expertly write on little patches of paper everything Tolstoy spoke aloud, everything Tolstoy did in the presence of his presence.

Scribe

"Scribe, I saw you taking notes other evening. You wrote 'Patrick was stretched out on his couch, surrounded by unfolded clothes.' You really can't expect a single father, doing the best he can to fold all the mountains of laundry accumulated by two boys, 4 and 6, and a daughter, 2, still in diapers. Patrick has his hands full being a 'good dad' teaching the boys the right rules to Frisbee football. Teaching the laws of finding Thomas' stolen bicycle, teaching them to listen real close to the train swishing 'too damn fast' around the bend in the Valley Mills cliffs on the wrong side of the tracks. But assuredly, Scribe, you would have had to been there to get the full affect of everyone's face when Patrick spoke, we listened.

But back to Patrick being stretched out. Yes, yes, I was kneeling before him. Yes, I was kneeling before him. He does demand a 'certain type of respect' as a man that may mature past his past.

Scribe, you noted and wrote.
'Are you mad at me?' I, lamb-like asked.

Patrick's face squinched into a pout.

I hate when men pout for s-x. Just say what you need you man of 'taking a stand against the evils of Waco.'

'You are just going to leave and not do anything?' Patrick whined and flopped his gray-green eyes against mine.
And answering like the sacrificial lamb I have splayed for too many times in my life, 'Of course, I want to be with you. Of course, I want you to separate my thighs and press your long stem into me. Give me your manhood and I will leave a liberated woman.'

Scribe, did you write all this? Did you pinpoint the movement from the den to Patrick's bedroom? The door closed against a house full of still playing children. Did you write me plummeting into his disheveled bed waiting?

Patrick, you slay me. You literally point your rod between my crevices and spear me until I am weak with womanhood. 'I hate you. I hate you.'
Scribe, write that Patrick whispered into my ear as he pushed back my Joan of Arc hair cut and delivered, 'I want you to suck me until I am tip dry when I tell you I am coming.'

As always Patrick's climax's are silent affairs of asthmatic breathing, growing more frantic as his body tilts toward an ecstasy. My face is so close to the pulse that I jerk with his jerk and after I push him away, push him away in all the ways that he just got naked with me -- exposure is hard like ice cracked.

Then I throw all the pearls to the swine.

Scribe did you catch this conversation with accurate scribble? Patrick begs me to tell him about the secret societies. I tell Patrick that I do know, I do know things that are ancient and lost except to the most curious of beings.

Shakespeare wrote it best -- 'methinks the lady protest too loudly' after the moment of climax.

So I butter the bread with 'The Sufis' and Patrick's face turns a blank shade of pink.

'Yes, the Sufis. Lovers of G-d -- mystics. The creed of the lover of G-d is unio mystica. Are you one with me, Patrick? Did your person worshipping in my holy of holy feel the exhaustion to one with G-d?

Perhaps for you, Patrick, it was wasted space and you were not properly confessed to be there.

I would have gladly heard your confession. I allowed you entrance but was your sacrament farcical? Patrick, I see things, I hear things, I have been places. The mystic being is in me. Take off your shoes, you stand on holy ground. Yet you know, Patrick, anytime you come into the presence of such a face of sacrifice and love given by a woman in intimate partnership, you stand clean, washed, and on holy ground. Do not take this lightly. Do not take this lightly.'

But lost moments are lost moments and Patrick does not see that he just worshipped in the most holy secret society. He was inducted into the shrine of Christ's s-xual salvation.

Scribe, you just managed to record the moment in the midst of the bowling alley -- YOU, knowing I hate bowling ' THAT ' is the moment you choose to write about and all the above moments you leave for me to write, me to write, with my limited abilities.

'Patrick?' Scribe begins. Whatever I wanted to say to Patrick was coloured by a face that read admiration for the man.

'Don't say it. Don't say it. Not here in the bowling alley. Don't say it.' Patrick protested.

So Scribe, it appeared that I would, should have told him, 'I love you.' but in truth, I only wanted to say, 'I love the way your eyes hold things, hold things like strength, like manhood, like the promise of your eyes holding mine in the thrash of f-cking.'

Scribe, Patrick hates that word. But what else do we do.
F-ck.

Me, My Words
(gospel-ling)

Scribe, Give me my pen back. It is my turn to write. When I write everything becomes less clear and my authority dwindles to an inability to convince the simpleton of my purpose.

I am a charlatan and a fake. Look at me -- forty, a professional misfit. I cloak the beauty of my 'over achiever in an under achiever world' with semantic -- 'I am a positive anarchist.' However the truth is -- if Patrick can spend three weeks with me and think I am a fake -- then what authority do I own in intimacy with anyone? Perhaps it is only the touch as I brush through a crowd that holds any real strength of 'spiritual authority.'

Scribe I overheard this as I walked past a gaggle of women in a restaurant bathroom.

'Do you smell that smell? Do you smell that smell? It smells like incense -- Church Incense.' I brush by the ladies leaving the aroma of Mary, Mother of G-d, mixed with rose and patchouli. Mary, Mother of G-d, has scented past the straight suckling smell of red roses in bloom. She is tinged by the San Francisco patchouli sixties. She is me.

Perhaps all prophets bleed blood red like the rest of the non-visionaries in the world.

Hell, Sonya Tolstoy despised THE GREAT TOLSTOY.
FARCICAL!!

And
Perhaps all saints, prophets, oracles, scions, g-d's of greater and lesser degrees are human. Divine after all is not a true trait but a possessed obsession.

'Is all -- vessel of spirit.' I own no claims. So when I rant and rave to poor dearest Patrick or John or Christopher or Kevin or myriad faces of intimacy -- screaming this artistic angst of excellence, I am just gloating over some 'borrowed truth' already worn numerous times by numerous artists and poets, philosophers, kings -- I own no stakes to this 'GREAT' I so poorly pursue. WILDE TO SAY -- 'I love men over seventy for they always offer one piety of a lifetime.'

And of course, my twist, Scribe -- 'We own one great truth and we spend the whole of our lives trying to convince others of our piety to ONE truth.'

Of course, Scribe, our success depends on how we really convince our black little selves. Place our minds and soul on the same page and we get legible words, always.

Joan of Arc pursued. It was her ashes that wafted to the G-d of the universe as incense of passion to G-d. F-ck my insignificant stamping of feet at some poor bewitched lover of choice on some moonlit night.

I am an animal howling lustfully at the moon. (Carnage) The moon gets no closer and the animal gets no more human from the desire.

To Whom It May Concern
May the words of the Scribe and the vessel be recorded.
Heard,
Read,
Blessed,
Understood -- and one Holy Whole Thought be placed somewhere for MORE than me to jealously think is "right and absolved."

I have been a Catholic, a Muslim, a Jewess -- and all that remains -- is the carcass of a "believer."

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