Walking Raven

(Recently Updated) Back Back Story: Robin and Plate O’ Shrimp 2

Darcy, Dante, Joe, and I attended the Greyhound Reunion Picnic at Bataan Memorial Park in Albuquerque last Sunday afternoon. The annual event is the major fundraiser for Greyhound Companions of New Mexico. While there, I had a plate of shrimp experience with regard to me in general and the book in particular. See August 12, 2005 Post. Many years ago, a good friend and I were discussing the fact that one of my most enduring (or was it endearing? — y’er right, prob’ly not) qualities was my sense of loyalty. She told me I had a “dog heart.” A few chapters into my first version of The First Voice, I realized Elfredge needed a protector with a dog heart. I toyed with the idea of simply naming this individual “Dogheart,” but I thought “Elfredge” was already pushing the envelope.

The issue resolved itself as I began constructing Dogheart’s back story. I hit upon a scenario whereby she was “from France.” (Foreshadowing, again. Patience, patience.) In France she was known as Coeur de Chien, but when she immigrated to the United States through Canada, immigration officials “Americanized” it. As for her first name, I have a good friend whose name I like a lot. Thus, the character Robin Chiencoeur sprung full grown from my brain.

As for the plate of shrimp part, our first stop at the greyhound picnic was a booth set up by Black Horse Design jewelers. Carmen, one of the jewelers, told me to check out the company’s donation to the silent auction. For the first time ever, they had donated the master casting of a piece that will be available for sale in October. The name of the piece is “Heart Hound.” Needless to say, we hung around until the auction closed to make sure we had the winning bid. (Darcy had to make a cash run, but hey, it was for a good cause.) The framed casting (with accompanying poem) has joined the ashes (and pictures) of Devon and B’mer on top of the entertainment center in the living room. See Posts for August 4, 2005 and July 5, 2004.

A Few Firsts

My initial attempt at writing this novel occurred in the spring of 1999. By then, the only major modification to the plot or characters mentioned in these entries to date was that John had become Johanna for reasons that will be explained in a forthcoming post. All I needed was the right apocalyptic event and I felt as though I would have enough material to begin the book. So one fine morning in March I put a new cartridge in my sweet little Bordeaux Mont Blanc fountain pen (medium point), pulled a brand-new yellow ruled 8 ½ x 11 legal pad from the file drawer, and opened my copy of The New Oxford Annotated Bible with the Apocrypha (NRSV) to read, for the first time ever from beginning to end, The Revelation to Joh[anna] (hereinafter “Revelation”). [I’m sure it has escaped none of you that I have just used a technique called “foreshadowing.”]

I trust even the most Bible-shy of you have at least heard of Revelation, the last book of the Bible. Even though I took copious notes of both the text and accompanying commentary, and I had to get up a few times to pace around the room to calm my growing excitement, I finished the task in a matter of hours. But what productive hours! In addition to the apocalyptic event, I settled on the novel’s working title, its setting, and glimpsed, for the first time, its structure. I was overwhelmed with the realization that I just might pull this off.

The first verse of Chapter 4 gave me my working title. It reads, “After this I looked, and there in heaven a door stood open! And the first voice, which I had heard speaking to me like a trumpet, said, ‘Come up here, and I will show you what must take place after this.’” The commentary identified “the first voice” as Jesus Christ and brought to mind the opening verse of The Gospel According to John, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” I already had in mind that the novel would in some respect address my life-long struggle with the middle personage of the Holy Trinity which is comprised of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost/Spirit (I prefer “Ghost,” so does Don McClean, American Pie).

I’ve never really had trouble with the idea of a life force. After all, I predicated what cell phone provider I would choose on whether the vendor could procure a phone number with 5334 as the last four digits; i.e., JEDI. Calling or thinking of such a force as “God” or even “The Holy Ghost” has never been terribly problematic either. As for The Son, however, it has been difficult, having read other myths and religions, to ignore the many common threads they share in this regard. Since emerging from the primeval soup, we humans have encountered or invented any number of beings who would qualify as a first voice. See, e.g., Campbell, Joseph, The Masks of God: Occidental Mythology.

A number of creation myths recount how a divine being spoke the world into existence. I knew of a few at the time I first read the above-cited verse in Revelation and my research for this novel has yielded several others; e.g., Yahweh. Jesus (in his capacity as The Word). Thoth. Hasch’ethi (Navajo for “Talking God”). I started to think about what role such a concept might play in an apocryphal thriller, and came up with the idea of a heavenly Council of The First Voice that would be comprised of all the various candidates who had held the position through the ages. From there, The First Voice rang true as a working title. [As I was editing this post, I took a lunch break and stumbled upon a Discovery Channel show hosted by Carl Sagan entitled, One Voice in the Cosmic Fugue. All together now, “plate-of-shrimp.” See August 12, 2005 Post]

I continued to read and take notes until I reached Chapter 7 and the marking of the 144,000 with the “seal of the living God.” Given my affinity for the mark of Cain, it is understandable why that particular passage engendered one of those instances of deep breathing and circling the room. See September 22, 2005 Post. I barely had time to catch my breath before reading, for the first time in context, the opening verse to Chapter 8, “When the Lamb opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about half an hour.” About half an hour. Can this person write or what? Or maybe, something actually got found in translation for a change. [At this juncture I would encourage each of you who has not already seen the film to take a break from reading this post and either migrate to Netflix and add The Seventh Seal to your queue, or head to your favorite video store and rent it. Fabulous movie -- as is the short film parody of said same, Le Dove. Imagine playing badminton for keeps with Death.]

And then came Chapter 18 and Babylon. A city of kings and merchants; shipmasters, seafarers, and sailors; minstrels and artisans; and “the blood of prophets and of saints.” I hadn’t really been all that keen on having Israel as the setting for my novel, and as I read this chapter it occurred to me it could just as easily take place in my beloved Manhattan and the surrounding Burroughs. If Elfredge succeeded, New York City would be transformed from Babylon into the New Jerusalem. Listen, e.g., Let the River Run, Carly Simon, Working Girl Soundtrack.)

Things were indeed coming together, but I had yet to come across what I had hoped to find when I first sat down to read — the reason to write this book. And suddenly, there it was, the opening verse of Chapter 20:

Then I saw an angel coming down from heaven, holding in his hand the key to the bottomless pit and a great chain. He seized the dragon, that ancient serpent, who is the Devil and Satan, and bound him for a thousand years, and threw him into the pit, and locked and sealed it over him, so that he would deceive the nations no more, until the thousand years are ended. After that he must be let out for a little while.

The Phantom Zone leapt into the memory section of my brain. For those of you unfamiliar with Superman, the Phantom Zone is the planet Krypton’s equivalent to a maximum security prison where super villains, after due process of course, are, if convicted, banished. Essentially, they are flattened into what was visually portrayed in the comics as a two-dimensional entity and sent into orbit around the planet. And so I had it. The book would recount the means by which Satan, if all went well, would be consigned to the equivalent of The Phantom Zone.

In half a day, I had a title, a setting, and a plot. Best of all, I definitely needed to take an extended trip to Gotham.

Back Back Story: Cain

A Wrinkle in Time and The Lord of the Rings hold the top two spots for the most influential books I read during my first sixteen or so years. Several candidates vie for third, including Demian by Herman Hesse. It had such an impact on me that I can remember being so restless after finishing the book I needed to take a walk. It was the “magic time” of day, Maxfield Parrish twilight, just after an autumn rain shower in Minnesota. I strode through the alleys of Madelia in my Hang ‘em High poncho and bumper tennis shoes, deeply inhaling whatever brand of cigarette I had managed in my minority to procure – probably a Winston. Reading Demian began a life-long fascination with Cain, or, more appropriately, the Cain archetype – now that I know Cain merits archetypal status thanks to the Google search I conducted for the term “synchronicity” in connection with my August 12, 2005 post.

The biblical story of Cain is set forth in Genesis, Chapter 4. Cain was Adam and Eve’s first born, “produced,” according to Eve, “with the help of the Lord.” (Hmmmm, who else was produced with the help of the Lord?) After Cain, Abel arrived, apparently without any help. Cain grew up to be a farmer. Abel grew up to be a shepherd. At one point, Cain offers God “the fruit of the ground,” and Abel offers “the firstlings of his flock, their fat portions.” What ensues is yet another example of God’s arbitrary behavior. See Earlier Posts, infra. In the narrative, we get no clue why God “had regard for Abel and his offering, but for Cain and his offering he had no regard.” I’ve heard a few tortured sermons on the subject, and I’ve read Steinbeck’s East of Eden, but I’ve yet to be satisfied with a reason that bests the “flies to wanton boys” explanation. See September 9, 2005 post. In any event, having no clue why God adjudged his offering and himself unworthy upsets Cain. The next thing we know, in a variation on the “Mom always liked you best” theme, Cain rises up against his brother and kills him. After ordering Cain into exile, God, again without satisfactory explanation, pays heed to Cain’s fears of retribution, and, instead of “an eye for an eye,” sets a mark upon him and vows “sevenfold vengeance” on anyone who kills him.

Cain receives very different treatment in Demian. In Hesse’s novel, Max Demian befriends the young Emil Sinclair whom Max recognizes as one of his own, being marked, as Max and others are marked, with the same sign he believes the biblical figure Cain bore. Max doesn’t believe God gave Cain the sign to prevent others from taking vengeance on him for killing his brother. To Max, Cain’s mark identified him (and his progeny) as an individual of “intellect and boldness” with “courage and character” that normal, run-of-the-mill folks would, understandably, find “sinister.” Demian (Bantam Books ed.), pp. 24, 25

I so wanted to be Emil Sinclair. I wanted to bear a mark that would enable the Maxes and Evas of this world to know me as one of the chosen. Up until the time I read Demian my fondest desire had been to reach the age of majority, so I could take my smoking inside a bar where I would sit, nursing a drink, while quietly observing the other clientele, and having brilliant, alcohol-inspired insights which I would record from time to time in a small notebook. [Before moving on to real cigarettes I had practiced smoking candy cigarettes for years. I’d also practiced drinking by pouring Coca Cola into a souvenir shot glass acquired at Mount Rushmore and tossing it down in a single gulp. (Mind you, this was still in my “when I grow up I want to be a cowboy” days; I’d only just started reading O’Neill, Williams, Fitzgerald, and Hemingway – imagine the effect Long Day’s Journey into Night and The Ice Man Cometh had in continuing to foster this fantasy.)]

On a related matter, I had a plate of shrimp experience in connection with this post. See August 12, 2005 post. The Writer’s Almanac for Tuesday, September 21, 2005, commemorates the birthday of the poet Donald Hall. The entry goes on to relate that Hall’s first literary hero was Edgar Allen Poe. As a result he “wanted to be mad, addicted, obsessed, haunted and cursed; I wanted to have eyes that burned like coals, profoundly melancholy, profoundly attractive.” Yeah, what he said.

Thanks to Demian, at least I grew up wanting to be “cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark café” only until such time as a preordained stranger would walk into the bar, notice me sitting at my regular table in a dark corner, and realize who and what I was. Mitchell, Joni, Blue, “The Last Time I Saw Richard.” He or she would come over and join me. At the conclusion of our conversation, this individual, having recognized my intellect and boldness, would offer me a tenured position in the English department of some prestigious college or university. And I would live happily ever after. Talk about magical thinking.

Demian’s influence showed in other ways, too. For instance, since I started reading “serious” literature up until the time I completed my M.A., I never read a book without a yellow highlighter in hand. It had to be a yellow highlighter, not any other color, and not fluorescent yellow, either. If I were to go through these highlighted volumes today, I would be able to collect all the allusions to Cain, the mark of Cain, and his mythic and artistic progeny including, but not limited to, the Wandering Jew, the Flying Dutchman, the Ancient Mariner, and Longinus. I toyed with the idea of one day writing a scholarly paper on the subject of Cain, which I would, of course, be asked to read it at an MLA convention, thereby sealing my reputation as an academician. I had a few papers like that in mind. Instead of writing any of them, however, I went to law school. So much for magical thinking. (Come to think of it, no one ever offered me a tenured position at a prestigious law school either. I would, of course, have been asked to teach Law in Literature; e.g., “Moby Dick: Agent or Principal,” or “The Jury in Camus’ The Stranger: A Really Good Reason to Abstain from Smoking at your Mother’s Funeral,” and the like.)

I’m posting this entry to explain, in part, why Cain (the very one) has been chosen to play a major role in the novel. A future post will relate how in my imagination Cain has managed to hang around until the present time. I’m rather pleased with his back story. So far, at least, my research has uncovered no other source that even suggests the tale I intend to tell. Could be, I’ve actually had an original thought.

We’re All Alone

“Nobody reads this shit,”
You proclaimed,
Handing me a book written
For no reason other than survival.

Publish or perish.

“Nobody reads this shit, either.”
I muttered,
Handing the judge a brief written
For no reason other than comfort.

Eat what you kill.

“Will you read my nonshit?”
I asked again, this time
Handing you pages written
For no reason other than need.

I was not worthy.

“Obviously I’ve mistaken you for someone who cares.”
I thought, almost appreciating the irony and
Retracting the pages
For no reason other than regret.

I can endure the sweet ache of your flustered rejection.
It is you who will miss the seamless web.

September 15, 2005

Us

Ever wondered about God’s use of the objective case of we, as in, “Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness?” Genesis 1:26. The appearance of the term “humankind” instead of “man” in this quotation signals my switch from quoting the King James Version (KJV) of the Bible as I did in my earlier posts to quoting the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV 1991). Even though it will take way more than rewriting the Bible using inclusive language to even begin to address the sexism inherent in the Judeo-Christian tradition, it is an important first step. I received a copy of The New Oxford Annotated Bible with the Apocrypha as a gift on June 3, 1991, and it has proved an invaluable tool in this literary endeavor. (Thanks A.) The footnote associated with Genesis 1:26 blithely speculates that “[t]he plural us, our (3.22; 11.7; Isa 6,8) probably refers to the divine beings who compose God’s heavenly court.” (Emphasis in original.)

The above-cited cross-references identify other instances in the Bible where God has had occasion to converse with these beings (hereinafter “Us”). For instance, shortly after Adam and Eve eat from the forbidden tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thereby committing Original Sin, capital “O,” capital “S,” God expresses his concern that “the man has become like one of us, knowing good and evil; and now he might reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life, and eat, and live forever.” Genesis 3:22. To prevent such an eventuality, God drives Adam and Eve out of Eden and places “the cherubim, and a sword flaming and turning to guard the way to the tree of life.” Id. at 23-24.

I was always taught the serpent lied to Eve when he told her she would not die if she ate the forbidden fruit. On the contrary, it appears that God, rather than the serpent, is the liar. Specifically, when Eve meets the serpent in the garden, he asks her, “Did God say, ‘You shall not eat from any tree in the garden’?” Eve answers that God told her, “[y]ou shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of the garden, nor shall you touch it, or you shall die.’” The serpent, apparently quite truthfully, assures Eve, “You will not die; for God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”

So, why hasn’t anyone bothered to point out that Adam and Even could have achieved immortality had they simply managed to eat from the tree of life — an action that was, apparently, not forbidden – before eating from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil? Well, I suppose one could say that technically God told Eve the truth, since by his omniscience he would have known that she and Adam would eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil first, and he’d be able to kick them out of Eden before they could get to the tree of life. (And you wonder where we lawyers learn our tricks.)

Us also figures prominently in the story of the tower of Babel. Genesis 11:1-9. Following the flood, “the whole earth had one language and the same words.” And humankind said one to the other, “let us build ourselves a city, and a tower with its top in the heavens, and let us make a name for ourselves; otherwise we shall be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.” For reasons left unexplained in the narrative, just the opposite proved to be true.

That is, the footnote accompanying this passage compares humankind’s architectural aspirations with Eve’s quest for the knowledge of good and evil and bills the story as a further example of how “God frustrated another attempt to overreach human limitations.” God, accompanied by Us, comes down to “see the city and the tower, which mortals had built.” God observes, “Look, they are one people, and they have all one language; and this is only the beginning of what they will do; nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them. Come, let us go down, and confuse their language there, so they will not understand one another’s speech” — in other words, take the necessary action to thwart humankind’s (and here I’ll quote from the footnote) “Promethean desire for unity, fame, and security.” Picking up the narrative again, “and from there the Lord scattered them abroad over the face of all the earth.”

Given these events, especially if one ascribes to the chaos theory, it sort of gives a whole new meaning to the quote Walt Kelly first used on a poster for Earth Day in 1970:

Imagine

Of Rosemary and Flies to Wanton Boys

In 1988, I decided to read the Bible cover to cover. Before that, of course, I’d read (or heard read) a good bit of it. I made it midway through The Psalms before abandoning the effort. I discovered that reading the Sunday School stories in context often resulted, to quote Paul Harvey, in getting to “know the rest of the story.”

Take, for instance, the story of Noah. Genesis 5-9. I trust everyone knows that God, having become disenchanted with humankind, commanded Noah to build a really big boat and to load his family members and two of every kind of animal onto it, after which God caused it to rain forty days and forty nights. As a result, “every living substance was destroyed which was upon the face of the ground, both man, and cattle, and the creeping things, and the fowl of the heaven; and they were destroyed from the earth: and Noah only remained alive, and they that were with him in the ark.” Id. at Genesis 7: 23. How many of you, however, remember the details of the next two verses? Specifically, Chapter 7 ends with the pronouncement “the waters prevailed upon the earth an hundred and fifty days.” I, for one, was dumbstruck the first time I actually read the opening words of Chapter 8, to wit:

“And God remembered Noah.”

Let’s see, 150 days, that’s about 5 months before God thought about the fellow he had chosen to repopulate the earth after The Deluge. Now, I don’t know about you, but I was taught that God was an omnipotent, omnipresent grandfatherly type who would know every time I used a swear word. Based on the above, I’ll just say, NOT.

Then there’s the story of Job. For those of you who don’t already know, Job “was perfect and upright, and one that feared God, and eschewed evil.” He had seven sons and three daughters. He was also quite rich. He had “seven thousand sheep, and three thousand camels, and five hundred yoke of oxen, and five hundred she asses, and a very great household.” He was “the greatest of all the men of the east.” Job 1: 1-3. And then, as is so often the case when things are going exceptionally well, the other shoe dropped. (Maybe, it’s because of Job we experience the free-floating angst that harbingers the undropped shoe.) As with the story of Noah, sitting down and reading the account of what actually led up to the dropping of Job’s shoe also left me dumbstruck. Id. at 6-12.

It seems that “there was a day when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them.” Seeing him, God asks Satan, “Whence comest thou?” Satan answers, “From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.” God inquires whether Satan happened to run into his “servant Job, that there is none like him in the earth, a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth God, and escheweth evil?” Satan retorts with something to the effect of, “Well of course he’s perfect and God-fearing, he doesn’t have a care in the world, ‘but put forth thine hand now, and touch all that he hath, and he will curse thee to thy face’.” To make a long verse short, God replies, “Wanna bet?” God then tells Satan, “Behold, all that he hath is in thy power” with one exception; God forbids Satan to kill Job. The next thing you know, “BAM,” Satan kills his entire family. And we’re off and running.

Given the foregoing, you can now understand why, in the novel, I intend to portray the God of Noah and of Job as a somewhat out-of-touch compulsive gambler — at least metaphorically speaking. (And now you also know the answer to why bad things happen to good people.)

Oh, and if you haven’t yet connected the title of this post with its content, brush up your Shakespeare, or, alternatively, search Google. For continuity, you’ll also need to add the following parenthetical to the end of Gloucester’s lament: (or at least, our families).

Back Back Story: The Immortals

As a child, Catholicism fascinated me. In sixth grade, I had one of my Catholic friends teach me the Hail Mary. I also liked the idea of being able to ask God directly for what was wanted instead of leaving it to “Thy will be done.” You want a million dollars? Ask for it. And if it didn’t happen, well it wasn’t that the prayer had gone unanswered. No prayer goes unanswered; it’s just that sometimes, God says, “No.” Later in life, when questioned about how a Lutheran knew so much about those idol-worshipping, transubstantiating Catholics, I would explain, that, like Luther, I too believed there was only “one true Church.” Despite the above, I hope no one will be surprised to learn that these days, I’m incapable of supporting the Church’s position on almost any issue. For instance, Catholicism (and for that matter, all of the Big-Three — Judaism, Christianity, and Islam) is beyond redemption from a feminist perspective – it will take a whole lot more than using gender-neutral language, that’s for sure.

Even so, St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things, continues to play a role in my life. In 1987, I had the privilege of beginning my life as an attorney by clerking for Justice Mary Coon Walters, the first woman ever appointed to the New Mexico Supreme Court. As the appointment lasted only a year, obtaining an associate position with a law firm provided more than a few anxious moments during my tenure with The Court. At the time, few firms were looking for new associates, and after a couple of courtesy interviews (in deference to Justice Walters), I began to despair of finding gainful employment.

Cora, Justice Walter’s secretary and a devout Catholic, came to the rescue. She told me I had to go over to the St. Francis Cathedral during the lunch hour and light a candle to St. Anthony to help me find my “lost job.” I did as she told me to do. The next day a fellow named Joe Sturges from Sager, Curran, Sturges & Tepper, P.C. called to set up an interview. I had sent my resume to the firm on the advice of Justice Walters, who told me Stan Sager was “the best mentor I could hope for.” I went to said interview, and the rest, as they say is history. I accepted Stan’s offer to join the firm. Six years later, I made partner. (And Justice Walters was right about the mentor part.) Since that fateful (if one ascribes to such notions) afternoon in Santa Fe, Tony has come through for friends, family members, and me on many occasions. At the moment I’ve got him working on my lost novel and lost lungs.

Another aspect of Catholicism that I thought about every once in awhile, especially during the time when so many priests were leaving the priesthood, was the edict that, no matter what, “once a priest, always a priest.” Somehow or other I learned that this precept stems from the biblical figure, Melchizedek. In the Hebrew Bible, Melchizedek was the king of Salem who rode out with the King of Sodom to meet Abraham “after his return from the slaughter of Chedorlaomer.” It seems Abraham and his personal army had come to the rescue of his nephew Lot who had been taken prisoner during a battle involving several kings and kingdoms. Following the victory, Melchizedek “brought forth bread and wine: and he was the priest of the most high God.” Genesis 14:18. And so was celebrated the first eucharist (small “e”) (from the Greek word for “thanksgiving” or “thank-offering”).

Melchizedek reappears in Hebrews 7 where he is described as the “King of righteousness, and after that also King of Salem, which is, King of peace.” In Hebrews, we discover that Melchizedek is “[w]ithout father, without mother, without descent, having neither beginning of days, nor end of life; but made like unto the Son of God; abideth a priest continually.” Hebrews 7: 2-3. I remember, the first time I read the above, saying to myself, “Self, what if Melchizedek is indeed still here, hanging around awaiting the Second Coming?”

The Hebrews reference to Melchizedek triggered a vague memory of another biblical character who might also be hanging around. The final verses of the Gospel of John set forth an exchange Jesus has with Peter. John 21:20-25. Specifically, as Jesus and Peter walk along, Peter turns around to see “the disciple whom Jesus loved following; which also leaned on his breast at supper.” For reasons that are not entirely clear, at least to me, Peter asks Jesus, “which is he that betrayeth thee?” Then, without awaiting an answer, Peter goes on to ask, “what shall this man [the disciple whom Jesus loved] do?” Jesus answers Peter’s question with a question, “If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?” At this juncture, the narrator steps in to explain the ripple effect of Christ’s statement; i.e., “[t]hen went this saying abroad among the brethren, that that disciple should not die.” The narrator then takes some pains to explain, “yet Jesus said not unto him, He shall not die; but, if I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?” We then learn our narrator is none other than “the disciple which testifieth of these things, and wrote these things: and we know that his testimony is true.” In plain English, the writer/narrator is the beloved disciple himself, John.

After re-reading the above, my inner conversation continued, “Self, what if Melchizedek and John are both hanging around awaiting the Second Coming, and the two of them meet up somewhere in Israel because they have learned the earth is threatened by an apocalyptic event?” (Rough beast slouching toward Bethlehem, anyone?) And so the seeds of the novel were planted.