Consider this my "hello", and as much an exposition of my tentative self as I can give on the interwebs.
Showing posts with label Louisiana. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Louisiana. Show all posts
Monday, March 10, 2014
Thoughts on Louisiana, Culture, and the Humane
Consider this my "hello", and as much an exposition of my tentative self as I can give on the interwebs.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Ordinary Time
Not totally fictive
In the well-developed town of Bienville, Louisiana, where
the plastered cinder block strips bespatter concrete flats beside the highway,
where car wrecks have increased in front of Walmart, where the locals could be
locals anywhere, where visitors can never find downtown, there is a brand new
Roman Catholic church, and in that church amongst the pews stand many people,
and amongst those many people sits John Emmanuel Lamarque.
John Emmanuel Lamarque is a young man with a strange name, which would generally mean that he is from New Orleans. He is educated, as is expected with such a name, and very polite. In fact, though newly arrived, he has scattered his politeness all about: a polite smile to the lady at the registration booth, a polite smile to the greeters, a polite smile to the priest when, always well-dressed, he was asked to present the gifts, a polite smile to the usher as he bequeathed, a polite smile to the music minister who asked if he'd like to share his talents, a polite smile to the Knights of Columbus grilling fat beef, a polite smile to each, every, and all.
John Emmanuel Lamarque, single and solitary, inspired many questions: a likely priest? No, too late. A religious? The single life? Not with such style and class. His wife is non-Catholic. He's here alone for work. What a market we have for him. Welcome to the community, John.
The questions soon ceased as interest shifted, and had rarely touched John himself. Lately rather aloof, he became at times a mildly noticeable void in the opening chorus. His neighbors at mass would be sometimes disturbed by a sigh, a sniff, a wild giggle or the twitch of a hand. He sat when it was time to stand. He folded his hands at the Lord's Prayer that they all dared to say.
Nevertheless, John Emmanuel Lamarque could be seen every Sunday walking briskly from his new Volkswagen to church doors, hands pocketed, tie somewhat crooked, eyes straight ahead – “Good morning, John” with a hypersmile – and to his seat, now further and further to rear or side.
This continued for some weeks before a marked change occurred. People wondered: his mother must be ill. His sister's in a coma. Going through a divorce already. Work's tough for a young kid.
Shirt untucked, the white cotton displayed from beneath, hair hardly combed, a few days scruff – John yet seemed uplifted, held his head up, at least glanced at the greeters with some sort of smile, stood during the Eucharistic prayer, and seemed very interested in the choir – peering and swaying toward the left of the altar. He still giggled and sighed during the offertory hymns – “We Are One Body”, “Amazing Love” – but as he seemed easeful, his neighbors were, and heeded him less.
Hard to live alone so long. I wonder if he's seen his family. Let's invite him to the soiree next weekend. I'm sure he can pick a good wine.
Moving nearer and nearer each Sunday to the altar's left, he was thought to enjoy mass more even than the older congregation. He murmured and swayed more and more, but never joined the clapping. Happy, though, he seemed, and seemed confident, secure. For those who noticed, those scattered few, John passed whatever trial it was.
One wet Sabbath with a rose sun gleaming through smoggy clouds, John Lamarque sat upon the step just near the dexter door into the church. He sat there with eyes glazed like an iced fish. And the greeter, busied with him, opened the door at breaks in his unfettered gaze. When sounds of the choir beat upon the door, the greeter stooped to John and asked, “Are you coming in, John? Mass is starting –”. Cut off by a brush of the young man's shoulder knocking him firmly enough into the steel handle to redden his cheeks and make him puff until he bethought himself, “I am God's minister”, clutched his metal cross badge, and wiped his feet on the carpeted lobby.
John Lamarque, it is true, suffered through mass. At the Gloria, he could be seen clutching his face, his jaw clenched and white. A middle-aged man leaned over: “Are you alright, son?” No response. A woman reached for his hand at the Lord's Prayer; he flicked it away and blew like a bull.
He sat down and did not rise, his stare fixed on the choir, an expression of pride and glory unseen since the days of Leonidas. His hands tightened into balled fists, squeezed, left bloody spots on the palms. And then calm. He sat still. He gazed forward as if through to the outside air. He rose and walked toward the massive dais upon which the guitarists swayed to the beat of the drum box. Red-haired empty-nesters crowed and sobbed unwilling harmonies. The pianist rolled his head, and a youth minister in vested broadcloth and jeans squinted closed eyes under prescription Ray-bans.
One by one, the singers noted him standing there arms akimbo. They dropped off and looked to the blank-faced ushers tapping their feet by each of six aisles. The leader, hearing her aides falter, with eyes closed called out, “Sing with me! … and worship leads to com –” at which instigation John Lamarque seized the lovely inlaid Martin, tore it from her shoulders, upsetting the music stand which made dominoes of the others, and with a roar like David shook the very air with its destruction upon the concrete floor.
The piano was next – as papers flew, somehow shredded, the amplifier fizzed as the keyboard shot into the air and with a terrible crash fired plastic keys into a row of extraordinary ministers, who tore their skirt-suits diving for cover.
Silence ensued.
The air was cooled by a soft draft like the settling breeze after a storm.
Tears from red eyes fell upon the ground. A haggard toneless voice cried out, “Adoro te Devote …”
The choir leader, spectacles tortured, rose from her corner screaming “How dare you?! How dare you in the presence –”
“Panis vivus, vitam præstans –"
“How dare you?!?
“Dare ...”, John fell quiet and echoed. “We dare to say.”
She began to tug and pull at his deadweight, as if trying to drag him away – all eyes glaring and embarrassed – but an old communion servicer of the Sisters of Mercy bustling up the aisle met her grimly, placed a hand on her shoulder: “Let us see what father has to say. Father?” Bill was a fragile old Jesuit and stood aghast at the altar. “Father?!” Finally he wagered, “Ladies, now ladies, let us remember that we are in the presence of God.” “Father, I want –” – accusing his impuissance – “I want you to drive this demon from this church and ban him from the community! Let him suffer outside where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth so that his soul may be purified.”
But before Bill's flubbering lips could utter another sound, there came a cataract of laughter – eerie, as it seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. And no one could at once discern its origin. Bill, by then frighted into unconsciousness, was slowly lowered to the sanctuary floor by a lady in impeccable black, his tennis shoes twitching.
The laughing grew so sonorous and sweet and so wrong that mothers covered the ears of the smiling children – until at last John lifted his face and the laughing ceased.
He was silent when police ushered him to a waiting patrol car. He strangely caressed the door, stooped, and entered.
It was a peculiar trial. John Emmanuel Lamarque was not deemed insane.
He spent 3 years on charges of assault, battery, destruction of property, and religion-based discrimination.
When released, he became a heroin addict for a time, appearing infrequently on the streets with a great beard and eyes like the sea. His arms became lank and wiry, and he was moderately notorious for his wild and beautiful words amongst the homeless. He often stood beneath the interchanges, gazing to the stars, unwittingly frightening passers-by in Lexus crossovers.
He was last seen in a Russian hostel at the foot of the Urals.
John Emmanuel Lamarque is a young man with a strange name, which would generally mean that he is from New Orleans. He is educated, as is expected with such a name, and very polite. In fact, though newly arrived, he has scattered his politeness all about: a polite smile to the lady at the registration booth, a polite smile to the greeters, a polite smile to the priest when, always well-dressed, he was asked to present the gifts, a polite smile to the usher as he bequeathed, a polite smile to the music minister who asked if he'd like to share his talents, a polite smile to the Knights of Columbus grilling fat beef, a polite smile to each, every, and all.
John Emmanuel Lamarque, single and solitary, inspired many questions: a likely priest? No, too late. A religious? The single life? Not with such style and class. His wife is non-Catholic. He's here alone for work. What a market we have for him. Welcome to the community, John.
The questions soon ceased as interest shifted, and had rarely touched John himself. Lately rather aloof, he became at times a mildly noticeable void in the opening chorus. His neighbors at mass would be sometimes disturbed by a sigh, a sniff, a wild giggle or the twitch of a hand. He sat when it was time to stand. He folded his hands at the Lord's Prayer that they all dared to say.
Nevertheless, John Emmanuel Lamarque could be seen every Sunday walking briskly from his new Volkswagen to church doors, hands pocketed, tie somewhat crooked, eyes straight ahead – “Good morning, John” with a hypersmile – and to his seat, now further and further to rear or side.
This continued for some weeks before a marked change occurred. People wondered: his mother must be ill. His sister's in a coma. Going through a divorce already. Work's tough for a young kid.
Shirt untucked, the white cotton displayed from beneath, hair hardly combed, a few days scruff – John yet seemed uplifted, held his head up, at least glanced at the greeters with some sort of smile, stood during the Eucharistic prayer, and seemed very interested in the choir – peering and swaying toward the left of the altar. He still giggled and sighed during the offertory hymns – “We Are One Body”, “Amazing Love” – but as he seemed easeful, his neighbors were, and heeded him less.
Hard to live alone so long. I wonder if he's seen his family. Let's invite him to the soiree next weekend. I'm sure he can pick a good wine.
Moving nearer and nearer each Sunday to the altar's left, he was thought to enjoy mass more even than the older congregation. He murmured and swayed more and more, but never joined the clapping. Happy, though, he seemed, and seemed confident, secure. For those who noticed, those scattered few, John passed whatever trial it was.
One wet Sabbath with a rose sun gleaming through smoggy clouds, John Lamarque sat upon the step just near the dexter door into the church. He sat there with eyes glazed like an iced fish. And the greeter, busied with him, opened the door at breaks in his unfettered gaze. When sounds of the choir beat upon the door, the greeter stooped to John and asked, “Are you coming in, John? Mass is starting –”. Cut off by a brush of the young man's shoulder knocking him firmly enough into the steel handle to redden his cheeks and make him puff until he bethought himself, “I am God's minister”, clutched his metal cross badge, and wiped his feet on the carpeted lobby.
John Lamarque, it is true, suffered through mass. At the Gloria, he could be seen clutching his face, his jaw clenched and white. A middle-aged man leaned over: “Are you alright, son?” No response. A woman reached for his hand at the Lord's Prayer; he flicked it away and blew like a bull.
He sat down and did not rise, his stare fixed on the choir, an expression of pride and glory unseen since the days of Leonidas. His hands tightened into balled fists, squeezed, left bloody spots on the palms. And then calm. He sat still. He gazed forward as if through to the outside air. He rose and walked toward the massive dais upon which the guitarists swayed to the beat of the drum box. Red-haired empty-nesters crowed and sobbed unwilling harmonies. The pianist rolled his head, and a youth minister in vested broadcloth and jeans squinted closed eyes under prescription Ray-bans.
One by one, the singers noted him standing there arms akimbo. They dropped off and looked to the blank-faced ushers tapping their feet by each of six aisles. The leader, hearing her aides falter, with eyes closed called out, “Sing with me! … and worship leads to com –” at which instigation John Lamarque seized the lovely inlaid Martin, tore it from her shoulders, upsetting the music stand which made dominoes of the others, and with a roar like David shook the very air with its destruction upon the concrete floor.
The piano was next – as papers flew, somehow shredded, the amplifier fizzed as the keyboard shot into the air and with a terrible crash fired plastic keys into a row of extraordinary ministers, who tore their skirt-suits diving for cover.
Silence ensued.
The air was cooled by a soft draft like the settling breeze after a storm.
Tears from red eyes fell upon the ground. A haggard toneless voice cried out, “Adoro te Devote …”
The choir leader, spectacles tortured, rose from her corner screaming “How dare you?! How dare you in the presence –”
“Panis vivus, vitam præstans –"
“How dare you?!?
“Dare ...”, John fell quiet and echoed. “We dare to say.”
She began to tug and pull at his deadweight, as if trying to drag him away – all eyes glaring and embarrassed – but an old communion servicer of the Sisters of Mercy bustling up the aisle met her grimly, placed a hand on her shoulder: “Let us see what father has to say. Father?” Bill was a fragile old Jesuit and stood aghast at the altar. “Father?!” Finally he wagered, “Ladies, now ladies, let us remember that we are in the presence of God.” “Father, I want –” – accusing his impuissance – “I want you to drive this demon from this church and ban him from the community! Let him suffer outside where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth so that his soul may be purified.”
But before Bill's flubbering lips could utter another sound, there came a cataract of laughter – eerie, as it seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. And no one could at once discern its origin. Bill, by then frighted into unconsciousness, was slowly lowered to the sanctuary floor by a lady in impeccable black, his tennis shoes twitching.
The laughing grew so sonorous and sweet and so wrong that mothers covered the ears of the smiling children – until at last John lifted his face and the laughing ceased.
He was silent when police ushered him to a waiting patrol car. He strangely caressed the door, stooped, and entered.
It was a peculiar trial. John Emmanuel Lamarque was not deemed insane.
He spent 3 years on charges of assault, battery, destruction of property, and religion-based discrimination.
When released, he became a heroin addict for a time, appearing infrequently on the streets with a great beard and eyes like the sea. His arms became lank and wiry, and he was moderately notorious for his wild and beautiful words amongst the homeless. He often stood beneath the interchanges, gazing to the stars, unwittingly frightening passers-by in Lexus crossovers.
He was last seen in a Russian hostel at the foot of the Urals.
Written by Ross McKnight
Edited by Jonathan Torres
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
The Savage
I recently shared midday meals and time with strangers during a training course near the Gulf coast in Texas that I attended for work. As the training involved a supposedly "universal" incident management program, there were individuals present from both government agencies and private industry.
On the second day, I shared lunch with one man, a trainer in operations with the army. He was stationed in the area. And soon I realized that neither of us were sitting at that table for any particular reason.
He had been in California, Louisiana, Kansas, New York. I had been in Louisiana, North Carolina -- these for birth and family, education and joy. To Texas came I for sustenance, which in this State (i.e. the U.S.A.), must come from money.
After lunch we sat in my car, waiting through the 2-hour period so irregular for us, perhaps not so for the others, who were public servants. Like me, one of his enjoyments is music in the Irish tradition. We both know of Julie Fowlis.
Yet as we sat and spoke of music -- and listened -- I could not dispel the feeling that neither of us were at all capable of interesting the other. Neither of us were at all capable of engagement, cordiality, connection.
"Yes, I know this artist you speak of. Do you know this one?" And a dry exchange ensues.
He had a humility and honesty about his eyes and speech, but perhaps the iciness of Statism or the gray sky or the cold unshakeable tool of capitalism that makes its will ever known to our fears came like a silent wave and shook our plastic & leather capsule til we were subdued and wanted escape -- not from the truth but from the reminder of the truth in a man's eyes, heart, tongue.
Here in Houston, we are all killers. On the roads, we are seldom hot and angry, just full metal coolness and murder. To every man a compensatory pick-up truck. But the object dissipates as we climb into our vehicles and the desire to inflict upon mad drivers the panic only comprehended as hatred overthrows the possibility of temporal despair. And we are all lost in the welling hell.
Once back to the plastic and leather capsule of our holes, we dive into the filtering shell that seems to be an outlet but really is a thief in saving us from saving harm.
And paradoxically, you should watch The Matrix and try with good will to see how we are hastening the loss of the human. And paradoxically I will write on, aware of the death clinging to my words unless you let them live.
I do not want the grace of doctrine. If my mind is free, but every act refutes its call to free my body, my mind is in chains.
I want not to be a slave. I do not want my fruit taken with assumed justice unless I see it's worth the price. And I cannot see it. And unlike God the United States of America merits no Mystery.
What is to become of us? What is to be done, my dear fellow slaves? Dare we raise our heads and cry to God the shame upon the heads of those who bend our noses to mirrors on the ground? Dare we cry shame upon our own heads as we bend them to the ground?
God save us and have mercy.
If I were not drawn with fear and harsh words saying I neglect responsibility, I would drop this sordid towel that mops the drops gushing from the staunched fountain. Death and love and freedom rather than ongoing.
God did not make these walls.
Will someone shoot you for saying "I am a man, and will forage for food. I am a woman, and will feed my child. I am a man, and will farm this land you leave wanton and fallow. I am a woman, and will tend this house you leave neglected"? Perhaps it is best to be shot.
Shots can not harm us as we walk through the fields, feeding a living act of God's love with grain on the Sabbath.
I would invite any and all to contemplate these shots and those rocks that come in through the window in Trois Couleurs: Rouge. See earlier post for viewing information.
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