A Lion’s Roar

I board the plane in Austin, buckle up, and with eyes closed hear again the night train in Marathon. Movie fragments, night sounds, flicker across the screen of memory: the central Australian desert in Night Cries, black-and-white images in Killer of Sheep. The melancholic wail of the train in 1970s South Central L.A. evokes the blues and the great migration—south to west—across the U.S. in the nineteenth century. Listening to Country on the radio the day before, driving across the vast expanse of a small part of Texas. That wailing sound rises, from somewhere within, then fades across the surface of my skin. It feels like the after-purring of a large cat, when growling segues into purring, and purring slowly ripples into soundlessness, until all that remains is a somatic memory.

A lion’s roar can be heard five miles away…

On the runway in Austin all of a sudden lightning streaks across the darkening sky and hail stones start falling. The wing of the airplane is soon covered in whiteness. A shiver shoots through the plane, there is a quivering in the air. We prepare to disembark but then the crisis subsides as quickly as it erupted, the sky clears, the mood shifts. Sparks of electricity remain in the atmosphere, however, people start talking, there’s an expansiveness that wasn’t there before. I am sitting next to a young woman who endears herself to me by showing concern for the rooster who, in his overhead bin, has been jostled by a bag stuffed in haphazardly by a rough and rude young man. She tells me that her mum collects roosters and even has some from Soviet era Russia. I’m not really a collector, I demur. I can understand that, she says, he is clearly the one and only.

My surly hermeticism is instantly vanquished, the conviviality of airplane small talk sucks me into its orbit. Maria tells me that she volunteers as an animal rescuer, fostering creatures from the wild so that they can eventually be returned to something like a natural state. As a student she worked at the Austin Zoo and Animal Sanctuary. Occupying a large acreage in the hill country, this zoo is home to many domestic and exotic animals that were either rescued from, or unwanted by, their owners. Toads are rescued, goats, donkeys and snakes, but also coyotes, cougars, lions, tigers. All the big cats are endangered in their native habitat, and in quasi-legal captivation too, and so zoos often see themselves as places of preservation and restoration. A mode of domestic rewilding. Maria tells me a story about a lion. My jaw drops inch by inch until it reaches the floor and a great gaping hole opens up in my stomach.

Heading back to Austin Katie and I drove up from Marfa, through Alpine, passing the Big Bend Cowboy Church we connected with the 10, zipped past Fort Stockton this time, no sense of it as a town, of that kind young man who wouldn’t take any money for our cups of tea. But there were billboards and we had the local paper advertising above all else churches. Churches churches everywhere: Pecos County Cowboy Church, Templo Los Olivos, Jehovah Witness Kingdom Hall, Big Bend Tabernacle Church…

The story Maria tells me goes like this: A lion was rescued from a church. He had been drugged out of his mind, overfed and malnourished, confined to a small cage in a trailer, never exercised. When he was released and stepped on to the ground for the first time he buckled under his own weight. All the bones in his feet shattered.

Yesterday, the day after returning home to San Diego, I am scheduled for an infusion. All goes well. But afterwards as often happens I don’t feel so good and only want to be lying horizontal. I crave bed and a cup of tea. If I’d listened, as they say, to my body I’d be up and about today, but I wouldn’t have those pesach images in my mouth, tastes curling up and around and into every bodily crease and crevice. Temptation lured me out of the house last night. Persian rice with lima beans, salt water in tiny hand-painted bowls that Parastou’s brother brought from Turkey. Brian’s chicken broth was light and clear, the kreplach fluffy, saffron scent infiltrating the broth, rising steamily out of the soup, enveloping us all. Elana brought chopped liver and a fennel and orange salad sprinkled with mint leaves. And the lamb, the lamb melted in your mouth. We muddled our way through the service, arguing about interpretation. Why do we have to wait to start drinking before the candles are lit and the first part of the service performed? What do the bitter greens signify, why do we have to eat them rather than just look at them? Why are we eating lamb? The young ones were impatient – what does it matter? they asked insistently, all this ritual; but us old secular Jews and/or fellow travelers like myself, serially married to Jewish men, we want to remember, get it right, immerse ourselves together for an evening in the theatricality of the symbolic dimension.

But today I feel like I’ve run into a truck. Elvis appears to be ecstatic: a day in bed with company. Every so often he lopes out into the garden, rolls around in the dirt and then slouches back into the house, springs onto the bed, looks me intently in the eyes and says: tell me a story. A growl ripples through him, just below the skin, as he stretches danger flashes and then he retracts his claws, his paws curl inward and there’s a deep rumble, the echo of a roar, a vibration, as he settles next to me, chin leaning on the Mac Air. I love to stroke his pads, so soft, and the fur on his feet.

Five miles away…

In bed I retrace the drive home from Marfa, scrutinizing all the churches. The Yellow Pages list twenty four churches in Fort Stockton, including the World’s Greatest Psychic Ms Grace, and Saint Genevieve’s Wine. In the lovely hill town of Frederiksburg (population about ten and a half thousand) there are (about) Seven Lutheran churches, four Baptist, one Methodist, one Presbyterian, one Orthodox, one Episcopal, four Catholic, two Spirit-filled Churches, nine Christian-Other churches.

I roam the internet, searching for the rest of the story. Maria told me that the lion had been used in religious theater. He would be wheeled onto the stage with a lamb. She says there is a happy end to the story, they eventually managed to rehabilitate the lion, and in the zoo he can roam, as though in the wild. But I want to know more, which church, what sort of theater, what retribution?

And the Lion shall lie down with the Lamb.

I find a photo of a blonde man, a pastor as it turns out, in a pink jacket, open necked shirt and khakis, clutching in his arms a lamb. He stands on a stage and in some photos you can see, behind the pastor, a caged lion. Ed Young is a mega church pastor, best-selling author and televangelist. His Texas Fellowship Church has grown to an average weekly attendance of over 20,000 people, with branches in several cities including London, England.

The lion and the lamb were brought onto stage as part of his “Wild” sermon series (today I read that in the next few weeks Pastor Ed will be hosting a “Dog Days” event that will feature pet adoptions). “Let’s give it up for the lamb and the lion!” Ed Young reportedly said over the bleats of the increasingly agitated lamb. The lion, after batting his paws at the handlers a few times, spent the rest of the sermon lazing about in his cage. Jesus, explains pastor Ed, is both the Lion of Judah and the Lamb of God. A paradox. “If Jesus is just a lamb, he’s not threatening, he doesn’t get up in my grill, he doesn’t get in my business,” he said. Channeling Jesus’ lion-like nature, Young says, gives believers “Godfidence” and “spirit-led swagger.”

It seems the sermon is not an illustration of peace, or domesticity, of the lion lying down with the lamb, but an embodiment of a paradox.

Embodiment is something Ed Young specializes in. He is often described as “creative,” is a flamboyant performer, in his services he deploys props, gimmicks, visual theater. He is prone to putting into play everyday sayings and of dramatizing biblical metaphors through literalization and embodiment. He attracted nation-wide attention for his pulpit campaign in 2008 urging married couples to strengthen their bonds through a week of “congregational copulation.” This was described as a “sexperiment” (Sexperiment is the title of his best-selling book). In “How to move from whining about the economy to whoopee!” He paced on stage in front of a large bed, now and then flopping down and flipping through the pages of a bible. This was an enactment or embodiment of the metaphoric: Time for the church to put God back into the bed.

The lion, you might say, was simply a prop, a visual aid, an illustration of language. Functionally it was equivalent to the Ferrari which Ed Young drove onto the stage one Sunday as part of a sermon illustration for his series titled “RPM: Relationships. Passion. Marriage.” “God gave me a Ferrari,” Young said, “because I am a Ferrari. You’re a Ferrari too. God has given you a Ferrari.” This is a little confusing to me. But the thousands of worshipers do not seem to be confused. To get a handle on it I tell myself that to be or not to be is not the question here. The Ferrari it seems is the body, and at the same time you are a Ferrari because you are made in the image of God. But many people abuse this gift of the Ferrari-body by not letting God be the driver, not learning to drive as God would. Lots of defective dating and sex before marriage leads to “off-roading.” And one bad thing leads to another, it’s a slippery slope, you put one foot wrong and land up in the vice-like clinches of a real humdinger: You’re a self-centered sinner, you marry a self-centered sinner, you have kids who are also self-centered sinners and you end up with a “colossal collection of self-centered sinning.”

But luckily there’s a way out of this swirling vortex of sin.

“It’s time for a sexual revolution. It’s time to understand we’re Ferraris. It’s time to drive down God’s track.” Sex. Wealth. Godfidence. To promote Sexperiment Ed and his wife Lisa took part in a 24 hour “bed-in” on the church roof and streamed the event on the internet.

A lion’s roar can be heard…

There is, under the circumstances, and according to Maria, a happy ending to the story. Though some might say the ending is up in the air. A spokesman for the Fellowship church says the lion was back “at home” in his California preservation where he has thousands of acres on which to roam, as though in the wild. No permits were requested for the theatrical sermon because none were needed. No prosecutions ensued. The lion, in the media and internet coverage, simply disappeared into some mythical Californian savannah, or into thin air.

Five miles…

This deployment of metaphor is not much different to the sex education we used to get at school: the body is a car, you must learn to care for it, respect it, and above all you have to learn to drive slowly. But Pastor Ed’s lesson is much more vivid and compelling. In addition it promises a reward: good and proper sex, inviting God into the (domestic) bedroom, can make you rich.

The lion and the Ferrari. Each a thing, a prop, a visual aid, a charged image. The theatricality of the symbolic dimension. A thing, but transformed from thingness through embodiment and rhetorical sleight of hand. I am a Ferrari: by a stretch of the imagination I can almost grasp this, the rhetorical intention anyway, but channeling Jesus’ lion-like nature via this caged and abject creature, receiving “Godfidence” and “spirit-led swagger”: this is harder for me to envision, to realize as embodiment.

Why are the herbs so bitter, why are we eating lamb? Val Plumwood, the Australian ecophilosopher who was death rolled three times before being released from the crocodile’s jaws later wrote, in an essay called “Meeting the Predator,” that it is only when we can consider ourselves as meat for other animals that we can imagine living in peace on this planet.

A lion’s roar can be heard for five miles…

All the way home, and for days afterward the stifled roar of that lion is trapped in my body. The wailing of the train and the roaring of the lion. I write this story but do not read it aloud to Elvis as is my wont. This is a story I cannot tell out loud.

 

Notes

His Texas Fellowship Church…… These numbers are provided in Wikipedia, but the entry is signaled as having problems. You can get a sense of the huge congregation by taking a look at the site where Pastor Ed streams live 24/7: edyoung.com.

“God Gave Me a Ferrari….” http://www.christianpost.com/news/pastor-drives-ferrari-into-church-for-relationship-series-49215/. Accessed 16 April 2014

“Jesus was called and is called, the Lion of Judah …..” and “If Jesus is just a lamb…”

http://www.texasmonthly.com/story/furry-fellowship-grapevine-pastor-ed-young-brings-lion-lamb-easter-sermon Accessed 16 April 2014

Val Plumwood, the Australian ecophilosopher… The essay, “Meeting the Predator” is in a collection of her essays, The Eye of the Crocodile

 

 

 

Life After Life

Life after Life is Kate Atkinson’s new novel – it’s long and gratifying. I have read a lot the last three weeks, mostly though not exclusively novels, the reading matter overseen and sat upon by Elvis. Reading is one of the things you can do while keeping your head very still so the world doesn’t spin, and if it’s engrossing you can be transported. You might think that the “second” life in the title is a replacement of the word and concept of “death.” Not really. On the most simple level the novel plays with the idea of the novel. The novel as a progression of seemingly inevitable events, of teleology, of the crocheting of character and description into the momentum of plot. But life too, as we live it day by day, entails plotting, dramatization and anticipation. Atkinson asks “what if”? What if, for instance, the baby had lived instead of dying, what if –that old chestnut—Hitler had been assassinated, what if the dog had a different name, what if the girl had kicked back? A writer can mess with events and this is what she does, giving us multiple versions or possibilities, or more accurately – unfoldings. But philosophically, she also spins a meditation – upon the eternal return. The idea that what exists after life is not death but more life, or more prosaically we could say people go on living, and the dead re-emerge in various incarnations according to different beliefs and modes of representation, and through the intricacies of memory. As always she is preoccupied with the concepts of déjà vu and amor fati, of history and the future, of memory and delusion. A minor but key character whose presence is woven through the book is a Buddhistic (come Nietzschean) psychoanalyst. In one of her incarnations, as a ten year old girl, Ursula is sent to see him.

 He had trained in Vienna (“Where else?) but trod, he said, his own path. He was no one’s disciple, he said, although he had studied “at the feet of all the teachers. One must nose forward,” he said. “Nudge one’s way through the chaos of our thoughts. Unite the divided self.” Ursula had no idea what he was talking about.

Atkinson also plays with the idea of the novel as a bourgeois form. Life After Life begins with a long idyllic evocation of upper middle class English life. She has said that it was Forster always at her back, but to me the angel at her back is Virginia Woolf, particularly Mrs Dalloway. As the story begins again and again on that snowy night in 1910 so the Merchant and Ivory scenario disintegrates and nostalgia is untethered, teased out, floats like seaweed in a bloody sea. Not just the Virginia Woolf of the novels but also the essayist and the woman who kept a diary full of quotidian details. While it is surely a false dichotomy to pose quotidian detail against the sweep of history, the trick is surely to understand and craft scale, through writing to mobilize that precarious, never stable, relation between scale and perspective. What the most intriguing novels and biographies do is illuminate not just details within the large sweep of history, but the sweep of history in the details. The new biography of Marx by Jonathan Sperber does this. I dipped in and out of it while out-of-it. Jeffrey read it voraciously from cover to cover (when it could be pried away from Elvis) and would relay the revelations, day by day, in between making endless supplies of chicken soup, a ministering Scheherazade.

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I always find myself (again, time after time, life after life) a better Buddhist when things are going well. “Better” of course is the wrong word, no I mean more inclined to be philosophically calm and accepting of fate, unperturbed by death. The last few days, before this awful smothering black blanket of nausea lifted I felt very despairing, as though I would never get better, even for a while. “This is it!” kind of a feeling. There is a simple line in Life After Life: “How sorry she felt for herself, as if she were someone else.” Somehow, as almost everyone must know, illness induces this as you see time falling through all the cracks in your life, never to be retrieved. Today, though, I feel grandiously like a besieged city that has been liberated. I woke up this morning feeling transformed, the nausea almost gone, euphoric. I hadn’t quite finished the Kate Atkinson and so got up, fed the cats (without experiencing that usual vomit-inducing odor as the tin of grain-free chicken-and-herring delight is prized open), let the chickens out in the dawn light, made a pot of tea and went back to bed and finished the novel – it felt so luxurious, reading not to allay sickness, but for pure pleasure. And of course I should know from the novel that after a besieged city is liberated (London and Berlin during the Second World War bombing) there isn’t immediate relief, what follows may be starvation, suicide, old age, mundanity. And yet …… and yet I loved the novel, it filled me with a peculiar happiness like Mrs Dalloway with her flowers. Atkinson has said you cannot write about happiness, that’s not what life is. It’s true the novel is not about finding happiness, I wept in parts and had to gloss over others that were too grim, and yet happiness is no less complex an emotion than say, despair, or misery, it’s just as implicated in the devious trajectories of desire. I’m glad I finished the novel on a high so I don’t always have it snuggled into bed, in a semi-illicit association with sickness.

Today I feel quite different, not sorry for my self at all, actually rather overwhelmed by the wonderful world I awoke into, but more convinced than ever that the self, though experienced materially, bodily, is a fiction. And what is it that constitutes feeling OK?

Being drug free is undoubtedly a big part of it. It surely must have been the combination of antibiotics with the chemo that made for such awfulness. Because of the initial searing gut pain and fever I diagnosed myself with a flare up of diverticulitis and my primary care Doctor agreed, urged antibiotics and since the fever and pain were subsiding, succumbed to my resistance to yet another Cat scan with contrast (time after time, too much radiation). I thought the antibiotics were working, but not really, the pain came and went. And the worst thing was the unrelenting nausea, dizziness, sensation of fainting even when lying still in bed. Kipps, my oncologist is inclined to think that this was clearly because of the piling up of chemicals (“we don’t know how the body will protest”) but also that the pain might not in fact have been provoked by an infection (and if this were the case, tho who’s to know, no need for antibiotics), but caused by tumor lysis. This refers to metabolic complications that can occur during cancer treatment, particularly in leukemia and lymphoma. Though the treatment is meant to reduce, say, the size and frequency of lymph nodes in fact it can do the opposite for a while. The lymph nodes in my gut area are increased in size and frequency and he guesses that this has put pressure on the colon. This makes sense but nevertheless I have a gut feeling (so apt a truism) that the chemicals are also ravaging my gut and so am drinking aloe vera juice an hour before eating, and also L-glutamin powder – both of which restore the mucous membrane of the colon stripped away by antibiotics as we know, but also by the other drugs. Acupuncture provided miraculous relief, but only for a short time (though it was amazing to see how color returned to my face during those sessions). However, my skin is so thin now. Thicker emotionally perhaps but in the end there is just that thin penumbra between you and the world.

Now I’m into the fourth round. Kipps decided not to up the dose because of the complications, though he is reluctant, and feels that it is only with an increased dose that some of the symptoms will abate and improvement register (white and red blood counts are miraculously in the normal zone, but others wonky). Still, it is underway and am feeling almost fine. Phew! With trepidation I have another immunoglobulin infusion this week, since an adverse reaction during the last one…

There are other things besides acupuncture that provided relief and forgetfulness. I thought I could drive myself to acupuncture one time but when I got out of bed realized that this wasn’t going to work. I called Tershia and she came and fetched me in her 1969 Porsche (a 912, 500,000 + miles, named “Lawrence” after T.E., as its first paint color was “Sand.”). Tershia turned it green. Just looking at it is a joy. It registers beauty—in its design, but also in that color, that delicious green that seems otherwise to have disappeared from the world, a green of mahjong pieces, of bathroom tiles and my grandmother’s kitchen. Nothing grandmotherly about that ride to the acupuncturist, however. Tershia drives her racing car as though it were a racing car. You might think that this would exacerbate nausea, but it was rather like entering into a dream. I loved being inside that greenness, whizzing through the city.

And then there was the poppy. Steve Ilott gave me, months ago, some white poppies he had started. We planted them out and waited and waited as they grew in a spindly fashion. Then one day as I lay languishing, feeling sorry for myself, Peggy—who was working in the garden, fighting the weeds which have gone beserk since people on the street started planting “low maintenance native” grasses—took a picture of the blooming poppy on her i-phone and sent it to me in the house. It was a totally unexpected apparition: a glorious white pom pom. I had been assuming that an old fashioned and elegant poppy would eventually bloom. Instead: the sheer exuberance and excess of that “Swansdown” startled me into delight. On the morning when I awoke feeling OK I opened the front door in the early morning and there were four white pompoms, gleaming in amongst the irises and salvia, roses and fennel, brash colors muted momentarily in the dawn, ceding glory to Swansdown.

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