Owner: Diary of a Heretic URL:www.diaryofaheretic.blogs.com Join Date: Sat, 11 Aug 2007 15:42:16 -0500 Rating:0 Site Description: Original, online fiction posted daily, except when non-fiction intrudes.
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Testimony 2007-08-10 20:41:59 Euphoria, I claimed in earlier posts
is a state of mind that carries an after-flash of its opposite. Despair’s
bitterness opposes euphoria’s sweetness. Before adulthood, I experienced both feelings
for no reason as fabulous spells of abandon.
Then life got serious. And just
as euphoria with cause is permanent, so is its opposite. In fact, I now know unrelenting
joy and constant sorrow so well that they often hit me simultaneously.
No doubt these unbound experiences
interfere with my usefulness to the real world. Perhaps if I escaped them I’d
seem productive. But I honestly do my best,
no matter what people say. Yet every day my persuasions steal me away.
I fell in love, married, and
have two perfect grown children. Sandwiched inside these immeasurable gifts, my
littlest sister was killed when she was eight.
Again, I’m fully aware of both
sides here. Common sense urges me to get over it.
For better or worse, for me
that’s impossible; even as billions of other people Read more:Testimony
Life and Death 2007-08-09 20:14:13 My youngest sister was eight
that Christmas. I was married and pregnant. Full of hope, I hadn’t mentioned
the fact to anyone yet, and no one had guessed, at least not to my face. My
second sister was married to a young Venezuelan man, who understandably felt
uncomfortable with the family’s volatile personalities. My first sister, the
calm, sensible one, was engaged to such an affable man, he put everyone else at
ease—a considerable feat that holds true to this day.
The family called my baby
sister, “Bunny,” a nickname she detested (and who could blame her?), insisting
we use her real name. We all tried but her name was the same as my mother’s.
And her girlfriends, who weren’t teasing her, genuinely liked it.
At eight she was quick and skinny,
all arms and legs, still baby-blond. Her new front teeth were too big for her
face, but she was a beautiful little girl. Best of the lot, we all agreed.
My parents sent her to the same
parochial school we had atten
Oldest and Youngest 2007-08-07 21:10:45 My mother gave birth to my youngest sister, when I, the oldest, was sixteen. My mother was thirty-six then, which she deemed shockingly old for new motherhood. It wasn’t, compared to many of other mothers she’d meet. But for her, who’d borne all her others in her twenties, this was a joyful surprise. Having returned to Northwestern University for her bachelor’s degree in Theatre, which I had interrupted, and three others following in succession, she had recently added a master’s degree. She had also acquired colorful friends, who cursed and held the smoke in their lungs when they passed around tiny pipes. By coincidence, I was home all day, every day for my baby sister’s first year.
Two years earlier I had attained a personally important goal: The Catholic Academy, which my sisters also attended, would no longer accept me. By the time my mother became pregnant, my antics at the local public school had led to mononucleosis, hepatitis, and a dangerously enlarged spleen. Obl
The Total Opposite 2007-08-06 22:11:15 Propose an emotion or belief and my mind automatically
acknowledges its opposite. I catch in full the after-image of the black field
that comes from staring at stark white. Consider
yin and yang, vice and virtue, joy and sorrow, love and hate—and extending my
agenda from last week—euphoria and despair. To maintain sanity, most people
steer their feelings toward the middle. An old-fashioned romantic temperament,
however, gives passion (reason’s opposite) free rein. But then for such high
indulgence, she suffers comparable punishment.
Last week I wrote about euphoria, which is mostly
attractive and sweet. Despair, of course, is euphoria’s flip-side. And whether
occurring with a cause or not, it’s seems repulsive, and tastes bitter.
Just as euphoria for no reason swept me up when I was
young, its radiance capturing me as I lay in the grass, despair in its
romantic, luxuriant guise took over me whenever I summoned it. Not
surprisingly, I could more easily work myself into fits Read more:Total
The Truth Will Out 2007-08-04 20:27:13 This excerpt continues the serialization of Diary of a Heretic, the
novel, which portrays the rise and fall of a contemporary spiritual
movement that blossoms suddenly, and briefly, around Malcolm Tully, the
owner of a coffee shop/donut house across the street from a terminal of
Chicago's El tracks.
Tuesday, November 13Carlos asked Stephanie to drive in from Lincoln Park. We needed to go over stuff. No longer dour or drab, Stephanie parked a shiny red car directly beneath the conference room’s windows. I waved from above and whistled in appreciation when she flounced in, all feathery new hairstyle and aggressively gold jewelry. A skinny, inconspicuous acolyte named Donny brought in a tray of Lapsang Soochong, oranges, and almond crescent cookies. Carlos ordered him to close the door. And then although Donny had left and the latch had clicked, he fumed, stirring the air so we all knew how severely, how seriously he was fuming. “First o Read more:Truth
Euphoric Love 2007-08-03 22:37:29 After eight years, during which we each tempted fate in our different ways, Manny learned from his mother that I was living in Chicago with my sister (plus two roommates with bad habits). He was living nearby with evil companions.
He telephoned me, both of us with so much to say so that we couldn’t speak—even me. Not entirely mute, however, I breathlessly managed to invite him to dinner. On hand, I had a stove, a soup pot, water, lentils, and salt.
Manny knocked; I opened the door; and that was that.
For me, seeing my favorite friend, transformed from a little boy into a towering, gentle, handsome man, a stranger but still my intimate, left no question: I was going wherever he went. My instantaneous but lifelong love for him was unquestionable.
For the soup, he found enough money to buy canned tomatoes, an onion, and green pepper. We flowed along the leaf-covered sidewalks. And I remember trying not to hop around, dance, and laugh while inside the grocery store.
I don’t re Read more:Euphoric
The Same But Different 2007-08-02 20:15:57 When I fell in love with my husband, the up-rush of euphoria freeing me from all other desire and concern lasted more than a year. If that sounds exaggerated, Manny claims his euphoria has never lapsed. But then he always tells me what he thinks I want to hear.
I tend to revel in our history. The beginning is so cute and so often trotted out by me, not him (he doesn’t think of it as history) that for once it gives me pause.
As young as six, we liked each other immensely. Our parents were friends; our fathers furiously working as associates at the same big Chicago law firm. His family owned a weekend farm and invited my family there often, weekends and holidays. If he and I didn’t run off together at first sight, that memory has taken on its own reality. Both families have confirmed: we paired up, ignored our siblings, laid low in corn fields,
sneaked into meadows, and hid in the attack reading his father’s childhood collection of Wizard of Oz books. The seven volumes in Frank
Euphoria With A Cause 2007-08-01 20:35:51 Three times in my life I’ve gone months on end feeling no need for sleep or food or outside entertainment. As any euphoric story goes, I danced on air: when I fell in love with my husband; when I gave birth to my son; and when I gave birth to my daughter.
Those people caused euphoria in me, which might rightly be called ecstasy, since strictly, ecstasy implies no delusion (before the recreational drug, that is), whereas unqualified euphoria does. The word “ecstasy” traditionally involved spiritual transport, and still does to those who acknowledge spiritual existence. In either case, modern life is not so picky. The two words work as synonyms.
During these three spells, I enjoyed a keen awareness of the real world interacting with another, dreamy realm. Rapture for me wasn’t biblical ascension. Rather, it felt as if my feet were imperceptibly hovering.Kids first:
I wanted each baby more than I’ve ever wanted anything, which says a lot since my life runs at the mercy of Read more:Euphoria
, Cause
Rain Check 2007-07-31 21:21:31
Today was punishing for no good reason. And the bad reasons? I haven’t figured out what each minuscule drop was; only that the rainfall was heavy. I’ve weathered too many hours of fat wet beads hitting me in the face to attempt the little vignette I had planned for today. I was going to write about euphoria with a cause.
Last week I wrote about it seizing me out of nowhere. That brief sweet shiver that transports you for a moment, maybe even an hour but that’s stretching it.
Euphoria with a cause lasts longer. The reason for it is permanent. Right now I’m in the wrong state of mind to recall those fantastic causes and their lifelong effects. I know what they are, but I’ll be able to describe them more clearly tomorrow. Read more:Check
Meme or Chain Letter? 2007-07-30 19:59:42 Sfgirl writes, posts, and gets her science fiction published. Ordinarily I’m not a die-hard sci-fi fan. Too often the science strikes me as forced. Not that I’m an expert, but still, I want to believe a story’s premise. Yet the situations sfgirl invents never tax my belief. Her fiction convinces me. It’s great.
She sent me the meme below, so the least I can do in return is participate here. Despite that last line before the list: when ten friends start it and ten send it to another ten…just think—100 links! Faced with a chain letter, I fear and tremble—too much to bring myself to inflict it on ten friends I’m not sure I have. And all those hexes thwarting my every move? Well, I’ve wrecked untold chains, many of them rife with embedded pleas and hidden threats.
With trepidation then, I checked out the blogs listed below and starred my favorites. They all entertained and/or “made me think,” pace the Thinking Blogger Award. As the Modern Matriarch put it, this mem Read more:Chain
, Letter
Miss Winnetka 2007-08-13 20:24:36 Early on, we owned a window air-conditioning unit, except I couldn’t use it because the supposedly energy-efficient appliance we had acquired at twenty percent interest shorted out the entire house.
Two, sometimes even three days, I could tolerate temperatures soaring above my blood temperature. But longer than that, I of course suffered migraines, but even worse: unshakable dread. The planet beneath my
feet was on the verge of imploding. My shoulders hunched up and my jaw clenched, anticipating
obliteration. When the earth and everything I was aware of, including myself and my two toddlers, remained intact for any discernible interval, I felt only more certain of imminent annihilation.
You might wonder why my certainty didn’t eventually suggest—give it up; game’s over. Since I obviously possessed no power to stop or even relieve the looming cataclysm, why not savor life while I still could? But no matter how I tried to train my overheated brain toward reason, the
Stephanie's Favor 2007-08-12 20:54:38 This excerpt continues the serialization of Diary of a Heretic, the
novel, which portrays the rise and fall of a contemporary spiritual
movement that blossoms suddenly, and briefly, around Malcolm Tully, the
owner of a coffee shop/donut house across the street from a terminal of
Chicago's El tracks.
Tuesday, November 13 (continued)
Once Carlos stormed out, Stephanie
tried to convince me that he was evil incarnate, ambition gone berserk, which I assured her I well knew. But—did I realize he’d sunk the NANM into an ocean of debt? For all she knew, he was ignoring the taxes as well. What did I want to bet Carlos would get off scot-free? While I’d have to account for this mess the rest of my life? And yet (she jabbed a finger in the air), for my personal prosperity and longevity, I owed it to myself to buy her house. Only because I was me could she let me have it for “half a million.” (Because of my savings.) Provided of course we legally tran
No One Gets Out Alive 2007-08-11 20:30:14 This excerpt continues the serialization of Diary of a Heretic, the
novel, which portrays the rise and fall of a contemporary spiritual
movement that blossoms suddenly, and briefly, around Malcolm Tully, the
owner of a coffee shop/donut house across the street from a terminal of
Chicago's El tracks.
Tuesday, November 13 (continued)
Stephanie, it turned out, was insisting the NANM buy back her house for the price she paid, plus what she and Rafe had put into it. A sum Carlos called “beyond obscene,” but Stephanie declared the least she deserved, considering she was, don’t forget, a founding partner. Rafe, of course, was entitled to half of the house. But the Belden Avenue bakery was hers. To dissolve her stake completely, she wanted sole ownership.
Apparently, Stephanie and Rafe had been renovating a 1920s house they’d bought on Geneva Terrace. And in place of non-supporting walls, they’d installed 750 cubic feet of customized salt-water Read more:Alive
Ecstatic Improvisation and Key Lime Pie 2007-08-17 21:30:00 Last night we experienced a memorable, incendiary performance by the Archie Shepp quartet at Iridium in NYC. In my impressionistic (read: untrained and unrestrained) manner, I put up a quick sketch of the band’s first set over at newcritics.
A genius sax player, informed by a history that includes blues, avant garde jazz (a short but memorable phase), and a clear devotion to music that’s unmistakably African and African-American, Archie Shepp belongs in his own original category.
Go peek, too, at Jason Chervokas’ fine tribute to the great, beloved jazz drummer, Max Roach, to whom Archie was paying his own tribute last night. Since you’re there (or even if you aren’t—I mean, yet) scroll
through Tom Watson’s merry crew live-blogging of the TV show, “Mad Men.”
Most jazz clubs set an entrance fee and then, often, a two-drink minimum. Alcohol affects me like poison,
inflicting an instant, liquid migraine. So on occasion, I’ve spent ten d Read more:Ecstatic
, Improvisation
Mind Readers 2007-08-16 22:45:08 Here she comes, running across the street in very short white shorts and a blue tank jersey, each piece skimpier than a proper lady’s underthings. Her name’s Nina, the same name as my great niece, my step-daughter-in-law, and my granddaughter’s best friend. This Nina, my grandson’s wife, is carrying my three-year-old great-granddaughter like a football.
I manage to stand before she has opened the front door to their sparse, listing, all but unfurnished Cape Cod. “Hello dear.”
“Helen, I’m sorry you were waiting. Was the flight exhausting? God, it’s hot.” After she’s put the baby down, who runs off to another part of the house (No, “Hello, Grandmamma”), Nina kisses my cheek. She truly kisses it. Almost thirty-years-old and no subtlety.
“Did your taxi driver carry your suitcase to the back room? I told you not to worry. The cabbies are harmless.”
She leads me into the dreary kitchen and I sit in a hard wooden chair at the table. She pours me ice t
Oh The Humanity 2007-08-15 20:21:51 Come the weekend, if the temperature hadn’t dropped, Manny would tell the kids we were going swimming at the county’s communal pool. At nine a.m., surrounding us in an hour-long line were tiny, bronzed teenagers in tinier, thong bikinis. If these perfect Barbie dolls had lounged by the pool, I would have liked it. Were I in a position to eavesdrop, I felt certain their conversations would abound with teenage truths.
Unfortunately, once we had paid our five dollars for adults, no charge for kids under ten, the beautified girls had disappeared to the eighteen-and-older pool; though I’d have guessed they were younger.
The Olympic-sized family pool was a stew of wide-bodies overflowing their bathing suits, and helpless babies, either naked or bottom heavy from multi-layers of soggy disposable diapers. Many children screamed, because the water (and/or the body-to-body crowd) terrified them. But then other little kids zoomed underwater trying to torpedo the multitudinous, stationar
More Whale Than Squid 2007-08-14 20:43:46 During August heat waves, I sometimes took my 3 ½ year-old son and 1 ½ year-old daughter to the American Museum of Natural History. The marvelous dinosaur exhibit, on the fourth floor, includes mostly real fossils. No one wants them to crumble in the heat and humidity, so the museum is nicely air-conditioned.
I kept my daughter in a stroller, which she hated. Like my son before her, she soon learned to loosen the harness and scramble out, Houdini-like, while I read to them out loud about the Mesozoic era. They needed to run around, after holing up in the basement for days, and then following my desperate pleas and/or threats to stay still and quiet in the library.
We packed lunch from home, which wasn’t permitted in the museum cafeteria. But if I shrugged and my children smiled from our back corner table, the guard usually winked okay.
Both toddlers napped for two hours or more every afternoon. That’s when I wrote. In those days I believed my novels would find a publis Read more:Whale
Another William Jr. 2007-08-21 21:48:14 At nine this morning my grandson telephoned, saying I was now a great-grandmother. Naturally, I was anticipating this. But hearing the news brought me more joy than I could have imagined. Certainly I have felt this way before, but my memory’s dim. Visiting hours are from nine to six, although William
says I can visit whenever it’s convenient. Not that anything would keep me. A quick trip to Water Tower—I always like to buy the mother a gift at this point; what does a newborn care for a teddy bear?—and I should arrive within the hour. Unpredictable Nina likes the bath oil I use, so that’s what I’ll buy. And Frango mints, which she won’t want. Frango meltaway mints, whether she likes them or not, are a Keating family tradition.Oh, and the nine-pound baby they’ve named William Jr.! When all along my grandson had vetoed the idea. But Nina hated his suggestions: Wolfgang, Horace, and Stanley. So when the doctor hands their son to him, Nina says she’s alwa
All Apologies 2007-08-20 20:24:49 Helen Tyler Keating made her first and lifelong impression on me when I was six or seven. My friend Billy and I were the only ones awake Saturday morning at six.
Although the weekend farm belonged to Billy’s grandparents, I hadn’t met them, since in those days Dr. William Keating, the esteemed cardiologist and his beautiful wife, Helen were usually elsewhere, especially when Billy’s parents were entertaining friends.
Billy and I were scooted close to the big color television, the half-dozen channels having finished the recorded national anthem visualized by a screen of a large American flag waving in the wind.
I stared at Billy’s cereal bowl, containing an island of sugar soaked in milk (his parents let him eat all the sugar he wanted.). He delighted in this milky sugar and I liked watching him eat it. No one else was awake and if I wanted a similar sugar dose, I could have gotten away with one. Billy’s tolerance for sugar, however, was far more developed. My parents co
Mr. Supernatural 2007-08-19 20:44:49 This excerpt continues the serialization of Diary of a Heretic, the
novel, which portrays the rise and fall of a contemporary spiritual
movement that blossoms suddenly, and briefly, around Malcolm Tully, the
owner of a coffee shop/donut house across the street from a terminal of
Chicago's El tracks.
Tuesday, November 13 (continued)
Don’t worry; don’t wait—just go! I bounced at the knees. I held out my arm to Stephanie. “Okay, I’m ready; let’s go.”“Uhm,” Stephanie said, “this baby-sitter’s booked.”“What?”“I promised my sister Marion I’d visit her in the nursing home this afternoon. Go and look around by yourself, with no anxious seller” She held out a key ring. “2317 Geneva Terrace, the silver key does the bottom lock, the gold the top.”“I don’t know.” I shook my head. It’s easy,” Stephanie said. “Take the outer drive and park in my spot off the alley. And if the workmen are t Read more:Supernatural
A Synaptic Event 2007-08-18 23:23:18 This excerpt continues the serialization of Diary of a Heretic, the
novel, which portrays the rise and fall of a contemporary spiritual
movement that blossoms suddenly, and briefly, around Malcolm Tully, the
owner of a coffee shop/donut house across the street from a terminal of
Chicago's El tracks.
Tuesday, November 13 (continued)
One especially hot, dull, September afternoon, Maggie had wanted to show me Stephanie and Rafe’s aquarium house. But I’d only gotten halfway to the car, because I wasn’t up to people doing a double take: Glancing at me, dismissing the impression, then reconsidering: Am I who I seem to be? No! I’d try to convey with a frown. I’m nothing and no one! Why would I lie? But all it took was one hesitant seeker to send me running back inside. Because I know too well what it’s like: Can I please make them rich? Beautiful? If they kiss my feet, can I make them love and be loved? If th
Absurd and Solemn 2007-08-25 20:33:33 This excerpt continues the serialization of Diary of a Heretic, the
novel, which portrays the rise and fall of a contemporary spiritual
movement that blossoms suddenly, and briefly, around Malcolm Tully, the
owner of a coffee shop/donut house across the street from a terminal of
Chicago's El tracks.
Tuesday, November 13 (continued)
Inside the NANM garage, a short, plump, wispy-haired woman in brown coveralls hurried out from a cubicle, saying, “Well, hello there!” She wiped her hands on a rag. “I’m Amanda Rittner, but of course you know that already, don’t you?”I shook her hand and a swatch of mottled red flared up her neck. Clasping that hand to her bosom, she asked if I preferred the Lexis or the Range Rover. “I’m afraid we’ve sold the others.” She turned her head and hiccuped into her collar. Eyes brimming, she whispered, “Please forgive me. It’s just that I’ve wanted to meet you for so long. . . ”“Oh.”
Here's Looking At You 2007-08-24 22:06:46 No matter how much time I allow or how fast I drag little Evie, who’ll probably grow up beset by panic attacks all because of my poor juggling, I’m of course late getting home. Helen had said to expect her at three. But it’s already three-thirty when I park across the street, not wanting to risk the left turn into our driveway. The car stalls if I tap the brake during a left turn.
My days feel like a marathon, except I’m trying to balance an egg on a spoon while running twenty-six plus miles on hard asphalt. What surprises me are the times when I don’t blow it. Thanks to a magical convergence of forces, I might wake up to such strange circumstances that I finish my errands and the favors to people, who for instance expect me to drive their children home to their nannies so they can attend important meetings in Pound Ridge where serious money is at stake.
Hey, if I’m dissatisfied with the arrangement, Linda-Sophie’s-mother says, why not go for an MBA at night? Then I c
Tell Me Something Good 2007-08-23 20:18:07 At this moment, Chaka Khan is giving a free performance one short block from here in City Hall Park. Never a fan exactly, I must admit she sounds awfully strong and sweet. Her unmistakable voice is filling the apartment so that even with the iPod turned on high, her wail wins out over the Bose headphones my father sent me to blot out the pile-driving next door and pneumatic drilling in the street right below.
Manny’s there now—he even dressed up a little—that how much he’s always loved Chaka Khan. And
he tried to tease me into going with him. Kanye West might show up, he said. The man owes her, after all, since sped-up loops from her old hits made his name. When that didn’t make me jump, Manny found a flyer hailing this evening as a reunion with Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis. That’s not enough? How would I feel if Prince, long known for seeking her out, shows up?
“Bring your cell. Any hint Prince is around and I’ll get dressed.”
But apparently that’s not how it h
Kant Touch This 2007-08-22 20:05:44 I take myself way too seriously as a writer. I’ve spent so many hours writing fiction it’s sick. And when I attempt serious non-fiction? It turns into memoirish fiction, the kind that used to be called roman á clef,
where names are changed and leeway given, since, when most of us recall events and emotions, it’s totally subjective. That’s not like lying about who was taking over whose job. The writer alters the scenery, carves out shapes, and plays with the colors. I generally take it farther, casting and recasting every sentence before anything’s nailed down. When I’m tired or dazed or rushed, my sentences mix the replay with the live action. It’s embarrassing. Today, since I’m working with a low-grade fever, I’m putting up straight non-fiction. At the end it gets out of control and turns personal, but that’s me. I can’t keep a straight face longer than a few paragraphs.
Here goes: According to certain classic philosophies, everything we know and
Meme Kathleen 2007-08-28 21:34:22 Nina at The Alien Next Door tagged me for the name meme, which is different from that playground rhyming song, where we sought out, but never really found anyone named “Chuck.”
Since “Nina” is also the young mother in my current set of stories, posts designed for ease and speed allowing me (in theory anyway) to rewrite the several rough sagas strung all through this blog, I feel obliged to follow through. The rules are:
1) Go to http://www.google.com2) Click on Google images 3) Type in your name and search 4) Repost (with a link) the picture of the oddest, craziest, strangest, coolest, oldest, etc. person that shares your name. Post multiples if you find a few you like. 5) Have fun with it and pass it on.
Kathleen
is an Irish name related to Catherine. Both versions admit various spellings, using K or C. For
a long time, I didn’t think my name, a label, mattered that much. When we first moved from Chicago,
my downstairs neighbor’s kindest form of address was, “B
True To A Fault 2007-08-27 21:19:15 We’re still drinking iced tea in the kitchen, or Nina is. I sip slowly. The girl makes some allowances for my eighty-four years but her overall confidence that I’ll keep up flatters me, even if it comes from her harried lack of consideration.
And Nina’s very harried. She has no help with the house or the children and loses sleep writing novels, despite no contacts in publishing. Even she admits her efforts aren’t commercial. “I’m taking a chance,” she says, “like playing the lottery.” Well, yes, but to me, buying a scratch-off card is almost smart compared to her clandestine labors going nowhere.
Both she and my grandson express admiration at my readiness to fly here and stay overnight so I can watch my great-grandchildren play on the playground, albeit from a bench; I’m not strong enough or steady enough on my feet to push the swings. Nina’s all too aware of how seriously unsteady I am. But my grandson has offered me his arm since he was ten. And I can Read more:Fault
I Was At Fault 2007-08-26 22:36:23 This excerpt continues the serialization of Diary of a Heretic, the
novel, which portrays the rise and fall of a contemporary spiritual
movement that blossoms suddenly, and briefly, around Malcolm Tully, the
owner of a coffee shop/donut house across the street from a terminal of
Chicago's El tracks.
Tuesday, November 13 (continued)
I don’t know what I expected. For so long I’ve run through the same moves, in the same place: And now! Myriad rays bouncing in all directions. Buildings, roads, regular people going through their regular paces—it’s as if I never left. The car’s like a boat and I’m gliding along. The steering wheel’s loose in my hands. Jazz on the radio, Northwestern on my right, up ahead, all around. It’s as if all I have to do is cut over behind the library, park—this car was new then—and Colin and I will find each other in the glass wing on the fourth floor. Colin’s slumped in the leather chair lo Read more:Fault
Milking the Crowd 2007-09-01 21:30:00 This excerpt continues the serialization of Diary of a Heretic, the
novel, which portrays the rise and fall of a contemporary spiritual
movement that blossoms suddenly, and briefly, around Malcolm Tully, the
owner of a coffee shop/donut house across the street from a terminal of
Chicago's El tracks.Thursday, November 22Thanksgiving. Maggie’s slaving away in the kitchen, making a traditional meal for one happy little family: her, Carlos, Louie, Demetria, and me—and Ted and Janice, who are going to start videotaping me ’round the clock. “Right footage, right production and release,” Carlos says heartily, “and our troubles are over.”“Troubles? What troubles?” I am perfectly tranquil. “How can people as enlightened as us have troubles?”“Well, not troubles,” Carlos concedes. “Expenses, let’s say.”“A drop in the ocean.” “That’s right,” Carlos says. “That’s exactly right.” The acolytes a
The Collapsing Cult 2007-08-31 22:10:32 This excerpt continues the serialization of Diary of a Heretic, the
novel, which portrays the rise and fall of a contemporary spiritual
movement that blossoms suddenly, and briefly, around Malcolm Tully, the
owner of a coffee shop/donut house across the street from a terminal of
Chicago's El tracks.
Tuesday, November 13 (continued)
She left me alone with Carlos and the whole goddamn collapsing cult. And so how do I answer the tearful little traitor? “That’s okay, Maggie.”“No,” she sobs. “It’s not okay. It was stupid of me, and horrible. And there’s a lot of stuff I need to tell you. Mostly about money.”“Maggie, I can’t do it anymore. I want out. Just like Stephanie.”“Stephanie’s not getting out. Everything’s going to be okay.”“You and Carlos can have everything. All I want is one store. Stephanie’s getting the Lincoln Park store, and I’ll take whichever one you and Carlos say.
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