October 31, 1999 - November 6, 1999

Sunday, October 31 The second full day of my stay at the Monastery. The day is best summarized by the photos I took. What follows is a more detailed narrative. Because this was the day for clocks to "fall back," the sky was a full hour brighter when I went to Vigil than it had been yesterday. I'm glad I got to see the dark, pre-dawn sky yesterday, though today's gradual fade-up was also pleasant. The office was a long one, so dawn was in full bloom by the time we emerged from the church. I took a brief walk down the road, then turned around and headed back. Sunlight was beginning to blaze along the ridge-tops, much like the fire and smoke of last month's wildfire must have. The bell for Lauds rang just as I approached the main buildings on my way back. The musicality of the monks has greatly improved. Not only are they more in-tune during the chants, but they are also doing three-part harmony on some of the songs. After Lauds, I slept some more, waking again for Eucharist. After Mass, I put all the change I had brought with me in the poor box. It took me about ten minutes to stuff it all through the slot! It seemed the right thing to do. Last year, there was no AIDS Emergency Fund jar at the Eagle when I went to do my usual holiday coin-drop, so I figured this was where the energy should go this year. Lunch was in the refectory again. Most Sundays, the monks invite all retreatants to join them at lunch. Seated at our table were Marc, Martin (a handsome young man who is new to the monastery), Patrick (an 18-year-old who is on a post-high school graduation odessy), Isaac (a postulate, that is, a first-year monk), and Bill. Afterwards, I continued my reading in the library as Marc said good-bye to Bill. He had a few chores after that, and I joined him. We examined the garden, then went to fetch a pick-up truck that needed to be moved from one location on the property to another. On our way there, we went past the water tanks that supply the community. Though one had leaks in its wooden sides, the other two were study constructions of cinderblock and cement. We also stopped by the powerhouse which houses the two generators used here. Only one was running at the time. Out by the water tanks, we came across one of the lay workers and a rather run-down looking man. Marc explained to me that there were homeless people living in the area, and that the monastery sometimes took them in, or at least provided them with a meal on Sundays. "They are fugitive souls," he said. He said that, despite their isolated location, the monastery attracts alcoholics and people with drug dependencies. We got onto the topic of why people come to a monastery in the first place. "There has been an increased in monasticism among men in their thirties and forties," Marc said. "We have to be careful in accepting them. We have to be certain that they aren't running from something, but coming to something." I remarked that I often thought of the monastery as a refuge, but that I didn't think of myself as a refugee. We came across the truck and drove it back to the main buildings, then started a hike towards our favorite spot on Lime Kiln Creek. Marc told me about the dramatic events of the last month, when fires raged so close to the monastery that it had to be evacuated. Only seven of the community stayed behind, including Marc, plus three of the lay workers. When we crested the ridge, we could see how close the blaze had actually come. Entire trees were reduced to blackened logs or, in places where the fire had been extraordinarily intense, ghostly white piles of ash in the shape of tree limbs. From the ridgetop, the trees in Lime Kiln canyon seemed green, but we could only see their crowns from this height. We continued our trek along the path and started descending into the ravine. The underbrush here was almost completely destroyed. The ground was covered in ash, sometimes more than six inches deep. I sank into it up to my ankles in places. It was also obvious from the lack of ground cover that even more devastation could be expected when the rains hit this winter. I doubt most of the lower third of the trail will survive. Next spring, a new trail will have to be cut, as the small creeks feeding Lime Kiln will almost certainly tear away the ground the current trail covers. Fallen trees are resting on little more than bare ground and ashes in places, and they will come tumbling down the hillside this winter. It was a stark, almost scarey landscape. "Spookey enough for Halloween," Marc said. The red-orange of the dirt and the black of the burned trees was even in the right color scheme. At the creek, Marc and I exchanged more thorough updates on our lives. He has had feelings for a young woman who was visiting this past spring, but those feelings have now cooled. I asked him if this was the "dicovery of Eros" he had mentioned in his letter last September, but he said it was not. That, too, has apparently faded. What he learned from the experience was that Eros is an important part of a fully realized humanity. "It was a revelation that what the authorities at the top of the Church hierarchy were saying about sexuality could be so wrong," he said. "It was also a revelation that many here in the monastic community think the authorities have it wrong, too." "That is a revelation in its own right to me," I said, "that the community here acknowledges the difference between lived and received truth. It's especially good to know that they value the truth as lived in their own lives." "It's a sign that there's life in the foundation," Marc said. "There's somebody home." I told him how unlikely a couple Don and I were, since we had both led lives full of Eros. Now, unexpectedly, we seem to have discovered Agape. "Two more unlikely candidates you could scarcely find," I said, "but here we are and it's working." We were covered with soot by the time we got back to the main buidlings from our hike. I took a shower and missed the beginning of Vespers. I could hear them chanting inside the church as I headed for my favorite spot, a bench looking west over the Pacific. I sat there and watched the sun set in spectacular colors and clarity. It was a more eloquent prayer than any I could have come up with. After a while, Patrick joined me on the bench and we chatted. He wants to lead a spiritual life, but wants to travel, too. "I want to know what to do with the rest of my life," he said. "I don't mean to discourage you," I said, "but I'm 49 years old and I still don't know what to do with the rest of my life. But that's okay. I don;t feel I have to rehearse the future. It'll come." He listened to the story of Don and me and thought our love for each other was a beautiful thing. To Marc, I had described it as "a calling," much like a calling to religious profession. As soon as I got the call from Shankari, I knew immediately and totally what I had to do and I had no fear of doing it. Patrick said he strongly believes God answers all prayers. "But you've got to be careful what you ask for," he said. "Well, if you ask, you'd better be prepared to listen," I said. The two of us caught a stand-up supper in the refectory kitchen. The shabby-looking man Marc and I had seen earlier in the day was there as well. He told us a ghost story, appropriate for the envening. Apparently, there was a local boy, Jeremy, who jumped from a nearby bridge on Highway 1. "It took the rescue team hours to get him off the rocks," the shabby man said. "You can hear him playing the flute some nights. He's a harmless ghost, though. Never did me any harm. Got rid of Fat Freddy, though. Gar Freddy and Jessica were camping under the bridge and one night Jeremny came up to him and yelled in his face, 'You get off a my bridge!' And they ran away. It was a good thing, though. Fat Freddy was no good." The monks aren't really comfortable with the homeless who come here on weekends, Marc had told me earlier. They were alcoholics and drug users, mostly. "Fugitive people." After supper, Patrick and I went to watch Prince of Egypt in the recreation room. "They show movies Sunday nights," Patrick said. He'd been here a month and pretty much knew the rhythm of things. Martin and Isaac were also watching. I expected to hear scoffing at the liberties the movie took with Exodus, but the monks were really more interested in who the singers were for the characters and how the special effects were done. Most people, including Isaac and Patrick, left after the first video was done, but tonight was a double-feature. Martin put in Godspell, but as he and I were now the only ones in the room, he skipped around in it quite a bit. He fast-forwarded to the song "City of Man," which he later told me was in the movie but not the stage play. I told him I liked the music but thought the staging was disturbing. "It's Christ as a holy fool," he said. I said, "He comes across as more moody and unstable than messianic. His message seems to be, 'Follow me and my mood swings or be left behind.'" Martin decscribed a restaged revival that set the musical in an abandoned factory with homeless people instead of Central Park with seventies-styled flower children. I said that sounded like a more powerful metaphor. I'd always found the empty streets and abandoned buildings of the movie setting too disturbing, as if there had been some kind of nuclear holocaust. "Huh," Martin said, "I'd never noticed that. But you're right. They never come across any other people." Although there had been plenty of clouds to enliven the sunset, by the time Martin and I left the recreation room the sky was clear and dazzling once again.	A Day at the Hermitage
Monday, November 1 I got to work in the kitchen briefly, helping a brother make Christmas cakes with the help and guidance of his aunt from South Africa, who was visiting. It was a "community day," so I did not get to join the monks for lunch this time, but ate outside. Marc joined me there. We remarked how much we enjoyed our friendship, even though we see each other so rarely. Marc especially enjoyed our hike and talk yesterday. Then he saw me to my car and I headed back to Mountain View along Highway 1. It was a beautiful day to drive along the coast. North of Big Sur, I slowed down as a Ford Explorer came nearly to a stop. The driver seemed uncertain whether to pull over or continue. As we slowed down, a white Toyota truck with three young men in us began to pass us, even though we were on a curve and the double-yellow lines indicated a no passing zone. As they passed my car, one of them leaned out the window and yelled, "Faggot!" Then they shot past and around the car ahead of me. All the way to Monterey, they were no more than one or two cars ahead. Construction on the bridges and southbound traffic made waste of their exuberant manouver. The entire time, I thought about what the epitaph they had thrown my way meant to my life and theirs. Young men are sometimes simply showy and take delight in loud vulgarity. I also thought about the etymology "faggot," and how the word referred to bundled sticks the good folks of the Middle Ages used to burn their homosexuals alive. I thought of sending these young men a silent curse, something like, "May one of you find great joy in having sex with another man, and may the others of you find out." As we went through Monterey, traffic thickened, despite the highway expanding into four lanes. Soon, I passed the white Toyota myself as it labored behind a semi-trailer hauling dirt. As I took the turn towards Santa Cruz, I realized no curse was necessary. I was heading for a far happier homecoming than any of them probably were.
Tuesday, November 2 Don went to see Dr. Peterson today as part of his follow-up. Peterson has agreed to see him during the months when Prados does not so that there is always someone following up on his case. She was very backed-up this afternoon. It was 45 minutes past our appointment before we got to see her, but we managed to pick up Don's Thalidomide while we were waiting. She looked at Don's "flakiness" and said she wanted him to see a dermatologist. "It's not a typical drug reaction," she said. Don: Did you know Dr. Freinkel put me on Prozac? Peterson: No. I send him letters but he doesn't send me any. I think it's a hopsital policy to keep psychological records separate. Do you think it's helping? D: Well, I wasn't depressed, but worried. I couldn't keep a positive outlook, and he thinks that's really important. P: What's the dosage? D: (Laughs) Two little green pills in the morning. Lou: 20 miligrams. P: How long have you been taking it? Lou: Two weeks. D: I'm doing better. I'm meditating more, which helps me calm down. P: How would you say you were doing since the last time I saw you: better, worse? D: Better in that the fatigue from the radiation is better. So I'd say I'm over the radiation effects. I've used a Chinese herbalist to help. P: Why? What was the Chinese medicine for? D: To counteract the collateral damage from radiation. L: Don asked especially for help in fatigue due to radiation and to help him build his immune system. P: How are you spending your days? D: I rest a lot. P: Lying down? Sleeping? D: I have trouble sleeping during the day. I have been packing up for the move from Oakland. I'm moving to Mountian View. P: Do you do shopping, cooking? Driving? D: Not driving, but I walk to downtown Mountain view. I pretty much take care of myself. L: He cooks dinner for me sometimes, and makes a fantastic juice drink. Tell them what's in it. D: Carrots, apple, ginger... P: Sounds good. D: ...and garlic. L: It's really quite good. Dr. Peterson did the standard physical exam then, and ended by asking Don if he had any questions. D: I'm concerned about the effect of Prozac on my libido. My primary care physician suggested adding Wellbutrin to help. P: I don't know more than Dr. Freinkel about anti-depressants, and I'll defer to him. She [Dr. Forrester] was suggesting Welbutrin to help with depression and libido? D: Yes. P: That I don't know about. (What a wonderfully ambiguous expression. It could mean, "It's out of my field" or, "That doesn't sound right." I was a little skeptical myself that Forrester had suggested taking Welbrutrin in addition to Prozac.) P: Sometimes radiation can affect testosterone levels by affecting the pituitary, but we don't usually see that until several months after radiation. Do you get your blood drawn here? D: (Doesn't answer, shrugs.) L: Yes. P: Let's have that done and get the pituitary levels checked. D: Why would that be months after? P: Side effects of radiation are usually delayed months or years after treatment. About five per cent of patients treated with radiation have effects a long time after radiation. Lynn, Dr. Peterson's nurse, said to me, "I notice you haven't stopped writing." I explained to her about the BRAINTMR list and my web site. Dr. Peterson commented, "You've got to watch what you say around these guys." Then she asked Don again, "Any other questions?" Don said he didn't have any. "I'll see you in mid-December, then," she said. "How do you think he looks?" I asked. I think he's been looking very good lately. Her answer did not confirm my observation. "He's a little flat in his affect," she said. "Maybe he's tired from waiting." "I'm low-key anyway from Thalidomide," Don said. "Well, it is a sedative. So, mid-December, with the new MRIs." Her mention of the MRIs reminded me that I had the report from the previous MRIs with me, and I gave it to them to copy, which they did.
Wednesday, November 3
Thursday, November 4
Friday, November 5
Saturday, November 6 We drove to Oakland tonight. Tomorrow, I will help Don pack the rest of his stuff into my car and bring it down to Mountain View. It's official: we're setting up house together. I'm so happy!