I had a blueprint of history in my head — it was a history of the martyrs of love, the fools of tyrants, the tyrants themselves weeping at the fate of their own soldiers — a sentimental blueprint, lacking depth — a ruled axis X and Y whose illusions were bearable . . . then unbearable . . . In that blueprint
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The Parallel Cathedral
1 The cathedral being built around our split level house was so airy, it stretched so high it was like a cloud of granite and marble light the house rose up inside. At the time I didn’t notice masons laying courses of stone ascending, flying buttresses pushing back forces that would have crushed our flimsy wooden beams. But the hammering and singing of the guilds went on outside my hearing, the lancets’ stained glass telling how a tree rose up from Jesse’s loins whose flower was Jesus staring longhaired from our bathroom wall where I always wanted to ask if this was how he really looked, slender, neurasthenic, itching for privacy as the work went on century after century. 2 Fog in cherry trees, deer strapped to bumpers, fresh snow marked by dog piss shining frozen in the day made a parallel cathedral unseen but intuited by eyes that took it in and went on to the next thing and the next as if unbuilding a cathedral was the work that really mattered—not knocking it down which was easy— but taking it apart stone by stone until all that’s left is the cathedral’s outline coming in and out of limbo in the winter sun. 3 All through childhood on eternal sick day afternoons, I lived true to my name, piling dominoes into towers, fingering the white dots like the carpenter Thomas putting fingertips into the nail-holes of his master’s hands. A builder and a doubter. Patron saint of all believers in what’s really there every time you look: black-scabbed cherry trees unleafed in winter, the irrigation ditch that overflows at the back of the house, chainlink of the schoolyard where frozen footsteps in the snow criss-cross and doubleback. And now the shroud falls away and the wound under his nipple seeps fresh blood. And when Jesus says, Whither I go you know, Thomas says, We know not…how can we know the way?