Wednesday, October 11

Happy Mom´s Birthday Jim,

I haven´t called dad yet. I want to sing Happy Birthday to You with him, but my mouth hurts from dental surgery on Monday.

I guess you know about the fires in Sonoma County? I did not find out about them until dad told me yesterday afternoon.

He went for a ride with the owner of the rest home to look at the damage. He was surprised at the destruction, but he didn´t tell me 1500 buildings had been destroyed.

Sis I and our cousin are in danger of losing their houses. They can´t sleep because they worry about being evacuated.

Sonoma County. God´s country. It´s not supposed to happen there. The wind picked up again last night and today is smoky.

Sis I has a great piece of property. All her hopes and memories. All our memories. How abandoned the people who lost their homes, businesses, and jobs must feel sleeping in a gym with hundreds of other people. ¨What am I doing here with all these bastards?¨

Dad said yesterday that we never know what the next day might bring. People were watching burning pieces of whatever fly over their houses. Our nephew hosed down his house before they evacuated it, but it turned out to be a false alarm. He bought the house last year.

In one area eight blocks were burned. People said it looked like a war zone. One radio
announcer´s voice trembled as she reported.

I remember the Labor Day weekend after graduating from high school. We went to Clear Lake to get plastered.

On night we watched the glow of a forest fire on the other side of the hill. It was pretty.
I´m surprised they didn´t evacuate us.

But it isn´t pretty in the day. I´ve seen two daytime fires. They terrified me.

Last night I was listening to Public Radio. I always listen to Public Radio when I am sick or real weak.

They interviewed an 87 year old American who lived in Moscow in the 1950s. He attended college there and ended up working for our government or a U. S. business there.

He talked about Kruchev. We all know that Kruchev criticized Stalin. But I didn´t know that his statements brought a loosening of the Russian police state. The cops didn´t arrest anyone who criticized Stalin and Kruchev.

There was great hope in Russia and eastern Europe, but it did not last. Kruchev invaded Hungary during its´ rebellion. He turned out to be just like Stalin.

I remember when Sis I was in high school. She was reading a paperback about the Hungarian Revolution. She came crying into the room where dad and I were. She showed dad the book and cried to him, ¨Why didn´t we help them!¨

It´s been forty-nine years since you were in Poland and Czechoslovakia. I remember the charred and mud-splattered piece of the Russian flag you brought home from Prague. It hung on the wall in my bedroom until after you died.

I remember the story you told about the Polish family you stayed with.
The kid told his dad, ¨If you don´t let me go out tonight, I will tell the authorities you have that thing in the garage you are not supposed to have.¨

That was the adventure of your life. You wanted to experience a real culture, the great Catholic and Western tradition you loved profoundly. You wanted to free yourself from the horribly anal life here in America. You slept in the snow in Poland so you could make up for the suffering you did not have to undergo in Vietnam. You wanted to prove your manhood to yourself.

You almost didn´t make it.

´67 and ´68 were the most challenging years of your life.

You went to Europe just as it was rejecting Catholicism and its´ pride in being Western.
It´s too bad you didn´t get to meet John Paul and Benedict when they were in their forties. You would have loved to hear how much they knew about The Church and European history. You would have loved to feel how much they loved The Church.

You have suffered a lot bro. I want to acknowledge it.

I love you,

Dave

Friday, July 21

Dear Jim,

Another tiring Friday morning. When I got home last night I wound down by winding myself up reading a used book that arrived for me.

I ordered it a week ago. It’s about art. It came in a ripped package and is signed by the author for a guy she knew. She wrote it in 2014.

She says that contemporary painting and sculpture are horseshit, that the successful promotion of abstract art and skillless art has been a great con job. You would agree.

We went to look at art a lot. I usually did not like it. You often explained it to me.

What I remember more than anything are the photographs of the Nazi parades at the S.F. Museum of Art when it was on Van Ness. The photographs were terrifying – thousands of people watching in silent fear as the hot shots walked up the aisle in silence with their uniforms and medals. Those photos gave me a better understanding of the Nazis than any photo of the holocaust or any book, and I’ve read two great ones, about the Nazis.

Another great trip was when we went to the new cathedral right after it was built. There was a sculpture of three of the Church Fathers. They weren’t walking or running, but there was an incredible sense of motion in it.

You thought so too, and there was Gregorian Chant coming from downstairs. Remember? Then we walked to the big window with a view of the Mission and you commented that the architect captured the purpose of The Church – to watch over the city.

That’s interesting because several years ago the parish where Sis2 lives tore down the old church and built a new one as modern for today as the cathedral was for the seventies. The problem is that it doesn’t feel like a church – it feels like a performance center. It’s great to be in. It would be great as an office or to see an acoustic band. But it doesn’t feel awe inspiring or otherworldly.

The old churches had stained glass windows that when the sun shone through them gave a glimpse of what heaven must be like.

The cathedral had a vista of the city we ask forgiveness from, Yo confesio antes Dios todopoderoso, y antes ustedes hermanos…, while we pray to God for the courage to tolerate and embrace the city so we can save ourselves in it.

But Sis2’s church. Well, the priest prances out from the side of the altar, walks across the altar (the stage), smiles and says “Hi everybody!” “Hi Father!” Then he begins a Mass that I can’t take seriously because he doesn’t take his function as a priest and the purpose of the Mass seriously. During the sermon he hopes his favorite team wins the game this afternoon.

Two or three miles from the inspiring cathedral is the church on 24th and Florida one of our uncles used to go to. The neighborhood and parish are Mexican. There’s a famous alley near the church full of Mexican schlock which all the artists claim is highly skilled and profound work.

The church! Christ. The church is painted showing the slaughter of the Aztecs by the conquistadors. It’s terrifying. I wonder why the archbishop allowed the painting. Did he not have the balls to say you guys are nuts; our parishes are meant to welcome anybody, not just Mexicans?

It doesn’t bother the white artists though. Six years ago when dad could still walk pretty good, I said let’s go downtown to see this art exhibit. Dad said sure so we went.

We walked up Powell from Market to the gallery. It was showing paintings by a famous San Franciscan.

The paintings were okay. What I really liked was the old building. I always like old buildings the galleries are in more than the art. The buildings have character but not the art. I would rather talk to the architect about architecture than the artist about art.

When we were done the owner or manager or docent or whatever he was talked to us about the art then asked us to make a donation. Then he gave us some literature and told us the gallery of white artists was raising money for the young non-white artists in the Mission. I thought, “These guys can’t wait to destroy us.”

I know now most white artists want to destroy the European tradition. Just let it flow man. I can’t remember whether we gave money to the gallery.

I remember the rest of the walk. We went a few blocks up, over to the Ritz Carlton, down into the Stockton Tunnel and then to Union Square.

I kept looking at the huge photos of NFL players at one of the stores. They filled me with wonder more than the crap in the gallery.

It was the best memory I have of dad. He enjoyed the gallery. We enjoyed each other.

I usually don’t feel comfortable in San Francisco. It’s really better when I’m with somebody.

That’s it for now.

Love,

Dave

Great place to die

Old timers in Midtown.
On their death bed.
Beg to be put outside.
Under the trees.
To make peace with the life they led.

The Unbelievers

With all our trees,
You’d think our faith in God would grow.
But like them,
It dies more every year.

Face the Tabernacle

Went to Mass one Saturday in Midtown celebrated by two or three priests.
I don’t know the occasion.

It was fast-moving, passionate, executed perfectly.
I wondered why I didn’t have what the priests had.
Everyone was overwhelmed.

For years it troubled me – a performance more than a ritual.
Instead of making me awe the Mystical Body of Christ,
I was in awe of the priests’ ability to put on a show,
Facing the audience,
Just like in their beloved theater.

Old Church

Women would love to pay a visit, light a candle, pray in the dark.
But they’re leery. Who’s lurking?
So they don’t come. Or not as much.

Men would love to pay a visit, sit in the dark, admire the beauty.
But they are afraid.
Who’s watching me? Who doesn’t trust me?
They don’t feel safe even here.

The Handshake of Peace

We shake hands at church,
Proud to make a connection.
On the street we see each other as jerks,
Look in a different direction.

Early Sunday Morning

Almost empty church.
Piano playing full blast.
Got on my nerves.
No wonder no one comes back.

St. Blaise Day

Got my throat blessed
To speak what’s true
With the time I have left.

Exiled

Imagine somebody from a country where God is taken seriously,
Coming here.
Carrying trust in his heart in God’s infinite mercy.
Trying to hang on in America, in Sacto, in Midtown.
Terrified of our infinite nothingness, our pseudo spirituality,
Our hatred of Christianity, our founders, our government, each other,
of everything Western.
For the first time in his life,
He needs God’s infinite mercy for himself.