11 July
Saint-Zotique, Quebec
“Car Dieu a tant aimé le monde qu’il a donné son Fils unique, afin que quiconque croit en lui ne périsse point, mais
qu’il ait la vie éternelle.” --Jean 3:16, from the Nouveau Testament I found at a truckstop in Woodstock, Ontario, courtesy of
the Gideons of Canada
“Riding in front of the rebel (a Jewish zealot) and pulling him along with a cord attached to the rear of his saddle was
the centurion, his skin baked hard by the oriental sun. He had long ago begun to detest the Jews. For ten years he
had put up crosses and crucified them, for ten years he had stuffed their mouths with stones and dirt to silence them
–but in vain! As soon as one was crucified a thousand more lined up and anxiously awaited their turn, chanting the
brazen psalms of one of their ancient kings. They had no fear of death. They had their own bloodthirsty God who
lapped up the blood of the first-born male children, they had their own law, a man-eating beast with ten horns.
Where could he catch hold of them? How could he subjugate them? They had no fear of death, and whoever has
no fear of death –the centurion had often meditated on this here in the East—whoever has no fear of death is
immortal.” (italics mine) –another thought on la vie éternelle from Kazantzakis’ The Last Temptation of Christ, pg. 45-46
OK, maybe I’m taking the “When In Blank, Do As The Blankers
Do” thing too far. I just attended a Catholic mass at the Eglise
Catholique de Saint-Zotique, and I did not understand a single
word the priest said. I managed to find and follow along with
parts of two songs in the homilies booklet, and that was nice,
but the native spoken French was too fast for me to pick up even
the few words I know. I figured it would be like the old Latin
mass, but the modern mass just isn’t the same. There didn’t
seem to be that presence that I thought the Catholic mass is all
about. I don’t know, it’s been too long since I’ve been to one in
English. Maybe I should try that next week.
Now I’m sitting on a concrete dock with my feet in the water of the St. Lawrence River. I’ve bypassed the Great Lakes and I’m
just a half-hour or so from my destination, on the west end of the island of Montréal. I found out I was heading for Quebec back
on Wednesday. I was parked in downtown Minneapolis and had just come back from a Twins game, and saw eight messages on
my keyboard. This usually means a load assignment, along with fuel stops to make and the designated route to follow. I started
reading the route, which comes as a list of highway numbers and states that scroll down beginning from the origin. I followed
the first page back through Wisconsin the way I’d come…OK around Chicago…up into Michigan…then page two…more
Michigan…whoa! cool, Ontario!…next page…a long way into Ontario it looks like…then I saw “QC” for Quebec. I can’t even
write the sound I think I made; when I told Aubray about it I said I let out one of those girlie-squeals, like I had seen Justin
Timberlake crossing the street in front of the truck or something. This would be my first time in Quebec in a truck.
I don’t even completely understand my fascination with Quebec, but as the first part of "The Alcan Journal" would attest, it feels
like the absolute coolest place on earth to me. There’s something about that instant immersion in the French language and culture
as soon as you cross an invisible line, so close to home. I felt the same way about Mexico when we lived a few miles away in
Arizona, but that wore off after not-too-long. But I’m still fascinated with French. Maybe it was my childhood in a tiny New
Hampshire town where maybe half the kids I knew were French-Canadian; for some it was their first language. I constantly see
last names here that many of my schoolmates had. Whatever the reason, it seems to be an integral part of my nature that
influences my life in many ways: I will always have an affinity for the Montréal Expos for instance, no matter how bad they’ve
been for the last 10 years or how ugly their stadium is, and Avril Lavigne will always be way sexier to me than Britney Spears.
This used to drive Aubray a little crazy, and understandably so, because she could not share it at all. Last summer when we were
living in Massachusetts, I got on this kick where I was determined to learn conversational French, and I borrowed a whole slew
of books and tapes from the library. I listened to the tapes while delivering my natural foods all over the Northeast, and it was
starting to stick. Aubray seemed interested at first, but she soon had to admit that she had no interest in learning any foreign
language, that being half-blind in English was enough of a challenge. That came out again on our trip across Canada, the first
three days of which were spent in the Quebec countryside –which isn’t even bilingual; if you don’t know French, you don’t
communicate with the natives. This was very hard for her since she can’t see faces very clearly, making non-verbal
communication just as difficult, and she let it be known that she was anxious to reach Ontario, and that she didn’t want to plan
any Quebec vacations anytime soon. I completely understand that, and I wouldn’t want her to suffer through a dreadful time in a
foreign land just to please me.
But should I ignore the large part of me that does want to come here? The part that feels a strange kind of “at home” in this same
foreign land?
Most members of a strong marital unit would probably say “no” (other than some dogmatic types for whom the concept of self-
sacrifice means always yielding your interests to the other person’s –can you imagine a self-sacrificing couple going back and
forth with “No, let’s go where you want to go – no, let’s go where you want to go,” so long that they never go anywhere?) But
they would also doubt that a couple needs to separate over such an issue. Could Aubray and I have learned to resolve these
issues without separating if we were in a healthier place with each other? What if this were just one of many such issues? When
is the right time to admit that a pairing which seemed perfect at one time was not, or is no longer? Doesn’t God ever choose to
unbind what I AM has bound on earth?
I don’t know. But there is an ominous gravestone in the cemetery behind Eglise Catholque de Saint-Zotique; in big bold letters:
J. BRAY (Josephus Bray, 1861-1942; epoux de Adelina Lefebvre, 1864-1957) I have always signed letters or emails from the
both of us “Jay & Bray.”
Maybe Someone is telling me to let our marriage rest in peace.
I haven’t been resting in much peace myself lately. You may have sensed that it took me a while to sort out the significance of
my encounter with St. Michael, as well as to write about it. I spent a day and a half thinking before I even decided to start it,
then something like three or four days processing-while-writing, making for a laborious process (I hope it reads better as a
finished product). It wasn’t the material that slowed me down –that was pretty cut-and-dry, simple stuff. My head hasn’t been
in the right place, that’s all.
I notice that when I need my trips to be fun and stimulating, like going to Canada, or I need to have fun diversions every day, like
baseball games, something is wrong. Something is off-kilter, and I need to rest peacefully and let God steer me back on course.
I know exactly what it is this time, I’m just too embarrassed to talk about it…OK OK: I’m thinking too much about sex. Where
will my next sex come from; when will it be; who will it be with; what will she look like; how will I pay for it (just kidding –I
needed a “how” question to complete the “5 W” agenda of questions from Journalism 101; I’m sure I’ll have enough cash): all
these are things that have been on my mind, taking precedence over my task at hand. If it makes me a lousy Christian to wonder
out loud about these things, fine, I’m a lousy Christian, but I’d rather be an honest lousy one than the fake good one that I’ve
been for most of my marriage. I buried my sexual needs under a façade of Patience and Acceptance, and now I’m paying the
price for that, now that the only lover I ever wanted and ever intended to have has set me free. Suddenly I have no external
reasons to control my lusts, and the internal ones are getting washed out in a deluge of free-for-all thoughts like “Hey! There’s
no reason why you can’t go to that massage parlor now!” as I pass a billboard for one in Michigan (one of at least a half-dozen
between Benton Harbor and Detroit –guess there’s a large market for hand jobs in southern Michigan). I’m pretty sure I won’t
resort to something like that, but I do need to do something to curb these unrestrained thoughts. What I’ve realized is that, while
having sex can be a good thing –merging bodies with another soul and sharing mutual pleasure can break down some barriers,
and it is possible to make that into a spiritual thing as well—thinking about sex that doesn’t happen and never will happen is one
of the most isolating, trapped-in-my-body experiences there is in this world.
Like today for instance: there was a waitress at the restaurant where I had breakfast, La Place de la Perchaude, who just struck
me as absolutely gorgeous. She had a yellow flower tucked into her tied-up, Scandanavian-blonde hair and those skinny oval
hipster glasses. Her body was beautiful, nothing extravagant, just curvy enough to delight the eyes. And I loved the way she
spoke with her customers –it’s amazing how sexy a woman can be, just in asking people if they want more coffee in French. It
is good and natural to notice these things, and if I were so bold I might even talk to her, get to know her better. We could find
ourselves bonding over certain things, maybe just mutual attraction. A relationship could potentially start, two human beings
sharing themselves with one another to various degrees on different levels. We may share enough to reach that core center of the
heart called Love, and someday I could even find myself making love with her, my breakfast time fantasies come to fruition. But
since she seemed to be wearing a wedding ring, and I’m not so bold anyway, my life experience with her is unlikely to last
beyond today’s breakfast, so my choices are limited. I could look at her with spiritual eyes and say to myself, “I AM is a
beautiful blonde woman, waiting tables at a café,” know that I am she and she is me –I could honor and recognize the
Christ within her which is also in me—and there is no need to possess what I already am, so I would smile at her and say
“bonjour” and that would be that. I would walk out of the restaurant a free man.
But because of the carnal mentality I brought
in to the restaurant, I sat and googly-eyed
her for maybe a half-hour after eating (with
the premise of writing in this notebook as
my cover), and now I’ve spent the better
part of this day thinking about a woman I
will never know, wanting a touch from her I
can never have. This is how we become
enslaved. This is why the holy rollers of all
major religions look down on sex and stress
curtailing the lusts of the flesh. But the
problem isn’t sex if you look at it –it’s
simply wanting what is not real, placing your
sense of happiness on events that will not
happen. Doesn't matter if it is sex with a
person we don't know, or buying a luxury
car we can't afford. The desire shrinks us down to our bodies, because the only place where these fantasies are real is in the
imagination, in a neural program the brain is running for an audience of one and the benefit of no one. I can’t share it with
anybody. Unlike thoughts and ideas that are captured in words and given outer life on the pages of the Chronicles, for instance,
my sexual fantasies die as soon as they leave my mind. That is being “in the flesh.”
Writing about it, however, is not. Writing about it is good therapy, and I thank you for indulging me in it. Today was a strange
day overall –I also had a weird trek through downtown Montréal, felt more Holden Caulfieldesque than I have in a long time—but
it’s behind me, and I’m back in the present, both here and in the Chronicles. It’s a good place to be. Bon nuit. –HC, Pointe-
Claire, Que.
© 2004 by Hermit Crab
a Fish Out Of Water production
Next -- Chapter 6
