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After The Rapture Michael Bolerjack

After The Rapture 2013 Michael Bolerjack

Table of Contents Preface Alpha and Omega God and Writing, or How We Might Have Failed in Our Arrival will have been a book Symbols September of my years Pi Critic is Me Peace Letter: March 26, 2012 Letter: June 5, 2011 h2o Flores de Monterrey Arts Rest Argumentum Letter: April 2, 2011 All Souls Day An Icon for the Church on the Mercy of God At Harvest Time The Virgin Martyrs The sovereignties she is When I Look Into Your Eyes Ten Thousand Times Beyond Immutable If He Crowned You Thousand These

AFTER THE RAPTURE

Preface

Years ago, when I was starting out as a writer, I did a bit of journalism, writing and editing, designing and even selling ads. Of course, in the newspaper business the reporter is taught to tell the readers the five Ws and the H: the who, what, where, when, why and how an event occurred. To introduce the work to you I think I should do something similar. I will begin with the how. How was this written? It would be true to say that it was by the grace and mercy of God and not by my own will and effort, and I happily admit that fact of faith, but I want to say something too about the manner of the writing. In 1981, one of my first college teachers, on encountering some of my early fiction, said that I wrote like Faulkner. I think it was a compliment, though later, based on the opinions I heard voiced by students, it might not have been. Faulkner is he of the long sentence, the rolling period, the labyrinthine style that mirrors a complexity of thought and reality. If I write like Faulkner, it is perhaps because the way I say the thing exemplifies the thing that is said. Late in my career, the idea of the arrival came to me, the promised arrival that one must search for. Perhaps my writing is that search, simultaneously in theme, style, etc., of the looking forward to arrival. In about 1988 two teachers made diverse comments on my writing. One said that I wrote like Gertrude Stein. The other said I had a perverse rhetoric of authority. I found out recently that to write like Stein means to be gnomic, repetitive and illogical. Again, this may not be a compliment as to style. And I must admit I tend to be elliptical or epigrammatic, with a fragmentary pretense to aphorism, and that sometimes I assert plain contradictions as true. So be it. As for perversity, I confess as well that then, at the peak of my infatuation with everything to do with deconstruction, I was both morally and intellectually perverse. But God took care of that in His own way. I have often argued from authority, which is

a sin in a philosopher, but not in a theologian. If the authority is experience, the poet may well use the same method of logical argumentation. In 2006, as I was studying Joyce, a teacher again said that I wrote like Faulkner. At least I have been consistent. I might add that the same Joycean teacher made me rewrite a 15 page paper into a five page one, and that the second paper was better than the first, and that I learned from the experience. So much, then, for the how, but what of the who? Nietzsche was perhaps correct when he said that when one reads something one must ask just who is writing the text. So perhaps you will ask yourself rightly along the way that question concerning me and this work, but I think the things I have to say do not depend so much on me as on the matter at hand, and therefore I will not preempt what each of you may variously find or the conclusions you may draw by giving you any more information on the author, which will at any rate be found on the pages passim. The where is Houston, Texas, and the when were the war years. This leaves me only the what and the why. And thats really the heart of the matter. The what is what happened as a result of my encounter with deconstruction, my agon with Derrida, and others, as well as my conversion to Christ, and the dialectic that developed out of the placing of these two in relationship. The writings attempt and achieve a synthesis of many apparently, and I think absolutely, contradictory beliefs, ideas, methods. I did not, many years ago, consciously set out to perform the synthesis, but in these latter days found it possible to do, though whether it works or not will be for others to decide. I have been told that it was not likely to be able to be done, by a former professor, Samuel Southwell, who knew me when I thought I was a deconstructionist, and I have harbored some doubts myself whether it was the right thing to do. Yet, it seems to me I have been uniquely called to the task. The work as a whole, that is, the project of my career in writing which I call The Thirty Years War, is a journey that started from deconstruction in terms of both philosophy and literature. In 1989, at

the point just before my conversion to Christ, the decisive idea happened to me in the context of a reading of the Anaximander fragment and Nietzsche and Levinas, in which I recognized an exterior eternity limiting infinity. This led to the thinking through of the contradictory essence of truth, lived as the real dialectic, in the late 1990s, and on to the limit of Hamlet in arrival, around 2006, followed by the recommendation of self-limitation as a way out of the dichotomy of fantasy and necessity in which we live, to gain freedom and reality, in my writings on the novel in 2007 and 2008. This led to the ideas and logic this year that can reconcile all differences, ideally and therefore really, in order to fulfill the gospel injunction to be perfect. It is the logic of the impossible, and implies distantly that before the beginning there was an infinite nothingness which contracted, creating a limit, the eternal, God. All else flowed from this event before eternity, when the infinite was stopped. Much of the problem with thinking today is the virtual renewal of the infinite nothing which has occurred since the so-called death of God. I believe that God has proceeded by a series of contractions to limit himself again and again, down to Christ on the cross, down to the bread on the altar, down to the word on the page, to reach each one of us in our narrow, crowded worlds. He asks us to do likewise, to deny, renounce, follow, suffer. That this applies to the enormous Catholic Church is all too obvious, and I foresee a great limitation coming on the institution itself, but not on the message, which is life for the world. I have found that all creation occurs as a series of painful contractions, a labor in the artist similar to that of the woman in childbirth. God experienced this pain. It is essential to him. The Church too may give birth to a new world, but only as the result of the contractions that have been unfolding for many years. Which I think brings me to the why. Why did I write this work? A man once asked me why I bothered at all. As Faulkner said in Stockholm, it was not for money, nor even less for glory. Let me say I was seeking the truth, and that I found it, or rather

He found me. I was given the talent to write, as in the parable of Jesus, and it became clear to me that I was obligated to make good use of the talent that I have been given. I wrote in the end specifically to the Church, which is not necessarily Roman but global, and about the subject of mercy, as will be seen from the way God has led me out of the wilderness to the promised land, and as he has guided the thought of the work to the point of the reconciling of oppositions, in me, in the Church, and in the world, while directing me toward the findings concerning the apocalypse which I disclose at the end. That we now and will in the future all need such reconciliation is without question, and the Church most of all, for whom I write, and which I love. I think that through this work steps are taken toward the reconciliation of Christian practice and theory, calling readers to truth, to love, to holiness, to responsibility. We must find the truth whatever the cost, even though it means a breaking. As I say at one point, as bread is broken, be broken, too, and yet after the breaking there is still the communion. The fact that God allowed me to preserve a record of my search for the truth, and then gave me the thing itself, an answer to questions we have all longed to know, and sometimes asked about, humbles me and makes me thankful.

ALPHA AND OMEGA

Apocalypse to come will come, is coming. The weeds and the wheat are being separated. The city of God and the city of the devil are being torn apart from each other. That other city is falling into the abyss at 32 ft ps ps, as Joyce waking said. The city of Jerusalem ascends in raptures, ever up, as Joyce in Odes said. Ode to wandering, owed to the abyss, but songs of ascent. It is not the church in the modern world but the benediction church against the world, ever against that world we are in but not of and which we are coming out of. We will be and all shall be well. We will be disclosed, He will be disclosed. The Appropriation has been Disclosed. Closure rapture ruptures. A hermeneutics of continuity, a hermeneutics of rupture. The council occurred amid the disruption of the sixties. And as I grew toward it the Church was deconstructing until JP II put a stop to deconstruction in the catholic Church. In the world the Soviet empire deconstructed, and capitalism deconstructed but the Church did not. End of story but not the end. Priests? Some fell, but not all. Same story. Not even one out of twelve. Always a bad one in the mix. They said look to it yr self. They always do it for the money. This temptation, against innocence, against sobriety, against purity, will pass. The city of God will rise, and Jerusalem will descend for heaven would have all Israel saved. Pray for the peace of Jerusalem. Pray for Her to come with God. Next year in Jerusalem. At first there was a wanderer who found his abyss. Then a man found by God, found by woman, found in time, while waiting for eternity. All of it written in a book. All in all, unveiled, apocalyptic, disclosed. You are either going up or down, you cannot stay where you are, though that would satisfy most people.

Obscurely it has been said that the way up and the way down are one and the same. Now I know. They are, so: a city rises, built by God and martyrs, a city falls, witnessed by the rest. Between them nothing at all. The first was and is and will be. The second only seemed to be, but counterfeit, was taking by the many for the fittest world. But fit what is. Only one. Semblance only ghosted, while souls were saved. Few found it. I pray I was one. Where do you stand, to what do you kneel, if you kneel at all? On the day of transformation where will you be? Some say taken, some say left behind. He said the last will be first, the first will be last. You choose. The Spirit of God moved over the abyss. Once. The Spirit of God filled the church. Twice. Now the Spirit of God I pray will come again against the world to save Gods city. To not defer the differences but in order to discern them. To tell the real from the unreal city. It is almost the end of the long night of manmade light. The dawn approaches, a light that will never set, a son returns. Where will you be, on his right or left? Do not be afraid. Stay in your room and pray. Let the word grow in you. Know that God has chosen you to be alive at this time. It was 50/50. Half the people who have ever lived are alive today. He will come to judge the living and the dead. He is the just judge, His mercy is that too. One act. One time. All in All. Love and fill the world you are in with it. Two cities. One world. The church in the modern world. Lucky world, after all. Just get to the city on time. Departure is near, and dear to us all. Apocalypse to come. Christ, come quickly! Though we are not finished yet, Christ, come quickly! Though there is more that would be done, Christ, come quickly! Though the world will pass away, Christ, come quickly! Though the judgment is certain yet uncertain, do not delay, Christ, come quickly!

Though some may not be saved yet, Christ, come quickly! So more will not lose their faith, we pray, Christ, come quickly!

God and Writing,

or How We Might Have Failed in Our Arrival

True Word, True Bread, Christ came down from Heaven: to heal us. From ourselves. Wallace Stevens sat on the edge of his bed and heard the bird sing at daybreak and thought it was reality, the thing itself. But dark Stevens in darkness heard a bird sign only and so ended his lifes work as a Greek by divination of a sign, not with the thing itself. Dark Stevens, in his hard reality of fiction, knew the death of evil as a tragedy, and perhaps was that and nothing besides. But hear the poor man say, we are what we are to God, that only, and nothing besides. And what are we to God? What can we be but an idea? We are but ideas in the infinite Mind of God. He alone is that which is. We simply are not. So some far-fetched fiction would tell allegories of how we sleep and only think we wake. Far rather, God dreamed, and dreamed of us. What will we be when He awakes? Since there is no composition in God, as Aquinas says, no parts, no accidents, no movement, we are but the ideal of substance, already eternal, already one. Derrida, in his writing, would substitute composition-less composition for God. How? By destroying writing as he writes, by interdicting steps he cannot take. He makes writing One. As he wrote: Nothing outside of the text. Composition-less composition. A new God. Utter complexity so enormous it is sublime virtual simplicity. Rather, monotony, as my nephew Justin Martin said, nowadays everybody is the same. What we once were, our idea of God, or better, a dream our God enjoyed, became a limitless possibility without an

act, an actor, an action, an actuality. To make us infinite, as Mallarme said. But we, instead, felt indefinite, and fell, abyss on abyss, with only that one direction, gravitys, which our light could not escape. The totality of knowledge as possible became the thing that drew us. And the light of the idea, that shape, that form, though insubstantial as a dream, died. We did not arrive. We dived. We plunged. We did not climb, we did not aspire. Without Spirit, in a material more dense than the quickest quicksand, we expired. This we though is merely our country and our culture, two supreme fictions. Individuals instead have climbed out of the abyss and scaled the mountain to the altar of God. Looking back they see the abyss in flames, the burning in the waste, the fire that may consume all in the chasm, while those on the mountain escape the fate of fire. The Church has never been in the abyss, so the we is not the Church speaking. It is gathered at the throne on high, where someday all can find a place. Let us then speak of all rather than we, for all are called. God and writing at first did not seem opposed, and surely God has no opposite. Knowing this, the deceit had to be at once brazen but clandestine, and the contamination but oblique. The way of light is strait and narrow, but there is no end to the windings of the serpentine line of the writers indefinite traces. God has written, has already written, on our hearts, and it is a pure writing, a pure love and a pure timelessness that is at the heart of the human race. Climb the mountain, retreat into your hearts, find the purity inscribed there, a kingdom, eternal, waiting for you and me. When we stop writing, when we fall silent, when we choose understanding, when we become real, without artifice, but with art in life, with creation in love, thoughtful, we may listen to the words of others, learn discernment through a listening and a putting into practice, testing the spirits, to find what is right and pleasing to God, to be transformed by the renewal of our minds, through meaning that is neither excessive nor repetitive, but simply delineated, like the edge of a diamond, that creation of the form and pressure of the time: sharp, hard, bright, rich.

will have been a book, filled with many signatures, at least three or four, or seven or twelve, but never simply two or one, for then there will be no signature and no end to the signatures, for the cuts and the wounds to heal, not in schizophrenic fashion, as the symptom that produces its own fore-healing, out of the play of forces that exert us within and without, making us both hyper sexual and hyper textual in the same instant of madness, overloaded with desire, overly attentive in our reading, trying to discern the indecipherable, circles of selves to fit the square hole of the abyss on the page and the stage, that framework of tech city, that un natural un shaped form less form beyond the simplicity of the curve of life that distorts our being into the one multi-task of living and dying in the same

interrupted, as I met my age and did shoulder I knew not what, but God knew, when I knew Him not, and in the seeming interregnum of the vacant dethroned disfigured decapitated deconstructed I sought the absolute, and held that we should go from nothing to everything, and against the grain, and despite the triumph of the will and the eclipse of reason and the ebbing of faith and trust, I was a seeker, but I was found, and though it seemed I was struck by genius and by magic and by the muse, yet I did strike a blow, not against all that, but at the giant Goliath in the way, and what my rock was you should know, and what the sword, that too you shall know, for there was a behemoth, call it what you will, a thing I sum post-modern, that can in principle, of its own terms, never be summed, no summa yet possible, yet summation required, and that theological, and a synthesis, to appropriate and not to be appropriated, and to give and not to count

moment, like the supposed, like the word itself, which gives itself away in speech yet retains itself in the graphic shadow of a drawn and quartered neo-nor, the syn- despised, the thesis suspended, the trace of something that escapes both wisdom and foolishness, a kind of hilarity that is the death of serious work and building, dwelling and thinking, for a wandering polysemy, polylogia, a bare hymen of meaning between ourselves, our frail consciousness and the abyss of nonentity, that ISBN said is sacred yet tainted with vice, and in the taintedness, dreams of our yet un written pages flowing with no restriction to the falls of hymeneal aggravations and abusive abysses, the assault of the letter A on all we are, an aggregation of insubstantial structures,

the cost, and to shoulder like Atlas, and not to merely shrug, and to stand under God when all around me the world was falling, not searching, but despising, and rushing, in economy, to spend all the capital of our inheritance, to waste the rich deposit of faith and reason so carefully built up by work and sweat of men and women over 4000 years, the great remainder of all dwindling to almost nothing, and then on bare credit to live, the future consumed as well, with nothing left for children, not even a generation to come, all it seems we have destroyed, even the possibility of action itself, the void invaded, the abyss and the gravity of it, the black star our hearts wed, the river she ran into no sea, and bells did ring always from morning till night, at dawn, at dusk, matins and vespers, weddings and funerals and a few more baptisms, but always in the church in the world, and in a tower that did not babble, though it did seem about to fall, and some supporting it, as

unlike 1, 2, 3, 4: but more like Nietzsche on the square, overcome overman, over a flogged and dying beast that was no thing but the wretched point at which his mind collapsed under the weight he could not support of a lifetime of the power of the open, but in order to arrive, in another way, without madness, yet still to find love, and this not in profits of extremity, but in the prophecy of catholic economy, when all will be not the glory globalizing but de-capitalizing, when the church of the new after the apocalypse, the time from 1945-2010, will emerge, a pure white nothing, a reconstructed theory and a reestablished practice, a Virgin, married to both God and Man, union of fecundity and yet with no actual relations with the world, a gift, a prayer that is apart, a part of the world

I and what we knew symbolically as 1000 points of light, as Francis did hold the church from falling, in his time, to make firm what was tottering and to do as has been said, we were all re-sponsible, though I was more responsible than the rest, as the priest told me that I was that man, as God called me, I lie not, and told me that I was doing it for the church because they were confused and did not understand His mercy, and that my vocation was true, and He does love me, and said so, and another priest said work on and risk and do not be discouraged, and as the King said, though 10,000 fall yet I will trust in you Lord, and there was no inter-regnum at the throne though the see may have been vacant, I do not know, but that the corruption of the time did reach even into the Church and did fell the world, and all, but at the same time in symbols, in signs, the real dialectic did prove that every action is every other action, as every other is holy other, despite the will to

that transcends the world at the same time it absolutely transforms it, from both the inside and the outside, without force, yet traversing by a work the fantasy and the necessity of the lack of production for a reality promised but undelivered by the fasces, by the face of the veiled and the unveiled, by Jews and Moslems and the still Christian, by atheists and athletes of wealth, by a realm of morals that is being but transubstantiated to mysticisms without reserve, and finding in this the word of St. Sartre for the building up and tearing down by the anti sculptor Giacometti, who would with unceasing labor create and destroy the synthesis of art and religion and philosophy in the dialectic of the search for what another called the SA: as savoir absolute, in you, yes, therefore

dissipation, and the will to deceive, and many there are who have been, we did still love and believe, and hope for the coming of the great day of our liberation from wealth and poverty, and all that goes with that economy, for an economy of grace and mercy that has always been and will always be, let it be done on earth as it is in heaven, dear Lord, I pray, that those who laugh will cease and those who mourn who will have a ceasing of their cause for mourning, and that in the age of analysis, we made something of our world, against it and for it at the same time, as was the Church, which despite the lack of holy attention still was mindful in missions and in charity and said so much right and did so much right and did so feed the millions with words and sacraments and breaking even in their daily bread, so done for that Church, a work stood, not torn down, though not one stone will be left atop another, as the Savior said, we may at last find the paradise throne, a temple interpreted as thee

Symbols The speculative begins and ends in the realm of the symbol, which as has been said, gives rise to the thought. That every symbol implies an explication means that in the folds of things that have meaning are possibilities that both open and close our understandings. Open because they allow reading and therefore the possibility of learning, and close because the limit case of comprehension is a grasping that cannot grasp itself, on the one hand, and which must let go, turn loose, of itself, in order to be grasped, not by any and every other, but by the one truth, the incomprehensible that comprehends us as we are, making us comprehensible to ourselves in principle, though sometimes knowledge is deferred or denied. That the symbol divides itself in two, in the etymological sense of the word symbol, indicates a brokenness, an incompleteness, in fact, which in principle is already complete and whole. Symbol systems are always derived from other systems, which seems to deny origins, as does our understanding of language, which cannot be incomplete, but which as has been shown, and in contradiction to this, has some radical incompleteness

lodged in the heart of every state of affairs. We did not invent the remedy that God provides. We sought Him, hidden in things, and have perpetually found and lost Him over and over again, the Absolute, the cause and goal of the search, the guard and guide of life, that than without which nothing can be conceived, in which we live and move and have our meaning, making symbolic actions, which we sometimes dimly perceive in truth, but which we believe have a definite value for God, where we hope our works will always be written in the book of eternal narrative, a place in which our roles, written, are read, by all of us, actors and audience, at the discretion of sole Authority.

September of my years When I was 21 it was a very good year and I and a girl loved or tried to, and listened to Jackson Browne sing of the pretender, and we cried and felt the pain, but I do not think we understood what we were grieving for, but now at 53 I look back and know. It was not just that our little love would not last, but something like the crisis ode of Wordsworth, in which he remarks the passing away of the glory and the dream, the gleam of vision, from the earth. I have lived and I have seen, in the 1960s and since, the death of the ideal, which made one last desperate stand back then, all you need is love we said, and then the death of the real, as well, in our virtual age, until this time we endure of the nothingness, the mere show, the pretense, the less than zero. The thing that happened, the act of the deconstruction of the ideal and the real that led to the nihilism of today, can only be cured by the prescription of faith. As another singer cried, Lets make it real one more time. The thought on which we depend is one that goes back to the twin source in Greece of Plato and Aristotle, of the ideal and the real, the two indispensable sites of philosophy, which the moderns, Kant and Nietzsche, destroyed in the deconstruction of the ideal and then the real, leaving us only nihilism, which was always implicit in the tradition but which had not been unfolded until the modern era. Platos critique of his own ideas showed what would happen someday. But there is something else implicit in the tradition, thank God, and that is the thought outside the Greeks idealism and realism and implicit nothingness. That thought is one that was born in Israel,

and which Jesus Christ fulfilled. We may say it is grace. Grace and faith are already contained in the folds of this Jew-Greek Greek-Jew world, the other of metaphysics that completes metaphysics, rather than destroying it. Logic was the law, and Christ came not to destroy it but to fulfill it. This involves the contradiction of which I write in the work, the theory of the truth of contradiction, the reversal of the nothing to reach everything. It was the thing I saw as early as 1988, because, despite it all, I was never a nihilist, though I was a pretender. As the singer said, say a prayer for the pretenders, who try to buy happiness, rather than make real the way to it. Nothing, not even a church, especially the Roman, can do this for us, for the machination has long involved even what we thought was holy, but let us instead stand or kneel and pray, in ones or twos or threes, little churches, and thus more truly catholic, and say I love thee whom I have not seen, whom money cannot buy, though some think to sell you. I look back and see the way to wisdom. He will lead us into deserts and strip us naked and espouse us there. We must thus be exposed, and Rome most of all, to wed the God who is ideal and real and more. Until we became nothing, we could not be saved, but now he must make us realize our very own nothingness. I see robots, animals, and devils in the streets, but few men. Someday men will walk the earth again, if God wills. I believe he loves us enough to change us, correct us, chastise us, unmask our hypocrisy, with the judgment beginning at Rome. Be not afraid. Pain and death are not the very worst things that can happen, and are necessary. The end of the world is this realization, and we will go from nothing to everything, when we realize we are nothing, nothing but an

insubstantial and merely virtual thing like a dream. But first we must become aware, even as we dream, that we are dreaming, in order for the good God to therefore wake us up. Our dream is a nightmare, and we now must awake, arise, arrive. I will awake thee O sleeper I said, O yes I who await thee will yet awake thee.

Pi Critic is Me

We, wilderness-wed, wail-rode, form-finding, neither deferred nor deterred, denying death, and dying to desire, a way kings realized, along aside a brides productionshe, all innocence, all absolutes, all wise, in relativity, he but blinded in the still blessing, allowing consciences benediction, she altogether really real and he but idealized, in the nihilistics, came the ring of grace, came death knells and kneeling at altars, given temptation, given grace, the mystery not known yet not to be denied, under the procession of the triumph of life, became the precession, the return, the shift of an axis or axle, bedded, abetted, but we connected, all in the whirl of turnings time, that is, of times stand still, still standing as the time arrived.

Peace

God did not start, God did not cease, Yet the work is done. Ye bastards: Save it for your wives. Rough bests the worst, And to sea would I ride. I have not yet begun, I have already done, For God in me still hides. The birds will sing, The night will chant, As you and I abide.

Michael Bolerjack 3230 S. Gessner Rd. #115 Houston, TX 77063

March 26, 2012

Your Eminence, I am a graduate of a catholic seminary, where I was a lay student who obtained an MA in theological studies in 2005. I also obtained an MLA with a concentration in English from a catholic university. I was baptized in the catholic church in 1991 at the age of 34. My wife and I were married sacramentally in 2001. I write you with the hope you will read what I have written with concern for the church. It is much of the time a difficult book to understand cognitively and substantially it will probably be disconcerting to you by the conclusion it makes. I send it to you, then, as my responsibility and as restitution to the church I care for.

Sincerely, Michael Bolerjack

June 5, 2011

Michael Bolerjack 3230 S. Gessner Rd. #115 Houston, TX 77063

Dear Sir, In May, 2007, I sent you a few pieces after you spoke at The University of St. Thomas in Houston, and you were kind enough to review them and recommend a couple of places to forward the work. I didnt find a buyer that year, and then did not pursue publication again until this year, after having written the book I am sending you now. It is a literary text, though it is concerned with theological and philosophical topics. The styles, especially in the second half, take off from Joyce, each chapter in a different technique, even using poetry to make my point concerning the Catholic Church. I set up the conclusion by working out what, in the first half, is a logic reconciling the contradictions in the world by saying the whole is true, not any one side or party, and then afterward I show the big contradiction that the Church at Rome represents. The work received a favorable review from Harpers in San Francisco, a letter I will attach. The material is timely, concerning events this year, and is the best and really only important thing Ive ever written. Though it is non-fiction, it is, I will repeat, literary, and the book has not a single footnote. I think readers will find it

both controversial and written in a manner that convinces them. This, because it is not an off-the-wall diatribe about the rapture or some such. I believe in the work itself, and in the vocation I have concerning it, and was encouraged especially by a priest in the confessional to pursue publication, and as he said, sell it. He told me not to get discouraged, and even relieved me of the obligation to work a regular job, so that I could stay at the task. I did not set out in the beginning to find the facts I present, and was surprised by my conclusion, having been in the Church since 1991, and having even earned a masters degree in theology at St. Marys seminary in Houston in 2005, before my MLA at UST in 2008. Einstein once said, you have to be willing to follow the truth wherever it leads, even if you wind-up proving yourself wrong. If, in the end, I find that Derrida was right and John Paul II was wrong, so be it. There is much more I could tell you about myself and the way the work took place, but I think if you read it you will see the worth of it for itself, as well as for the church and the world. I said in a letter I sent out two months ago, no one will have ever written of the things I do, in the way I do, with the conclusion I make. I think there is a chance this book will make news, and sell well, because you never know what the people will find interesting. I hope it is not too late to get it in stores by the end of the year, if you choose, because it is timely. I enclose the requisite envelopes for your response, if there is any, and for the return of the manuscript, otherwise.

Michael Bolerjack

h2o riverrun hearcalitus said, and joyce waking second says it all flows, as the sound of many waters, the voice, and god in it all, forgiving, reigning over me, past all membrance, past even the harvest moon shining tonight, after completion after the law after the church after words, he sees me, she knows, I am not the grass, but the water for it to grow, and two parts logic and one part literature, find me humbly waiting bath. I have had my baptism, yes, in thee Ive been made clean, washed, worshipped, rains song, son reigns, yes is thee.

Flores de Monterrey

Once I said, I knew not why, Petals to dirt, Stem to sky.

ARTS REST

Wherefore art thou? Art at rest? To pause, to remain, to support, art. Rhythmic silences. Steps at starets. Sartres stare. The rest is silence. But art at rest re-starts, again and again. The books I have written rest and re-start, not hesitating like Derrida, or like he says Freud does in Beyond the Pleasure Principle, not taking the step. I take the step, of faith, of hope, of love, of arrival, of action, positif, still possible, against the deconstruction of the ideal and the real, when nothing became possible, and the possible became impossible. The books are St. Sartres re-start, reclaiming both the existentialists freedom and the dialectical critique for today. It may be that Jean-Paul will make it in before John Paul II. It is up to God, but Christ says the prostitutes and sinners make it in before his opponents in the

official church of His day. The gospel does not pass away, because it always applies. Our situations (Sartres word) never change. The church needs change. The church needs Christ. But like the young man at the seminary told me, Gods hands are tied. How can the One with the whole world in His hands not be free? He hands us freedom without losing His. As long as He has hands, there will still be a world to hold. He is free and we are free, radically free, free of Popes and popularity, of politicians, and of history, since that ended sometime during the last fifty years. With the end of history in the post-modern period, an abrupt thing faces us: we do not have to be tied to the time we are in, we are no longer historically conditioned. Therefore: Re-start the arts. St. Sartre would. Stress the Tessera, the era of fragmentation, in order for the mosaic to be made. I do not give a rats ass how you do it, but put the pieces together again.

Establish the stars. As the poet said, nothing will have taken but the place, except perhaps for a constellation. He conceded the power of imagination to still make patterns, despite the deconstruction latent in his poetry, which Derrida found and expounded. Poetry in arrears, as we all are, and myself especially, let us give the word. Arrest, art rest, then re-start, begin again, like Finnegan, waking, say yes, say thee and thou and thine, not I and me and mine. Buddha said he was always at the beginning. To connect the end to the beginning, a very hard thing to do. To sign, without resignation, to name, not for fame, to put words in books, like they did in the nineteenth century, before, ere, erstwhile, previous to motion pictures, records, radio, television, computers. Rasters, scatter patterns. Rather, Easters, homeward, by the book, for why not then be of another time? Time itself has ended as such. It is

time to begin again, beginning with time. The world still turns at the same speed, though there is no world to turn. Rare stars, rear yourselves, rise up sires, roses risen: The rest is not silence, but fire.

Argumentum

It rained all night, The day I died; As Bottom dreamed, Therefore did I.

And so, what happened to the world today? It is the feast of St. Jude, apostle and patron of the hopeless and the desperate. Gabriel Garcia Marquez died, the greatest writer of my lifetime. My wife looked for work. The nation of Mexico slid further into chaos. The people of the U.S. prepared a turn away from the future to the failures of the past. The Catholic Church continued to be rocked by scandals that threaten not just the nation of Vatican City state, but the faith of millions of people. What

happened to the world today? In the symbolic life of the globe, much, in every way, and the torch was passed to a new generation. Whether my colossus will be put into print is something I have come to care less and less about the better the writing became and the closer I felt God draw near to me, as a catholic, as a writer, as a husband, as a man. Now, there seems little left to do. I could tell you how to figure out just who the hell 666 is. Multiply the six times the six times the six. Then do a little reckoning. I think he must be doing that himself. What does it mean that he and I and you are all here at the same time? I know not. But God is here. And he knows. That God only knows is enough for me. If you can pray, then pray. If you can think, then think. If you can still feel, then thank God, and then think and pray. The symbols were never notated properly. The system existed to do so, but fell into disuse, due to technological fascism. The third Reich did not pass away, as was thought. To find that is to find part of the

secret of the world that happened today. That a world still happened today. That a world happened. Be still. The work does not speak of these things, but prepares a future out of the disaster. We are out of time, and yet I had to find a way to re-found, re-fashion, re-model, remake what had been made impossible in principle and in fact. He said if you have faith. I said I do but not without you. He could have saved us alone, but he wouldnt have it otherwise. Otherwise, we would not be saved. The world may have already ended, otherwise. It may be the whole of the enigma of the postmodern age is contained in this word otherwise. The end of things really took place otherwise than what good men and women could have conceived. This was because the end could not be without this theoretical thought of the Otherwise, which made the symbolic end of things possible, in making the literal impossible, in

making the spiritual otherwise. The otherwise is itself the perversion of the sign, which made the symbolism of the Book of Revelation so hard, really impossible in days past, to comprehend. Because it is a mirror of today. Oh, for days of future passed. Oh, for the time when Glas will have been, in the future perfect, and mourning in America will be over. They say it is morning on election day, but they cannot elect themselves, and neither politicians nor prophets can elect themselves, but must be chosen, must be called, and vocations are given, not made. Otherwise, Derrida was prophetic. But not in truth, for he mixed truth with lies, and contaminated the pure, symbolically, with the taint of the trace, as in his Glas, the Immaculate Conception, or IC, is violated, if that be possible. But the virgin she was the whitest winter remains, and virgins saved the world, not celibacy or celebrity, nor the celebration of mass, nor mourning for the dead, but I think instead by the virgin purity of

the dance of King David before the ark of the Lord. He may have done impure things at one time, but his dancing was purely done, for the glory of God, for all to see, and he sang too, and sang his songs prophetically, as a priest would, if the priests were indeed prophets. Such vocations, I have found, are few. It may be that technology has en-framed and en-slaved us, as recent films depict. That something not conscious could do so, would only be because we too were no longer conscious, were not mindful, but through sheer mindlessness, allowed the subjection of freedom by our desire for a limitless play, rather than to do the work of true vocations, with limits set by God alone, not by a vacated, borderless ingenuity, invented otherwise. In all, I remain Catholic, though what this means is not clear. That I am not in communion with Benedict XVI is clear to me, and this because I believe the see of Peter is vacant. At

what historical moment this happened, I know not. It could have been after the forgery of the Donation of Constantine, or the declaration of Infallibility, or the stashing of Nazi loot in the Vatican bank, or the murder of John Paul I. There are some things we cannot know, now, but there is nothing hidden that will not, in the end, be revealed. Almost any and all of the millions who sit in the pews of parishes around the world are more Catholic than the pope in Rome, so I must be, too. The Church was not invented by Christ, but rather it was invented by itself, at least the way it is today. Christ told the apostles to preach to all nations, but not to accuse men of heresy while excusing crimes of the clergy. As Kierkegaard said, it is tragic because it is perishing, comic because it goes on. He spoke of ancient Greece and of the modern world, while I refer to the Roman responsibility and the Roman irresponsibility, the Mystery yet inscribed.

The Word of God is sharper than any two-edged sword. It was with God in the beginning, and shall be the instrument in Revelation that conquers evil and the enemies of God. I believe the events of the Apocalypse have been unfolding for many years now, and that in fact, it is nearly finished. You say, where? And, when? The reason we look and do not see, hear but do not understand, is that the Book of Revelation is symbolic, in the sense that it is not an allegory but a simultaneously literal and mystical prophecy of today. This can only be true because the events in the world that are now taking place are symbolic as well. The first beast has already come and gone, and the second recommends him. The sixth is reigning now, with the seventh to come. Rome will always be Rome. Jerusalem will always be. Fallen is Babylon, symbolically, which the whole world witnessed. I believe that primarily the destruction is about the Church, which did not deconstruct like the Soviet Union, but which

could not escape corruption morally and really in doctrine as well, because of what is known as the trace. The taint of the trace has hollowed out the Church and a fortiori the world while the world still stands, empty, hollow, void, virtual. As Peter says, if judgment begins at the House of God, where does the poor sinner stand? It seems the death culture we have been warned against by recent successors of Peter was unavoidable, and that deconstruction in its texts furthered the death drive to the abyss. The repetition, the return, the circularity, the vicious circle, the step not taken beyond, the logic of the abyssal text can be broken by the logic of the impossible, that is, by grace, because God alone can do the impossible, and has, and does, and will. The battle between love and death remarked often in Scripture is being enacted today, and occurs in my books from beginning to end, a kind of miniature mirror of the drama of the ages we are experiencing, but too often, without meaning. I

myself have been a coward toward Gods Word, shown but little charity, little patience, wanting it all, and right now. But healing follows chastisement. Though I have done next to nothing, though Israel has betrayed God, that is the Church has not practiced the theory of Christianity lived by only a few, yet God can work salvation for many. But we, I think, must believe and turn around, not simply spinning, but breaking the circle and marking out a straight path, narrow, hard to find, but true. Ask, seek, knock, give, love, pray, believe. Tell the truth. That the end is not only near, but almost over, who could have guessed? Where the corpse is, there the vultures shall gather. If you need Him, He will be there. He said so. Trust in His mercy. Turn away from the world toward the Good, and be transformed by the renewal of your mind. The Church tried reform and renewal, but failed, and now we will see what God does or allows to happen to it, and to the world. Yet, the Word of God will arrive, the

Sword, and in truth defeat death, deconstruction and all who make a lie. We need not worry about the contradictions in Scripture, in theory and practice, or in our own selves. But let us admit the truth and know what we are, what our world has become, what the Church has, too, sadly become. What we are we should know. But who we are to God, that we do not yet know, and so we may hope in His goodness and mercy, which is under the control of no one else but Jesus Christ. We have been given time, given temptation, but shown mercy. Rome may not understand, may never know, but you and I, we should try to understand, the drama of our own unfaithfulness, while God stood faithfully by. Our return is not eternal, but takes place in time. Prodigals, Magdalenes, let us return.

April 2, 2011

Michael Bolerjack 3230 S. Gessner Rd. #115 Houston, TX 77063

Dear Sir,

It seems to me that no one will have ever written of the things I do in the way I do with the conclusion I make. If you can further the cause of the work I send you, by all means do so. My financial situation and other matters are precarious, and you may not be able to reach me directly at the above address in the future. If you should decide in some manner to act on this text, feel free to do so at your will. I think once you have read it, you will see the seriousness of the work, and be able to decide for yourself what should be done.

Sincerely, Michael Bolerjack

All Souls Day My Lord, I would sing Thee, Of Your grace I would sing, Of mercy and love and kindness, And of the chastisement that Heals after correction. Of Thee I sing. Corrected, completed, Of Thee I sing. My Love, My Life, Yes, I did sing Thee. There was be-bop and hip-hop, And rock and soul between, And country and blues and gospel, All along the way, And many who sang, And many who knew not the words, Without sometimes a tune at all, Yet in the end You were sung, By one and all, Even when we knew it not. And amazing to me, Was the grace I found, Not only, that while I sang of Thee, yet, Lord, yes, You sang me.

An Icon for the Church on the Mercy of God

You be like you ever, my beautiful one, my beloved, my Sabbath, my peace, my way to break the circle of God and Church and World, icon makers not iconoclasts, not idol worshippers, but in the twilight of the idols at high noon, in the midst of an error, we stood single, you and I, and did break it, did break the text, did step back, not out of the word, but out of all implication, by the prayer of the supplicate, the tare torn, debt cancelled, the call of tessera, pieces of a sweet life we loved it crazy, but not so: we did but live it. You were ripe and I was ready and we arrived, later. We heard our callings and we responded, choose us Lord, yes be taken. O my peace, yet you could not rest, and looked beyond, while I, a solitaire, a promontory, looked at you and saw the sadness of late tales, of tombs, of toil, of the undone. You were the passage, not the goal of it, and I passed through you, like the poet said, and I saw through you, not with you, and did arrive beside you, not as if to be. The icons came down, so that one could be built, strange, I did not know. I did not destroy them, but despite the theory of contradiction, when the thing denied itself, I denied it too. An icon now is, and you in it, and others too, if they will break the deadlock, and allow in their gratuity a freedom to God, to affirm all. Effracting God-Church-World, a system made on the bones of the infinite, by limit stand, ever, and be like you, come the Sabbath. I speak to you and to the world and to God all at the same time, and so make no sense to anyone, I ever the incomprehensible. And yes, not yet, even you, you did not understand, and the world I contradicted must not understand, or else I was wrong, but as long as God alone understands, the icon was not in vain, and I did not falter, pulled down vanity in myself first of all, and put back more than I took. God gave all, all must be returned. I give you all, for all of you.

At Harvest Time

I lay down my weary tune beside you sleeping As you stirred and turned and almost not quite Opened your eyes and almost not quite heard Me whisper: I finished, I finished. By the banks of Marinela, by the sound of many Sleeping, I did not hang up my heart, but sang it.

The Virgin Martyrs

To do more than one can do Is a flat contradiction, So it must not be I that did. While you smoke the cigarette, The cigarette smokes you, Almost not without a fire. Joan of Arc amid her voices, Telling her what to do; yet It was Joan, Joan, ever Joaned, Ever sainted, ever crowned, Every girl who ever was, A virgin to her wedded day.

She was my one true Sentinel, my guardian, Loves embodiment Of duty and faith and work With out end, world without end, Words without end, but enough! She became my one Limit and limitation, And in her precincts I did thrive and grow in truth, Grow in Christ and him in me. What else is there but To thank and bless her in her Uncomplicated, Graceful, simple, entire, Perfectly, completely, and Without a stammer The complete that I have found And without which I Would have been incomplete, and God does not like incompletes. She has more than one Name and her number unknown Yet knowable, still She is not a summation, She is not a citation, A little one, she, And more to me by what she Made here in words that Seem to be mine, but are in The sovereignties she is.

When I Look Into Your Eyes

When I look into your eyes I see glaciers falling, light sparring, momentum gathered, earth at her zenith, no dejection. The fire in you rises, your clothes loose in the wind, a breath of God on your hair, and stars around to abet your half-smiling lips, now serious, now laughing. In your transitions is abiding, a certainty next to durable unknowns, that make the thorns of the heart easier to bleed, the tears not awkward to drop.

Ten Thousand Times Ten thousand times I have loved you In your presence, In your comings and goings, And found refuge In your gaze; Where others glance and Look away, You see me.

Beyond Beyond the gaze Of the old man in his bed She saw something No one could name, For only moments, But still impressed in her, As if he had seen the gift, And she, in his look, A blessing, A glance of The glory.

Immutable Immutable His breathing, His passing, His song; Departure Had its Reasons; Making greater Himself, He did those who Stood there.

If He Crowned You If he crowned you, If he made you an everLasting, imperishable Sign, I would still Read to you and Need you as I do, Speaking poverty to Holiness, Artless, Poetic.

THOUSAND THESE

Thous and Thees For God and For Her I wrote on the 25 Years in the And bricks and mortar To dedicate Told, mind you, they sent a calf, young and foolish, To defeat HCE The Highly Compensated Employee From Howth Castle and Environs, cause the course of the ricorso does not, never can, will not by any means Circle back around To an Apocatastasis, No de capo, Not again again, neither do I hope to, For thouendsthee And every good poet must be ste set tse stet against the wake,

Away alone along The Thing we call world ends more like Yes Than it Aint Is to a T, the tt, the anti- the tain, the taint? Reading, For it is all teletyped Cept the stakes And putting it all in the machine was the best thing I could do, For look at what became of written reading and Language, And the world, it too in a,

I mean l The bender, I lean, And remember Her, She knew something we didnt, But Susan knew, And I will not forget her or our sins, For God put me, Hear to remember Her, For you, For Ever, For Man is the animal that makes mistakes, And he came to be, Leaving after he wrote his Apocalypse,

That the world does not end with a whimper, but set his might On that They repeat the lie, now Sooner Every fire shall rise to Linger not In waste Of The shoring of runes but A temple not built by hands But Of some finer thing Of something fine to finish Knowing, Yet Elegant, So

Intelligent, And mixing Mememoremee and desire, Like the graduate students saying Chaucer and Eliot to me in Recital, Around the table knowledgeable, In seminar, And I disseminating on the deLimitation of the working of Art symbols of, That it we neither intend nor unIntend, Like A process of the organic, One you know all Too well,

And the professor Glared, And the students Laughed, But I was surprised at the un-doing, For I had neither intended it Nor not, That was to have been my exemplification. And so I was, and quit what they did not requite, Quieter, Qui etre, Being the one more sinning than signed, Having in my confused way shown them, though I knew it not,

that God is already doing an infinite number of things simultaneously, As Thomas Aquinas mentions at the end of the eternity of the World as we know it, And that, being the burden, In a virtual argument from design, Even if it looks like we are in the l bender, l bent, Truly, We are not, We only look like we are when we watch ourselves in each other. Therefore, Whoso looketh into the perfect law of liberty, and continueth therein, he being not a forgetful hearer, but a doer of the work