Notes from the Future: Journal of Brother Ambrose, Day 2

I am entirely uncertain as to the correct course. I have not yet approached the master of our order and I feel deep shame at this deception. But I feel that there may be some wisdom in delay, as the next passages of my transcription carry an entirely different tone. I am getting ahead of myself. Here is what happened:

Yesterday morning I left my room, agitated and determined to speak with Father Michael. He was in a meeting. I went to the redwood chapel to pray and meditate, as I have always found the morning light among redwood trees to be more lovely and peaceful than even the most powerful and ornate rose windows of any of our European cathedrals. As I sat breathing clean air and listening to birds chirping over the now incessant roar of Mt. Diablo, I had the distinct sense that there was a kindness near me, a presence at my right shoulder. The sensation of a hand, possibly even warmth and pressure. The scent of Rosemary, and a breath on my ear  no, that's not possible, but perhaps the impression of a breath as a word came into my mind: persevere.

Perseverance. Yes. My constant companion. In the darkest, most difficult times, I have learned much by simply shouldering my burdens and carrying on. The British seem to have the right idea. Keep Calm and Carry On. Not being one to dash about, though, I proceeded -- calm and collected -- to the library. Not usually in favor of divination, I nonetheless engaged in a little accidental bibliomancy. As I sat musing upon the strangeness of the scribblings within my books, I was idly flipping through a copy of the King James edition and muttering, 'What to do ... what to do ... ?' Which is when my finger fell right in between verses 15 and 16 of II Samuel, Chapter 13:

         " ... And Am'non said unto her, Arise, be gone.
         16 And she said unto him, There is no cause: this evil in sending me away is greater than the other that thou didst unto me. But he would not hearken unto her."

Now, setting aside the nature of Am'non's incestuous rape of his sister Ta'mar, which assuredly does not apply to my case, I disobeyed a basic tenet and chose to take these words entirely out of context. If there is some penance I must later do as a result, so be it. But they struck me, these words of Samuel. Am I Am'non, the unlistening? I thought I had been sleeping, but I was in congress with some source of the writing. Though my congress was not carnal, am I somehow doing greater evil in attempting to send it away? What if the words in my books, however upsetting, come from a good source? Hasty action could lead to hasty conclusion, and in these troubled times after the earthquake, perhaps it would be wise to wait, to listen, to "hearken unto" whom- or whatever is speaking to me in my sleep.

Though this time of contemplation seemed to me to only take a few minutes, perhaps a quarter of an hour at most, it was nonetheless a surprise to glance at the clock and see that evening had come. I had passed the entire day in the library, though it felt like minutes, contemplating the words and feelings of a virgin raped by her brother. Is it rape that I have experienced? Is my mind penetrated against my will, or have I been coerced or seduced? I do not feel like a victim in this. And the word that came to me in the redwood chapel: persevere.

These thoughts were foremost in my mind as I joined my brothers for our evening meal: I am still upset by the words in the books. I am upset by what has happened. But I am not certain that this is a bad thing. So, whether I am Am'non or Ta'mar, I believe that I should listen. And in listening, perhaps it would be wise to continue to transcribe. And in listening and transcribing, I shall thus persevere. Who knows what bends await in my trail?

So it was that I returned to my room last night and, intent upon transcribing the continued obscenities and foulness of what had come before, was surprised to turn a page and discover something entirely new. It was so engrossing that I confess I took it to bed and curled up reading it with the avidity of the most secretive of voyeurs -- a chilling thought, in light of its uncertain source and its strange contents. Here, then, is what came next:
    
            "August 29, 1955
            Arkham, Massachusetts
            9:36 am

     Dear ... future me. Today is the first day of our time at The Arkham Conservatory, and I am very excited to be able to attend this truly unique school. We, the incoming Freshmen, Class of 1959, are all gathered in a Lecture / Performance hall on the eighth floor, I forget the name. It's full of lovely woodwork and some very strange carvings on the beams of the rafters.
     I was worried, before this morning, that I would be seen as an outsider by the actors and dancers, and even though I knew I would be in the Divinity Department within the School of Theosophical Inquiry, I had convinced myself that I would be the only one. Not so! I am surrounded by friendly, kind, even titillating people majoring in everything from Parapsychology and Hypnotic Researches, to Musical Theatre. Everything here is laughter and light, in spite of the school's darker reputation. I have found nothing but acceptance, thus far, and though I know that there are bound to be rocky roads ahead (we will have ice cream after lunch, ho ho ho, knock wood), I feel as though I have finally left behind the shadows of my childhood. How odd to leave California and feel better in what will surely be a darker, colder climate for much of my time here?
     President Prescott is heading to the podium, will write more later. Remember to ask about historian and mansard roof.
     -- Torvald Walter Mayberry"

A knock at my door, oh please let it not be