What are you reading right now?

[Wombaticus Rex]

Finally wrapped "Tombstone," which was ... a long, hard slog. Quotidian and brutal.

Once I realized it was a Stephen King length accounting of starvation, precinct by province, I really questioned if I was going to finish it. What kept me compelled, however, was the absolute purity of Jisheng's anger - white hot, calm, methodical. It's never merely a litany. He always finds new approaches, always forces himself to truly engage with the historical record, to humanize it.

I don't think this is even a recommendation -- truly, I cannot recommend it -- but the book impressed me in a way no other book has before.

[Wombaticus Rex]

She’s a Sally, Silly; and The Bluegrass Conspiracy is also a classic.

Quite. Wrapped "The Money and the Power" this afternoon, it's a 10/10 artifact. Big scope in relatively small package, and the authors absolutely prove their case. The magazine editor cliches they use to drive the narrative wind up lending a lot of explanatory power in the closing act, so I grudgingly concede my grumpy ass was flat out wrong about all that.

Up next: "The Bloody White Baron," which I started years ago but didn't finish due to rap.

[DrEvil]

^^You have to be careful with that rap.

I read up on the Bloody White Baron a few years ago after finishing The Fuller Memorandum by Charles Stross, where he plays an important background role. It's incredible to think that a character like him actually existed only a century ago.

I'm currently reading Revenant Gun by Yoon Ha Lee. It's (surprise!) hard scifi with a helping of weird and hints of Cordwainer Smith (a pseudonym for Paul M. A. Linebarger, a fascinating character himself. He helped set up the first psychological warfare unit in the US and was a close confidante of Chiang Kai-shek).

The plot is just a basic "rebellion against empire" thing, but the writing is excellent and the setting is unlike anything I've read before. The empire in question rules through "consensus mechanics", a ruthlessly enforced, custom-built belief system that, coupled with some fancy tech, allows them to shape reality and use technology that would otherwise not work.

[identity]

Reading Tina Alexis Allen's new, mildly entertaining memoir, Hiding Out: A Memoir of Drugs, Deception, and Double Lives, about her youth with an alcoholic homosexual father (with whom she bonds due to their shared gay/lesbian "secret lives") who ran a Catholic travel agency and is always taking off for trips to Rome:

Entering the Lost and Found, a rowdy men’s bar, I strut a few steps behind a tanned Nic in her capri pants and Dad in his white linen suit, adjusting the floppy straw hat I bought myself on our Greek vacation. I’m jittery. Jesus, never thought I’d be at a gay bar with my dad. I’ve been going to these clubs since I was sixteen, when Nic took me to Crazy Eights, across from the projects in Baltimore—a neighborhood so dangerous, you had to knock on the door to get buzzed in. Once inside, I put on such an act of cool and confidence that no one even carded me. Nic said I behaved like I owned the place.

“I’ve got it, love.” My father waves off Nic’s billfold as he pulls a crisp hundred-dollar bill off the top of a thick wad of fresh notes. Dad stares lustfully at the leather-clad bouncer’s bulging crotch and I catch the hunk returning the look. Nic catches my eye.

“Is your dad gay or bisexual?” she whispers.

“Hell if I know,” I snap.

“Well, he’s one heck of a charmer,” she says admiringly.

“Let’s get a drink, my ladies,” Dad shouts over Bowie’s “Let’s Dance.” His arm extends, insisting we lead the way through the afternoon tea dance. No chance that he’ll lose us in this sea of muscle and neatly trimmed mustaches. I couldn’t stand out any more if I were Mary Magdalene belly dancing at the Last Supper. Hairy arms swipe mine, leaving patches of wet and earthy smells on my ivory gauze blouse, overpowering my mother’s Joy perfume that I pumped off her vanity. The dated, Saturday Night Fever–like dance floor is packed. There are the Village People cops with batons, cowboys in chaps showing off big packages wrapped in soft leather, and drag queens wearing vibrant boas and wide-shouldered Dynasty gowns with exaggerated makeup and false eyelashes. I bounce my narrow hips to the booming music as I scope the dance floor. The bar is three deep for drinks, but Dad is happy to wait, surrounded by a small clique of slight young guys, as well as the burly muscle types.

[...]

“Ah, Michael, there will only be two of us dining after all,” Dad says, his eyes somehow still sparkling.

I look around the dining room, uncomfortable with his endless flirtations. The University Club is mostly empty, a respite from the dance club.

“My archangel, there’s no need for all that. I might just get lucky tonight,” Dad teases Michael as he removes the extra place setting. I suddenly wish Nic were here.

“Dad, what was the preppy boy’s name you were talking with for so long?”

I succeed at halting my father’s display. His aggressive eye on me is a parental reminder that he didn’t raise a child without manners.

“Excuse my daughter, Michael. I was going to suggest—since our third party became ill—that you join us.” Dad gives him a loose wink.

Michael grins.

“Thank you, Sir John, I’d love to, but I’m on duty,” he says, holding his hands behind his back.

“I’ve been ‘on duty’ since I was an officer in the British Army, running the War Office in Palestine, but please join us anytime—after your duty.” Dad’s eyes are glued to our server.

“Dad, he’s working!”

“Christine, I think you need a drink! Please, Michael, bring my daughter . . . what would you like, dear? Red wine, perhaps? We’ve been on the dance floor all afternoon, so we’ve worked up a thirst.”

He gives Michael another wink. I bury my face in my menu, but my hands are shaking enough that I can’t focus. My body feels trapped in the chair, an invisible strap holding my hips in place, stuck here alone with him and all these lies. The large chandelier becomes distorted, a massive spaceship looming above me. A full-blown panic threatens to take over. It’s familiar, but it’s been years since I felt this overwhelmed. The first time was in my bedroom with Simon. And then, repeatedly, for a few years in the musty laundry room, where the unfinished ceiling beams would seem to grow thick and crush the breath right out of me as I lay frozen on a frayed bath towel with my brother’s face between my legs.

I grab my crystal goblet off the table and gulp down the water. My father’s voice echoes as if he’s talking underwater.

“Young man, please bring us a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape and some warm bread.”

The tuxedo-wearing archangel places his cold palm on my shoulder.

“It’s pretty cool your father takes you dancing,” he says sweetly.

“Not to worry, young man, I can take you, too.” Dad gives Michael a mock smack with his napkin.

Michael laughs like a girl and hustles off.

Feeling Sir John’s stare, I gulp my ice water and read the menu with feigned interest, grateful that the letters begin to emerge from their thick blur. I breathe slowly, reminding myself that there’s no need to be afraid.

“Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Sir John.” Our server shows off the label.

Dad blesses the bottle—making a grand sign of the cross like he’s the pope on the balcony above St. Peter’s Square. I think of the way Dad said good night when we were kids, blessing our foreheads with his thumb. Dad knows the entire mass by heart in English and in Latin; standing up, sitting down, and reciting prayers three beats ahead of the congregation. Each night after dinner, he led the family through the rosary, all of us kneeling in the living room before the cross and my parents’ holy portraits. Once upon a time, he really did want to be a priest. Even though Dad had never spoken of it, my sister Kate found a letter in the attic in which he confided his disappointment over being rejected from the priesthood in England. No explanation for the rejection—just that he was heartbroken and weighing his options for the future.

Dad calls me back. “Salute, Christine.”

We tap our crystal glasses and drink our fine wine fast, chasing down our lost high. Dad takes my hand in his. My body tenses.

He sings, “‘There’s a place for us, a time and place for us, hold my hand and we’re halfway there.’”

I force a smile and take a big swig of wine. I can’t decide if being Dad’s new best buddy is fun or frightening. Have I really gone from hating him to loving him so fast? He never seemed to like me much, constantly reprimanding me, sneering. My mind plays Ping-Pong: Who is the real Sir John? Was having thirteen children just a cover? Did he really want all of us? He boasts to anyone who will listen that he had hoped for twelve boys, so he could name them after the twelve apostles. One thing I know for sure, he prefers sons to daughters, waiters to waitresses, grandsons to granddaughters, and, apparently, men to women. So how does he now magically love me as if I’m a disciple? Is it just because I like girls? Or maybe because I know how to keep a secret as well as he does?

[...]

The day after we dined sans Nic at the University Club, he left on a spur-of-the-moment flight for Rome. Standing at the foot of the driveway next to our neighbor’s pristine hedges, Dad tightened his already snug necktie and whispered to me, “I have an urgent meeting with the papal nuncio, Archbishop Magni—Vatican matters. But upon my return we’ll hit the town . . . the Lost and Found.”

[identity]

Well, Hiding Out is taking an unexpected turn, one which may be of interest to RI readers! I shall post brief extracts (of RI-relevant passages) for your delectation. (If anyone objects to the copypasting, or perhaps would prefer to see these posted in a Catholic-related thread, kindly raise your voice.)

My father leads me into his office and closes the door. I lay the file down in front of a gold-framed family photo from our trip to Rome in 1975.

“Now, this is the heart and soul of my organization,” he says, pointing to a new gray fax machine sitting on the corner of his massive oak desk. I run my hand over it, trying to appear interested, but my mind is busy scanning through options of where to work out after I blow this joint.

“No one—besides me—uses this fax. Of course, no one has any business being in my private office.” Dad sounds annoyed, as if I’ve already messed up.

I look around the room, which could be mistaken for an office at Blessed Sacrament rectory. The wall opposite the large window holds framed photos of Dad with priests and cardinals and four of the most recent popes. In one, John Paul I is wearing granny glasses as he blesses my father, who kneels before him.

“A good man, he was.” Dad stares at the picture.

“He was the shortest-reigning pope,” I say, to impress him.

“No, one of the shortest, but not the shortest. That would be Urban VII, who reigned for thirteen days. John Paul I’s papacy was thirty-three days. A travesty. This was taken not long before,” he says, gently touching the photo, tearful.

“Before he died?”

“Before he was murdered,” he says in a low voice, glancing at the door, holding his index finger to his lips.

“They wanted him out and they got him out,” he whispers. “Between us, the Holy Father was in good health, and those who had access were well aware that an autopsy is never performed on the pope. John Paul was preparing to make a lot of changes inside the Vatican, particularly at the Vatican Bank.”

The murder of a pope? What is my dad talking about? Archbishop Magni? I consider my father’s last urgent business trip to meet with Magni, the papal nuncio. “Vatican matters,” Dad had told me. But what could be so pressing about American Catholics touring the Sistine Chapel? He moves to the window and I follow, taking a whiff behind him to see if he’s been drinking. Seems not. I take in more framed pictures of Dad and other popes: Dad kneeling before Pope Paul VI, gazing at John XXIII wearing his crusader medallion, talking casually to John Paul II. Beeping sounds come from the fax and paper starts to roll. Dad heads to his machine as I spot a man out the window in cutoff jeans and worker boots with two bandannas in his right back pocket. Light blue and black. He fingers his Tom Selleck mustache.

“Dear, I need to head over to the Vatican embassy and drop off something,” Dad says, distracted by his freshly delivered fax. “Why don’t you step into the mailroom and study some brochures of our upcoming tours. Get familiar, as I may want you to accompany me abroad as your time permits.”

“Sure, Dad,” I sing, wondering where he might take me.

Turning from the window, I catch Dad quickly slipping a hand underneath his leather blotter and removing two small keys attached to a medallion with a familiar coat of arms—the Vatican’s. At the door, I glance back as he whips out his briefcase from under the desk, unlocks it, drops a file inside. His pace is rapid even by his hurried standard. What’s so urgent at the Vatican embassy that requires files in a locked briefcase? I’ve been around the travel business my whole life and am well aware that Americans don’t need a visa to travel to Italy. Nothing could be that urgent.

The mailroom is filled with much less intriguing things, like a silver scale to weigh packages—a much larger version of Mom’s Weight Watchers scale. Metal shelving holds various-size envelopes, stamps of every denomination, the massive Catholic Encyclopedia, and a press release stating that Dad’s business is the largest Catholic travel agency in the United States. I open the encyclopedia, checking for a mention of his company. Nothing. Flipping to the P’s, I search for Papal Nuncio. Nothing. I thumb back to the N’s and find Nuncio. It says nuncio is from the Latin word meaning “envoy” or “messenger.” As the diplomatic representatives of the pope, nuncios are given “special credentials as well as special instructions, whether of a public or of a private nature. They also receive a secret code and enjoy the same privileges as ambassadors.” So like all the diplomats living in Washington, D.C., would Archbishop Magni, the papal nuncio to Italy, have diplomatic immunity? Nowhere in the Catholic Encyclopedia can I find any cross-reference about a “secret code.”

[...]

On an out-of-reach top shelf, there are boxes marked worthington wonderland, with various dates from the fifties, sixties, and seventies. Every year, Mom writes a family Christmas letter and Dad edits it before sending it out to hundreds of their friends around the world. Most years, for a solid week in December many of us sit around the dining room table folding, licking, sealing, and stamping. I have copies of most of the printed letters from after I was born—in the sixties—but I don’t remember ever seeing the Worthington Wonderland letters from the fifties. Opening up a dented folding chair, I climb up and pull down the heavy box labeled 1950s.

Inside are stacks of legal-size family letters printed on both sides in red with the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre logo above Worthington Wonderland—also in red ink. I read 1959, stopping on a paragraph at the bottom of the front page: “Speaking of Holy Pilgrimages, the boss man has done his share of travel this year . . . he went around the world in 19 days, made 21 stops, and the approximate number of miles covered in 1959 was about 500,000.” What work can you accomplish moving that fast around the globe? Flipping through the pile, the next year down, 1958, begins as they all do: “Dear Friends in Christ.” A few paragraphs in, something catches my eye: “The latter part of November, Sir John went to Russia and found Moscow a very interesting city. The early part of the year, a new country that hadn’t been visited before was also included—Yugoslavia in May. Much can be written of both countries but space and time just do not permit more at this time.” That’s weird; those are communist countries. I know for certain from Miss Lange’s drilling me about the Cold War that no American could set foot in the USSR in the fifties. Why was Dad there? He sure wasn’t selling Catholic pilgrimages to the Kremlin. I tuck 1958 and 1959 into my back pocket, quickly searching for others. I grab ’57 and decide I’d better seal up the box before Mom walks in.

[identity]

When I got around to reading the most recent Vigano Statement thread post a little while ago, I realized that those of you now following these Hiding Out installments here would have gotten a double dose of papal nuncios yesterday.

Onward!

I hustle back to the table where Dad and his Middle Eastern business associate, Hassan, are still deep in serious conversation. Dad invited me to join them after their business meeting for an early dinner—code for “Dad wants to start drinking as soon as possible.”

[...]

“. . . Archbishop Gagnon was concerned for his safety,” Dad tells his guest as I arrive at the table.

Hassan stands, pulling out my chair, his smooth brown face filled with courtesy and respect, as I sweep my dress against the back of my legs and settle into my seat. No matter my attraction to women, I, much like my father, appreciate a real gentleman. Dad’s drunken nod continues far too long as he eyes Hassan up and down approvingly. The Arab looks sharp in his slim black suit, loafers, no socks, and expensive watch. His patchouli scent reminds me of Nic’s masculine cologne. I’m confused, unsure of what’s going on between them, if anything.

Who is he? What does he do? What does he want with Dad?

I’ve learned very little about Hassan tonight, although it’s obvious he and my father have many mutual contacts in the Middle East. They toss around unfamiliar names and anecdotes as I smile politely, enjoying my clams casino and the grand dining room. So far, I’ve learned that Hassan seems to spend quite a bit of time in Rome, speaks Arabic and Italian, and, like Dad, understands Latin. Maybe it’s his limited English, but Hassan is very reserved, unlike Dad, who as usual does most of the talking.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I jump in, trying to hijack Dad’s cruising of Hassan and get the conversation rolling again, curious about an archbishop “concerned for his safety.”

“My dear, you could never be an interruption,” Dad insists.

“I think is very truthful.” Hassan smiles.

He clearly understands English better than he speaks it. I take a sip of my red wine, the bold flavor swishing in my mouth as I muster the nerve to interject.

“Who is Archbishop Gagnon?”

Dad looks at me, then straightens his silverware, brushes the tablecloth as if there might be crumbs, despite the fact that we haven’t eaten our main course or touched the breadbasket, and besides that, no waiter in this joint is ever going to let a single crumb sit on the impeccably set table.

“A good man, Canadian bishop, he’s been in Rome now for . . .”

“Since Humanae vitae,” Hassan adds with a scholar’s certainty.

“Yes, starting with Pope Paul VI—he’s been running the Pontifical Council for the Family—many years now in Rome.”

“Why would he be unsafe?” I press.

“I told you Christine would be taking over for me at Holy Pilgrimages one day.” Dad gives Hassan a wink, as if to say she’s one of us, it’s safe to tell her. “Toward the end of his papacy, Paul VI had Gagnon look into some concerns the Holy Father had inside the curia, wanting to weed out some problem cardinals and others involved in things the Vatican prohibits . . .”

“What kind of things?”

Dad hates when I interrupt, but doesn’t scold me for a change. Maybe Hassan is a calming influence.

“Freemasons,” Dad explains. “When the archbishop completed the report, the dossier was put in a safe until the Holy Father could look at it . . . but it was stolen.”

I wait. Nodding, wanting more.

“So the pope never saw it?”

“He died,” Hassan says.

“And the next one was murdered . . . John Paul I never had a chance,” Dad adds.

Dad and Hassan shake their heads.

“Deus lo vult!” Dad proclaims, as if that explains everything.

I feel clueless in their world of Vatican hierarchy, Latin, and stolen dossiers.

“Someday I must write the book,” Dad muses.

Hassan clears his throat, eyes Dad, then looks across the room as a few middle-aged men, olive-skinned and stone-faced, walk toward our table. They pass by—giving Hassan a long stare—and then zero in on Dad. Nobody flinches.

One of the men bumps into my chair, hard, prompting Hassan to reach toward me, to ensure I’m okay. His strong warm hand on my bare shoulder feels good.

I am okay. It wasn’t intentional. Or was it?

Hassan calls toward the men, saying something in Arabic, I have no idea what, but it sounds harsh. Then again, all Arabic sounds a bit aggressive to my untrained ear.

“Bloody Jews,” Dad spews quietly.

The three men are gone, and Dad signals to our waiter.

“Are you ready to order, Sir John?”

“Not quite, s’il vous plaît, but my glass seems to have a hole in the bottom,” Dad teases.

“Mine too.” I play along and reach for Hassan’s wineglass, holding up his glass, pretending to examine the bottom.

“Yours looks fine, Hassan,” I say sarcastically.

We all laugh as the waiter pours the wine. I look to the door, still curious about those men. After the waiter leaves, I have to ask, “Dad, were they Mossad?”

Dad smirks. Is that pride across his face?

“Christine, your father tells me you have much intelligence of the world, and I can see he is true,” Hassan notes.

Dad nods vigorously.

“Too bloody smart for her own good!”

[Cordelia]

^^^Many thanks for the heads-up on this book.
.

“No, one of the shortest, but not the shortest. That would be Urban VII, who reigned for thirteen days. John Paul I’s papacy was thirty-three days. A travesty. This was taken not long before,” he says, gently touching the photo, tearful.

“Before he died?”

“Before he was murdered,” he says in a low voice, glancing at the door, holding his index finger to his lips.

“They wanted him out and they got him out,” he whispers. “Between us, the Holy Father was in good health, and those who had access were well aware that an autopsy is never performed on the pope. John Paul was preparing to make a lot of changes inside the Vatican, particularly at the Vatican Bank.

Below, her father ‘Sir John Allen’ w/Pope John Paul I (Allen said she hasn't used her family's real name in order to protect their privacy).






(Surprised mainstream WaPo published a very good review.)

Tina Alexis Allen’s storytelling proves riveting in memoir

Allen showcases excellent writing skills, packaging grit and grime into glistening prose. Her twisted mystery, family woes of the nastiest kind and multilayered love stories spin together to form a “can’t-put-down” read in “Hiding Out.”

MORE...https://www.washingtonpost.com/entertai ... e602fc85de

Closeted gay man living in tony DC suburb sires 13 children in 15 years. I look forward to getting it on Amazon (when the price comes down).

[identity]

“No, one of the shortest, but not the shortest. That would be Urban VII, who reigned for thirteen days. John Paul I’s papacy was thirty-three days. A travesty. This was taken not long before,” he says, gently touching the photo, tearful.

“Before he died?”

“Before he was murdered,” he says in a low voice, glancing at the door, holding his index finger to his lips.

“They wanted him out and they got him out,” he whispers. “Between us, the Holy Father was in good health, and those who had access were well aware that an autopsy is never performed on the pope. John Paul was preparing to make a lot of changes inside the Vatican, particularly at the Vatican Bank.

Does your bolding, Cordelia, indicate that these statements are new(s) to you? For some reason, I thought that JP I's murder was taken for granted/common knowledge (at least in RI-ish circles), though I cannot now remember where/when along the way that perspective came about (maybe from reading God's Banker a quarter century ago?).

More from the book:

Dad’s in charge of everything when we travel—even holding my passport and itinerary. Eventually, he’ll have to hand them over when we part ways, but for now, I’m very happy to let him be my tour guide. After landing at Queen Alia Airport, Dad marches us through customs as if he’s on speed. I’m half asleep, dragging my bags behind me. One of Dad’s many travel edicts is never pack your jewelry in your suitcase and always have a change of clothes with you in case they lose your luggage. Dad presents our passports, and I search my bag for my sunglasses. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Dad removing a red handkerchief, like the one I saw him put away at Dulles Airport. As if he wants the customs officer to notice, he dangles it and then places it back inside his sport coat. And as if it were a magic trick, without opening any of our bags, the customs officers whisk us through, giving Dad a familiar nod. In return, Dad offers a playful salute as he marches away, carrying his bag and briefcase. Was that some kind of code? I’ve never given Dad’s frequent trips to Jordan much thought until now. Why Amman? From the contents of Dad’s annual brochure, Jordan isn’t a popular destination like Rome or Jerusalem.

[...]

After a night of dancing at an Amman disco—where the cool Jordanians hang out, supposedly—I roll into the empty hotel lobby at nearly 5 a.m. I stumble toward the front desk, in desperate need of aspirin and food—too wired to sleep. The employee, a twenty-something Arab, smiles, discreetly glancing over my creased sundress.

“May I help you?”

“Can you tell me what room Mr. John Worthington is in . . . please?”

The night’s festivities put my head in a fog. I can’t remember the rooms my father and I checked into yesterday. Only that mine is across from his and I have no idea where my key went missing. I’m too embarrassed to admit it.

He smiles in recognition.

“Sir John? He is staying with us. Would you like me to call him?”

“I’m his daughter. I just need his room number.”

“Very good. I will be happy to call him.”

“Can you just tell me the room number?” I snap, more harshly than I’d intended.

The man flinches at my tone, but politely dials. I don’t like it when people don’t realize I’m important, too. I turn my back to him, leaning up against the front desk, looking around the barren lobby. A few travelers sit on an upholstered bench with their luggage piled in front of them. The cool marble feels good against my back. My stomach gurgles with hunger pains.

“I’m sorry, Sir John’s not answering.”

I walk off, irritated with him, and head over to the restaurant, hoping for some breakfast. As I settle into a table too big for one, I see Dad rushing out the front door of the hotel, carrying a briefcase, dressed in his usual suit and tie. A blue glow illuminates the parking lot, the sun threatening to rise. I start to go after him, but seeing two Middle Eastern men greet him, I decide to watch instead. They exchange professional handshakes and nods. I can’t tell if they’ve met before, and their faces are mostly blocked by a large pillar. After a few minutes, Dad passes the briefcase to one of the men, who walks away briskly, now out of my sight. Is that Hassan from the University Club parking lot? Dad and the other man continue their conversation. After a few moments, they walk toward a waiting dark car, light rising in the distance. A driver gets out and opens the shiny back door for Dad, who slips into the backseat, while the Middle Eastern man gets into the front passenger seat. The back window opens and Dad’s arm appears, resting on the door, as the expensive car rolls away.

[...]

“I hope he likes me,” Violet says, as if we’ve been seeing each other for months, instead of a day, breaking me out of my daydream. “Tell me about him?”

Explaining my father—or what I know of him—in twenty minutes is as impossible as explaining the Immaculate Conception. Jesus, I pray he likes her, too.

“He likes to be called Sir John.”

“Sir John?!” she screams.

“Yeah, he’s a knight,” I say, knowing it will impress her.

“You messing with me?”

“No, he’s a Knight of the Holy Sepulchre . . . was knighted by the pope.”

“How do you get knighted by the pope?”

“You help the church in the Holy Land and give money and . . . I don’t know . . . he supports an orphanage in Jerusalem.”

Her wide-eyed expression is the same as that of everyone else I ever told.

“How does your father afford to support an orphanage with thirteen kids of his own? Who are you, honey, the Kennedys?”

I laugh off her words, knowing this is the part where I run out of answers. We’re different from the Kennedys—less tragedy—but we are two large Catholic families with plenty of secrets. They had Mafia connections; we seem to have Vatican connections. John F. Kennedy was concerned about the CIA; Sir John seems concerned about the Mossad. And although they preferred different genders, both Johns have engaged in countless affairs, resulting in untold damage to their marriages.

[...]

“Mr. Worthington, Monsignor is here,” Dale announces with an exaggerated arm sweep. A surprising wave of nerves floods my chest at the sight of the man Dad said “holds much sway at the Vatican.” He’s nothing like the imposing presence I’d imagined. With a slim build, and of average height, he’s able to look my father squarely in the eye. His brown eyes dance, like someone who gets to eat the best pasta dishes anytime he wants. The perfectly clear, olive-skinned face lights up at the sight of Dad.

He wears the black garb with a bright white collar around his tan neck.

“John, buongiorno!” He carries a briefcase similar to Dad’s.

“Monsignor!” Dad gushes.

Monsignor blesses the back of Dad’s bowed head. In the other hand is an oblong gold band with a crucifix.

“Monsignor, my youngest daughter, Christine.”

I step up to shake his hand, but he holds my shoulders upright, pecking each cheek with his warm skin.

“Is dis de basketball star?” His accent is a well-tuned musical instrument.

I’m shocked to hear that Dad has been bragging about me. The priest moves into the center of the office, the briefcase remaining close against his thigh. He catches me staring at the case as he sits opposite Dad’s desk, placing the briefcase out of my sight.

“Christine tried out for the Olympics at one point. When she’s done with her athletics, we’re going to see about her taking over Holy Pilgrimages!”

He chuckles easily. “But John, you will never retire.”

“No, I won’t! This you know, Father, but I will need some help . . . especially with the Holy Year in 2000.”

“John, how old will you be in 2000?”

“Eighty, and still traveling five hundred thousand miles a year, God willing!”

No matter that they seem to have a genuine friendship, Dad never loses the obvious admiration on his face. He puts men with a collar up on a pedestal. Dad gives me a nod, indicating it’s time for me to leave—a gentle reminder that I don’t belong in the middle of these briefcases and their secrets.

“It was so nice to meet you, Monsignor.”

“Arrivederci, Christine.” He gives me a quick wave, and I leave the office, dying to know what treasures lie within that leather case.

The sound of typewriters and business calls fills up the main room of the office, where Dale and his staff are actively pursuing Catholics with a yen to travel. Everyone seems wrapped up in their holy sales, unaware of my presence, so I fly back toward Dad’s office to eavesdrop. Their low conversation sounds serious, but it’s impossible to make out. After a few moments, their voices rise to the door, and I fall back, hiding in the mailroom, watching them from out of sight.

“Dale, we are heading out,” Dad announces, exiting his office with Monsignor following behind empty-handed.

“Okey-dokey, Sir John,” Dale says.

The men walk down the hallway and exchange small talk with Mom. Then they are gone. I sneak out of the mailroom toward Dad’s closed office door. The overhead fluorescent lights have been shut off for some reason. He’s not one to conserve energy. Ever. Maybe this is a message to potential intruders to keep out. I hustle around the desk and check underneath, then move the front briefcase out of the way and count two more behind it. Ignoring my shaking hands and thumping heart, I lay the front one gently on the neat desktop and reach for the two metal releases, expecting them to be locked. Careful not to make a peep, I slowly open the case.

The briefcase is jammed with money. It almost looks fake, like the paper bills stacked five feet high on the Bureau of Engraving and Printing tour.

I pause long enough to take in what I’m seeing. Then I hear Dale laughing and quickly close the briefcase, placing it back where it belongs underneath the desk, and silently hustle out of the room.

[Cordelia]

“No, one of the shortest, but not the shortest. That would be Urban VII, who reigned for thirteen days. John Paul I’s papacy was thirty-three days. A travesty. This was taken not long before,” he says, gently touching the photo, tearful.

“Before he died?”

“Before he was murdered,” he says in a low voice, glancing at the door, holding his index finger to his lips.

“They wanted him out and they got him out,” he whispers. “Between us, the Holy Father was in good health, and those who had access were well aware that an autopsy is never performed on the pope. John Paul was preparing to make a lot of changes inside the Vatican, particularly at the Vatican Bank.

Does your bolding, Cordelia, indicate that these statements are new(s) to you? For some reason, I thought that JP I's murder was taken for granted/common knowledge (at least in RI-ish circles), though I cannot now remember where/when along the way that perspective came about (maybe from reading God's Banker a quarter century ago?).

I guess that heresy didn't penetrate my bubble--esp. the 33 day part.


(Looked to be news to the authoress as well.)

[identity]

I guess that heresy didn't penetrate my bubble--esp. the 33 day part.

(Looked to be news to the authoress as well.)

Guess I just assumed that "JP I murdered" was up there with "Oswald wasn't the (only) shooter" in conspirolore, though, upon reflection, it's undoubtedly way down the list of taken-for-granted conspiracies (and may certainly be higher up on that list to those of us who were baptized...).

If the author can be trusted to be providing an actual anecdote from memory, and not just throwing in something heard/read elsewhere for shock value, then it does tend to corroborate what has been suggested elsewhere (and to give rather less value to assertions that it was the mafia that did it).

[identity]

Here are my final two quotations from Hiding Out:

Peeling strands of hair off my sweaty face, I pause before yanking his top drawer out of the dresser, heaving the entire teak box across the room. The sound of cracking satisfies something in me. The broken drawer lies beside his kneeler, a splinter jutting out. It would make the perfect spike if one were going to nail someone to a cross. Blood trickles from the side of my hand. I suck on it, catching my breath.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have dumped your secrets on me,” I hiss to his phantom presence.

Moving toward the door, I nearly step on the plastic container packed with everyone’s baby teeth that Dad’s been saving since the first one came loose. He became obsessed with every shaky tooth, compulsively checking our mouths to see if one was ready to pull. Assuming none got lost over the years, there must be 260 little fangs enmeshed in there.

I hate myself for putting up with him, for biting my tongue my whole life, for agreeing to be his confidant . . .

I kick the plastic chamber, sending the rotting enamel nubs flying, and a shocking red passport catches my eye, peeking out from the overturned drawer. The cover has a familiar gold-embossed coat of arms. Inside is a Vatican passport. Who the fuck do you have to sleep with in St. Peter’s Square to get one of these? Hands shaking, I turn over page after page, all filled with crammed ink stamps—barely room for another trip. I turn to go, but find my foot connecting hard with the fallen drawer in the center of the room, splaying white handkerchiefs, undershirts, and more passports.

Jordan. My head spins. That’s where he met the infamous Omar.

I paw through his meticulously pressed boxer shorts and catch a flash of another passport, then his native British passport, and an American passport on the bottom. Panicky, I flip them open, scurrying through the pages until I see his picture. Despite minor age differences in the photos, his clear skin and flattop are consistent. Staring at his image, I wonder what he does in all these countries. Does his secret work for the Vatican allow him to sweep through customs with a wave of his red handkerchief? His blank green eyes looking back at me bring a swell of pain into my chest. My body collapses into the carpet; I tip to my side and roll into a ball. Tears fall despite a bellyful of anger at all that he withheld from me. And all that he didn’t.

Dad, now in his eighties, stayed in the rental house in Kensington after Mom died, traveling despite getting weaker and unable to hold the liquor that he refused to give up. Still in Los Angeles, I called him weekly, and soon after Mom’s passing, made a trip home, agreeing to stay with him at the house. The first night, Dad was weak with a chest cold, and as he sat in his recliner in the den, we ate a simple dinner I’d made of meat loaf and mashed potatoes. His hand shook, his fork unable to find his mouth without massive effort.

“Dad, let me help you,” I said.

He relented without any argument. As he accepted my feeding, we remained quiet, the familiar nightly news playing in the background.

“Dad, did you really work for the Vatican?” I questioned gently.

His full mouth worked the potatoes as his eyes came to life—a sparkle like I hadn’t seen in twenty years.

“Yes, my dear,” he said, as if it were as obvious as his wrinkled skin.

I nodded, offering him another forkful.

“‘Edelweiss, Edelweiss, every morning you greet me,’” Dad sang.

And that was as far as we went. His body language, as much as his failing health, put me on my heels. I was afraid of upsetting him by asking too many questions. My love for him grew deeper, but my fear of his disapproval never left. There was an unspoken rule between us: we only revealed what we wanted to reveal and neither ever pressed the other for more. He always did value discretion as much as he did table manners and gracious living.

[Wombaticus Rex]

Guess I just assumed that "JP I murdered" was up there with "Oswald wasn't the (only) shooter" in conspirolore, though, upon reflection, it's undoubtedly way down the list of taken-for-granted conspiracies (and may certainly be higher up on that list to those of us who were baptized...).

I was baptized but the faithful in my family were Fatima heretics of some stripe or another. I found out about JP's all-thumbs assassination two or three years ago digging into the drugs-P2 connection.

I'd heard of it for years but always assumed, for some reason, the accusation came from Claire Sterling.

[Freitag]

Pale Horse Rider

William Cooper, the Rise of Conspiracy, and the Fall of Trust in America

[Gnomad]

Not reading now, but just finished:
Realms of the Human Unconscious - Observations from LSD Research by Stanislav Grof

This one I should have read twenty years ago, when my own experiments began. Reading it now, I am positively stoked to see that everything I have experienced, others have too, and it seems that many things are common occurrences, and that there is a lot of Reality that others see too. This does not surprise me at all - I have companions who have travelled with me, luckily, who have shared my search.

But in any case, whether you do yoga, zen, or LSD, breathwork or whatever - GET THIS BOOK. It is well worth it, and one of the seminal works in the field. Grof had the opportunity to work with legal LSD psychotherapy for a couple of decades, before it all went wrong and the whole field was summarily banned in the whole world, and probably had more experience in this area than anyone else.

Luckily for me, when my groundbreaking experiments were happening, I also met people who were able to teach me, like for example the Buddhist music teacher who was kind enough to share her similar experiences that were attained with only meditation, as I was struggling with making my worldview fit the amazing things that happened to me on LSD trips, and enabled me to see that it was not something the LSD did, but something that was Reality, now seen from a different viewpoint, but none the less, Real.

At the same time it makes me sad, and mad, to realize that we are still well in the Dark Ages of the Mind, and only a few studies have been done since. Looking at the reprints of the book does tell me something: Original printing 1975. First reprint 1993. Then 2010, 2015, 2017, 2018! So people are tuning in to this, more so than in decades.

At the same time I bought The Cosmic Game: Explorations of the Frontiers of Human Consciousness from the same author, and just started reading it yesterday. This one was published in 1998, and draws its material from the combined experiences and research over several decades.

Also just finished (this book is what finally made me order the above-mentioned books) - Acid Test: LSD, Ecstasy, and the Power to Heal by Tom Shroder
https://www.amazon.com/Acid-Test-Ecstas ... 1491535261

"A fascinating, transformative look at the therapeutic powers of psychedelic drugs, particularly in the treatment of PTSD, and the past fifty years of scientific, political, and legal controversy they have ignited, by award-winning journalist Tom Shroder.

It’s no secret that psychedelic drugs have the ability to cast light on the miraculous reality hidden within our psyche. Following the discovery of LSD less than a hundred years ago, psychedelics began to play a crucial role in the quest to understand the link between mind and matter. Compounds such as LSD and MDMA have proved to be extraordinarily effective in treating disorders such as posttraumatic stress–yet the drugs remain illegal, out of reach of the millions of people who could benefit from them.

Tom Shroder’s Acid Test is a meticulously researched history of LSD and the controversy surrounding psychedelics, as well as a striking look at the unprecedented healing properties of drugs that have for decades been characterized as dangerous, illicit substances. Shroder covers the first heady years of experimentation in the 50s and 60s through the backlash of the 70s and 80s, when the drug subculture exploded and uncontrolled experimentation with street psychedelics led to a PR nightmare that would set therapeutic use back decades. Acid Test is a fascinating, transformative look at the therapeutic powers of psychedelic drugs, particularly in the treatment of PTSD, and the past fifty years of scientific, political, and legal controversy they have ignited."

[seemslikeadream]

The Uninhabitable Earth: Unflinching New Book Lays Out Dire Consequences of Climate Chaos

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6cwLmssJ3Yw

this was a really good interview with Joe

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=RoWXvMQ3xqg