The day after they moved in next door, I baked cookies, my husband picked a few heirloom tomatoes from our garden, and we went to welcome them to the neighborhood. We knocked and the door was opened only enough for the woman who answered to block the view inside with her body.

“Hi! We’re your neighbors,” I said pointing to our little red house. “I’m Darla, this is my husband, Jay. We just wanted to drop these off to say welcome.”

“Who is it?” a man said from in the house.

“Neighbors,” she yelled back.

Plastering a very fake smile on her face, she accepted the cookies and tomatoes, saying, “Thanks so much. That was very thoughtful of you. I’m Angel.” A man’s head appeared above her shoulder. “This is my husband, Garrett. We’re still getting settled so I can’t invite you in for a tour…” Is that a thing? A tour?

My husband and I glanced at each other and away. “We didn’t come to visit, just to say welcome.”

Her husband gave me what one might call an intimate smile and said, “Very neighborly of you.”

Wifey must have heard the look because the sickly smile added dagger eyes when she snapped,“You’re in great shape. Do you work out?”

“Um, yes?” Rather random, but whatever.

“Figures,” she mumbled then continued with the brilliant albeit fake smile, “Well, we have to get back to it. I’m sure we’ll be great neighbors. We’re very quiet.”

“We are as well. Except I do like to play music and sing. Hopefully, we’re far enough away. Lilly and Matt never said anything anyway.” Lilly and Matt were the previous owners.

“I love music. Don’t I love music, Garrett?” He looked as confused as Jay and I felt. “As soon as we are settled in, we’ll have you over for a tour.” Again with the tour.

“Good luck,” I said as they closed the door and we headed across the lawn to our own home.

“We’re not going over there again,” my husband said.

“A little weird,” I replied. “But not as weird as Jill’s new neighbors."

“Emma and Jake?”

“I swear, Jake never blinks when he talks to you. And his eyes are such an icy blue I get chills every time he talks to me.”

“They seem like a nice family.”

“Hmph. And where did they come from? I mean, there was never a for sale sign, an open house or moving vans. One day the Davidsons lived in the big yellow house and the next, Emma, Jake, Alec and Lily Jones did.”

“I think your imagination is itching to write a new story,” Jay said kissing my forehead before opening the door for me.

“Maybe,” I replied, not convinced.

A few months later, Christmastime, Angel knocked on our door while I was at work.

“Hi, Jay. I just wanted to drop these off,” she handed him a box of chocolates. “We love these. They’re very expensive. So good. They’re Garrett and my favorites. Really expensive.”

“Thanks, Angel.”

“Jay, do you think you could give me, Darla’s cell phone number? I’d like to ask her a question.”

“Sure.”

A few minutes after Jay called to warn me, she called.

“Darla? This is Angel. Your neighbor.”

“Hi, Darla.”

“Sorry to bother you at work, but Jay said it would be okay to call you.”

“No problem. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to ask, have there ever been any robberies on the block? I don’t really know anyone on the street yet besides you to ask, but we think someone has been trying to break into our home.”

“Really? That’s scary. But no, there has never been a problem. I mean, we do live behind the police station…I would imagine most criminals would look for easier pickings…Plus, it’s not exactly millionaire’s row.”

“Well, someone tried to come in the garage.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that. The block has been a wonderful community for the nearly 30 years we’ve lived here. Have you contacted the police?”

“We don’t need the police! We know people.”

“Okay…”

“I got cameras installed all over the property. We’re close to catching them. We have some suspects.”

“Okay…” Her voice sounded like we were suspects.

“Well, we don’t know anyone so maybe you could let people know something’s going on.”

“Will do. Good luck. Bye.”

That night when I got home, they had “No trespassing signs” around the house. And I guess hidden cameras. And spotlights.

“Don’t be too friendly, Darla,” my husband said when I told him her story. “I don’t trust those people. Something’s off.”

“Yeah, well, I hadn’t planned on any double dates, don’t worry.”

Things were quiet for a few weeks – as they often are in winter. Then over a period of days in March, alternately Angel or Garrett were screaming at people who parked in front of their house to get away from there – regardless of the hour. We have a neighbor who trains people in his garage starting at 6 am and his first client of the day was parked across the street from Angel’s house at 5:45. She went out in her nightgown and screamed at him, “Who are you? What are you doing here? Get away from here!”

Another day it was some members of a Christian woman’s group meeting at the home of a long-time resident, Martha. “You can’t park there! Get away from my house!”

Then it was men from the town doing work on my curb. “I’m going to call the police!”

“Lady, the police are right over there,” the man said pointing to the cop on duty. She huffed and went inside.

The strangest was when Garett went banging on the door of the elderly couple across the street: Martha, 82 and John 84. “Stop following my wife! She saw you following her car! You better cut it out!”

John was taken aback (you think?). “I’m 84 years old, I can barely drive to the supermarket.”

“Huh. Well, you just stay away from my wife.”

At this point, we all figured they were probably some kind of certifiable paranoid and we decided together and separately to keep our distance.

The last incident involved Emma. She said, “Hi, Angel,” one day while walking by with her dog and Angel started screaming, “Who are you? I don’t know you! Don’t talk to me.”

Emma tried to remind her that they were neighbors, they’d met when they first moved in. But Angel wouldn’t stop screaming and flailing her arms, so Emma kept walking.

Maybe two days later, I got home from work and the street was full of police cars and neighbors. I parked and walked down the street to the crowd and saw that the police were leading Jake Jones out of his house, in hand cuffs.

Feeling vindicated in my earlier wariness, I asked my neighbor Jill what happened.

“Apparently, he got angry that Angel screamed at Emma. Snuck in their house last night and stabbed both her and Garrett multiple times in their bed. He must have thought the signs about cameras were a lie. The alarm company has a patch into their camera system and caught him entering and leaving on tape.

“They put the photo on the neighborhood blog and statewide police wire, and someone recognized Jake. Not only from here in town, but also from several other towns.

“From what I hear, he is wanted all over the state. Maybe the country.”

“Oh my god!”

“There’s more. Look.”

“I turned as they carried out four body bags.”

“What -?”

“The Davidsons.”

“I knew it!”

The man loved Elvis Presley. I mean, he loved him so much that he had a rustic looking wooden framed picture of him from the 60s hanging from the Cypress Tree in his front yard. I mean, I know that doesn’t make him a certified killer, but I’ll tell you when I came home from the mill that morning after working the night shift. A pain in the ass shift if there ever was one.

Riot quiet, they call it. You ever heard of that? Well, it’s a term they use in like maximum security prisons. It means when things are too quiet, that the shit’s about to hit the fan. Anyway, a couple guys got into a fight. The new guy broke his ring finger edging wood. And it was just one of those nights, man. One thing after another. You’re running from Point A to Point B, and you ain’t even at Point B before you’re hanging a hard left over to Point C, ya know? The guys told me not to take the promotion. It wasn’t worth it for an extra 50 cents an hour, but it just felt right. It’s like people always complain about not being noticed. Just like Tommy Hill, great worker, good guy, but he complains all the time that no one ever pats him on the back. No one says good job. But then he gets offered a supervisor job for doing so good, and he tells em to jam it up their ass. Me, I don’t talk to people like that. I got the offer, and I said I’ll give it a try. Won’t know unless you try it, right?

Anyway, sorry. I get sidetracked something awful sometimes. Too many things spinning around in this nogging. You wouldn’t wanna take a vacation in there I tell ya. Sorry. Sorry. Where was I? Oh yeah. Oh right. When I came home that morning after the riot shift, and I saw old Bernie Adams coming out of that creep factory, he called a house. I wasn’t surprised. No. No. Not one bit. The people on Hillside, I mean, they all gathered round, saying oh “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’d do something like that.” And I told em straight up. I can be a real straight shooter. Some folks don’t like that, but I mean, that’s just my daddy right inside me. Sometimes I feel like it’s his soul or something come out of the grave to give me a hand navigating this world. Cause sometimes I ain’t too good at doing it for myself.

So I told them, I said “You can believe it just fine. You don’t want to believe it because no one likes to know that there’s someone that sick living on their street. Living close to their kids and whatnot. But you all avoided this man like the goddamn plague. No one went near him. Never. Y’all told your kids to stay away from that house on Halloween.

Christ, Bertha brought that yellow police tape, ya know, the stuff they use on crime scenes. She walked up Bernie’s step on Halloween, I don’t know, two, maybe three years back, and she tapes the front door, and railings on the stairs, and she hollers, no one goes to this man’s house. So, again, I repeat, people might not have thought he did what he did, but don’t try to turn this man into no saint, either.

But yeah, I mean, I had my suspicions to a point. And now that I see that they were right, I feel like maybe I could have called the cops or something earlier, but I mean, you never do. Hillside is the first step above living on the street. We take in the strange, the deranged, the unwanted. Christ, the halfway house down by the highway. Those folks come here when the doctor tells em that they can live in society again. And the doctors only tell them that when they have too many folks and not enough padded rooms.

So, to say I was suspicious, or I saw some weird stuff, well it would be true, but it would also be true, to say I see weird stuff almost every day. I mean just last week. Jacob Hansen, 20 something years old, was walking down the street bare ass naked. Nothing but his iPod and his earphones. He’s singing some kid of shit, and no one bats an eye. I mean, Paula, just waves to him. She’s out knitting or crocheting or whatever, making mittens for some reason in the middle of July. She looks and sees this naked man singing and dancing, and she just waves, “Hey, Jake. How’s it going hun?” And goes back to her Iced-T. Probably a Long Island one, if you know what I mean.

So, this place is filled with strangeness. But yes, Mr. Delong, to answer your question, I think I became suspicious when I’d go for my evening walks along the railroad tracks with Pepper here. I’d take the dog down the street, and she’d eventually drag me down a little dirt path between Old Abe’s house, and Jimmy Johnson’s, and then we’d be on the tracks. But it ain’t bad to walk on that track anymore. There used to be twelve tracks, plus the mainline down there. Now there’s six, and the mainline only has one passenger train every three days, and it only arrives at 9:10 pm. Long after I’m gone to work.

The tracks go right behind Bernie’s house. I mean, they’re crazy close. Homes that close to the tracks go for dirt cheap. Or At least they did. Back in the 70s and 80s, I remember old Herbert Walker yelling at the midnight shunters to keep it the fuck down because he was trying to get some shuteye. Sorry, pardon my French, but boy was it ever funny.

But I don’t make it a mission of mine to go snooping, ya know? There're folks round here, they ain’t got no shame and looking into a window, boy, you could see some stuff. But Bernie would always be playing Elvis. Just a hunka-hunka Burning Love, and you know, uh, that one. Shit. Oh yeah. Well, that’s all right now, mama. You know? You’re young, but everyone knows the king. They’re great tunes, and naturally my ears would hear the sounds and I’d look over. And right in his living room, Bernie would be dancing. The whole thing, the swooning, the spinning, the stepping, all of it. He was dancing with some black-haired lady, but it looked weird, man. It looked wrong. She was so stiff. Like she was sleeping, or knocked out on drugs or something. It was like she was boneless or something. Cripes. Gives me the willies just thinking about it.

Bernie was quiet. You never saw much of him. He worked as a janitor down at the hospital, and he’d leave in the morning and come back at night. But I never saw anyone in there with him. I never saw him as a man with a woman or kids or anything. Just a man who, uh, worked his job, came back home, and I guess listened to Elvis.

But again, I mean. I tried not to think nothing of it. Like I told you, we don’t live in high society down here on Hillside. Strange happenings, well, are normal. You know? Like, if strange things weren’t happening, then that would be strange. I know I sound crazy, but I just want to let you know why I didn’t say anything sooner.

So, a few nights later, me and old Pepper are doing our walk again. Same route. Same everything. And I goddamn hear Elvis again. This time it’s Suspicious Minds. Loved that song, and now, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to listen to it again. I tell myself, I say, “Hey Reggie, just keep walking partner. Keep walking. Whatever is going on in that house, it ain’t none of your business. So, just keep on walking. You ain’t made it this far in life by sticking your nose where it don’t belong.”

But I can’t. I look in again, and there he is, dancing with the boneless lady. And this time, I go in for a closer look. I keep telling myself that now it’s getting too weird. I can’t walk by every night and just pretend that my eyes are playing tricks on me. My doctor always tells me I got 20/20.

And Pepper, she’s a good dog. I know she won’t make any noise. I just tell her to be quiet little girl. Daddy needs to check on something. I walk closer through his tiny little backyard that had blades of grass nearly up to my head. I make it to the window, and to my left, I see the back of the heads of what looks to be a couple of kids sitting at the couch.

Now I lived on Hillside my whole life. There’s no way this man has a wife and two kids. There’s just no way. But still, I don’t say anything. Once I get back home, I grab a bite to eat and get ready for my shift.

And it was on that shift that I asked Billy Boyd. Billy’s a strange kid. About 30 years old. Just walks around, sits at coffee shops, shoots pool with Cueball and the gang down at Dooly's. He just gets stories out of everyone. He knows things about people you wouldn’t believe. Anyway, he’s sitting in the lunchroom eating a cheese sandwich. Just two pieces of white bread with a square of processed cheese, nothing else. I says to him, I say, “hey, Billy.” Of course, his first reaction is to roll his eyes and answer, “What did I do wrong, mister boss man?” And I say, “no,no. It’s nothing like that.”

I ask him about Bernie. Like, what did he do before Hillside? The man is in his 50s, maybe early 60s and he’s been around for fifteen, twenty years, but he ain’t been around long enough. This man had another life before here. So, I ask, what the hell did he do?

Billy says he heard he worked in a funeral parlour or something. He can’t remember where, but he did the embalming or whatever it’s called. Like where they put the chemicals and all that in the body, so they don’t decompose right away or whatever. Hell, I don’t know anything about that. But when he said that, it was like these sirens went off in my head. I pondered it for a bit, but I ended up calling the cops.

The next morning when my shift is finished. I drive down Hillside and I see the striped boys taking old Bernie down his steps. The look on his face is cold. Like he doesn’t care one bit. Almost as if he wanted to get caught, eventually. I wouldn’t have believed that myself until he looked over at me before being put in the back of the cruiser, and he smiled. The grin sends chills down my spine, and I’m sure it’s telling me that he planned those nights of dancing. Planned them for when I’d be taking my walks. He was just playing me. Waiting to see how long it would take for someone to see enough to do something about it.

So, the story is that Bernie took three bodies from the morgue he worked at. Along with oodles of chemicals and makeup and everything else, and created a family. He had them in that house for almost 20 years. Dancing with them. Playing Elvis Presley.

Across the street from me. In the house where the king hangs from a tree.

It is not the rain.

It is not a deep well, or

anything else dark or dank.

It is not ash and flame.

It is green spring with unacknowledged birdsong,

applause for someone staring into space,

flawless sentences misconstrued,

love that doesn’t count.

It is habitual coffee, untasted,

a once-beloved book, unremembered,

a birthday text, unanswered,

perpetually waiting,

untrusted and feared.

So, I am writing this mini holiday history lesson in the hopes of clarifying a confusion before it is passed along as fact.

Cinco de Mayo, Fifth of May, celebrates the victory of Mexican forces over the second French Empire at the battle of Puebla in 1862. Quite popular in the US, it is overshadowed in Mexico by Mexican Independence Day, the most important national holiday in Mexico, which is celebrated on September 16, commemorating the Cry of Dolores in 1810, which started the war of Mexican independence from Spain.

El Día de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, is celebrated on November 1st and 2nd. It may also occur on October 31 or November 6, depending on the region. On this holiday, Mexican families and friends get together to remember and pay respects to their deceased. It is a time of joyful remembrance rather than grief and mourning. Celebrations often include the favorite foods and drinks of the deceased. Perhaps even the Cinco de Mayo favorite, margaritas... :-)

I may be wrong, but I think just about everyone has had a nightmare that leaves you in a sweat when you wake up.

Still, it’s one thing to have “a nightmare” or two, but to have them back-to-back for a week goes beyond the norm. And that’s what happened with me. So, since I wrote outlines for seven of them, I briefly highlight them here, starting with Tuesday the 18th.

Tuesday: I was fourteen or so. Walked inside the house and there lay my parents, their body parts strewn about the house and a giant talking lizard licking his blood-stained lips, saying, “You’re next.” I ran and ran and then stumbled and fell to the ground. When I woke up, I found myself on the floor next to my bed.

Wednesday: I was arrested, tried, and convicted for murder. Handcuffed, blindfolded, and taken to what was called the: Nowhere Prison. There was no bed in the cell, no food to eat. Just thrown inside and left to die. I could see three cells across from me. One had skeleton remains, another showed a man near death, and another where the man spoke to be in a foreign language that sounded like Russian. No windows to look outside. No lights inside. When I woke, I bolted upright and relieved to see I was in my bedroom.

Thursday: In a dense jungle somewhere in South Africa and I was exploring. It wasn’t much longer that I walked right into a quicksand pit. Screaming for help but no one was even close by. I struggled to escape and the more I did, the deeper I went. By the time I woke up, the quicksand was at my nose.

Friday: I was beaten near half to death by a group of white people for talking to a black woman. They grabbed me and put me on a horse then put a noose around my neck, slapped the horses’ rump and there I was struggling, legs kicking, eyes bulging open watching the men laugh and cheer in their victory. When I woke up, first thing I did was gasp for air.

Saturday: I was fourteen or so. Walked inside the house and there lay my parents, their body parts strewn about the house and a giant talking lizard licking his blood-stained lips, saying, “You’re next.” I ran and ran and then stumbled and fell to the ground. When I woke up, I found myself on the floor next to my bed.

Sunday: A woman was with me, and we were abducted and put in separate rooms. I was told I had a decision to make to keep the woman alive. I had to answer one question. “Would you kill 100,000 people to have world peace or your lady friend to save 100,000 people?” Woke up from that one quickly.

Monday: Falling. Just not ordinary falling. The ground opened because of an earthquake. I, like other people around me fell into a dark cavern of no return and what seemed days were only seconds, I landed on a hard, hot ground. The heat was unbearable. Did I fall to the center of the earth, the core? Impossible! I would be burnt to a crisp. Then a figure walked toward me with large claws for fingers and a curved bone atop his head. His eye were flames of fire and he said, “Welcome to hell.” He then threw me a shovel and said, “Start digging.” That freaked me out and I woke up with a short cry escaping from my lips.

Tuesday: Three weeks after Christ was crucified, so was I. The pain, unbearable. The thick metal nails were hammered into each wrist and my feet, bund together were nailed together. Then I was blinded by another piece of metal, hoisted up and the cross made a heavy “thump” as it settled in the hole in the ground. The Roman soldiers left me there to die. No on there to mourn my death. Why? Because I asked someone why they killed such a great man as Jesus. And for that I was put to death. This one I woke up to on Wednesday the 26th.

I hope the nightmares end soon. It’s gotten to where now, I’m afraid of going to sleep.

What is even stranger is all these nightmares could be turned into short stories.

they scolded the old man

and threatened to

kick him out of

the neighborhood

“You're stinking up the place,

old fool!”

But he only rocked in

his chair

and poured another glass

and raised it to them in salute

and drank

and smiled in spite of their

frowns

He lived in the city of 770

universities. The city of intellectuals,

of the highest, most

educated, most

elevated minds the world had to offer

To live here

one must be either a grade A

student or a published and

acknowledged author or

artist

The authorities allowed this old man

on account of being a poet

but the citizens, with all their

education and knowledge

and diplomas

would never understand that decision

Professors of philosophy offered him

as example to the students.

“This over here,” they've said, “is the

stereotype of

the man who stops searching for

truth on account of taking

to heart the famous words, 'I know that

I know nothing.'

What do you think, is the man right in

his way of life?”

And the answer came not from

any of the students

but the one they were gawking at

“No way,” he said

“Excuse me?”

“'I know that I know nothing' ain't my

philosophy.

Me, I know that there's nothing

I need to know. All I gotta do in

this life is feel.”

“What?”

He put a cigarette between his lips

and lit it

with a match,

waved with his hand. “Now get the fuck

outta here, you and

your students. You're blocking my sunlight.”

***

INSTAGRAM:

https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/

Sometimes we

have to go along

separate ways

Said the left

to his right...

And I noticed

on parting

that one

was bluer

than

the other,

just a shade...

But she let him

have his say;

If he wanted

to hide behind

all the others

out in the back

of the drawer

augh ...it wasn't

like she was

going to roll

very far off

beneath

the chest or

medicine

cabinet...

She was sure

sometime too

they'd both

end

tangled

up again

in the wash...

blowing soap

and bubbles

in the suds

for awhile...

before being

hung out...

once more

...to dry

04.11.2023

One blue sock challenge @Finder

clammy, cloying mist

envelops, engulfs, enshrouds

shadow-filled, dark, damp

steady pitter pat

on the roof, a rat tat tat

calming, soothing sounds

pounding, blinding sheets

puddle splashing joy-filling

life-affirming cleanse

camouflages tears

spilled, open-mouthed, silent scream

heart drained like the sky

mind slows, stills, quiets

suffering subsides, abates

like evanescing clouds

the gray hides away

ever patiently waiting

one more rainy day

My kitchen contains two bottles of wine that I have stored at 55 degrees Fahrenheit for nine years; I will store them at 55 degrees for at least another fifteen. I will open them on that undetermined date to follow a meal with an undetermined menu for undetermined guests.

My daughters and wife will be there, certainly, and several colleagues of past and future. I’d like to draft the list now, but life doesn’t work that way. Preparing for a dinner party 15-20 years in advance is an exercise in quixotism—who knows? I could be dead myself—but that’s the appeal, I think.

I bought those two bottles of vintage port first: Quinta do Vale Meao, 2011. I had read of the excellent vintage, and when a conference in 2014 took me to Albany, I shopped at a wine warehouse during a break and found them. I have held them ever since, occasionally pulling them from the temperature control to read their labels and daydream.

In centuries past, nobility bought cask after cask of vintage port to celebrate the births of their sons. By the time the children reached adulthood, the port would be ready to drink. Being a teacher in the 21st century, I have more limited means, but I can manage two bottles for my retirement.

I have not decided on the wine for the main course, but I have prepared a trial to help me choose. My wine fridge contains a quality 2007 Barolo and 2010 Bordeaux. Both remain too young to drink, according to Robert Parker’s vintage charts, but someday soon I will have to uncork them anyway and decant for a few hours. Which aged red will I prefer? My decision must come soon so I can invest in a half case or so of something very good. If I retire when first eligible, I only have until 2038 for the wine to mature. I feel less time pressure for the first course’s wine. I live in the Finger Lakes, one of the finest Riesling regions in the world. I can lay my hands on something good just a handful of years in advance.

Once I’ve made a final decision about my retirement date, I’ll make inquiries and hire a private chef, with whom I’ll meet and share the Riesling and the red. We’ll talk about the dishes the chef favors. I will be open to possibilities, but I’d like something with goat cheese to accompany the Riesling, and I’ve thought of braised beef or roast duck for the main course. As I am Irish, there must be roasted potatoes. A dark chocolate dessert must accompany the port.

If some of my former colleagues live out of state, I’ll offer airfare and a hotel; they will be surprise guests. Local colleagues will meet me, somewhere, and a limo will arrive to carry us to the location so past and present can come together, unexpectedly, as they usually do. When the server brings the first course I will raise a glass and acknowledge those who could not join us. I do not now know the middle bit, but I’ll have notes by then. I only know the closing: “Thank you for being there. Thank you for being here. Thank you for sharing a meal with me.”

There used to be eight. That is the way of things. I often equate theology as a strange game of telephone. It’s like Mary Magdalene. For centuries she was a follower of Jesus, probably wealthy, hung out with his mother and then the story changed. Gregory I (more on him later) gets her confused with the famed washer of Jesus’ feet and the next thing you know Mary Magdalene is a prostitute. To be fair it could have been a confusion with Mary of Bethany, and then a double confusion with Mary Magdalene. There are a lot of Marys in the Bible.

Good thing Dan Brown came along and reminded us that these were not the same woman. He also upgrades her from being a follower of Jesus to his wife. Next came a best-selling book and a Tom Hanks movie with way too much narration. And there is more. She is not just the wife but the Holy Grail. (Sorry should have had a spoiler alert) and a lot of folks are looking for her body. Somehow Dan and his readership skipped over the fact that her skull is in the basilica of Saint-Maximin-la-Sainte-Baume, in the south of France. It is said that one of her feet is in Italy and her left hand is in Greece.

So, with Mary Magdalene on my mind, I decided to dig back to the source of the seven deadly sins and found before there were seven, there were eight. And they weren’t called sins. They were called the eight evil thoughts or sometimes translated as evil temptations. My first reaction was thoughts are harder to avoid than sin. Sin seems more action-oriented than thought. Which is truly gluttony; thinking about eating an entire key lime pie or actually eating an entire key lime pie? I think a lot about eating a whole key lime pie without actually doing it; damned for eternity or redeemed through restraint?

So, what were the original eight? They were gluttony, lust, greed, sadness, acedia [new word, translates to despondency or listlessness], anger, vainglory, pride.

Before you start worrying if listening to Sarah McLachlan is a sin, sadness means something different in this list. Think about your great aunt still talking about her “bastard” ex-husband. She is still talking, and he has been dead for 20 years. Another side of this thought is Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront. A perpetual feeling that “I coulda been a contender”.

You also may be puzzled by the word vainglory. Webster’s definition implies it is close to pride. There is a slight difference; pride is feeling pretty smug about yourself, and vainglory is telling others why you have a right to feel pretty smug about yourself.

This list was originally compiled by a monk named Evagrius Pontius in his book, Antirrhetikos (available on kindle- I am not kidding) which means “Talking Back”. He was a monk in the fourth century. After a colorful life he ended up a monk living an ascetic life in the Egyptian desert. He was so extreme that he never ate meat, fruits, vegetables, or cooked food. I believe that leaves sand. Not surprisingly, he died of a digestive malady.

We don’t directly get these eight evil thoughts from Evagrius. A student of Evagrius, John Cassian included the list in his book, The Institutes (available in paperback). He doesn’t mention Evagrius as the source, but this was before the footnote was invented. He kept essentially the same list.

This brings us to Gregory. Gregory I, or Gregory the Great as he is called by many of his friends, was Pope from 590 to 604. He was a prolific writer and, apparently, a sometimes editor. After reviewing the list of 8 evil thoughts in John Cassian’s book he made a few revisions. He kept gluttony, lust, greed, and anger (wrath is a better word). He combined vainglory and pride into just pride (making that simpler for all of us). He clarified acedia and made it just simply sloth. He dumped sadness for envy. (I want to be fair to Evagrius. Evagrius may have underrated envy. If you live in the desert, never bathing and eating sand envy is a rarer reaction than bitterness.) Gregory got the list down to a manageable seven. His final change substituting sins for thoughts. Six centuries later you have Thomas Aquinas labeling them “capital” sins and a century after that capital is translated into deadly.

A few final bits of trivia. All 4 of these men were eventually canonized as saints. Poor John Cassian’s feast day falls on 29 February. Strangely, Gregory the Great is not the patron saint for copy editors but he is for choirboys. That is a subject for another post.