Prisoner of Rome

 

From: Praefectus Castrorum, Roma Carcerem

To: Legatus Legionis, under whom I humbly and gratefully serve

Subject: Mensis Fama (Monthly Report)

My dear and kind Legatus,

This month has continued to unfold like the previous few wherein I believe we have reached the station of the best-run jail in all the empire. The usual bureaucratic fumbles occur, though less frequently, and the general behaviour of the prison population remains as calm as last month. You, yourself, will know and understand the difficulty of my position in maintaining a secure jail. Daily fights, weekly riots, angry arguments, morose men consumed by their circumstances - all part and parcel of running an overcrowded jail. The opportunity to find, or even make, escape is as endless as the thoughts of the inmates, many of whom I am convinced give no thought to anything else other than the gaining of freedom. Having said this, looking back, I see that these melees and altercations have been gradually diminishing in both intensity and frequency. The number of inmates requiring medical treatment has reduced considerably and no guard required hospitalization at all this month.

You will be aware of my history as warden of the prison at Philippi, and of the incident where a man known as Saul of Tarsus, and an accomplice, were given the opportunity of escape from the jail after an earthquake destroyed much of the building, but gave no effect to that opportunity. You will remember that this man had an equally opposite effect upon my whole family and also my subsequent demotion due to my perceived dereliction of duty. I know you share my view that my judgement was politically motivated to cover the embarrassment of others. I am most grateful to you, for your consistent support over the years has brought me to the position I now hold as The Praefectus Castrorum of the jail of Roma. I hold this position by the grace of God, your loyal patronage of me, and with humility.

You will recall that I mentioned this man in a previous report some months ago when he first arrived in the Claustrum. After consistent reports from the Primus Pilus of every cohort for over six months, I have interviewed this Saul of Tarsus myself and felt it would be beneficial for you to be informed of the nature and conduct of this man.

Since his first arrival to the prison this man’s obedience to every request has been prompt and willing. He has made no complaint, disagreed with no command, and has been an exemplary prisoner in every way. Even when some of my men overstepped their position and treated him roughly, his response was one of understanding and meekness. Consequently, my men find it agreeable to be with this man in their dealings with him. All centurions within this prefecture are aware of the good standing this prisoner maintains amongst us all. 

Not only has this man Saul made no attempt to escape, it has been reported to me by numerous centurions that he has actively encouraged prisoners to remain confined to their present situation. His calming influence on the inmate population has been so effective as to reduce the necessity of beatings by half and to bring the general demeanour of the convicts to, dare I say, a gentler place. I have witnessed acts of kindness by internees to guards that initially raised a suspicious response within me, fearing another plan to escape was under way. However, this has not been the case and relations between guards and inmates are generally relaxed and cordial. In their off-duty hours it is not uncommon to see guards and prisoners conversing or playing sports together.

Saul is kind towards jail staff and fellow prisoners alike, showing care for the health and wellbeing of everyone he comes in contact with. When asked to comment on personal matters, whether by guard or inmate, this man displays a concern that is genuine. Furthermore, his advice is invariably astute and unexpected, possessing an understanding that is both deep and rare. Regardless of the nature of the burden brought to him, Saul provides answers with empathy and gentleness. Indeed, he shows himself willing to spend many hours in prayer to his God on behalf of others in order to find assistance for them.  His wisdom is insightful and, at times, breath-taking. The simplicity of his replies is often bewildering, but he is patient to explain the reason for his answer. When some man comes with a particularly intense point of view and wishes to remonstrate with him Saul does not become combative towards the fellow, nor does he make disparaging remarks about this protagonist's logic or perceptions, yet neither does he demur to the other’s point of view. When debating men on any topic, he is open to listening to what is being said by the other, and this seems to be his way in that by Saul asking questions the supplicant arrives at an agreeable solution himself by answering those questions. At this point Saul's logic becomes irrefutable while maintaining the dignity of the one who came confused but is now resolved. 

It has become common practice, particularly if the weather is not inclement, after all required works and housekeeping tasks have been completed, for prisoners and guards to gather each day in the larger courtyard to listen to Saul teach, by way of the Hebrew scriptures but also by way of self-evident truths, the result being that there is much discussion over the evening meal between fellow prisoners, and even guards, about the things that Saul has been teaching. The amazing outcome is that I have witnessed with my own eyes inmates serving guards, guards assisting the crippled with their meals, and all enjoying the company and humour of each other together. I have to tell you that, as a penal administrator, I discarded the notion of successful rehabilitation as a theoretical dream by some Greek scholar who had no experience with  criminals. No wonder we Romans easily overcame them when it came time to take charge. Now I begin to glimpse that there is a way for true changes in a man’s heart to be real and known.

I questioned this man over his behaviour and asked him to explain his motivations. His reply, like so many other answers he gives, was to explain that he has an enduring love for his Lord’s people, and because for the hope of Israel he is bound with these chains. To be honest, I do not think he was referring to the nation of Israel that we presently rule over. I confess I do not fully understand, but my distinct impression is that he considers there to be another, more inclusive grouping of peoples, that any man is free to join, for whom he deems it worthy enough to remain in chains.

In addition to keeping you informed of the management of the prison, I have a proposal that I wish to submit for your consideration. If it was solely within the province of my command to find in favour of this proposal I would do so without a moment’s hesitation, but as we both learned in Philippi, it is prudent to consider the view of others when making decisions that may not be understood by those not involved in the circumstances. Should my plan not be to your liking, or should you consider the risk, to either yourself or to me, to be too high, then I will immediately give it no further thought.  I can not think of any other measure, whether by design, implementation, or administrative process that has improved the running of my prison and the health and safety of both staff and inmates as much as this man has.

Therefore, my proposal is this:

Firstly, to provide Saul of Tarsus with clothing and furniture from prison resources in order to make his life more comfortable. He is involved in debate, instruction and pastoral discussions for many hours every day. In fact, it is not an exaggeration to say the man works harder than I do!

Secondly, to give this man the run of the prison population and to provide a cell without a door. I realise this request may seem extraordinary, to the point of foolhardy risk, but I truly consider there to be absolutely no prospect of peril for anyone at all.  There have been rumours for many months that if a meeting Saul is attending goes past the time of the change of guard, the incoming shift is quite at rest for the outgoing shift to leave Saul where he is and not require him to return to his cell. In fact, apparently there have been numerous times when Saul has returned himself to his cell and locked the door himself so the guard will not be charged with dereliction of his duties at Saul’s account. As you can see, I hold this man in the highest regard and trust him implicitly.

Any concern over jealousy by inmates, of what may be perceived as special treatment, can be dismissed as these requests originated from within the centurions and prisoners alike; some from the most unlikely characters.

Whether you agree to my request, or deem it imprudent, I wish to humbly ask that you withdraw your submission for my promotion to Tribunus Laticlavius. As you know, a position of such authority would, at least temporarily, necessitate my relocation to another province. I feel I have much to learn as the Praefectus Castrorum of Roma’s Carcerem, not the least how to include, if possible, the mode and knowledge of Saul’s teachings into the manual on prisoner rehabilitation. It may seem clear to you that my desire is a selfish request, and indeed it is, but I do hope that I have found favour in your sight and that you will approve this small petition.

I look forward to your annual inspection which is a short few months away, when I hope to introduce you to the most extraordinary occupant of a roman prison you will ever meet.

I remain, 

You humble servant,

Duticus Maximus

Praefectus Castrorum

Roma Carcerem

MDC December 2020

Out of Fashion

Out of fashion

He had only been in fashion once in his life, during the penultimate year of his high school education, at the school formal. Flares were in style. Those tight, hip-hugging trousers that gripped from hips all the way down the thighs to the knees, and then, as if needing to take a gasp of breath, opened up to a flared hem that covered the whole shoe. He had read somewhere that sailors wore such things because it allowed them to pull on their pants (or remove them) without having to take off their shoes, saving vital seconds in the event of shipwreck. He had never bothered to follow the path that took such an understandably necessary style all the way to the far removed catwalks of high street couture, mainly because he knew very little about how the fashion industry worked, but he did understand that its engine was emotion, not logic.

The flares he wore to that school formal were bright blue with a crimson pinstripe, held  precariously on the hips by a 3 inch-wide tan vinyl belt. His shoes were black and maroon with platform heels that rivaled the belt in height. A golden orange shirt with a high collar folded over a blue and red paisley tie, whose span soundly trumped both belt and shoes in measurement, finished his outfit. Unless you lived in the seventies, you would have no idea how this could be accepted as popular fashion, but it was not only accepted, but enthusiastically embraced by the masses. Which is not to say that class and good style had fled mankind altogether, as he was soon to discover. 

Walking up the steps to the auditorium where the festivities were being held,  Snow White, the school captain, loudly exclaimed, "Good on you, Chimesy!", as he looked his attire up and down. Pleasantly surprised at the unexpected approval, he raised his chin, stuck out his chest and marched confidently through the foyer into the hall. The room was filled with all the students of the graduating year. The young women dressed in stylish understated dresses; fetching but demur. The boys modelled dark trousers and tweed jackets or subdued sports coats. The only ones wearing bright coloured clothing like his was a bunch of bodgees made up of the undesirables of the school's male population. Known as riff-raff, and conscientiously spurned by all the females in the school population,  Snow White's comment suddenly held a completely different tone and meaning. Rather than approval, he now heard a mocking gloat and immediately realized that while he did not reside, in attitude or academic standing, in the rabble-rousing group, his choice of attire forever cemented him in its membership in the eyes of the other students.

Dichotomy

How is it that the same tree expresses opposites?

Yesterday, that Pepperina was stately, gracious, smiling at me 
with benevolence, a sage viewing the world with patient musings, 
its diurnal presence a torch to the joy and calm a life can produce.

Today,  giving no excuse to the prison of penury or the freedom 
of wealth, it is a sentinel to judgement, its hairy arms immovable 
to prevarication or perspective. It looks at me with rigid obstinance, 
mutely frowning at my choices.

Yesterday, a friend. Today, an obdurate bystander.

Slamming Doors

This is what I hear.

A car door slams shut, then a few moments later, slams shut again.This repeats over

and over until I have the clear impression that it is not the same door being slammed

shut, but it is the same car which is having its doors opened and then slammed shut.

Almost a dozen or so times the doors on the car are opened and shut. This little

pantomime occurs at least once a week, sometimes more.

What happens is something like this.

My father, who is mostly blind and mostly deaf, takes the picnic basket out to the car,

opens the passenger-side rear door, places the basket on the back seat and slams the

door shut. He then walks back to the house to gather up the picnic blanket and walks

back out to the car. He opens the driver-side rear door, places the blanket on the back

seat and slams the door shut. He walks back to the house with the intention of collecting

the thermos flask to take out to the car but cannot find it. He walks around the house for

a few moments looking for the flask and then decides to go look in the car. He walks out

to the car, opens the driver-side rear door and looks down at the back seat and does not

see the flask. He slams to door shut, walks around to the passenger-side rear door, opens

it, sees the flask lying on the back seat between the picnic basket and the door. He slams

the doors shut, happy that he has found the flask and it is now in the car. When he gets

back inside, my mother, who still has a good grasp of her faculties and beetles around

the house doing two things at once on a slow day, and more on a “good” day, asks my

father if he has seen the thermos flask. She can’t find it and she hasn’t yet filled it with

coffee for the picnic. Dad exclaims that he just took it out to the car, although he didn’t

realise that he was taking it out to the car at the time, and goes out to the car to get the

flask. He opens the passenger-side rear door, picks up the flask, slams the door and walks

back into the house with the flask. He gives it to my mother who asks my father if he would

mind checking that the driver's seat is adjusted to suit her (as she will be driving). My

father walks out to the car, opens the driver’s door, checks that everything is as it should

be, then slams the door and walks back to the house. He tells my mother that the seat is

set as she hands him the thermos flask. My father walks back out to the car, opens the

passenger-side rear door and places the flask on the back seat between the picnic

basket and the door. He slams the door shut and walks back into the house. A few

moments later, my mother, now having her coat, scarf and walking stick with her, comes

out of the house with my father following. He opens the driver’s door for my mother and

helps her into the car. Once she is comfortable behind the wheel, he slams the door

shut, walks around the to other side of the car, opens the passenger door, climbs in and

slams the door shut. My mother asks my father if he remembered to lock the front door

as she did not see him do it. He opens the passenger door, climbs out, slams the door

shut, walks to the house, checks that the front door is locked, finds that it isn’t locked,

walks back to the car, opens the passenger door, leans in and collects his keys,

straightens up, slams the door shut, walks back to the house, locks the front door using

his key, walks back to the car, opens his door, climbs back in and slams the door shut.

My mother starts the car and they drive off.

A few minutes later, they return back into the driveway and stop. While the car is idling,

my father gets out of the car, slams the door shut, walks to the house, opens the front

door, disappears inside for a moment, returning with my mother's purse, closes the front

door to the house, locks it with his key, walks to the car, opens the passenger door, gets

in, and slams the door shut.

Finally they drive off.

My Flat

My flat is tiny; two rooms really. A bedroom with small ensuite, and a kitchen/lounge.

It has bare floorboards and ageing wallpaper, but it is clean and everything works. By

that, I mean that the doors close and do not stick, the plumbing does not leak and the

taps do not drip. The windows open and close with little force and the electrical fittings

are solid and safe. It’s not drafty, neither is it airless or damp, and there are no smells,

or skittering noises in the walls.

When the weather is inclement, the whole place feels solid. The glass panes in the

windows do not rattle with the wind or protest when hail is cast against them. An

occasional shudder during heavy storms is about the only protest that is ever elicited

from the walls and there is never any moaning and groaning in remonstration against

such furious tumult.

There are no views to speak of from either window, and the only one with any real view

is over the kitchen sink. I have to stand on tiptoes and crane my neck to the right to gain

any real vista. The reward is not worth the effort. The rooftop of the building across the

way is not ugly or interesting, but it's better than a blank brick wall.

It’s a solitary tenement and I chose it deliberately and could not believe my luck when I

found it. Being solitary, tucked away at the top of the three-storey building, means that

there is a quietness that I love. When I first walked through the door, it was as if the

room greeted me with a tranquillity that almost bordered on rectitude. A reserve that was immediately prim, a calm that was not impassive. It was at once welcoming while stating

the boundaries of it capacities with frank reality.

The small size of the rooms means that my meagre collection of furniture looks adequate

and well-selected. There is room enough for my records and books, although, after some

time I have had to begin culling the number of tomes that I keep as my bookshelves are

beginning to object to the weight they have to endure.

I loved this apartment immediately, but I came to love it even more after settling in. Each

Spring a mother bird with a clutch of chicks nests on the roof above me, the cheep-cheep

of hungry throats providing a replacement for my morning alarm. There is a cellist on the

floor below, at the other end of the building, that practises most nights, choosing to play

full scores rather than scales and unending arpeggios. Whether it is the design of the

insulation or a trick of the architecture, I can enjoy the sounds that come through the

windows and walls without it bothering my concentration or sleep. On some nights I listen

to the cellist rather than play my own music. On week-ends the conversational chatter

from the cafe on the opposite corner finds its way in through the window.

I spend most evenings either reading or writing, while listening to music. I am alone,

but not lonely; never bored and never lonesome. I do not consider myself a recluse.

In fact, I am firmly of the mind that I am an extrovert, requiring the company of others

to recharge. The quietude of my abode engenders a similar response in my own

demeanour, and eventually, in my thoughts and perspectives. It may sound funny, but

I have come to think of the flat as part of me, and me as part of it. We suit each other.

A Caricature of Dress Etiquette in Regional Australia

The women are dressed to the nines as if they expect to be asked, at any moment, to

walk down a red carpet.

The men are dressed like they gave little thought to the occasion they are attending

and even less thought to what they would be wearing. This is the women’s general, and

collective, points of view, which every woman knows is the proper view of such things.

The women have given careful attention to every detail, every item of accessory, and

every nuance of perception of what others might think. Hair, if not actually coiffured, is

at the very least blown, combed, braided, knotted, platted, teased, tied and twisted until

every hair is no more than a micrometre out of place. Nails are immaculate, lipstick is

impeccable, and eyelashes do double duty as dressage for the eyes and semaphores

to the men. Should the unthinkable happen, (two women wearing the same outfit), the

disgrace and shame is felt by both, and both become the subject of disapproval under

the withering glare of the other women. Redemption is only possible if one woman has

included an accessory (scarf, hat, coat) that allows her to substantially change either

the fitting or the focus of her outfit, thus not only avoiding humiliation, but trumping her

antagonist by showing superior foresight, her prudence and sagacity garnering favour

from all. For the loser, there is no excuse for such failure of discretion, and she spends

the rest of the evening skulking in the background, desperately contemplating any

excuse that justifies leaving early without looking like she has lost all self-respect.

The women are amazed, and annoyed, that the men did not understand the importance

of giving the occasion due consideration. The slapdash, slipshod, slack and slovenly

application to coordination of style and colour is an offence difficult to ignore.
Exasperation at their menfolk is partly due to the repeated, disheveled effort evidently
applied to male presentation on any and all occasions, and a deeply innate envy over
the men’s freedom to ignore social demands and continually get away with it. This injustice is, perhaps, the most galling affront of them all.

The men are either oblivious to their faux pas or stumped over the dubious importance of

putting more effort into what they are wearing. After all, they are perfectly comfortable;
their shirts are, for the most part, tucked in, and there is no mud showing on the top-side
of their shoes and boots. Shaving and hair combing have all occurred in the last forty-
eight hours, and if a full bath has not been possible, cologne has not been spared,
because they are not animals, and understand the need for personal grooming when in
public. What else could possibly be required without looking like a dandy, or being
completely over-dressed for the occasion, and over-dressing is considered by the male
of the species to be one of the biggest social sins of all. When one of the men sees
another bloke wearing the same pants or shirt, he congratulates himself for not having
chosen something that stands out.

Those few men who, by sheer luck or feminine management, might normally be
considered to have applied enough diligence to their attire, are included in the group
of non-conformants simply by reason of the overpowering number of their inconsiderate
brethren. There is of course always the lone ranger who considers his favourite footy
jersey to be entirely appropriate for any occasion. There is no point any woman
speaking to him about his clothing as he has not yet evolved enough to understand
the concepts of social engagement.

And for all the effort, all the time and money, all the phone calls to girlfriends to ascertain

who was wearing what, all the stress over which outfit would be the perfect outfit for the

occasion, the men enjoy the evening as much as the women, maybe more so. After all,

beer tastes the same regardless of what you are wearing, and mates are mates even if

you are all wearing the same shirt.

A Short Holiday Romance

Escaping from family and parents as planned, with the moon as a torch and

the wind as a cloak, we ran through the forest of silent sentinels until we

reached the open field. We ran on through the panic until our empty lungs

called a halt, and then we more slowly made our way down to the beach of

desolation, to the rocks dark and glooming as though preparing for

doomsday. The waves crashed on the shoreline, spent carnival lights of foam

luminescing, the commotion of their breaking overpowering other sounds,

heightening our sense of exposure. The wind was blustering, blowing at our

clothes and throwing our hair into our faces. The noise of our harsh

breathing, rasping into our throats, added to the sense of alarm. The beach

was not the place of hiding we had expected. It was more open than we

remembered in our romantic tête-à-têtes. Neither of us had experienced this

type of circumstance before. We felt exposed in the danger we had created.

Neither of us knew how to handle the trepidation we felt, let alone know how

to support another in the same condition. The goal of being alone with each

other had been such an alluring enticement that neither of us had considered

the effects of our boldness, nor the effects of the adrenaline that was now

coursing through our arteries. It was more than either of us could command.

We stood on the sand, facing each other, not touching, until our breathing

slowly, ever so slowly, subsided to something akin to normal. Then she said,

“I want to go back”.

Of Prosody and Verse

Of Prosody and Verse

What does a person who regularly reads poetry look like?

Do they wear linen and silks, and always take time with their appearance? Do they

give preference to the artistic and the aesthetic? Do they always have a vase of fresh

flowers in their rooms? Do they choose unusual taste combinations when ordering

from a menu? Do they complete studies in the arts at an ivy league university? Do

they seek the esoteric and the sublime? Do they always possess presence of mind

and are they always in tune with their inner thoughts and feelings?

Did they always think that poetry was important? Do they realise some truth about

poetry that an ordinary person does not? Do they consider that there is always at least

one poem in an anthology worthy of respect, if not joy?

Can ordinary people like poetry? Like it enough to look with eagerness for it in the

magazines they read, or to purchase a book or two of poetry that they occasionally

take down from the bookshelves to read? Ordinary enough that their bookshelves are

overflowing with the pulp fiction that is so easily obtained, and so difficult to refuse, but

are equally happy to have a small volume of poetry sitting amongst all these other

titles? Ordinary enough that their friends don’t know they like poetry?

I like poetry, but I feel ordinary. I dislike about fifty percent of the poetry I read; either I

don’t understand it or it’s too obtuse, or it is simply too aphasic for taste. Much of the

rest leaves me unmoved. I don’t dislike it, but it does nothing for me. I feel nothing. Did

the poet feel anything when he/she wrote it? Isn’t poetry supposed to move me, make

me think about the topic differently, improve my perception of life in general, give me a

new glimpse into a field I thought I already knew? Only a small portion of the poetry I

read moves me, makes me sit up and take notice. It makes me stop and think and

often sends me off into the realms of thought that are deep and too seldom visited.

And what does a poet look like? Most biographies of the life of bards I have read

indicate that they were closet poets until the weight of their work could no longer be

hidden. Did they hide themselves because they were ashamed of being a poet,

embarrassed over the quality of their writings, fearful of mockery and ridicule? Do we

expect a poet to produce simple, even mundane, thoughts wrapped in a beautiful

conception, a delightful artistry, while at the same time dressing carelessly, living

poorly, and enduring a life of deprivation and penury?

Poetry is a mystery to me. I feel it has a lofty mission but is that really the case? And

what, exactly, might that elevated purpose be? Surely it must be more than mere

linguistic synthesis. I hope that it is more than trite re-articulation using pentameter or

iambic structure. I don’t mind careful interpretation being a requisite commitment to

appreciate what the poet is declaring, but wilful obfuscation and obtuseness cannot

be condoned. Impenetrability is not the measure of good communication let alone a

work that should, at least in part, inspire, inform, or edify.

The poetry that I like, the poetry that inspires me, informs me, and edifies me, makes

my life richer. I look for the aesthetic beauty it brings to my day, and I enjoy the way it

furnishes my thoughts with deeper meanings and understandings. But clearly, a very

large portion of the world’s population do not think the same way. I doubt more than

ten percent of my friends and family could give two hoots about poetry. Even less

would go out of their way to read a poem. The thought of spending hard-earned

money to purchase a book of poetry never arises in their mind, and if ever it did, it

would be immediately discarded as either wasteful or extravagant.

I wonder, is poetry a metaphor for how we live? We, each, ascribe different weights

and measures to things in accordance with a subconscious world view, and that is

what makes the world multicultural. Some of which is good, and some which is terrible

from almost any perspective. Will there be poetry in Heaven? Will only the same ten

percent give a hoot, and will heavenly community poetry nights eek out a sparse

existence for lack of attendance?

You know, there are many, many things in this life that puzzle me, and no doubt, there

are many more important things to wonder about than where poetry sits in the

collective subconscious of our society, but I cannot help myself. I think about this far

more often than even I think is useful. What do you think?