March 17 — Saint Pyotr Ilyich Lebedinoe Ozero, Composer

Would the Council of I sanctify Saint Pyotr Ilyich Lebedinoe Ozero if it were in a sanctifying mood these days?  Probably not.  Would it include him in the inner holy circle of the 81?  Definitely not.  Has not even the Vatican, in its omniscience and infallibility, desanctified saints, depopicized popes, and de-de'd almost everything in its time (which has been quite a time!).  Might the Council of I do the same?  Maybe.  But as it's not in a sanctifying mood these days, it's also not in a sanctifying mood.  Plus, it likes this proper, regardless of what it thinks these days of this saint who, truly wasn't a bad guy in the realm of creation, but not being a bad guy is different than being a member of the holy 81.

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Lebedinoe and Illyich sat across from one another, making furtive declarations from the abyss of their sameness.  The time was 1839, the place was Votkinsk, gays were not permitted love.

Illyich, Lebedinoe said, You are my man.  Not just my man ... my polar bear, my vodka, my corruption, my snow and ice, my czar, my seagull, my crucifix and swan, my woman.  And he wept lightly in his praise.

Lebedinoe, Illyich said, You are my man.  The man who reams my dreams.  The one dangling from desire.  My turd and spangles.  He wept too, but madly.

What shall we do, though, said Lebedinoe.  According to the Law, our very thoughts are punishable by drowning in a reservoir of vodka.

Many Russians have desired nothing more.  And Lebedinoe, was not last night worth a hundred drownings?

Illyich, you forget so soon.  Twas worth a million.

Even if the drownings are not in vodka?

Not in vodka?

I would drown for you, Lebedinoe, though it were but wine.

Only if we were in each other's arms.

And naked.

And ...

Don't say it, Lebedinoe ... I'm bashful.  And he gently clasped his lover's hand.  But yes, just the way you say.  I would die like that.  With you.

What shall we do, though, Illyich?

We shall love.  We shall love.  We shall love!

What do you mean Illyich?  We are loving.

No, no.  We shall love better than any have loved before and better than any shall love since.  Man and woman do not know how to love, they only know how to talk about love and how to fight; only man and man, first in God's design, firm and sweet in his imagination, can love the way love was meant to be—to the tune of infinite visions and suckling dreams.

And Illyich, the very fact that our love is forbidden propels us to even greater heights.

Yes Lebedinoe, we shall rise to the very seat of God.

And love shall be our transport.

Yes, love shall be our train.

Such love.  The two bit, but were not bitten.  Shackled, but in ways each would be shackled.  They made Life stretch in Votkinsk:  she invented words and waltzed with cats.  Love and Life took those two transgressors and placed them just slightly higher than the angels.

As we’re all taught in Grade 2, though, when lovers visit angelic peaks, odd things happen.  Thus it was that an illicit baby grew in Lebedinoe’s scrotum and, soon enough, St. Pyotr Ilyich Lebedinoe Ozero was excruciatingly born through his father-mother’s urethra.

As was the custom in that land, the parents were brought before the Tribunal of Lineages and, when the authorities requested the mother's name, Lebedinoe said, It is I.

So they were taken to the great abyss of vodka at Russia’s desolate centre, boulders were tied to their genitals, and they were thrown in, with no time to either find each other's arms or for the vodka to take effect.

Swift death, dim death, dance those lovers mute.

From the impossibility of their union, from the silence of the powers, from the limitless confines of desire, from the fat spiders in the corners of your closeted hope, from the thorny heights of Heaven, Illyich’s and Lebedinoe’s baby grew and sang a Russian song that bound and binds the world.

But it was not long until the black abyss murmured once again, muttered a clear declaration of despair.  On November 6 1893, from that unity we can hope for but never know, it whispered, May Pyotr’s soul rest with the souls of all the saints, and dragged him down.  Love may reach high once or twice an eternity … but, alas, then … so far to fall.

So do not hope for love, my friends.  Or, if you must, if you be cursed with hope, seek it small, seek it short, seek it shallow.  Be as practical as metal.  All other forms are dark and doomed and neither drink nor pill can offer any comfort.  And you shall fall, fall to the very silence of your soul.

On December 4 1976 the Council of I elevated Pyotr Ilyich Lebedinoe Ozero to sainthood, for creating beauty in the face of despair, absence, persecution, and silence.  Let us honor the saint today with our souls and flesh.