21st Century Bogatyr: Passions, Fire and Unfinished Business

"I loved her so much that instead of flowers, I gave her books, because flowers last a few days, but a good book lasts a lifetime."

~ Albert Einstein

"In this world you can

search for everything,

except Love and death.

They find you when the

time comes."

~ Sergei Yesenin

[This is the latest part of a work in progress. Links to the earlier parts are at the bottom of this page.]

by Zvi Baranoff

I was thinking about the woman on the West Coast that I still very much loved. That was why I was contemplating the long gone time, in Philly, when we were very much in love - which is, of course, a very different thing.

I also had unfinished business in Philadelphia, so it was natural, I suppose, to conjure up ancient memories of that very different and distant Philadelphia.

Assuredly, one thing follows another as the night following day, the Alphabet Song proceeds from "A" to "Elemenopea" and eventually to "XYZ" and the planets move in their destined courses. Everything is connected, I suppose…if we can connect the dots.

The world was a very different place when we first met.

The government had not yet banned the Temple of Aphrodite. It was the fastest-growing religion in North America at one time. Cities spanning the continent hosted large congregations that supported majestic centers dedicated to Aphrodite. Schools and hospitals were founded and financed by the Temple of Aphrodite, offering quality service to the communities that they adorned.

Cars ran on gasoline. People drove them with no programming and without computers. We listened to dial-up broadcast radio with static and erratic reception as we drove on the ribbons of blacktop. The interstate connected the continent. Maps were printed on paper. There was no hyperloop.

Casinos were few and far between. Gambling was restricted. Card games took place in back rooms. Churches cornered the market on bingo. State governments ran lotteries. The local police departments nationwide had hounded the numbers rackets right out of existence, assuring the States a monopoly.

Medical drugs were highly controlled. Recreational drugs were mostly illegal. Marijuana was felonious.

Brothels were only legal in rural Nevada, where (mostly) men paid (mostly) women for sexual services. Elsewhere, a criminalized flesh market was either fly-by-night or involved paying bribes and periodic police raids. Robotic sexuality only existed in science fiction.

Back then, the book trade was still quite legal and was considered a respectable business.

Bookstores and libraries were plentiful and operated publicly. One didn't need to know someone and the password and the hand sign as well as carry a handgun to get into a bookstore. There would be a sign out front and an unlocked door during business hours. Anyone could just walk in. Most store owners had virtually no security. Mind boggling!

It is difficult for anyone that hadn't lived through those times to imagine how totally different those times were...and there just aren't a whole lot of us old folks still around.

I had been away for a spell, although not by choice. When I got out of prison, I found a job in a Philadelphia bookstore, and eventually became the manager and then the store's owner. I lived in a small apartment above the store.

I had grown tired of being knocked around and all the ins and outs of contraband and criminality. I was trying to go straight. Hells Bells. I was on Probation and the Probation Officer was a real prick. My family was glad to see me appear to be on the straight and narrow.

Back then, I could not foresee that the winds and tides would change so dramatically. Before very long, laws and regulations criminalized the book trade. I was dropped right back into the outlaw subculture. But, that was later. For the time being, I had a respectable gig and I mostly enjoyed the work.

She and I kept crossing paths at concerts, poetry readings and such. We knew people in common. We had similar interests. We were both avid readers with a deep appreciation for books.

Yet, somehow we hadn't actually met until the day she walked into the bookstore. From that moment on, however… There are unplanned and seemingly innocuous moments that alter one's trajectory and this was one of those.

It all started out casual enough, I suppose. Maybe I let my guard down. Furniture was rearranged. Paintings were hung on the walls. There was a new throw rug by my bed and there was someone else's toothbrush besides my own in the little cup by the sink. Next thing I knew, we certainly appeared to be a couple.

Neither one of us was particularly religious. Our attraction to that Temple was via the cultural milieu of elements such as concerts and lectures rather than any sense of religiosity. The Temple of Aphrodite was not far from my bookstore. Attending events at the Temple was a way of being neighborly.

The Priestess was a poet and an artist that frequented the local cultural scene. She was colorful and vibrant, outwardly friendly, welcoming and open. When we decided to "make it official" we asked her to perform the ceremony that tied the knot.

So, we occasionally would attend the Friday service. We would show up for the solstices and equinoxes. We would stay for the feasts but generally would duck out before the orgies got too extensive. Our tendencies were more towards privacy in such matters.

The media outlets had begun to make a fuss about the Temple of Aphrodite, but neither of us were paying that noise much attention. From our perspectives, it seemed to largely be a matter of miscommunication and a problem of translation. Neither of us foresaw what the cultural, political and personal ripples would lead to.

The media outrage focused on the Sisterhood, which was a religious order within the Temple. They were colloquially referred to as Temple Prostitutes, although that was certainly a misnomer. Amongst their duties was to oversee and coordinate the religious gatherings, including all the seasonal orgies. The right-wing press dug their self-righteous teeth into this and wouldn't let go.

On Sunday mornings we usually slept late. Sometimes we ate breakfast in bed and would read the Sunday Times. That was back when the news was still printed on paper. So, it was late in the day before we made it to the front door of the store and saw the packet that had been slipped through the mail slot.

The Priestess that had been our friend, who had been a regular at cultural gatherings, and had officiated our wedding had left a manifesto in my mail slot. By the time we had seen it, there was nothing for us to do about it. The fire had already been lit and extinguished.

In protest against what she saw as the infringement of religious freedom, the Priestess decided on a bold and irrevocable course of action.

After slipping her manifesto through my mail slot, she walked to a nearby plaza. She calmly sat cross-legged in her flowing robe. She poured gasoline over herself and set her clothing on fire.