I am not a heretic, for I have a wife and I sleep with her. I have sons, I eat meat, and I lie and swear, and I am a faithful Christian.

  -John Textor, 13th Century, a Cathar, soon after burned at the stake

The desire of writing. The writing of desire. Desire of knowledge, knowledge of desire. Let us not believe that we have said anything at all with these reversals.

  -Maurice Blanchot, The Writing of the Disaster

I receive money to go on pilgrimage. It is a small grant and so the goals are murky, poorly defined, approved by the smallest of academic committees. Our pilgrimage aims to trace the steps of the lost cloisters of southwestern France. Lost, stolen, forgotten.

Pilgrim, from the french pèlerin, or the latin peregrīnus. Foreigner. We leave for France. Dad watches the dog. It is a nice favor. The two boys eat steaks and watch baseball.

We fly to France, train to the south, uber from Montpellier to Saint Guilhelm. We start walking. We leave the city, medieval and mediterranean and massive and we could have taken the bus but we wanted to start the pilgrimage with efficiency.

I froth at the mouth, hungry and unbelieving that I am finally in the medieval village of my fantasies. Little bird songs and rustling trees tell me to get to the nunnery. This is growing up, learning that fantasies are of the earthly realm, that we fashion our own paradises and hells. I listen to the bird song, trying to quiet the worry that I will not spend my time well in this fantasy.

We arrive at dusk, just before the museum closes. Our first visit to the cloister of Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert is dream-like. We descend into the crypt, see the piece of the true cross and the box supposedly containing William’s bones. These half-abandoned half-rebuilt cloisters themselves are tranquil, immense, an archaeological mess. There are clearly remains of three building periods, probably more if we do our research.

A 9th century original, 12th century reconstruction after a few fires and floods, and the expansion of the 15th century that swept all over France to increase square footage, stature, sanctimony.

I am disappointed to learn that the monasteries’ columns are decorative in nature. In the French Saint Guilhem cloisters, what has been left by the Americans are the most boring pieces: grape leaves on columns, a few monks with their faces chipped off during the wars of religion. I miss the chaos of New York’s cloister: griffins devouring a goat, a disciple devouring the gospel, monsters and peasants burning. We brought the good stuff to the States.

It is late. The little medieval town’s bell rings three times to mark the hour. There are no lights on in Saint-Guilhem-Le-Désert, not even the lamps. I am unsure if this is part of the fiction of the history this place sells, or a strict French municipal code to diminish light pollution. We lean out the balcony windows together. Stars carpet the sky, we have no trouble seeing the shape of the valley at 3 a.m. Are these bells waking anyone up?

What makes the middle ages enticing is that they are between now and then. They sound perfect, neither here nor there. The medieval era’s distance is a useful way to exist in the academy, receiving grants for my novel and urgent approach to medieval studies, for redefining what urgent meant in a field that is so far from urgent that most private and public universities have shut down their programs. Programs filled with old men who look like my grandfather and make quips like my grandmother. I start writing this book because men need to write themselves into or out of a hole.

Revelation, to reveal. Revelation has always been a sort of violation. Catherine of Sienna did not ask God to come to her bed every night. Nor Mary. I did not ask for God to appear out of nowhere, I did not ask for the angel to come to my bed at night and take me by the ear. I did not ask him to show me a beach, your bottom, your bottom on fire, my teeth falling out. I did not ask the angel to show me the red cathedral of Toulouse crashing, red bricks crumbling into the river. I did not ask death to be revealed to me, the dog, run over by a man in a van, splattered in the street. I did not ask the angel to kill or save dad, our child.

The opposite of revelation becomes alluring: the cloister, closed, hiding behind high walls. There is no revelation - the dawn of a new world - without apocalypse - the end of the old world.

The reconstructions at Saint Guilhem are ugly. Laughably bland and bulbous patches intermingled with original stonework. After a thousand years, some of the exposed limestone looks so weathered it might crumble. You ask me to pose for a photo.

In the bookshop we buy a history of the monastery and another guide to the via Arles. How to walk from Montpellier to Toulouse as a pilgrim. Where we have been, where we are going. At checkout I ask the attendant if there is anyone I can speak to about the history of the monastery. She calls the mayor’s office. No one answers, she suggests we walk over.

The next morning, we go to the mayor’s office. It has a lovely garden and scattered cigarette trays. The idyllic fountains remind me of those new movies about Americans researching European decadence and decay, La Chimera, Call Me By Your Name.

My French has been failing me since last night’s wine and I am now doubting if ‘mairie’ is the mayor or just a woman named Mary. I am nervous. You are very happy that you insisted on bringing along my tiny notebook. It looks absurd but you promise it appears official.

The mayor, who is in fact named Christine, not Mary or Marie, is passionate about the abbey. We sit in her office and its cigarette smoke, a messy affair with assorted seats from different eras, photos of the old town across generations. It is hard to imagine much official work gets done here. I ask too quickly about The Cloisters. I should have asked if she had a smoke or a coffee or a nice morning.

This is all abstract to her. She is disconnected from and disinterested in The Met Cloisters. They are a fact of life to her, less so a working relationship. For Christine, The Cloisters in New York seem akin to a step-father who has more money and less time than you. You wouldn’t want to perturb them. The last time they had real contact, St Guilhelm and The Met, was 2009. A minor thing.

The mayor Christine says many things that sound like poetry. She refers to these cloisters and The Cloisters of New York as our stones. She is ok with the Saint Guilhem diaspora, remarking each of our stones is an ambassador. She does not believe a theft occurred. They have regrets, they wish they had more original stones, columns, gargoyles, but it is really their own fault. Her ancestors forgot their patrimony, she says, and a few curious, romantic individuals preserved their heritage. We get distracted. She is obsessed with the reconstructions that we found crude and laughable and bulbous.

Christine is obsessed with little videos. Would I like to help her put together a little video? I tell the her that I love her cloisters, that they are bizarre, a word I choose because it means the same thing in French and English. She doesn’t understand what I mean. What is bizarre about French columns in New York? They would love to send a little video to the Cloisters in New York. Nothing big, just a little video. Could I write a little poetry for their little video?

I ask if Christine would ever be interested in a reconstruction of any sort, maybe a plaster mold. She is dumbfounded by this, “which cloister would we rebuild? Ah you see, that's why we like 3D. You can switch from the 12th century to the 13th century cloister in 3D.” She scoffs, everyone knows the 12th century cloister was the most beautiful. But yes, a choice would be au contraire to history. On our way out she recommended I read the poetry of Max Roquette, an Occitain poet who writes beautifully about Saint Guilhem and the four seasons.

I try to leave again but she asks me what I know about Saint Guilhem. Yes, the real one. He was a composite figure, you know, based on Saint William, also on a few other cousins of Charlemagne who defeated the Moors. Like the idea of a composite historical figure, having a composite site named after William's best friend, Benoit of Aniane, who helped reorganize the Benedictines.

I am trying to leave again and they ask if we saw William's body. Guilhelm, I finally put it together. I say it is sympa and ask if it is his body. They respond oui, and then laugh with another oui, and then burst out laughing with a more rapturous oui. His body is somewhere around here. They assure me. Whose? Williams? No it is Guihelm? Ah. But no the body is Benedict’s! Oh! He might not be buried in the crypt, but can’t you feel how close they are?

Christine suggests I visit Aniane, which was the bigger, more glamorous monastery in the area during the 12th century. Saint Guilhelm was a mere outpost. Benoit’s monastery was larger. No not that Benedictine. But yes the adjectif would be Benedictine, of Benoit.

Christine suggests we might try going canoeing in the river later.

We devoured this small French town in a way only Americans can—by storming into the mayor’s office.We leave the mayor’s office and have a bit of lunch. I love you at lunch. There’s one restaurant in town that services the tour groups. Boeuf Bourguignon, a little salad, rosé.

Over rosé, you ask if I’m worried about getting my wrist slapped for forcing conversations that The Met might not like. If I might lose my funding. Would they be mad if I’m informing this small town’s cultural attaché that The Met is celebrating the Centennaire of The Cloisters?

We have nothing to do the rest of the afternoon, the rest of the week, we have no idea why we are here. You tell me to walk around the monastery again.

I am alone in the covered cloister, a little drunk on my first research success, waltzing into the mayor’s office and being asked to make a little video, alone in the covered cloister wondering if I am walking in William’s footsteps, walking on the same ground, I wonder if it matters at all, now I cannot resist the temptation to walk in someone’s footsteps, anyone’s and again I’m earnest and absurd in my chase, nothing to do but chase someone and love you.

Saint-Guilhelm is rebuilt many times, the limits of fires and floods, so many unobserved centuries. Surely what's been rebuilt is the 9th century, 17th century, 20th century. The prisoner’s claim, breaching the faith in a shared reality, is the cry of conviction. I cannot blame him but on the outside, we must not disturb the peace.

I will head to the Cloister of Aniane later today to search for hellish figures, gargoyles, to see if my hypothesis that the Americans took the good stuff one hundred years ago is true. You do not join when I visit the abandoned monastery.

Aniane, founded by Benoit, named after the Benedictine’s founder, named the town Aniane for the river Ano, near his hometown in Italy. It is a word salad that is also a history that is also my treasure map. I am deep in my Dan Brown, angels and demons and gargoyles. I cannot quell my urge to write a best seller. I am searching for the underbelly of this town. I assume there is a tattoo parlor or a sex museum or some great taboo here.

The mayor of Saint Guilhelm has facilitated a connection with Aniane’s cultural attaché. I meet the attaché at a bakery. The attaché walks me through the monastery. None of the stained glass remains, all detail faded. All that is left is the idea that the glass could have been different colors.

It quickly becomes clear she is using me. Or needs something from me. No Americans have visited Aniane since she started this job a few years ago. She pleads to have The Cloisters better acknowledge her cloisters. Or the site will be destroyed and turned into luxury condos. I am sure she would lose her job if those developer’s plans succeed.

Forgery. I remember a moment from the archives in New York stumbling upon an article from the 1930s. “The Cloisters are a forgery.” This claim by the prisoner, breaching the peace of faith in a shared reality, is a cry from someone serving a life sentence.

St Guilhelm is rebuilt, hints of fire and floods in this valley, so many unobserved centuries. Surely what has been rebuilt is unoriginal to the 9th, 12th, 16th centuries. Surely Aniane and St Guilhelm are original to each other, and not. This sort of claim by a prisoner, this claim that it is all fake, breaches the peace of faith in a shared reality. The cry from someone under-life sentence. I cannot blame him, but outside the cell, we cannot disturb the peace.

This is a story of boys to men. From a booming monastery, full of men named Benedict, to a monastery full of men who refused the message of Benedict, into a prison for men just before World War 1, then a prison for boys just after that war, and now, a decrepit building, slated for demolition. The footprint would be perfect for luxury buildings.

Monument, from the latin monumentum, derived from moneo, to remind. I am reminded of my urge towards authenticity. Why am I so motivated to debate whether The Cloisters are authentic? I visit one Benedictine cloister that became a children’s prison and all of the sudden I am Joan of Arc, saving France from itself?

I get back to you in Saint Guilhelm. Over wine I keep declaring new avenues of this project. It is an ekphrastic poem, it is a digital humanities opus, it is a narrative video game. The user interface is daring, exotic, transnational, urgent. A new avenue for paleography, manuscript studies, religion, mindfulness. I tell you the story of the life and loving of Guihelm IX, the first troubadour, and duke of Aquitaine.

We have bites on our neck. Going at it like serpents.

After, you go to bed. I play my computer game. Medieval Total War 2, downloaded on my MacBook Air. The game file takes up 14 of its 16 gigabytes. I play the game as France for an hour. I unite the Cathars in the south, and the eastern marches which again angers Germany. I fortify the north from British attack and marry my faction heir to the princess. Now we are all family. My player character is Charles Martel, hero of the Catholics in the holy war of the 9th century. I should delete my games, create space for the photos of ornamental arches I took today in the monastery. Academics have created excellent research applications. But they take up six or seven gigabytes I do not have.

We sleep in. We sleep in separate beds.

The day has moved on without us. It is noon and the tours have already finished at the cloister of St. Guilhem. We can hear their ruckus from our balcony, the plaza full of tourists clattering plates. Croques madames, boules of gelato. The sun and sound disappoint through the window, we are lazy. I have waited too long for the mysteries of life to reveal themselves. I hide myself beneath the duvet, beneath covered archways. The seven carmelites of Saint-Guilhem-Le-Désert begin their evening chants, vespers. I am afraid already to admit that I do not want to solve The Cloisters’ mystery, I just want to drink rosé with you and meet the mayor of the smallest town in France.

The two-euro candle I lit yesterday still burns above the crypt. My temperature is 102. The gothic fever dream has become real. I am lost in time and space between New York and France and you are here, reminding me we are in heaven and on earth.

A conspiracy alleges JP Morgan canceled his passage on the Titanic because of rapidly changing laws in France in regards to the export of art. Those laws were being hastily implemented due to aggressive moves made by George Gray Barnard - Rockefeller’s man in France - sending columns and crates of artifacts from the Pyrenees to New York. The red-yarn intrigue of it all rushes dopamine and adrenaline into my blood. What if I everyone knew what I knew?

As a devout rule follower, I appreciate the strict order of the cloister. Turn here, once more, again, you’re back where you started. Now, again. Once more, greeting the griffons, lions, abbots adorning the marble capitals. They become acquaintances with each lap around the green, around the high walls, ninety degree turns that keep me facing inward. I reflect into the thousand-year-old abbey. I cannot see outside, over the walls, I cannot see anything but gargoyles and grass.

The medieval scribe, copying the same manuscript over and over. He makes fewer mistakes each time he encounters the words of Augustine, the letters of Paul.

I am Benoit of Aniane, heading home from Rome. Clouds dot the top of the mountain, yellow flowers trace the streams coming off their peaks. I left the valley as Witzia, son of a Visigothic king, a decade ago. Now, the pope has given me the new name Benoit, I am now the grandson of Charles Martel, I am headed to Paris to meet my new cousins William and Charles. We are family.

We are swarming the court of Charlemagne, sending young men south and west to build abbeys, billowing with Benedictine monks. We will convert the Visigoths, will build Gothic cloisters with august imagery on the ruins of roman churches. We are swarming the court of John Pierpoint Morgan and Jamie Dimon, sending young men to build large language models of swaps and hedges. We are in the garden, seasons passing in seeds. Benoit’s Aniane, Guilhelm’s Desert, Ben and Will are new analysts settling into their own terra firma.

There is only one world religion and that is finance, loans, borrowing, borrowing what is not yours until you become a God, owner of all debts and interest.

I am getting a tour of Aniane; the archaeologist and I are alone in the graffiti’d, near-abandoned cloister. She agreed to meet with me on the condition that I use my clout with the Cloister’s curators to put a plaque up in New York. She is doing everything she can to prevent Aniane from being bulldozed and turned into luxury condos. She tells me about Benoit, what he must have been like. They even have his likeness in a small stone. She has ideas for the plaque.

After the French Revolution, Aniane’s neat square courtyard served as a sunlit reprieve for prisoners. One hundred years later, it was a square used privately by the warden of the juvenile detention center, where he kept his boys locked up in cages à poule, chicken cages. The cruelty is overwhelming in the early B&W photos from the 1920s. Hundreds of young boys in chicken coops. It is a place of voluntary and involuntary incarceration. It is a long history. “Haven’t you read Foucault’s essays on the French turning monasteries into prisons?”

I will do what I can to get the plaque put up.

I am Benoit of Aniane, heading home from fighting the Moors, the Italians, who else. I am retiring. The birds call me home, the grape vines need tending. I am to be a monk. I’ve invited my cousin William to join me in the cloth. Our king and cousin Charles - now Carlos Magnus - has given us each a blessing, though we know by putting down our swords, we are leaving him on an island.

Charlemagne gives William a piece of the true cross to bring to his desert monastery, while I shall adore the treasure of Christ’s foreskin as the holiest relic. I shall rebuild Aniane, reform their order, make this place worthy of that bit of our Lord.

Hiding from wars and farmers markets and sex might reveal the mysteries of the universe.

It has been argued that the fact that the world did not end in the year 1000 A.D. with the appearance of the Antichrist and the final day of judgment unleashed an optimistic energy that manifested itself in the arts.

  -Whitney Stoddard, “Monastery and Cathedral in France”

I try to redeem the joy of Aniane. The town would love to erase the cages à poules and the jail and the Benedictines and every other monastic order that has passed here. This destruction, the past imperfect, not one passed moment but a whole history of pain, enduring trauma, that should not be seeded but salted, a field devoured by time. Who am I to say what should be saved?

I am left looking down upon the wrong century. Believing obsession can accomplish anything, that I can save Aniane from time, from itself. I lose myself in the forest, turn myself into a troll to scare the town into submission. I live under a bridge and write my little book, screaming daily. Am I to believe history is anything but a series of stones put together by people who were afraid they might be forgotten?

We do nothing but read and fuck and buy the first pack of cigarettes we see. I get frustrated that we do not have enough time for research, that we fuck so much that we miss a few monasteries, spent too much on fancy sardines and Airbnb. This is the price of pilgrimage.

We go to Rome, Lourdes, Compostela, Chiang-Mai, Cuxa. We transform into nothing. We return unchanged.

Pilgrimage teaches us that pilgrimage won’t save us. I lay down my arms in the court of Charlemagne. The only luxury building will be my family story. The Southern Gothic is notable in Toulouse, Savannah, Albi, New Orleans. The cities are called the same thing: Pink City, Bayou City. Studying the catholics and the broad oaks, the french pines, I find my puritan streak.

Occitanie, called an insurgent land. A territory of resistance against the Catholics, against Philip I, the Nazis, the 3rd and 5th Republics. I simply find the people charming and bucolic and they say their ‘r’s funny. I remember outsiders call my grandmother charming and bucolic. She says her ‘r’s hard and long like there is always an unsaid echo of her hard ‘r’s in the room anyway. These are confederate lands we come from, patched together by the threat that what was might be taken away. Blood will tell.

I am not sure if I am the bulldozer of history and the luxury building of tomorrow, or If I am the troll. Will the townspeople throw stones at me or the machines? It is so charming and bucolic to us outsiders, the Occitan Cross, the lazy mornings, the streets, the funny accent.