Looking down upon the son, he saw himself laid bare upon the cross. And it was bad.
His heart burned with dark coal and his hand rose as a mallet upon the cloud and summoned great strength to scare those who might now think themselves his equal. It was within his power to giveth and to taketh away.
But the night soon came and the tears washed away all desire to avenge, to create havoc which he innately held the power to create. He chose the path of resistance.
“See what you have done to me father?” the son asked, his soul tired and his heart faint. Their plan had worked. “See it for the whole world.”
The Father knew well what had happened. He knew that he had done this to his son, but his son was no victim but a benchmark to begin HIS time.
The Father ignored the son and looked upon others who might sanctify, who might know better than him. They were not there.
Time and it always went ticking by. He knew that it didn’t but the books said it was so. And it was good.
Curious things happened that were not intended.
People began to march one by one, to the cross to cry. Their tears swelled the canyon and soon a river flooded one village to the next, to the next, to the next, until we were all next… oh how the tears could flood.
Soon they made arks and ate apples. Soon they hated snakes and climbed ladders.
The Father was unsure about these turn of events.
So, HE raised HIS hand without knowing the plan. HE might have just as well summoned the whole litany of angles. But HE again chose the path resistance.
Books were then written, people were talked to; words that were well spoken, hearts that were constantly broken.
HE felt good about this.
One millennium passed. Then the next.
Darker spirits had jumped from the fire and cooled their hate along the salty plains.
Many spirits, some dark, some bright, jumped across the flooded rivers and brought the good words with them, naming this for that, that for this, all for HIM.
Soon such spirits faded in the dark, new spirits rose, some yet darker, some yet brighter.
With them a new Father was born.
This new Father, a step-father, cast aside the meek for HIS words decreed that only the strong shall inherit. Evolution was HIS name and he was not at that time stronger then the Father.
And so the Father did nothing.
Bars were created and people were kept behind them. They were then eliminated as part of the final solution.
White dresses marched with black suits and smiles were shared all around.
Men got around without walking. They had their own invention and they spat on the Father’s creation.
And HE held his hand high above them, always waiting to drop.
A great wave of smoke dried out a large village. Then another one. The meek have not inherited the earth.
How HE was angry. But he stuck to this path of resistance.
A man had a dream. He stood on a mountain, just below the Father, and had a peak at the valley below. The father touched him and he fainted. And he died not on a cross, but on a patio.
A nation gave themselves to the Father. The Father deemed them to be HIS, and to go forth and spread the message far and wide, quite and loud.
And they did.
A great battle was begun with no end in sight; every day since the son, men and women have lost the battle but the war band continued to be tight.
This caused some to wonder whether the good words were in fact good in nature.
They turned to the new Father because his new good was more rational.
Children who had looked inward now looked outward and the message began to spread in conflict with that message of the nation.
Two tall hands, that had reached for the Father for many years, fell to the bottom of the land and some tears rained, some of them joyful and some of them sorrowful.
The Father raised his hand yet again. But he resisted. He again chose the path of resistance.
The people took a big straw to earth and sucked black milkshakes.
The father waited.
Such milkshakes gave them ideas and then wrote books that used many words to dispel the good word.
Books were also now written announcing the good word for a buck.
But HE did not smash the earth with HIS mighty hand.
More villages dried. The tears no longer fell. Soon that canyon dried and so did the good word, which had become stale as the body of the Son.
But the Father did not smash his hand in desperation. He kept it dangling in the heavens, always a threat but never an action.
And soon the Son returned to share the new message.
“You hesitated too long.”
And now the world was on a new flood without the Father, who retired his hand and sat down only to observe.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Little Angels part 3 -- Finale
Doug swung the screwdriver around like a lightsabre making wooo…wooo… cresss… sounds until he spoke in a muffled voice that was a poor attempt at Darth Vader. “Johnny, I am your father,” said Doug. “Give yourself to the dark side.”
The whole episode destroyed the Pulp Fiction feel of the moment and things became pretty geeky, with both making lightsabre sounds, pretending to be the Emperor and Vader and even once General Grievous.
“Brother, I am so serious, we could kill those bitches with this screwdriver. Just plunge it in to their hearts and we’ll give them the what’s for, no what I mean motherfucker?”
Johnny nodded his head in agreement. So Doug began to walk across McBride, the gusts trying to blow him over and away from the church but he was all good, he made it across. Johnny soon did the same, the winds for some reason trying their hardest to push him over, the rumbling from the skies unearthly.
Upon reaching the Jehovah’s Witness church, the door slammed open, and Doug dove behind a bush. The priest could be heard out the door and Johnny had a peak inside.
“And let there be no young soldier who dies, no blood taken from the arm and given to the arm, and let there be no confusion that the end will come…”
Johnny turned away to see Doug wiping his pants at the thighs, knocking off grass and mud.
“Wholly, holly motherfucker. Did you hear that junk those bitches are listening to? Here.” and Doug handed Johnny the screwdriver. Johnny held on to it tightly and thought long and hard about what he would do with it. “I can’t hold it, you know what I mean?”
The wind kept hollowing, and pulverizing. Johnny kept whispering and stabbing. “If you will not join the dark side then you will die!”
Doug watched and laughed at the sight as Johnny seemed to become more accomplished with the device after each swing. He would alternate between swinging it hard and then light, fast then slow. Each time he did it, Doug seemed to have grown in presence as if the swinging of the screwdriver was interconnected to his puberty.
As the procession ended and the people moved outside in to the violent breeze, hats and hands began to rise to the sky. To Johnny, the churchies looked like little angels falling from heaven, kicked out for some greedy deed.
Doug looked over at Johnny and started to demand that he do what is right, what is necessary, what should be sovereign to him. The big words put a shock in to Johnny.
“No wait a minute, I thought…”
“Do it motherfucker. Don’t be a wuss.”
“Seriously dude, I don’t…” and Doug grabbed the screwdriver, pointing it directly at Johnny’s chest. “You want to be a bitch the rest of your life or do you want to be boss? The choice is clear. Do it!” and he handed the screwdriver back to Johnny.
Jason and Aaron walked out of the church, shivering and lurking. Their hair blew all over the place and then Jason fell over trying to catch his umbrella. It ran away across the lawn, far from where Johnny stood, making it difficult to even threaten him let alone stab him. But the weakling Aaron stood there alone. He turned to see Johnny standing strong, his eyes tearing a whole through his chest.
It would be so easy.
“This is the time to make good, motherfucker,” cried Doug.
Aaron stood, his body appearing more fragile then a 10 year-old should, not knowing what was in the palm of Johnny’s hand – his life.
Johnny counted to one… “Do it!” to two… “His chest, motherfucker!” to three…
Johnny kept his arm down too long and his feet stood like cement statue.
Doug approached Johnny.
“You motherfucker.”
The whole episode destroyed the Pulp Fiction feel of the moment and things became pretty geeky, with both making lightsabre sounds, pretending to be the Emperor and Vader and even once General Grievous.
“Brother, I am so serious, we could kill those bitches with this screwdriver. Just plunge it in to their hearts and we’ll give them the what’s for, no what I mean motherfucker?”
Johnny nodded his head in agreement. So Doug began to walk across McBride, the gusts trying to blow him over and away from the church but he was all good, he made it across. Johnny soon did the same, the winds for some reason trying their hardest to push him over, the rumbling from the skies unearthly.
Upon reaching the Jehovah’s Witness church, the door slammed open, and Doug dove behind a bush. The priest could be heard out the door and Johnny had a peak inside.
“And let there be no young soldier who dies, no blood taken from the arm and given to the arm, and let there be no confusion that the end will come…”
Johnny turned away to see Doug wiping his pants at the thighs, knocking off grass and mud.
“Wholly, holly motherfucker. Did you hear that junk those bitches are listening to? Here.” and Doug handed Johnny the screwdriver. Johnny held on to it tightly and thought long and hard about what he would do with it. “I can’t hold it, you know what I mean?”
The wind kept hollowing, and pulverizing. Johnny kept whispering and stabbing. “If you will not join the dark side then you will die!”
Doug watched and laughed at the sight as Johnny seemed to become more accomplished with the device after each swing. He would alternate between swinging it hard and then light, fast then slow. Each time he did it, Doug seemed to have grown in presence as if the swinging of the screwdriver was interconnected to his puberty.
As the procession ended and the people moved outside in to the violent breeze, hats and hands began to rise to the sky. To Johnny, the churchies looked like little angels falling from heaven, kicked out for some greedy deed.
Doug looked over at Johnny and started to demand that he do what is right, what is necessary, what should be sovereign to him. The big words put a shock in to Johnny.
“No wait a minute, I thought…”
“Do it motherfucker. Don’t be a wuss.”
“Seriously dude, I don’t…” and Doug grabbed the screwdriver, pointing it directly at Johnny’s chest. “You want to be a bitch the rest of your life or do you want to be boss? The choice is clear. Do it!” and he handed the screwdriver back to Johnny.
Jason and Aaron walked out of the church, shivering and lurking. Their hair blew all over the place and then Jason fell over trying to catch his umbrella. It ran away across the lawn, far from where Johnny stood, making it difficult to even threaten him let alone stab him. But the weakling Aaron stood there alone. He turned to see Johnny standing strong, his eyes tearing a whole through his chest.
It would be so easy.
“This is the time to make good, motherfucker,” cried Doug.
Aaron stood, his body appearing more fragile then a 10 year-old should, not knowing what was in the palm of Johnny’s hand – his life.
Johnny counted to one… “Do it!” to two… “His chest, motherfucker!” to three…
Johnny kept his arm down too long and his feet stood like cement statue.
Doug approached Johnny.
“You motherfucker.”
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Little Angels part 2
Jason took it real easy as he approached, and Aaron – ever the follower – tripped on Jason’s heels and then slowed himself.
“Hear you are on the welfare,” said Jason, his teeth china white, his lips curved upwards like Ark. “Your mom asked my mom for money. No way my mom is going to pay for your mom. But I guess she is because you are on the welfare.”
Jason elbowed Aaron, as if they were privy to a private joke at Johnny’s expense.
“Oh, I don’t want to pay for your shitty family,” said Aaron missing a personality of his own.
“Praise be to our parents for doing the right thing and having jobs,” said Jason, really extending the b on the word jobs.
“Yes praise. Praise indeed,” said Aaron, as the two continued down McBride, crossed the street and then disappeared in to the church.
Johnny had a feeling that Doug was listening real close to the conversation even though he was not standing by him. And when he reappeared, his face had that ponderous appearance boys had when they didn’t look you right in the eye but stood really close to you.
Johnny and Doug sat by the stoop looking at the docile street, seeing sparks.
“Welfare, huh?”
Johnny turned back to the broken window, fearful of talking about what he didn’t really understand.
“Well are you a mute or what, motherfucker?”
“I saw this movie last night, Pulp Fiction. You remind me of Samuel L. Jackson’s character,” said Johnny finally breaking his silence. “Right before he kills that guy he asks for a bite of the cheeseburger. I loved the way he takes that bitch’s burger and pop.”
Doug nodded his head real slow like he got the point.
The wind kept pulverizing and garbage pails were running side by side with trucks down the road. Curiously one stopped at the intersection as if it had a mini man inside driving and stopping it.
Doug didn’t seem to notice it and said to Johnny that he had a way to pay them back for their moms’ investment in the welfare. He pulled out a screwdriver with a rusted end with a red and gold handle. It looked like it had been left outside for years in an empty lot or one of those houses with dryers, stoves and shopping carts all over the front lawn.
“This is what I call the equals,” said Doug. “Those churchies think they are so pious, but Johnny we ain’t got to take their shit, no what I mean motherfucker?”
His eyes seemed to be filled with malevolent intent, as if the world was indeed to be fucked with by his little hands, that there was not enough havoc to be created by them, nor enough danger to be experienced by people from them.
“Hear you are on the welfare,” said Jason, his teeth china white, his lips curved upwards like Ark. “Your mom asked my mom for money. No way my mom is going to pay for your mom. But I guess she is because you are on the welfare.”
Jason elbowed Aaron, as if they were privy to a private joke at Johnny’s expense.
“Oh, I don’t want to pay for your shitty family,” said Aaron missing a personality of his own.
“Praise be to our parents for doing the right thing and having jobs,” said Jason, really extending the b on the word jobs.
“Yes praise. Praise indeed,” said Aaron, as the two continued down McBride, crossed the street and then disappeared in to the church.
Johnny had a feeling that Doug was listening real close to the conversation even though he was not standing by him. And when he reappeared, his face had that ponderous appearance boys had when they didn’t look you right in the eye but stood really close to you.
Johnny and Doug sat by the stoop looking at the docile street, seeing sparks.
“Welfare, huh?”
Johnny turned back to the broken window, fearful of talking about what he didn’t really understand.
“Well are you a mute or what, motherfucker?”
“I saw this movie last night, Pulp Fiction. You remind me of Samuel L. Jackson’s character,” said Johnny finally breaking his silence. “Right before he kills that guy he asks for a bite of the cheeseburger. I loved the way he takes that bitch’s burger and pop.”
Doug nodded his head real slow like he got the point.
The wind kept pulverizing and garbage pails were running side by side with trucks down the road. Curiously one stopped at the intersection as if it had a mini man inside driving and stopping it.
Doug didn’t seem to notice it and said to Johnny that he had a way to pay them back for their moms’ investment in the welfare. He pulled out a screwdriver with a rusted end with a red and gold handle. It looked like it had been left outside for years in an empty lot or one of those houses with dryers, stoves and shopping carts all over the front lawn.
“This is what I call the equals,” said Doug. “Those churchies think they are so pious, but Johnny we ain’t got to take their shit, no what I mean motherfucker?”
His eyes seemed to be filled with malevolent intent, as if the world was indeed to be fucked with by his little hands, that there was not enough havoc to be created by them, nor enough danger to be experienced by people from them.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Little Angels part 1
Johnny thought long and hard about what had happened to him, his face turning red turnip and his eyes with streaks of red lightning jettisoned from his black pupils.
Instead of joining in the Sunday morning street hockey, Johnny just stood on the corner of Third West Avenue and McBride and stared at the broken window where Dairy Queen used to be.
A boy named Doug walked up the street, smiling for whatever reason and stopped when he came up to Johnny. He looked at the broken window, its new sharp angles that looked like murder, the blinds falling upon the edges as a martyr would. The whole scene looked a crucifix.
“Hey,” said Doug, who was a boy Johnny was familiar with through back conversations he’d had with friends but not one who went to his school and not one he knew much about. The only fact he was aware of was that he was to leave him alone. But he was there.
“Did you do that?” asked Doug.
Johnny just shrugged his shoulders providing no answer and turning his sight back to the street. Across McBride was the Jehovah’s Witness Church, the notice board reading: Watchtower awareness week.
“I said did you do that motherfucker?” asked Doug in a bully like tone.
The wind was pulverizing Prince Rupert that day and it seemed to be in synch with Johnny’s heart, which gusted gale force blood through his chest.
“Doesn’t matter if you did or didn’t, someone is going to think that you did because you are standing here staring at it. Me, I don’t give a fuck, know what I mean. I’ve broken a share of mine. It’s cool that you did. And if you didn’t, it’s still cool,” said Doug in a much cooler way of saying something, like he was Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction. “Because you look like you appreciate that kind of thing. It’s in your eyes. They say broken windows, broken system, broken arms, broken hearts. It’s all good. Me too.”
In fact that Pulp Fiction idea struck Johnny in a particular way seeing as how he had just watched the masterpiece last night just after the obvious news hit home. Dad was long gone. Mom was out of work. No money was coming. So the family was now on the welfare – the system.
Only one day on, and it was already hard to be on the welfare. Somehow Johnny took it as a sign that he was not good enough to be good enough and that stood as proper rationale for him to not share his new family finances with his friends, who even in their best days were jerks and certainly not this new kid, Doug.
Two friends of his, Jason and Aaron, made their way up McBride. They looked well dressed in clean black slacks, a pair of white dress shirts and black ties, dressed like they were off to a funeral.
By the time they reached Johnny, Doug had receded to the background, somewhere Johnny couldn’t find him.
Instead of joining in the Sunday morning street hockey, Johnny just stood on the corner of Third West Avenue and McBride and stared at the broken window where Dairy Queen used to be.
A boy named Doug walked up the street, smiling for whatever reason and stopped when he came up to Johnny. He looked at the broken window, its new sharp angles that looked like murder, the blinds falling upon the edges as a martyr would. The whole scene looked a crucifix.
“Hey,” said Doug, who was a boy Johnny was familiar with through back conversations he’d had with friends but not one who went to his school and not one he knew much about. The only fact he was aware of was that he was to leave him alone. But he was there.
“Did you do that?” asked Doug.
Johnny just shrugged his shoulders providing no answer and turning his sight back to the street. Across McBride was the Jehovah’s Witness Church, the notice board reading: Watchtower awareness week.
“I said did you do that motherfucker?” asked Doug in a bully like tone.
The wind was pulverizing Prince Rupert that day and it seemed to be in synch with Johnny’s heart, which gusted gale force blood through his chest.
“Doesn’t matter if you did or didn’t, someone is going to think that you did because you are standing here staring at it. Me, I don’t give a fuck, know what I mean. I’ve broken a share of mine. It’s cool that you did. And if you didn’t, it’s still cool,” said Doug in a much cooler way of saying something, like he was Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction. “Because you look like you appreciate that kind of thing. It’s in your eyes. They say broken windows, broken system, broken arms, broken hearts. It’s all good. Me too.”
In fact that Pulp Fiction idea struck Johnny in a particular way seeing as how he had just watched the masterpiece last night just after the obvious news hit home. Dad was long gone. Mom was out of work. No money was coming. So the family was now on the welfare – the system.
Only one day on, and it was already hard to be on the welfare. Somehow Johnny took it as a sign that he was not good enough to be good enough and that stood as proper rationale for him to not share his new family finances with his friends, who even in their best days were jerks and certainly not this new kid, Doug.
Two friends of his, Jason and Aaron, made their way up McBride. They looked well dressed in clean black slacks, a pair of white dress shirts and black ties, dressed like they were off to a funeral.
By the time they reached Johnny, Doug had receded to the background, somewhere Johnny couldn’t find him.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Oh faith my addiction or how I learned to land
Her hands trembled, but she twisted her arm and slid it forward. Could the words of her favourite verse save her this time, she asked herself.
Crucifix.
And God said, “Let the Earth bring forth living creatures according to their kinds: cattle and creeping things and beasts of the earth according to their kinds.” And it was so. And God made their kinds and the cattle according to their kinds, and everything that creeps upon the ground according to its kind. And God saw that it was good.
But is he kind, she asked herself.
And she saw that it was good as well. For HE is the one who led her here and it will be HE that will save her yet. It is the way she has been taught. This was a fact she did not doubt, even with the slithery beast held in her hand.
“Oh faith, oh faith, what shall ye be? Oh faith, my lord, shall only set me free,” she whispered slowly, beneath her breath.
Stephanie had always whispered to herself moment after moment. Day after day. Year after year. Agony was dealt best without anyone noticing.
And trust me here kids, nobody was going to notice her here, lost in isolation in the most alone city in Canada.
Today was a lie for everyday, the beast is in her hand, waiting to break her skin and decay her soul, the rain clouds forming over her head, and nothing but malcontents to surround her.
Why such a repetition, she would ponder. The curse never breaks and keeps the world bound in chains, a same old routine, day, after day, week after week, pitter-patter after pitter-patter, pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter
Pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter
Prince Rupert. Not the best home for vagrants. Nor was it the best place to get your fix but you did find it, all you had to do was get down to the needle exchange, kneel to the ground and eat the biscuit. As simple…as…that… and then you flew…
Zoom—another flight on the beautiful plane, so sky high, but there is ice on the propellers and god checked out a while ago. He took all the parachutes with him. So when she falls, no one catches her and she crashes right on West 2nd Avenue.
Today she will not kneel, today she will only pray – just a prayer or two.
“Oh lord, oh lord, what shall ye be? Shall you be the same as today, the same as tomorrow, and as infinite?” she continued to whisper to herself, her eyes sunk towars the impending long thin metallic purge.
Her black spiralling locks fall over her eyes that look like black holes misplaced in the universe. God had crashed her plane many times.
Then flight of thought about the quadric of holy governance: the father, the imagination, the boy, and the boogieman, all has her in chains. Go ask Alice if you dare. Go ask the boy if you dare. Go ask the boogieman, if you dare. Go ask the father, if you dare. Stay in the plane, there are many movies on this one.
The rain falls over her shoulder looking just like tears, the remorseful repetition that keeps her whole Pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter, pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter, pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter
It always rains when the beautiful plane dives. She can’t get a break.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Lord, her clock runs, her hands fall, her hope like little grains of sand falling to the bottom of the hour glass.
She prays, but the repetition pays no dividends. She is stuck in the hourglass.
It was glass that got her here in the first place.
Another prayer comes to mind, she remembers this one as a child.
“Call the king, call the queen, and call the tin soldiers out of bed. The king here, the queen there, so bring your horse, bring your soldier, they have left, disappeared. Vanishing until there is no more king and the queen is dead,” she whispers still.
God must be ignoring her because the plane is crashing on autopilot.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. You can’t be anywhere but here girl. In the hour glass, on West Second Avenue. Prince Rupert. Alone.
The sleepy city has no idea – the storming horse, the tin soldier, the insidious invasion; oh how the sleepy city has no idea. But the rain still falls, Pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter, pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter, pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter
Stephanie is never alone. Creepy crawly beasts slither and hiss there way down this street:
“A dime here, a quarter there, the king is gone, the queen is dead,” said when certain the power over her is attained.
She is offered no protection but she will not be swayed by dignity decay and is not about to ruin the last bit of dignity beholden to her heart for a dime.
“Maybe then you should pray little one,” the beast seems to say without words, its breath the foul stench of despair, like turpentine without the clean fair, its risen high to heaven, his eyes vacant of all divinity.
Pray for what? Pray for reality, pray for blood but to pray to fall is to make the greatest mistake of all. For she doesn’t want to bring attention to herself… shhhhhhhhhh!
“Still believe in choice?” the beast has asked.
“Oh lord, here me cry, I cannot fight the horse. Where is the boy?”
The invasion nears, sleep no more. One horse, two horse, three horse more.
He hears her not. The needle is ready.
But a hand reaches out and at the last moment she pulls back. The pitter-patter has pattered away, and below the clear night sky, the divine beasts do not howl.
The boy was here all along, no need for sorrow. He was where you are, his name was Myles Morreau.
“Come with me m’am. I’ll take you home.”
And the beast has slunk away in a Prince Rupert alley amongst creeping things and others according to their kind.
All kinds find each other.
All planes must land one way or another.
Crucifix.
And God said, “Let the Earth bring forth living creatures according to their kinds: cattle and creeping things and beasts of the earth according to their kinds.” And it was so. And God made their kinds and the cattle according to their kinds, and everything that creeps upon the ground according to its kind. And God saw that it was good.
But is he kind, she asked herself.
And she saw that it was good as well. For HE is the one who led her here and it will be HE that will save her yet. It is the way she has been taught. This was a fact she did not doubt, even with the slithery beast held in her hand.
“Oh faith, oh faith, what shall ye be? Oh faith, my lord, shall only set me free,” she whispered slowly, beneath her breath.
Stephanie had always whispered to herself moment after moment. Day after day. Year after year. Agony was dealt best without anyone noticing.
And trust me here kids, nobody was going to notice her here, lost in isolation in the most alone city in Canada.
Today was a lie for everyday, the beast is in her hand, waiting to break her skin and decay her soul, the rain clouds forming over her head, and nothing but malcontents to surround her.
Why such a repetition, she would ponder. The curse never breaks and keeps the world bound in chains, a same old routine, day, after day, week after week, pitter-patter after pitter-patter, pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter
Pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter
Prince Rupert. Not the best home for vagrants. Nor was it the best place to get your fix but you did find it, all you had to do was get down to the needle exchange, kneel to the ground and eat the biscuit. As simple…as…that… and then you flew…
Zoom—another flight on the beautiful plane, so sky high, but there is ice on the propellers and god checked out a while ago. He took all the parachutes with him. So when she falls, no one catches her and she crashes right on West 2nd Avenue.
Today she will not kneel, today she will only pray – just a prayer or two.
“Oh lord, oh lord, what shall ye be? Shall you be the same as today, the same as tomorrow, and as infinite?” she continued to whisper to herself, her eyes sunk towars the impending long thin metallic purge.
Her black spiralling locks fall over her eyes that look like black holes misplaced in the universe. God had crashed her plane many times.
Then flight of thought about the quadric of holy governance: the father, the imagination, the boy, and the boogieman, all has her in chains. Go ask Alice if you dare. Go ask the boy if you dare. Go ask the boogieman, if you dare. Go ask the father, if you dare. Stay in the plane, there are many movies on this one.
The rain falls over her shoulder looking just like tears, the remorseful repetition that keeps her whole Pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter, pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter, pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter
It always rains when the beautiful plane dives. She can’t get a break.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Lord, her clock runs, her hands fall, her hope like little grains of sand falling to the bottom of the hour glass.
She prays, but the repetition pays no dividends. She is stuck in the hourglass.
It was glass that got her here in the first place.
Another prayer comes to mind, she remembers this one as a child.
“Call the king, call the queen, and call the tin soldiers out of bed. The king here, the queen there, so bring your horse, bring your soldier, they have left, disappeared. Vanishing until there is no more king and the queen is dead,” she whispers still.
God must be ignoring her because the plane is crashing on autopilot.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. You can’t be anywhere but here girl. In the hour glass, on West Second Avenue. Prince Rupert. Alone.
The sleepy city has no idea – the storming horse, the tin soldier, the insidious invasion; oh how the sleepy city has no idea. But the rain still falls, Pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter, pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter, pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter
Stephanie is never alone. Creepy crawly beasts slither and hiss there way down this street:
“A dime here, a quarter there, the king is gone, the queen is dead,” said when certain the power over her is attained.
She is offered no protection but she will not be swayed by dignity decay and is not about to ruin the last bit of dignity beholden to her heart for a dime.
“Maybe then you should pray little one,” the beast seems to say without words, its breath the foul stench of despair, like turpentine without the clean fair, its risen high to heaven, his eyes vacant of all divinity.
Pray for what? Pray for reality, pray for blood but to pray to fall is to make the greatest mistake of all. For she doesn’t want to bring attention to herself… shhhhhhhhhh!
“Still believe in choice?” the beast has asked.
“Oh lord, here me cry, I cannot fight the horse. Where is the boy?”
The invasion nears, sleep no more. One horse, two horse, three horse more.
He hears her not. The needle is ready.
But a hand reaches out and at the last moment she pulls back. The pitter-patter has pattered away, and below the clear night sky, the divine beasts do not howl.
The boy was here all along, no need for sorrow. He was where you are, his name was Myles Morreau.
“Come with me m’am. I’ll take you home.”
And the beast has slunk away in a Prince Rupert alley amongst creeping things and others according to their kind.
All kinds find each other.
All planes must land one way or another.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
I Have a Magic Hammer, I Found It In a Field
but it didn't do me no good then, I had to wait, like everyone else, for the change to come. A twister brought it down to where our strongest men could not budge it, our mightiest cattle could not move it and our fairest maidens could not stir it. It was I, back then your humble milksop, whose sturdy but wiry limbs and tout though excitable heart saw fit to remove the object from its resting place. It was a burden that only I could handle. Now, the hammer is my friend, and I gave it a name.
I have a magic hammer, I found it in a field
I control the weather with it, but I've never been able to reproduce the magic twister which dropped it in my way. I clap clouds and peal thunder, which always brings up a cheer and a hunger for drink. Our town had not expected things like magic hammers to fall out of the sky, but we are nothing if not fine adjusters. My father sacrificed an eye to see the future. He is a great man, we used to call him Fred and he drove a tractor shirtless, thick with sweat. He grew up in and around rodeos and he takes crows as pets. But he cannot lift my hammer.
I have a magic hammer, I found it in a field
I crack skulls open with it. There once was a man who lurked in the woods, who would peek his calculating eyes out from behind trees. After the twister, when the changes started taking place, he was a troll who murdered children. He slept days beneath the foot bridge over the creek. He ate the children, all the ones that did not change, he ate them all away. So I cracked him in his skull with the hammer and his head split open. I think when I did that, tall the little children's souls wandered out and went back home. I wipe my hammer clean and smile.
I have a magic hammer, I found it in a field
and don't think it could happen to you, because this is my hammer, the only one of its kind. We love each other, my hammer and me and I gave it a name. I wield it and give it power, my mind and my hands give it a job to do, give it purpose. I think the hammer appreciates that. And I can feel already that I have put something of myself back into it, there will always be a little part of me in this hammer. Until the next twister comes, powerful enough to sweep it all away and deposit it in the next town, it's just going to be me and my magic hammer, which I named Percy Pepper.
I have a magic hammer, I found it in a field
I control the weather with it, but I've never been able to reproduce the magic twister which dropped it in my way. I clap clouds and peal thunder, which always brings up a cheer and a hunger for drink. Our town had not expected things like magic hammers to fall out of the sky, but we are nothing if not fine adjusters. My father sacrificed an eye to see the future. He is a great man, we used to call him Fred and he drove a tractor shirtless, thick with sweat. He grew up in and around rodeos and he takes crows as pets. But he cannot lift my hammer.
I have a magic hammer, I found it in a field
I crack skulls open with it. There once was a man who lurked in the woods, who would peek his calculating eyes out from behind trees. After the twister, when the changes started taking place, he was a troll who murdered children. He slept days beneath the foot bridge over the creek. He ate the children, all the ones that did not change, he ate them all away. So I cracked him in his skull with the hammer and his head split open. I think when I did that, tall the little children's souls wandered out and went back home. I wipe my hammer clean and smile.
I have a magic hammer, I found it in a field
and don't think it could happen to you, because this is my hammer, the only one of its kind. We love each other, my hammer and me and I gave it a name. I wield it and give it power, my mind and my hands give it a job to do, give it purpose. I think the hammer appreciates that. And I can feel already that I have put something of myself back into it, there will always be a little part of me in this hammer. Until the next twister comes, powerful enough to sweep it all away and deposit it in the next town, it's just going to be me and my magic hammer, which I named Percy Pepper.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Who's writing this thing anyway?
(((100th post!!!!)))
Lucas Klaukien sat down to write a story about a character named Lucas Klaukien.
He got up, went around, and in between fidgets and hesitations he put pencil to paper, then fingers to keyboard and moved his character around the chess board of a make-believe life, set in a make-believe world.
He motivated his character to go left, or right, pick an apple and fly a kite. He had his character play guitar against a tree on a hill in overalls and a straw hat. His character waxed philosophical under the moonlight, and soliloquized like a cat in heat, "... my breast doth twitter and torment 'neath the pale gaze of the shadow's moon ..." never knowing or understanding what the words meant or how they came to be. He did all this in a single day, knowing all days would be as grand, and he never feared the boredom of the ordinary. He would fight dragons one day, romance the maiden the next. Something, some motivating force gave him the power. Nothing was too much of a challenge.
So, never arguing with the force that compelled him to do such things, he decided to get a hobby. He would write.
He smiled inwardly as he sat down on a log in a dewey meadow and began to tap his lower lip with his pencil, looking skyward, waiting, waiting for some force to put words in his head. It didn't take long. He laughed aloud at his cleverness, he would write a story about a character named Lucas Klaukien.
Lucas Klaukien sat down to write a story about a character named Lucas Klaukien.
He got up, went around, and in between fidgets and hesitations he put pencil to paper, then fingers to keyboard and moved his character around the chess board of a make-believe life, set in a make-believe world.
He motivated his character to go left, or right, pick an apple and fly a kite. He had his character play guitar against a tree on a hill in overalls and a straw hat. His character waxed philosophical under the moonlight, and soliloquized like a cat in heat, "... my breast doth twitter and torment 'neath the pale gaze of the shadow's moon ..." never knowing or understanding what the words meant or how they came to be. He did all this in a single day, knowing all days would be as grand, and he never feared the boredom of the ordinary. He would fight dragons one day, romance the maiden the next. Something, some motivating force gave him the power. Nothing was too much of a challenge.
So, never arguing with the force that compelled him to do such things, he decided to get a hobby. He would write.
He smiled inwardly as he sat down on a log in a dewey meadow and began to tap his lower lip with his pencil, looking skyward, waiting, waiting for some force to put words in his head. It didn't take long. He laughed aloud at his cleverness, he would write a story about a character named Lucas Klaukien.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Message
A question to G-O-D:
Where the hell have you been? i sent you a letter last week saying we were getting together for a divine intervention. yes, that's right, Johova is up to the old tricks again.
And this dude name Beelzebub called. Said urgent shit about to go down. Was really vague but he did say you could expect retribution.
Anyways, while you are out and about i thought you might like to know your popularity ratings are down with the Western crowd but waaaaayyyyy up with the middle eastern crowd. Seems to me like you can have one but not both.
And what is the deal with them Chinese?
Oh well i'll try to keep you as informed as possible but do get back to me. We are going to try to calm Johova down asap and maybe another DI will help.
You man in the pan,
Matthew
Where the hell have you been? i sent you a letter last week saying we were getting together for a divine intervention. yes, that's right, Johova is up to the old tricks again.
And this dude name Beelzebub called. Said urgent shit about to go down. Was really vague but he did say you could expect retribution.
Anyways, while you are out and about i thought you might like to know your popularity ratings are down with the Western crowd but waaaaayyyyy up with the middle eastern crowd. Seems to me like you can have one but not both.
And what is the deal with them Chinese?
Oh well i'll try to keep you as informed as possible but do get back to me. We are going to try to calm Johova down asap and maybe another DI will help.
You man in the pan,
Matthew
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Scenes From An Election
(reprinted by permission from various news services)
... world was stunned today when God Himself accepted the Republican nomination for President of the United States ... "I've taken a day to rest and think about it," he was quoted as saying, "and I'm excited to get back to work" ... Democrats are not without a headline grabbing candidate of their own as Jesus Christ accepted that party's nomination ... God Himself announced today that he had chosen Zeus as his running mate ... Christ named Buddah as his running mate ... debate raged yesterday when as yet unrevealed sources claimed the Republican candidate had attempted to coerce Mr. Abraham to kill his own son in cold blood ... "I'm being called a demiurge," God said in a press conference, "well, I'm not a demiurge!" ... "If I am elected president," Mr. Christ said, "my first order of business will be to pull our troops out. Let's end this war and admit we made a mistake. Can I get a hallelujah?" Mr. Christ then raised his arms gregariously and strutted emphatically away from the podium amidst thunderous applause ... Republican vice presidential candidate Zeus has been called a war monger by the left wing media ... Mr. Zeus has been accused of sexual harrassment, abuse and even rape by over fifty women against ... Zeus, sweating profusely, was forced to take his name off the ballot in a press conference ... vehemently denied rumours of his sexual misdeeds from his compound in Greece ... America is swept up in Jesus fever ... Jesusmania continues to sweep the nation ... republicans are calling it the 'cult of Jesus' ... republican senator Ares had this to say, "it's like the liberals are worshipping this Jesus guy. Well, we believe there is only one supreme being in the universe, and we've got him on our ticket" ... Mr. Christ was unfazed by the criticism laid at his doorstep by opponents ... criticism concerning Christ's inexeperience continues to resound ... "A vote for Jesus is a vote for change," Jesus said at a rally on Tuesday, "can I get a hallelujah?" ... breaking news on Wednesday ... Scandal ... disillusioned masses ... it's official ... confirmed reports on Thursday that the democratic nominee for president Jesus Christ is actually the son of republican nominee God Himself ... nation was stunned on Thursday ... Jesus remains outwardly calm, but ... suffered a huge blow ... the Jesus camp said that the issue was "irrelevant." ... still has support in some coastal states ... polls open tomorrow morning, so get out and vote America ... polls are closed and it's official ... it's a landslide ... Landslide! ... "confirming that yes, it is indeed a landslide" ... largest margin of victory in the history ... victory speech ... "who's you're daddy," an elated God Himself said as balloons and confetti rained down from the rafters, "don't mess with God." ...
... world was stunned today when God Himself accepted the Republican nomination for President of the United States ... "I've taken a day to rest and think about it," he was quoted as saying, "and I'm excited to get back to work" ... Democrats are not without a headline grabbing candidate of their own as Jesus Christ accepted that party's nomination ... God Himself announced today that he had chosen Zeus as his running mate ... Christ named Buddah as his running mate ... debate raged yesterday when as yet unrevealed sources claimed the Republican candidate had attempted to coerce Mr. Abraham to kill his own son in cold blood ... "I'm being called a demiurge," God said in a press conference, "well, I'm not a demiurge!" ... "If I am elected president," Mr. Christ said, "my first order of business will be to pull our troops out. Let's end this war and admit we made a mistake. Can I get a hallelujah?" Mr. Christ then raised his arms gregariously and strutted emphatically away from the podium amidst thunderous applause ... Republican vice presidential candidate Zeus has been called a war monger by the left wing media ... Mr. Zeus has been accused of sexual harrassment, abuse and even rape by over fifty women against ... Zeus, sweating profusely, was forced to take his name off the ballot in a press conference ... vehemently denied rumours of his sexual misdeeds from his compound in Greece ... America is swept up in Jesus fever ... Jesusmania continues to sweep the nation ... republicans are calling it the 'cult of Jesus' ... republican senator Ares had this to say, "it's like the liberals are worshipping this Jesus guy. Well, we believe there is only one supreme being in the universe, and we've got him on our ticket" ... Mr. Christ was unfazed by the criticism laid at his doorstep by opponents ... criticism concerning Christ's inexeperience continues to resound ... "A vote for Jesus is a vote for change," Jesus said at a rally on Tuesday, "can I get a hallelujah?" ... breaking news on Wednesday ... Scandal ... disillusioned masses ... it's official ... confirmed reports on Thursday that the democratic nominee for president Jesus Christ is actually the son of republican nominee God Himself ... nation was stunned on Thursday ... Jesus remains outwardly calm, but ... suffered a huge blow ... the Jesus camp said that the issue was "irrelevant." ... still has support in some coastal states ... polls open tomorrow morning, so get out and vote America ... polls are closed and it's official ... it's a landslide ... Landslide! ... "confirming that yes, it is indeed a landslide" ... largest margin of victory in the history ... victory speech ... "who's you're daddy," an elated God Himself said as balloons and confetti rained down from the rafters, "don't mess with God." ...
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Psycho Babel
For Allen Ginsberg
We are all toys in God's toybox. I am a G.I. Joe, I'm not one of those colorful superheroes. G.I. Joes are soldiers, G.I. Joes get the job done, and sometimes G.I. Joes get killed in the line of duty. This gives me the fear.
God is a philosopher. God is a scientist. We are all control experiments in His laboratory. BY broad standards all His experiments are a success. All are failures. We all prove the rules. We all reassure God of his immense talent and popularity.
It is a chess game. I am a knight, always taking strange turns just at the end. My horse is a curious one, I am always getting sidetracked. Sometimes chess pieces are taken off the board, which gives me the fear. The only way to manage to stay alive is if your side wins. Kill your opponents, stamp them out, make sure they cannot breathe and will not live. Which side are you on?
We are all florae. I am a hedge that refuses to be clipped. I am not a blade of grass, I am not a weed in the society of grass. He would have me believe that my bright yellow dandelion petals are a travesty to the uniform field of emerald grass. I say to Him, let me be special, let me stand out, let me draw attention because I'm going to anyway, God. God, or no God, you can't stop me.
I am a G.I. Joe, I am an experiment, I am a knight, I am a dandelion. God is a child, God is a scientist, God is a chess player, God is a gardener. I exist independant of Him, I do not need a Prime Mover to motivate me. Child scientist chess playing gardener let me be. Let me float calmly upon the waves of contentment in an inner tube of peace, let me relax. Let me
be.
We are all toys in God's toybox. I am a G.I. Joe, I'm not one of those colorful superheroes. G.I. Joes are soldiers, G.I. Joes get the job done, and sometimes G.I. Joes get killed in the line of duty. This gives me the fear.
God is a philosopher. God is a scientist. We are all control experiments in His laboratory. BY broad standards all His experiments are a success. All are failures. We all prove the rules. We all reassure God of his immense talent and popularity.
It is a chess game. I am a knight, always taking strange turns just at the end. My horse is a curious one, I am always getting sidetracked. Sometimes chess pieces are taken off the board, which gives me the fear. The only way to manage to stay alive is if your side wins. Kill your opponents, stamp them out, make sure they cannot breathe and will not live. Which side are you on?
We are all florae. I am a hedge that refuses to be clipped. I am not a blade of grass, I am not a weed in the society of grass. He would have me believe that my bright yellow dandelion petals are a travesty to the uniform field of emerald grass. I say to Him, let me be special, let me stand out, let me draw attention because I'm going to anyway, God. God, or no God, you can't stop me.
I am a G.I. Joe, I am an experiment, I am a knight, I am a dandelion. God is a child, God is a scientist, God is a chess player, God is a gardener. I exist independant of Him, I do not need a Prime Mover to motivate me. Child scientist chess playing gardener let me be. Let me float calmly upon the waves of contentment in an inner tube of peace, let me relax. Let me
be.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Eternal guarantee
Hey Jesus, a letter slipped through my mailbox this morning. Right through the green door and – poof! – down it fluttered right on the entrance way floor.
ETERNAL LIFE GUARANTEED.
I examined the envelope and my eyes read the wishes of a child.
You know Jesus, when I was a child I had came to believe that death was inevitable and my heart sunk when I closed my eyes for the terrible sight of my casket appeared before me as if someone had deliberately placed it in my head. I knew when I understood time I understood my enemy. And I cried as little as a boy does in the solemn of his room wondering why I had been burdened with such thoughts of an enemy that cannot be beaten. Sorry, Walt.
That’s why I can’t sit in the room with a filled casket, Jesus. These wooden boxes serve one purpose – to sit eternally under six feet of dirt and hold rotting corpses until there comes the time when space runs out for such silly rituals and we are dug up, our bones burned and returned to earth as munch for some plant. I will not lye with a casket’s legacy.
Living forever seems to suit me better.
ETERNAL LIFE GUARANTEED.
This letter with no return address offered me hope that maybe a casket does not await me, after all. Heck, maybe if I play it smart I might become somewhat like you and resurrect every time I get in a mess. Amused with this thought I opened it. Had you sent it to me? I am pious, Lord. I just don’t want to die. Maybe you have finally heard my prayer. I know that you must have – I always betted that if I kept on repeating my prayer to you that you would hear me, based solely on the consistency of my words. It’s no good to just pray one day for world peace and then the next day for the death of the rapist in the news. That was the trouble with most religiosos, they never had uniformity with what they asked for. How could Jesus, as miraculous as you must be, capably fulfil these demands? You died for our sins and not our indecisiveness.
I knew what I wanted and I expected its deliverance had come to me in this letter.
Dear Friend,
You pass through this life but once, death is guaranteed and can come at any time.
Lies! The words on the envelope lied to me. Jesus, what kind of bullshit is this crap offered to paper for my eyes. It proposes eternal life and then I open up and see that it does not propose anything of the sort. It only offers hate and paranoia, a sort of anthrax in word form, infesting itself in to my mind to strip it of the very oxygen of thought it needs and replaced it with fear and distrust.
I am pissed, no doubt. But I am reading on, the disappointment coursing through my veins demanding answers I cannot provide in my heart.
The amazing thing about the salvation message is the plain and simple fact you do not need to believe in God Almighty to begin with in order to accept it.
I close the letter. I accept none of what it says. Had you really sent this to me? Had you nothing better to do? I do not believe you would mock the very thing that beats my heart and calls my soul.
I walk outside and consider the sky. The everlasting sky I live under is filled with azure and stars. I look up and see the unique Preston blue by day and unreachable stars blinking by night over my balding head. Jesus, you’re up there and listening, perched on a star and shedding your light towards our salvation that you no longer want.
Then a curious thought enters my head.
Funny that some men dream of reaching diamonds, not stars, and grabbing hold of them so that they might shine their own light.
Perhaps I should, Jesus?
I close my eyes and there was love and I can’t hear just what I am being told but out of the corner of my dream I turn to look and realise the sky is gone, my heart is gone, my soul is gone. My hands feel just like balloons – they are light and reaching. There is place they are going. Jesus, God, Beelzebub and the others cannot come. They are left in the horizon of this blue ball and my lips move to say to them adieu, good luck god men, but there are no words. Earth is a speck in the vast blackness of the universe. The sound of politics and preaching fade away. My head is clear. I reach for the edges of the nearest star and feel its cutting sides. I want what they offer, what others have wanted. I want eternity.
As I have always.
Things to remember:
Do not look up to seek spiritual guidance.
Read the Bible at least once a day.
Avoid books written by Christian authors as these books will only confuse you.
Never try to understand the Bible through your own understanding.
Our saviour asks your sacrifice.
ETERNAL LIFE GUARANTEED.
I examined the envelope and my eyes read the wishes of a child.
You know Jesus, when I was a child I had came to believe that death was inevitable and my heart sunk when I closed my eyes for the terrible sight of my casket appeared before me as if someone had deliberately placed it in my head. I knew when I understood time I understood my enemy. And I cried as little as a boy does in the solemn of his room wondering why I had been burdened with such thoughts of an enemy that cannot be beaten. Sorry, Walt.
That’s why I can’t sit in the room with a filled casket, Jesus. These wooden boxes serve one purpose – to sit eternally under six feet of dirt and hold rotting corpses until there comes the time when space runs out for such silly rituals and we are dug up, our bones burned and returned to earth as munch for some plant. I will not lye with a casket’s legacy.
Living forever seems to suit me better.
ETERNAL LIFE GUARANTEED.
This letter with no return address offered me hope that maybe a casket does not await me, after all. Heck, maybe if I play it smart I might become somewhat like you and resurrect every time I get in a mess. Amused with this thought I opened it. Had you sent it to me? I am pious, Lord. I just don’t want to die. Maybe you have finally heard my prayer. I know that you must have – I always betted that if I kept on repeating my prayer to you that you would hear me, based solely on the consistency of my words. It’s no good to just pray one day for world peace and then the next day for the death of the rapist in the news. That was the trouble with most religiosos, they never had uniformity with what they asked for. How could Jesus, as miraculous as you must be, capably fulfil these demands? You died for our sins and not our indecisiveness.
I knew what I wanted and I expected its deliverance had come to me in this letter.
Dear Friend,
You pass through this life but once, death is guaranteed and can come at any time.
Lies! The words on the envelope lied to me. Jesus, what kind of bullshit is this crap offered to paper for my eyes. It proposes eternal life and then I open up and see that it does not propose anything of the sort. It only offers hate and paranoia, a sort of anthrax in word form, infesting itself in to my mind to strip it of the very oxygen of thought it needs and replaced it with fear and distrust.
I am pissed, no doubt. But I am reading on, the disappointment coursing through my veins demanding answers I cannot provide in my heart.
The amazing thing about the salvation message is the plain and simple fact you do not need to believe in God Almighty to begin with in order to accept it.
I close the letter. I accept none of what it says. Had you really sent this to me? Had you nothing better to do? I do not believe you would mock the very thing that beats my heart and calls my soul.
I walk outside and consider the sky. The everlasting sky I live under is filled with azure and stars. I look up and see the unique Preston blue by day and unreachable stars blinking by night over my balding head. Jesus, you’re up there and listening, perched on a star and shedding your light towards our salvation that you no longer want.
Then a curious thought enters my head.
Funny that some men dream of reaching diamonds, not stars, and grabbing hold of them so that they might shine their own light.
Perhaps I should, Jesus?
I close my eyes and there was love and I can’t hear just what I am being told but out of the corner of my dream I turn to look and realise the sky is gone, my heart is gone, my soul is gone. My hands feel just like balloons – they are light and reaching. There is place they are going. Jesus, God, Beelzebub and the others cannot come. They are left in the horizon of this blue ball and my lips move to say to them adieu, good luck god men, but there are no words. Earth is a speck in the vast blackness of the universe. The sound of politics and preaching fade away. My head is clear. I reach for the edges of the nearest star and feel its cutting sides. I want what they offer, what others have wanted. I want eternity.
As I have always.
Things to remember:
Do not look up to seek spiritual guidance.
Read the Bible at least once a day.
Avoid books written by Christian authors as these books will only confuse you.
Never try to understand the Bible through your own understanding.
Our saviour asks your sacrifice.
Meditations on the Divine
This month's subject is a doozy. I imagine it is the biggest subject we will ever cover. It is unknowable, yet coneivable. Neither provable nor unprovable, but it remains a constant obsession for the majority of people on the planet.
I'm talking, of course, about God.
The Theatre of Technicolor Dreams is not a forum to discuss the merits of belief in this God or that God, who's right, who's wrong. We will spend the month of November discussing all Gods from all religions past and present (or as many as we can get around to, at any rate), and we're going to set these tales within a contemporary milieu.
We're not going to attempt to answer any big questions, there's just not enough time for that. We will discuss the very nature of God and get inside His head, put them in unfamiliar territory and pick them apart. That's the idea anyway, the creative mind has a way of going where it wants.
So if you're looking for signage on the marquee outside the theatre, perhaps we'll spell it out simply, meditations on the divine.
Now hand your ticket to the usher and enter the Theatre of Technicolor Dreams to witness ... Astonishing Tales of Wonder!
I'm talking, of course, about God.
The Theatre of Technicolor Dreams is not a forum to discuss the merits of belief in this God or that God, who's right, who's wrong. We will spend the month of November discussing all Gods from all religions past and present (or as many as we can get around to, at any rate), and we're going to set these tales within a contemporary milieu.
We're not going to attempt to answer any big questions, there's just not enough time for that. We will discuss the very nature of God and get inside His head, put them in unfamiliar territory and pick them apart. That's the idea anyway, the creative mind has a way of going where it wants.
So if you're looking for signage on the marquee outside the theatre, perhaps we'll spell it out simply, meditations on the divine.
Now hand your ticket to the usher and enter the Theatre of Technicolor Dreams to witness ... Astonishing Tales of Wonder!
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