How difficult it is for a woman or a man to expose themselves, where not even the very core of their being goes unscathed. Are we truly so sensitive to the light, or is it the one who carries it? Woe, woe unto those who shine the light in the dark places, for their reward is punishment. Whoever carries the light is decided to be evil, though the light make clear many things, both good and evil.
How difficult it is for a woman or a man to embrace the light when it comes, to let it shine and pour into the depths of their soul to wring out the bad and scorch the evil with its burning intentions. Is it not also hard for the good to be exposed? For what woman, what man can live with her or his good on a pedestal. Who among them will not build that pedestal of unholy pride, of unrighteous fear of rejection, of hatred of others? No, it is better for the good to be buried beneath the light, that no-one may see any but evil in those with pure hearts. Better to be thought evil than for evil to live in your heart.
How difficult it is for a woman or a man to learn to love the light, even when it is hidden, for when it is hidden we forget it is there and return to our evil ways. When we cannot see the way we must stay the course, for it has already been laid out for us. If we turn right or left to seek the light, will we not fall? Likewise, if we pursue the course without the light's direction, are we not doomed to failure? Life without the light is impossible, nor is direction prudent whilst blind.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Silent Raven
"Er, hello?"
"Yes, hello."
"I'd like to place an order."
The receiver makes a strange scratching noise, like a cat's claws pulling at the carpet. I want to pull away but the phone seems to be magnetically attached to my head. The shuffling on the other end stops and a clear male voice rings into my ear.
"Domai's Pizza, how may I help you?"
"Sal, is that you?"
"To whom am I speaking?"
"The raven quotes no more, though she tries in vain, her voice is heard no more, her cawing silenced."
More shuffling, this is beginning to get annoying. If I hadn't already been so nervous I might have started sweating, as it is my palms are already a sensitive taffy. It all seemed so ridiculous, in another situation I might have laughed. Or cried. Either way it would all be over soon. Brown and his wife are coming over for dinner later, maybe we'll be able to shoot some pool when we're done. Janice . . . she is such a nice woman.
"Domai's pizza, we are preparing your order. Under what name shall we put the reservation?"
"Thomas, my name is Thomas."
I give him my address and feel the back of my pocket for my wallet. I've done it so many times that the familiar bulge gives me some small comfort. I wipe my hands on my finely pleated pants, the sticky sweat pulling slightly at the fabric and leaving smudges on my clothes. A noisy clacking rises from my newly-shined shoes as I tap my foot on the noxious flooring, the grout rotting between the dirty tiles.
"Your order will be ready in fifteen minutes, please be ready to pay when our representative arrives."
"Thank you."
I hang up, my limbs wooden and cold. I stumble out of the bathroom and fall onto my bed, drinking in the familiar smells of stale air-conditioning, incense and dope. It's like I could just lie here forever, let the world move on without me. No, I must continue, I've committed already. Committed to this. I won't fall, I won't fail. Slowly, slowly as if dreaming, slowly as a man in a deep sleep I rise and move to the neatly folded pristinely-white shirt lying on the immaculately clean table. My reflexes are numbed, sluggish, and I do not even notice when I kick past a pile of dirty socks, one of which lands on a piece of pizza so old it has achieved sentience. My focus is on the buttons. There are so many of them. So many buttons.
I'm at my door, but I don't know how I got here. I never know, so I guess it really isn't important. I go to ring the doorbell, but remember the key in my pocket. Silly me. My hand is steady and I feel some part of me hope that the key won't fit. It slides in with a disconcerting click, the lock offering no resistance. Inside the house is just as it always has been, vast and forbidding. Really, I can't even remember what it cost for that ridiculous chandelier, but it must have been expensive. Are those inlays made of diamond? Still, I don't care about that. That's his life, and I don't know Him anymore.
He'll be dead soon anyway.
Oh, there's the doorbell!
The echoes of the bell are still bouncing around inside my head, harmonizing with those voices, those angelic voices. Deep down inside I know it's too late to go back. I am like a celestial body, a meteor doomed to burn up in the atmosphere; I cannot resist the gravitational pull of the door handle. There he is.
"Nice tuxedo."
"Mister Thomas?"
"Come on in."
An open palm waves him in, and I am helpless to stop it. He glances around furtively, and gives me a suspicious glance.
"Where is your . . . client?"
"Open your eyes, he's here."
Eyebrows narrowed, Tuxedo retrieves a small black object from his coat pocket and steps quietly through the long wooden hallway into the marble-floored kitchen. I can track his progress by the clacking of his very fine shoes. It takes him but a few moments to examine the first floor of my mansion. His mansion. Tuxedo returns, and he looks perplexed. I want to put his mind at ease, but my impatience is overwhelming.
"Can't you see Him you fool? He's right here!"
Inside I am writhing, gnawing at myself. He wants to leave, I can feel it. He wants to be set free. He can have my body but He will never have my mind! Quickly I rip open my shirt and bare my chest at Tuxedo. I know I am sweating now, even in the coolness of the central air. Tuxedo is gaping at me, staring at my naked upper body. His hands are trembling.
"Finish it!"
He starts to lift his pistol, the agony of the motion blatantly apparent. I would help him, but I am living in my own agony of existence now. He's figured it out. Maybe He knew all along. Maybe He just drew me along to show me how futile resistance really was. Either way, He would be dead soon, I had made sure of this.
Tuxedo is still lifting his pistol, it's at chest level now, and aimed directly at me. I close my eyes and wait for bliss to overtake me. There's a soft snapping noise, and I smell gunpowder. Has he shot? My eyes are open now, pleased with what they see. I am not so pleased. Tuxedo lies on the floor, blood pooling from his head. His eyes are open, the pupils entirely dilated. I want to cry, to scream in frustration, but He won't let me. He starts laughing, and I can hear the laughter. He can hear the laughter.
I have failed.
"Yes, hello."
"I'd like to place an order."
The receiver makes a strange scratching noise, like a cat's claws pulling at the carpet. I want to pull away but the phone seems to be magnetically attached to my head. The shuffling on the other end stops and a clear male voice rings into my ear.
"Domai's Pizza, how may I help you?"
"Sal, is that you?"
"To whom am I speaking?"
"The raven quotes no more, though she tries in vain, her voice is heard no more, her cawing silenced."
More shuffling, this is beginning to get annoying. If I hadn't already been so nervous I might have started sweating, as it is my palms are already a sensitive taffy. It all seemed so ridiculous, in another situation I might have laughed. Or cried. Either way it would all be over soon. Brown and his wife are coming over for dinner later, maybe we'll be able to shoot some pool when we're done. Janice . . . she is such a nice woman.
"Domai's pizza, we are preparing your order. Under what name shall we put the reservation?"
"Thomas, my name is Thomas."
I give him my address and feel the back of my pocket for my wallet. I've done it so many times that the familiar bulge gives me some small comfort. I wipe my hands on my finely pleated pants, the sticky sweat pulling slightly at the fabric and leaving smudges on my clothes. A noisy clacking rises from my newly-shined shoes as I tap my foot on the noxious flooring, the grout rotting between the dirty tiles.
"Your order will be ready in fifteen minutes, please be ready to pay when our representative arrives."
"Thank you."
I hang up, my limbs wooden and cold. I stumble out of the bathroom and fall onto my bed, drinking in the familiar smells of stale air-conditioning, incense and dope. It's like I could just lie here forever, let the world move on without me. No, I must continue, I've committed already. Committed to this. I won't fall, I won't fail. Slowly, slowly as if dreaming, slowly as a man in a deep sleep I rise and move to the neatly folded pristinely-white shirt lying on the immaculately clean table. My reflexes are numbed, sluggish, and I do not even notice when I kick past a pile of dirty socks, one of which lands on a piece of pizza so old it has achieved sentience. My focus is on the buttons. There are so many of them. So many buttons.
I'm at my door, but I don't know how I got here. I never know, so I guess it really isn't important. I go to ring the doorbell, but remember the key in my pocket. Silly me. My hand is steady and I feel some part of me hope that the key won't fit. It slides in with a disconcerting click, the lock offering no resistance. Inside the house is just as it always has been, vast and forbidding. Really, I can't even remember what it cost for that ridiculous chandelier, but it must have been expensive. Are those inlays made of diamond? Still, I don't care about that. That's his life, and I don't know Him anymore.
He'll be dead soon anyway.
Oh, there's the doorbell!
The echoes of the bell are still bouncing around inside my head, harmonizing with those voices, those angelic voices. Deep down inside I know it's too late to go back. I am like a celestial body, a meteor doomed to burn up in the atmosphere; I cannot resist the gravitational pull of the door handle. There he is.
"Nice tuxedo."
"Mister Thomas?"
"Come on in."
An open palm waves him in, and I am helpless to stop it. He glances around furtively, and gives me a suspicious glance.
"Where is your . . . client?"
"Open your eyes, he's here."
Eyebrows narrowed, Tuxedo retrieves a small black object from his coat pocket and steps quietly through the long wooden hallway into the marble-floored kitchen. I can track his progress by the clacking of his very fine shoes. It takes him but a few moments to examine the first floor of my mansion. His mansion. Tuxedo returns, and he looks perplexed. I want to put his mind at ease, but my impatience is overwhelming.
"Can't you see Him you fool? He's right here!"
Inside I am writhing, gnawing at myself. He wants to leave, I can feel it. He wants to be set free. He can have my body but He will never have my mind! Quickly I rip open my shirt and bare my chest at Tuxedo. I know I am sweating now, even in the coolness of the central air. Tuxedo is gaping at me, staring at my naked upper body. His hands are trembling.
"Finish it!"
He starts to lift his pistol, the agony of the motion blatantly apparent. I would help him, but I am living in my own agony of existence now. He's figured it out. Maybe He knew all along. Maybe He just drew me along to show me how futile resistance really was. Either way, He would be dead soon, I had made sure of this.
Tuxedo is still lifting his pistol, it's at chest level now, and aimed directly at me. I close my eyes and wait for bliss to overtake me. There's a soft snapping noise, and I smell gunpowder. Has he shot? My eyes are open now, pleased with what they see. I am not so pleased. Tuxedo lies on the floor, blood pooling from his head. His eyes are open, the pupils entirely dilated. I want to cry, to scream in frustration, but He won't let me. He starts laughing, and I can hear the laughter. He can hear the laughter.
I have failed.
Spiral surface stripped of sensation,
Clean white exterior inside and out,
Life swirls about all creation,
A depressing ulterior route.
Ratty chunks of foolishness,
Carbon-sodium wrought to amalgam,
We fail all sorts of tests,
It's because of the rum.
Throw out all my change,
I can't even afford the token,
I'll try to be happy, if strange,
But my hedonic treadmill is broken.
Clean white exterior inside and out,
Life swirls about all creation,
A depressing ulterior route.
Ratty chunks of foolishness,
Carbon-sodium wrought to amalgam,
We fail all sorts of tests,
It's because of the rum.
Throw out all my change,
I can't even afford the token,
I'll try to be happy, if strange,
But my hedonic treadmill is broken.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Bias is inherent evil. I cannot escape it, though it does not clutch or claw at me, for it already has me fully in its grasp. Not with the infinity of time and the penultimate power of reasoning can bias be overcome, for you are born with it, and you will bear it as you have borne life's other burdens; you will bear it in submission. There is no choice.
There is a choice. You can live with your bias, feed it, and find one day that it has outgrown the carriage and demands a castle. You can moan and gripe about your fate until it swallows you whole. Or.
You may choose to fight it. Feed it only the barest of scraps, deny it the rights that any living thing deserves. Flog it daily until it vomits, for within this heartlessness lies your freedom. It will never die, it will still grow larger and larger until you find your perspective is not large enough to contain the mammoth within. But.
It will never die. It is important, no, imperative that you know this. Your bias will cling to you until the day you perish from this earth. All you can hope to do is delay its coming. Prevent the apocalypse until it is irreversibly upon you. Then you may embrace it in blissful hope, the hope that in the other world you will meet someone worth knowing.
Sans the bias.
There is a choice. You can live with your bias, feed it, and find one day that it has outgrown the carriage and demands a castle. You can moan and gripe about your fate until it swallows you whole. Or.
You may choose to fight it. Feed it only the barest of scraps, deny it the rights that any living thing deserves. Flog it daily until it vomits, for within this heartlessness lies your freedom. It will never die, it will still grow larger and larger until you find your perspective is not large enough to contain the mammoth within. But.
It will never die. It is important, no, imperative that you know this. Your bias will cling to you until the day you perish from this earth. All you can hope to do is delay its coming. Prevent the apocalypse until it is irreversibly upon you. Then you may embrace it in blissful hope, the hope that in the other world you will meet someone worth knowing.
Sans the bias.
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