admin
22 December 2023
In the back of my head there's a memory of a church. Its ceiling had a picture of God's angels. I think it was a flock of seraphs, if seraphs travel in flocks. "Six wings, many eyes." I was young when I lived this-- too young to be thinking things like, "Christ! Those fucking angels are weird looking!"
I realized right then and there how bladder-busting scared hymen-havin' Mary must’ve been when that creepy angel Michael came and filled her belly with God's sperm. Could you imagine being startled, seeing one of these fucked up angels, and waking up pregnant? When God's pulling stunts like that, why would anyone want to go to Heaven?
The colors of that ceiling, and the creepy angel painting tattooed on it, were gorgeous: milky, silky, creamy bronzes, browns, and oranges; rich, warm blacks, mostly in the eyes and eyebrows; and the most beautiful, yet uncomfortably solid baby blue sky. I used to do this thing where I would let my eyes shift out of focus, and the world around me would become a blur. My imagination would walk into that out-of-focus land and explore. I shifted my eyes at that ceiling, and the outlines around the Seraphs' wings became the bars of some holy jungle gym for the desperate and hopeless, constantly climbing, like contemporary Babylonians. I reached out for it, my hand entering that out-of-focus world, and realized that, even in my imagination, where I am king and monarchy is something I believe in, God's great guardians, and their surrounding kingdom, were not meant for my reach.
So I decided that day, young and full of future, to abandon this Lord of mine for a bit, and become a Doubting Thomas. I questioned for answers, but never got anything more than an educated guess. I read Greek Mythology, and asked why it, too, was not religion? I learned about Nefertiti and Tutankhamen, and asked why they were not prophets? I asked the most devout sayers of His name why we so blindly accepted all this. I asked my parents.
But it was a futile thing to do. God had glazed their eyes over: shields from the son. Arguments would ensue, screaming would follow, and silence would finish it like a knife in the side.
I'd stand there, dismayed, and then horrified. The television took root in the corner, and spoiled like a toilet, spilling a mind-numbing filth worse than God's out into my parents’ ears, embracing and coddling them, like a mother would a frightened child. I was the threat to God, and the TV, and the people those things controlled. I rolled my eyes, and began to plea, but my parents were too far gone, singing along to their toilet mother's lullaby: "Whatever happened to predictability?.."
I realized right then and there how bladder-busting scared hymen-havin' Mary must’ve been when that creepy angel Michael came and filled her belly with God's sperm. Could you imagine being startled, seeing one of these fucked up angels, and waking up pregnant? When God's pulling stunts like that, why would anyone want to go to Heaven?
The colors of that ceiling, and the creepy angel painting tattooed on it, were gorgeous: milky, silky, creamy bronzes, browns, and oranges; rich, warm blacks, mostly in the eyes and eyebrows; and the most beautiful, yet uncomfortably solid baby blue sky. I used to do this thing where I would let my eyes shift out of focus, and the world around me would become a blur. My imagination would walk into that out-of-focus land and explore. I shifted my eyes at that ceiling, and the outlines around the Seraphs' wings became the bars of some holy jungle gym for the desperate and hopeless, constantly climbing, like contemporary Babylonians. I reached out for it, my hand entering that out-of-focus world, and realized that, even in my imagination, where I am king and monarchy is something I believe in, God's great guardians, and their surrounding kingdom, were not meant for my reach.
So I decided that day, young and full of future, to abandon this Lord of mine for a bit, and become a Doubting Thomas. I questioned for answers, but never got anything more than an educated guess. I read Greek Mythology, and asked why it, too, was not religion? I learned about Nefertiti and Tutankhamen, and asked why they were not prophets? I asked the most devout sayers of His name why we so blindly accepted all this. I asked my parents.
But it was a futile thing to do. God had glazed their eyes over: shields from the son. Arguments would ensue, screaming would follow, and silence would finish it like a knife in the side.
I'd stand there, dismayed, and then horrified. The television took root in the corner, and spoiled like a toilet, spilling a mind-numbing filth worse than God's out into my parents’ ears, embracing and coddling them, like a mother would a frightened child. I was the threat to God, and the TV, and the people those things controlled. I rolled my eyes, and began to plea, but my parents were too far gone, singing along to their toilet mother's lullaby: "Whatever happened to predictability?.."
artid
1499
Old Image
5_12_sarah.jpg
issue
vol 5 - issue 12 (aug 2003)
section
pen_think