Archive for April, 2012



I Give The Invocation To The Protective Angel; It Goes Like This

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What They’re Building Up There

Here in the Manor, we are devoted to, among other things, Science. This includes the natural sciences.

That is, we study Creatures. And those creatures include ants.

Who are kind of hard to miss here. For they are involved in a Project. And they don’t care who knows it.

From the very moment of occupancy of the Manor, I have observed a steady stream of ants proceeding up and down the front wall, from the ground to somewhere Inside The House. They are always there. Always in motion. Doing whatever it is that they’re doing.

They are like the Post Office. Neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor gloom of night nor knuckledragging GOoPers who want to kill them, stay these beings from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

The difference is, I know what the Post Office is up to. Its mission is to tote mail to and from Ala. But as for these ants, I have no clue, what they may be about.

On the ground, I have traced their trail out nearly to the street, where they go subterranean ‘neath the lip of the concrete walkway. Above, as the photos over the “furthur” illustrate, they disappear under the eaves. Into what I presume is the attic. For there is an attic here. But I have not been up there. And consider it unwise to go there, anytime soon. Or maybe ever. For reasons which shall be discussed presently.

furthur=>

Passing Easter Over

I tried to do my best, here in the Manor, to get with the season, in re Passover and Easter.

It’s true that I didn’t splash any lamb’s blood on my door.

But I did purchase and place a new doormat. Upon which Jesus could wipe the blood off his feet, if he happened to drop by.

Not that I expected him. Because I happened to know that Jesus last weekend was wallowing in roll-away-the-stone passion with a Minnesota siren, there in her abode of toast the savior warm, bouncing the bedsprings with thee.

Certainly there is nothing that I could offer him, that she was not then delivering.

I did bake some lamb’s blood. Oozing outta ground lamb, the essential ingredient in kofta, born of the Egyptians—the Passover connection, there—but these days most often munched by mountain-dwelling Afghans, a little sustenance before they commence to race down the hill to scream and shoot at dull-domed Americans, trying to convince them to get the hey out of their “country.”

You can find the recipe for this wonderment, as well as various assorted other Judeo-Christian heresies, beyond the “furthur.”

furthur=>

An Interest In Ants

“There’s no difference,” Natasha was saying, “between belief in a ‘supreme intelligence’ and the faddish interest in aliens from other galaxies.”

Someone protested. “Statistically there has to be life in other galaxies.”

“But they’re not visiting us,” Natasha said.

“How would we know?” It was Kolya; who else? “If they have achieved intergalactic flight, then they certainly have the ability to disguise themselves.”

“Why would they come to visit us?” she demanded.

“To see scientific socialism in action,” Kolya said, and drew some approving murmurs around the cafeteria, though to Arkady the idea was the equivalent of walking around the world to see an anthill.

—Martin Cruz Smith, Polar Star

Feel

Love Is My Badge

Many Mansions

(There was a request for this one. Since its first nascent appearance in 2009, it hasn’t been able to decide whether it’s more a Christmas, or an Easter, piece. So let it be both. And neither. For what it really is, is “Left Behind.”)

* * *

In my Father’s house are many mansions.

—John 14:2

Christmastime again is here, and so be Santa, and so be Jesus.

A couple years ago, in contemplating Santa and Jesus, the two began to get confused in my mind. Santa Claus, for reasons that have never really been explained, devotes each year to overseeing minute laborers who fashion gifts which he annually delivers, in a single night, to all deserving children the world over. Jesus Christ, for reasons that have been variously explained, roamed for a short time across a relatively minute plot of land, uttering gnomic wisdoms, then was seized and subjected to excruciating suffering, so that all, deserving and undeserving alike, might be gifted with salvation.

When a sprout, I was taught that while Santa’s labors never end—a yearly, year-long grind—Jesus’ was a one-shot gig. Wander around Palestine, ascend the cross, into the tomb, three days later out again, brief appearances before various friends and lovers, then up to heaven for a well-deserved eternal rest.

I no longer believe that. I believe that, as is set forth here, “Jesus Christ suffers from now until the end. On the cross. He goes on suffering. Until the death of the last human being.” That is the mystic meaning of his tale: he suffers with all beings suffering in the exile of existence. And we are called upon to do the same—to grow to empathy, so that thy neighbor truly is thyself, and suffering everywhere, for everyone, may be eased. With this meaning there is no need for the resurrection. All of us are him, doing the same work; our work, his work, never ends.

For those who are wedded to the resurrection, the advances in science and philosophy in my lifetime, in the understanding of the multiple dimensions and multiple worlds about us, too mean that his work never ends. For the planets, it is now known, are innumerable, and so are the dimensional variations of this one. And if salvation is indeed his calling, he will forever be busy as twelve bastards, for there are those who need saving, inhabiting every one.

furthur=>


When I Worked

April 2012
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