Rambling Bullshit

I walked out into the cool of the morning to see the sun cut new shadows into the raised Precambrian and Jurassic temple of all things passed on. The Wingate cliffs burned orange and showed the cracks and fracture of enormous pressure pushing them skyward and rolling them up like a scroll. The Precambrian metamorphic partial melt is thrust out of the ground looking like the corpse of someone’s ancient virgin bride, the skirts of her folding in on themselves in a display of granitic modesty giving the gold light of morning a place to play. She is a bride. She is your origin. Mine, too, but I prefer to think that my genesis was something a little darker than the purple skirts. I prefer stardust and comets tails colliding with a burning planet washed over with caustic HaCL and silica and carbon billowing over the face of the deep. I don’t think God meant “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” to be depressing or a reminder of our short and anticlimactic lives. To be the dust and to be the rocks is indeed a beautiful thing. It was a little too warm for me in the store; I hate heat, though I have functioned admirably in temperatures up to 135. Anything after that number and I start to whine. My record for exposure to a hot day fell sometime in August out in The Gulf, 160 degrees of absolute atmospheric misery compounded by jet exhaust and arduous work. If I remember correctly that loadout was one of the heaviest sorties pre-9/11 ever locked and loaded. The cool of the day would mean the temperature would soar down to around a buck twenty and the swamp fans running in the berthing couldn’t quite keep enough air moving to draw out the smell of men living close and dirty. It was not a good time. That is a lie, it was a great time. IYAOYAS! And so forth.

Now God walked down in the cool of the day and called Adam by his name. He refused to answer, he was naked and ashamed.

Tell me, who’s that writing?

So who cares if John of Patmos is John the Revelator is John the Apostle or not? I read the book of the seven seals as a reassurance to a small and embattled minority facing death and some gruesome torture. When people wonder how the Catholic Church got as bad as it is, I remind them of the men like Eusebius who were absolutely thrilled to see the Roman Empire become the Holy Roman Empire. If you’d been getting genitals burned off with hot plates of iron in front of thousands of spectators, a little guvie love would indeed seem the promised Kingdom of Heaven if you’re writing to the Jews, Kingdom of God if you’re writing to the Greeks. In fact, Constantine’s conversion was seen as the fulfillment of The Revelation. Apocalypto for all you Papists. So then the Turks took their shit back. Holy shit, another thousand years of terror for the Christians who thought they owned the rest of eternity. Now it’s Istanbul, not Constantinople. Call me crazy, but I don’t believe in the End of the World. Unless you’re talking red giant vulcanization. That shit is a fact, bitch.

I need whiskey. Or a woman. Women. Women and whiskey. Or maybe a walk through the Garden in the cool of the day. If I was God, I would stroll around in that hour before the sun is high enough to truly light up the sin and murder of humanity, but after the chill of the cobalt early morning. I would boast to the rocks that they were mine and I would be glad to share rocks and glory; that I had formed them with little mathematical fun things and physical playtoys I had given the Universe. I would bask in mornings like this. I would be happy to share of my abundance.

I miss faith, faith more beautiful than wisdom or knowledge. Knowledge leads to more questions, and Sophie was kind of a bitch, most goddesses are, though I miss the ones I have loved in the past. A kind parent is Faith who quells the monsters of random under your bed and in your head with soothing words. Faith can protect you. Faith kills worry, which has been an issue lately. For what man can add even a minute to his lifetime by worry? I wish it could, with this much worry in my head I could live forever in extra minutes. I don’t have a happy home. A sweetheart I cannot find. I’m not looking, so that might be a source of the famine of femininity. The only thing I can call my own is a troubled and a worried mind. When my earthly trials are over, which may be soon, cast my body out into the sea. Save yourself the undertaker’s fare, let the mermaids flirt with me. God in heaven or in the Earth, or on it and in me and you, however that crap works, I hope is there. Send a band to to gather around me and stand, and when the time is right, bear me away on their snow white wings to my immortal home. The kingdom can have me, I’m tired of all this self-agency. And I’m tired. And maybe ruined. Things are not going well.

Did God create the heavens and the Earth? Well, I can’t prove that he didn’t. I can pretty much prove it took longer than six days. Then again, I like to think the Universe took a little effort on his part. Twelve to fifteen billion years of creative non-involvement or public crafting could yield a work of exquisite beauty. So, I might not be atheist. I can admit it.

Long story short, it’s a beautiful morning, Idaho sucks.



John the Revelator; Traditional
Let the Mermaids Flirt With me; Mississippi John Hurt
Oh Come, Angel Band; Traditional
The Thing About Worrying; Jesus