For the last five days I have been working on a piece to post here. It was supposed to be my best one yet. They are all always my best one yet, but this one was not. It was a total flop. I wrote it and rewrote it, took out whole sections and added more, then added more, then took out everything I added and more, and just when I was going to post, it was like, Nyah, it’s no good.
Nyah, nyah nyah, nyah, nyah… like that moron in one of Alex’s videos who thought he knew everything and didn’t want to hear a word Alex was saying. Did you see that one?
But never mind, because I woke up this morning with not a thought in my head. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. It scared me at first, and I started trying to think of why, but then I realized how good it felt. Then I remembered being young, so long ago, before I started thinking about things; when I never thought of God, and how great lying felt, and stealing shit, and doing just whatever the hell I wanted.
And then I realized that I was like a Satanist then, and I thought, wow, what if I could be that way again. If I could get rid of God. Get rid of every thought in my head. If I could be a Satanist I could walk right up to anybody, slap them in the face with a lie so they wouldn’t know a thing, take their wallet, take their car, go take their wife and their home, and there would be nothing they could do about it, because I had the power of nothing, and all I had to do was to get rid of God—which it seemed like I could really do, because there was nothing in my head.
And suddenly it felt really good to have nothing in my head, no thought about anything, and I was no longer scared. And then I thought, wow, this is really dangerous because I am thinking of something that is nothing. And then I realized that if I wrote about thinking nothing and put it out there then other people would start thinking about nothing and I could really be something. So I flew out of bed feeling all of the power of nothing and started writing.
Now I am thinking maybe what I worked so hard on for five days didn’t turn out so bad after all, and that maybe I should post it. I guess after this one has sat up there for awhile I will. I mean it’s just me. I might be making a fool of myself. I might be fooling myself. But people there do seem to have minds of their own. I saw it actually in their replies and re-replies to my last, really embarrassing, post and even in my comebacks to their first replies. There was a peculiar alchemy of thought. Despite our differences we were thinking together and better, and bettering the expressions of our thoughts. They weren’t thinking how I thought I wanted them to, but then neither was I.
Now suddenly an old Bob Dylan tune pops into my head:
You walk into the room
With your pants on your head.
You see someone naked and you say
Who is that man?
And something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, mister Jones?
Should I say more? Maybe I should stop and let you think. But, oh, that’s right. I am not in control of that. Only of what I write. Well, supposedly, anyway.
So now I am thinking that maybe I am not doing such a bad job here, after all. The evidence does seem to suggest that I actually am doing some good for others, and they for me…
We were talking
About the space
Between us all
And the people
Who hide themselves
Behind a wall
Do you see?
Are you one of them?
This (not necessarily the tune) goes to the sense I had when I first read their second round of replies, when I posted my second (double-barrel) round of replies to their first—the sense I had reading them, and not necessarily of themselves or their replies. It recalled an event that occurred when I was in high school, laid up at home with hepatitis, when Jesus basically removed me from the world.
I found out years after the event that there was allot of gossip going on in the CM&A church I had been going to, before I “fell away” back into partying and drugs, much worse than before. One of my friends was a known homosexual, unbeknownst to me at the time, and something I did caused them to put that label on me, and quite unjustly I would add.
The pastor had been sending his young assistant, younger than me, to minister to me in my time of need. We were in my bedroom and when he was about to leave, I asked him to pray with me. We knelt down by my bed and prayed together, and I put my arm around him as we did. Oh, no…! That did it.
Although it was completely innocent, meant to show affection and appreciation to my brother in Christ for what he was doing for me, and for which I was thanking God, it was as if I had suddenly become the devil. I am sure you understand. And I have to give him credit for the graceful way he made a hasty exit.
But the next visitation day the pastor came around with him. It seemed like a special occasion, which it was, but it was not what I thought. It was in fact really weird.
I greeted them at the front door and we sat down in the living room; me on a chair and they opposite me on the couch along the front window. I still remember them sitting there in the light, talking only to each other as if I were not even present. After five or ten minutes of this they got up and, without a word to me or even a glance in my direction they simply left, with the pastor firmly closing the door behind them—never to be seen or heard from again.
It reminded me of a great scene, with all of its gravitas, from an old movie that centered around the Catholic Church. Where, with the Bishops holding their lighted candle-tipped golden staffs, standing along both sides of a long room, and with the Pope seated at one end and the errant Bishop standing at the other, the decision is given. The Bishops in unison invert their staffs and stamp out the candles on the ground with a resounding Boom!
I had been excommunicated. It was a magnificent display. Just as cold as ice. I have to laugh now because the pastor hated Catholics. Well, maybe just a chuckle. No. It still makes me sick to my stomach. I have a real problem there, which maybe writing about it will have expiated a little.
Somehow, I am not quite sure of how yet, all of this goes to Bingozee’s comment: “Its also more intended to @John whom I hope can be more aware that he is more capable of changing any situation by his own will above all other things”
And to Fubar’s: “If I was @John or anyone else, I would want them to LOVE ME. I would want them to help me.”
With regard now to them and their replies:
It seems they were speaking as if I might be listening. Although the pastor and his helper were certainly aware that I was listening, they were pointedly not saying anything to me, but only talking about where they were going next. So their replies show a big difference there, though it did not seem like it at the time. I just remembered that little pastoral visit, which obviously had a much bigger impact than I remembered it having, though I am still not sure how it applies here.
In all of Bingozee’s and Fubar’s replies subsequent to my own I detect certain truths which I would like to address, or redress, as it were. Beyond that, in all that we all wrote there is a common element of love in action, as it were.
I was struck by how they ended it before my second round of replies, regarding the question of what love is. I was struck by the hopeless feeling that then ensued regarding intellectual efforts to define love, and equally now by the very hopeful feeling that demonstrating or acting in love inspires in me with regard to understanding love. And I guess that’s been the porpoise of this whole piece