Theologically abused

—Fuck this, I thought, —I’m going to the mall.

Speaking of his sexual desires, the poet Max Jacob wrote, —Heaven will pardon me for the pleasures which it knows are involuntary. A few years later, Heaven killed Max in a German concentration camp.

This is the term we’ve been using lately: theological abuse. It involves adults, known or unknown to the underage victim, telling them a Lunatic runs the world, that He’s spying on them, that He’s waiting for them to break a rule.

God is here,
God is there,
God is truly
everywhere!

So watch it, kid.

Other choices included “spiritually groped,” “religiously fingered,” and “touched inappropriately by an angel.”

So now we’re blaming God, is that it? You can’t get off and somehow it’s God’s fault?

Yes.

SHALOM AUSLANDER, Foreskin’s Lament

Here

Here in the self is all that man can know
Of Beauty, all the wonder, all the power
All the unearthly colour, all the glow,
Here in the self which withers like a flower;
Here in the self which fades as hours pass,
And droops and dies and rots and is forgotten
Sooner, by ages, than the mirroring glass
In which it sees its glory still unrotten.
Here in the flesh, within the flesh, behind,
Swift in the blood and throbbing on the bone,
Beauty herself, the universal mind,
Eternal April wandering alone;
The God, the holy Ghost, the atoning Lord
Here in the flesh, the never yet explored.

JOHN MASEFIELD, Terra Incognita, from Lollingdon Downs and Other Poems, 1917

Photo: Czech28

Worship

Photo: Kirby, Preying Mantis

Everything is Cinema

 

We do not think,

we are thought.

 

JEAN-LUC GODARD  

Photo: Jean-Pierre Léaud and Chantal Goya in Godard’s Masculin féminin    

See Maxime Desmons’ new short Somebody is Watching Us at Inside Out, Weds May 20, 7:45PM, the ROM.

The noise the brain makes.

 

God, she thought. What does it mean to say that word? Are you born with God? If you never hear the word or observe the ritual, do you feel the breath alive inside you, in brain waves or pounding heart?
 

     She thought that the hovering possible presence of God was the thing that created loneliness and doubt in the soul and she also thought that God was the thing, the entity existing outside space and time that resolved this doubt in the tonal power of a word, a voice.

     God is the voice that says, “I am not here.”

     She was arguing with herself but it wasn’t argument, just the noise the brain makes.

     She has normal morphology. Then late one night, undressing, she yanked a clean green T-shirt over her head and it wasn’t sweat she smelled or maybe just a faint trace but not the sour reek of the morning run. It was just her, the body through and through. It was the body and everything it carried, inside and out, identity and memory and human heat. It wasn’t even something she smelled so much as knew. It was something she’d always known. The child was in it, the girl who wanted to be other people, and obscure things she could not name. It was a small moment, already passing, the kind of moment that is always only seconds from forgetting.

DON DeLILLO, Falling Man

Photo: “Patrick”

Christ

 

“Are you the Christ? Tell us.” “If I tell you,” He replied, “you will certainly not believe; – Luke 22:67

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Apollo revisited.

Though
like so many flames his torso glows,
as his glance, held back instead,

abides and shines. Otherwise his chest’s bow
couldn’t blind you, or, in his waist’s weak turn
display a smile that burns

_____

Pictured: “detsnor”@dudesnude

Guns. God. Country. First. (with the little missus on the side.)

Ain’t that rich white Republicangood ‘ol boy America.

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