Nostalgia
At twelve I knew
God as a my bedroom ceiling,
the undulating pattern of glue
and sheetrock, the pressed boards
with cold nails living in holes. I knew
God as the final verse of a hymn, when the song
thrust itself out from my throat,
the variance, the pitch, the note.
He stood on the roof, listening to the speaker
at the pulpit praise him, to the mother of four
digging in her bag for cheerios, He smiled. To me,
while His knuckles turned white, gripping the steeple,
He shuddered, shaking off the dust of Sodom, the mist
of Eden, the endurance. He shuddered
while listening to me sing the last note of the hymn
and He prayed, to what, to who; He prayed
as I lay prone in my bed, the ceiling fresh with shunted light.
He prayed as I prayed. As such, I understand why He
was busy when I asked for help. Being twelve I asked
for help a lot.
I knew God then as a visitor, one who lurked
at the window, His voice a crick in the sounds of the night,
the mourning dove, the settling house—uncomfortable
in its foundation—He talked as if wounded, that breezy
voice that interrupted my prayer. The wonder of God
is the moonlight crossing over a boy in supplication. The word
on both our lips just catatonic gibberish, a screech, a bottle housing
a message that will dip and sway with the water, then sink
to a place where it can rest and go unanswered, but known.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Families are Forever....They Say
We all showed up at the baptism ready for anything to happen. We dressed up. We shaved. We made sure to comb our hair, to smoke our cigarettes early enough so that the smell of smoke wouldn't trail us into the church-house. We arrived on time. I, accompanied by my gay brother and his partner, quickly found our seats in the chapel and hushed our mouths. At the front of the room sat my niece in her little white dress--her blond hair in angelic wisps behind her ears. She smiled much brighter than the other eight-year-old children getting baptised last Saturday. Halloween. My niece stood when it was her turn to be introduced. My sister, her mother, beamed with pride. She was at my right, several people down. Her husband sat next to her, then my two younger siblings, then my parents. A smiling, proud, happy family.
My sister's husband sleeps on the floor in the living room. He, almost four months ago, confessed to my sister that he had been unfaithful, with a number of different women, all prostitutes. In the interum of said confession, my sister has waxed and stewed, prayed and fasted--what to do, what to say, how to reliquish this horror and protect her children. She welcomed him back into the home. Phew. With his arrival came a list of things he had to accomplish. Of the many chores, the first was that the dog had to go. He piled the mutt into the car and sped him away. Check. The list went on and on.
Still, sitting in that chapel, the visage of my family seemed so fragile. I watched as my younger brother baptised my niece, her father standing by with a vexed look on his face. Another uncle confirmed her into the Mormon church, and her father still remained stymied and stoic. It wasn't until the small luncheon afterwards, that I finally had had enough. When two of my brothers exchanged brief, but angry words, I got up, said goodbye to those around me and left the church.
It has been almost five days and today, still lurching a bit from a latent anxiety, I called my sister to check in. Of course she had her feelings hurt by my quick exit. She said as much, and I apologized. Yet, it feels unfinished in a malignant way. Their will be more words, I am sure.
I wonder how this chain reaction, this bombshell of a surprise (my brother-in-laws adultery) will continue to make itself known, and for how long it will spread its poison into my family. As if my family didn't have enough shit to deal with--the gayness, the in-fighting, the malaise and distrust we all seem to harbor. To climb up from this feels preposterous. To imagine what it might take to retrace my steps into normalcy while dealing with my family guarantees work, and fucking hard work at that. There is no sure way to quantify the damage sustained, no device to measure the friction or velocity of fury. And if the old adage about families and forever holds true, I need some Neosporin and some Band-Aids ASAP. This wound gonna bleed for awhile.
My sister's husband sleeps on the floor in the living room. He, almost four months ago, confessed to my sister that he had been unfaithful, with a number of different women, all prostitutes. In the interum of said confession, my sister has waxed and stewed, prayed and fasted--what to do, what to say, how to reliquish this horror and protect her children. She welcomed him back into the home. Phew. With his arrival came a list of things he had to accomplish. Of the many chores, the first was that the dog had to go. He piled the mutt into the car and sped him away. Check. The list went on and on.
Still, sitting in that chapel, the visage of my family seemed so fragile. I watched as my younger brother baptised my niece, her father standing by with a vexed look on his face. Another uncle confirmed her into the Mormon church, and her father still remained stymied and stoic. It wasn't until the small luncheon afterwards, that I finally had had enough. When two of my brothers exchanged brief, but angry words, I got up, said goodbye to those around me and left the church.
It has been almost five days and today, still lurching a bit from a latent anxiety, I called my sister to check in. Of course she had her feelings hurt by my quick exit. She said as much, and I apologized. Yet, it feels unfinished in a malignant way. Their will be more words, I am sure.
I wonder how this chain reaction, this bombshell of a surprise (my brother-in-laws adultery) will continue to make itself known, and for how long it will spread its poison into my family. As if my family didn't have enough shit to deal with--the gayness, the in-fighting, the malaise and distrust we all seem to harbor. To climb up from this feels preposterous. To imagine what it might take to retrace my steps into normalcy while dealing with my family guarantees work, and fucking hard work at that. There is no sure way to quantify the damage sustained, no device to measure the friction or velocity of fury. And if the old adage about families and forever holds true, I need some Neosporin and some Band-Aids ASAP. This wound gonna bleed for awhile.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
A Little Dagger in A Perfect Heart
The first Chapter of Job, in the Old Testament, begin by setting up an unusual scenario. Job is "perfect and upright," with riches and a large, healthy family. Unbeknownest to him, a secret meeting is being held within the glittery walls of heaven. God, the Lord, and Satan are all present. They begin discussing Job, his wealth, his upstanding character, and his unwavering belief and faith in the Lord. Verses 11 and 12 include a deal struck and the conclusion of the heavenly meeting: "But put forth thine hand now, and touch all that he hath, and he will curse thee to thy face--this is Satan tempting God, but the Lord responds: "All that he hath is in thine power, only upon himself put not forth thy hand." In the days to follow, Job loses everything, but at the end of his losing, rents his clothes, shaves his head, and falls upon the earth saying, "the Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord" (v. 22).
At the end of the story Job shows his unwavering faith and all that he once had is restored to him, children and all. Growing up Mormon, I was taught to revere Job for his unshakable belief in God--to see him as an open and willing conduit for the Lord's redeeming love. To look at the story now, I see betrayal; I see a trickster God and an ass-kisser for the devil. And I see Job caught in the middle of a huge pissing match.
Later in the Bible, just as THE PREACHER begins his solipsistic and buzz-killing Ecclesiastes, I find another startling example of betrayal. Verse 10 and 11: "Is there anything wherefore it maybe said, see, This is new? It hath already been of old time, which was before us. There is no remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come after." Mere verses later, an indictment to remember everything, to keep it close to the heart, to bear witness, to exhort and change, to forever strive to become like God.
I am not trying to prove the Bible wrong, inconcurrent, or stupid (in its own right). I am trying, like thousands before me, to grab hold of something, to find my own struggle within scripture, to be seen. The language--that brittle diction--paints a Janus God, a multiple personality visage that contradicts his own way home.
I am in the middle of Isaiah now, and I find more of the same, more grafted imagery in the hope to prove the Mormons correct in their religious assumptions. But I care not for Mormon pandering. I want a history, a lithograph of struggle. I want a lead rope. But there are those that will tell me that the journey is half the battle, the fun, the proving ground. It is work to find God. Yet, I am not looking for God, I am looking for his dictionary. I am looking for his journals, maps, and letters. Just to see who it was that began all this carrying on. I have words locked between my teeth, waiting, like a dog, to set them down for safe keeping, because there is nothing of noteworthiness here. Not now. I will just wait.
At the end of the story Job shows his unwavering faith and all that he once had is restored to him, children and all. Growing up Mormon, I was taught to revere Job for his unshakable belief in God--to see him as an open and willing conduit for the Lord's redeeming love. To look at the story now, I see betrayal; I see a trickster God and an ass-kisser for the devil. And I see Job caught in the middle of a huge pissing match.
Later in the Bible, just as THE PREACHER begins his solipsistic and buzz-killing Ecclesiastes, I find another startling example of betrayal. Verse 10 and 11: "Is there anything wherefore it maybe said, see, This is new? It hath already been of old time, which was before us. There is no remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come after." Mere verses later, an indictment to remember everything, to keep it close to the heart, to bear witness, to exhort and change, to forever strive to become like God.
I am not trying to prove the Bible wrong, inconcurrent, or stupid (in its own right). I am trying, like thousands before me, to grab hold of something, to find my own struggle within scripture, to be seen. The language--that brittle diction--paints a Janus God, a multiple personality visage that contradicts his own way home.
I am in the middle of Isaiah now, and I find more of the same, more grafted imagery in the hope to prove the Mormons correct in their religious assumptions. But I care not for Mormon pandering. I want a history, a lithograph of struggle. I want a lead rope. But there are those that will tell me that the journey is half the battle, the fun, the proving ground. It is work to find God. Yet, I am not looking for God, I am looking for his dictionary. I am looking for his journals, maps, and letters. Just to see who it was that began all this carrying on. I have words locked between my teeth, waiting, like a dog, to set them down for safe keeping, because there is nothing of noteworthiness here. Not now. I will just wait.
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