Sunday, January 18, 2004

Crazy? Um, yes.

I'm going to write this all down, grammar be damned because I know I'll forget about it soon. I'll forget, because it was an exceedingly fucked up dream. It made me think though. I guess you could say I had a vision, almost. It was like when the natives were taking peyote out in the desert. Or Jim Morrison.

I was getting ready for school. I have this recurring nightmare that I somehow failed a class and that someday they're going to catch my ass and throw me back into a pleated, plaid, itchy, horse-blanket skirt. Yes, I went to a catholic school.

My family was understandably disappointed that I fake-graduated 5 years ago. They wanted me to go to church. They wanted me to go to AA. I settled on going to freaky church 'alcohol=bad' club. And this is where the fun begins. I've always had a raging crisis of conscience in the migraine center of my head where the church, god, all his wacky followers meet. I guess because the majority of the early-life crisis took place in Dogma class, my dream-world fun decided I shouldn't pass it, just to see what if.

A little background; I was never able to swallow my religion hook, line and sinker. I always had lingering doubts about an institution run by people. And people are fundamentally flawed. It would be different if the big G had a desk on the 18th floor and bitch-slapped the self-righteous clergy on a regular basis. But I haven't seen God rain down fire and brimstone, shove any lightening bolts up any asses, or do any general smite-ing in a really long fucking time. I know doubting Thomas is portrayed as a bad guy, but at least he had the sack to speak up.

Yes, I question things. I question the bull-shit infallibility of a church that murdered millions of people in witch-hunts. I question a church that likes to cover up molestation charges regarding altar boys and Father Mulligan. I resist a church that refuses to let women take an active role in reshaping misogynist policies that have endured since the early years when lions where eating us. I am digressing majorly, back to dreamland.

I am back in high school. They have had an intervention for me. They fear for my soul more than my corporeal drunken-ness. My brother is leading me by the hand to the church basement for the slaughtering. What exactly we're slaughtering I find out later. It's a doozy. There's coats strewn hap-hazzardly on chairs and in corners. People are drinking coffee and punch, waiting. I fall down and know one seems to notice as they step on my face, hair, wrists. I pretend I can skip ahead in time and change reality itself when I blink my eyes. There. His hair turns blond. Now he's 20 years older. I skip billions of years into the future where the Japanese fighting fish the Sunday school kids keep as pets have evolved into dangerous, languid dancers, their diaphanous vestigial fins swirling in front of their dry, long, teeth. I blink again and I'm back in my own reality. I sit up, curious as to why I'm no longer being trampled by the children of the meek. I look for my coat. It's cold and it's raining and my diaphanous skirt isn't doing a very good job hiding my vestal legs from the dangerous alter-boys. All at once I am terrified.

Their is a slow hum, a buzzing coming from the floor, or below the floor, and it is maddening in the way it seizes the back of your head. I walk around trying to divine the source with a forked branch. I hope to gods this forked branch can find a forked tongue. And no one else can hear it. They are laughing, eating cookies, tending to the children who look vaguely disturbed because they know something is not quite right. The intensity it like insects crawling in a cadaver, hungry for the chew. But I'm not dead yet. And it's my brain they take away. My nose is bleeding freely now, but no one seems to notice. My brother takes my hand and we leave this place.

He seats me in the cavernous, yawning mouth of the church as he goes to pull the car around; my lips are blue and my coat ran away. I see a room at the end of my hallway and walk over to see the curiosity of an un-locked door. Inside, music is playing. Headphones are lying on the table, as is an enormous catalog of music. I put the large ear-muff looking head-gear on, and press play. Collective soul. I skip ahead. Creed.

I decide to put in a new cassette. Creed again, or something very similar. I know these can't possibly all be Creed songs, but whoever this is bleating tone-lessly in my ears is doing a damn good impression. For several minutes I sit and concentrate on finding something that doesn't suck. All the Christian music in the world at my disposal and I can't find one good song. I recognize that this might be a metaphor for something by can't tell what. I am hazy and dreamy and that can wait till tomorrow. And, they've been watching me.

She walks up behind me and points out one of the album sleeve's as her own recently recorded music. For a second I remember her, singing in the sanctuary, gat-toothed and smiling. She's trying to save me. I think she's the one who needs saving. She's inviting me into her fellowship, letting me borrow some suggested reading materials. I excuse myself somewhat rudely, explaining quickly that my brother is waiting for me outside. She says something so sad next, that I feel awful for being too smart to not know the difference. She asks if I want the love of her God and her church. But I am awful in general when I say something snide under my breath and leave her holy books in the trash.

I want to be saved. I want to be liberated from an unimaginative, un-original flood of awful, shitty art 'inspired' by God. Like writing and singing about God automatically makes it ok to not try and suck ASS. But I'm exhausted, my brother has left me, and I have to call my dad for a ride home.

This is so fucking long of a post, and sadly there is more to go. My tummy is growling and I must feed it. More later, promise.

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