The sermon for Oct. 05, 2003 is: the 7th seal, or Lydia the Painted Lady
3:44 p.m.
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aying about on a Sunday afternoon, pain and sunlight and ache balanced like spices in an omelette to achieve a perfect flavour; laying about, paging through a bunch of aborted diary entries written on my Palm Pilot in the hospital dark, wondering if I should post one or two of them; or if it would be best to simply let all the trauma scar over, and all the intervening days shred the memory into confetti; laying about, and thinking about you, are you on Friendster? are you my friend? thinking about Cory, and Brianna, and Melanie, and Stephanie, and Ian Kray, and Christopher, and Ed, and Therese, and Lucia, and Goldie, and Kristin Chew; laying about on sunday afternoon thinking of all my friends, like my grandfather softly urged me to do every night before sleeping, spend the time you still possess in rapt attention to the people whom you love, and pray for god's benison for them and for you, before sinking into the wine-dark sleep, sea bible-black; laying about on sunday afternoon, listening to Neutral Milk Hotel, wailing, "I Love You Jesus CHRIST!!! JESUS CHRIST I Love You Yes I DOOOOO," and thinking, he really loves Jesus Christ; and thinking, if god really is god, and if god is not unkind, then please, god, favour me with some kind of grace, allow me acceptance; allow me to finish reading a book, or to watch a movie in the theatre, a string of hours free of managing pain, meds, blood levels; it's Sunday afternoon, and I'm laying about, despising both the holy silence and the blessed voice; all of these things to pour into my secret diary, legacies and teachings and stories and this-and-that; and yet all I really do feel is this overwhelming and all-consuming desire to perform loud oral sex.
Images are taken without permission from the fine and trusting folks at Folk Arts of Poland; please purchase something from them. Background music stolen without permission from Epitonic, Basta Music, and just about everywhere else my unscrupulous hands could grab something. No rights reserved.
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