From hell with love...
Words flowing in the holy sweats of the night
Apocalyptic fevers scorching the inner eye
The rhythm of silence ravaging the flesh
Truth's unforgiving stare piercing the false protection of will...
With the exception of a mormon church a couple weeks ago (a friend from the band asked so nicely we couldn't say no), I have not been to church since basic training. While at basic, I went every week. I even went after a weekend out in the field and on three hours of sleep with no promise of more. Not because I'm good like that, obviously, but because I was desperate. I clung to the tiniest fragments of beauty those nine weeks - the sunset every morning during PT, the shape of Tom's handwriting, the smell of soap - and sitting in a small, darkwood sanctuary with priests in clean vestments and no yelling for a whole hour...well, it was enough to get me through a week looking towards it. My secret reason for going was it was the only place that the noise receded enough and I felt accepted enough to write anything. I've read the daily (almost) letters I sent to Tom from those nine weeks and I can still feel the stifling brace like breathing underwater, but that was lifted for one hour every week. It would just be a few lines and they would be as simple as those above, but I could feel the words pooling somewhere dark, somewhere hidden, and then I would let a few onto paper. Perhaps my friend was right in her scathing judgement that I went to "pretend" I was "holy". The thing is, I didn't feel holy, I just felt taken care of. For one hour, I felt something holding me and the craziness would hold its peace for just long enough.
I can now write when I want without the threat of punishment or even of being disturbed. I have a quiet place whenever I want it and all the acceptance in this quiet house anyone could ever ask for. Outside these walls, I still have the occasional feeling of panic around those who have power over me, but theirs is generally a subdued and controlled contempt. The funny thing is that the abuse of that place almost a year ago made the words so much sweeter in their getting. To know that I had one hour only to connect or not and then it was back to the biting haze. God knows I would never choose to go back, but there is something so exhilerating about suffering. No one's supposed to admit it but think: have you ever seen the unadulterated pleasure on someone's face that has clearly not known pleasure before? There is no guilt or questioning in it. There is no wishing that it would go on forever without changing. It seems enough that they have felt it just that once and now they have something to remember. And do you not feel envy when you see such a person? You who has so much but doesn't know what it feels like to accept good as good. Well, I have wonderful memories piling on top of themselves and yet it took two months in a mild form of hell for me to feel even a shadow of the sweetness of it. And how quickly I have reverted to demanding my life of uninterrupted comfort back. It begins to seem to me that if I had any wisdom, I would choose the discomforts and the inconveniences or else just let my soul lie on its pricy pillow. It is no wonder that the poor are the favored of God for they have only Him to gather around themselves. And I mean the truly poor. The people who do not know what it feels like to be full. The people who do not have the luxury of calculating futures because their future might only include tomorrow. But aren't we all fools in our castles and gold if we do not realize that our own futures may not even reach tomorrow. We are living what can at any time be It, and yet we behave as if we will never have to answer for any of this. And I can feel so passionate about this and rant beyond anyone's patience who might read this, but in a couple minutes I will go to sleep and I will wake up very tired and very early and I will join the race for comfort again. And I will hate myself for it. I just hope that every now and then I remember my precious hours in a church a long time ago where I felt the acceptance I could not give myself. I pray that my visions of a God judging me infinitely more than I can even judge myself will give way sometimes to the vision of a God that sees it all and loves me. All of me.
Apocalyptic fevers scorching the inner eye
The rhythm of silence ravaging the flesh
Truth's unforgiving stare piercing the false protection of will...
With the exception of a mormon church a couple weeks ago (a friend from the band asked so nicely we couldn't say no), I have not been to church since basic training. While at basic, I went every week. I even went after a weekend out in the field and on three hours of sleep with no promise of more. Not because I'm good like that, obviously, but because I was desperate. I clung to the tiniest fragments of beauty those nine weeks - the sunset every morning during PT, the shape of Tom's handwriting, the smell of soap - and sitting in a small, darkwood sanctuary with priests in clean vestments and no yelling for a whole hour...well, it was enough to get me through a week looking towards it. My secret reason for going was it was the only place that the noise receded enough and I felt accepted enough to write anything. I've read the daily (almost) letters I sent to Tom from those nine weeks and I can still feel the stifling brace like breathing underwater, but that was lifted for one hour every week. It would just be a few lines and they would be as simple as those above, but I could feel the words pooling somewhere dark, somewhere hidden, and then I would let a few onto paper. Perhaps my friend was right in her scathing judgement that I went to "pretend" I was "holy". The thing is, I didn't feel holy, I just felt taken care of. For one hour, I felt something holding me and the craziness would hold its peace for just long enough.
I can now write when I want without the threat of punishment or even of being disturbed. I have a quiet place whenever I want it and all the acceptance in this quiet house anyone could ever ask for. Outside these walls, I still have the occasional feeling of panic around those who have power over me, but theirs is generally a subdued and controlled contempt. The funny thing is that the abuse of that place almost a year ago made the words so much sweeter in their getting. To know that I had one hour only to connect or not and then it was back to the biting haze. God knows I would never choose to go back, but there is something so exhilerating about suffering. No one's supposed to admit it but think: have you ever seen the unadulterated pleasure on someone's face that has clearly not known pleasure before? There is no guilt or questioning in it. There is no wishing that it would go on forever without changing. It seems enough that they have felt it just that once and now they have something to remember. And do you not feel envy when you see such a person? You who has so much but doesn't know what it feels like to accept good as good. Well, I have wonderful memories piling on top of themselves and yet it took two months in a mild form of hell for me to feel even a shadow of the sweetness of it. And how quickly I have reverted to demanding my life of uninterrupted comfort back. It begins to seem to me that if I had any wisdom, I would choose the discomforts and the inconveniences or else just let my soul lie on its pricy pillow. It is no wonder that the poor are the favored of God for they have only Him to gather around themselves. And I mean the truly poor. The people who do not know what it feels like to be full. The people who do not have the luxury of calculating futures because their future might only include tomorrow. But aren't we all fools in our castles and gold if we do not realize that our own futures may not even reach tomorrow. We are living what can at any time be It, and yet we behave as if we will never have to answer for any of this. And I can feel so passionate about this and rant beyond anyone's patience who might read this, but in a couple minutes I will go to sleep and I will wake up very tired and very early and I will join the race for comfort again. And I will hate myself for it. I just hope that every now and then I remember my precious hours in a church a long time ago where I felt the acceptance I could not give myself. I pray that my visions of a God judging me infinitely more than I can even judge myself will give way sometimes to the vision of a God that sees it all and loves me. All of me.
posted by Jesper | 9:27 PM
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