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Sunday morning, coming down... The lingering taste of catholicism was still on my waking tongue... a Stigmata hangover, I suppose. Started thinking about the one month where I was practicing the faith, the one month my mother was married to a flower store owner, who was catholic. Bizarre times, those. Too much litany, too much knowledge about the various inquisitions, divorce soon after... I wasn't destined to be there, long. After the first cup of coffee, Miss Jane and I had a little tete-a-tete (no pronunciation marks in simple text, dang!) on the subject... finally, one at which she will talk about, at length. But... finding out about her Tuesday night Jehovah's Witness prayer meetings, here in this house, was a shock. Probably explains why she never bothers with Christmas or birthday presents. Disillusioning, the worldwide battle for "the Chosen Few" title. Perversely, the image that pops in my head is a bumpersticker seen on many Marine vehicles... paraphrased, "Let 'Em Kill Each Other... Let God Sort 'Em Out." Now this. My God, what have I gotten into? Some things I have to let go. This is one. But, a major crack in the already shaky foundation, nonetheless. After that bombshell, the rest of the day paled in comparison. Drugs, I need drugs. And some space. Strange sight of the day... a shit-box Chevrolet, sans license plates, right tires mired in the ditch beside the Federal trench line back in the Wilderness. Living here, in the middle of what was once bloody battleground, it's an unsettling sight... modern chattel on top of a graveyard. Not that I'm all sucked up in the Civil War. I'm so sick of the whole Stars-and-Bars mindset I could puke. Besides, my ancestors are probably spinning in their collective graves over the reggae DJ issue... depending upon whether they're among the heavenly fold, or roasting on a spit in the big oven. But don't quote me to the Watchtower. |
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