It was a certain rhythm that he loved he felt it in total silence, it faded in the presence of sound, a doumbek of the soul he would describe it.
He remembered how it was before their one God rendered him and his kind mere mythological creatures fit only for poetry and dusty library shelves.
He would have his revenge some day, would condemn their God to a corner of the heavens, an eternity to reconsider the rashness of his narcissism, but
in the meanwhile he would continue to rest in the heart of this constellation hoping to go unnoticed, happy just to listen to the rhythm of the universe.
The lake is slowly receding, fading, the lake we created arrogantly assuming that when it came to nature, we could be godlike. It’s withdrawal has revealed cars, boats and bodies we had not expected there, put by intention or accident, laid bare by nature, once our devoted servant we imagined then a prophet we so callously ignored, now in a retribution carefully ordained, the angel of destruction visiting singular plagues of drought upon us, and we know there are other plagues in store unless we do what we should have some time ago, and we know we will collectively suffer for the obstinacy of the few who value greed so highly.
“When all else fails.” Oh, how I hate that phrase. Plan Omega perhaps, but how do they know all else has failed. Did they make a list? And just perhaps did one else succeed just a little. I mean failure ought to be complete. I know it never is, and if it isn’t tha complete failure then it was at least partially a success in that binary logic. So how do you ever get to when all else fails? God forbid you do, I don’t want to think about hearing “when all failed” for there is nothing to say after that is there?
We hunted him as a stag across his fields, trophy we called him red man, color of Ares, gods sacrificed on our altar, his rivers run with his spirit. I am white bereft of color, barren, a glare a desert stripped of life. It is I who wear Cain’s mark, plucked from the garden the sweet taste fades my lips are dry. You are black an amalgam, green of the grasses in summer field, orange of sun singeing an ocean surf ablaze, blue of a crystal sky purple of robes of Nubian kings, brown of the soil fertile and yielding.
He said he sent God an email but got no response until, after three days, he got a bounce back saying the account had been closed for lack of payment. A few hours on the internet yielded a heavenly website, and after another hour digging down into the site map, he found a tiny hot link to the Contact Us page, and there a phone number he immediately called. What could be better than asking God directly, he figured. He should have known better, and did when on the third ring the phone was answered and the recording began, “For Jewish, Press 1; for Catholic and most Protestants, Press 2; for Muslims, Press 3; For atheists and non-believers, Press 4. He pressed two and was told the office was only open for calls on Sunday from 6 AM until noon, and occasional Saturday afternoons. Unsatisfied he called back, pressed 1 and learned the phone would only be answered Friday night or Saturday, though he doubted anyone worked then. He tried 4 on the next call and was transferred to a line that seemed to be answered in Norwegian by someone who he thought said was in the branch office in Stjordal in Nord-Trondelag. The afternoon was growing short and he realized he didn’t really care about the answer, wasn’t sure he’d believe it anyway.
How often have we sat in pews, on the zafu and heard an enrobed man or woman say “Let me describe for you” that which cannot be described, that which is beyond mere words.
We would be better served to just sit in silence and hear deeply what we need, not empty words meant to lead, to mislead, for you God does not speak and you cannot claim to be enlightened, for both are delusion, but both can be experienced if only you look deeply within.
The internet, he said, was God’s gift to Satan, but Satan returned it within the warranty period since it didn’t bring him nearly as much business as he had hoped. That, and the broadband in Hell was iffy most of the time, something about the heat, like broadband in Florida in the summer, only worse. God didn’t particularly want it, so he gave it to humans, figuring one more plague might keep them from begging for all manner of selfish things.
I have concluded that God created the cat in a moment of exhaustion or of extreme pique. How else to explain such a soft fur covered creature capable at once of a gentle caress and a claw lunging out at a hand or face deemed too close. Why else this projectile constantly launched only at those places it was not to be, fine wood tables etched with reminders of its sudden presence and rapid departure. What else to explain this shedding ball of multihued fur that always curls in sleep in the one place you wish to sit and even when it cedes a seat to you, smirks in the realization you will soon an unexpectedly be half covered in fur. Why this package of fluff and terror crawls beneath your blanket as you verge on sleep curls tightly against you and begins its gentle rhythmic purring that draws you deeply into a world of fur filled dreams.
First Published in ZOOANTHOLOGY, Sweetycat Press, August 2022
In crossing the event horizon dualities collapse and crumble. God and Satan are again merged into a unity, pressed into diamond its glint that of a thousand suns.
We follow as we must, for now there is neither good nor evil, there merely is, and we have found the path we have been seeking on the road to our sigularity.
an old writer and his words 