the 13th disciple
He felt certain that his heart must be splayed open. From one end of the land to another, cut wide open and spread like the heavens all over God’s green earth. The heavens like his heart, are falling. An imperative falling. falling. Falling. Falling from God’s infinite grace, yes, there is a space beyond the infinite where even his Almighty cannot glimpse into. It is the land where there exists the ripe green possibilities of contradictions, where hope, chance and fate coexist and now that his heart had been ripped asunder, that land was where he must trod like a giant in verdant fields, not knowing where his feet would fall next. Where would his voice break into and split open the air, a streak of carbon on an ivory white bedsheet? The golden tresses of a fifteenth century magyar princess being as much an anomaly here as it was there, this was Seamus’ shame and mercy to his fellow human beings. And now on a cobbled stone street, he kicked a stone against a whitewashed wall to kill time, his hands in his pockets, his head down and a constantly searching hand in the breast pocket for the next nonexistent fag.
Seamus had embarrassingly forgotten his manners as well as the fact that he had given up smoking. His tom-foolery had brought about the undo attentions of the landlord and the lazy kiter that seemed to only appear as the impetus of trouble on any given morning of the depraved sabbath breaking Sunday morning bender. In another way, the man was an unbearable angel of treachery who kept his debauched condition within the confines of his own digs. Seamus, ah Seamus, was a public spectacle, an impassioned imbecile masking that which had hurt him the most, the pain of the compassionless man.
Ah, and yet, it was the compassion that he lacked that drove Seamus to his utmost skill. To understand God Himself. And in that he gave his fullest level of coming face to face with God for it was within himself to be at a momentary impasse with the rest of humanity. A great divide that can never be crossed, at any given moment he could find himself on the other side.
He could very often loose himself in a timeless escape, one that he had imagined in his young time. Ever so often, Seamus would imagine himself in an alternate time, lost in the reflection world of shiny or polished cars. On the surface of automobiles, his world would diverge, melded into that of his reflection. This availed a manner of reality where he could provide the other fiction of his burgeoning interest in God well, into that of his imagination. He would often wonder where his alternate would go to after the fruition of the “spotting.” Would the thin grotesquely spotted and elongated Seamus of the reflective wheel well go careening off the bumper and into the rear view emotion-instant he had just left a moment ago?
And then. And then it slid by with a silent glowing silkiness that left afterimages on his retina. A holy ghost of red spinning by, careening upwards that spun by his sight and left him right where he had started on the street corner. Seamus hurried and ran. His coat flopped against his thighs, his flat feet pounded the pavement. He ran. He ran without regard for compassion or pity or for his fellow human being. It was a flight without wings to find his God. To find his own Godliness. Each footfall upon skin stretched tight calling out, falling down, gaining momentum, slackening, rending his heart, tearing it in two between Man and god. Where would he fall? He spun around the corner and nearly slipped upon the wet street. He tumbled and spun around to his hands upon the ground in a puddle. He looked up, panting.
Clearing his mind in a familiar ablution, he arose from the muck of his mind and carried on, dizzy in his thoughts. A smile broke across his jowl as he thought to himself, “what a beautiful day for a stroll,” when he was struck dumb in the next moment by what stood before him. He stood upon a high street promontory over looking the entire city. He was looking into his own heart spread out before him. A pigeon alighted near his feet and began pecking. He kicked it away. It gargled back at him in protest. The city gurgled and belched smoke before him. People hung out the wash and he could hear the familiar, but altogether new sound of the zip of the clotheslines afore him. Singing songs, fighting, cursing, spitting words and washing it all away with the water from the garden hose or bucket sprayed into the streets. The caucophany of people came to him riding upon the fetid wave of greasy heat that was within his heart. It stuck there, quivering, like an arrow newly released into the trunk of a tree from its makers bow. Seamus could scarcely believe what he saw. He was looking into his very being, his heart, his soul. And he loved them, he loved his own heart, he loved himself, he loved god, Man, all of it and none. he fell for it like he had young Shelley, heart palpitations, (there was that word again!)(heart, heart, heart.) sweaty hands, clumsy words and more. He loved, he loved, he , Seamus, could love again, against his better intentions, he loved. In this, in his Sunday ablutions laying prostrate, obeissantly in peat.
Seamus had embarrassingly forgotten his manners as well as the fact that he had given up smoking. His tom-foolery had brought about the undo attentions of the landlord and the lazy kiter that seemed to only appear as the impetus of trouble on any given morning of the depraved sabbath breaking Sunday morning bender. In another way, the man was an unbearable angel of treachery who kept his debauched condition within the confines of his own digs. Seamus, ah Seamus, was a public spectacle, an impassioned imbecile masking that which had hurt him the most, the pain of the compassionless man.
Ah, and yet, it was the compassion that he lacked that drove Seamus to his utmost skill. To understand God Himself. And in that he gave his fullest level of coming face to face with God for it was within himself to be at a momentary impasse with the rest of humanity. A great divide that can never be crossed, at any given moment he could find himself on the other side.
He could very often loose himself in a timeless escape, one that he had imagined in his young time. Ever so often, Seamus would imagine himself in an alternate time, lost in the reflection world of shiny or polished cars. On the surface of automobiles, his world would diverge, melded into that of his reflection. This availed a manner of reality where he could provide the other fiction of his burgeoning interest in God well, into that of his imagination. He would often wonder where his alternate would go to after the fruition of the “spotting.” Would the thin grotesquely spotted and elongated Seamus of the reflective wheel well go careening off the bumper and into the rear view emotion-instant he had just left a moment ago?
And then. And then it slid by with a silent glowing silkiness that left afterimages on his retina. A holy ghost of red spinning by, careening upwards that spun by his sight and left him right where he had started on the street corner. Seamus hurried and ran. His coat flopped against his thighs, his flat feet pounded the pavement. He ran. He ran without regard for compassion or pity or for his fellow human being. It was a flight without wings to find his God. To find his own Godliness. Each footfall upon skin stretched tight calling out, falling down, gaining momentum, slackening, rending his heart, tearing it in two between Man and god. Where would he fall? He spun around the corner and nearly slipped upon the wet street. He tumbled and spun around to his hands upon the ground in a puddle. He looked up, panting.
Clearing his mind in a familiar ablution, he arose from the muck of his mind and carried on, dizzy in his thoughts. A smile broke across his jowl as he thought to himself, “what a beautiful day for a stroll,” when he was struck dumb in the next moment by what stood before him. He stood upon a high street promontory over looking the entire city. He was looking into his own heart spread out before him. A pigeon alighted near his feet and began pecking. He kicked it away. It gargled back at him in protest. The city gurgled and belched smoke before him. People hung out the wash and he could hear the familiar, but altogether new sound of the zip of the clotheslines afore him. Singing songs, fighting, cursing, spitting words and washing it all away with the water from the garden hose or bucket sprayed into the streets. The caucophany of people came to him riding upon the fetid wave of greasy heat that was within his heart. It stuck there, quivering, like an arrow newly released into the trunk of a tree from its makers bow. Seamus could scarcely believe what he saw. He was looking into his very being, his heart, his soul. And he loved them, he loved his own heart, he loved himself, he loved god, Man, all of it and none. he fell for it like he had young Shelley, heart palpitations, (there was that word again!)(heart, heart, heart.) sweaty hands, clumsy words and more. He loved, he loved, he , Seamus, could love again, against his better intentions, he loved. In this, in his Sunday ablutions laying prostrate, obeissantly in peat.
posted by BrenGun at 2:18 PM
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