The Philosophy Of Religion
Theres often a time in Life,
When we have to choose -
between what is right:
and what to lose.
There’s often a time in Life,
When choices have to be made-
You can’t have both;
its just a part of life’s trade...
And Sometimes if you chose right
And not take too many risks
You might find that
The safety’s shore is not too far from sight
There’s often a time in Life
When one seeks The One,
And these hard choices:
seem a lot more Fun...
why fol low the rULES?
Why fol low the rULES? of anything. Why write on a midnight breeze? Why sing songs of glory when we cannot justify peace?
Why do we sit here writing? when there s so much more we can do? Why do wi pass the time like'a sil-o-ette on da blues.
Why follow constructions! They'er just'a rule anyway. Why do anything? when it can be done a different way'
(everything I pounder in life-
A Boy by Any Other Name is Always a Warrior Toy
In contrast to the woman who is protected and rescued, held within the arms of those whom she trusts and loves-- whom she is compelled to love-- this boy, newly born is forced to fight.
This little boy designated already as a soldier, already commodified for product by his youthful, psychologically alluring neoteny of his face. The virtue and wonder inherent in the innocent want to protect. It is the soldier boys who protect out of love, compared to their compatriotic men, defending their right-- faded and slowly peeling at its yellowed edges-- to live and to survive, fighting to see blood, to see blood validating their lives to continue. Insisting, begging that their lives be deemed worthy to continue by the pierce of their bullet or the blood upon curved Army knives.
A boy must fight to live, must fight to love, must fight and fight and fight.
In contrast to the women, trapped within the lovelessness of gilded glass as the rosy promise of a fairytale. Which play upon slowly withering apple cheeks. But amidst the knights and the dragons with their hateful flame, among evil men and other domineering ugly women, who protects the man, who takes their chisled jaw and strong chest to feel the heart beating underneath? Who tells these soldier boys fed the idea of red strings and fawning young maidens that the danger has past? That they are safe. And when are they safe?
To a female past the archetype, to a female breaking from their mold, their opposite is the enemy. The man who so demands their love and their bodies.
However it is the elders in their silvery misted bogs and their wizened hands on cool glass crystal balls who so dictate those rules. Old authors, old male authors of a besotted, plague riddled time who placed these expectations on paper. Of the little girls to be wives, and of the little boys to be soldiers and to constantly battle and beat off the competition.
Separate yet somehow never equal, not within their spheres, or upon each other. When they are.
Borrowing from a more Asian belief, a shuddering notion to be sure, yin and yang. Representing the light and the dark, the good and the evil, as well as feminine and masculine. What we have denominated to equate as boy and girl.
From the youth and exuberance of a boy to the beauty and therefore vitality of a woman do we come to see life be made, new life a blessing in whatever binary form it takes. For a child is sacred in all spheres.
So says the matronly nature of a woman's archetype. But the question must be posed, where is the paternal? The Father is often off fighting war and in stories is often a non-entity or otherwise, a constant obstacle near exclusively to their daughters. In more recent years to the "daughters when asked for sons," of the boys who prefer the artistic, nurturing pursuits deemed gentler and woman-like. When if anything, the brutal punch of an emotional blow damages an individual in a way unreachable for the rite healing much similar to simple and shallow conceptions of human beings.
And better yet when both are in twilight, nearing the end of their lives here and to rise toward guiding lights in the night sky, we focus upon the wisdom gained from a lifetime of war and bloodshed. We call him the sage. While we call her the crone. What of the wisdom from watching a life grow and prosper? What of the wisdom within the peaceful, artisanal little village?
The wisdom of what made a child smile and where vice came to be born within every child making for the dysfunctional. Those all too-- almost too human-- to be included in the category so loftily described.
My Dear Friend Existentialism
Existentialism is my friend.
I try to keep in touch as best I can.
We talk a lot about why I decide
To just keep running the treadmill
When I'm not actually going anywhere.
One thing that's nice about him
Is that he reminds me of what's important.
The things that matter most.
When the TV of Reality is all heartache and pain,
And the writers never give that resolution I so desperately crave,
And it feels pointless to keep watching the show,
He asks me why I haven't decided
To pull the plug on the TV
And just sit in dead silence.
And so I always find a reason
To justify not doing so.
Like, maybe next season,
The show might take a turn for the better
And then watching it will be worth it.
And he asks me how I know that,
And I tell him I don't.
I just hope.
And I trust.
It's like the same reason I run the treadmill
When I'm not actually moving.
I just trust.
I trust that all my running in circles
Will eventually make my heart stronger,
So that maybe I can run marathons someday,
And maybe I can win.
How I met my friend,
I don't completely recall.
I think my house burnt down one day when I was young.
And then he saw me lying there years later
And thought he'd have a chat.
Keep me company.
He asked me why I still lay there amongst the ash and rubble,
Even though I don't have the strength nor the materials
To build it back up.
He asked why I didn't just bury myself along with it.
And to be honest, I didn't know at the time.
It took me a couple years before I learned the answer.
It took me a couple years to learn to trust.
But existentialism helped me get there.
With all his questions, and all his nudging,
He helped teach me.
Don't ask me where I live today.
It's not a good place.
But there's still a roof over my head,
A cushion on which to sleep,
And food on my plate every day.
And you can guess who helped me find it.
He told me where to look,
And I went searching.
And now here I am,
Still holding on,
And still waiting to rebuild my house.
But at least I'm still waiting.
And at least I know why.
All because my dear friend
Walked up to my broken doorstep
And decided to say hello.
And for that, I will always owe him
The greatest of my thanks.
The Funnies
hell
it seems
at every
mid weekend
we've made
some choices
and wonder
about
"Choice"
like
Sans
Andreas
fault
lines
we've straddle,
as if these
were horses
and we were
green face
nightmare
jockeys
on whom
we've placed
bets upon,
and all
life's worth
is riding
on...
That is the
illustration of
Existential
Dread.
06.26.2024
God, The Universe, and You Part 7: Existential Dread
The Martyr
Very simply, from what is described, the Sin-Eater is a position that provides ample excuse to sacrifice the undesirables of any given village. Those who simply humans deem are unworthy of God in some way, and so very often do pay for it with their lives since one) they're eating off corpses, two) if they have that person's sins than are they now marked as sinful and deemed "acceptable" to further shun and even attack? People can be-- savage and stupid in so few words. And three) they aren't even paid well for the work, at best get a meal infested with maggots and flies for their troubles until they're back to starving by breakfast time and no one to give them the time of day.
The Sin-Eater supposedly such an important task, is not left to the "worthy," not those with souls deemed saintly or innocent. I doubt they think children should be spared for their imbibed purity as God's favorites, God's most precious creations and angels among humans. I doubt such thoughts of who may die or be ill crosses their minds in order to spare those people the strain. Rather, who "should," be ill or dead.
Much more likely is that the Sin Eater is thought of in the ways of virgins sacrificed to mountain gods in Edo Japan, perhaps beautiful but more likely little girls deemed unsuitable for marriage among the boys and demonized by the adults and only family to defend her if she's lucky. Or the unlucky child in 'The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas,' who were blind to a single child's constant misfortune since it forfeits their utopia, which is frankly a sickening principle. It should be that the collectives are safe, that a society is loyal and serves the many-- as many as it can-- and do good by its people.
In any fair world, in any one that supposedly reveres their God as much as they fear him the Sin-Eater should be exalted and do that duty willingly and for selfless purposes if they wish to preserve the meaning in the first place. Then otherwise what kind of fair is it if a person already sinful is tainted with the sin of greed and vanity? Or better yet, the entire ritual poisoned by prejudice, disdain, and apathy?
A Change
I was eight. It was the end of the day. My brother was crying, my parents were yelling, I was caught in the frey. I was curled in to a ball, between corner and a wall. Just like today, and yesterday and the day before, my soul longed for something more.
I wanted my parents to stop fighting. All I wanted a belly that was full. I was scared. My only comfort remembering that this isn’t my home. But it was. That was the thing. There was no where else to go. No escape for me. I remembered the dinner I had the night before. Then heard my dad say it couldn’t go on anymore. Everything I’d done, all the moping and crying, all it did was delay the inevitabl.
No matter how hard they tried, no matter how much time my parents spent it was never enough to win in the end. It never drove away the suffocating pain. The traffic, the head lights, they left me insane. They had helped me before, when I told them what was wrong, but it always went back to the way it was before. So this time, I did something new. I got up and asked myself what I needed to do. There was a mess in the kitchen and everything else besides, but I decided to start with a dish at a time. Slowly, slowly the pile grew. I couldn’t clean them faster than make them, can you? I tried to carry it all and never fall. I became a diplomat, carving peace on a wall. But the tower of dishes, one day, did fall. I guess it was bound to fail. I couldn’t fix it all. Now I sit, after the ashes are cleared. Wondering when it all disappeared.
What the Flock
Now I may be done poor, but I ain't stupid.
Maybe it is I don't know how to read and write, all proper, but I can make the sign of cross and my signature on paper's same as anybody else. The important part, see, is that I understand—and that, more than I let on.
When they tapped me on the street, the Mi'lady and Lord, wanted only that I's should be capable to adequately sign, with scratch marks like so, X.
In the anonymous old traditional way that signifies a living soul was present: Here.
Mi'Lord, he says emphatically, that t'aint necessary I know my spelling, I need only make that universal slash slash on that line right there. See?
Well, I says shrewdly, I don't have my specs, and this to buy me some time to look over the contractual of it, short and to the point as it is, while I sees Mi'Lord give a loving turn of the mouth to the Mi'Lady, as he pats my shoulder and says warmly the "document" signifies that I am entitled to some quick income and free meal, for a short stint, I need only X on the line below, to show that I agree to attend the funeral banquet of the honorable VIP from nth O'clock for no more than one hour or so...
so long as I partake fully in the offertory meal.
I maybe street urchin, but I weren't born yesterday.
I says, affably, where do I sign? squinting at Mi'Lady as she points with plump gilded nail. Bumbling, I make my chicken scratch, signifying anonymous witness, nameless, faceless— all ready, willing and able—to be plucked off.
The dearly departed is to be buried in a fine plot on Ackers Point, they cheers in chorus, the service painstakingly called a Plein-Air. And they lift a noble finger, over the hill just yonder, can't miss it and don't be late, as it starts in a few minutes. Ta tah!
The offertory meal I know is the supposed rightin' of wrongs indulged in by the deceased, dame or bloke. And I as human supplicant am to eat this anti-waffer so that excess Sin may be forgiven.
Twasn't enough Jesus died and rose again.
Twasn't enough the sinner went to church, for show, and tell, at Confession.
This here contract, that I can read well enough, mumbo jumbo, says I will take upon myself, this hungry body, the food and loathing that would otherwise weigh down the soul and keep it from eternal rest. The Sins worth measured in flour. I wonder something about the yeast of evil, and the unleavened, and turn to the hill.
You'll note, I signed.
My tethers, reassuring Mi'Lord and Mi'Lady that I am well qualified, needy and charitable. What they don't knows is that I have even in these rags, pockets and folds sheltering vermin, and they have overlooked, as snobbery does, the feathered cohort that perches on my shoulder.
Dismissed as dumb blackbird of a batty old lady, soon to die as well.
We arrives timely. My feathered companion's well organized socially and signals his compatriots with a few good kracks and kows. We go to our work. I breaking bits quickly and scattering them, among bird, rat and mice. It takes a good while for anyone to catch on. Minutes, but tis enough. For us it's short work, the birds are flying in steady, five, seven, in patches, hoards altogether... Peppering the ceremony.
There is fear and a consternation.
The same Mi'Lord and Mi'Lady are rushing aghast to my seated person and shooing at the flock that's gathered.
"What the Devil are you doing?! a person must eat this food, not crows!!!"
I know, and I spread my open hands broad and empty...
Like I've no idea what's going on here...
Then I make a show of picking my yellow jagged teeth with a sharp black quill.
I says: "Maybe somebody with better tooth or bigger stomach could take over... " ?
The flock, heavy with feed, rises, menacing beaks and blimp bellies. And Mi'Lady shrieks, Mi'Lord grabs his gun to stop the offertory from getting away...
She is sobbing: "But... We don't eat crow, we don't eat crow...!"
I know.
I'm a sin eater
greedy for dried up moldy scrapes of bread
brown worm infested fruit left for the gods
I'll eat anything other people's transgressions
what are a few more added to my own pile?
So serve me up in a platter large
bulging fat full ready to explode
at the poke of a knife fork prick
pissing vomit half-digested sins
mine & others all over the gods
When Eating Is a Sin
"If you eat meat on a Friday, that's a mortal sin," said the priest during Religion class.
"Who says?" I asked.
"The Church says," he replied. "And the Church is the direct extension of Jesus."
"So Jesus said you can't eat meat on Friday?"
"Not exactly. But through those he appointed to carry on his church."
"So, we don't know for sure then?" I prodded. The priest wasn't happy with me.
"That's just the way it is," he said with finality.
"Who says?" I asked again, defying finality.
"I say."
"Are you Jesus?"
"Kind of."
"Wow!" I said. And I was confused. Kind of. "I have a lot more questions, Father."
"You need to go see the principal, Sister Helena."