I often catch myself looking into a mirror, at my own dashing reflection, and surely what part of me that ‘catches’ the admiring attribute of my soul is the same part that caused me to participate in weekly mass. That is in fact where I sit now, on a hard wooden bench, with the hard words of the priest as a form of white noise to my writing. His name is John, but unlike his Christian predecessor of the same name, he is wearing a royal purple vestment and a tall royal priest hat-thing. You know, one of those caps that looks like the end of an uncircumcised penis. He is like a holy erection spewing forth the seed of renewal upon us sin ridden-whores, who listen raptly, on our knees like common sluts. I’ve never really cared much for mass, the entire ordeal is as palatable as a barbed enema, and I must be cleansed by this ancient torture ritual once a week at least. I must because a part of me knows that God exists, and therefore so does Jesus, and so did Moses. They have each in their own way told us how bad humanity is, how fucking wretched I am, and I just feel so dirty because I know this is true. I need to be cleansed, and the only method that works is this weekly enema. But unlike these guilty fools around me, I also use my time in church to fulfill my duty of weekly prayer, and I do this in writing. I write a confessional eulogy to my regrets.
I have never once entered the standard confessional box, you know, that little compartment where you tell your darkest sins to a man who is sitting behind a screen. I figure that all of that is merely a superficial middle-man to Jesus’ attention. I figured that although God was real, and that at one point he drowned the entire earth as a punishment of sins, the Catholic church had devised a method to interrupt man’s communication with the Father, under his nose, without causing him to sneeze. This method was exemplified by the row of velvet confessional boxes which stood like a platoon of accusatory old widows in the shadowy region to the left of the pew. For whatever reason, God had decided to allow the conduit to his non-Jewish children to corrupt from a divinely inspired institution to a gaudy guard house protected by Swiss soldiers wearing the most ridiculous get-up that the mind of man could conceive. For God so loved the Jews that he gave them the diaspora, and he so loved the rest of the world that he gave them Catholicism. Praise be to God, and it is now that I praise Him. I praise Him, the creator of circumstance and of the eternal recurrence of circumstances, because He represents what is noble, elegant, and true.
God, whom to me represents the acceptance of eternity, is an existential idea which preceded the Existentialists. The Existentialist is so because he realizes that God is either already dead or dying, but still esteems the ethos of eternity as worthy of consideration. He finds an existential way to deal with the problem of depression and eventual inward collapse: He damns up the river of regrets, and he forces one to look unswervingly at the truth.
Oddly, though I know of the concept of a God’s superficiality, I make the choice of participating in the weekly Catholic mass. Around me sit two-score and twenty thousand common folk who still interpret reality from the basis of an archaic myth. They smell like the Preferred Cologne of the Herd. A mixture of musk and alcohol. To whom do they sing their odes? To a deity which enshrines suffering as ideal, and pleasure as discord, guilt is the essence of Christian existence, and so it inspires regrets and mistakes. These people are so shallow that the genes which cause gregariousness are their inspiration to have faith. They are saved by social recognition from the socialite sheep which inhabit the shadowy regions below Jesus’ feet.
Well, I can only say that a really good idea needs a symbol, (look at the plethora of golden idols which sit gracefully on white marble cliffs along the nave of the church, each one being a symbol towards a really good idea), and Yahweh, as interpreted by some men a while ago, is my answer to this need. Why? Why not?
The final plateau on the track for Omniscience stands one level above Skepticism. The end all is not why, but why not. The response of ‘why not’ represents the absurdity of Skepticism, as nothing that exists can be self-renouncing, and a true skeptic seeks to renounce everything. Thus occurs the phenomenon, best labeled in its original Latin, as Reductio ad Absurdum.
The only actual being is in the present-and I currently sit with Yahweh and Esau, a few fat white neighbors, the local American Legion, and a negro-organ player with a false eye in Mass at St.Luke’s Holy Catholic Rapture Church of Amarillo, Texas. This church is the biggest and only air-conditioned structure in town. The A/c is said to be non-physical, a bestowal of release from Jesus. Every other edifice in town, including the welfare outpost, and the grocery store, are damned to eternal perdition for not be so structurally designed as the Church. The citizens of this dust-bowl do not quarrel with the mad ecclesiast who spews such vomit, for they truly come for the a/c, and if that be Jesus, then praise Him. The grocery store and the Barber should only focus on praising Him too, so that at least nobody gets sweaty as they die from deprivation.