Once again I’m reminded of Christ on the Cross, with the famous Hollywood line. Director yelling “Action!” and “Cut!”. Palm tree desert on location filming. The sand of Vasquez Rocks where the Gorn sleeps. Dreaming of Captain Kirk. Forsaken arid environment. Dust and heat and no consistent water supply, except for cacti. I am thirsty just thinking about it. Movie theater darkness, someone trying to slurp up the remainder of their soda, which is clearly now just ice. But that air pull on the straw and the sound that it makes. Left alone to watch the previews.
Forsaken is such a dramatic word. I’m not sure if I’ve ever truly felt it. Only in a comedic context, surely. Makes me wonder about others who have felt it though – perhaps refugees from around the world; from Syria, Mexica, South America, Africa. Stuck in their places, impossible to get out. Still may be impossible to get out once it becomes microscopically possible to get out.
Jesus on the cross weeping tears of miserable joy, trickles of blood travel down his face like little forlorn rivers, drenched in the blood of war. Piercing through the night, the day after the wretched scene is an activating light within the soul of everyone who knows that something strange is about to occur. “The Boy With The Thorn In His Side”. “The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot”. Taking down armaments. Triangular pinprick draws blood as sacrifice. New water for the rose garden. Something dreadful giving way to something beautiful. Pruning flowers and setting them down, the gardner’s bliss that I will likely never know because it is not my one true calling. Daisies so subtle and unexciting, but beautiful just the same. There is no blood sacrifice with them. They are always chirping, always smiling always radiant in their yellow gold or fresh white hue. A paintbrush that will clear cut across the sky, painting the sunset.
“Don’t tell me about the estate,” she mutters.
Been missing for moments, all the important moments, and how it’s come down to this. Dead as a doornail, dead on arrival, mail piles up. Postman calls the police to do a wellness check, because why would her kids even care? Cops come, knock on the door, survey the perimeter of the home, meeting dead silence. Car in the driveway but it’s been there for years. Rusting, rotting, transformation into an antiquated conversation piece. Who even knows the last time it started? Office MacKenzie peers through windows, finding lights off in every room. The house looks abandoned, until he does a double-take in the kitchen, where he sees a pair of stocking’d legs sticking out from the pantry – face up. Calling in his findings, he somehow jimmies the window open (the doors having been locked), and crawls inside. He helps his partner in as well, taking his time because they know she’s dead. Once their in, the smell overtakes them. The put their hands to their nose and mouth and walk over to confirm what they know – A rotting corpse, a swarm of flies and other insect delicacies, a can rolled not too far away from her outstretched hand. Living alone in a big house at 97 sure had its risks.
Margaret now stands at the repass, heavily drinking a dry martini, musing on how this estate will be split. How she will loathe dealing with her 7 brothers and sisters and their ridiculous antics. Paul will try to take over everything. Because he’s the oldest he’s always thought it was in charge, but of course it’s not true in all things. He could never move past that egotistical entitlement. Minnie would probably cry and cry and cry, at the worst most inopportune moments. She was crying right now. Right into the fish sauce. Hopefully a little more salt won’t ruin it. Michael won’t care what happens to anything; The house, the will. After this dinner, he will have no problem going back to his cabin, fishing on the lake and smoking his pipe. Lacey-Anne will be constantly in contention with Paul. As they oldest girl, they will still probably vye for
Crown roast of meat. Easter Sunday Coronation Jubilee. Weighted diamonds and heavy jewels. Gold melted down to form large doors and windowpanes. Opulence of royalty. Bittersweet memories of pop and circumstance and revolution. Bayonets seen from the windows. France, England, the ancient Mayans. Royalty Conference 1734. Scrolls and quills. Chocolate and wine. Golden goblets. Boat casualties. Ship on fire. Going to war. Bathing in winter. Disease. The camera does its best to harken back to times we could have never known except for journal entries and books. Immersive record keeping to see who really wore the crown and what they did with it. Why they killed for it. Hamlet 100 times over. Graveyards and tombs of kings. May they rest. Or never rest, depending on your politics. Crown brands and stickers and stamps. King, Queen, Prince, and Princess. One follows the sun, the other the moon. Going about life like a planetary dance. Avante-garde performance peace that gets too real in the end. Bass graves. Buried alive. Whole courts. Joseph Campbell lecture tells this story. I’ve listened to it a million times. Searching out, wringing out damp cloths of history to see what’s left. Secrets uncovered. Secrets laid to rest. A symbol for soldiers.
sin amber color stains pool onto stone paved floors a foot above secret dungeons where skeletons lie in wait to come to life and start with blank eyesockets at whoever dares intrude upon their lair. A gold coin flips in the air and is caught my a confident hand. The shot is a close up, so you can see the nail beds, and little hairs that start from the wrist. Candy cane striped wall paper tastes like peppermint and now I feel guilty that I’ve licked it. Awash with the forgiveness that could be, if I could only forgive myself. This sin, shadowcloud of regret and despair. An action I’ve done wrong, out of malice or accident. Words said in the heat of anger and high-wire-balancing-act emotion. The come down. I’m sorry about it now. Sin and sinners, a word that makes sense in a context of a framework of morality, and what we believe that morality to be. Like Nietschze said, it is nearly impossible to separate any sort of sense of morality we have in this culture, in this society, it is nearly impossible to completely disassociate it from the weak translations of what Christianity is understood to be. Dipping my hand in the golden tin, miniature pool of holy water. Entering the church of my childhood. Confession is a shoebox. Terrifying concept.