A Direct Conversation With God
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I don't think the Almighty, heard me. He just kept closing in, a constricting darkness of everything and nothing all at the same time. He releases me for a moment, though it's a celestial moment, maybe a couple hours mortal time. I'm in a chair. It's forming under me, or I'm forming in it. Yeah this is more like it. I'm am truly in the presence of the Lord and he will hear my need, heed my pain and surely acquiesce to my demands. The demand I deserve. Take me from my pain, dammit!
Everything is fuzzy, warm; feeling no fear in the lair of infinitesimal fear. No doubt when I crawl out of this comfortable cloud of nothing, I will find I am in a seat woven from gold fibers, seated in the Lord's audience. From the blur, his chamber forms. Before me the master himself forms. He is – is…
Jack Daniels Black Label; attended by six vicodin.
Shit. I'm still in the waiting room. I reach for the vicodin only to be pushed back by the Jack Daniels. The Lord closes on me again. Again, I wait the elastic moment of eternity. Then the Lord calls.
This time he truly calls and he wants my…my -- stomach. I rise to attend to his chamber which in his Deified irony he has constructed in the likeness of my bathroom. But, I am knocked to my knees. Of course, how else is one expected to approach the Lord, if not on all fours. He drags me to his chamber, his fist jammed down my throat, dragging me by my stomach to his porcelain throne, where he proceeds to rip my guts out; causing me to heave nothing, for I have nothing to heave. Hey Lord, buddy pal, that's why I am here. Get it?
I have nothing. I should have figured demanding an audience before my scheduled appointment might be irritating to the God of Gods, most powerful entity in and beyond the universe. Fine. I cling to the porcelain, wracked by his wrath pouring out bile I might normally want to save for digesting tomorrow's lunch. Take it Lord, if we properly negotiate my plan, I won't be needed it and a half-quart of J.D. and twenty-two vicodin, should be more than enough to insure that plan. When you get a minute from torturing my gastro-intestinal tract, could we talk about pain, real pain, my pain.
So, the real conversation begins, though I hardly expected it to be so inauspicious as clinging to a toilet or lying on a bathroom floor dusted with cat litter, wearing nothing but a pair of Hanes briefs. But we talk. The conversation lasts a long time, maybe another sixteen or eighteen hours. God is in no hurry and if there is anything I'm more than willing to give up, it's time. So it goes, back and forth; God, vicodin and Jack Daniels smacking me into oblivion. Me rising from oblivion to plead for exemption from my pain, that unfair ever re-occurring pain of…of…almost, but no!
Finally, in the gray light of a rainy afternoon filtering through mini blinds. I get it. God has refused my plan. The reward for this latent realization is to be allowed to walk, barely, back to my bed, still breathing, barely.
The gray of realization passes on to the dark of night. The phone rings. I look to the half full Jack Daniels bottle and six white tabs spread beside it. Wrong phone. Not my latest ex, but the previous ex speaks from the Radio Shack bought mini-clone of myself that I in my own meek goddish way have mandated to answer for me. "Hi, honey." Jeez don't honey me. I used to think that meant something until I heard you call the meter-reader that. "It's me. I'll be up for a couple hours. Call if you want to talk."
I don't want. I just had the conversation of a lifetime, and then some and it didn't go well to say the least. The Lord wouldn't stamp my ticket. In fact, I think he threw out my application. Told me I had to get up in the morning, get to the keyboard, pound out some kitch pop wisdom and put up with the pain, betrayal, etc… yahda, yadha yahda….
I've had enough calls for the week. We'll see about next week, or the week after. Got any bitches you want brought to the ruler of the universe; tell me. From my lips to the Lord's ears, I swear.
Everything is fuzzy, warm; feeling no fear in the lair of infinitesimal fear. No doubt when I crawl out of this comfortable cloud of nothing, I will find I am in a seat woven from gold fibers, seated in the Lord's audience. From the blur, his chamber forms. Before me the master himself forms. He is – is…
Jack Daniels Black Label; attended by six vicodin.
Shit. I'm still in the waiting room. I reach for the vicodin only to be pushed back by the Jack Daniels. The Lord closes on me again. Again, I wait the elastic moment of eternity. Then the Lord calls.
This time he truly calls and he wants my…my -- stomach. I rise to attend to his chamber which in his Deified irony he has constructed in the likeness of my bathroom. But, I am knocked to my knees. Of course, how else is one expected to approach the Lord, if not on all fours. He drags me to his chamber, his fist jammed down my throat, dragging me by my stomach to his porcelain throne, where he proceeds to rip my guts out; causing me to heave nothing, for I have nothing to heave. Hey Lord, buddy pal, that's why I am here. Get it?
I have nothing. I should have figured demanding an audience before my scheduled appointment might be irritating to the God of Gods, most powerful entity in and beyond the universe. Fine. I cling to the porcelain, wracked by his wrath pouring out bile I might normally want to save for digesting tomorrow's lunch. Take it Lord, if we properly negotiate my plan, I won't be needed it and a half-quart of J.D. and twenty-two vicodin, should be more than enough to insure that plan. When you get a minute from torturing my gastro-intestinal tract, could we talk about pain, real pain, my pain.
So, the real conversation begins, though I hardly expected it to be so inauspicious as clinging to a toilet or lying on a bathroom floor dusted with cat litter, wearing nothing but a pair of Hanes briefs. But we talk. The conversation lasts a long time, maybe another sixteen or eighteen hours. God is in no hurry and if there is anything I'm more than willing to give up, it's time. So it goes, back and forth; God, vicodin and Jack Daniels smacking me into oblivion. Me rising from oblivion to plead for exemption from my pain, that unfair ever re-occurring pain of…of…almost, but no!
Finally, in the gray light of a rainy afternoon filtering through mini blinds. I get it. God has refused my plan. The reward for this latent realization is to be allowed to walk, barely, back to my bed, still breathing, barely.
The gray of realization passes on to the dark of night. The phone rings. I look to the half full Jack Daniels bottle and six white tabs spread beside it. Wrong phone. Not my latest ex, but the previous ex speaks from the Radio Shack bought mini-clone of myself that I in my own meek goddish way have mandated to answer for me. "Hi, honey." Jeez don't honey me. I used to think that meant something until I heard you call the meter-reader that. "It's me. I'll be up for a couple hours. Call if you want to talk."
I don't want. I just had the conversation of a lifetime, and then some and it didn't go well to say the least. The Lord wouldn't stamp my ticket. In fact, I think he threw out my application. Told me I had to get up in the morning, get to the keyboard, pound out some kitch pop wisdom and put up with the pain, betrayal, etc… yahda, yadha yahda….
I've had enough calls for the week. We'll see about next week, or the week after. Got any bitches you want brought to the ruler of the universe; tell me. From my lips to the Lord's ears, I swear.