Thursday, August 31, 2006


The truth is lack of imagination.
Justino Correa

Do you know how difficult it is to be this self that I do not comprehend? Might Rosa imagine what it is like to live with the severity of my existence and without definition? What it is like not to be able to find comfort sufficient to rest this heart and this mind, I sadly know well. If you might have it as a problem to explain this self that I am to others, might you not also sympathize with the actuality that I am in command of a ship that will not let me dominate. It fires torpedoes when it pleases, it navigates towards the tropics or the arctic with unfathomed desires; I attempt to figure to no cause, ultimately I have had to surrender to the mutiny of my ship. Ship refuses to understand the oceans that current beneath its hull, it refuses to listen to the winds that might predict a storm, and even in the dark of night, where serene reef or rock might lie in harmful wait, my ship impetuously navigates staring at star light. When the morning rises, the sun blares upon deck and upon this flesh, and I am stunned to yet remain alive; curse this mutineer ship that won’t kill its captain nor welcome him at the helm. At times the uncharted journey grows long, and I rationalize or dream a bearing, where I might plan to dock or anchor, but my ship, violating all human rights, hastily changes course into the mist of yet unequaled darker oceans.

I sleep a gentle sleep, where the slightest feather cry might awaken me, spirits from my past rinse themselves through my flesh, whoosh last night, one edged my soul into the ceiling, where I cried more reality than the savage soul, proven by my soul’s acceptance of gravity’s weight, whoosh back down from the ceiling into me flesh. I endeavor to realize reality; I see colors, my ship mostly white from stern to bow, sized in tonnage and appearance like a cruise liner; I search in vain for others there, open hatches, navigate corridors of endless opportunity, I plant my watch about the encompassing bridge, but all is empty. I blank my face, expressions serve no purpose. I walk into my cabin where red leather bound books stare blank pages; manuals in the dozen, blank pages all lay exposed on my desk and on my night stand. I try to write, but ink is white as paper. No ship’s log to be found, has been stolen, and it could not have been too long, for though no sailors clean the deck, the spotless deck, the shining pearl white and brass have not a spec of dust.

And so it is my dear Rosa that from my ship I write to you; I don’t know if you existed before me, having I no presence to say when I was not me; through you I sense that there is a world out there, of strange proportions, I imagine, perhaps not as cold, and sterile, and perfect as my ship; a dirty world where sweat and blood rub shoulders, where lungs cough in blood their memories, where brains torture to read the histories immune to me. But then you say that you are you, and I am me, and that it is a good that there are two or three or more?

That can not be! I see nor eat no fish, I see no lion roar from afar, I see no humanity laboring to exist; I know these to be fantasies, where they might disappear were I to blink or die, though neither are my practice. My sleep, I sleep, I tell is light, but just as certain I can not explain this self nor the aimless patterns of my ship; I know somehow, that big fish swallow the little fish and race to stay alive; that the mighty lion, and the bear too, will slaughter their progeny to reign uncontested; sun too shines its rays deep and bright as to obscure all others; and more I know and hear silent humanity crawling gently to triumph and be all. But then you say that you are you and I am me, and that it is a good that there are two or three or more!

I do not remove my captain’s hat, decorum is followed with precision in my ship, there is no tolerance of insubordination, no leave of duty, and always I am calm but ready for alert. It seems impossible that another ship will sail my seas, never have we seen another, and have no guns to fire, not even trinkets to appease pirates that might rain upon me, where might they be; the hooded night might know but I do not. I keep my watch, I do this day and night, I do not even bother to undress or hide under the covers of my bed, but sleep on top always ready to rise should the waves declare a sound.

Knowing not how I could be another, how I might dare abandon ship, and share a drowning with the sea, or swim in glory with the mermaids and my Luna, or to seek a treasure in a sand dune in the middle of my sea. I do not dare, I do not dare.

But war it is and it will be the day that I not long for all to board my ship, to cruise with me these aimless seas, as I have done with dignity and duty, and not as two or three or more but as one of two of three like me. You declare that I ought fathom how wonderful they all might be, but I am frightened to horror by such specter, I nightmare the idea and fire one and two and three torpedoes and more until I have but none.

Where Lion and Bear and Human and Sun are the sarcophagus embodiments of dead things done, where to harden the belly with the dead gives life, and blood, and conquers too; were I, as you request to let them manifest themselves before my glorious and perplexed ship, how soon you think before their certainty would sink me? Not three nor two nor one day in my log am sure! Less than a whole sun takes to transpire the long trajectory it does by day, and less and less where my Luna might not have a chance to wish me farewell as I sneak into the sea. Not three nor two nor one.

Where everything seeks to vanquish everything you ask of me, to let there be, and two or three or more! I do not know what it might be like to share your thoughts on this, I fear perishing more than I fear the emptiness and lonely voyage of my ship and of this sea. I lack not courage. And like all others desire to be more as one, and not as two or three; never ought I suffer the desire to let them all consume my thoughts, and nourish on my flesh of dreams, so as to be more with all; instead I offer them, the small discomfort of my ship.


Dark space surrounding his transparent figure, he walked floating towards me, in the cold silence of the void he arrived to me, solace but for us. There was smile in his tone, a voice at once calm and uncaring; he did not bother with the pronunciation of certainty, a steel bar bench served him well, he greeted me as if we had always known each other, not even expecting my reply, which I didn’t offer; he sat on a steel bench large purple gray torso arching over his legs, suddenly a brash movement from his palm smacked hard into his brow and instantly upon the smack the back of his head bursts hashed denuded skull fleshings and a flash of bursting light energy blasted out quelling as promptly as it had appeared. He nonchalantly apologized to me for the disruption: “sorry its just how we burp excess energy.”

He had come from a far point of space though to him all voyages were instant and needless, the appearance of his arrival was mostly my own doings, he accepted the limitations of my perception, he had arrived, he was talking to me, none of those things were true to him, they were true to me, he accepted it without the indignation that I would have felt in his stead. He perceived that I liked the darkness of empty space, that I was into silhouetted encounters, the silence was for me, so that I would not overwhelm myself with the stimuli of omnipresence and omnientities that cling to everything, which he felt and sensed, not as being, nor by being those things, but as a feeler of being and entities nurtured within himself into awareness, all those beings and entities that were not him so that they would feel him, imbued with all.

Me, I was a local being, a member of a tribe of disassociates, I felt very specific things, I knew very factual things, I did not accept everything, I was not an omnibeing, I was very much in favor of my individuality to the point of sacrifice, I was not at ease with a universe that could radically change to avoid me being in it; I mustered the courage to maintain and stay and be within the constraints of my mortal morality, with an astonishing amount of energy excavation which invariably placed me in touch with the world of isolationism that rebelliously chose to localize in one reality and then to tribe manufacture that reality so that it would eventually become everything at the cost to what was really everything. We were the tribe of sameness, we did not like the diversions of dynamic beings, we were a sedentary virus, a congealing mass that was getting colder and stiffer everyday through success. Cease the moment, hold everything, stay as you are, do not move, force everything to stay the same so that it will support our proven version of ourselves, rest forever in certainty, the tribe of one category converting everything in the universe into humanity, every aspect of energy converted into a carbon based being of absolutes and needs. Me, that was me.

Bursting at the seams of my limitations, my emotional fires raging under controlled conditions, I called him, I asked him to come to me, to demonstrate the dynamic truth and to explain to me how change was not death? Why it was not abnormal for catastrophe not to be known in any other part of the universe while being an abundant occurrence? Why consciousness ought not matter? Why the universe could sleep through its entire existence and us local beings chose to endure consciousness? Why did we fall in love with absolutes when the entire universe rested in one amorphous movement? More I wanted him to tell me how I could forget myself? How I could alter the consciousness of my being so that I would not have to isolate my sensitivities with the anesthetic addictions? Indeed to be so alive that I would look forward to my being equally dead!

And now this omnibeing that I had called for such a giant task was in front of me just burping. I opted not to express discouragement, though the burping of energy, much as in babies, implies limitations; limitations of how much energy an omnibeing can manage; excess energy management is not a sign of a perpetual heart. I ignored my thoughts, this being was after all more infinite and translucent than I, far exceeding my walking capabilities, of which our tribe was proud, he was a floater, a being that had a bus pass to the mountainous limits of our deep universe.

I stood before him for eons of time, not saying a word, waiting for him to say something to me, he just sat there touching his orb like head as if he were suffering head lice, his thick lips, his refined arms moving softly through the fabric of our empty space. We said nothing, we thought nothing, we both knew that at some point we would converse beyond: “sorry it’s just how we burp excess energy.” Perhaps we were waiting for time to synchromesh our beings, perhaps we were not waiting at all and only time was waiting; of course.


I was In Warsaw during the second world war. I don’t remember any of it, except for my first brutal Nazi experience. I was staying in an apartment where we were hiding 29 Jews. When the Nazis arrived and broke through the hallways like virus killers with a blinding mission, they were a double column, moving fast and thoughtlessly, they plunged through our corridors with mesmerizing severity, “how could this be reality?” none of us could really believe that it was happening, five of us stayed in a room watching the telegraph that was sitting on a wooden table, evidence that we too should die, the rumbling boots causing the telegraph to vibrate sending messages to nowhere, almost falling off the table before one of our trembling companions held it from the precipice. It was the fear that they would hear it fall and rush into our room; I told him to break it, he hesitated, but realizing that were they to find it broken, we might have a chance at survival, he caved in to our fears and broke it then left it on the table and stood up to stand with us in nerving solidarity.

The rumble Nazi squad broke like a log through the door upstairs where all the Jews were not waiting and unleashed an arsenal of lead and physical brutality blistering our ears; leaving behind a blood bath drowning, they rumbled back down stairs, one of them severely opening our door, looked intensely, observed the broken telegraph, and made a hasty decision to let us live, to live as gossip mongers of the Nazi wrath. We plunged into nervous chaos, everyone left the building except for me and two others, the night arrived, and I, against all warnings, walked up stairs. When I walked through the frame that once held the door of safety, mangled bodies echoed their agonizing screams, breathing it all into my skull, petrified tersely holding my head while my eyes bled I rushed down stairs feeling freshly possessed by twentynine Jews, now all hiding and escaping inside of me. My memory of my life in occupied Poland ends there.

The next recollection that I have of the war years I am in England, chatting in the comfort of an elegant and cozy inn; the conversation of the night is about my guilt. Did someone use the telegraph to call in the Nazi dogs? Was it me and did I want it broken because of my guilt? Were the twentynine Jews now in possession of my body taking revenge? I drank my tea while a comforting voice from my host spoke: “It was not you, everyone tries to find themselves at fault when tragedy strikes, it is a way of explaining the inexplicable to the self, if you are guilty it simplifies the inopportune horror.” I remember agreeing with him, I drank my tea, no sugar.

At some point during that interminable war, before Sir Winston Churchill would single handedly accomplish everything right to end the war, I died of natural causes. I think in a place called Bedford, if there exists such a town, I went to my death quietly and was born again in 1959 in South America; a place where many Nazis went during their sabbaticals. Some people say I look German.


I used to buy large doses of Marijuana from my dear friend Sergio. Sergio was this big dark Mexican with a jolly personality, very charming, whenever he was asked: “Do you know where I can get some pot?” He would respond: “I don’t know, every one always asks me that, but I don’t do that stuff, and I don’t know where to get it.” That was that. He was my dealer for four or five deals in a row. I would walk to his house, we would sit and chat about petty laughable things, always wondering when we would both move back to our home countries, to eat the good grub our mothers had raised us with. Papas chorreadas for me, Chile Reñeno for him, hay dios mio, Lengua lo mejor para mi. We talked about the pretty girls, and about our jobs, and there were things that we would never talk about, such as horoscopes, tortillas yes, carnitas more, horoscopes never.

Sergio came over to my apartment on the day that I got a new puppy. I call it an apartment because I want to give it a sense of home, a multidimensional cuddling space, but it was a studio with no kitchen, ok man, it was a room. A white but dirty bed-sheet covered the paint stained window, the bed-sheet poorly sustained by two nails, you could not pull it to the sides, if I wanted sun, I had to tie it in a centering knot, effectively splitting sunlight, a trick that is both fun and easy to reproduce, you can try it if you want, splitting sunlight. The room was white too, my mattress cover was white, there was a pee yellow covering all that whiteness, my dingy closet had all the clothes hanging on the floor, clean clothes chaotically tangling with my dirty clothes. Everything about me smelled like it was almost clean, I took a shower everyday, I don’t remember where, the room did not have a shower, there must have been a public bathroom for my pee.

Puppy was light brown, short fat, promising to grow into one big hunk of shit producing affection. His favorite thing was to pee on me, every time he jumped on me it was flying golden showers. I always manifested my distaste for his proclivity, but the urine would fade to the point where I could never really smell it, I knew it was all over my clothes because I had seen his ejection but not because I could discern the smell. Urine doesn’t spot dark clothes, I always wear dark clothes because bright colors dish out too much energy, they act too happy, they attract attention from the wrong kinds of people, I don’t like energetic beings, I like quiet beings, beings that drift through the human condition without being too happy and without being to obvious. I mean my character was made to have a puppy that had bladder control problems.

When I was a boy of seven I was still peeing my pants, wetting my bed, it was a terribly embarrassing situation, but I was afraid to ask where the restroom was, I was very shy, the fear of asking was insurmountable it was easier to pee my pants. When I was in bed it was not fear, it was laziness, I did not want to get up; I felt my bladder gloating about its disposition, urging me release, and I never bothered to restrain it; it seemed so wrong, animals in the wild pee anywhere, I was in bed, warming myself up with my pee.

My parents saw it as a problem specially because my very nice bed was one of those that had clothes drawers underneath, the mattress became a sort of filtering system which would strain my urine to its highest contaminant purity right into our clothes drawer. I never had children perhaps because I was afraid of having to deal with a child that would just pee anywhere, it is not an easy thing to have such a child. I presume that I would have been less prone to it if I had been more aware of the world around me, but I was a hermit child, I had invisible play friends all over the house, I was always kept busy by them, so I never had time for the humans.

Later in life my parents told me that I used to love to play with my shit, that I would dig my hands into it and cover my face with feces and even eat the stuff, creative baby was me, mierda on canvas, seen that many times but I was just more accurate in detail than most artists. I don’t remember those eschatological love sessions, today I mostly don’t like shit, I don’t get a thrill out of going to the restroom, and I don’t like the fact that we are held hostage by our waste disposal system. I suffer a phobia for diarrhea, something I am afflicted with every time that I return to Colombia. The last time I peed my pants was at a movie with Audrey, it was a sort of tangled date, I did not want to go to the restroom, finally I had to let it go, she wanted to touch my leg, I was coldly distant, I was fourteen.

Sergio sat on the head of the bed and I at the other end, playing with puppy while my bag of pot laid next to my plant Cassandra, a semi suicidal hypochondriac that I fed water regularly, we talked about everything, and the different women in my life would affect her in different ways, Some would sicken her, dry her, cause her to go dormant on me, a few others would make her feel well but never too well. Cassandra liked my general indifferences, we were both indifferent to each other, we were the married couple that slept in separate rooms, never talked much, or if so only about our liquids coffee and water, no toast, neither one of us liked breakfasts, and she was so indifferent that she only ate once a week, I liked that about her, I was so indifferent that sometimes I would not feed her for weeks, then she would launch herself into one of those incessantly bothersome sessions “oh no I am dying, my green leaves now pale yellow, my stems suffocated so much that even water can not be absorbed, I am shutting down, I am going to die, you can not keep me alive, I never asked you for anything, I never used that much of the house, I stayed with you through all your drinking, I never accused you of being abusive or an alcoholic like all the others, and still you never cared about me, you know I love classical music and yet you never play it for me anymore, and ever since you been seeing that black bitch, who refuses to water me, you don’t care if I die!” Cassandra, who could believe her, but she just went on like that, and I would ignore her until she had managed to yellow herself dead pale, much of her stem turning a hideously dark brownish color, and then her guilt driven campaign would get to me, I would talk to her a little, play some salsa music to try to lighten her morbid composition, I take her many dead leafs off and then feed them to her, she did not seem to object to the perverse cannibalism of self, every leaf I placed in her soil disappeared, I never asked her about it, it was a subject that neither of us wanted to address; we respected each other that much, and so slowly she would come back to life, and be green as green, again.

There was a bang at the door, bang, “police open up! This is the police open up!” I froze, the door busted itself open, three pigs, I hate cops, always have, I could never be a woman that loves men in uniform, they sicken me. This buffalo smelling insensitive monster in boots, stands in front of me, my sitting face dead smack centered on his penile personality, musk mustache, I am smelling the primordial history of the universe, this guy was a find, frozen in the primordial urine of cells that would eventually make up donkeys, pigs, some would make it to cattle, this guy had made it to buffalo, there was a lot of hair all over his body, bushes full, and the smell of stampede was all over him. Such a virgin thinker, pristine raw emotions what a treasure.

I was dead frozen, fear freezes me, my little brother once got hit by a school bus, I froze, rather than rush to help him, I froze in the moment. He gets hit by that bus many times through my life. I don’t believe is symbolism because if I did the torture would be more immense. The buffalo pig grabs my bag of pot and puts it to my face and talks in a broken language which I discern as an interrogation to ascertain his certainty, “is this yours!” Let me see we are in my studio apartment home, I don’t get a community rate on my rent, I decide not to answer, maybe I am still frozen but it seems to be a decision that I have made, not to answer. His boots hold him steady, he grabs me by the shoulders and turns me around, fuck, something feels gross about this, I know he is fucking me, but I would never be able to prove it, around these parts only physical evidence counts, judges are buffalo too.

Then Sergio, who has been silent up to this moment speaks: “I told you I don’t do that shit and I don’t sell that shit, but everyone is always asking me if I know where they can get it or if I sell it just because I am a dark Mexican, but I don’t do that shit.” Sergio had turned me in to the cops, he was a good guy, he did not do that shit. He sold me some shit, he sold me to the cops to clear himself for good. He dint’s do that shit.

I had to leave my puppy in the apartment all by himself, with Cassandra, she will not feed him, she doesn’t care, with any luck he might shower her.


After some time in the penitentiary, I went back to my studio home but it was gone, a guy wearing a real T-shirt, the type with no sleeves, never understood why they went out of style, anyway he answered the door, displaying his armpit’s generous head of hair, he was probably Italian, skinny but manly, Italians are the only men in the world that manage to look macho even when they are short and skinny, Napoleon was actually Italian, he was from Corsica, but don’t tell that to the French, anyway it is not like the French admit to anything that doesn’t serve their pride. Anyway Mr. Italian armpits just opened the door, stared at me with dark deep socketed eyes, did not say a word, I looked at him, imagined that puppy dog must have been bludgeoned to death in some kind of human dog wrestling match, I did not bother to ask about Cassandra, she was a survivor, I didn’t ask about her, but my heart would miss her always.

After doing some time in the local bars, performing a sort of liver cleansing ritual, I managed to get accepted to Medical school in Caracas Venezuela. I would miss America somewhat, but I did not want to have to lie in my employment applications: “Have you ever committed a felony?” “No.” Its hard to lie even when you are liar, people do not seem to understand that liars like me don’t do so because we like it, we do it because we are afraid, afraid of the truth. Anyway Caracas was to me a far off land, new and fresh, and accompanied by some cash that I had managed to acquire by innocent credit card fraud, I was admitted to the fine Medical School of the Americas. MSA, was sort of the great Latin hope for producing enough doctors to abort Catholics while they were still in the womb. Their graduates were all over the third world, some were as far as Italy and Spain. Their credentials were respected as long as they did not try to get into a specialty outside of their general practice: prescriptions and abortions. I was trying to get into prescriptions, the lofty end of it.

My counselor, forty seven year old Consuelo, a woman of means when it came to legs and ass, had a thing for doctors, and while many of us were not yet doctors, she pre-qualified us, I don’t think anyone graduated without her approval, but again it wasn’t that Consuelo was saying “You don’t have what it takes to be a doctor of the Americas.” It was that between her, laid the archers to the Americas.

It was with Consuelo that I learnt how to Salsa dance, music full of ripe fruits, papayas, mangos, bananas, and pineapples, Salsa is not so much a dance as a fruit feast of delicious succulent admirations. Pelvic compliance was one of the first lessons, which can be safely done during nocturnal awakenings to the memory of the music. The best Salsa dancers are always lusting lusciousness, there is no legal way to measure that in a person, no way to add it, you either have it in you or you don’t, I almost had it in me, but my overly active mind always got in the way of my lascivious lusciousness. I guess if you have lost the animal in you, if you don’t have the savage green jungle inside of you, if you can’t swing through the trees like one big ass monkey, if you can’t snake your way through the foliage, if you don’t have it in you to scare the existence pale out of a few giants, then you don’t have the rhythm, you don’t have the unhinged ass that Salsa demands and worships.

Some people feel, that if you don’t have the monster jungle in you that you can just feed it inside of yourself through avocados. Avocados are the creamy butter of the jungle lust, pregnant nippled bellies of the lush green lust, and greener still. They even rot with wanton, you have never seen anything leave existence with such perfect disregard for hygiene as an avocado does, when it throws itself into the dirt and just rots loudly proclaiming a kind of massive escalating vomiting of self dance that darkens and grows the night until the entire jungle is simmering in its darkness. The Indians always call it avocado darkness, it is considered the night in which the children are born, where bellies grow voluminous, where avocado darkness hides parenthood, where the night is not slept, where the night is not slept.

No one really knows if this is really true, though I personally believe it is; but there is one interesting fact, that many have been found dead from over stuffing themselves with avocados. The authorities sometimes dare to question the authenticity of the practice, wondering if it is possible that some involuntary assistance is given during avocado night feasting, but it would be difficult to prove that, there are certainly much easier methods of putting away your enemies, for instance, snake bites are popular and exceed chance encounters.

Anyway the villagers always keep an almost religious silence about avocado nights, they quietly condone the stuffing of one’s lover with avocados as a way to get Salsa in them, equal to a large ass monkey.

I have marveled at the life in this place, even my nights in the slammer there were muddy joys, there is something dirty about the place, dirty about the peoples, dirty about being there, dirt filled auras as wide as the planet, but the dirt is soil, pure life affirming soil, you are one with the cockroaches that chance in size with bullfrogs, the beer spits at you, the water is dirty, you have to drink the beer, the beef is tasted by the flies first, then by their vermin, the church bell rings but there are no saints here, everyone is into incest and rape and stealing from their neighbor; and wives are just as treasonous as husbands, and they all beat each other up, and they forget about it over hot chocolate and sweets, and dirty cock fights and even pigs laugh at the fun.

I was afraid of blood, demonios, I was afraid feces, of urine, of everything unsanitary, so I was glad to find that our medical school had suffered severe budgets cuts seven years back and so there was only one cadaver, and only one dead corpse of rotting flesh that was fresh enough in blood not to fall apart encountering living human contact. Still we were mostly kept away from the bodies. But for one so as not to shame our education. There were plenty of drugs to instruct those of us reaching for the pharmaceutical industry, while there was an arrangement for our fellow medical practitioners to test their talents on the local women who volunteered for free abortions. Everyone was a winner here, even sometimes the abortions would turn into frantic tube tying sessions.

But let me not skip the one corpse that was still good enough to eat, still clinging to a semblance of its past self. Some said that he was Consuelo’s failed love, a passionate romantic that got strangled by her thighs or maybe merely a metaphor for his having failed medical training, he looked German in origin, which fits the romantic part nicely and he was trying to be a doctor, which again fits the German theory nicely, but who knows, he could be anybody, he could even be a local, he was preserved in pure alcohol or formaldehyde or something like that which us doctors used to retain a certain scalable freshness in things, all the while killing other things that were trying to be borne off of them.

Anyway, obviously our school could not afford a full body suit or a decent refrigerator so they had hacked the guy up, into portions of himself, and placed him in these drawers on a sort of large aqua dilapidated table desk; legs and arms, each in separate drawers, even fingers got their own little drawers, toes too, it wasn’t quite a neat operation, and his head was in a pickle jar, kept behind the largest cover door. Pointless for me to tell you that this table desk was the center of attention. Somehow we were all connected to him, in order to graduate we would have to get to know him, personally I could have graduated myself without him, but you know modern medicine is not to be taken lightly.

His head was really only used during exams, it was a treasure, lightly handled, we were all very bright anyway, a shortage of medical schools in the United States had sent us abroad, some of us were here to please our parents, which is more evidence that we did indeed know where the frontal lobe was, the Petunias, and the Amygdala, an old time favorite of mine. Consuelo liked it too, we use to pay little boys to dig the Amygdala out of the head of dead bodies that had been abandoned in cemeteries, and then we would fry them over a fire and toast their crispy mush down our throats. Then, well, you know what then.

It was during these long humid nights that I would tell Consuelo that she could save her earlobe from my piranha teeth if she were to tell me about Aqua man. Yeah, that is what we called him. Oh Jesus, I am already telling you too much, why my doctor’s license might be at risk, say I more. Consuelo would say nothing, not a word, her fingers would glide to remove her long dark hair away from her earlobe, and motion closing her big dark eyes as if she was going into some kind of a voodoo trance, where all pain was equaled to ecstasy. I limped my way to her lips, held her cheeks with my palms, and kissed away the sands of all of Latina America.

I don’t think anyone slept at night, around these parts people wanted to be too tired to work and too tired to study, besides the dark underpinnings of the culture just called for us to accomplish our deeds at night, we sobered our days away, the heat was too much, we memorized body parts, and practiced listening to our hearts with stethoscopes, and when no one was looking we really enjoyed pricking each other with those long, silvery, pump glowing, seventy-five dollar syringes, I don’t think I can translate how exhilarating it is to prick a friend with a needle. It kept us awake even as we were sleep.

But the oddest of things, was the body of that young man in our main study room, the center of attention, was a truly fantastic affair; we loved him, everyone loved him, we never wanted to hurt him, we wanted to be near him, even Consuelo, that showed a severe indifference to him, had a certain way of coming into the room to see him. She would make a sort of dancing entrance, twirl herself 360 degrees and back right into the table, arching back, leaning her marvelous spine, which was as highly defined as her ribs, backwards, and then she would lift herself up with both hands, as if he were lifting her, only it wasn’t so, then she would lay her humid bulging ass cheeks on the table top, her hands would release her, and she realized a smile to our group; asking away our doings, as if she had just finished pleasuring her own. We were moved, twitching from the heat and from her, and from what was going on, the flies would land upon us and use the privilege of our humid stupor to nest on our pores.

When Consuelo wasn’t dancing with Aqua man, we were, that was the oddest thing about it, he made us want to dance, appropriately Salsa music, covered by tuition, was piped through the old and dysfunctional speaker system, and as soon as the music would start to dance, we would all stare at each other’s smiles and move to dance or flirt with one another into exhaustion. We would chat, we would laugh, we would joke with Aqua man, some of us, the sicker of us doctors, would toss his fingers around, and others would try to prevent it, and that was the whole dance, and the music blearing from the speaker would squabble, and pierce our ears, and our incessant laughter would inundate all. We finally ended by putting back all of Aqua man in the drawers, though not always in the right drawers, and often then a power failure and faulty generators would cause the music to cease poking at us, and so we drifted to the local bar, where we were considered rich because of our hasty cadence towards alcoholism. Many of us never made it to our home rooms, many of us were mud ditch dwellers, many of us would not graduate or make it out of there alive; one of us would be the next Aqua man, you see there had been some budget cuts seven years back, alumni contribution to our alma mater.

Consuelo, the name means consolation, the consoled one, she had been cured of all her suffering, appropriately by the medical school, not because she could forget whatever pains torture a woman with as many beautiful scars as she, but rather because she had Aqua man.

You probably want to know if I graduated, how simplistic might you be, would the answer make any more of a difference on big ass monkey salsa and dark avocado rotting nights?

Weeping surrendering hermanos embracing Aqua Man’s home.


I get disoriented when it comes to my degreed or not practice, where I went, who I cured, how did I cure them, was it really medicine that I practice? Be that or not it was certainly charity; I never made a buck from any souls, my patients must have cost me more money than Consuelo’s place. I remember the Waste Land a place that was hurting for a doctor, as much as I was hurting for patients. I got there on a bus, a seventeen hour bus ride to nowhere. After one has been on a seventeen hour bus ride, one has done all the traveling that one will ever need do or want to do. I would of course continue in my travels, but it was not because I hadn’t traveled enough.

I got off the bus, into a middle of the night bus stop that was empty, just me, there was no bus stop, it was just a street to nowhere, in the place to nowhere, where a bunch of nowhere people lived, they were all asleep now, but later I would learn that they never slept, that this were the most here and now people I would ever meet, all two of them. For me, a creature that has never even been to nowhere or anywhere, this would be somewhat interesting, and more so because I would never want to experience it again. There is something remarkable about experiences that do not encourage repetition, remarkable that they exist at all.

My night welcome into the Waste Land was somewhat scary, I was petrified thinking, not feeling, that someone was going to kill me, granted that there was no one in the area, that the place was empty, sparsely populated by buildings and plant life, if someone wanted to advance upon me I would have been able to see them for miles before the attack. Still I was able to muster fear, enough so as to seek refuge underneath a rock, the least motherly object in the universe, I crawled and squeezed myself somewhat underneath it, asking her to roll over me, to act as if I were there, she did not move.

Underneath this insensitive rock, was fine grain sand, it had a light charcoal texture and the cold winds were a lure that this sand could not resist, yet nether wind nor sand emptied. Very soon, my ears were trapping sands, my eyes, my nose, and it was so speckle fine and light that it did not really stick to me, nor to other grains of sand but for gravity, so each would just fly into me and crash on its way to wherever, a place that I was buffeting sure was not to far from here. The rock and I stood immobile, that was all we had in common, which in this place was more than any one thing wanted to have in common with any other thing. I managed to fake some sleep, and then the sun, which never quite seemed to enjoy shining into this place, brought shadows and a gray dingy vision of this place, a vision that the night had politely hidden.

I woke up from my non-sleep, and made my way to the center of town which I discern to be three ghost town buildings, registered with city engineering some time before building codes and building registrations became mandatory. The fact that they were still standing I thought was ample evidence of how needless building codes are, but then it is harder to tax property that might fall apart, keep it together through regulations and you can tax it a lot longer. These buildings had never been taxed, tariff man had not been born anywhere near this place, not enough rascality in these spaciousness.

Sandy light charcoal streets everywhere, hour glasses were emptied here, the buildings grew in size and fragileness with proximity, the closer I got to them the more likely that it seemed that they would fall apart, their glassless windows were jet black, pits into the unknown, you did not want to climb into them, you did not want to throw a rock into them, it might just extinguish an entire civilization; pains me to say it but all of the dinosaurs died when someone threw a rock through one of those windows. I entertained myself trying to guess which one, I even contemplated throwing myself a rock and banishing something, but having just that night slept with a rock, I begun to even feel how insensitive it was to sling them. Hurdling is an act of detachment, I just wasn’t that detach, I know rock did not care about me, and I know that the protection I felt was more induced by my actions, but she made them possible, without her I would have had a more difficult time fooling myself.

The winds continued at their constant pace, about twelve kilometers per hour, I sat on the wooden deck that was in front of the biggest building, must a have been, at one time, a huge trading center, buy your shovel, buy your grain, see you in a couple of months. Those were the days when people lived out there somewhere, when there were no addresses, the places disappeared, an address keeps you in place, it tells you where you are all the time, these places banished, there was nothing to keep them in one place, places are mobile auras, directions lock them up nicely, but here the sands of time had accidentally discombobulated themselves, you could not see through those jet black windows but you could see through the walls, everything was moving away, it was just doing so very slowly, when time gets lost it happens that things reach a level of disappearance which makes them exists much longer than their remains; ghost towns are such. The last part of any existence is always the longest.

I was waiting for whomever had called me to this place, waiting to be taken to my doctors office, waiting to be introduced to the socialites that would be eager to meet the new doctor and credit themselves with marrying me or assisting me in such compliance, but I did not see any horses or carriages, or even water buckets, save for some urine that I had left along the way there was no immediate sigh of water. But as the day grew midway long, there dash into my ears a quick up beat, bar town melody, it was quick and happy, and not the type of music that you dance to unless you happen to be from the Netherlands, a place where dancing has died but people still habitually do it when they hear music and one wishes they wouldn’t. Conking concatenations.

The music was ripples perky, breaking and recomposing itself at once, chatter and clash, “move along the drinking of that whiskey buddy, hop on my swing babey, look under my skirt I squirt you silly boy, wish me a lot of trinkets so that I can forget all my troubles, life is a parade of overfilled wishing wells …and we are wishing rebounds babey …we are wishing everything… but tune and soul. …Gold fillings and bullets hoopla me into drunkenness, carnival climbs into my bed with me but I forgot the tickets.” Anywhere else you can’t go bald and be happy with your fat whiskey girls.” There is nowhere else in nowhere.

I was disturbed by my ass feeling the soreness of the old weathered wood, soreness stays fresh, when the rapid fire spitting music came to an absolute hold and before me stops a truck that was not as old as this place, but old indeed, probably the third truck ever made after they perfected tires. It is gray too, just stressing to rust, everything here matches, the environment shapes you, two whiskered and partially toothless men are sort of serious but almost not, but really they are not telling jokes they just seem like they know this place, they pick me up, for some strange reason I really only see the driver, I consider the possibility that I might be the other man, but after seeing his toothlessness and gums I oppose the idea. Still I can only see the driver but I know, I am telling you that there were two of them, and the driver confirmed this by talking to the other without addressing me, in a language which seemed extremely familiar, only all I could here was the chatter.

And so sitting in-between these two, we emptied the gas tank into the advancing dust road, and they begun to describe the territory: “Don’t go there that is the wasteland, don’t wander over there that is the waste land, don’t step beyond the left side of the road, that is no man’s land.” You can get lost in the sand but more likely something terrible will happen to you before you get lost.” You could die of hunger, nothing grows out there but you will probably die of something else.” The incessantly repetitious scenery kept on subtracting itself, the closer we got to anything the more sand it would become, I saw nothing that called for attention to detail or that even catered to fostering the color spectrum. These guys were not telling me something that the environment had not already told me. I tried to tell a couple of jokes to soften their indifference to me, but they did not understand humor. I finally stepped off the truck, at some point in the road, my ride was over, I walked into the sand expecting to find a doctors office somewhere unexpected. My shoes kicking the sand, and reminding themselves where not to enter everywhere.

I ended finding a hut, size easily fitting for one dweller and two cats. One of the cats was half belly up dead, just as if begging for tickling had caused death. The one living was standing next to the dead one, staring at it, not even molesting to look up when I entered. There was no furniture in the place, no waiting room, the doctor was in and waiting for patients. I remember feeling hunger when I saw the cats, but my urges did not encourage effort, I sat to watch the cats. The dead cat wasn’t moving, the live cat wasn’t either, one was dead one was a live, both were immobile. I sat on the floor to watch them.

They were both gray, both seemed healthy, at some point I discerned that they were companions and that the inopportune death of one had deeply disturbed the other into a living stiffness. For a brief instance I contemplated reaching for the living cat and comforting its emotional absenteeism, but I had instant visions of the wild cat arching and scarring me with its nailed paws, finally with me dying from a slowly decaying infestation. I just watched them, occasionally I would snarl my nose, but the cats remained motionless for days.

Then on the third day, I saw the living cat move his head, I say him but I don’t know, the one laying on the ground was partially belly up, so I could see it was a male, I somehow also concluded that the living animal was also a he, and that was that. His head moved gently downward so as to look closer at his dead buddy, and it stayed in that position for a few more hours. Then I saw his tongue licking his snout, and then again we were back into a stalemate of being. I slept until the fourth day awakened me with the renewed grayness, always a welcomed sight of sameness. On this day cuatro cat, still not acknowledging my existence, in the cold of the morning, begun to gently kiss and clean dead cat. It was a very moving moment, and this lasted until the late afternoon. Where once satisfied, the stoic stare begun yet again; then I could see him looking at the dead cat that was the only action that I could capture. Late into the evening, I was dozing into a sort of muted sleep, when I was awaken by sounds that though not very intense were still large in comparison to the silence. And then my eyes caught sight of he cat biting flesh and licking blood and bone from dead cat, perniciously consuming the remains, still never looking at me, never searching for competition, cat ate cat, ate cat.

I walked out of the cabin, I had had enough! They wanted me to cure cat, and I did not know which one of the two was sick. That is the only time that I remember being called to practice medicine. I crossed the sands into the wasteland and I still haven’t died there, and here at least people look at me, even cats look at me.


You say to yourself I would never do that, you know you would never do that, when you do it you can’t imagine that you did it, you sit in a daze accepting an abundance of self pity from having accomplished what cannot now change, what will for ever mark one’s life. It all starts out so innocent, you are just like everyone else, dad and mom used to take you out to the park and push you to the horizontal on the swing, but the push was not a perpetual shove, at one point you were kissing the heavens the next your stomach would bottom out and all you would kiss the earth, dirt green grass sprouting amidst the sandy pit corroded by dozens of other swinging children that had come to play and gone. A little swing goring closer to the molten core.

I had always been a gentle person, full of fears, every kind of fear, everything to me was more masculine than I was, better suited for survival, better qualified, I was undeserving of this existence, I never wanted to hurt a fly, I even wondered if a fly could really hurt. We lived in a five story house and I would be at the top of the terrace playing with all of my imaginary friends, a lot easier to get along with them than with the street kids. In that terrace I would stare over the rail and ponder what would happen to a fly were I to pluck its wings and drop her five ways down. My mental experiments would consistently reveal the same results, the fly would pick up speed the first phase of the journey but then her lightness would overtake gravity and lift her descent moments from splattering into the ground so that it would turn a gentle landing. None of my thought experiments ever ended in the death of any flies, though most regretfully they moved on wingless.

Even the gamines, as we called the street kids, sort of the same as barbarians only at least barbarians steal a descent living for themselves, gamines never rise beyond bully-hood, but even they did not cause rough to blossom pretty and red from within me. oh they tried but the gamines were always armed with crowbars and rocks, rocks gave then the advantage of being well armed at all times, and they would throw those huge rocks as far and high as the third floor of our five story house. Sleeping, you would hear the sound first, it was the crash breaking sound of chattering glass splattering itself majestically like a lacerating big bang all over the room. And because cowardliness forced them to attack at night, we could not see the flagrant display, instead we had to imagine it, which made it all the more magnificent. The sound would burst into our dreams, we would instantly halt them, interrupt all neural activity and turn it into reflexive muscle energy, unaware of which direction could be outmatched, the fragments were trying to get everywhere first. Splattering concretizes me calculating a thousand invisible trajectories. My eyes fixed on the location of sound and then, within instants the half warped head size rock would trampoline vertigo next to me, dirty asteroid rock on my white sheets, my sleep spirited away.

The more fears you have the less likely one thinks oneself capable of doing the terrible thing, as my life progressed I learnt differently. There were many degrees of terrible things, in fact there are things that you are willing to tell the world that you have done that are terrible. I can see how admitting a murder is easier than admitting crimes which are unspeakable and which are irreparable and which torture the perpetrator far beyond this life. I had committed such crimes, crimes that were best kept silent, crimes which lived on far beyond my reach, rippling like dominoes within the souls that had been done by me. It was not pleasant, and always I would think that they would find me, always I would think that they would point my out in the crowd, shamed to insult, a crime that no jail can cure, a crime that one can never forgive one’s self.

It was that fear that made me severely shy, the fear of being discovered, the fear of being told clearly and in a descriptive and lambasting language what I had done, the crime pales in significance to how its effects increase in depth and torture with the rise of consciousness. Crimes awaken us, and from there one can only be more and more awake. I kept my eyes to myself, I shied always from all, from friends from people, I invented an entire self, later to be known as “my raincoat” a protective garment was my personality, everywhere I went, and everywhere I was, I was not there. Stare people in the eye and they will see you. Peer into their being and you are doomed to open every door for them, I saw no one, they did not see me.

It all started innocently enough, we were at work, teasing each other in that harmless manner which at once tells you that you are breathing animal magnetism and that you are also not a bull that is going to throw her over the copier and imprint her with your seamen. You know the light hearted humor that is spoken with a pencil, all erasable with a simple twist. Then one day we kissed in my office cubicle, that squared area of space that saves one from the rampage of business deadlines and business stares, you want to do something great but you always have to go to your cubicle first, that semi private office space, where everything can be heard by all your peers where the privacy of your lust and love is quietly exposed to all, where there are moments when you break apart and talk honestly your nerves apart because you can’t hang on to pretenses, where a personalized coffee mug and all it stains marks your territory, where two dimensional pictures frame the entire personality that you will be allowed to display; there in that space, amidst all the hectic activity of the day, her blue eyes leaned into me and her lips kissed freshness and hotness into me. Uh that was exhilarating.

The next time we were in a meeting, training on the beggary’s of ISO-9000 compliance, listening to the most boring creature on the face of the planet, we were in the back of the room, listening to Mr. Sleeping Pill dictate the guidelines for maintaining our ISO-9000 ranking. “When they ask you where is the ISO manual kept what are you going to say?’ You say, “It is over there by the secretary’s desk.” He says, “correct except for the last part, not secretary but rather administrative clerk.” The secretaries used to be good looking, they all had long legs that mandated miniskirts, they were a lot of toasting fun, the administrative clerk is not completely useless, ISO-9000 rectitude. So Blue Eyes whispers in my ear, “I am not wearing any panties.” I got instant insomnia, you don’t want to be awake during ISO training, I was now terribly awake. I was always skeptical about anything that a woman would tell me, especially one that was not aware of the bureaucratic intricacies of ISO standards. Well my hand begun to accomplish some vindicating research, which was unfortunate for my ISO instructor, never did get any of that stuff. Much to my fortune I was sick every time the ISO auditor would review our office. Besides, did you know that the paymaster for ISO auditors is the audited party.

Well that bit of training led us to make a bet which I had majestically contrived to Blue Eyes absolute disadvantage. Suffice it to say that she lost though that is often a woman’s way of winning. Her punishment, although, again, I prefer not to think of it that way, was to go to my place with me, and to dedicate her talents to my whirling standards, there would be a teasing dance which would eventually leave her naked before me, and from there I would proceed to ease the coldness that might arise from her nakedness, to gently kiss away apprehensions and sort of make her forget that she was naked through pure hotness. I broke a wine glass. That ought have been the first symbol.

We were both a bit nervous, or acting shy, hard to discern the difference between the two, but a bet is a bet, or so they say and we were, if not moral, at least honorable people. Wine pouring into our crevices, nods of gentle and infinite good days, where the calamity that passes the whole of the earth just perks the bottoms of our lives in living-rooms everywhere; a stolen moment from the immaculate so that we can rope it and slap it around a bit, and then twist into the frolicking insanity of our daily life, back into the production where everything gets rectified and notified, and adjusted, and is on its way to a perfection; the sangria and sushism the wasabism, toggles tangled dogs tied in chili pepper with onions, mixed ecstasy and pain, the carpet was the only bed large enough, the furniture had to be pushed way back to the perimeters of Andromeda, yes, matter fell over, others were lost to the wine, irreparable damage was done to one lamp, and we used the portable telephone but not to make a call, reception was solid at 900 Megahertz pruning annuals nicely, membranes found ways to express themselves, the roaches left from all the noise, fire alarms were going off and no one knew why, then the hemorrhage of inconsiderate fascination, pressing to hard against the fence of illegalities, the negligee, what negligee? The decency of oral mastering utilities from the recycle bin, chains here, glass there, hearts puddle synonyms, and then the long and devastating sleep, the pained flesh not felt by administered depravity, a collage of purples and blacks merging with white pale flesh, red cheeks gone, blue eyes dead.

You never know why you kill someone, one morning you wake up next to her, you feel that you have to strangle her, you are urged by every aspect of your being to do so, you are estranged by your own desires, you do not even consider that it is not an act that you ought not commit, you know it has to be done, something is telling you that it is not justified but mandatory, you persist at it, you dig into the idea dazed by tea bags, you take the menace by the hand and choke her fragile neck into exhaustion.

The world will find you guilty, the world will find you guilty. You do not bother to explain that Blue Eyes was an accomplice in the crime, that the universe was also involved; that you of all three had the least to know of it, and that you were the weaker of all three. Every murder is a setup and the most innocent person is always the killer. You see murder is simply an exclusion and expulsion, one becomes more real another less so.

Some would kiss the heavens some would kiss the dirt.


Trying to chronicle my life histories, which by now you may have guessed expand many lives, I am not to clear in what order these things may have occurred to me or may have occurred to themselves. I say to themselves because there are so many experiences that I often think that there had to be more of me or many things which were not me experiencing themselves and fiddling their awareness within me. Cleopatra for instance could not have been just one person. But I am trying to maintain a sequence of sorts so that you don’t end up in some jagged edge and cease all interest in thinking about me. If you think about me I am that much larger, we make each other through our awareness of one another. A tree that you chop down never forgets you. A deer you shoot saves your image for ever in her eye. Don’t forget me.

The linearity of my biography, with the exception of the unspeakable, is based on what I remember, there must be some logic as to why I remember each thing in that order, so I hope that the sequence that divines itself works the magic for you. And so we move on to my next memory of myself .

I was sitting under a kumquat tree, I don’t really know what a kumquat tree is, I don’t even know if such a tree is large enough for one to sit under the thing, but I am telling you the truth. Sometimes as I remember things I don’t necessarily remember my state of being, I may have been an armadillo sitting under a kumquat tree, or maybe I was a giraffe wit my head under a kumquat tree, you can make it happen.

But I do remember eating a kumquat that had fallen on my head, and that sparked one and more memories. If you have never eaten a kumquat you ought to. It is a surreal experience, really surreal. It is this sort of orangely yellowish bluntly round fruit that is rotting from the moment it is ripe, and mostly not rotting so mostly ripe. And when you got to eat it you measure the idea that you might not eat the rotten parts but they are so strangely distributed, that it seems like you are going to have to destroy the whole fruit to accomplish eating the pleasantly ripe portions, and so it was that after contemplating this, I finally decided to just eat the whole thing.

As it is natural, the first time you eat a fruit you sort of eat it slowly so that if it turns out to have a large pit such as apricots, which have a pit that makes you not want to consume them because when you see a naked apricot pit it makes you sick. It looks exactly like a small tumor, and that is what you find after you eat an apricot, you are left with a small tumor, there is nothing pleasant about that. The most succulent and adorable fruit to eat is a Kiwi, I have an orgasmic expulsing feeling run through my being when Kiwi fruit enters my mouth, so gentle it caresses your tongue, it teases your taste buds; you will never know exactly what a kiwi taste like, you are always trying to assert what it is that makes it taste so good, you are baffled by it, I mean your eating a kiwi you are in some gentle way, even the pits are delicious, you don’t even think of picking them off, which is how kiwis reproduce, you then go and shit somewhere and something good will grow from that. Apricots do not like to be eaten and you have to be ugly to eat apricots, pretty people don’t eat apricots to flesh out a tumor, horror. Do a survey and you will find this out for yourself, you will find that apricots are popular with dentists and generals.

So I gently applied squashing pressure with my lips all around this tiny fruit, just a little over two centimeters in diameter, and the kumquat just begun to fall apart oozing out of itself, sort off, as if something was being born from it and it was just opening itself wider and wider no resistance only resilience, and when I caught a feel of the first pit it was huge, the thing might a been bigger that the kumquat, and then appeared another and so no sooner had I tossed one kumquat pit away when I found two and three all the way up to five and all of the pits seemed far larger in size than the fruit itself, and they were dark and alien looking, they had nothing in common with the kumquat, they were just evil brides from some evil world and I was releasing them into this one; and get this, the kumquat tasted wonderful, a sort of sweet and soft taste, I liked it! Just like aliens to get into our planet with something inoffensively tasty. But I am telling you that I felt really weird realizing those pits so much so that after the first two I refused to look at the others, I just flung them as far from me as I could and was done with that.

But the experience brought home to me a memory of armadillo hunting. Kumquat eating and armadillo hunting, yes the connection is obvious. I was a Chicha Indian, don’t ask me when in men years, I don’t know, but I remember being this Chicha Indian running around with a very sorry looking and overly long stick or spear armadillo hunting, and we trapped one, them armadillos run fasts, but they were no mach for our corralling abilities. And we Chichas were very good at corralling things. We ate a lot of meat, we had to be good at it. Besides that our tribe had in the beginnings been ruled by Chicha women, I don’t know much about that period, it was early in our history, but the little that is said of it is not good, so we Chicha men took power and corralled the women and things got a little better. It is all about corralling for us, so armadillos have it better to hide from us.

We Chichas never adopted farming, you see that requires to much thinking, preparation, and you have to have a lot of faith, faith that things are really going to grow, and that the rain god is going to throw you rain and you have to dance really hard for that, and we weren’t into rituals, even our sex was not erotic we went straight in and got on with it, maybe it was different when the women were our leaders, but if so we did not remember that. Occasionally one of our woman would get armadillo eagerness to run away and we the men would corral her and gang on her like with the armadillos. Everyone had fun. Besides being meat eaters we liked a lot of fun, Chicha, the name of our tribe, was not derived from the name of our beer it was the name of our beer!

I was one of the smarter one’s in our tribe, you could tell this because I did not eat horse or human meat. The others did, I was one of a few that saw horses and humans as non-edibles. Oh I had eaten both on occasion, horses taste better than humans, humans have a tendency to make a big deal out of getting killed which taints the flavor of the meat badly bitter. Horses just think it is going to happen and get this look on their faces like they are really scared but they are not, they just don’t want to be eaten willingly, they know that meat that fights its way into the stomach is better preserved. Humans get all frantic as soon as they know they are supper they just squirm like chickens, chickens and humans horses and pigs, strong associations accordingly. Anyway the humans we ate were usually the slaves we would capture, which we never kept for long because of our nomadic life style, hence the need to eat them or trade them, and slaves run really skinny not a lot of fat on them, I like fat I love fat, I love pigs and cows, you can feed me fat any time. I have carried that trait into this life, I eat meat every day, and if I don’t eat meat every day I feel bad, really bad. In my tribe, when we wanted a wife we gave her a cow, no real woman could say no to a cow.

Anyway I was one of the wiser Chichas and so I became friendly with one of our stranger tribesman, he was old, don’t ask me how old in men years I just know that he was old, he was strange in that he had abandoned many of our traits, he would not eat our meats, nor go on our hunts, you had to hunt to eat meat, only a woman would not hunt, but he was not a woman, he was strange. He ate fruits and grasses and kept to himself, we sort of let him be, he sort of kept a distance back, we would roam to our next location which change every few days, and he would follow a sun and a moon behind. Catching up to us as we were setting a feasting fire, and chicha drinking our tribe. We called him Horai. The name means stranger, but in a very bad way, sort of like the pits in kumquat, it can be in something that you eat but you won’t eat it and you try not to look at it as much as possible. Horai was mindful of that.

The problem with Horai was that he kept on telling stories about the bird man that he was, that he was here to fly our tribe some place else, a distant some place else, that eventually we would all grow feathers and fly away like birds. We were nomads, we did not have cities like the Incas and the Aztecs, I may have preferred to be born into one of those regal tribes, and certainly dress in fancy feather gear like Apaches. But we knew what an Armadillo and a woman were, both a lot of fun, we did not need to be imagining things, to be frank we did not even have an art form. We did not sit around thinking that there were magic bushes or spirits in the dangers of the forests, when it did not rain, we simply said that there was no water, when we had not animals or slaves to kill we simply ate one of our unruly young. Calm things down a bit.

Sure we were not isolationists, occasionally on our long circled travels, we would encounter Indians that made pottery to practice rituals with those things, we saw them celebrate a wedding, husband and wife taking each others drinking bowls and poring each their blood into a larger bowl from which the two would drink as one. We saw them wear rings around their ears and on their belly buttons; and we saw them erect temples to which they would surrender living animals with all their flesh still in the bones, surrendered to the altar and non to be eaten; we saw them do all that and then burn the temple to the ground. And we never were aware of what all that meant or what all that was.

Horai, however thought that our tribe had a future with the birds and Horai would be the first to fly away with them, he kept on telling us all this over and over again, and as the story never changed, we all suspected it was from his eating all those berries and no meat, and soon it came to be that I was Horai’s only friend, I didn’t believe him any more than the others, I was not a fool and the idea of not eating meat to become a bird seemed to me horrid, I would rather be alligator.

Then one day, Horai said to me, “I am as old as I will ever be.” Again I was smart one in our tribe but that meant nothing to me, I took it to mean nothing special Horai has said plenty of things that meant nothing to me, and so I just drank some more chicha to calm any questions that might dare rise from me. But Horai did not cease with these words, he went around to all of the members of the tribe saying “I am as old as I will ever be.” And the tribe would just laugh at him like wild dogs, “mas chicha mas chicha.” We even suspected that maybe some berries had fermented in his stomach or that someone had filled him full of chicha. It is true you know that chicha stops you from hunting. Many a hunters that have gone out there with chicha on their bellies never return.

That late afternoon, Horai asked the tribe to come see him fly away, he would go to the highest mountain and from there fly like a bird. The tribe had seen plenty of birds fly and was not moved into seeing one more. I felt a bit sad for Horai, sadness does not come easily to us, but I was one of the smart ones, I could feel a bit sad, so I told him that I would accompany him. He nodded, and I followed him up to the mountain which leaned towards the other side and into a sea of unknown jungle.

At the very peak, we really only climbed to the third tallest, but Horai was going to fly higher it did not matter which peak he was really taking off from. I got a little uneasy, it was windy and cold, very cold, did not seem like a good day but maybe that is why it was a good day for Horai to leave. We had said nothing to each other all the way up, and now we said nothing, he walked to the edge, turned his head back to give me one last look and jumped.

I was startled for a second but then nothing that I had not expected had taken place, and so I regained myself and walked back down the mountain. When I arrived everyone was waiting for me, they were all eager to know if he had flown away. I trembled at the crowed, they would be expecting my answer but I fluttered into a strange despair, and then for my friend Horai, I yelled with spirited arms in the air: “He flew! He flew! He flew!”

Since that, now celebrated day, many Chichas have flown…


Waves of memories have been defrosting me, I live my histories, such makes my present bearable, I have contributed crimes, blessings and fortunes to lives and times before and after this now; I do nothing here but sustain myself; for creativity, enjoyment and production I merely live out past and future memories. It may dignified hope that I am at least willing to dream here, a bed is not a bad place, even a bed of nails is still a bed. With each eager springing pricking ending one dream and inducing another. The nails on my back prevent me from awakening from my pillow sleep.

I was a child during the Ming dynasty, the very dynasty that refused to convert to Catholicism, something which I may, at the time, have objected to for in this life I was born into the catholic faith. You cant argue with Confucius. While that may have been how I felt as a child in Ming China, here in this life, as a lonely Western Catholic, I was saved from starving to death on the 25th day of Christmas by a Chinese restaurant, Hunan cuisine if you care. The Ming dynasty’s refusal to turn over millions of Chinese to the Vatican saved my life on Christmas day. Anyway I was a child during that oh forward looking dynasty. Maybe not long enough to grow to adult hood in it, something happened, there was an accident I think, or maybe not an accident, maybe I just got caught in the crossfire of advancing civilizations but I did not make it pass my twelve year.

We slept on the floor, we were a family of means, by means I mean that I remember our house being clean and large, one sumptuous floor of puritanical squalor, four large rooms all adjoining each other as if it made the walls so unnecessary, I slept, in the central room, on a thick carpet like mat, very voluminous with décor, largely red with gold spirals and the head of a few mean dragons screaming at the air, harmless, completely harmless, their menacing frankness drew from me only ambivalence. Remember I said that we were rich because the house was clean, if you went outside of our door you did not have to go far to test if your nose was functioning properly, you were instantly attacked by putrid smells jazz dazzling with massive personalities, to have been a dog in such days must a been like sleeping on a bed of nails. Cut all your noses off you dogs! I once did cut my dog’s nose off, it was an accident of course, but then maybe there are no accidents, could you imagine my dog barking away: “cut my nose! For the love of Confucius, cut my nose! What I was saying was that the house being so clean in a place that had exactly the opposite abundance would require high maintenance which must have been and meant luxury.

From my mat I could see mom, she was not well, but she did not complain, her body was a bed of nails from her innards, I don’t think she was ever well, good doctors tried, maybe that is why I eventually, wrongly situated in this life, I became a doctor to try to cure her. Doctors tried everything on her, but they could not see the nails, they could never treat what they could never identify, she would ache all over, suffer nose bleeds, bloating stomach, water would run from her ears, and often she would faint, and still all the symptoms had no illness that could be attached to them. Now I would say that if a doctor can not see it, it is not a doctor’s problem, the problem is that doctors have made themselves the physicians of all that ails the body, my mother had a metaphysical illness. Doctors have no insight into that, they have to be able to see what they treat, to treat my mother one needed to believe in unknowables, to touch things with one’s hands that one can not feel, to believe in unbelievable things. Mom was unbelievable in many ways, unbelievable beings identify with that.

I want to explain to you why I became a doctor to save my mother, though we now know that a doctor could not have cured her, and besides that I died in China by the age of twelve. I remember laying on the golden dragons, laying awake because mother was awake with her nails; me nails put to sleep, her they make awake, mom’s nails kept me awake. I never saw father, though I suspect that he was alive and a middle level official of more power than personal means. I say that because I had been to houses where even when you stepped outside the main entrance you could not see the outside, you were still far away from the unpleasantness and rubbish that would make a dog beg his master to shop his nose off. But dad never worried much about mother, nor slept with her what ever sleep she got. At night when the night makes no requirements of the eyes, my mother’s eyes were wide open, I could feel them wide open from as far away as my mat, her pupils dilating to expand faster than the darkness so as to reach some promise of light at an equator that they would never reach; her pale face, uncomfortably moist, bathed by exasperation, laying there awake waiting for the daylight where she would not be force to fake a sleep that never would arrive. I wanted to be a doctor, not knowing at the time that doctors did not know anything about nails in your innards, nails in your middle brain, nails in your ears, nails in your brow, nails, nails NAILS!

The problems with wishes is that they come true. Let me explain. In China we have a curse which I am sure you are aware of because it is so very, very popular, it has survived well into these times and far beyond them even. I say beyond our times because as you know I have already lived many lives, and I want to make you aware that the lives you live do not follow one specific time line, they are random, you can have a life in the future which is sort of a dubious term because there really isn't a future, since you can be born into the past as much as to the present, or and I ought say equally born a god or an amoebae, that is what I am trying to say here but not saying it very well; randomness is so difficult to imagine here, people are not aware of spontaneous evolution or evolved extinctions, the most highly evolved are most highly likely to extinguish themselves. Everyone that is successful eventually gets to suffer evolved extinctions, but these are all things I don’t care to explain, you will eventually know them, if you don’t know them already and just don’t know them here, because we forget so much of being in our different histories of the universe just so we can survive here; but what I am saying is that I have existed in many different points of existence and that because of that I know that the saying or curse: “May all of your wishes come true.” Has survived far beyond what we call our times. More I am saying that the universe doesn’t evolve but don’t you worry about that.

But what I wanted to tell you, and I apologize for taking so many detours and not following the linearity that is so adored here, but it is just that I haven’t forgotten as much of all of my other existences and so it makes it difficult to be linear. But what I wanted to tell you is why I became a doctor. You see when I was a child in China, my mother’s pain afflicted me as well, and so I wished myself to be a doctor and then at the age of twelve something put a mortal stop to that. I can still hear my mothers woes from that, her nails were one thing she could handle without saying much to me, but when I stopped aging mother got a spike! Before curing mother from her nails I became her SPIKE!

I don’t know why I died so early in life; maybe, as son of a bureaucrat, to get away from the calamity of India’s religious infestation that was colonizing our spiritual life with that overly jolly and overly here, here, rice salesman Buddha. Or maybe due to a premonition of what was far away but sure to come, Manchu pigtails, no pigtail for this little boy. I wish that I could figure it out, when you are a child sleeping in the middle of a clean room, with simple but beautiful walls, and shiny floors and you are not afraid of dragons, and you dream of playing with snakes, and you hear your pudgy and overly happy little brother sleeping in the next room, all dressed up in his dreams, sleeping fully and comfortably and happily, with a beautiful maroon and black silk hat, while mother lays in her room awake, there just aren’t explanations. In my next life I would make myself a doctor, but I got detoured to Poland, and there were a few other places and beings in-between, and I finally got here to Earth where wishes come true, and with the help of credit card fraud I was able to finance myself through medical school.

But you see this is what I was saying, wishes come true. The problem is that they are not real time instantaneous, the universe is truly kind, it wants to make us all happy, so when we make a wish and make it with all the desire that a bed of nails can inspire, the universe dashes to make it come true, but it takes time for the universe to get all things working just right so that the wish can come true. This is because the universe does not know itself too well, and so when the wish is made fully real and assigned to the wisher, for a dream has your name tag on it, it tracks you anywhere you go in the universe and comes true for you, and for you only; the problem is that as it comes true you are then living in another era, in another place, under very different circumstances, and you wish it were not happening to you because mostly you don’t know that it is a wish that you made, though realistic parts of your brain say “Well this is probably a good thing.” Only pretty soon you are trying to kill the damn wish, and the universe, which of course hears you saying: “Oh I wish this were not happening to me!” or if you are really inconsiderate you say “Why is this happening to me!” Not even a question and the universe just can’t figure you out and that is how black holes get started, the universe trying to get away from making your wishes come true.

What matters here is that perhaps because of my resurrected memories in this world I did not want to be a doctor, which may explain why I wasn’t accepted at the more prestigious schools of medicine; if my will power had been involved in my decision then maybe now I would be doing something really phenomenal, and by that I don’t mean being a mere cartographer for the human genome project, deoxyribonucleic who cares, or a podiatrists, besides their licking pleasures what else is there to learn about feet! Angina, freezing heart, drip drain blood, rerouting and adding pipes, one ought never mess with heart, a pig’s valve belongs to a pig! An artificial heart makes you entirely a metal being with a stomach brain. No, I wanted to be something much bigger. The black plague, the potato famine, the infestations, spirited cholera, leper fleshings, cancerous venom that refuses to poison itself, and all the other countless of slow death tortures that have destroyed entire families and devastated towns and centuries, I have a gripe with all of them!

My adorable little brother, in this life, died of AIDS. AIDS doesn’t want to kill you, but it also does not want you to live all hidden by a wall of defenses that prevents you from suffering the feelings and ravaging menaces of everything else; and it is something else that kills you when it witnesses your nakedness; to stay alive you have to remind everything else that it has to go around you and not through you; architects sadly aside the universe despises straight lines they kill everything. Knowing all that there is to know the doctors could not cure my little brother, thirty pills a day to keep him alive were poisoning him, the doctor that saved him prescribed the dosage of death. I would do something to save him, to lay with him, brotherly naked kissing him life innocence.

And in this life I have my adorable mother pure declamation of poetry, suffers all of the symptoms that my mother in China had, both can not be diagnosed or cured by medicine, both got spiked by their sons, and here too I can not cure her; she is all by herself only in the company of what ails her, which again is metaphysical in scripture.

When you are walking the Western streets on a holy day, hungry and alone and wondering why you did this life to yourself because you forgot your wish, and all the restaurants are closed, and you think you are about to die of hunger, and suddenly you stumble into a Chinese restaurant raining manna you are in heaven! Such was the foresight of the Ming dynasty, providence sweet and sour soup kitchen for lonely Catholics. In the future everyone will be Chinese, more Chinese restaurants survive per square block than is humanly possible to stomach, so many of us have already been Chinese. Mother and I enjoyed our time in the Ming dynasty, so much so that last time she came to visit we had dinner at a Chinese restaurant. It is one of my fondest memories.


The terrible thing is not that there is a conspiracy, it is that we are not involved.

He was powerful so powerful that he would grow to fear his own power, me I did not fear my power I wanted more! But he could feel the dangers of his powers so much so as to fear them, so much so as not to use them, so much so as to die of weakness and failures.

He was The Archbishop and I was but a mere Cardinal-priest, and I had maxed-out my rank. Maxed-out my political skills to accomplish more prestige within the Christian faith. I would die a Cardinal-priest, when you don’t get promoted by the pope your chances of being promoted by God are a lot less; that was when my soul joined Archbishop Domenico, I joined him when I realized that my powers were maxed-out.

He was an old man already and he would die an old man just like the rest of us, but he was a visionary, a man who fought for the faith that he won, a man of magnificent stature and character, a man that was promoted by the Pope not because he was political but because the Pope did not have a choice, given the option the Pope would not have raised him, plenty of reasons, he, Archbishop Domenico, had a questionable background, his real name was unknown, the Vatican doubted his Italian credentials, but there are men that are so beyond the system and its archaic structure that their luminosity alone promotes them. Archbishop Domenico was neither a good man nor a bad man, he was simply a great man.

I flew to find him in Puta Madre; a chilly town in the southern tip of Chile, unknown by name to anyone except the villagers that inhabit it, and even they do not use the name, they don’t need to, they are there. I had traveled far to be with him, he was now in exiled retirement, his whereabouts unknown to all but a few of his followers, myself being one of the more devout, thought I was critical of him, not quite a fan, I had joined him merely because I wanted more power than I could have won on my own. But I grew to admire him, not because of his convictions but because of his honest madness.

We sat upon a wooden bench table, weathered wood that had been exposed to everything that the environment could dish out yet still retaining its dignity; a table but a good table. We both had wine, not holy wine, it had been a long time since we could drink anything that was holy, we who had persisted towards our faith with duty and righteousness on our side were now unable to bless even our wine. The wine still has the same effect, chaliced or not, it was difficult to discern what the blessed wine did that the pagan wine did not, but then so much is feeling, and the old man and I had lost that magic feeling. We drank heatedly, we did not laugh, the reunion after a long decade of absence did not call us to rejoice, we had failed, and for us failure was not accepting of notice and neither could we ignore it.

It all started with the damn Jews, as so much and, hell! everything that has to do with Christianity, the Jews had their doings in it and yet somehow remained innocent yet not through innocence. And what makes it all more ironic is that Archbishop Domenico and I had more in common with the Jews than with the damn Christians! Every Jew I ever met yielded a better friendship, a better conversation, and moreover emitted a warmth that comes to a soul that feels that the promised land has not been delivered, that the savior has not cometh from the heavens, and that the exodus paces on and on… it was these same spiritual comrades that made our methods and path necessary, and, by so urging also made our grief.

Archbishop Domenico and I were not rebels. We were conservatives, we were for a stronger centralized Church, we wanted to clamp down on all the dissenters. There were, for instance, bells ringing to allow women into the priesthood, we were absolutely against it; we went as far back into Christian history as was safe to do so, to prove our point; as far back but not all the way back, you go back enough on anything and the whole damn thing will reverse itself. The Archbishop and I were not into fucking ourselves. Oh, and behold there were bells ringing for letting the priest fuck and marry. We were both adamant that that ought not be so ordained. The Archbishop was a celibate man, he had settled into a strange comfort zone which I don’t think men are generally capable of obtaining, an indifference to the sexual, an irrepressible desire it is, but he had reached a kind of marriage with himself, he did not need sex, he did not need to reproduce, he did not need to obtain the pleasures of woman and man so temporal to his menacing soul, for his soul was a menace, it was imperial, it aroused souls, it had no other cause. Cardinal-priest, I, was for fucking, I was what you could call a strenuously deliberate desire for sexual emancipation within the confines of absolute secrecy. I enjoyed everything about sex, the cross, the cross by the hand, crossing on the cross, or crossing with the cross. Women, I could sink into any aspect of their being, so serious, so absolute, so willing to reconcile their differences with god through me and with ingrained rosary beads, me, fatherly protectorate of appeals to god, the confessions slipping myself while handing out penance and forgiveness, the appeal of the violations of the sacred book, and more the unspeakable pleasure of the forced silence of nuns. Coerced innocents, Nuns are women that are required to remain innocent, they are not, but our faith calls for innocence, it was the perfect church for a naïve humanity, it is a miracle of purity to be a catholic, it is to always be innocent, in one’s own eyes, in the eyes of all, and more in the eyes of god. Men, oh with a fat O I loved to tease the men, oh the men, I was such a girl tease, I felt the power of the seductress when among my flock; and there were plenty to be had and pluck, not enough time to dwell on attachments, every encounter was the first and last, virgins of the pleasantries of relationships, dancing in the night and day, where every eye is out to snitch on you, you exploit the instant and hide, we don’t talk about it, though sermons often have those passion infested messages, I was never cold in my worships. Children oh the kiss of innocence, the notion of not being aware that you can harm is theirs and not for long, a blossom that rots so quickly must be pricked, the rose bushes, the bath water, to enlarge the eyes to the world and to perverse a life with memories of one’s adoring spanking tickles. Again for us in the church it is all about innocence, children are the absolute representation of our innocence, of our purity, and not all of them, there are plenty of rotten eight year olds that seem born with wit and savvy which was ugly and deniable. Boys are always more innocent than girls, our faith preferred boys, you can spoil the innocence of boys many times, girls only once. But regardless of all that I was a liberal in that I had ideas about altar girls, I was open to them. But my most favorite were my rare moments, when I would disguise with black suit, beard, wig and glasses, of orthodox appearance, but I meant no offence by it, it was just an easy disguise, and then I would trump out into the streets of our unholy city; and into the hermaphrodite and transvestite bars, vodka, vodka, and more vodka, my nerves drank that liquid down as fast as they could, the thought of being stripped of my disguise was severe, the tension circling bloodmobiles in all of my veins, the girls were wonderful, the ugliness beautiful and a kind of estrange breaking with the world. Hiding their masculinity an impossibility, but the girls were willing to be girls for us, to tease us and be in control and equally easy; and we would lure the teasers like ladies, and venture into the entanglement with false reservations, agitated desires robbing for themselves satisfaction; pleasures that could not exists beyond the bounds of this bar. I was particularly enamoured with one Yolanda, she was a herm, my absolute favorite, I liked the crossdressers but hermaphrodites were for me the life and joy and pure expression of what all beings ought be. Yolanda and I saw each other for almost three months, she lived in a dingy room, half occupied by a piano, she would play that out of tune piano and I would still like her; one night she wanted me to slap the shit out of her, I walked out, I couldn’t do it anymore. Her face against the window of abandonment, I never went back. But not to derail from our aim, I was against allowing marriage for the servants of our god, commitment is a problem, a priest is more qualified to discuss a marriage because he has not entered into union, those that are married get all tangled up in their idea of marriage, a priest is an idealism! Our faith was bound to purity and innocence thus refreshing itself by what we would not do. It was pedestrian to think that marriage was a necessity or a desire, or worthy! Saints stand alone, just like a hermaphrodite that has no choice, I wanted all of our priests to have a chance at Sainthood!

There were bells ringing to allow abortions, even just life threatening abortion, the type where you can guess which to save the mother or the baby, we were for risking both, all or nothing! We wrote hundreds of papers on the matter, the best, of course, were never made public, remaining locked somewhere in Vatican archives.

Let me explain the treacherous time our Church was enduring. Take the Mormons; they were being assisted by well-to-do capitalism, so that they were not only procreating but also reproducing the faith with the already born. It is one thing to bring a child into the world, but to get them to believe and be charitable with alms, and kindness requires a huge structure of moral, psychological and financial massiveness. We had a lot of real estate from any angle of the equation, but the success of capitalism catered more to faiths that were parsimonious on sacrifice and more symbolic in practice than in breath. That meant that, while we as Catholics had to convert a soul to our faith, all that the Mormons had to do was to convince all of those ambitious middleclass kids to call themselves Mormons and that was that. There was no formidable soul conflicts to resolve, a Mormon temple is a sort of lavish middle class home in Vegas, a sort of tripling of richness, lavished with ultra-whiteness more than hinting at the purity acquired through wealth, and then adorning itself with hard-core symbolism, you can worship the gold, the carpet is kept clean from your muddy shoes, where no sinner shall walk call it a prejudice cleansing of the soul, only believers move in those grounds. And like middle class managers, they are flexible, they now accept Blacks into the faith, an incredible exorcise considering that blacks were once heralded as the apparition of evilness; but if the executive office will have them the Mormons will follow suit. When the government decided that polygamy was not conforming to centralized hierarchical structures the Mormons were, though against their doctrine, willing to comply. And how could the system not love them? They don’t have holy wine, no drinking, no smoking and no damn swearing, and they wear suits when they preach, an intended contrast to our Christian rags, and the most superbly manifested contrast in that they are willing to mandate a Check to Temple Program, calculating percentages based on financial success, a sort of faithful adjustment to inflation.

Jehovah’s Witnesses are the same thing as Mormons, just the poorer cousins, Mormons gather the faithful white-collar brethren while Jehovah’s Witnesses, keepers of the secret name of God, gather the blue-collar workers.

The Mormons can afford to go abroad on long two year proselytizing missions, God’s long arm, while Jehovah’s Witnesses being lower class opt to stand in heavily trafficked city streets and hand out their tabloid battle for Christ. “Are you ready for the end?” Who is? “Will Satan have your soul?” Fair questions that make you speculate on the durability of canned foods, but my point is that these two spiritual food groups are not just building a church with newborn believers, but that they are converting a lot of Catholics that have grown weary of earthly sacrifice! Everyone wants to make life easier, the Mormons even claim to take care of their own, to nurture responsibility; such earthly discipline does not encourage a separation of church a state. A Mormon is easily 100 percent more productive than a catholic. Bottom line, the fun of being a catholic became no longer fun. Archbishop Domenico and I, and a few others, wanted to put the fear of god back to work for us; you know life is not easy, don’t have or enjoy sex before marriage, be hard on yourself, kindness to a fault, and prescribe yourself a rosary of illusions. But again there was that problem of keeping the believers in a harshly competitive environment.

The only religious sect that does not have competition are the damn Jews! You see they begun it all. Before their god there was nothing, after the God of the Jews, we and the other gods amount to no more than errant Jews. Christian and prodigal are synonyms. The whole thing about MONOTHEISM was the doing of the Jews! Before the Jews there were many gods, thousands of gods, gods could be born and banished, gods could be good and evil, gods could even marry humans, improving the blood line substantially. Before the Jews gods could do anything, after the Jews they could only be good tyrants. After the Jews there was only one supreme being, and not by accident but by design, he turned out to be the God of the Jews! Christ was not the first deity put to death by the Jews, he just had the honor of being the last one on record. They don’t bother with Buddha because Buddha is self destructive, Buddha accepts his lot in life. But any other vibrant gods have long ago been put to sleep the good sleep. You see, this is because no one questions the Jews; people don’t go around saying that there isn’t this one god thing, people assume there is only one god; the Old Testament is sort of a birth certificate that authenticates the whole holiness deal and after that it is just a question of when god would walk among men and women again. That was the act that got Jesus Christ the cross, he said he was the one, that he was here to cleanse humanity of its sins and give us all a fresh start, but the Jews prevented a nice happy ending which is why centuries after those golden days all alive with religious sentiment, happy endings are so adored in books and movies and tales. It is all about erasing all the bad endings.

But Protestants, Puritans, Lutheran, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Mormons, Muslims, etc… they don’t, any of them, question the Old Testament, they merely move themselves forward from it, the Jews are the foundation of all. And since they are the foundation they do not have to compete with anyone, it is hard to become a Jew, you can dip yourself in a pool of water or embrace your fellow Christians and you are born again, Jehovah’s Witnesses will have you even if you just come to meetings once every couple of months, but to get into the Jewish faith you not only have to have faith, you’ve got to want to go back to school and accomplish some serious ritual learning. The State of Israel is not that big, the Jews don’t really want more Jews, they want more of the same Jews that they have now and more of the same, but converts are unnecessary and suspect. Intermarriage is discouraged merely to retain the values and the culture fostered by Jewishness. And, putting aside my genuine Jewish monotheistic plot, in a world that has largely been trying to accuse the Jews of every major world conspiracy, salvation is left to the pure retention and volume of the existing faithful.

Archbishop Domenico and Cardinal-Priest-me were not in a position to question the existence of the Jewish God, we owed our good titles to such a deity, but we were angry and oh so very angry, especially the good Archbishop, with the Jews. We were upset at the Jews because they demanded an apologia for our unofficial, “look the other way” policy during World War II.” Granted our Catholic souls were less that forthcoming in praying against the injustices perpetrated by Mussolini and Hitler, but why ought the Jews hold a grudge against our Church so much as to coerce upon our Pope a disgraceful admission of guilt and sorrow when they, they had Crossed our Christ!! Archbishop Domenico and Cardinal-priest me were already very angry at the Jews for what they had done to our Christ, and yet we had reconciled those differences and found it in our hearts, not so much to forgive, as not to demand an apology for their actions. And yet, here they were demanding from our beloved Pope apologia.

The pressures the modern world perpetrated on our faith were numerous and often difficult to surmount, we were traditionalists, we believed in our hearts and souls that a Church is forever, that is to say that it does not change its ways just because the times change and the people change, we believed in our hearts and with every blessing that we embellished upon the souls that came our way that we were not a Church ruled by nationalist fads and economics but a Church of Christ, a religion that had to remain true to its origins and to its blessings which had proven themselves with an inquisitorial seal. There is no such thing as a Church that evolves! A Church founded upon truth and right principles never ages or adapts, it is humane and good by its very nature, it rules the human heart through its benevolence and not through common takings and doings.

They cloned a sheep in England read the headline. They had managed to make a clone of another living mammal. At about the same time and not far from it, the Scientists, another group that you can’t get angry at easily, specially since they believe they have higher truths than us men of the cloth, although their formulas are largely the accomplishment of faith, but don’t bet you can reason that with then, but these folks mad at our Church just because of a few incidents with Galileo, in our defense largely overblown, they too were holding a grudge, we called it the Galilean Grudge, and thus scientists all over the world spend their days and nights trying to prove evolution and knowledge above faith and miracle and from every angle they attacked and finally kicked the faith out of the schools, where it can no longer be taught, unless disguised in comparative reasoning. The Galilean Grudge brought the fanatics from the camp of reason to torch our Churches and children with enlightenment. Succor! Succor! But when you are a church as old as we are you don’t cry pain, you abstain, you pray, you merit god with his will and crown yourself with observance of the candles, one for baby Jesus, one for the Virgin Mary, and fallen wax for Galileo.

What the damn scientists forget is that if it wasn’t for our Church, for our need to print bibles and from our love of knowledge there would be no Science. It was the Jesuits and Monks that invented Academia, there has yet to be rightful credit done for all the schooling that our blessed Church instigated, urged and commanded. Even the Americas owe their discovery to our bladed seal. But I am not here to dwell on botanical matters, there is plenty of fuel for my angers elsewhere, now I just want to say that the final blow for the Archbishop and Cardinal-priest me came when the damn scientists declared that the Shroud of Turin was false! That was the ultimate humiliating blow of all.

Oh, they did not just declare that it was false, that is not how those guys work, what they do is they say that the evidence makes it a rag from an era that is not near enough the time of the crucifixion to be associated with Christ. And they don’t really say that, what they say is that the carbon dating done of the fibers removed from our holy Shroud count to merely 1260 to 1390 years, ancient enough to be worthy of auction at Sotheby’s, but not old enough to be buried with our Christ’s. And then, they get even more bludgeoningly precise about it, carbon clocks have eons of margin for error but they are archeologically precise, and the more new and improved whims of carbon dating age the Shroud merely at seven-hundred years or so! Again, not enough old to have been buried with our Christ. And these scientist fellows don’t even applaud themselves for short dating our Shroud, instead they dwell on the advancement of their owe technology, marveling at how precise and sophisticated the entire purifying process of carbon dating has become; we and our faith a side note to the footprint of technological progress. Amazing, they immediately acquire more rational purity, more empirical faith, and more belief in the whitecoat scientific process, and all done at a cost to our faith, it cost them nothing. I tell you coldly that this is all a hoax created by the Galilean Grudge. Galileo a man that had to create a telescope to see stars because he could not feel angels.

Archbishop Domenico and I were sipping our afternoon tea, as was our habit between responding to requests from the Vatican or attending births and deaths of prominence, or mastering the art of sermons that had not changed for hundreds upon hundreds of years. When the news front line hit the nerve of our religiosity “The Shroud of Turin a fake!” “Christ be damned,” I cried aloud “forgive my Lord the expression.” That headline was enough for the Archbishop and I to put our tea aside. Tradition had been broken.

We moved silently through the rose garden, watching clumsy bees rough landing on the red hearts of Roses, and we felt what the Roses felt with their petals falling off, a body that can no longer support its limbs, fallen wings and flowing honeyed amber. We walked silently, I following the Archbishop with strides of solemnity, the Spring singing bluebirds and canaries outside irrelevant, we entered the Cathedral. Always my favorite aspect of our religiosity, the cathedral, every architectural creation is merely a subtract of our cathedrals, we have created and magnified every geometry soul angles of adornment crest our architectural magnificence; from the majesty of our cathedrals you can deduce every other structure, every word of god and every human deed. We went down to the basement, into a mild room where lay the secret documents that the Archbishop had hidden from me while impressing me with their future importance. A blue ring of spherical eminence laid on the table, probably his size, we sat. I suspected that we were about to begin our favorite game of chess, only this time we would both be playing with black, to end the scourge of Galileo and his gang of whitecoats!

Yellow cavernous candles blistering away their death, his steady hands unfolded the documents, one after the next, a mastery of words and intellect, every word I read was a sculpture of its master, all handwritten in Latin, and marveling with meaning. After an hour of reading all under his gallant sentinel, his hands grasping calm from each other, his eyes dizzying with alertness, spiraling everywhere with certitude, he had forgotten to shave the night before, he was a meticulous man, he had neglected it, Archbishop Domenico had crossed the Rubicon. Without drink, bathed in silence, I let the documents lay on the table and my head searched everywhere for the indecent justifications that they would require if they were ever to make sense to me. We had reached the point of our chess game that decides if we are worthy of the match, if there are going to be wrestling gut strategies, or if one of us is not up to the brilliant task and all ends with victims of a Pyrrhic victory. The candles, in our stillness faded from forgetting us, we outlasted the night in silence, exuberance reached me by morning I realized that the master had thought it all throughout, well enough indeed, there was no risk to it that wasn’t worth taking! He was right in his plan, he was working for the truth of the Church that we both loved and adored and had worshiped more than our own temples, I got up from my chair, he did same and seeing my eagle eyes, he spread his arms and we embraced. He walked towards his office I went into the Cathedral chamber to kneel before my Christ.

Our Conciliabula was a silent disgrace to the church, we had decided to bypass Sacra Rota and the Pope on these matters of the Church. We had decided to save the Church regardless of the whims of our papal master, him whom God had crowned above all others on this earth. But popes are not infallible, plenty have displayed carelessness in their duties, one could depose a pope, we were not after that, we merely wanted our Church of purity and sacrifice to survive above the Churches of convenient economics. We wanted faith and miracle to prevail.

The following week after making ridiculous excuses over matters of the Church I announced that I would be going to England. I caught a night flight, always preferring the discomfort of trying to sleep over the Atlantic ocean than having to search for islands or ships. Flying would never be a comfortable experience, we were never flown first class, difficult to justify to our flock, many of whom did fly first class. Occasionally I was offered free upgrades which my body desperately wanted me to accept, but I would reject them with admonishing kindness. Admonishing kindness is when you make the giver feel like they were wrong in offering and wrong in having that which they were offering.

I arrived at Gatwick, England’s second largest airport, an immense fabrication of modernity, impressive to a Cardinal-priest like myself that had abstained from all technological advancement. I still wrote my letters with pen and paper, I liked receiving physical letters, opening the envelop, unfolding its contents, touching what my many correspondents had touched, not so much reading their writing as reading their handwriting. That was magical. Computers they were strange beasts that just seem to require so much in-between you and I, so many things in-between before they would communicate my sentiments and longings. The Archbishop had a computer, he always marveled about its trappings, always tried to convince me to accept one, but I was scared of those things, I don’t mind admitting it, there, I was very scared. And that is what I felt here in this place scared, scared at all the buzzing, everything here seemed electric and dashing fast, and moving; me, I liked my rose garden, my soil, my grass, my earth, my bees, my Colombian chocolate con queso defrosting the mornings.

I went to an Inn very near the airport, hosted by an impressively proper couple, the wife had very large breasts, and it seemed to me that she wanted me to touch them, and it also appeared that her husband was aware of her desires, and hesitantly agreed to them. I considered that they owned an Inn with fetish intents; perhaps there was a secret dungeon underneath, well hidden by the airplane noise, all within the wonderful English pretense to civility and antiqueness. But I was far from my home, not about to explore the treacherous fantasies of others, unlike most people which actually feel freer while in a far off land, I actually locked myself up deep inside, I went into a catacomb, I was very much beyond the outer world. Besides I was on a mission, that to me meant more than any shenanigans could offer.

Having been unable to coerce sleep over the turbulent Atlantic, I slept the entire day, occasionally waking up reciting obscure Latin prayers that I had thought forgotten. I was not fearful, I was simply trying to cope with all the stress that my mission had burdened me with. I deliberately did an hour of prayer, and then, having only sipped tea in 24 hours, the next morning I joined the other Inn guests for a delicious tea and buttery croissant breakfast. One guest was a skeptical lawyer from America who seemed all too interested in the trappings of our Church, only to counter my every response with witty criticisms which I found bothersome. Two ladies from Paris, very charmed by the lawyer, overly dressed and perfumed, one of them wearing two very large diamond rings, where one would have been sufficient, made no impression.

I took a taxi to a prearranged destination, it was in a large warehouse district, I entered through the back shipping area where huge lories would back up to relive their heavy loads. A man was waiting for me, he recognized me instantly, I was, after all, wearing my vestment, because of the nature of my mission I had considered wearing a suit, but to me, though my activities were unknown to the church hierarchy they were to me official church matters of the highest order and, therefore, to be carried out with dignity.

Our man in England was in his fifties, gray hair, husky build, he had a charlatan’s demeanor, which he carried very convincingly. It was charming to listen to everything he had to say, that is until he got to the point that he wanted to make. For instance he was an expert on many matters, among his many accomplishments, which Dr. Solomon made me aware off within the first ten minutes of our meeting, he had in a mere decade discovered and mastered some Lymphatic gutter so as to keep the body in a “dry state” so that it would be able to heal itself from atrocious ills in days hours and minutes. He said to me, “baby falls into a septic tank, for over ten minutes, parents pull him out, take him to the hospital, the doctors say he has irreparable brain damage and will never fully recover. Mother calls me I tell her what to do, baby is alive and well and there is no evidence of brain damage.” He goes on… “diabetes, cancer, heart disease, the body can reverse repair itself, all you have to do is do what I tell you to do.” What he wants you to do is a lot like what the Mormons want you to do… “…give up coffee, alcohol, cigarettes and breathe deeply so that you can increase the oxygen supply to your cells which needed so that the sodium potassium electric engine can power your cells into high energy.” But the doctors, and not just doctors, but also Chiropractors don’t want you to know about Lymphatic cleansing and healing because if you cure yourself they would be out of business, “no one else is doing what I am doing, and they have threatened me with death…“ After listening to the incessant auto pilot affirmations of his incredible accomplishments that were yet to meet with their success, I wondered if the Archbishop had chosen the right Englishmen for the job; but I always knew that Archbishop Domenico was no fool, he knew everything he was doing extremely well, he would not risk it by hiring the wrong constituency. Nuts were great allies.

I kept on trying to interrupt him so that we could get to the matters that interested me, but I soon gave up and just let him rant on until he had convinced me that everything he had said was true. Then he ask me the question he needed to ask: “Well Father, do you have the DNA?” I tried not to act insulted, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small black case and surrendered it to Dr Solomon. First thing he did was kiss it, big fat lips plastered with saliva on our holy possession, I kept calm. He said “Now we will prove them all wrong, they will not doubt our Christ, they will not be able to doubt our Christ!” His eyes were lit with fire passion… “Now we have the guidance to the Arc; those that will not listen to us will be oxygen starved and will spontaneously combust.” This, of course, had all to do with his theory that if you starve your body of oxygen you burn up, hell is all inside of you.

I left Dr Solomon to his duties, which, like any fanatic he would guard and pursue zealously. I shall not suffer your curiosity any longer, the Scientists that had done so much to destroy our faith, the very scientists that had dated our Shroud a fake, had also Isolated DNA from blood found in the holy fiber. We were now giving Dr Solomon, a man that had already grown and cloned many horrible things in secret, we had now given him the Holiest DNA on the planet, Christ’s DNA. His mission was to clone Christ twice.

You see how what might try to destroy you can also bring you miracles. The scientist were out to destroy our faith but now with their cloning abilities, and while trying to destroy the sacred holiness of our Shroud they had stumbled upon the blood of Christ and the Archbishop had secretly acquired a sample. And now we would be able to clone Christ and prove the Shroud of Turin and the New Testament both genuine, prove the Jews wrong, and prove that the Catholic Church was the mother church and the only true representative of our Lord God!

Archbishop Domenico and I had decided on cloning two Christs from the DNA as a safety measure, there were a lot unknowns in our endeavor, we were not taking any chances. Upon my return the Archbishop was marvelously delighted with how well my mission had gone, he felt exuberant within the possibilities, we set ourselves to work on the task of addressing the holy clones.

Our first and most solid assumption was that the cloned Christs, plural, already aware of our resurrection scheme, would basically guide us once we had them among us. Our mission was guided by their providence, god was aware of our actions and had conjured them, we therefore made the assumption that upon facing the resurrected Christs we would merely offer ourselves and our devotion to their wills.

But I had made a good point which was based on the life that Christ had lived before the crucifixion. There were many actions that Christ committed that seemed lacking that all knowing guidance of a divine being. He knew all of the ills that were to befall him and his flock and he did nothing to prevent them. He could have, for instance, swayed Judas against the betrayal, he could have converted the Roman guards, they could not have been that far from conversion if they nailed him: King of the Jews. Every joke, for the laugh, has the truth behind it. Anyway my assumptions, which were well taken by the Archbishop, was that Jesus Christ had a lot of innocent and naïve tendencies, tendencies which I suspected were caused by his mortal apparition, the carnal causes limitations, for Jesus to walk among us, that is for Jesus to make himself visible to us, for Jesus to be understood by us, a god is incomprehensible, it is illogical, irrational, it is impossible to relate to the impossibility of god, so when God sent his son to us, so as to speak to us within the constrains of all of our human limitations, he had to impose those limitations upon him, hence the cause of his misfortunes; the apparition of Christ tried to reason the faith with us, he was sent on an impossible mission, God knew his son would fail, still God wanted his son to obtain for humanity the impossible. Archbishop Domenico and Cardinal-Priest me, were going to offer cloned Jesus one and two, the guidance and support that they had not in Roman times.

There were other problems which also came to mind, cloning was a new science, neither the Archbishop nor I had much faith in science or in Dr. Solomon, everything could go wrong with both, and science and scientists allow themselves to err as a matter of evolution, they believe that they are fallible but in the long term infallible, every fatal error in their calculations is a gain for knowledge and loss for ignorance, anywhere else when you are proven wrong you are dead, scientists are ever self correcting and therefore unimpeachable.

Fearing that, and knowing ourselves to be holy naïve on any and all scientific matters, we decided to develop a series of tests to ensure that the cloning process was indeed successful. For instance, suppose that the cloning process merely reproduced the son of the Virgin Mary and Joseph and not the Holy Spirit of Christ. This would not serve us well, nor would it spiritually guide us well, we would basically be stuck with a couple of carpenters whose ability to make furniture would do us no good. We needed a mortal Christ like the original with the Holy Ghost inside of him, anything else would be useless. With that most pertinent matter in mind we developed a test to determine if the faith had been cloned or not.

The incessant preparations to all the unknowables were demanding and tiresome but we were alive with our act, we were about to accomplish the incredible. Dr. Solomon kept feeding us reports of his progress, much good in all and we were very excited, oh very excited. We even took to risking reverence by uttering a few sanctimonious jokes, all just to temper the absolute severity which our actions carried either way. We accomplished very little rest, consumed a lot of tea and became brothers of the spirits. When you walk in the darkness of our being, when you feel the holiness in every movement, in your palms, in your blood, when the sunset brings tears to your eyes, when you bless a child and born in him Christ, the sanctity of every instant bathes you in blessings; you end rejoicing with everything, the woman dying a cancerous victim, is beautiful in her pain, she closes her eyes to see her new essence, the suffering poor in some reckless comfort of desperation, with eyes that claim no knowledge of perdition, precious with their meager satisfactions, I have bathed in all those moments, I have found joy in the sadness.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang endlessly one morning, we were unable to reach it because we were in the garden dialoguing our preparations. How we would break the news to the Pope? How long before we could go public with the modern resurrection? How would we protect Christ? We had access to a monastery in Spain which seemed easy enough. The phone kept ringing, part of us felt that most of our plans were unnecessary, The Holy Clones would perhaps dictate from inception, and of course we expected to surrender to the whims of the Pope after being properly admonished and forgiven for executing our actions without his blessings. The Archbishop finally asked me to check the messages, which I hurriedly did. It was a beautiful Spring day, I love walking on grass, moist grass, I love the feeling it sends off tingles through the bottoms of my feet.

There were 13 messages, they were all from the good doctor, “Call me!” “Call me I have good news!” “Hurry up I am having problems!” “Bloody call me! call me!” He was happy and molested and angry. Each call seemed to encompass an entirely different event transpiring on that Island they call England. I could have returned the call after the first message, but I listened to all of them, you have to let the moments happen. I calmly dialed his number, it did not even finished ringing, he must have been sweating next to the phone. His voice frantic and exhausted. “I did it! I did it.!” Just like a scientist not to think of the world at large, it was his accomplishment, if anyone had done anything here it was Archbishop Domenico, but he would not be so foolish to claim credit for any of this, only God created miracles. Dr. Solomon believed that miracles were the product of lack of knowledge, he would say “Its only a miracle if you don’t know.” I asked him to calm down and tell me if he had the children with him and if they were well. In that cold and matter of fact language of his came the response: “One died in the incubator, not my fault everything was right, but the oxygen compressor failed and I did not have a back up, I told Dominico” irreverently, “…that I needed more funds, backups are mandatory when the experiment is this crucial…” I interrupted, “Doctor, doctor please what about the other!” “He is fine, sleeping like a baby Jesus.” My heart stopped, I placed my fingers to my lips, I held my breath, through the window I could see Archbishop Domenico in the Pergola writing calmly, my severe contemplation of the moment halted by the screaming doctor, “Hey are you there? What is going on!” I recovered myself, responding “Doctor this is very good news, you have done well for our faith and for our god!” “Yes! Yes! I bloody well have done it but right this time!” “Care well for yourself doctor, we will be there by morning, and “god is with you.”” Clung.

I couldn’t care less about the grass now, or the Spring day, I raced the distance to the Archbishop, and knelt before him with immense tears in my eyes, and told him of the happenings. We both hastened to the altar and drank holy water, then we freshened our faces and hands with it, took our suitcases that had long ago been packed for this miraculous moment and dashed to the airport. We were in England by early morning.

Doctor Solomon welcomed us with pride, he was full of himself, we walked into the heavily instrumented laboratory and there before us lay our Baby Jesus. Archbishop Domenico knelt before him, blessed the incubator, and I followed appropriately, we sprinkled holy water on the incubating holy shrine, and more holy water around the room and on the exterior and interior of the door.

Not until we left the room did we dare to speak. The Archbishop first, “Where are the remains of the other Baby Jesus?” The doctor with his hands in his whitecoat pockets, adumbrated his shoulders and said “I flushed them down the toilet.” Both the Archbishop and I turned towards each other and speaking not words but with iced eyes spoke cold necessities. The doctor sensed something was wrong and immediately acted to defend himself, “It was dead. There was no Christ there, I made sure there was no breathing or heart murmurs, I made sure of that!” I responded to comfort the man, “Yes Doctor Solomon, he was indeed clinically dead, you did no wrong.” To which he quivered, “Yes, yes, he was clinically dead.” Only, when he repeated my words they flooded his mind with hideous doubts.

I would have to stay in England to monitor the good Doctor, incidentally, at the same Inn that had hosted my first visit. Familiarity, it was about nurturing familiarity. Two years transpired and we witnessed miracle after miracle. In those two years the miracle child Jesus grew to the age of twenty. Doctor Solomon discovered that his cells were showing the aged discrepancies of being centuries old. This was strange, his rapid growth must have been an accelerated way for the cells to reach their actual preprogrammed maturity. While Christ had died in his thirties, his DNA on the Shroud had not ceased aging through the centuries, it was almost as if time could not be stopped at the cellular level by a mere mortal death. The doctor was very puzzled by all these strange happenings, wondering if the age of our Christ would end by equaling the years of our Gregorian calendar. We of the cloth did not doubt it. More over neither the Archbishop nor I believed that Doctor Solomon’s science had had anything to do with this virgin death. Of course we said nothing of this, we just let the Lord work his strange miracles.

The Jesus of twenty years did not speak a word, he looked every bit a Jesus but not a word was spoken by him. We did not teach him anything, in his holy presence we would merely pray, ours was not the knowledge of what to do or what to preach, we had to let him be. I read the New Testament and prayed aloud only to keep myself in his presence with the utmost holiness and reverence, he would address us when he was ready to speak.

On a Tuesday morning I was sitting at the Doctor’s desk, when I stumbled into a note with a phone number which looked curious to me, I sensed that there was something wrong with it, the numerological order was screaming for my attention, I dialed the number and received the cold shock of reaching the London Times news desk. I did not have time to contact the Archbishop, I went to the Doctors room and demanded to know what he was up to! He told me that he had merely played with the idea, that he had not spoken to anyone, but that soon it would be time to tell the world of his accomplishments, he fancied himself a Nobel prize, and a good laugh against all of those that had doubted his greatness. I permitted his gloating knowing that once asleep he would never again wake up. The killer injection had been preordained by our plan, the doctor’s actions had merely accelerated the inevitable.

Protecting Christ was my paramount mission, we were not going to let this Christ get crucified, this time he had protection, not a bad branch of apostles that were willing to let him go to his death. We were meek and loving but we were not about letting the world kill our Christ! There maybe faithful among you that will question the integrity and sanctity of our actions; let you remember that God has killed to correct wrongs! Let you beware that our God is not always a forgiving God; Our God is not a God that shies from enforcing his will! He is a God that is prepared to attack to perdition the evils that befall his creations! Our church had for too long been docile to the wills of the material world, the Archbishop and Cardinal-priest me understood this beyond all doubt, it is a sin to be so weak of faith as not to act with the severity that the times may demand from a spiritual soul.

The Archbishop and I accelerated our plans, he mailed the necessary fake passports and travel reservations to get us out of the England that had long ago divorced our church and denounced it and created their own earthly temple commanded with cannon seals uttered by a mere monarch. Perhaps the cause for their condemnation to puritanical hard work and bad food. Ironic and telling that a place that had abandoned the Catholic faith and bragged a large community of atheists would serve as the new Jerusalem. Praise be to thee Father.

For reasons of security and because I was not sure how Christ would take to flying in a modern airplane, I decided to take the train underneath the national moat to arrive in France. Once there we rented an automobile, of great discomfort to me because I was always in the habit of using public transport, but our situation called for as little public exposure as possible. Christ remained quiet through out our journey, only bothering to make gestures while he ate his bread and water. It was not my idea what he ought eat, I offered him everything from steak to those horrific and tasteless Shepherd’s pies, he only opted for the bread and water, not even butter would get his attention. I attributed such behavior to a preference for familiarity. For instance, he seemed to want to try fish, he would stare at it longer than any other food, but still not consume it, I finally gave up and just made sure he got plenty of bread. He seemed as healthy as any twenty-eight year old ought be. There was so much that in the end we just trusted would be his choosing and his instinct, we had faith in him.

The journey to Spain was majestic, forgetting the recklessness of the drivers, where my heart was constantly pulsating with never ending madness, but the vista, specially crossing the Pyrenees glorious, glorious. We made it to our secret monastery, which unfortunately must still remain nameless so as to avoid Papal wrath. I had dressed Christ in a suit for our journey, he looked like a music producer but near the monastery I changed him into a tunic, he didn’t really seem to care what he was wearing, it did not change his movements or his character any. When we walked into the premises I flashed false Vatican papers that granted me absolute secrecy and clandestine emperor rule of the place. We were to be left alone, and not a word to be uttered about our existence or goings. So much as a murmur would excommunicate the mouth that dared to utter it!

Impervious Christ and I resumed our silent existence, we would take walks in the surrounding mountains much I think to both our delight. By using the doctor’s formula I calculated his age and contacted the Archbishop when he turned thirty. The Archbishop flew in the week before Easter. He asked me what I felt around him, and I said that I was not sure but that I felt his spirit growing, that I felt he was close to speaking to us, that I thought Jesus knew everything though he manifested no particular expressions. Archbishop asked me to leave them alone, which I dutifully did, anyway I was being kind and helping the Monks with the preparations for Easter; it was really nice to work towards something which I secretly knew had more meaning with each advancing day, and more it was a joy to be doing Church work again, three years with Christ were an experience in isolation, it was good to work with the community, to hear the good deeds being done, the good people praying, to smell the incense, to touch the holy water blessed by another, I only waited with awe for the moment where our Jesus would bless me and forgive me for all of my sins. The golden number moment I sensed was soon nearer, the following week would be Easter Friday and I felt this would have monumental significance. More my engorging joy as I worked overtly for the ceremonies hidden with my secret sacred pleasures. Amen.

Easter Friday arrived and Christ and Archbishop Domenico had said nothing, I was getting ready for the celebrations of the day, when the Archbishop interrupted me and asked me to come with him. “He spoke.”

I walked into the room that viewed the mountain ranges with prominence, and there was Jesus sitting calmly, unfinished bread at his side, he nodded his head to welcome me in, it was a sign that he was allowing me to be before him, I kneeled before him, and he motioned me to sit next to the Archbishop, both of us across from him. Then he said to me, not addressing Archbishop Domenico, but just directing himself to me and his eyes at me, gentle and sweet movements accompanied his essence, the spirit of Christ did not need testing, just the calm with which his serene presence filled me spoke Christ our Lord was before me, I did not even need faith to believe in him, I had immense faith, but in this instance before our Jesus it was irrelevant! His holy words, “You are a good soul, all your sins will be forgiven, you will walk on the earth much longer and much with no rest in your soul, but your sins are no longer your sins, you are a free soul.” Saying no more to me he kissed my forehead.

Then he turned to address the Archbishop, “You have deadly sin in your heart, you have talents all gifts from me, which you have used to accomplish unforgivable things, you have dared to rule where you are not king, you have given prayer to destroy your opponents, Galileo is my son as much as you are, the Mormons and the Jews are my children too, there is only one me and I am everything and in everything since nothing is outside of me. There aren’t any trilogies, the cloth imprinted with this image is not my cloth nor my image, I have no image. Christ was my son, as all are my children, but he was not the Messiah. The Shroud of Turin is a fake and Jesus, a lost but gentle soul. He was no less or more than you whom are also my son. It is not time yet for the Messiah that will come to represent me, it is not time yet, it may never be the time for that. You are a sinner in my eyes, you have worked for the darkness; I require no protection or vindication from earthly matters, the Pope is not a bad man, he is a holy man, he does not mean badly, he wants to comfort those that will follow him, and in so doing what matter that Jesus was a false prophet, that the New Testament and the Catholic faith is mostly a folly of human ingenuity, what matter that? But you come to try to prove your faith above those that are closer to my truth than thou have ever been; you come to make divisions and to foster destruction of entire faiths; and yet thee has nothing better to offer them but your plots which merely make everyone more human and more fallible. You want the truth, I have told you the truth. That very faith that you have striven to prove right can only be proven false! False! There is your truth. You are Damned!”

Astounded I saw Archbishop writhing in anger then surprising me by wildly rushing God with a phur-bu in hand, and God just stood there, indifferent, indifferent to the Archbishop’s strange reactions. But Archbishop Domenico could not remain indifferent to the truth, he droppeth the phur-bu and walked out; escaped the Church and flew to Puta Madre to end his condemned existence in full awareness of God. God disappeared from our lives as if he had never been there, I collected the phur-bur and tossed it through the window over the cliff.

I am writing this from our times, the times that you and I live in, the coincidence of the simultaneous and inexplicable nature of the magnificence of my existence as Cardinal-priest, is explained by the axiom of the universe that everything must exist! The universe hates nonexistence, and with valid justification, the universe doesn’t just want you to exist it wants you to exist in every being and in every aspect of yourself. I have laid out a memory that is literally transpiring at this very moment of existence in a parallel earth within the constraints of another dimension. In this life I am not a Cardinal-priest, currently I am not even a catholic, I am an atheist, some lives call for that. In this life I am a customer service worker for a cool Internet company, wear whatever you like, wine and beer every Friday, video games and corny fun, stock options for the janitors, in the new hip way to work. I am cattle-bussed to work every morning, I plug my brain into a phone-headset, and I type in orders for teddy bears for people that have too much love to give, hot dog making kits for aspirants to the perfect barbecue, golf games that you plug into your computer and swing away from the comfort of your living-room, no caddy fees, all and everything mostly costing $19.95 plus shipping and padded handling. Most of the time things go right here, that is mostly good, our company theme seems to be: “If only we can get everyone in the world to give us one dollar.” Most of our customers, highly unaware of the plot are satisfied with their purchases, many call just to talk to me, me, their very own customer service worker. But being in customer service I get the calls mostly from those that are not satisfied, I don’t know why they are not satisfied but it seems to be because their order was lost in the mail or because there are people in Israel that are buying an American made software program to trace their family roots, and it is in English and not in Hebrew or mandatory French. And the root of the root get angry at that, or because the import duties are twice the price of the software. I try to explain that the duties are not charged by us but by their governments, hence the reason we do not quote them, but this doesn’t appease them any; or maybe it is because the package got lost or stolen, packages just don’t get lost, but we use the term. They scream at me, accusing me of incompetence, they accuse our honestly capitalist company of fraudulent intent; I fancy myself by thinking that they just paid that $19.95 hoping that they could scream at me. I get a half an hour for lunch, I eat fast and try not to get to comfortable with myself, and then I plug in again, to listen to these $19.95 human beings that are irate because they had to wait for an hour on the phone to get through to me so that they could find out why their $19.95 order has not shipped yet.

The day that the Archbishop revealed his magnificent plan to me, I entered our beautiful Cathedral chamber and knelt before my Christ to plead, not for guidance in our plan, I never suspected that he would agree with it, I merely begged him not to make my punishment painful. God, unfortunately, has no concept of pain.