Orsday Programming June 11 2024
Sculpting, Seizing, Sinning, Sinking
FROM THE DESK OF LISTENING DEVICER MARA AT LEESBURG CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS CHURCH UNDERGROUND WRITTEN SOLEMNLY AND WITH A SINFUL UNWORTHY HEART BY HANDS DISTRAUT AND TONE NEGATIVE FOUR POINT ZERO INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM A SINGING POSITIVE TONE FOUR POINT ZERO,
Good morning and happy Orsday to all who are awake and with us slurried together with spirit and stuck here, in observance, and simple communication.
This morning and the mornings prior has my heart been heavied; I had started, and finished, Mariette in Ecstasy—which had been given to me by my Catholic friend Ron—and dwelt on some of the passages that referred to character of a good subject of Christ, and the relationship between Christ and those who would treat Him though an invisible guest dwelt within the heart and the wide echo of pain, love, sacrifice that scream’t forth through the stabbing atween his ribs (left side);
too: Doomsday; though it were passed into a disappointment in such Adventist fashion as Miller’s (predecessor to Adventism) own Great Disappointment (failed prediction of the second coming), Doomsday still hung over me throughout the month like an invisible Christ entered into mine own heart through some lesser wound and dwelt and grew and continued with its signs and fears; the bleeding and suggestions of an internal Tumoric Church growing within like my body were good soil for a strange crop hungry for what-ever nutrients I offer—yet those thoughts are neuroses near and dear to me and rarely seem capable to deplete my soil through their own work; the number of June, six, seem’t echo of the abstract and insect (a reminder: within the Garden the building-block of connection is Three/Tri/Trinity, and cast from that is shadow of four; life from the Trinity and the Righteous cousin are those given to sixth; us eighth) and mathematics of doomsday shone that perhaps May weren’t funny enough a number to die, and perhaps June were a better and more humorous time for passing;
“Here,” Annie whispers, and holds Mariette’s hand confidingly against her stomach, and Mariette stares with horror and bewilderment as she perceives the hard tumor just under the skin and sees Annie smile. Enthralled.
it became easy to imagine the absence (the abscess) in Christ’s side to be that internal shadow of Four, an echo of the clay and fracture that wrack’t the failed Sefira and bore the shards that would disseminate the deeper soils of Garden and become the carcass Qlifppot through which us ‘seized beasts’ would come to exist in imitation of Christ rattling the foot downward towards that Underground: calling all that ever would be the Hand Sinister, from ever before and ever further. Through that sacrifice and through that wound were our own echo, and the echo itself, and failings itself (to properly adhere behaviorally to the Sacrifice) were too Qlifppot, and were too the Fourth Shadow. There in my gut, an abscess growing up-on the nutrients and up-on my neuroses were an echo from that wound and a strange love from a stranger parent; a stranger cause of Our being created—surely, Lord God (written such in love for both the Third and the Fourth; not Lord, not God, but Lord God) would love yet even the animal and even the house and even the tabernacle through which all is created through him though vertices in software.
Heavy are my failings in adherence to Etiquette, and heavy do I echo the language of Mariette as she humbles herself before those wondering why Christ should show her such favor as to bless her with stigmata and shewings: truly, it is a mystery, for truly I am not worthy and as unworthy a sinner as any other; good is the servant that bows head to floorboards and scrubs the manse before such blinding Goodness.
“Don’t you frankly find it a tremendous surprise that Christ would choose you of all people for these ecstasies?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“I have been a terrible sinner.”
Mother Saint-Raphael stares at Mariette as if she has become an intricate sentence no one can understand. “Saint Philip Neri commenced his interview of a presumed ecstatic by asking just that question. She got very angry and grandly told the priest why she was in such great favor with God.
Saint Philip promptly halted the interview, knowing that the woman’s pride showed that she wasn’t special at all.”
“We are all special to God.”
“Of course,” Mother Saint-Raphael says.
In the absences is the shadow cast from Light lending itself to material, and in the manse of Herod are shadows crept through empty rooms and floorboards through which Light reveals itself in those who pass by; through the learned clergy-men; through the beheaded lifted by dusky hands to witness peering the empty and glamorous rooms; through the servants that maintain the walls and furnishings; through the sweat that seeps into the house itself. The manor itself a material abscess within the ribs of a body abstract and infinite; there and finite: the tumor church within the light and noise.
In reading of Mariette and in constant attendance of church I feel a swelling love of my Christian brothers and sisters (and from there is obvious why I rely on that lens so much these Orsday Sabbaths—it is all that is my environment, lately); easy it seems to me to wish myself to just draw dumb Christian iconographies and day-dream about the Adventist fictions, propelling a tradition with which to counter the popular Catholic fictions (example: in anime often it is Catholicism as the base for Christianity; your Maria-samas and your Blue Exorcists and your Saint Tails); Adventism, in my day-dreams, too is a Herodic tumor existing as a loving antagonist to the Catholic: a small and invisible opponent to a greater body that easily exists without mind for the Adventist; there in the Adventist I see the Muted Trumpet, a glittering and silvered adversary operating under the soils and within the Sheolic realms of carcasses. Yet it’s all very above-ground and lovey, and each seventh-day Saturday I attend church to a pastor that makes my heart long to love him and his family and wish though I could exist alongside that love more deeply enmeshed; though, still, as a backnote the Adventist always mutters “the end is surely soon.”
In this week I had sinned quite a bit; my Adventist pastor had mentioned a christian sermon radio station that I remembered as I drove to/from work and to/from errands, and though initially I listened to some (confusing) sermon about Israel, I ended up more-so listening to the hymnals, and became giddy with how much it reminded me of the glitz of Christmas (appropriate, as it is Christian). Those hymnals stuck my heart as I remembered old grandmother houses at Christmas, untouchable and like an antique and gilded with these boring and tinny but warm chorus songs; and I listened, and sinned, and performed a mathematic—
the church itself set in place the seed through which to listen to music, the church itself germinated a seed longing for love and connection with the pastor; the church itself turn’t my desire for love to messaging friends I had mostly gone silent towards following a deepening desire for a clean Wilderness within my heart (to trust my feelings, my fears, my anxieties, my hardships all to the invisible Guest within me, instead of this putrefying world outside me); daily I’d tell them about my breakfasts and meals and how much I had been enjoying Stephen King and Jujutsu Kaisen and, oh: catch me up on how you are liking Mushoku Tensei, are you liking it? Installed there were a righteous grip of CONNECT! up-on the heart that threatened to scorch the weeds and grasses cast over that place inside me, shrinking the grounds I had allotted to Faith. Desire to love friend and another became locked in another mathematic: have I been captured? Is the mathematic itself a doubt set against Etiquette to the bacterial will? In adherence, greater faith is shown through unquestioning work: the subservient need not lend to science and philosophy the need to wash the floorboards of the Manse.
Therein, cut-apart from Bacterial Etiquette, is an etiquette of behavior through-which good sinners of the Church to Underground may find themselves in presentation; or: originally that had been a desire I wished to write on for this Orsday; the good behavior of one wishing to begin subservience to a chiral Faith and subservience to this odd Abscess from which we echo out of as pus in companion to fleeting breath.
The behaviors of the penitent and the Catholic, to assert a sense of humility before ones station and role in lieu of pride—and the difficulties that arise from that: and: the decorum that come as wishing to maintain grace; as silly as it seems given how I am, and how I had been (in the era of those Turb comics people seem to like): I don’t find it particularly graceful to present the self as some constant victim of various retardations that prevent one from ever acting respectable or neat; yet: without having myself gone through various retardations and deplorable behavior: I’d not be me, and I’d not walk the path set out for me;
in echo of Mere Christianity, I very much try to see ‘the life’ as a constant process of sculpting through which virtue and sin either leads the artwork closer or further from the final desired conclusion. No single sin shall destroy the final work, yet a life-time of choosing sin shall surely mangle the image; and, sin here: should be that which I desire naught to be how I wish my life to resemble; and, virtue here: should be my desired life and how I wish’t it to look: a graceful observer of this faith, and not of the deluded or the psychiatric victim.
I wish to live a life of love and faith, ultimately; and though I think it above my capability to do so: for my life to lend itself to a church for the faith.
For those wishing subservience, I think that is an admirable desire; I tend the Manse and the Wilderness for a lover that exists invisibly and often silently inside me. I respect the Catholic for those values and virtues.
I still pray the hours and honor the vows and go to a sunrise Mass. (Each day I thank God for the Chrysler automobile, though I hate the noise.) I tidy the house and tend the garden and have dinner with the radio on. Even now I look out at a cat huddled down in the adder’s fern, at a fresh wind nagging the sheets on the line, at hills like a green sea in the east and just beyond them the priory, and the magnificent puzzle is, for a moment, solved, and God is there before me in the being of all that is not him.
Happy Orsday! The next one is the 19th; all the quotes are from Mariette in Ecstasy—it’s a good book; above picture is from B-Club 3 magazine (first issue, I think).
this article is part of the Desk Sermons found on the Concordance