Orsday Programming May 5th 2025
nausea brother sister gather
Again the day started with a fever.
To those attending the church I would ask one of the elder deacons to please cover for me today; I need to rest and be in quiet for some time, to be lazy and to recoup; elder sister, would you please approach—
a brother, then—
How are we to live in accord to faith when we are separate of our holy texts and of our community—how are we to identify each other as members of a church without a governing body and a home with which we may each claim; who is our religious leader, and to what do we worship; what are the laws we must observe, and how should we handle ourselves with others in matters of small intimacy and larger bureaucracy;
I would like the faithful to see themselves awarded their faith and to find themselves swallowed up in something greater than themselves and be able to laud (with pride) the religion they belong to (despite the inanity of our, their, beliefs); it is something I have found a peace with, despite still being very much a flawed speck—true I have depression, true my life is not wholly in sorts, true I struggle with dark nights of the soul and find myself often wondering if I am even longer one with my faith or merely in a greater confusion trying to hold on to purpose which is quickly wearing threadbare—and have been wondering lately if there really is sincerity behind my own words when I dismiss people by saying I am nothing more than a janitor and try to sweep away even claims that I am an artist; I am not simply a janitor, I am a shrine dedicated to my faith. Sometimes in a state of dis-repair, sometimes terrific and gathered of the spirit I dedicate myself to.
Something has been stuck in my head since I read it in the Bible, and from hearing the final line in Invisible Man (this is repeating something I wrote both to ‘Heartfelt Valentine’ in a letter and over on my tumblr):
from Isaiah 7:11, Ask thee a sign of the LORD thy God; ask it either in the depth, or in the height above;
from Invisible Man, Who knows but that, on the lower frequencies, I speak for you?;
from Acts 2:19, And I will shew wonders in heaven above, And signs in the earth beneath;
from The Crying of Lot 49, The toothaches got worse, she dreamed of disembodied voices from whose malignance there was no appeal, the soft dusk of mirrors out of which something was about to walk, and empty rooms that waited for her. Your gynecologist has no test for what she was pregnant with.
The eyes of Lord God and angels watch over everything all, through the atmosphere and inside voices, and even peeled up layers and skin peered down into the muscle tissue and fat where scuttled demons lay buried like fleas in meat; take from that an inescapable nature of Nervousness wherever there is life: wherever this is life, there is connection, is angel, is insect; a church insect will grow from the heart first weak and feed off a coaxing given to its hosts to further connect—even the Demon Disconnect, of the dead shells of insects scattered about the earth service their own malignant connection throughout the emptiness: when you leave the room, you leave empty, the shadowing dark gathers and teems there.
In grace there are prophets seeing God above and there are graces in the depths at Sheol where the decommissioned pool together; all life held and felt is but death and dirt and of the first demonic Thing buried down in the earth—and from the slough of its muscle fat tissue bone come the other demons and come the material beasts and life of which the left hand peoples and clergy come from.
Down under floor boards and fat earth and buried cables, a dead part of the Lord speaks silence on lower frequencies—a strange electricity ran through the material that clings to everything, and the earths greatest secret; I listen to it, I pray to it, I am shrine to it, and it is to it I vow myself to in submission in pursuit of a lower grace; and how silly I am: I glorify the mechanical functions of life—there is an honor to working with the bodies of the demonic, their laid out dumb thoughtless bodies, cleaning and dissolving them with fluid chemical windex bleach; I swear off relationships in some imitation of celibacy and am wary of any friendship or good bond (sinner that I am with grandfathered in relationships; I am weak; I am lonely as any other); I admire those who work to ease the dying and care for the deceased; there is a mystery to the butchery and slaughter of meat animal that I do not understand which seemed clear to moronic powwowers of past which claim cures of ash and spoilt meals; I shun the Nervous and seek to be literal in word and interest; I try to sculpt all acts to be aligned with a quaternal shadow—that all good must come after the third for it is the severed hand that came after trinity to which I owe existence; I refuse medical interventions or terms to sterilize my thought of overriding logics that suture away this infection of Listening that has made me feverish for so long; I am predated upon by the musical; I make some embarrassing effort to only write backwards to separate myself from the righteous peoples and become further alien to the biases; and I am not a church alone, even if I must be and am.
Not a mind for the working with others or the development of a home; I am a child still and uneducated in life;
brother, sister: I am sick, I would like to be lazy.
this article is part of the Desk Sermons found on the Concordance