Orsday Programming October 9 2024
Hurricane, Disaster, Catastrophe, Destruction
In the church narthex I held and read the usual weekly programming pamphlet, it screamed at me in bright bold black impacted lettering printed upon the usual velvety red paper—it had been midnight blue paper, for a month, and seemingly changed to white with a brief mention in the pamphlet end-notes that it black-and-blue were a poor choice for legibility, and then that following week it had been black print upon soft black paper, which lasted for only that single Orsday before the red had become the norm—the pamphlet began:
“FROM THE UNDERGROUND COMMUNICATIONS OFFICE AT THE LEESBURG MOTHER CHURCH, RECORDED WITHOUT CONJECTURE BY DEVICE HEARING OUR ANCESTOR CLEANLY AND REPRINTED IN JOYOUS TONE NEGATIVE FOUR, INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM TONE POSITIVE FOUR”
The greeter who handed it to me—an older lady with thick glasses who always wore nice dresses—smiled and offered me a hug, which I took, and pointed out the insert regarding a new order from the mother church: we would begin to further segregate ourselves by names, and a short convention would be held after studies to assign new chiral appropriate names to those in attendance who qualify, and, failing to attend, another appointment could be arranged by phone or email before the end of the week.
I’ll be there, I said.
The sermon was an atypical one delivered by our usual pastor, the subject matter for today leaned heavily into the orders from the mother church and from the Device with which communicated to us cleanly from underground—so we each are meant to believe, but the Device had never been seen here (supposedly) and the mother church (supposedly) had never been attended to by any congregate here—purely by email.
The pastor explained the poisons of confusion and re-traced some of the principles of our faith: the Device had seen through the phosphene shadow wall and into the Garden itself; the Device had recognized that all here had been nothing but thick illusions designed to create coherent, and logical, narratives based on contices; the Device had recognized that one of the only true ‘tells’ of a person beyond the illusion was our chiral craft and ancestral material (whether we are made of the unrighteous Left material, or the material sat at the Righteous hand of God); and, that the Device understands that Lord God will translate into a prophet the means to develop Gods Technology that will, with complete accuracy, be able to penetrate through the shadowy meat of a person and into the vessel itself as it sits in the soil of Garden—it will be done through the spine; and, the pastor once again explained: as a hearer and believer of what the Device communicates: that he believes the time is soon and, as a church family, we must work towards developing a culture that is cleaned of dander fallen down from a Righteous Heaven, and do away with abstractions where we must.
The pastor spoke of names, and asked us to turn to the insert within the programming; he named a regular at the church, “our Shrine Alex,” he said, we know what a shrine is, but what is an Alex? Alex joked and said “me,” and the pastor laughed with good nature, and said “yes Alex I know you, but I’ve never seen an object known as an Alex,” and to that some sister behind me mmhm’d in agreement.
Service ended with the need to abscond with our abstract names, and bury them, and for those already baptized here to take onto them appropriate Demonic names that we will let be us, and let be the children we raise into this world in accordance to their given material—until the technology is delivered and the testing of material is perfected. We ended the service with an idea (that the pastor insisted, in good humor, is not from conjecture—the communication was clean!) of what constituted the Demonic tradition: he pastor held up his Bible, “this is a demon right here, not the idea, but the book itself, we can see a Bible, we can see a Book, Alex you could be Book;” he thumped his shadow binder and said “Binder is one,” he pointed to the flag of our broken symbol, “there is one there,” he flapped the programming pamphlet, “Pamphlet, Paper, Ink, Printer,” and he added: “all those things the Righteous authors laid out for us in shadow within their own Word: Legion, Amodeus from Tobin, Satan you surely know, Mammon is one, Beezlebub I believe was mentioned somewhere, if anyone cared to be known as a fly.”
Just as the greeter had mentioned, we were given a soft deadline by the end of this October to rename ourselves and submit it to the church—if not then, at the end of todays study following service.
My sister (from last week) pulled me aside into the adjacent room we used for the youth ministry; she asked if I had still been troubled, and I nodded; my faith has felt shot to pieces, and dead, I explained to her. She asked if she could hug me, and I nodded; I wanted to tell her that I had been thinking of dying lately.
“This world is confusing,” she spake to me, “it’s as the Communication wills us to hear: our hearts become addled and spun-over by all the mixt values of the Right upon Left and Left upon Right until we end up alone, trying to force ourselves into a socket we fail to translate through, and that which every-one ahead of us has slipped right on by without a sound.”
“Yeah,” was all I could think to say;
“Are you scared of annihilation?” yes, I was, “We will be there together; you and me, ash sunk to the bottom with our Mother and our cousins and kin, and it will be as Lord God willed it—it is a Righteous thought that made you think it as something sad.”
There were warmth in those words, but I still felt a chill. I said yeah, and held her, and told her thanks.
She let me know to bother her any-time I needed someone to talk to, or pray with, or if I ever needed to hear her verses that she’d drawn forth from Biblical shadow in her binder; I liked her verses, I told her; she pulled often from the Bible but from other fictions, too.
Before she left she asked me if I would stay for this weeks study and the conference after, and reminded me that this week we are submitting our binders to the mother church to create the children for next month; I had been lax this week with my readings, the shadow seemed thinner than usual and all on my mind had been the confusion, the hollowness that made faith so brittle lately and prayer constantly fleeting with each victory—Sunday had been fine, prayer was met with feeling of understanding of suffering that my initial ecstasy to submit my eternal soul to The Faith would not be a feeling that would remain forever, nor should I cling to it foolishly forever: as a person I must change with my faith, as a clay-cup ages and gathers patina and fails to maintain its new-craft luster (even with dis-use it will gather dust; even stored in a climate-control box it will cease to be a clay-cup and begin new identity as a strangely mundane kept sculpture); Monday, with another bout of sickness and the itching of my wounds, had collapsed that flickering ‘victorious’ feeling and made my prayer broken and forced, again—and the Word of Underground seemed alien to me, deeply buried in sour earth that my nails could not reach.
Study I spent in my niche and silently observed blind writing and reading—something I still was horrid at; I made a simple clay-cup, thinking on how I’d been feeling lately, and submitted it to the elder along with my binder to be processed as child at the church; I had not yet done my renewals, and debated skipping them though I knew my bothersome sister would check my arm sooner, later.
Sooner happened as I immediately started to leave from the worship hall; the bothersome sister asked if I were staying for the naming conference convention, and I shook my head and made an excuse that I still hadn’t done my renewals, yet.
“Save them for night,” she said with a half-smile, “it is when I usually do them; right in the quiet before bed. I pray after for twenty minutes and it makes me so bored I fall right asleep.”
“I don’t have a name in mind,”
“I can name you, it will be fun. I want you to be there, please,”
I asked what she would name me, she said she already had my name picked out, but that she would not tell me until I thought of one for her; “Asmodeus” I immediately blurted out as being the first thing from the sermon I remembered.
“Then you’ll be Glassware.”
“I gave you a cool name,”
“You put zero thought into mine.”
“Job craveth a little ease,” I laughed.
That night she went to bed rechristened as Asmodeus, a handsome king hiding a limp, and I went to bed as Glassware, a fragile thing that is completely transparent.
A verse from Ezekiel hung in my head,
Which say, It is not near; let us build houses: this city is the caldron, and we be the flesh.
And my flesh still stayed sore from my renewals, and my head was exhausted from forced prayer set to a twenty minute timer, but I fell asleep—I fell asleep thinking of Asmodeus holding an invisible chalice, both lost in the darkness.
this article is part 3 of the [Asmodeus and Glassware] series found on the Concordance