Passage I The Good News

I blink and christianity vanishes off the face of the Earth.

Hey, that’s just not the “good news,” that’s the best news.

It’s the gift I really want to give to the rest of the world this holiday season. It’s the kind of gift people wouldn’t appreciate at first…but, if they kept it ‘round the house, stuck with it, tried it out a few times, I know it’d grow on them and they’d realize they never got a better gift in all their lives.

And it wouldn’t be too long before they were asking themselves, “How did I ever
do without it?”

If only I could give that gift…

But it’s nothing I can give…it’s just a thought I can ponder, a fantasy to indulge in...

Or a question I can ask.

If you possessed the power to just think--or in my case, just blink--and completely wipe out christianity from human and historical memory forever, would you do it?

I would.

Blink without thinking, like there's something in my eye; like a piece of dirt carried by an updraft flew in under my lower eyelid, and with that, christianity vanishes off the planet without the faintest memory, human or historical.
See, I only have to blink—I don’t have to think about it, because for me, wiping out christianity comes natural.
Instinctive.
Thinking is too much effort, too conscious an action.
I want it to be as easy a decision as breathing.

My blink takes the rest of the world’s religions with it; islam, judaism, hinduism, the whole kit ’n’ caboodle.

A lot of people have had that fantasy that with just a thought or wish they could wipe out "famine," "war" or some equally reprehensible facet of human existence.
But for me, being able to utterly exterminate christianity in a blink would let me check a lot of things off my list…

No more original sin.
No more guilt over sex and other natural pleasures of the flesh.
No more warping the minds of kids.
No more superstitious barriers to scientific progress.
No more ten commandments in courthouses.
No more architects wasting their time and talent erecting churches.
No more tax breaks for churches.
No more marriage of church and state.
No more church, period.
No more creativity going to waste producing stale books, music and TV.
No more censoring “satanic rock lyrics.”
No more banning books.
No more televangelists shilling for more…and more…
No more nativity scenes.
No more crucifixes.
No more crusaders.
No more pledge makers.
No more knocks on the door from unwanted witnesses.
No more pamphlet comic books urging conversion.
No more bombings of trucks full of abortion pills.
No more resentment of women.
No more prayer in schools.
No more creationism over evolution.
No more laws with religious agendas, whether hidden or revealed.
No more personal relationships with fictional deities.
No more crutches for the weak.
No more false morality.
No more threats of theocracy.
No more virgin mother.
No more angels.
No more god.
No more christ.
No more satan.
No more heaven.
No more hell.
No more born again.
No more afterlife.
No more hatred of life.

Rather comprehensive list. Uunfortunately, couldn't add "no more faith" to it.
That’s cause faith is bigger than christianity.
Faith presupposes christianity, faith sustains christianity.
Fact is, if I could blink away faith first, christianity and all other religions would fall like so many dominoes.

For without faith, what is christianity, or any religion, really? Just a cloud of smoke, deceiving the senses--but nothing you can hold on to for very long. Yet, it is a kind of smoke that no wind yet conjured could hope to blow away. Bulldoze every house of worship, burn every bible, feed the wafers to the rats, it still wouldn’t diminish faith by a nanometer.

If anything, those actions would only serve to strengthen faith.
No, wiping out faith across the globe in my lifetime can only be imagined.
As hopeless as the quest for the holy grail, I just have to accept.

But one day, the majority of people will abandon faith. When we finally evolve beyond the largely pathetic creatures we are now.

christianity, and all religions, will then be relegated to the status of myth.
It’ll happen one day.
I just have the misfortune of being ahead of my time in that regard.
Unappreciated. But don’t really give a shit about that.
Fact is, I’ve grown to be partial to the notion of sublimating the self in order to progress the culture.
Of course, within the context of that sublimation, one can still express one’s self creatively.

Not going to reflect on that frustration. Rather, on the joy of my dream: For example, without their religion, where would these poor lost souls turn to now, I wonder?
To frustrating, finite flesh?
It’s always been good enough for me.
And it’s not so bad, 'cause maybe some of them will realize they were attached to it all along.

But you can’t say that to people, they’ll get “offended.”
How come virtually every human being that you state your opinion to thinks it’s an affront on his or her opinion?
In the case of christianity, it’s magnified, because when you state that it’s a myth, it chips away at that illusion we're all supposed to share, accept and never, ever, question.
As if you're challenging them to doubt their own opinion on the validity of their religion, if just a little bit.
Planting those tiny seeds of doubt is something I’m good at.

Or if they don’t get offended by my anti-christian rhetoric, then they’re generally apathetic about the whole thing. Actually, being in San Francisco, I’m surrounded by more of my…”kind” than I would be in most any other city, and certainly than I would in the Plains, Rockies, Pacific Northwest, Midwest, Southwest Gulf Coast, not to mention good ol' Southern USA, where somehow a long haired love preaching hippie is equated with "conservative family values."

Even Southern California is pretty uptight, what with all the catholick Latinos and the evangelical residents of Aryan, er, Orange County.

Gotta give credit where credit's due, though. At least the godamned christians have passion. Atheists, agnostics, new age wiccan type peeps and all general non-believers don't care enough to take any kind of stand.
In fact, and maybe rightly so, they wouldn't work themselves up into any kind of lather over the subject because they don't wanna be perceived as overzealous zealots--like they perceive the average born-again to be.
Besides, they’re too busy living their typical lives…

Is this all just a bitter, cynical POV on my part?
Not even close. First off, I held these opinions long before the bitterness ever kicked in.
Am I a cynic?
Not so fast.

Cynicism is found in those places where people huddle on their knees, willingly taking the position of slaves. Found in a gathered mass, with each individual either unconsciously—or consciously--shitting on his/her individuality (“personal relationship with christ” be damned), along with the rest of reality.

Cynicism is believing that all human endeavors are doomed to failure, or worse, are just outright evil. Cynicism is considering any success in life possible only by “the grace of god.” Cynicism is heaping all the credit on deity, while laying all the blame at the collective feet of humanity.

Cynicism is decrying the world as “hell” and declaring that the meaning of “life” can only be discovered in death.

Cynicism is…christianity.

So lost in thought, it takes a passing breeze to remind me that I’m still outside, overlooking this marvelous mix of man and nature.
And that christianity is still alive and well. (Ironic, given its worshipping death).

Imagining that with an involuntary blink o' the eye, that I could exorcise history’s most powerful religion without a trace is a fantasy of mine.
An oft-indulged fantasy, especially when I’m on top of this particular hill.

The sky is cloudy, obscuring a near full moon. Saw it last night and it was pretty close to full then.
Maybe I board such flights of fancy up here cause I’m on top of the world.
The highest point of Snob Hill, I reckon, at the corner of California and Mason, over 300 feet above sea level.

Technically, this district I reside in is called Nob Hill. Termed “Snob Hill” because that describes the general residents. The kind of people who live for write-ups and mug shots in the society pages in the San Francisco Tribune, the city's most powerful daily.
They live above the rest of “us,” literally and figuratively.
But, I don’t begrudge the rich for the sake of being rich.
At least they’re in it for something real, however shallow and materialistic that reality may be.

Especially today, of all days.
You don't get much more shallow or materialistic than xmas eve, December 24.
Don’t capitalize the x for the same reason I don’t capitalize god, christ or christianity, nor any other deity or religion.
Out of pure disrespect.

For the first time since I reached this apex of the neighborhood I see other people approaching.
A family, a young couple with two small children. Both the mom and dad carry bags brimming with wrapped presents. Kind of unusual sight, most families leave the City for xmas, but maybe they’ve got some rich old relative up on Snob Hill.
(The "C" in "City" gets capitalized because San Francisco is The City).

Like many, I find xmas eve to be one of the most depressing of days, in this, the most depressing of seasons.
Unlike the many, however, I get depressed for an entirely different reason.
Has nothing to do with having no family nearby or missing my family or in melancholy over lost childhood xmas memories of winters past.
No Rosebud here.
Nor do I get frazzled by the hustle and bustle of shopping, striving to locate that “perfect gift” before the last store closes.
Don’t inhabit those spaces.

And it’s certainly not envy over not having friends, lovers and family members pretending to get along at least one day out of the year.
Other people, especially the aforementioned “loved ones,” just try and break me every other day of the year, so why the hell should I pretend to get along with them on a day that depresses me in the first place?

And the reason the whole xmas season depresses me is 'cause it seems to be the “biggest event” in our culture, and has to be revisited every year, year after year.
Cause it reminds me of how America is still shackled by christian irrationality.

Can’t it just go away, at least for one year?
Is that asking too much?
If it did, it might restore my faith in humanity.

And in that year that it's gone, it could even undergo a makeover--tinker with it here and there. See, got no beef with the pagan aspects of the holiday. Kids love the magical/fantasy aspects of it.
Instead of xmas, it'd be reinvented as “WinterGift” or something like that.
The Santa, Rudolph, et al mythology and pagan ritual facets would be retained.
“Santa is just al-right by me,” a parody I sing under my breath.
Of course, xmas, even the “spiritual side” is not the disease causing my depression, but merely a symptom.
christianity’s the disease.

And this year, xmas is even more insidious than usual, if that's possible.
That's cause last year President Harper signed a bill that approrpriated tax dollars--my tax dollars--to be spent on promoting the “spiritual aspects” of xmas.
TV spots have aired, billboards both plastic and virtual have popped up all over buildings around downtown and on my computer screen, two-page Tribune spreads have been bought out, all spewing out something along the lines of: "This year, don’t forget to make christ a part of christmas. Let's keep in mind that we’re celebrating the birth of our savior, that is the true purpose of the holiday."

It sickens me, and I don't even watch TV, read papers or look up at billboards much. But besides the propaganda, it's just the notion of the government telling people how to think, what their fucking attitude should be about a given subject.

Once they outlawed abortion, guess they figured they could get away with anything.
Most decry the over-commercialization of xmas, but for me it’s the over-christianization of it.

The irony is, that the “pagan” underbelly of xmas, the side that always takes the heat, is actually from whence the holiday sprung.
All of xmas (and easter, for that matter) is based on the deification of natural phenomenon; specifically worship of the sun.
For example, xmas is celebrated on December 25 because that was the date chosen by ancient civilizations to mark the birth of a given “sun god,” an allegory representing the gradual emergence of the sun from the darkness of the Winter Solstice.
Fact is, all religion is based on pagan mythology, which are in turn based on anthropomorphizing natural phenomenon (i.e., making the sun a “god”). christianity owes its existence to many ancient religions, but none so more than Mithraism.

Mithraism is an ancient Persian religion. The “gospels” of the cult of Mithra were well known to the Western world, including Rome, which hosted Mithraic temples.
As the myth goes, Mithra was created by Ahura-Mazda (the Persian equvilant of "god the father," and one of the earliest gods to be worshipped montheistically).
Mizra's purpose was to become the savior in human form on Earth as a “judger of souls,” when one would die.
Mithra was born of Anahita, an immaculate virgin mother.
Mithra’s birthday was celebrated on December 25, when the Mithraic faithful were baptized and given communion, in which they drank wine, and looked forward to the final day of judgment in which the dead would resurrect and the world would end with the final triumph of good over evil.
After Mithra’s earthly mission was “accomplished” he partook in a last supper with his earthly companions, before ascending into heaven.
Sound familiar?
That’s why I only can laugh when christians try to claim exclusivity of their belief system, to differentiate it from judaism, islam, etc.
Sorry, guys, that story’s older than 2000 years, try adding another 600 years BC to the bill.
Bottom line is, if one allows for the possibility of christ’s existence, then one has to allow for the existence of Mithra, Zeus, Odin, along with unicorns, leprechauns, etc, etc and all the other mythical beings, gods and creatures that predate the existence of christianity.

Sure, lots of people are well aware of the pagan/mythological origins of xmas, yet they still go along with it every year.
So most of us know that the whole "birth of jesus" thing isn't even real--and yet it holds such sway over most of us.
Not all of us, though. Even though I'm part of a silent minority, I'm definitely not alone.
And what of us, the ones who don't want to put the "x" back into xmas? The literally tens of millions of Americans who aren’t christian and aren’t thrilled with christianity's creeping and creepy influence over secular society?
What do we do?

We sit back and take it, apparently.
If only there was some way to bring us together.
But bringing people together has never been my strong suit.
And we radical rational types never seem to win, anyway.
We sit on the sidelines and watch others make the most prudent decisions.
Take surgical abortion, a distant memory right about now.
Yes, the abortion pill, 4-YEM is still legal, but for how long? Congress is talking about passing legislation restricting its use, and the more reactionary elements of the Senate and House (meaning Republicans) want to outlaw 4-YEM outright.
It's only the moderate Republicans and the more conservative Democrats that are motivated due to pressure from their christian constituents. For those aforementioned extreme christian elements, no such pressure is necessary. They want to outlaw abortion
Women groups vow to fight to keep the abortion pill available, but it seems every year that the christian right is more and more successful at painting women’s groups (and liberals in general) as being “out of touch with American values.”
Oh sure, the rich, like the residents of Snob Hill still can jet out of the country and get it done in Europe, but for the average American woman, it’s either a coat hangar or another mouth to feed.
The only reason abortion is illegal is because of christianity’s influence.

Of course, the Islamic Terrorism Wars had a lot to do with that. After a shocking series of terrorist attacks on U.S. soil in which thousands of Americans were killed a few years back, a series of wars broke out between the U.S. and Arabic nations, including but not limited to, Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Syria and even Jordan for a bit. Some other small, can't recall which ones.
That shit dragged on for so long that the names of all the countries being bombed all began to run together, it was hard to keep track of who the US was fighting from week to week, month to month and year to year.
Tens of thousands of U.S. soldiers died, joined by millions upon "islmaic fundamentalists."

That's not the worst of it. We're talking literally hundreds of millions of muslims by the most recent estimates, when you factor in all the civilians of the varous countries. You know, women, children, the infirmed and the elderly, et al.
So many muslims have perished, in fact, that their religion has taken a step back in the world scene. Due to its association with islamic jihadists ("terrorists") the entire faith was cast in a sinister light throughout the rest of the world, so much so that millions of Arabs who survived the war converted to christianity.
In some of those nations, the number of christians currently rivals the number of muslims, a possibility that would have been scoffed at just ten years ago.

But it’s not just abortion and the holy wars. It’s subtler than that, the way the country’s drifting toward christian dominance, in all sectors. Like the bill promoting the spiritual side of xmas. And the theory of creationism replacing evolution in more and more school science curriculums--and not just in the south. Mainstream media’s just as guilty as the government, both in essentially promoting the various war efforts and christianity’s influence in general.

Of course, I don’t know what goes on in every household throughout America, not sure if the average person is even buying into all this. But most polls say that 90 percent of Americans believe in god, so they must want it, must welcome it, on some level.

But I don’t, not on any level.
And they’ve had over 2000 years to get things right, and all I see is regression.
All I’m asking for is 10 to 15 years, maybe 20 years tops.
To right all those wrongs.
I could do it.
It could be done.

It’s been a long time since I’ve walked around, and just drifted in random thought like this.
Should be at home…writing this down. But lately, that activity doesn’t hold the same appeal.
Or maybe I’m avoiding writing, avoiding the work, avoiding the act of creation--by wasting time out here.
Yet it doesn’t really feel l'm wasting time. Or at least, not any more so than any other day in my life.
Maybe I was "meant" to be out here tonight, contemplating some of the bigger questions and indulging in some of my wildest fantasies, especially given the general celebration of irrationalism going on all around me.
Of course, if I just stayed inside my apartment, as is my wont, it wouldn’t be “all around me.”

But something drew me out tonight, up here tonight…
Maybe I was looking for inspiration.
Although I personally prefer the view from one block down from here, at California and Powell, where the famous Pyramid and the skyscrapers are uniquely prominent.
But this spot is the peak point of Snob Hill, and from this fantage point I am surrounded by the wonders of nature and man, below and beyond…
Even on a cloudy night, which blots out what’s supposed to be a near-full moon, it’s still amazing


Taking it all in like this, I wonder why people ever think they need a savior--or to be saved--for that matter.
Why they need anything more…
Look to the north--mountains and bay…
Look to the south--lighted homes climbing up a backdrop of hills and mountains…
Look to the east--rising skyscrapers and the Bay Bridge, maybe not as impressive as her Golden Gate sister may be, but still a magnificent structure…

Only the view to the west ruins it for me…it’s that famous church, St. Whatever…no, Graceless Cathedral, I think it's called. Not really sure, don't really care to get it right. All I know is that it’s a massive neo-classical rip-off of the notre dame in Paris, with its crucifix blandly hoisted on top, truly a monumental testament to man’s utter ignorance.

A monstrosity that pollutes an otherwise beautiful and truly unique setting.
Most people think that the church is beautiful; one of the “must see” sights of the City.
Of all places to put this monstrosity, in this, an otherwise beautiful setting.
In fitting fashion with San Francisco liberalism, Graceless is meant as a house of prayer for people of “any denomination” (with the possible exception of satanist). Hollywood celebrities have been known to come all the way up north to get married at Graceless.

Yet despite my distaste, something draws me to the church, even as it welcomes in scores of xmas eve patrons through its massive doors.
Some entering because they’re hardcore/born again christians intending to attend services both tonight and xmas morning proper. Some going in out of yearly guilt; just to get it out of the way, while some are parents because it’ll be too hard to pry kids away from their toys after Santa’s popped by, and some, while ever faithful, know they’ll be nursing a hangover on xmas morning, and not in the proper spiritual…temperment.

Regardless of the reason, at least they all have one for being at this church, and they’re all welcome there tonight.
I, on the other hand, have absolutely no purpose in being here.
And am certainly not welcome here.

Cross the street to the south side of California, so I don’t get too close to that house of worship nor its worshippers.
Beginning to wonder why I came up here at all.

A chill picks up in the air, feel it against the back of my neck.
Standing motionless out in the open isn’t going to get me any warmer.
Pull up the worn collar of my thrift store mechanic’s jacket shielding my neck, and turn from Gracelless, back to Powell, back down to the common folk on at the Bush St.

In so many ways, they’re “my people,” yet in so many other ways, they are nothing of the sort. Sure, we all suffer from an economic disparity compared to our affluent neighbors dwelling above us; both literally in the physical geographical sense and figuratively in the social class sense.
But I don’t relate to poor people any more than I do rich people.
Should have just stopped at “I don’t relate.”

Head down Taylor, towards Bush and my apartment.
Though treading downhill, defy my momentum by dragging my feet and traipsing at a lazy, slow pace; in momentary boredom my eyes are drawn to the colorful array of xmas decorations in the various windows of the apartments and condos that slope down with the hill.
Drawn to the decorations probably because they stir memories of being a kid, when they were like magickal symbols to me.
Most of them are just standard blinking lights red and green wrapped in wreaths, or strands of tinsel or artificial snow spray, while other windows feature cardboard cutouts of Santa, reindeer, and even a grinning snowman or two.

But halfway down the hill, one particular window captures my full attention, and I stop and stare.

And it would have to be a blatant christian symbol—albeit a tacky one; a gold crucifix made out of hollowed out plastic complete with a mold a tightly nailed-in jesus. Bulbs inside the plastic apparently illuminate the garish decoration.

Rather large, it takes up most of the window frame, but not really sure why it’s captivating me more so than any of the others.
Other than the fact it’s the only purely religious symbol I’ve seen--the rest of the windows being decidedly pagan. I mean, it’s not like I’ve never seen a fucking crucifix

But for whatever reason, I keep staring at it. Something’s attracting me to it, maybe the same thing that drew me to scale Snob Hill tonight in the first place.
Like I was meant to be here, right now, looking at this particular window of all the windows in the world, let alone all the windows in Snob Hill.

All the while my vision and focus concentrate to the point where the crucifix is all I can see, it encompasses my entire field of sight.
Something comes over me, has a hold on me…
I feel…altered somehow, in some way.

Mind starts racing.

No.

Mine starts racing.

Like I’ve just ingested a psychotropic substance…but haven’t done that in years.
Flashback? Anything’s possible, though never personally subscribed to the “flashback theory” before.

But there’s no doubt my perceptions are distorted…or maybe “enhanced” is more appropriate.
Vision is…not blurred, but rather witness to an apparition that can only be unreal…

A hallucination it has to be…the glow of the crucifix that comes from the bulbs inside becomes an “aura” of light that now surrounds the decoration.
But it's not done. This otherwise tacky, trivial bit of kitsch transforms into transparent waves of light. The solid mass of the object having dissipated, and with that the crucifix morphs…

Changes shape…shifting, bending to form a...circle; crude at first, then becoming a single perfect sphere.

Initially, the same color as the crucifix, white…
But that white arcs to white hot…
Like it’s going to ignite…

And sure enough, a few wisps of smoke waft up from the circle…
Soon, the first spark of fire…

Try to look away, but there’s nothing to look away to.
Can only see the circle, now ablaze.

Then, from within the circle, lines shoot across, as if forming “spokes” of a…wheel.
A wheel that begins to spin—not moving, just spinning--fanning the flames all the while.
At a certain point it’s hard to differentiate if it’s a wheel on fire or fire taking the guise of a wheel.
It’s both…and neither, assuming an abstract quality.

This...FireWheel.

Did I say this was unreal?
Wrong. This is perhaps the most real thing I’ve ever laid eyes upon.

Yet it’s just a projection of my mind—and nothing more.
I mean, it has to be, right?
Sober as the proverbial judge here, which raises the question: Am I cracking up?

One thing’s for sure--I’d rather think myself insane than to acknowledge I’m having any sort of a “spiritual experience.”

But suddenly, I’ve got more to contend with than just trippy visuals, as my ears fill with an unfamiliar, yet totally inviting sound…

Music…But it's not coming from a passing car or anyone’s home…

Music only I can hear.

It exudes a rather mystical quality…reminds me of some of the stuff I listen to, and there’s an instant comfort level there for me. As if that was intended...

Bass is amazing; can feel it throbbing against my eardrums. Drums tribal yet not overbearing nor monotonous. Guitar and keys enchanting, adding a touch of Arabic and a dash of the cosmos.
Incredible music actually: life-affirming, uplifting, but with a dark undertone of drama. It’s a microcosm of life expressed in song.

Because it is a song in every sense of the word, not just instrumental music, as a voice soon accompanies. Barely audible at first, it quickly assumes more presence.

A woman’s voice.

A voice unlike any I’ve ever heard
Simultaneously singing to the heavens while whispering in my ear.

A world succumbing, to their crucial fiction

Replaced by FireWheel, a window's prediction

The struggle eternal, waged through the ages

Will finally be won, when you fill the pages

I've never heard music this primordial, vocals this ethereal or lyrics so cryptic yet poignant--until this moment. Aural elements coming together in such a way that they pass through me sharper than these Snob Hill winds could every hope to.

Coupled with the increasingly luminiscent...FireWheel, that's what the song called it--after I thought it.

And it's really getting to be sensory overload, can't hear or see anything but this. It's not freaking me out or anything, but I wonder how long I'm going to be lost in this world. I mean, for all I know, I could be standing in the middle of traffic right now while imagining that a I've got front-row seats to the fucking most insane rock concert ever.

The scariest part of this isn't what I'm experiencing--it's that I'm experiencing it at all.

The music marches on as if in search for a an answer to the sonic puzzle it posited, the woman's voice continues to sing the same verse over and over again and the FireWheel grows larger, almost to the point of cutting the corners of my eyes stretching to take it all in my peripheral vision.


And just about the time that it's "enough already"--that I've probably experienced this for as long as it's going to take to get the message across, the music and vocals fade away and the FireWheel diminishes accordingly...

...looking up at a bulb-lit cheap plastic crucifix hanging in a random window in a random apartment on the descent from Snob Hill.

Music and harmonic vocals have been replaced by the odd taxi screaming past and the odd piece of blown trash rustling under my feet.

It's as if everything's returned to normal--but that's not right. In a way, it's like none of that took place and not a stitch of time passed.

It's like when you start staring at something and you really lock it into your sights for some reason and make you zone out and almostt like, paralyzes you, for lack of a better word.

Probably like this because it's so perplexing. I mean, whose voice was that? Certainly wasn't mine. And it wasn't any voice I've ever heard before, not even from the most exotic female vocalist my ears may have come across.

How do I know that so readily?

Easy. It's not the kind of voice you'd ever forget after hearing once.

A voice of incredible power, deep wisdom, yet there was a delicate air about it.

I'm a creative guy, but seriously doubt my imagination is capable of conjuring up a voice that unique, that transcendent.

And does it really matter if that voice came from inside or outside of me?

The important thing, it seems, is what those...lyrics, what that poem meant.

Not even sure if I could remember them all now, kind of jumbled in my head.

What I need to do is strain my brain to recollect and type them all out when I get home and maybe then I can piece them together and see if they actually meant anything.

Seriously want to break out into laughter--what the fuck am I supposed to analyze, anyway?

Like any of that was real.

I mean, how is it that I, of all people, can be seeing…supernatural visions and hearing…music of the spheres and a disembodied voice, singing no less?

Such irrationality is the very viewpoint I allegedly oppose.

So it’s settled, then—I imagined the whole thing.

No…I fell asleep on my feet. That sounds better.

It’s not without precedent. I actually have fallen asleep standing up before, although it was leaning against the wall on a movie set. But in any event, it’s still possible and that’s what must have happened: Fell asleep, which lead to the whole…fiery…wheel thing dream.

There’s really no other explanation. Is there…?

And even if there is some sort of solution, it's sure as hell not coming from the window any longer, which is now officially as dull as all the others.

But it's that realization of dullness that snaps me out of my reverie and come to realize that before I get pinched for stalking the residents of that particular apartment or casing the joint for a proverbial break-in, decide it's best for me to continue my decline down Taylor, back home.

Until once again, I simply must peer up randomly, into a residence window above me:
And why wouldn’t I see yet another cheap hollowed-out plastic decoration illuminated by bulbs, this time a rendering of the nativity scene?

Can't escape xmas, no matter how hard I try.

Not letting myself get caught up in that again tonight, and I break my eyes from the threatening
nativity scene and resume ambling downhill.

It’s apparent to me that only in the sanctity of my sanctum sanctorum can I leave it all this xmas bullshit behind me, so I pick up the pace...

...until finally hitting the bottom of this hill where Taylor meets Bush and make the sharp left on Bush homeward bound.

Just a few blocks away, but allow myself to become distracted once more, this time by a homeless bloke sprawled out on the ground just ahead of me.

But despite it all, he somehow manages to keep aloft that can of suds (safe to assume it's not pop) in the brown paper bag clutched tightly in his left hand.

Said bum is also equipped with a battered and tattered plastic cup, but it's not for pouring his liberating libation into, but rather to collect spare change, as he makes a routine of begging for alms.

Today he should be clearing up, given all the guilt you can milk out of christians around the holidays, but as I glance into his cup I notice it's half-full, which in this case is really half-empty.

I mean, if there's any day a bum should have a full cup o' coins, that day would be xmas eve, you'd think.

Spots me staring into his cup so he implores with cheap vodka breath: "Merry Christmas, brother. Jesus...loves you."

Silently applaud him, didn't think he could get out a sentence--let alone two--without vomiting.

But don't think for a moment I'm impressed. Of all the things he said that offended me--and pretty much everything he said offended me--calling me "brother" was his most egregious infraction.

Never bought into the whole “brotherhood of man” spiel that christianity perpetuates and it pisses me off on two levels. For one thing, it’s yet another Christian concept diminishing individuality in favor of the comfort of the herd, but more annoyingly, the sentiment is pure hypocrisy, given christianity’s patriarchal and by extension, hierarchical leanings. Where the fuck is the “brotherhood” in that kind of system? Only for the “brothers” at the top of the heap.

Look down at the beggar with utter disdain, but only speak with my eyes, saying nothing.

So he tries again undaunted “Can ya spare a dime, brother?”

Now I've seen this guy before out here scrounging for change, and every time I've walked on by.

But tonight, I dig into my pokect, surprising myself more than the bum with the gesture. Rarely one to indulge in charity, especially on xmas eve, but he's striking me as particularly pathetic.

Besides, just happen to have ten cents in change. Nothing I can buy with it, not in these days of super-inflation, anyway.

Fish the dime out from my front left jean pocket and bend over to drop it into his shredded foam cup…

With that, get a bit too close to the dilapidated stranger, catching a whiff of his clothes, essentially rotting from the early Winter rains. Nothing gets to me like the smell of unwashed, stale clothing, worse than BO. Sets off allergies or something.

Whatever it is, my nose recoils in disgust and I involuntarily blink…

And when my eyes open, the ordinary bum has morphed into…jesus christ.

The bum’s hangdog look for soliciting handouts becomes christ’s beatific expression, his worn out sneakers become christ’s desert sandals, his urine stenched blanket wrapped around his shoulders becomes christ’s flowing robes, his dingy foam begging cup becomes jesus' basket for the fish and bread. Even the bum’s unshaven face and unkempt hair transform into christ’s beard and flowing locks.

So, christ has finally returned…and it’s as a homeless guy?

Well, the meek shall inherit the earth…

My eyes meet christ’s and I let him know straight-away that I see through the charade. Despite christ being the master of deception, real intentions aren't hidden from me.

Once again I lean down, towards the leper messiah and christ smiles, hands extended (complete with gen-u-ine cruc-i-fiction wounds marking the palms), convinced I’m about to deliver a higher payday.

Instead I slip both hands around christ’s willing, sacrificial neck…

…and begin choking.

Don’t take particular pleasure in the task, it just seems like something which has to be done. Not unlike taking out the garbage.

Surprise myself with my strength (my muscles barely tense in the act of strangulation), and before too long, the king of kings is lying in a crumpled mound at my feet.

Now that the deed is done, and looking at it from another perspective, I may have actually played right into christ’s hollowed out han
ds.

For none have despised the human condition as much as christ, and yet here I am, crucifying the son of god yet again.

Let’s hope it takes christ more than three days to rise this time.

And as the final breath slips out of christ’s mortal shell for a second time ‘round in history (or mythology, if you prefer), the world heaves a collective sigh of relief. Even if they don’t appreciate it right now, they will, in time.

And for the second time tonight, I have liberated the world from christianity. First with a blink, now with a chokehold.

Don’t wait for a round of applause…

Another gust of wind blows the stench of christ’s fresh corpse up my nostrils, and again I grimace and blink….

And I'm back to holding the dime over the lid of the foam cup of the homless hobo, no longer an asphyxiated deity.

And he’s staring at that dime in disgust like it’s my dick hanging out of my unzipped my pants to piss in his precious dirty white foam cup.

My eyes meet his, as he bitches with hot breath right in my face:

“Hey man, where you been? These days, a dime means ten dollars. What the fuck’s ten cents supposed to do for me or anyone else?”

Learned two new things just now. One, that today’s modern bum adjusts for inflation.

And two, that christ has got some mouth.

Look down again, and the beggar messiah eyes me disgruntled, still waiting for the ten bones.

Sorry, but he's not even getting the dime I deigned to share, and deposit it back into my front left jeans pocket.

He shoots me yet another grimy glare, which pisses me off twice as much.

I mean, here I am, thinking I’m doing him some kind of favor by not encumbering him with the measly dime that insulted him so.

That’s what I get for being charitable. Won’t happen again…

Wish I could say these fucked-up hallucinations won't happen again--but I can't.

Need to get home--now.

But then I pass by the big mini-mart run by a little Chinese guy. Or is it the little mini-mart run by a big Chinese guy? Never stopped to notice. Being xmas eve, stores are going to close early, even those owned by Buddhists. Then again, for all I know, this guy could be christian looking to make a few extra bucks before the holiday kicks in official.

Either way, just remembered that I need something, because just about every store will be closed on xmas proper.

Walk to the back of the store and grab a jar of cheap pasta sauce. Cheap, but I’ve grown accustomed to its taste. Fairly confident I have sufficient noodles back home, all I need is the sauce. Lucky he’s got plain tomato on the shelf; which suits a vegetarian like me.

When I get to the front, find myself behind a line of several, mostly homeless guys scoring a last bottle before they settle into a doorway for the evening. This place is cheaper than the one down the street, at the bottom of my building, so the bums figure to get more buzz for their buck here.

While waiting, my attention drifts up to the TV set on the wall behind the register counter. Usually grab any opportunity to view the tube when I can, seeing as I hocked mine last month so I could afford, among other things, this cheap jar of pasta sauce.

While waiting, my attention drifts up to the TV set on the wall behind the register counter.
Usually grab any opportunity to view the tube when I can, seeing as I hocked mine last month so I could afford, among other things, this cheap jar of pasta sauce.

His set’s turned to DVNT, the cable news channel, the most influential, the one with the highest rating. DVNT is an acronym for Digital Video News Television, and they offer state of the art high tech production of the news. They make it look more like film than just typical news.

In fact, the general public being so blase about "typical news," along with the perception that the mainstream news has a liberal bias and therefore does not reflect "American values" is what led to DVNT's ratings ascension.

DVNT’s adept use of production values like dramatic music and earnest announcers and “recreations” via special effects means they don’t just “blur the line” between news and entertainment. No, with DVNT, you’ve got a movie channel essentially posing as a news gathering operation.

That they have an unabashedly right-wing slant and still garner high ratings than their more moderate cable news counterparts is an ominous sign of the road this country’s heading down.

DVNT can also be said as “deviant.” I’ve read that upper management at DVNT is well aware of this, and welcomes the notoriety. Calling the monolithic news leader (and newsmaker, some charge) “deviant” may be fodder for liberals, but it is just more pub for DVNT.

And as is their right-wing wont, can see DVNT airing a story on “bringing christ back into christmas,” in concert with Pres. Harper’s mandate.

Cut to an interview with a figure regarded as a “rising star” in the ranks of the christian right: Rev. Gen. Marcus Pleasant.

Pleasant happens to be a “legendary” former five-starArmy general who led the troops to glorious victories in the Islamic Terrorism Wars throughout various Middle East countries. He also was victorious in the Second Korean War, as he was the commander that finally defeated the “communist hordes” of North Korea.

But after the Islamic Wars were complete and most of the Middle East under US control, Pleasant suddenly, shockingly, stepped down from the loft military rank he held for so long and so proudly.

Some were not so shocked. After all, there really wasn’t anywhere for Pleasant to go but down—he accomplished virtually everything a military leader could hope to accomplish. History books would forever place Pleasant on a pedestal as one of the chief reasons America was victorious in the first two great wars of the new millennium.

Pundits predicted a run at the presidency, but Pleasant shocked everyone when he abruptly shifted career gears to become a minister and formed his own religious-political organization, The Crusaders of the New Millennium.

The dubious connotations of Crusader raised a few eyebrows—but just a few, mostly in liberal and free-speech circles. It certainly didn’t raise enough eyebrows.

In retrospect, maybe no one should have been surprised by Pleasant’s plunge into preacher. He was a professed born-again christian all the time he was a big shot general, but said he wasn’t properly “serving christ” or something like that. So he formed the Crusaders.

Also, there’s always been that underlying bond between the church and the military, spawning back to the days when men first started killing one another over different imaginary deities, so to me at least, Pleasant’s conversion from khakis to crucifix appeared quite organic.

Know quite a bit about Pleasant because I’ve done a lot of research on him and his connections to incidents and organizations that most wouldn’t suspect, let alone accept.

If my research is valid—and I have every reason to think it is—Gen Rev Theodore Pleasant is one of the most dangerous men in America.

Despite his benign name ("Theodore" meaning "divine gift of god" and "Pleasant" meaning, well, "pleasant") , everyone's favorite five-star has a persona most contradictory. Pleasant’s often been referred to as the “Gentle General” for his adherence to courtesy and manners, even in the battlefield.

Yet rumors persist he’s quite capable of sadism in private, unsubstantiated stories that he likes to kick and/or knee those that displease him in the balls, and because he’s so legendary and essentially untouchable, the old bastard gets away with it.

Even heard one borderline piece of gossip that Pleasant, the de facto commander-in-chief, once kneed President Harper in the balls when Harper didn’t do Pleasant’s bidding at some point during Korean War II.

But that's merely conjecture. To the public, Pleasant is the empitome of class and the "old fashioned" style of doing things and conducting one's self, right down to his warm and trusting brown eyes.

Beyond the eys, Pleasant is a generally distinguished character with a strong chin and receding hairline as he enters his mid-60's.

Image is big with Pleasant, that’s why his halls are decked with holly and xmas cards, as he appears, apparently at his home, in the den I presume, sitting in front of a picturesque fireplace, interviewed by a DVNT reporter with blow-dried hair and a pasted on smile, setting up Pleasant like a classic straight-man.

“What is your greatest wish for the American public this holiday season, Rev. Pleasant?”

“That we not surrender to the world, Brent.”

Wince instinctively at Pleasant’s evocation of that overstated bromide of the born again set. Especially in his typical hushed tones

The dummy reporter follows up brilliantly with, “What do you mean by that in the context of Christmas?”

Pleasant smiles the smile that seems to epitomize his surname: “When I say we should not “surrender to the world” Brent, I mean that we remember that this season is for one purpose and one purpose only: to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.”

Only purpose? Is that so, Rev? Despite being such a Yankee Doodle Dandy, Pleasant’s not much of a capitalist, now is he? Retail America definitely sees another point to xmas than just the birth of the lord and savior routine.

“Xmas also reminds us that we’re blessed to live in this Christian nation of America,” Pleasant drones on. “This is Christ’s most cherished nation, the one He has chosen to protect above all others. He was at my side when I led us to victory over the Islamic terrorists and their false god. Christ is now at my side as I seek to transform America into a nation worthy of His return.”
Anyone else would catch flak for calling allah a “false god,” but Pleasant’s been getting away with (mass) murder since his days in the military, so why shouldn’t he catch the same breaks as clergy?

Conversely, Pleasant’s last answer featured another typical tactic of his--always emphasizing christ, rarely saying “god.” The jews and muslims have god, he’s got christ. That’s what distinguishes his religion, sets it apart from all the others.

“What do you mean, Rev. Pleasant?” comes another outstanding example of journalistic probing from Brent the cub reporter.

“Despite her greatness, America is still plagued with sin, such as pornography and the abortion pill, and until all those things are eliminated from America, Christ will not return.”

He wants to ban abortion pills and porno? Hey, you gotta leave us with at least one of those, Rev.

“Rev. Pleasant, you’ve been a 5-star general leading to the troops to victory in the bloodstained battlefields, and now you’re a influential spiritual leader leading souls to salvation. Should we expect you will add the position of President to your illustrious resume?”

Hey, whadda know? The cub’s finally showing a little bite with that inquisitive question!

Actually challenging the old man a bit, way to be, Brent!

Pleasant shakes his head emphatically and gestures before the camera as if metaphorically waving off any such suggestion: “The Oval Office is not for me, Brent. I’ve already served my country. Now it’s high time I spend the rest of my days serving the Lord.”

I don’t believe Pleasant. I don’t believe anything, but I sure don’t believe what Pleasant just said. He intends to run for president one day.

Don’t believe him because one battle-tested political tactic is to deny, deny, deny one is running for political office until the proper time to run for said office arrive. This is done for several reasons:

One, it allows Pleasant to avoid committing to any candidacy at this time. There’s always another election four years down the road. On the other hand, if the field is considered "weak," especially on the Republican side, he could always jump into the mix in time to win.

Denying gives him the chance to sit back and see how potential opponents react to the news, because Pleasant is always considered a factor in any presidential race, just because of his stature.

Furthermore, it's a keen psychological ploy; as it renders the christ-fearing Pleasant humble instead of power-hungry; if you want Marcus Pleasant as your president, you’ll have to coax and cajole him into running.

Then Pleasant can roll up his sleeves and pronounce, “Oh alright, I’ll come save America…again!” Instead of resented as a bored ex-general coming out of retirement because he's seeking one more ego stroke, the Gen/Rev/Pres will be welcomed as a hero, sacrificing his own retirement for public service and pull the country of its economic, social and moral doldrums.

Also don’t believe him because of his ambition (and those of his milieu) to transform America into one big christian theme park. Being president would afford him tremendous influence to those ends.

And I don’t believe him simply because it’s so crucial to his…kind to not only be part of an institution, but to lead those institutions. And in Pleasant’s case, it seems his preordained destiny to lead them all: military, church and…government.

Even if he never occupied the White House, Pleasant will always be remembered as “one of the greats.” Recall that a recent poll ranked Pleasant as the “greatest living American” ahead of Harper or any other President still above ground.

Other polls confirm what everyone already knows: that if Pleasant ever ran for Presidenton the Republican ticket, he'd win by a large margin.

But I’ll always remember Pleasant as one who needed other people, make that lots of other peopole to maintain and sustain that “greatness” of his.

A leader always requires followers. True greatness is pulling something off while neither following nor leading.

Meanwhile, back on DVNT, cub Brent is back at it, but unfortunately still resorting to the ready-made slow-pitch softball questions: “Reverend Pleasant, what is your vision for the future of this country?”

Now there’s a question Pleasant can’t wait to pounce on and doesn’t hesitate to answer, “Simply and reverentially stated, my goal is Christ’s goal. Just as women are the vessel for Christ’s creation of human life, so am I merely a vessel for Christ to work through me, to transform this nation into a Christian nation in harmony with the ideals and intentions of our Founding Fathers.”

Good thing my stomach’s empty or I’d be puking all over the floor of this store. So fucking sick of the “Founding Fathers were devout christians” mythology that the evangelical crowd is so fond of.

George Washington’s supposed devotion to christianity is the product of a dubious biography, while Thomas Paine, the man who actually named this place “the United States of America” outright condemned religion. And those are just two of many examples

But Pleasant’s not finished, “And most importantly my goal is to oppose those who Satan works through. For the devil works through men just as Christ does.”

Damn, Pleasant seemed to be looking right through the camera lens, right through me with that line, like he knows I’m watching him or something.

But the only reason I feel that paranoia is because Pleasant represents a betrayal of everything the Founding Fathers truly stood for.

The FF never wanted a Christian nation; rather, they represented the antithesis of the Dark Ages Papal domination. They foresaw America as the “New Atlantis,” if one is partial freemason/Illuminati type conspiracies. Sure, their primary aim may have been replacing monarchy with central banking rather than democracy, but they were not interested in establishing a theorcracy, as today's GOP seems...hellbent on doing.

Look away from the screen to the register line to the counter to size up how much longer I have to wait. Only one more chump in front of me, about freaking time.

Gaze involuntarily drifts back up to the TV...and once again fantasy intercedes on the behalf of reality.

Can say that with a fair amount of confidence because I’m no longer just watching TV-I’m in the freaking TV, or rather, I’m suddenly on DVNT with Pleasant. I’ve replaced the cub reporter Brent, I’m the one interviewing the Rev Gen.

Always wondered what I'd do if I actually were in this position, what'd I ask this bastard.

For a bit of inspiration, take note of Pleasant's #4 flatop haircut resting on top of his scalp like it was airlifted there, and lean in towards him asking, "How is it that a military hawk conservative such as himself ends up worshipping a rabble-rousing hippie like jesus christ?

Can barely contain the smile on both my faces; the face up there on DVNT and the face down here in the store, watching myself enjoy Pleasant's shocked, horrified, then enraged reaction to my honest if agitating query.

But he's not going to just sit there and take it, no, as he promptly rises from his chair swings his leg forward, and kicks me square in the nuts before I can defend.

Collapse in a painful heap at Pleasant's feet as he laughs triumphantly over my crumpled figure.
I look up at Pleasant, into a pair eyes neither warm nor inviting.

He bends down towards me, then from behind his back he pulls out a crucifix and now it's christ's turn to stare through me with his dying cow eyes.

And in the background, can hear Pleasant admonishing me in his soothing tone, "This is what you must surrender to Grimm, to truly find salvation..."

Must be all the dust gathering in this oversized place, because my nose starts itching and twitching and I unleash a mighty sneeze. Does the little Chinese guy ever bother to sweep this big store?

Damn, feel like I cleared out both nostrils and half my colon with that sneeze.

And when I look back up at the TV, the illusion has passed. It’s just Pleasant, back in his easy-chair, back in his den, innocently finishing his interview by cub reporter Brent

And the little Chinese guy takes the pasta sauce out of my hand, checks the price tag, then rings it up on his dusty and decrepit manual register.

Hmmm...pasta sauce went up ten cents since I bought it last. Good thing I didn't give that ungrateful jesus christ that dime after all.

Throw the money at him, glad to be out of the store and away from that TV. Pick up the pace a bit, as the hunger grumblings in my stomach becoming more pronounced, and besides, I'm anxious to get home before any more weirdness starts up.

Heading downhill on Bush, alongside the massive parking garage, less than a block from home now, I catch a glimpse of someone approaching from my left.

A girl…or young woman. Initial instinct was to refer to her as a "girl" because she's rather petite, no taller than 5” 3’, if that. She’s bundled up warmly to ward off the evening winds, draped as she is in a big wool coat and scarf wrapped around her neck.

But what’s unmistakable is that red hair that descends over the back of her coat. Long crimson tresses of incredible texture. Even in the darkness I can tell this...woman possesses astonishing hair. A bit of a curl at the ends, but not too much.

She doesn’t seem in a rush. Seems like she’s like me, out on this xmas eve, just walking and thinking, with no particular purpose (or maybe that's just a bit too much wishful thinking on my part).

Maybe she does have a purpose, she is carrying a large rectangular object, like a painting

Notice that she only holds it in one hand, an impressive feat for someone as small as her. Stronger than she looks?

Then--our eyes meet...for a momentary flash.

christ. She’s beautiful.

Before any further connection could be made between us, she looks away, slightly accelerating her pace past me, continuing uphill.

Twist my neck to catch another peep of those incredible scarlet locks, flowing down to her bum.

(And a nice bum at that!)

Refuse to take my eyes off her until she disappears into a mix of darkness and fog. Only then do I turn and continue trotting down downtrodden to my building.

Though my apartment’s only 20 yards away, really expecting something else monumental to go down before I reach it; another hallucination, maybe an alien zooming in on a UFO, or a street-rape, who knows? Something But as I approach my apartment building…all is quiet.

The liquor store at the bottom of my building is still open (those greedy bastards wouldn’t close early for a nuclear attack). Always found it a little too convenient having a liquor-store but two stories below me. But lately, I haven’t even been motivated to drink.

Although, after what I saw and…heard tonight, maybe it’s not such a bad idea.

No. Haven’t had a drop in over a year motivated or not, and I’m not going to start back up now.

Not tonight. It’d be like I’m giving in to the whole…xmas depression trip or something.

Pass by as if protected by horse blinders the liquor store’s inviting doors covered with tinsel, Santa and snowman cardboard decorations and into the front entrance of my building, only to find that the elevator’s out-of-service…again. No surprise, since I do believe it was the first one ever built, at least west of the Mississippi.

So have to head back around to the side entrance, adjacent to the “Oriental Massage Parlor” entrance (adorned with too much tinsel and fake snowspray).

Yep, emporiums of both booze and sex all within the confines of my humble dwelling.

But I’m on the wagon from drink and I never have the money for a “massage” anyway, even if I was fucking horny.

Drag myself up the two flights of stairs to my pad on the third floor.


Open the door to a place I’ve come to hate.
In other words, home.
Or about as much of a “home” as a cramped efficiency apartment can pretend to be.
Not even big enough to be classified as a “studio,”my place is a narrow space with one closet and a bathroom and not enough room for the bed, two tables (one for the PC, one for eating), boxes and file cabinets that I managed to squeeze in here somehow.

Walls are painted a blah white, and there pretty much sums up the whole existence here. Blah.
Since I’m not one to hang up posters or wall adornments of any kind, I’m guilty of contributing to the aforementioned blah, but I really don’t care.
Don’t care about a lot these days.
Really sad thing is, the rent’s not cheap living here, but still a relative bargain compared to most studios in the City. This liberal town has “rent control,” which has effectively “trapped” me here, because any other place would be way too expensive to move into now, when you figure in both the deposit and the monthly needed for a new pad. Though I’m itching to get the fuck outta here.
Hang my battered bomber jacket on the hangar on the back of the door, and throw my keys on the table. Though they’re in plain sight now, in less than five minutes, they’ll be sucked into the vortex that is my apartment, and I won’t see them for three days. Guaranteed.

Turn on my modest component system and play a live bootleg CD of one my favorite bands, Anarchistic Puppetry(AP). Definitely my favorite Bay Area band, as they hail from Santa Cruz.

Their mostly instrumental improvisation coloring book prog rawk with a dark goth undercurrent fills the room, as it always does whenever I’m filling it too—and always to the chagrin of my neighbors, who typically respond by banging on my walls, ceiling and whatever other parts of my apartment they can rattle on in hopeless retaliation.

They get especially irked by the booming bass hum seeping through the paper-thin walls of this dump that cause every window on our side of the building to vibrate annoyingly.

But this holiday sees both directly above and across from me gone, so I can crank the volume as high as this piece of shit box is capable of reaching.

Main thing is, music like this relaxes me. And after all the shit that went down tonight, I need to relax.

Still it's hard. Especially since the quality of AP's music reminds me of the music I heard tonight on Sonb Hill. It brings me back to that moment...but Am able to drift off to the music for a few moments, but then my thoughts return to the events of the evening, and that's all I can think about.

Were they merely products of my mind...visions...hallucinations...wishful thinking?

Or is there any chance in hell what I saw...and heard....existed independent of my consciousness?

Certainly felt that way.

Yet the images...the muisc...the voice...were only seen and heard by me, not anyone else.

Not going to go as far as to say that which took place was “spiritual.” in any way, shape or form.

But it did feel like I was tapping into something…bigger.

But I’m not supposed to accept that there’s something “bigger.” I’m the one who's supposed to stand opposed to all that blather.

And can't rule out old good ol' fashioned insanity.

Living in relative hermit-style solitude like this, I could very well be restructuring my own reality, bit by bitter bit, piece by pathetic piece.

Maybe tonight was just the first visible sign of the disease, like when a cancer victim spits up blood for the first time. As I drift further and further from objective reality, so my new subjective reality begins to replace the collective perception of reality that I previously shared with every other sane person on the planet.

Maybe...or maybe it's something else...

Aren’t I supposed to be hungry—isn’t that why I got the pasta sauce? Or am I just trying to distract myself from my deeper issues by eating?

If so it's not working, I’m not hungry.

Think it was the stench of the homeless christ that deep-sixed my appetite.

However, those hallucinatons did manage to leave me parched.

Have no kitchen, so step into my lame “kitchenette;” stove, cupboard, sink and mini-fridge.

It fits my creed that “Possessions possess the possessor.”

And it’s all I need, anyway. I have the diet of a typical Nam POW (lots of rice) and never entertain anyone.

Course, it's hard to entertain when you got no woman, no friends or no real family to speak of.

Pour a glass of cloudy water from the tap. Can’t afford bottled water at the moment, and I’m sure my innards will regret my poverty come the morn when I hit the john for the first time.

Drink up and quench my thirst, despite the charming metallic aftertaste that accompanies every sip of my tap water. Gotta remember to let it run longer out of the faucet next time.

Then I move across the spacious confines (three whole steps) and sit down at my…desk, which is actually an undersized card table with a computer on it.

The silent, dusty PC sitting before me beckons softly for me to breathe some semblance of life into it, to just give it some kind of purpose.

Lately, I’ve been torturing it by leaving it unplugged.

Not out of spite, though, but because I’ve had nothing to give it. Nothing legitimate, anyway.

And am not going to write just for the sake of writing. Not buying into that methodology, no m'aam.

If my mind’s blank, why should I presume that the page wouldn’t be?

But I have to check my email, haven’t even been motivated to do that in the last couple days.

For some reason, feel like I have more energy tonight than I normally do, as if whatever it is that happened to me out there energized me on some level.

Or maybe it’s just anxiety.

Not that pushing the "start" button on my PC requires a highe expenditure of energy

A message box pops up after I log-on, informing me I’ve got new emails awaiting my perusal.

Mostly (if not all) junk, I’m sure, but still got to check, never know when one of my queries or submissions have been accepted by an editor.

Work--now there's a suitable sxmas present.

When the email page opens, find that there’s a whole lot of junk…but one that’s not--perhaps.

It’s from Deeper Reflections magazine, regarding a submission I sent last month, ‘round turkey time.

Cloak of apprehension drapes over me. Haven’t sold an essay in so long, I really need this. Not just for my self-esteem but for my drained bank account.

Need some good news right about now…

Mr. Grimm, we regret to inform you…

Well, that’s all I needed to read…

Still, feel a need to torture myself, so zero in on the precise paragraphs that signal the death-knell of my submission.

Ah, there they be:

While you essay, “The Fallacy of Faith” was cogently argued, the underlying intent seems to be provoking Christianity, rather than provoking thought.

At Deeper Reflections, we make it a point not to offend any person’s particular religious or spiritual system. Any article with such a slant would likely diminish the intellectual impact it would potentially have on a given reader. The market research we have conducted indicates that if a reader is initially “put off” by the tone of an article (generally as early as the second paragraph), it’s less likely he will continue reading.

We need our readers to read the entire article, so they can see the ads in the back when the remainder of the piece continues there. We are neither serving our advertisers nor our readers if a given article is not read to completion.

Please keep this constructive criticism in mind when submitting your next query at Deeper Reflections.

Seems all they do lately at Deeper is turn me down.

And before I even look at the name at the bottom of the email, I know who sent it: Lee Harvey Oswald.

Glance down...knew it.

Sincerely yours,

Leonard H. Oswald

Don’t know if anyone else happens to call Oswald “Lee,” but I do.

Maybe it’s due to my conspiracy-sodden, paranoid mind, but I have come to the conclusion that this Lee Harvey Oswald is the front man, the “patsy” if you will, for a larger, organized plot by editors of various publications I have written for previously, all bent on preventing my writing getting published.

Their motivation? Preventing my ideas from being disseminated, and more importantly, opening the doors for other writers to express themselves as I do, with no compromise. See, it’s okay for these zines and journals of philosophy to be radical, but not so much that an essay might alienate even one potential advertiser.

Same reason nobody would buy my essay on “Nanotechology and the Fall of Capitalism,” which explored the possibility that corporations could eventually be completely replaced by individual’s creating all the food shelter and even entertainment they need via nano-fabrication technology; creating materials for just about anything out of raw atoms—out of thin air, essentially.

What sucks is that Deeper Reflections was one zine I could always count on selling my stuff to, at least a few times a year, to have some extra, often “emergency” cash coming in—like I need now.

It’s just that DR was always the one rag I could count on to sell an essay to, at least once a year. Why is it that I was published fairly regularly just a couple of years ago by this same mag, but now that Oswald has been promoted to “Senior Editor,” every piece I’ve submitted has been turned down?
Think it hurts more to once be accepted and then rejected, rather than rejected from the outset.
But at least I’ve seen myself in print. That’s something.

However, that triggers another fear; that all my “glory” is behind me now.

It’s not like my abilities have slipped. That’s what eats away at me.

If anything, I’ve refined and honed my writing skills, developed my own style and “voice” as it were, over the years. Always striving to learn from my mistakes, always mindful to express more ideas with less verbiage. While all the while, broadening my perspective and the depth of my knowledge on the nature and history of christianity, while remaining aware of its impact on current culture.

Haven’t grown stale in my style either, I’m always striving to come up with a different approach to introducing the central concept of an essay, however abstract. Whether it is through the use of metaphor or outright fiction, I usually find a way to make it intriguing for the reader.

Wouldn’t submit it if I couldn’t.

No, I haven’t declined, rather, it’s jackasses like Oswald who’ve seized too much influence and decided that Deeper Reflections shouldn’t run too deep.

Not if it’s going to turn off advertisers, perish forbid!

With this “Fallacy” piece being sent back, that makes a lucky 13 submissions in a row which have been rejected

This has easily been my longest “losing streak” since I first got published, all those years ago.

Sad thing is, I don’t see me coming out of this streak anytime soon.

I don’t know how to write to please these uptight editors…or their fucking advertisers. I mean, I know how to please them, but I’m not going to do it.

What I’m trying to say is that I don’t know how to write sincere expressions and have it be what the average editor thinks is “suitable” for their rag.

But if I’m going to be intellectually honest, can I really lay all the blame for my cold streak solely at the feet of Oswald and DR? No rag of any kind has bought my stuff since this past summer.
And I’m pretty sure that was the only one I sold this entire year.


Yeah, I’d like to think it’s a conspiracy against me.

But the sadder truth is that it’s likely just a part of an inevitable drift; an unstated censorship of anti-christian ideas and issues, being perpetrated by magazine and journal editors, be it second, third and even indie-tier publications.

Sure, there’s still some radical zines—the ones that pay little or nothing and have even less of a readership.

As much as I appreciate their existence, and acknowledge that those DIY zines served as the launching pad for my writing career, it’s just frustrating to write something that maybe 4.2 people are going to read.

Before I’d go back to writing for indie zines, I’d start my own website and post my essays on the Internet for free. Would reach more people that way at least and the pay would be comparable.

Thing that’s most frightening about all this is, it’s not just me. Communicated with a couple other atheist writers, and they’re telling the same stories; submissions are continually rejected, unless they “tone down” the anti-christian rhetoric.

See. if they don’t accept me, or someone else as a writer, that’s just my problem or the other writer’s problem...

But a blanket rejection of the very theme of challenging christianity in virtually any scenario, well, that’s when I’ll have to clean my briefs, cause I’m surely soon be shitting bricks.

Bitter irony of it all is that most of these philosophical journals and “alternative” zines are supposed to be the welcoming haven for us scribing scoundrels and our radical ideas, after we and they have been dismissed by every other segment of the culture.

Those days seem like memories of lost childhood now.

Never expected christianity’s stranglehold on the culture to be so pervasive.

Like it just snuck up on everyone, crept by us while our backs were turned. Yep, even got past me, that alleged defender of “individual liberty.”

Maybe that’s the reason I haven’t had the drive to write much, if anything, over the past month.

Because I know (subconsciously, at least), that whatever I write…isn’t getting published anyway.

It’s worse than that, actually. I know (consciously, now that I’m admitting it to myself) that even if I did get published…it wouldn’t make a dent in the cultural landscape.

Not now. Not where things are heading.

On the other hand, I’m fairly confident that if I “towed the line,” and wrote something the way hacks like Oswald want me to, that I could sell essays and make a living off of it, however modest.

Of course, that would mean whatever I did get published would be so watered down that any edge it possessed previously would be soggy, not crisp.

Maybe I should try that sometime, just to see if my theory is right. Also, to see if I could “sneak” some subversive material in a submission otherwise accepted by Oswald..

Yeah, I’ll do it someday, for a challenge and for some money for food.

Yeah, I’ll do it…someday. Like the book I was going to write before I turned 25.

On the other hand, I’d hate myself for writing those kind of articles, no matter how much subtle anti-christian rhetoric I managed to slip into the subtext.

And it’s not the reason I became a writer.

Don’t want to do it that way, on those terms. On their terms.

If it’s not on my terms, why bother?

If the publishing world in particular and the whole wide world in general won’t accept my terms, then maybe I shouldn’t be writing.

That grand declaration aside, I must cop to the lurking facet of my persona that occasionally attempts to seduce me into “giving in and giving up.”

To give up this mad crusade I’m on.

So it’s either write shit in order to get published…write greatness that never sees the light of day…or don’t write.

And option #3 is looking the best right about now.

Never deluded myself into thinking I was going to “change the world” or any such blather, anyway.

But since it seems I’m never even going to be able to write something, anything, which makes a profound difference, or really, any difference, why the hell should I waste my time?

Sure, I’ve gotten letters and emails from dozens of readers—maybe even a hundred-over the years, telling me how much one of my essays meant to them. Sometimes they’d even say how it got them thinking about and questioning christianity in ways they never had considered previously.

But those kind notes have never amounted to anything tangible in the world outside. It’s never lead to any change. It’s never motivated anyone to take any real action.

At least, no action I’m aware of.

Besides, let's face it, to be making any kind of impact, I need to be reaching more than "dozens."

Unless I reach the one right person the one who could make all the difference in the world.

What’s that smell…?

Meat…maybe roast beef?

Another thing that sucks about living in this shit apartment, being able to smell pretty much what anyone in any apartment is cooking, any time of day.

And being vegetarian in an apartment building full of Asians and tenants of equally exotic foreign locales, I tend to be nauseated by the indeterminate number of nasty odors emanating from cooked creatures whose species of origin I'm sure I'd be hard pressed to identify.

Not that it matters, but the food means at least one other person in this building isn’t "going home" for the holidaze.

With the aroma so strong, gotta figure it’s from the couple who live across the hall. Thought I heard music or the TV coming from inside there when I was in here. Not sure if they’re married. Not sure who they are.

I never know any of my neighbors even though I’ve lived here for so long, because I don't care to know them.

Thanks to the paper-thin walls, I do know they fight like a married couple.

The aroma makes me think about my family, which I resent, but I can’t help it. A certain scent can be a powerful memory trigger.

Even when the memories aren’t welcome.

And this xmas eve roast beef dinner wafting through the hallway evokes memories of my Grandma Cats. Her name wasn’t literally “Cats,” nor was it “Katz.” It was just that “Cats” was easier for us kids to remember and pronounce than her real name—Grandma Hollingshead.

The appellation “Grandma Cats” was fitting ‘cause the woman always had a ton of cats roaming the house when I was a kid. The association was easy for me to make, since I’ve always been more partial towards felines than canines.

Unfortunately, I’m not presently filled with memories of childhood joy at Grandma Cats; receiving my gifts from her, sufficient to hold me over (unless it was clothes—then, humbug) until I got my candy cane stained hands on the booty Santa promised to deliver by the morn. You know, the stuff I really wanted.

No, I only manage to dwell on the last time I was there. Last time I went home, to Chicago. Last time I saw Grandma Cats alive.

And that same incident that has seen me never return to Chicago also inspired me to write the very first essay I ever had published.

An incident so pivotal in my life, it even got me to change my name.

Doesn’t take much to replay this conversation in my mind; as strong as if it happened just last xmas…or just last night.

Sometimes it just takes a little roast beef...

Can picture it now; all of us at the dining room table, in the heart of Grandma Cats North Side bungalow.

To my immediate left was my sister, Anne, five years older than I and completely opposite in personality and mentality. She was still unmarried and living at home at that time. Next to her, my mom, actually laid-back to a certain degree, but still too concerned with what "they" think (in this context, “they” meaning either any segment of society or pretty much anyone but me). With her mother to her left, the aforementioned Grandma Cats, clinging to her religion like it was her last breath.

We had a small family due to death and divorce (the combination of the two taking out my father, my stepfather, my uncle and aunt and my grandfather), so there was only three other family members present that night, all seated to my right; my cousin Gabriel, his mousey wife Patricia, and their precocious four-year old son, Matthew.

Much to the parent’s chagrin, I called their son “Matt.” Matthew was and is too stuffy, and frankly, too pretentious a name to be calling some little kid. And naturally, I resented the christian significance of his name. Everyone, including me, was glad Matt was there, as it sure ain’t xmas (at least, the pagan aspects) without at least one kid in tow.

When he was still a teenager, Gabe's parents were killed in one of the "terrorist attacks" that preceded the Islamic Terrorist Wars. In the case of Anita and Jack Hollingshead, they just happened to be on board a commercial airliner that was hijacked and deliberately flown into a federal building by a cadre of “militant Islamics.”

(The parentheses have to do with the possibility of conspiracy in the case of the alleged terrorist attacks, that the Islamic terrorists were being manipulated from behind the scenes by Western, christian interests. The agenda is multi-pronged, but first and foremost was the replacement of islam with christianity throughout the Middle East, which has since taken place).

None of the family ever believed me when I said that while the attack was carried out by ruthless jihadists, it was ultimately engineered from on high by fascistic elements of U.S. military/ intelligence, in order to advance their agenda of christian hegemony across the globe. Because it was members of our own family killed in the incident, it becomes very emotional and touchy and my family gets so fucking offended by my questioning the "official story," I no longer broach the subject. An objective, rational analysis of the matter is not possible with my family.

It was weird and depressing to have my aunt and uncle die that way. Conspiracy or not, it intensified my passionate hatred of all religions and reminded me it’s not just christianity that ruins everything.

Grandma Cats, Jack Hollingshead’s mother and thus, Gabe's grandmother as well, raised him after he was orphaned. For as long as I can remember, it seemed he was immediately determined to "make it" in the world, as if to prove to everyone that the shocking murder of his parents would not hold him back in any way. Gabe decided he was going to become a doctor, and majored in pre-med in college. He lost his parents, sure, but he would save others with the skills and knowledge he'd acquire.

Yep, Gabe was like a brother to me. I use past tense because he's dead to me now. He was even dead to me before that last xmas dinner I’m recollecting.

He died to me the moment he was born-again.

Not surprisingly, that unfortunate turn of events didn't happen overnight after his parents died. He was still too young to do something that stupid. No, Gabe's "moment of truth" happened during his undergraduate stay at Illinois Southern University, in Marion, IL, a notorious party institution of higher learning.

Knew Gabe was headed down that slippery slope when I first heard he joined a frat. Sigma Delta Douchebags, I think that was their name, might be getting that wrong.

(No, I’m not a big fan of frats. For the same reason I’m not a big fan of organized religion or groups in general--unless it’s a rock group of course. The Anarchistic Puppetry wailing in the background is evidence of that exception).

In one way, I was privileged to hear the tale of the night christ “came into his life.” Certain…let’s just say risqué details prevented Gabe from most family members and everyone else outside of his frat ever hearing the official version, which is, as follows:

One night, week before finals, Gabe was drunk, with a sorority bim in his room. Gabe was always a good-looking chap with fair hair and the family's trademark baby blue eyes, and had enough game where he didn't have trouble luring the babe back to his lair. Anyway, that one night he was making his move and making out with her, attempting to unhook her bra from the back, when she suddenly, shocking…stopped him.

Turned out this girl was no bim! She told Gabe right then and there she was a born-again christian and that she wouldn’t go any further than first base. She warned him he had better turn his life over to christ—and soon--or he was headed for eternal damnation.

Whether it was the booze or the blue balls, something messed with Gabe's head that night. He ended up letting her read from her pocket bible to him all night. They even stopped making out. (Suddenly, Gabe didn’t even want to go as far as first base!)

Up until that point, he was a great guy to hang with. Like I said, like a brother.

No, better than a brother. Gabe was more like a friend, there was none of that sibling rivalry bullshit between him and me. The kind of guy you could party with, go to a concert with, barhop, have a deep-shit philosophical conversation with, whatever.

He changed when I had already moved out to Cali. First time I met him after his "conversion," was immediately shocked by his appearance.

The look in his eyes was just...different. On the surface, he seemed happier than he had been since his parents were killed, almost sedate. But below that, I could sense his insecurity, and the anger that came with challenging that insecurity.

He really lost me when he confessed to me he was glad that his parents named him "Gabriel," as in the popular angel. He thought it was like they were telling him in advance that he was going to become a devout christian some day. (Yecch).

Didn't speak with Gabe much after my first visit back to Chicago after he…mutated.

Oh, he knew where I stood on the subject of christianity. Mostly because he used to agree with me! Agreed with me for the most part, anyway. But that former bond only inspired him to convert me, or at least, to “persuade" me to see his side of things.

Too bad my depth of vision didn’t go that far. Told Gabe it gets hard to see anything when blind faith comes into play. Needless to say, he didn’t appreciate my poetic perspective.

Around that same time, he got engaged to Patricia. Yes, that very same sorority bim, err, girl he claimed "saved” him from a life of mindless debauchery.

It’s more like she denied him a life of freedom. And I’m not talking about the freedom to get wasted and fuck indiscriminately, but a freedom far more precious that Gabe handed in when he let that woman warp his mind.

No, it wasn’t only Patricia, can’t lay it all at her pew. ‘Twas Gabe’s decision ultimately, to lose himself in the flock and from that moment forth, I was and remain disappointed in my cousin. All he did was substitute faith and a mundane fiancée for booze and broads. Dropped one set of crutches just to walk with another pair.

Warmed up gradually to Gabe on my subsequent, if infrequent, return trips back “home” to Chicago. If I was being honest, it’s more like I tried to warm up to Gabe, but it’s never been the same between us since he designated christ to be his lord and personal driver.

But it was the year I broke down and fulfilled Grandma Cats’ ultimate wish—finally visiting the family for xmas—that the last bridge between us went out.

Sometimes it seemed like everyone else, including Gabe’s closest friends, family and even his wife and kid were on the outside, all watching Gabe and christ whispering in each other’s ears, carrying on a conversation only meant for one another.

Those thoughts kept replaying in my mind every time I would look across the dinner table over at Gabe while we all waited for Grandma to bring out the rest of the food. Even at her advanced age, she insisted on serving it all herself, because she didn’t believe guests should ever lift a finger in her home.

But increasing hunger and unresolved tensions only brought an awkward silence, not the expected family joviality.

Personally, I was happily distracted by the sudden ruckus caused by little Matt (Gabe’s kid, named for the New Testicle author, predictably. I always thought the kid should’ve been named Jack, after Gabe’s deceased father).

Matt was playing with the toy helicopter he was given by Grandma before we sat down to eat, basically a bribe of an early gift to keep him quiet until after dinner when we opened all of the gifts official. Despite his parent's best efforts to mold him into a "good little christian man," Matt was thankfully...a kid.

With dinner soon on the horizon, Gabe’s mom tried to wrestle the chopper out of his small but surprisingly determined grip, but with no luck. Patricia wasn’t very assertive and generally said very little, usually only politely asking to be passed the butter at such gatherings, preferring to let Gabe do all the talking.

Fitting perfectly into Patricia’s primary role of “good christian wife;” serving as a prop on Gabe's arm at surgical conventions and church socials, while devoting the rest of her time to raising their child.

Secretly applauded when Matt managed to keep the toy out of momma's frustrated reach. Just before Daddy intervened, Patricia used both hands to snatch the helicopter out of his hands.

That was pretty aggressive of Patricia, and I recall being surprised she had it in her.

Naturally, the kid started crying and Patricia had to console him just as Grandma Cats entered the dining room with the centerpiece of the meal: a platter of juicy tender roast beef, sliced into perfect symmetrical strips, and the aroma filled the room and our nostrils before gingerly moving Grandma even got near the table. (I hadn't converted to vegetarian yet).

Brought us all to attention, for the grand entrance of the roast beef signaled the traditional commencement of the xmas eve dinner. The table was all set, overflowing to the brim with the required holiday victuals; the aforementioned roast beef, accompanied by Grandma Cats' mouth-watering stuffing, her incredible mashed potatoes, juicy corn on the cob or steamed mixed vegetables, and fresh baked honey-rolls smothered in creamy butter.

With the food all on the table before us, Grandma Cats could finally take her seat and poured her usual glass of ginger ale that she said always helped her digest her mea, which was the unofficial signal that everything was in place and we could finally dig in.

Or so I assumed. Part of my urgency was due to the fact I was famished to the point of falling into a diabetic coma. Except for a very light breakfast of toast and tea, I had been fasting since last night, because any food I would have consumed prior to a meal such as this would have
been an insult to both my taste buds and stomach.

However, I was sitting there empty handed, growing more impatient with each passing moment that none of the food was being passed my way. The only dish in front of me I could reach were the sweet potatoes which I’ve never been sweet on.

Soon found out why when Grandma turned to Gabe with a request: "Gabriel, why don't you say "Grace," you're so good at it."

Ah shit. Grace. Forgot about that dumb tradition, it had been so long since I attended a Hollingshead xmas eve dinner.

"Thank you, Grammy."

Gabe always called her "Grammy." What was she, a music award? He could be such a kiss-ass, and that irritated me, even before he lost his mind and found christ instead.

Before launching into the prayer, Gabe joined hands with his wife on his left and his son Matt to his right. Matt held hands with Grandma Cats.

No, my Mom and sister didn’t go that far, only clasping their hands in the customary praying formation. Sis seemed to be following Mom on this one.

Didn't even bother to twiddle my thumbs, just stared ahead incredulously, waiting for them to complete their arcane ritual.

While Gabe was in the midst of reciting that nonsense about beseeching a deity to “forgive us our sins,” he opened one eye, and directed it right up at me. His right brow lowered disapprovingly at my nonparticipation in his prayer sesh.

I ignored him, but I knew that look meant there was gonna be trouble sooner than I wanted it.

Gabe closed his angry eye and finished up grace. Immediately numerous plates, bowls and dishes were being shuffled from hand to hand, only passing over little Matt’s determined but undersized clutches. Patricia doled out the kid’s portions to him, much to the independent bugger’s vexation.

No surprise that before those velvety whipped potatoes could reach my outstretched hands shaking with hunger, I got hit with it…

"What’s this, Roger--you don't even say "Grace" anymore?" Gabe asked me indignantly.

Damn, he couldn’t even let me get one bite of the taters before he had to start up with it. Though I really just wanted to ignore him, I knew that wasn’t possible in so intimate a setting. I had to fucking answer him. So I did:

"Gabe, I haven't said it since I was a kid. Hell, I didn’t even say grace when I was a teenager.”

No one replied. Felt the tension in the air, so I resorted to cracking wise, "Besides, you should all consider yourselves lucky I didn't grab the best cuts of roast beef while you were busy praying with your eyes closed."

No one laughed, but I didn’t care, cause it was at that moment that the taters finally ar
from my sister. Everyone in the room except for Matt might hate me right now, but I was finally gonna eat.

But when I reached for the butter, I got an eyeful of Grandma Cat's harshest glare.

Since she didn’t actually address me, I tried to ignore her as I began slicing wedges of butter into the fluffy potato mounds.

But much like her grandson, Grandma wouldn't let it go: "Roger,” she asked, “why didn't you pray with us? Is that too much to ask?"

Stopped buttering my biscuits long enough to reply, "Grandma, please, let's not get into this now. I'm here on christmas eve, isn't that enough?"

From her look, obviously it wasn't

"Now we just have to wait ten years until his next visit," my always acerbic sister chimed in.

"Keep it up, and you'll be waiting a lot longer than that," I responded just as quick.
Winced at myself for uttering that, because I really didn’t want to get it that far, didn’t want my temper and unresolved sibling animosities to bubble to the surface—not tonight. Problem was; Hanna always could get on my nerves without even trying.

"Don't fight at Christmas, you two," my mother sniped. She was serious but said it in a “cutesy” kinda way as to deflect any impression she was actually angry or telling us what to do.

She’d been doing that since we were kids.

"Okay, we'll save it for New Year's Eve," I cracked back.

A few minutes of eating kept the peace for a little bit...

Until...Grandma stirred the pot once more. Apparently all the messy ones sitting in her kitchen weren't good enough for her…

…as she addressed the entire table at once, asking: "What time are we going to mass tomorrow?"

"I thought we'd try to make the 11 AM," Mom informed her.

Then Grandma turned to me: "Roger dear, what time do you need to wake up?"

"For an 11 AM mass? I don't know, say about…noon."

Nobody laughed, though I thought it was pretty funny.

Sister sneered and asked rhetorically: "Why do you have to be such a rebel?"

That was such a predictable response from her, one that had already gone stale years before.

“I’m not rebelling. I’m just being honest with myself. christianity to me is a lie and I choose not to believe in lies.”

That actually shut them up, but I wasn’t sure if it because I put them in their place or it was more out of shock.

Either way, it didn't satisfy me. Backed into a corner by my family, now I was lashing out, feeling like I had to really hurt them; had to make it personal.

So I raised my voice, right in the startled faces of Mom and Hanna:

"Let’s face it, neither one of you can anything to me. Gabriel, his family, and Grandma—maybe. But, you two are forgetting that when I was a kid, I was the one faithfully waking up early and walking through the snow to go to church every Sunday morning, while you two would both be sleeping in!"

Not sure why I went that far, let my voice get so loud and excited, said what I said. Maybe after years of holding it in was too much to take anymore. And Hanna and Mom’s hollow piety during grace was the proverbial last straw.

Regardless of how deep-seated or justified my motivation was or was not, I got them both good with that one and Hanna and Mom shut up real quick. Especially Hanna, she’s the one who got me going with her snide aside.

Meanwhile, Grandma Cat shot a disappointing glare to her daughter, as if to imply that Mom's Sunday morning hangovers were responsible for my falling from faith.

My biggest mistake was saying out loud that Grandma and Gabe actually had cause to comment on my atheism, because both looked ready to pounce on me.


My worst fears were confirmed, for once Grandma was done scowling at Mom she immediately snapped her head my way: "And as for you, young man...why on Earth did you ever stop going to Church?"

Looked away as I respond: "It wasn't easy, Grandma."

"What wasn’t easy? Giving up church, you mean of course."

Even though it hurt her, I didn't hesitate to tell her: "No, it was hard admitting that I was wrong all those years, believing in christianity."

Grandma Cats just stared at me with her big blue eyes, as if I had just stabbed her through the heart.

No, it was much worse than that. She stared at me as if I had just stabbed one of her cats through the heart.

She turned away coldly from me, asking Patricia if Matt was getting everything he wanted to eat

And for a brief, glorious interlude...there was peace. Nobody spoke, they just ate, and I actually got a bite of everything on my plate.

But it wasn't meant to last, For out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Gabriel muttering to himself in hushed tones, while digging violently into his roast beef with fork and serrated knife, and mashing down his potatoes until they were reduced to flat starch.

Could tell it was really getting to him, what I said. Like he couldn’t believe he was eating chrstmas dinner with someone completely devoid of faith.

And like me, he wasn’t capable of holding back.

After a couple more minutes of muttering and mashing, Gabe couldn't stand it any more and finally put down his hyperactive fork, turned to me and asked me point blank in his finest moralizing tone: "Have you really thought this through, Roger? If you permanently turn away from Christ, your soul will be damned throughout all eternity!"

He said that like I was supposed to be impressed with eternity.

"I’m willing to take that risk," I informed him.

"It's not a risk, but a certainty," Gabe sought to assure me.

It was finally my turn to cast a disappointed frown his way, while adding, "So you say. But just for the sake of argument, Gabe, let's pretend I believed you. That I will go to hell...for all eternity if I don’t believe in god and jesus and all that. Okay?

“And even if I did “believe” in god, jesus, etc, I still wouldn’t want them to be any part of my life. So then, dear cousin, are you then implying that I should pretend to believe in and worship this allegedly all-seeing all-knowing deity, who would certainly be aware that my faith in…”him”…was as insincere as a politician’s promise?”

Gabe had no answer—naturally, because there is no answer--so I tried it from a different angle, a question I knew he could handle.

“Gabe, do you believe your god is omniscient?”

He was caught off guard for a moment, before he realized his only answer had to be, “Why yes, yes, of course God is all-knowing.

“And by the way, he’s not “my God” he’s everyone’s God.”

“Yeah, so anyway, would this “all-knowing god” then accept me into heaven, knowing full well that I only believed in “him” because I sought to avoid the fires of hell, and not out of any love or genuine worship?"

Gabe scoffs, “Of course, no one can fool our Lord. It would be foolish to try. You must truly believe in order to be saved. Otherwise, don’t even bother.”

“I choose not to. So you no longer have to press the subject.”

He seemed offended by my words, as he replied: “I’ve never heard you talk this way before, Roger. I mean, I always knew you weren’t very religious, but I didn’t think you were so opposed to God.”

"You've never heard anyone say things like this before, Gabe That's been your problem.
Maybe it's time you listened, instead of living in a land of make believe."

"Alright, you two, that's enough," Mom admonished, in a tone allegedly directed to both of us, but it was mostly in my direction.

Suddenly Gabe regained his composure and retorted: "I'm more than willing to live in a land of what you think is "make believe," because I don't want to listen to anything that would damn my soul or the souls of my wife and child to Hell."

Since he wouldn't let up, neither did I, "So, Gabe, what you're telling me is, the purpose of your life is to avoid going to hell in death?"

"No," my cousin remarked smugly and reverently, "the purpose of my life is to serve our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ."Gabe then looked over the slightly tattered sweater I was wearing and scoffed, "Maybe you should start having faith in Christ, and you'd have a better job."

Gabe was obviously implying my clothes weren’t good enough. What he failed to understand is that I could give a rat’s ass how I dressed, and I could give even less of a rat’s ass what people thought about the way I dressed.

Yep, even at an xmas dinner. Hey, I flew in from the west coast to be here, that should be good enough.

This was typical Gabriel, however. I knew what he was doing; ignorantly attributed my increasing distance from him as the result of my jealousy over his professional suck-cess, rather than him being intellectually honest and admitting I was repulsed by his going gaga for godgod.

Yes, Gabe was the archetypal “Type A” personality.

Just that in his case, the “A” stood for…asshole.

Gabe became a successful cardiovascular surgeon. He really buckled down in school after he became born-again and met Patricia. He can perform a triple-coronary bypass in his sleep, but never learned to think for himself.

Was fed up with him enough that I called him on it, “I know what you’re doing, Gabe. You’re implying that I’m jealous of the fact you’re a surgeon. I’m not jealous, in fact, it’s the only thing you’ve done that’s ever impressed me.”

Grandma interjected, “What about his raising a wonderful family?”

"I’m glad he has a nice family…but that doesn’t impress me. His being a surgeon doesn’t necessarily awe me that much, either. I mean; he basically learned how to perform a surgical technique already developed by those who came before him.”

“It’s more than you’ve done,” my sister sniped.

As if bolstered by Hanna's shot at me, Gabe became relaxed, demonstrated by his atypical action of slinging one arm over on the back of his wife’s chair.

He adopted a cocksure swagger in his voice as he as asked, “So tell us, Mr. Know-it-all, what is it that really impresses you?”

"A lot of things, believe it or not."

Actually, I was just stalling. Gabe caught me off-guard a bit with that one. I paused, feeling like I was about to give a speech—or about to be cross examined on the witness stand—almost wishing I had notes of some kind in front of me.

But the only paper before me was a butter-stained napkin, so I had to wing it: "In a general sense, what really impresses me is when someone makes their mark on this world…on this culture.

“You only get one shot at life, you know/as I see it, so that’s your one chance to do something with it, to create something, to leave something behind.

“It could be doing something which has never done before in a person’s profession. In your case, it might be…I don’t know, coming up with some new coronary surgical technique."

Both Mom and Hanna actually seemed a little impressed with my spiel.

But not Gabe: "That’s just it, Roger, when I save someone's life, I am only performing the Lord's work. I am merely an instrument in His hands. What you suggest is just momentary material gain. This world will be destroyed soon, when Christ returns, so what does it matter what one creates, or what one "leaves behind," as you say? There soon won't be anything to leave behind—and there won’t be any one to leave it too!”

Shook my head for emphasis before responding, “Then why are you even a surgeon if it “doesn’t matter?’”

“I already told you, Christ is working through me. He wants me to save his children, his creations, human life, so I do it. But I’m not out for personal gain or glory.”

I had him there. I happen to know Gabe’s in it for the “personal glory”. Not that it’s a secret--pretty obvious, actually. Why else did he lord (pun intended) it over me about my shitty clothes and that I don’t have a good job?

But didn’t go there, I was making a wider point: "Again, even if I were to accept one word of what you said, Gabe--and I don't--I wouldn't care if the world was going to end tomorrow--or in five minutes. It's all we've got, and I'd use whatever time was left trying to make my mark on it."

“Then you need to try harder,” my sister jabbed drolly.

But at this point I ignored her, totally focused on Gabe, who was ready to strike again:
"How do you know this reality is “all we got?” Don't you know this material world is fleeting?!"

On a roll, I stung him again: "But that’s just it, Gabe. The fact that the material world—our existence—is “fleeting” is the beauty part of it, Gabe. We only have one shot at life; it doesn't drag on through infinity, without purpose, without ending. The meaning of life is found in those things someone does or doesn't do when he or she is alive, not in what may or may not happen to us after we’re dead.”

Gabe shook his head in a grave motion: “I can’t imagine how lonely it must be for you to be so cynical, to actually believe there is nothing beyond this life…” his voice trailed off, wistfully.

Injected a false shot of optimism into him when I suggested, “You know Gabe, there is a chance that life could be eternal.”

“Ah ha!” Gabe exclaimed, thinking he had me right where he wanted me, his eyes brightening: “So you do allow for the possibility of the existence of God!”

“Not at all. I meant that with new developments in science and medicine, specifically nanotechnology and genetic engineering, there should come a day when there is an end to illness, aging and eventually…even the end of physical death.”

That possibility seemed to let the air out Gabe’s lungs. Popped his balloon.

After I disappointed him yet again, his wife put her hand on his shoulder to offer support…or consolation.

However, I was all revved up, and wouldn’t quit: “For example, that’s why I resent cloning being made illegal. Eternal existence could be achieved via cloning.”

“Cloning is immoral,” Gabriel stated in the epitome of righteous indignation.

“Why? Because your church told you so?”

“Oh great. Now we’re going to get into a debate about cloning,” Hanna chimed in.

“There is no debate,” I informed her. “It should be legalized. End of debate.”

“You’re awfully sure of yourself for someone who isn’t a success at anything,” she reminds me yet again. “At least Gabriel’s done something with his life.”

Even though she had my sharp sense of sarcasm, my sister could be so mainstream, so fucking shallow, it usually turned my stomach.

Like it did that night, when I looked down at what was left on my plate, and it didn’t seem as appetizing as it had been just a few minutes ago.

Suddenly, all attention was diverted to Grandma, as she froze between bites, her fork levitating two inches from her mouth.

She shifted her eyes to me and inquired, “Roger, are you saying you’re an atheism?”

“It’s atheist, Grandma,” my sister corrected her. “And he just thinks he is, he just wants to be different. Like I said before, he’s always been a rebel without a cause.”

She just said that to annoy me. And of course, it did just that.

So I bounced back at her with: “Just goes to show you don’t know me at all, Hanna, which is kind of sad when you really think about it. I don’t have to rebel--because there is no god to rebel against.”

Gabe’s face suddenly swelled up, like it was going to burst open if he didn’t get his next statement out, “Oh, I think it’s much worse than him merely being an atheist, Grammy!”

Couldn’t decide if I was disgusted or amused as I asked Gabe: “Well, now you’ve got me dying of curiosity. Are you actually implying I’m satanic or something?”

“Could you blame me if I did?”

“Sorry to ruin it for you Gabe, but that whole scenario gets a little messy for me, what with all the blood and leftovers after all the animal sacrifices.”

“That’s a nice way to talk at the dinner table,” Mom scolded me.

Ignored her and turned to Grandma Cats, to answer her question, even though I didn’t expect her to fully comprehend what I was about to say: “I don’t really consider myself to be an “atheist,” Grandma. Atheists think…differently than I do.”

Half-truth I told Grandma. While it’s true atheists think differently than I, it’s because they’re nowhere near as radical as me. Atheism requires an atheist to not believe in or to deny the existence of god.

There is no god. It’s not about my opinion, or anyone else’s opinion—it’s fact. The burden of proof has always been on their side, not mine.

But it was worth the half-lie to allay Grandma’s fears. To her, anything was better than me being an atheist. Even if it meant blood rituals and dead house pets scattered about.

“Well, whatever you call it, Roger, I don’t understand. I remember how adorable you looked in your little suits going to church when you were a little boy…”

Grandma dropped her anger and drifted towards her memories, probably because she didn’t want to truly know what I was, she didn’t know what I truly thought of her faith, which meant so much to her.

It hurt to lie to her. Wished I could be real, could be myself in front of her--in front of all of them. But that wasn’t possible.

However, Gabe wasn’t ready to let it go, and his next words came more desperate than before: “The bottom line is, Roger, we’re talking about saving your eternal soul.”

Jeez, the more I think about it, the more I realize what a fucking drama queen he was that day. His wife Patricia had bigger balls than him, I swear.

Noticed that Grandma, Mom and Hanna had all chosen to ignore the two of us by this point; Grandma was off into the kitchen, fetching dessert, while Mom and sis were gabbing, probably about gifts they had yet to give or yet to get.

Meanwhile Patricia was her usual statuesque self, not saying a word, only half-listening to us, while doting on Matt, sticking his hand in the mashed potatoes to his great delight as I recall.

So Gabe and I were essentially left alone to square off, both forsaking our half-eaten plates to stare each other down.

I drew first: “Even if I had a soul, Gabe, why does it need to be “saved?’”

Gabe was genuinely startled, as if the answer should be the most obvious thing in the world: “Because you are a sinner, Roger. We all are.”

Pointed at Matt, now dipping his teeny fingers into the gravy and asked, “Even him“Yes,” Gabe assured me without blinking, “Matthew was born with original sin.”

I smiled when I looked over at the boy. This was the first xmas where he was legitimately conscious of the whole “Santa Claus” concept, and his whole being radiated that excitement and anticipation that was truly only experienced by children, only on this night.

Looked back up at Gabe and answered with a sigh: “You may believe that innocent child is guilty of “sin,” but you’ll never convince me of that.

“In fact,” I continued before he could interject, “you couldn’t even convince me that I have sinned—ever. Who’s to say what is “sin” and who has “sinned?’”


“God says, the Bible says, Christ says,” was his expected retort.

One that naturally, wasn't good enough for me: “Even if there was a god as depicted by man—and there isn’t—that god wouldn’t care about “sin” and “judgment.” It would be akin to you or me judging a single-cell amoeba guilty of the sin of asexual reproduction.”

“If that’s what you truly believe, Roger, then your soul is surely damned to hell."

“And that’s the difference between us,” I concluded.

Gabe’s eyes brightened momentarily; as if he somehow thought I was acknowledging he was right, thus propping open a “window of hope” for me.

“Yes Roger, the difference is that, as it stands right now, my soul is saved and will be entering the Kingdom of Heaven to sit at the Right Hand of the Lord, while your soul is damned to an eternity of drowning in a lake of fire.”

“The “lake of fire,” eh? Can you go in it sooner than an hour after eating?”

Even Hanna, who had been eavesdropping, couldn’t resist laughing, much as she didn’t want to.

“Yuck it up now you two,” Gabe warns both Hanna and I, “but you won’t be smiling when you’re burning.”

“I’ll be sure and pack my portable fan, Gabe. Oh, and you were dead wrong, by the way--the difference between us is that you are actually interested in changing or saving me, whereas I don’t give a shit about changing—or saving--you. Not that you need to be “saved” anyway, ‘cause no one does.”

Before he could parry, I thrust again, “But you really want to know the biggest difference between us, Gabe? It’s that you don’t realize that I’m the one saving you…by not caring.”

Gabe wagged his finger my way, like a disapproving schoolmarm, asking, “So that’s it, you’re just going to turn your back on God and on Christ, and just…surrender to the world?”

“Every chance I get.”

With that, I left the dining room. Didn’t storm out, but strolled out calmly, dignified.

Went to the kitchen and said goodbye to Grandma Cats (for the last time, it turned out. She died two years later).

Though fed up with Mom and Ann, I said goodbye to them too, and then Patricia and Matt. Not getting to see that rugrat tear into all his presents was the thing I regretted the most about leaving so abruptly that night.

But I had to do it.

They weren’t my family anymore, they were my FINO. Family In Name Only.

Didn’t even want to use the phone for a cab, so I went out into that cold December night and stood on the street corner and waited a good half hour till I could hail a cab across the city to my mom’s house (where I had been staying) and had my flight switched to go back home…to San Francisco, that same night. Didn’t even care about the extra expense, it was worth every penny.

And with xmas eve still clinging desperately to the calendar, I left a city…

...to arrive xmas morning, back in The City.

My only home, then…

...and now.

Never been back to Chicago, never been back to see my family, not even once since. Not even for Grandma Cats’ funeral.

Partly because it was held at saint greg’s church, and mostly ‘cause I just couldn’t see myself facing the rest of my FINO at all, church or no church.

Never even been back for xmas eve gatherings such as whatever’s left of my family is having tonight.

It should come as no surprise at all I changed my surname shortly after I got back to San Francisco after that xmas eve of years ago.

Funny how it took another xmas eve, tonight, to get me to relive that night in such detail for the first time. It was almost like a repressed memory.

Probably buried in my cranial folds because it hasn’t been easy separating myself from my family, despite having little in common with them besides chromosomes.

Like everything else in my life, it’s a mixed-bag; as that otherwise regrettable night did lead to my finally achieving some tangible success as a writer.

That is funny though, had totally forgotten Gabe had warned me not to…”surrender to the world.”

And that was the first thing, Pleasant said tonight, during his DVNT interview.

Again, at the time, I didn’t realize the full implication of the phrase when Gabe first uttered it that evening, but now I know it’s a trendy bromide adopted by many evangelicals and born-agains; to describe the actions of one who is only concerned with earthly pursuits, one who rejects deity. One like me.

“Surrendering to the world” can be seen as the opposite of “surrendering to christ,” which is what every born again is instructed to do.
Though what they say is “surrendering,” I call “embracing.” Embracing the world, embracing all it has to offer, and embracing all you can do to fix it, add to it--change it. And since I had formally declared my surrender to the world to Gabe, it wasn’t surprising that was the same time I decided to write full-time on the nature and influence of christianity on history, on this country, on this culture, on the future, on all of us.
Maybe it was cause I was sick of people like Gabe always being respected and taken seriously, when they were uttering complete bullshit. Meanwhile, I was viewed as the crackpot.
Or maybe something about his kid touched me.
On the flight back home, I remember I just kept thinking about Matt. How I felt sorry for him, being raised by Gabe and his wife.
Wanted to write something with my unique perspective that would be available for someone like Matt, to read, when he grew up. Or at least when he was old enough to understand that there’s more to life than just what his parents, his school his government and his church were offering.

On that xmas morning redeye back to the Bay, I kept replaying the xmas eve dinner over in my mind’s eye. The strongest image was the blank acceptance of slavery on my cousin’s face, his acceptance of a religious system designed to set him against his own life, and worse--against the life of his kid.
That’s when I had to get serious about my writing.
Always knew I could write; even had a couple of anti-christian essays published in a San Francisco indie zine. But I was still wasting too much time on the Internet, reading and researching, and not enough in a word document, writing. If I really was going to commit my life to thwarting christianity’s influence in my own small way, I had to start writing…something.
Problem was, I was settling for the rinky-dink DIY (“do it yourself”) zines, underground stuff. Again, it allowed me to be radical, but who the hell was reading it?
Not nearly as many readers as I wanted to reach.

And not the types of people I wanted to reach. Sure, it was cool to offer a fresh POV to punks and anarchists, but I wanted to be read by scientists and philosophers, or at least science and philosophy majors.
Not that I didn’t appreciate the few readers I had, as many would often respond with passionate letters of their own to the zines in response, but if I wanted to make a wider impact with my perspective, I had to write for publications with wider circulation.

Up until that last trip to Chicago, I had only been published once in a “professional” magazine and that was a disaster.
It was in a philosophical journal out of Burlington, Vermont called Strange Design. But the piece they bought from me was half-assed, in my opinion.
Don’t know if I’d go so far as to say I “sold out,” but I definitely held back when I wrote that essay. It was just typical criticism of christianity; that we still had to remain vigilant against anti-abortion violence what with all the attention being focused on the war on islam. In that article, I didn’t have the guts to go into the roots of christianity’s base immorality. It was all surface arguments, I was just targeting the obvious; christian extremists who blown up abortion clinics, instead of laying the blame for christian atrocities at the feet of mainstream faith.
Ironically, it could’ve been that part of me that was raised christian--and is still buried in my subconscious—that caused the article to misfire. Looking back, seems I was afraid, on some level, of going beyond authority—in this case the authority of the Strange Design editors.
See, from an early age, I was indoctrinated by the catholic church to accept the righteousness of authority, so my long established fear of not being “accepted” by authority—any authority—held me back from going “too far” with that article.
I was either that or the fact that Strange Design was a big enough publication (they actually had glossy covers, wow) prevented me from getting too radical for fear of never getting published by them and their kind again.
Regardless of the reason, it was on the plane leaving Chicago when I decided I had to adopt complete integrity. At least when it came to my writing, couldn’t expect to achieve it completely in everyday walkabout life, but there was no reason to expect anything less when it came to my art.

And before my flight back to San Francisco even touched down, I was inspired to write with a new sense of urgency and fearlessness. In fact, I turned the fears I previously had about not being accepted into radical thought.
Anything I was afraid to write—that’s what I would write. It was quite liberating.

Funny thing was, I never showed any of my writings to my family—even the article in Strange Design, because they wouldn’t have understood nor accepted it, so it was quite ironic looking back that it would be an incident involving my family that propelled me to writing with complete integrity.
Part of it stemmed from familial revenge. Wanted to refute everything Gabe had said at Grandma Cats’ dinner table that night. Refute all his trite clichés in painstaking detail, pick them apart, till only the brittle bone remained. To never hold back like I did when I wrote for Strange Design. Gabe’s arguments were the same I’d heard for years, and I wanted to (metaphorically) shove them down the throats of my cousin and every other christian out there.
On the flight, jotted down every word I remember Gabe said, replaying the conversation over and over in my mind so I didn’t leave out any of his most asinine assertions.

Was in such a rush to leave my mom’s house and get to the airport that night I forgot to bring my notebook, so was forced to scribble in the margins of a vahmit bag.. Sure, I could have written in the margins of one of those inane airline magazines they stuffed in the pouch in front of every seat, but those things are so boring, there was always a chance I could have read one of the articles by accident, and then I might have lost my train of thought or worse, fallen asleep, so I settled for the barf bag.

And in the course of the four-hour flight, managed to scribe the first draft of a rather strong essay about the threat christianity represents to fundamental freedoms, going beyond the mere “separation of church and state” argument.

In that piece, I argued that it’s the very permutation of christianity into our culture which devalues life, and is responsible for the casual disregard so many (if not virtually all) of us have for life, a sad trait displayed in so many facets of our lives.
(When I’m referring to freedoms I do not mean the “freedom” that governments grant us, but the freedom that comes with having an independent mind, something no government is (yet) able to grant).

How does christianity devalue life? Because christianity’s primary emphasis is on death. Death is where our true reward exists, it promises.
“Do you know where you’re going when you die?” So many christians have asked me.
When in reality, they should be asking themselves, “Do I know where I’m at while I’m still alive?”
Because they’re not concerned with where they’re at, but only with where they’re (allegedly) going. The essence of living life is replaced by always looking beyond life, therefore life itself is shortchanged by the person living it.
Sure, violence, torture, rape, slavery, murder, war, genocide--all those existed long before the rise of christianity—and sure, all those things devalue life. But there’s no way in hell we as a culture are ever going to transcend those horrors as long as our primary religion--christianity uses the symbol of a death as its primary icon—the crucifix.

The most crucial thing was taking that essay further than any other I had written previously by incorporating an element of futurism; meaning I posited the hypothesis that once humanity transcends the fear and finality of death via various means of life extension, along with the eventual discovery of the precise origin of the universe via advanced quantum/string/what have you theory that there will be no longer any “need” for a god/savior.
Yeah, that essay was good; truly inspired and replete with integrity from into graph to concluding graph, which I finished just as the plane touched down at SFO.
When I returned…home…to San Francisco, I changed my name and became a vegetarian both before New Year’s Eve. They were both life changes I had flirted with previously for years and finally mustered the balls to adopt.

But deciding to write seriously was the only change that mattered. Resolute in the knowledge that I wasn’t going to live like Gabe; wasn’t going to stand on the sidelines, letting life pass me by. I was going to start doing the things I always wanted to do, the way I wanted to, and in the process, transform my life in the ways that previously had only existed in the realm of my imagination.
Soon after, I hit my stride as a writer, with my cousin’s combo of arrogance and ignorance serving as a kind of “negative inspiration.” We never actually spoke or wrote to each other, but he was always looking over my shoulder, metaphorically speaking.
Churned out essay after essay in the years that followed. I’d be still trying to finish one when I had an idea for a new one that I just had to start. My passion paid off, and I managed to strike a chord with several editors at various magazines, mostly those of a libertarian/pro-reason bent.
My stuff was fairly radical, yet still rational enough that these more mainstream journals and magazines were comfortable publishing them.
I was a “different voice” (some readers and editors referred to me as an “acquired taste”). More importantly, my essays and articles generated a lot of feedback, both pro and con. Even some relatively liberal, open-minded christians who liked to dabble in reading general philosophy were particularly offended that I was being published.
But my editors loved this, of course. It meant people were reading my pieces, and more importantly, being drawn to the back of the mag, with all the ads laying in wait.

Even got published in some mainstream newspapers, editorials mostly, such as one I wrote that delineated a plan to restore legal abortion in America for the San Francisco Tribune.
My run lasted a few years, almost five. The only five years of my life I’ve really felt like I was worth something.
But the mere fact I had/have to be accepted by editors, had/have to be published in order to feel a sense of worth says a lot more about my character and where my head was/still is.
After five years of building a bit of a name/reputation along with an impressive backlog of essays and articles, it all started to come apart, as everything always seems to do. Was about that time certain editors began to turn down my new essays, most of them lamely claiming I was “repeating myself.”

My initial approach was to alter my approach, as I was not aware at the time of the underlying causes behind this sudden rejection of my writing. In my ill-informed yet sincere desire not to allow my material to stagnate, in my refusal to become self-satisfied with both my point of view and my style…
…I became even more radical. One especially inspired article, as I recall, demanded, “the outright abandonment of christianity by all rational Americans, in order to preserve our basic freedoms, while simultaneously evolving as a culture towards a more transcendent state, where frail institutional crutches like christianity are no longer provided. Nor accepted.”
And for those christians who didn’t want to join in on the transcendence? “Leave ‘em behind,” I wrote. Actually, that was the title of the essay: “Leave ‘Em Behind.” (It was also intended as a parody of
On second thought, that choice of a title might have been a mistake, in that I was emphasizing the negative.
Regardless, I was on fire with that essay. Christians like Gabe would correct me—that essay would ensure I'd literally be on fire, after I died of course. Nothing applies in christianity till after you’re dead.
I think it was Thought magazine that ended up buying “Leave ‘Em Behind.” But the hate mail was so overwhelming, with many readers threatening to cancel subscriptions if I were published again, that soon pretty much all my pieces were being turned down by everyone.
But that wasn’t the only factor in my fall from periodical grace. Hell, some magazines prefer to publish writers who are blacklisted by other pubs, because it can give them a sales edge over their competition. It’s as if they’re sending a message to the undecided reader: “Hey, If you want to read this crazy motherfucking writer who gets death threats, you’ll have to read our magazine, okay?”

No, it was a more general shift in cultural…values that did me in. After the aforementioned terrorist attacks which precipitated the war on islam, the country shifted towards white ring conservative christianity, or at least, the incident fueled the perception that America was (and should be) headed to the right of the political spectrum; lower taxes, beef up the military, talk about jesus a lot.
And in this case, perception was as good as reality, because reality really imitated perception. People thought they were supposed to become more conservative and christian, so they did.

“Everything changed after the terrorist attacks” trumpeted the mass media, quoting the government.
Damn straight it changed.

The Bill of Rights was effectively flushed down the toilet, left a courthouse cripple; replaced following the terrorist attacks with the ironically named “Preserving Freedoms Act.”
All the while, “interest, involvement and active participation in religion” soared to all-time highs, according to the polls and the pundits.
Again, whether this was actually taking place in reality remains another matter. But the perception was such that it may as well have been.

And this newfound “bonding with god” on the macro-scale shot over the nation like a geyser of slime, eventually trickling down into the editorial preferences of the publications I happened to write for.
That’s what led to profit-driven editors like Oswald marginalizing writers like me. Conservative or liberal, born again or atheist, none of those ideological labels mattered much to Oswald—it was simply a matter of a given article’s potential to increase newsstand sales of the latest issue. If radical free thought was “out” and allegiance to god and country was “in,” then by gum, Oswald knew what he was going to fill his pages with.
It wasn’t about any kind of newfound respect for this “new faith”--it was the same old story—the bottom line--$$$.
In other words, editors like Oswald weren’t worried about offending those who’d flocked over to jesus and the flag, but they just decided that my POV wouldn’t draw readers the way it used to.

Not that there were (or are) too many writers like me, but can’t be egotistical about it--I’m not the only writer being censored or outright rejected these days. I frequent the occasional online discussion forums where writers vent their frustrations and I’ve recognized all too well some of the stories they tell about how hard it is for them to get published like they used to.
Can’t speak for any other writers, but from my vantage point, I couldn’t go back to writing the way I was before I had that last xmas trip, even if I wanted to. Had grown too much, as a writer, and as a thinker, to retrace those steps.
On the contrary, my anti-christian position was expanding, pretty much every day, which of course, was necessary to counteract the ever-increasing influence christianity was wielding on multiple facets of the culture.
But not wanting to offend America’s reawakened religious sensibilities, the magazines and journals that used to publish me so readily, would not and could not keep up with me any further.
The first couple years after the terrorist attacks, I only sold about five essays, and had over 20 returned to me unpublished.
Jumping on the bandwagon of the suddenly successful “get spirituality quick” books such as “Hot Chocolate for your Inner Angel,” the pubs I wrote for started running crap like “Regaining Your Soul Sanity in a Mad Technological World” and “Aristotle Would Have Been Christian.”
With more and more of those types of articles taking up editorial space, it reduced and/or pretty much eliminated the number of anti-christian essays that got printed. It was only acceptable to criticize domestic christian terrorist groups, such as the “Force of christ.” And even that kind of criticism waned greatly in the face of threats presented islamist extremists.
And the past couple of years, I’ve only had two essays published--maybe three, tops. Made so little off writing last year, I didn’t even declare it on my income tax, and that looks to be the case this year, too.
There was a time when I used to be able to live off my writing. Hardly an extravagant lifestyle, but I survived.
But ever since the editorial fallout from the terrorist attacks and subsequent "war on islam"I’ve had to take part-time and temp jobs, sometimes whatever comes along. Economy’s been so bad, even that work hasn’t been easy to come by. Throw superinflation in the mix and sometimes I’m surprised I’ve managed to keep a roof over my head.
Thing that kills me is that I know I could be successful at writing—if I lived in a different world.
But don’t live in that world.
That world doesn't exist anymore. Or maybe it never existed, and I was just pretending it did all along.

Live in this one, and getting fucking sick of struggling through it every day, with nothing to show for it.
Maybe what’s gone down tonight, with all the crazy visions and music in my head, is some kind of sign.
Not a sign from “on high” or any gobbledygook like that, but rather a sign from myself to myself—that it’s time to go in a different direction with my life.
Or is it that I’ve become so isolated from the rest of the world, I’ve been reduced to fantasizing and hallucinating in order to bring sense of drama into my life?
I’m certain I could live off my writing, while gaining a relatively (if at least locally) prominent name in the field.
Along with a bank account.
Maybe write a book. Get invited to all the “right” parties. Sleep with literati groupies.
Yep, I could really be living the high life.
If only I would give up and give in already…

At the conclusion of that thought, a sudden, almost startling silence falls over the room and jolts me out of my reverie.

Expecting the world to end…until I realize the CD ran out.
Damn, been daydreaming that long?
Then, just as suddenly, music starts up again.
Only problem is…it’s not my music…it’s that music, the music I heard before, out on Snob Hill. When I was just imagining things.
And the tune seems to be coming from, or at least drawing me toward, the windows at the front of my apartment.
Walk slowly up to the glass that separates me from the cold harsh pavement below. Leave the windows closed because it’s too damn chilly. Cock my head upwards and peep that the man in the moon has finally wiped the clouds out of his eye and is staring me down.
He’s almost full of himself tonight, as promised.
Like that crucifix in the window from earlier tonight, I become transfixed on Luna, only this time, it’s I inside the window and the object of my affection is outside, while additionally held spellbound by that organic, celestial music, seemingly meant for my ears alone.
And much like the crucifix, the moon encompasses my field of vision, and also begins to glow brighter than I’ve ever seen it, brighter than it probably ever has shone in the nocturnal sky.
Brighter than the sun, until it burns my eyes, unable to shut in resistance.
And then, like the crucifix, the moon transforms…
…from a circle into a rectangle. No, not a rectangle, it resembles the shape of a…book. It looks like a thick book with a white cover.

Great--now the hallucinations are following me to my apartment, the one place I thought I’d have some privacy.
But as long as it’s here, might as well roll with it and try to get some kind of meaning out of it rather than just let it soil my knickers.
Relaxed and focused, can tell that it’s not just any book cover…
As it enlarges, solid gold embossed letters become visible on the glossy white cover, revealing the book's title:

BIBLE

That tells me one thing: I’m not dreaming. You can’t read in your dreams.
Imagine that, the world’s bestseller; and here I have a free copy just waiting to be snatched.
If only my arms were longer.

The vision continues to supersize, whiting-out the once dark sky.
As if to compliment the horrid vision, the music ringing through my ears really isn’t music any more. It’s like indistinguishable feedback, static…white noise. Not just any white noise, but the most pallid of white noise.
And if it’s possible, it begins to hurt. Not because it’s so loud, but that the resonance is so excruciatingly annoying.
A pain I can’t identify; not even sure if it’s confined to my head…or merely my mind.
All the while, the bright white of that bible cover seems to pry open my eyes and squeeze my temples, sending searing spasms to split my noggin.
Now these visions are actually beginning to hurt?
The ache increases, to the point where I’d term it the worst headache I’ve ever experienced, but it’s beyond that on the pain-o-meter. It’s indescribable.

And just when I’m at the point where I’m sure I can take anymore without passing out…
I see the dark.
I knew this wasn’t the end of this vision. After all, why the hell would I, of all people, be seeing a giant bible unless there was more to this?
Just a tiny speck of black, at first. In the center of the bible’s cover.

And the black gets bigger, absorbing more of the white, relieving the white blinding pressure on my eyes, temple and every nerve ending in my body.
And there’s an aural correlation, as the white noise becomes dark music, but it’s by no means annoying, not even depressing, but rather takes on a dramatic, almost stirring tenor.
And it’s not long before it’s darker than light…
And as it dominates, the black takes on a not unfamiliar shape…
Until a book of black has replaced the book of white, until too, it encompasses my entire scope of sight, from the corner of my left eye to the corner of my right.
And just as the rich dark music builds to a swirling crescendo, raising the hair on my arms, it also comes showing a title of golden raised letters:

BYE BULL

For some reason, the title’s familiar to me, though it’s a little difficult trying to concentrate right about now. Trying to take this all in is a struggle enough, let alone analyzing it.
Beyond that, I just feel some kind of innate connection to this book—that title, and the darkness it brings is oddly comforting.
Want to throw open the window and snatch it out of the nighttime sky.
Yes, it’s all I can see, but it might as well be a thousand light years away.
But this isn’t a time to be bitter, for the vision is euphoric and the music equally so. The juxtaposition of sound and image gets me higher than any drug could have ever aspired to.

And would this hallucination of both eye and ear be complete without the return of the wondrous, singular, astral female voice delivering more cryptic lyrics that seem written only for me?
Of course not…

One more window, one more prediction
Finished with the book, all made of fiction
Pages that replace it, ending their ruse
The unwritten words, bring the good news

And like those that came before, I don’t know what the hell those lyrics mean right now, but since I’ll never forget them, maybe I can interpret them after New Year’s.
Yeah, that’ll be my resolution, figuring out what the hell happened tonight.
And just when it can’t get any better, a small point of light begins to appear in the center of the black book, growing with each passing second.
Then that single point of light becomes a thousand points…
And the emerging brightness incites caution; is that damned bible returning?
No, because the light isn’t white…it’s red, and orange. The colors of fire…
And all the little sparks join together to become a flaming circle.
No, make that a wheel once again, returning with those same blazing spokes.
And the music corresponds automatically, effortlessly, building to a towering crescendo, like an onrushing aural orgasm.
And the FireWheel, freshly and fully rekindled, sets the night alight from corner to corner in a brilliant FLASH!
It comes as no surprise, following such a display, that the FireWheel would in effect…burn itself out, and soon reduced to ashes, with the heavens rendered a solemn gray…
But just for a moment. The music fades away, and with it, the ashes of the FireWheel fall from the sky, revealing the shining orb Selene, grinning securely, happy to be back in the San Francisco skyline that is clear and cloudless once more.




Music likewise dissipates into soft echoes, and then, silence once more.
But this time, the silence is not jarring, but welcome.

Turn around, with my back now facing the window, I sit on the sill and ponder…
First off, that odd Bye Bull. Where have I seen that before?
It’s the title of something, I’m pretty sure.
Then a moment of clarity; like everything else stored in my hippocampus is dumped out, so that only one memory stands out:
“Bye Bull” was one of my working titles of a book I was going to write; it was going to be a collection of essays that were too extreme for the journals that were publishing me.
I dismissed it as sophomoric: “Bye Bull” as in saying “good bye” to the “bullshit” that is christianity.

Forget why I never finished that…book. Probably for the same reason I never finished any other “big project” in my life: I was scared of rejection once I submitted it to anyone, a publisher, an agent, a literary-minded friend.
It was a lot easier to just always be “working on it,” to never actually finish it, then I could never get hurt. As long as I had the book to work on, I was special; I was “deep.”
The flip side to that, of course, was that I could never move on, because I never really accomplished anything. Sure, I came up with better drafts after working on a given essay for years, but did it really matter if it was never going to be read?

Maybe that was the purpose of these hallucinations; to inspire me and motivate me (as crass as that sounds) to finish the book, to finally fine tune all those essays into a cohesive gestalt?
But even if that was the intent of those crazy ass visuals, music and singing--it’s not going to work. Climate of the culture is such that no publisher is going to release the kind of book I really want to write, anyway.
It’s all about the bottom line, as I’m constantly reminded every time my face is shoved down under it.
Can’t even sell one goddamn essay to some obscure philosophical journal published in Glen Falls, New York. So how the fuck am I ever supposed to get published by a house with decent distribution?
But that’s not really want I want to ponder right now.
Can’t get “Bye Bull” out of my mind. Strikes me as odd that a random obscure title idea from an unfinished project years ago would now be part of such a delusion of grandeur--replacing the bible, indeed!
And that’s the way I have to view it—as a delusion, pure and simple. Despite the utter euphoria instilled by a vision so beatific, I don’t want to dwell on it. Let’s face it; it’s not something that brings me much comfort or optimism.

Despite the utter euphoria of that vision, I don’t want to dwell on it, it’s not anything that brings me comfort or optimism, no, not in the least.
See, visions are not supposed to happen to someone like me.
They’re supposed to happen to irrational, whackjob christians who see virgin mary in a waffle or christ in an oil stain.
I’m the one who makes fun of those people
Even if it was “real,” know one thing for sure. These couldn’t have been visions from any kind of “heaven.” If anything, they seemed to be an affirmation of my opposition to christianity.
Demonic visions, then? So, I’m to take it then that all that satan garbage is real, and I’ve been chosen by the dark lord to do his bidding and wipe christianity off the face of the Earth?
Was that “comforting darkness” I continually experienced in actuality the eternal pitch black of hell?
And what about that FireWheel imagery? The “fire” could be seen as the fire of hell, and the “wheel” is from…I don’t know, satan’s chariot.
Satan’s chariot?
Look how fucking ridiculous I’m getting.
If I accept any of that, then I’m accepting everything christianity says is gospel. In other words, accepting that I’ve been wrong all along, having essentially wasted most of my adult life opposing religion.
There’s no middle ground, no compromise. Either there is a spiritual realm beyond the physical plane of existence from whence such visions and melody arise, or I’m just insane.
I’ve always allowed for the possibility that there may be other lifeforms in the universe, and other consciousnesses in other dimensions beyond our known three of space and one of time (how could I not?).
But god, jesus, satan?
Those fictional entities were all created by humans, of this there is no doubt.
Although, after tonight, I will have to allow for the possibility that the notion of god, satan et al was imagined by humans, rather than created out of conscious decision.

Maybe they imagining whatever it was I was imagining when they came up with “god”
Why am I imagining things?
That’s the real question. The one I’m scared to answer.
Maybe all the isolation, paranoia, conspiracy theories and frustration over not getting published finally got to me.
Pushed me over the edge.
Funny, I don’t feel insane.
Maybe tonight was a warning. A warning that if I don’t do something about this, if I don’t change my life, my thinking, my something—that this kind of thing is going to go on constantly, to the point where tedious reality and crazed fantasy will become virtually indistinguishable from each other.
And then I really will be raving and drooling, stark raving bonkers, etc.
So far it’s only happened when I’ve been alone—which I am, invariably. But what if it happens when I’m at work somewhere, surrounded by a large group of people, as I often am in my line?
Guess I’ll just have to wait until it happens. Lucky for me, I’ve got no prospects for work at the present. Holidays are always slow in my line of work.

But one thing I know. I’m going to make sure I don’t have any more of those fucking visions again tonight.
Turn to face the window again, but this time I open it, looking straight down at the neon sign of the liquor store. Make sure they’re still on, meaning the liquor store is still open.
Meaning I can get drunk.
I want a drink
I want to drink.
And, for the first time in forever, I need to drink.
Need to blot everything out of my mind.
Or if I do start seeing visions again, I want that false courage in order to ignore ‘em.
Rifle through my pockets in order to scrape together enough change for a fifth of vodka.
What I’ve got on me won’t cover it, so I comb through my other pants strewn sloppily over chairs, doors and then bed. When that still isn’t enough, I push the bed out of the way and start vacuuming with my palms until I suck up enough coinage to buy a bottle of rockgut Russian water.
It’s about five bucks and there’s a lot of dust on my knees until I find that much.
And five bucks is what I got—as long as they’re willing to accept a quarter with some kind of hair growing out of it.
Should be enough. Except for tax. Bloody tax!
Head for the door, and decide not to worry about it.
Maybe they’ll let me go on the tax.
After all, it’s xmas eve.
I’ll have an unemployment check the day after xmas, once the mail resumes. I can pay them the stupid tax then.
And as I head down the stairs, with an excited hop to my step, enthused at the prospect of getting rip roaring unconscious drunk with no strings attached, remind myself that yes, it’s a little too convenient having a liquor store but two stories below me…