Passage III--Background (Part II)

(Reader note: Part I of Passage III as well as the first two passages of Darwin Blinks, can be found below)

And now that miserable message is being made into a mainstream movie. Why, it’s enough to give me motion picture sickness.

Heard the gossipers in the pew ahead of me say that the latest in CGI special effects would be employed to bring the after-death spirits of Shepherd and Maria to “life” on the screen, as it were.

A lot of yokels who’ll see the movie in bumblefuck America will probably gawk at the screen and turn to their kids and say, “See, that’s just what it’ll be like when Jesus comes back!”

According to the gossipers, tonight they’ll be shooting the part when the cops drag off Shepherd before he can save Maria. Going to be a complicated and intense sequence to shoot, and the atmosphere is already hectic. Sure, it’s always hectic on location, been on enough sets to know that, but this set is more stressed out than any I’ve been on (a couple dozen, maybe more).

PA’s (production assistants) dash hurriedly through the church, hauling lights, cables, duct tape in every direction. I’m far too lazy to ever be a PA—16-hour days, running and being yelled at? No thanks.

Madness abounds outside the church, too. To keep the background awake, we go on breaks out there every few hours to get some fresh air (church air being decidedly stale). There are cop cars and production trucks and trailers for the cast and local news vans and a throng of screaming fans that grows larger every time I go out there.

Fans are frothing at the mouth because of the A-list o’ stars, which adds to the huge pressure enveloping this film. Budget is huge and it’s based on a “beloved” national bestseller, so it has to be a hit, has to be critically acclaimed, has to garner word-of-mouth box office, and has to win mega awards.

Amethyst Studios is counting on “Disciple” to reverse their fortunes, both in the press and in the bank. Lot of tension and anxiety on the set, which belies the film's theme of piety and tolerance.

When this film finally is released, the hype is going to be even more intense, advertising and publicity wise. Shepherd's cinematic visage will be plastered on billboards and bus stops from coast to coast, christ will become a commodity.

I say that like christ already isn’t already bought and sold on the marketplace each and every day. It’ll just be more obnoxious than usual…

Then, as if on cue, the guy with the long hair, the one that was standing next to the woman with the red hair, suddenly is walking down the aisle and I recognize his supermarket tabloid profile--it’s christ hisself!

Rather, the actor playing christ/Shepherd--Peter Delacroix, Hollywood’s most “bankable’ actor. His winning grin, bedroom eyes and perfect hair all compensate for his lack of basic acting skills.

It's said that he doesn't inhabit a character the way many actors do; he just plays at being "Peter Delacroix."

Just learned something quite disturbing about Delacroix--he's a card-carrying Crusader of the New Millennium, Theodore Pleasant’s bunch. Getting a huge star like Delacroix to join the Crusaders was a major coup for the group, as it legitimized themselves in the eyes of many, especially more liberal types who didn’t care for Pleasant’s military background.

But I don't really give a shit about him...where the fuck is red?

Then, as if on cue, she steps into my line of sight, from the other direction, meeting Delacroix right in front of me.

Close enough within earshot for me to hear her say to him, "Peter, you know you're not supposed to get out of my sight whenever you're not on camera."

He answers with his trademark deep voice and trademark lack of sincerity, "Sorry, babe, but sometimes this doggy likes to roam without his leash."

Though her back is turned to me, I can just picture the sarcastic frown on her face as she retorts, "Yeah, and if anything happens to you before this film wraps they'll be hanging me from your leash."

Delacroix playfully runs his hand through those tremendous red locks and a stab of jealousy lances my side. Why do I feel like it should be me standing there with her and not that overrated hack actor?

I want her to know me, to be worried about where I am, not that clown. Instead I'm just another extra, a meaningless blur in the background to her.

She's dressed professional to the hilt this evening, wearing a suit, much like a secret service agent would wear. She's even got one of those earpieces with the swirled wire around her ear attached to a special radio that presumably allows her to talk with other agents without allowing anyone who is not another guard to hear her conversation.

So who the fuck is she, then? Painter? Party girl? Bodyguard to the stars?

Maybe all those things...

And then all I see in my line of sight is Delacroix in the background and that amazing hair descending downward, framing his personage as christ.

And that strange, but increasingly familiar feeling overcomes me once more...

Delacroix the actor standing in front of that crimson hair becomes christ engulfed in the flames of the Phoenix.

That's because he's no longer Delacroix, he's the son of god himself, my sworn enemy. And that isn't the hair of a girl I'm naively infatuated with, but the dancing fires of retribution and ultimately, liberation.

Each strand becoming a licking, dancing individual flame…

Know it’s all in my head, because she continues to just calmly stand there, completely oblivious that her head’s alight.

Still, part of me wants to cry out for someone to douse her with water, that’s how real this Fire seems.

But I don’t dare. I know better, I think.

Couple moments pass and it’s too late for that anyway, as the Fire spreads from her hair, like a halo inferno, a bonfire waterfall, engulfing her body and the body of Peter Delacroix, who is likewise oblivious.

Like a defiling serpent ablaze, the Fire slithers up the stairs, leading to the altar, igniting everything in its path.

Quickly spreading to the rafters, the Fire can no longer be characterized as a snake, but as a spasmodic thunder lizard, threatening to torch the entire cathedral in its wake.

For a moment I wonder why some kind of sprinkler system hasn't activated, convincing myself there actually is some kind of fire going on, and this isn’t just one big hallucination in my seriously warped mind.

Wish I had a drink right now, to figuratively douse this blaze.

Know one thing for sure; if I do get out of here with my body and wits intact, I’m drinking my ass off for real at home.

Catch myself for being a pussy. I'm acting like this is a bad thing, when it's anything but.

It should be viewed as a cleansing conflagration of the congregation.

To confirm it’s just a fantasy, look over at my chatty fellow extras in the pew in front of me, to see how they’re reacting, if they see the Fire.

But they’re no longer there. Nothing but flames in the pew before me—make that all the pews around me.

Since I’m insane and know it, I'm not going to jump up and act all hysterical and panicky, because there’s nothing there. It’s all confined within the confines deranged mind.

Might as well just sit back and enjoy the spectacle. It's not so bad being in the middle of a Fire when your not getting burned.

Soon, the entire place is on Fire, save me…and the giant crucifix, still untouched, as if god is protecting it from the demonic flames.

Stare right into the vacant eyes of christ, hanging on the cross in defeat.

Christ’s eyes seem to come alive, as if beseeching me to hold the Fire.

Shrug my shoulders, telling christ I don’t control it.

And with nothing left to consume, the Fire galvanizes its power and fury and strikes like a whip, lashing the crucifix and setting it alight.

The Fire, seemingly with a will of its own at this point, takes its time with the crucifix, however, as if enjoying the meal. Creeping up the crucifix and christ’s marble body, up to christ’s hangdog expression, melting it away, liquefying those eyes that sought my mercy.

Fire saves the crown of thorns for last.

But something different happens, something special.

The crown of thorns doesn’t just burn away, but like it did on xmas eve, it rises from christ’s head, transmutating into more than a mere crown of thorns…

It becomes circular, like a Wheel, the thorns become spokes, just like last time.

It expands and enlarges, absorbing all the wild flame, becoming the unbridled FireWheel once again.

Growing more massive until everything is the FireWheel.

Everything except me.

Not sure exactly what happens next; either I step into the FireWheel or the FireWheel cascades over me...

But either way, I pass through its purifying illumination, as the FireWheel burns itself out, cleansing everything in its wake…

And step into a shimmering, transformed arena; no longer a painfully dull church

Like a sanctuary for a culture evolved, replacing the chapel of death.

The pews have become individual benches equipped with a desk, and a solitary, comfy cushioned chair. Each desk is equipped with a liquid-screen laptop.

Most profound is the absence of...kneelers, they’re not needed in this place.

The stainglass and statue depictions of saints and angels have been replaced by busts of great philosophers, artists and scientists.

The altar is now a row of shelves holding a book, film and music library.

In short, all the mystical connotations have been removed and replaced with the spoils of rationality.

Even the cast and crew have been suitably transformed; for example, Delacroix is now the caterer, preparing a group meal to be consumed shortly.

The vision seems to carry with it a bit of cosmic justice; the most important positions (scientists and artists) seem to be held by the ones who were extras and grips back "there."

Perhaps I misspoke in my haste of trying to take this all in. It isn't really about who has the better job, it's not about status or some kind of veiled caste system. Everyone seems to pretty much take pride in what they're doing, like it's an art in and of itself.

Even Delacroix, tossing salads.

But it's not like it's work camp. On the contrary, people are up to all sorts of activities, leisure and otherwise. One couple (I think they were the wardrobe girl and the cinematographer, respectively), are practically dry humping right out in the open.

And a few people are reading. Each has a copy of the same book, I can tell by the jacket.

A familiar book. And when one of the readers pauses to take a drink of water and closes the book in doing so, I peep the title:

Bye Bull

Holy shit! They're all reading the book I allegedly have penned in this fantasy world I keep returning to.

Step back for a wider view of the proceedings, and slightly admonish myself when I notice for the first time that the giant, unseemly crucifix is long gone. Yet nothing hangs in its place, which I find a bit odd.

A quick glance to my left reveals what will ultimately replace it--a painting of the FireWheel, rendered by none other than the redhead herself.

Now she's a part of my fantasies, an occupant of my inner mind. She really does get everywhere.

As I step closer to the canvas for a sharper view, slowly, softly, as not to disrupt her concentration, realize I have to correct what I just said a minute ago...

This is not a painting of FireWheel as it exists only in my mind, it is THE painting of FireWheel as it exists only in my mind.

The way she's painted it, the FireWheel looks down on us all, so vivid, it seems like it’s going to burn through the canvas and ignite this place as well.

No, not in this place. The FireWheel has done it’s work, now it’s a symbol of our triumph.

Judging how by how colorful and detailed her redention of FireWheel is, even an painting novice like me can tell it's about done.

Then, she suddenly turns her head, and looks me right in the eyes with her pale blue pair, freezing me. So wrapped up in her hair (I wish!), I didn't pause to notice how damn beautiful she truly is.

Don't even know her name but I know I love her more than any other woman I've ever known.

It's as if looking at me serves some purpose known only to her and she just as quickly snaps her head back to her brush and the canvas, like those are the only two entities in the universe, like nothing else matters except finishing it.

And with that, she adds one final, violent stroke of orange red to the trail of the FireWheel (as if saying that trail, what the FireWheel leaves behind is the most important element of all), and then lowers her brush, stepping back from the work.

She finally pulls her stare from it, as if symbolizing that its for public consumption now (guess only I had seen it before now) and as if on cue, the director Sara Marsh is now some kind of maintenance worker and she takes the painting to a ladder at the end of this sphere.

Cradlling it as if it were her firstborn, Marsh walks the painting up to the wall, and hangs the portrait of FireWheel...in the precise location where the crucifix had once mocked me.

The meaning of this moment is almost too much for me to stand. See, this is the world I was meant to live in.

But I also know that it's just an illusion, I know it's going to all go away.

And the first sign that it surely is comes when the redhead begins to...tie up her hair.

And the FireWheel painting, which loomed so large over us all but a second ago, seems to dissolve into the hair she ties up.

Shake my head hard enough that I revert back to the sad reality of St. Whatever, surrounded once more by depressing pews and statutes and stainglass.

The cast and crew are back on the scene, no more future freethinkers with a taste for reading me.

Worst of all, the crucifix is back to ridicule my fate, with nary a trace of the FireWheel.

And there she is, as Delacroix's bodyguard wearing that suit, no longer painting...tying up her hair in a ponytail.

Sure it's more practical, but it oughta be against the law.

I'm fucking serious. Legislation should be enacted, yeah, something like California Penal Code 42711.23: “No woman with desirable hair shall be permitted to tie it in an unflattering ponytail in a public place, lest it deprive"

Sure it's not very democratic, but it's for the greater good, like everybody changing the laws in the names of god and christ always claim as their underlying motivation.

Now I really need a drink. Mostly because that enchanted, animated hair is now confined and restrained, besides the fact it took me out of that wondrous vision, jarring me back to the sullen reality.

Sure, the ponytail’s cute, but all the sensuality is dried up. It’s as if her identity has been removed.

As she completes the ponytail with one hand (quite dexterous, isn't she), she fishes a cellphone out of her coat pocket and answers a call.

Fortunately, she happens to heading in my direction and I can pick up remnants of her conversation:

"Let me tell you, I don’t want to be here today. You think I like being in a church? You know I’m not into that. I’m only doing this as a favor to Peter, because he doesn’t feel comfortable with the security here.”

Wait a minute… The woman with that hair “doesn’t feel comfortable in a church?"

Not only that, she doesn’t care who know it?

I’m in love. Yeah, even with the ponytail.

After a pause, she responds, “What is Peter’s concern? Oh, just that there are hundreds of fans gathered outside the church and there aren’t enough cops to hold them back."

A slight degree of annoyance creeps into her tone, like she's on a short fuse at the end of a long day: "I don't know, there’s something going on in the Haight or the Mission that has a bunch of cops tied up, so we’ve got to delay shooting for an hour until I can assess the situation and come up with the best plan to make sure that no one’s going to interfere with the shoot once you do start.”

Trying to figure out who the hell is on the other end of that call--an executive producer, maybe?

Another pause, as she listens. She’s so wrapped up in the call, I could burn holes in her with my eyes and she wouldn’t notice in the slightest. “I understand that delaying the shoot an hour will give you headaches and cost you money, but imagine the headaches and cost if the shoot is interrupted by fans getting into this church.”

Another quick pause, then: “Alright, give me a half-hour.” Apparently, she gets it because she replies: “Thank you.”

She turns to Delacroix, who had also stopped. Can see all the female extras are checking hi out, but he’s just another person to me, especially standing next to her.

“Alright, Peter," she says, "I’m going to take care of it now. Let’s go back to your trailer.”

“Thank you so much, dear,” Delacroix replies graciously.

Damn, why didn’t he say her name? Why did he have to say “dear?”
Liked him a helluva lot better when he was a chef in my fantasy.

Whatever her name is, she proceeds to reveal more of herself,"I swear, Peter, this is the last time I’m doing this. I want to paint full-time.”

So she is a painter, which means she was defiitely was carrying one of her pieces on xmas eve.

Apparently, she’s also a high-end security consultant. That must be how she pays the bills. Hard for me to fathom she’s a bodyguard…or working at all in security. She’s so petite, so delicate, so poetic.

An artist--that I can believe-but not a bodyguard. And apparently, a bodyguard with considerable influence, if she can get a producer to rearrange a shooting schedule.

Apparently, she and Delacroix have finished business, because they resume walking and pass me by in the process.

Can’t resist the temptation to twist my neck and take one last look at her.
Wish I knew her name, so I could stop referring to her as “her” and “she” or, of course, “that redhead.”

Should I really be disappointed that she never looked at me? Maybe it’s not that she “wouldn’t,” it’s just that she “didn’t.” Either she didn’t remember or recognize me from that xmas eve or at the Labyrinth on new year's eve, or worse, she does, but doesn’t want to encourage me.

And why the fuck would I expect her to look at me, to acknowledge me in the first place? She’s a painter and a top-notch bodyguard. She on a first-name basis with Peter Delacroix (although ol’ Pete’s so conceited, he probably doesn’t even know her name and only calls her “dear.”).

I, on the other hand, am just another extra to her. A nobody, wannabe actor.

Background.

That’s what hurts. That she doesn’t know about me, that I’m not some wannabe actor. That I’m a writer, I've been published and I have ideas that would likely interest her.

It hurts, because to me, especially now, knowing how she regards religion, she is…everything.

What I'd call a dose genuine salvation.

Foreground.