Entry VII--Hash Wednesday (Part 2)

(For the first part of Entry VII, and the previous 6 entries, scroll below and click on past archives)

At the very least, making associations, connections, in my mind, that I normally wouldn't.

Focusing on details of...anything.

Each one of them, fascinating to no end.

THC slowing down time. No, my perception of it, which is more accurate, since time is an artificial construct anyway.

Accounting for, taking notice of...everything. Like each individual ash burned from the hashball, fallen on the table where they lay inside the goblet.

With the expanse of my mind, it's suddenly quite clear to me today is Ash Wednesday. Makes sense, considering the bar I got tossed out of was celebrating Fat Tuesday.

Glance at the goblet and correct myself:

It's Hash Wednesday.

Lift up the goblet, dip two fingers in the fallen ashes and mark on my forehead one vertical line intersected by one horizontal line, lower than usual.

An upside down crucifix of soot.

Gotta see what it looks like, and notice the difference as I walk to the bathroom--the stagger is gone.

Flip on the light and look in the mirror, quickly laughing at my hash ashen blasphemy, ignoring the bloodshot eyes and slightly dialated pupils.

Could easily get lost staring back at my mirror image (or is he staring at me?), like it's "another me" in a parallel universe. He's separate from me in that while I can see his face and look into his eyes, he can never see those eyes in the mirror. Only my eyes.

Man, what the fuck am I talking about? Must be good 'n baked.

Something about parallel universes. It's my nature to be skeptical about such things, but they could theoretically exist, according to string theory.

Now that's easily the most lucid I've sounded tonight. Amazing how the dope dispels of the drunk.

For some reason, Ms. Cabal pops into my mind. Another sign that I'm sober...or at least, no longer sloshed--hadn't thought about her for hours.

For some reason, I'm associating the possibility of a parallel universe with Ms. Cabal.

Also, feel my dick getting hard at the thought of her.

Choose to ignore the stiffness below, for this is a time for higher thinking.

Literally and figuratively as the case may be.

Uh...what was I just thinking about?

It was something pretty heavy, too.

Damn. That's one of the disadvatages of higher thinking--short term memory tends to suffer.

Fuck it. If it's that important, it'll resurface in my hippocampus eventually.

Return to the table to find there's still a sizable portion of the hash left.

Where the fuck are those matches.

So stoned, can't even remember where I put them.

Of course, I wouldn't need to remember if I'd just look down. They're right on the table, where I left them after I lit the last hit.

Crouch down again so my mouth is at table level. Strike the match, not worrying if it will burn me and light the slightly deminished hashball for the third time.

Cap it for the third time with the goblet and am enthralled by the aesthetic quality of the smoke itself, the way it curls and creates limitless form, a living entity onto itself.

As I effortlessly lift the goblet to release the smoke for the third time, this time there's no frantic inhalation--I'm stoned enough, any further buzz is gravy.

Instead, just let the smoke drift up into my nose my open mouth, which I accept warmly, like the kiss from a beautiful girl.

Some of the smoke rises, getting into my eyes.

And I blink...

Eyes open and I see the overturned goblet with double vision; there's two of 'em, and each takes on a different shape.

To my left eye, the goblet transforms into the sleek metallic dome of the furturistic culture from my vision...

To my right eye, it transforms into the archaic, ornate dome of the church, St. Whatever...

Weirder still, see myself inside both domes.

See myself bowing on my knees.

Both versions throw me off; why am I bowing in the future dome? In that previous vision of it, on the movie set, I was one of the creative inhabitants of the place.

And why am I bowing in a church? That's the last thing on earth I'd do.

Also see I'm not alone.

In the future, I bow before a woman clad in black leather. Must be my impression of what Ms. Cabal would look like is she were a Dominatrix. (Were?)

In the church, I bow before...Rev. Theodore Pleasant.

With each passing moment, I move closer to each of the simultaneous visions, running before my eyes like two separate movies being projected on the same wall, like a camera tracking toward its subject.

With each passing moment, I pick up more and more disgusting detail

In the future dome, my nose is but a nanometer from the tip of Ms. Cabal's stilleto heels, who stands on a stage platform, to further elevate herself from me.

Below me are the blindingly white blank pages of a book opened up and a fountain pen.

"It is time to put pen to paper, Darwin." she commands, the underlying threat should I disobey apparent in her tone.

She also offers nonverbal intimidation, lowering her arm just enough so her stiff riding crop enters my field of vision, reminding me a strike across the face could take place at any moment.

"Yes, Ms. Cabal," I respond in between hard swallows.

In the church dome, my nose is but a nanometer from the tip of the blood stained feet of someone's lord and savior, jesus h. christ himself.

It's that life-sized crucifix from the wall, brought down to be propped up next to Pleasant so I can kneel before it.

Tempt fate by craning my neck ever so slightly upward and glimpse the forlorn look of defeat hanging on christ's mug.

He's kinda got that feeling that it's time to die. But then, christ's been down that road before.

The prince's crown o' thorns cylindrically pierce christ's head, and this blood is real, trickling everywhere; some of it gets on the cross, some of it gets on christ's tattered robes and some of it gets on christ's leg, mixing in with the blood of the stab and whip wounds christ had endured on the way to his date with destiny.

Some of it gets on me.

Think I'm going to be sick.

Out of the corner of my eye, catch sight of another riding crop in the hands of Pleasant, this one appears even harsher than Ms. Cabal's--if that's possible.

Almost forgot he was here, being so preoccupied with his messiah as I was.

Apparently, Pleasant doesn't care much for the way I raise my head:

"Bow before Christ Jesus, Grimm," he admonishes. "Beg his fo'giveness before you are separated for eternity from your one and only true savior, for otherwise it is providence that you will perish eternally in the Lake of Fire."

How can I beg...anything? I don't believe...

Memories I don't want flash in my mind, back to the time I was a kid--and I truly did believe.

I rationalize that since there was a time when I did believe, I see no reason why I can't fake it--you know, pretend to believe and accept Pleasant's fantasy.

Better than getting hit.

Meanwhile, back in the future dome below Ms. Cabal, am racking my brain, desperately trying to come up with something--anything--to fill up the endless empty pages of the book.

But it's hard concentrating with the perpetual stream of blinding light bouncing off the page.

And Ms. Cabal won't let me raise my head nor close my eyes; have to keep my head lowered and stare down until I do something about it.

Only one way to blot out the blankness--write. Must fill up the pages with words of ink that will dispel the high beams that render me virtually sightless.

I don't know what to write about, but yet, I do.

christianity.

Critique christianity.

That's what Ms. Cabal wants, that's what I'm best at. That's why I'm here, bowing before her, to execute the death sentence of christianity. (However contradictory that statment may be).

But under such duress, the only fucking thing popping into my head is...Ash Wednesday.

Not even sure that's a subject I'd care to explore it a book--never have tackled it previously in any of my writings, but it'll do for now, under such pressure as I am.

Have to get at the root of what those ashes mean.

And as I write, find that I don't have to physically pick up the pen, but am able to "write" with my mind. I just think of the words and the pen is guided by an invisible hand and...fills the pages.

Crystal clear I hear the music and lyrics from xmas eve up on Snob Hill, with the voice that sounds remarkably like Ms. Cabal's:

The struggle eternal, waged through the ages

Will finally be won, when you fill the pages

And the formerly blank pages of the book I kneel before fill with my writing:

The ashes associated with ash wednesday serve an obvious symbolic purpose, and while the ritual is specifically catholick, that purpose underscores the hatred of life underpinning all of christianity (an by extension, all global religions).

The ashes actually have a dualistic symbolism. The obvious one is death, as in "ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

The ashes also symbolize repenting for sins; a holy man spreads them on one's forehead to signify that person is "dirty" with sin, thus donning the ashes demonstrates repentence for sins.

Let's not kid ourselves. This is portraying one's self as human detritus. Humility may be endless, but it doesn't need any pushing along.

Hey, I'm on a bit of a roll here, the writing is coming quicker to me than I woulda thought. But don't want to stop and admire the work while it's still getting done, so the writing continues.

The very notion of repenting for baseless sins to a mythical god should turn the average stomach, but the average stomach digests it all quite easily.

The average christian doesn't seem to be bothered in the slightest that this allegedly omniscient and omnipotent deity (god/jesus) would ever stoop so low as to judge his highly flawed mortal creations as being "sinful."

If the christians are right, and that is their god, then I want no part of the petty sonofabitch.

You'd sooner get me to accept that a gray whale would judge a colony of barnacles clinging almost invisibly to its enormous mass.

Or that a Supreme Court justice would judge a mosquito landing on her arm to feed.

What, were we given freewill the the caveat that all of life is a game, a test, to see if each one of us passes or fails based on the number and/or the severity of the sins we commit.

Sins, like every other element of a given religion, are a man-made measure of control.

So the man-made sins are imposed by the man-made central church and holy book of a given religion, not by some heavenly father, therefore repenting for sins makes no sense.

But don't make the mistake thinking it's just a benign waste of time. Repenting for sins can stunt psychological growth, in the sense that a person, after having ashes rubbed on his/her forehead, can throw their hands up in the air and say, "Hey, I'm a repenting sinner" relinquishing a certain amount of personal responsibility in the process, instead of dealing with a potentially serious issue that the 'sin' in question may be related to.

Smacking soot on the forehead also emphasizes the christian death trip; that true happiness can only be attained in the afterlife. Thus death becomes the focus of one's faith, and by extension, of one's life.

This is why christianity's primary symbol, the crucifix, features a dying christ. christ portrayed as a noble, happy deity, like a Greek or Roman deity might be, would represent life, the joy of existence.

Life doesn't work for christianity.

While ashes pale in comparison to the imagery of the crucifix, they remain a powerful symbol.

Conversely, marking a person as a "sinner" with ashes also represents the hatred of life in the sense of casting moral judgment on those things tha make life worth living; sex and freethinking being two prime examples.

In this way, the ashes embody christianity's one-two punch of sin-death. You're a miserable shameful sinner if you try to seek pleasure or independence in life, but your reward for all your chastity and conformity doesn't come till you're dead.

Your whole life, at the end of it all, is nothing more than a clump of ashes, to be spread on another forehead. Only the spirit, and the afterlife awaiting it, matter.



Struggle to get the words out:

"Our Father, who...art in Heaven, hallowed...be Thy name."

Back in front of Pleasant again and writing radical anti-christian rhetoric is the furtherst thing from my mind.

Instead, am reciting the Lord's Prayer. Like I mean it.

Out of my peripheral vision, which is quite good, can stretch my eyes enough to see some of the presumably hundreds of cleancut earnest churchgoers filed into the pews behind me, facing Pleasant.

Even though I can't see very far behind me, I just know that it's a packed house, I can tell, from the general crowd ambiance.

And then, Pleasant makes sure I really hear them.

The blows strikes me across the face so quickly, I don't realize I've been struck by Pleasant's riding crop until the pain shoots from the nerve endings in my face through my spinal cord before fully registers in my brain.

Feel the harsh sting on my left cheek and under my right eye the most.

While the congregation applauds its approval.

"There's more where that came from, Grimm," Pleasant whispers loud enough that only I can here,"if you do not keep your head down and your concentration up and finish that prayer."

And the corngregation claps its approval.

This must be the stuff of fantasy on my part, because this certainly isn't the Pleasant the world knows as the "gentle general."

Pain stings my face, but I don't dare unclasp my hands to rub it. Reason I got smacked in the first place was cause I stopped praying and drifted off in thought.

Opt to start over from the beginning, "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by Thy name. Thy Kingdome come--"

Pleasant remains unsatisfied as he leans down to me and whispers once more, "Louder and clearer, Grimm. Because if you don't, so help me God..."

He let his voice trail off on purpose just then, to make the threat sound open-ended, and worse than the punishment probably would be.

But he also reminds me of the physical threat by flicking his wrist so the riding crop enters m field of vision, reminding me.

He's trying to intimidate me.

He's succeeding.

"Thy will be done--"


Meanwhile, back in still threatening but infinitely more benign Future Dome, I continue filling the pages without lifting a finger, surprising myself at my prodigious pace:

Being adorned in ashes also marks the beginning of lent, the season of self-denial and sacrifice, leading up to easter, which like virtually all of christianity, is derived from paganism.

Even I have to admit, the biblical basis for lent is one of the cooler new testicle stories. The one where christ goes into the desert and is tempted by the devil, but resists it by fasting. christ fasted for 40 days, so lent is the 40 days leading up to easter (again, easter's date is determined each year to fall on the first Sunday following the first full moon of Spring. If that ain't pagan, what is?)

Though there are health benefits and shamanic insights to be gleaned from fasting, christianity has perverted it to represent further hatred of the flesh.

Moving past the obvious good/evil dualism, one wonders why christ's resistance of the devil is so celebrated?

Who know, maybe lucifer had some pertinent advice for christ, who was much younger than satan.

Fact, lucifer was said to have once been god's favorite angel, before god had a son he could call his own. Maybe lucifer just wanted to tell jesus: "Hey buddy, don't make the same mistakes I did."

Course, if christ had accepted any of the devil's advocacy, he'd probably be on the outs with pop, regardless of the sagacity of such advice.

But it would've been interesting--to this author, at least--if christ had heard luc out. For lucifer/satan/the devil has always represented secret wisdom, from his first biblical appearance as the snake in the garden, tempting the first occupants with the fruit from the tree of knowledge, all the way to today's claims by the Crusaders that satan is behind paganism

Aye, does "lucifer not mean "bringer of light?"

Hmm, don't think I should ignore that paganism angle. Man, this hash mixed with the submission is truly inspirational:

When it comes to paganism, in symbolic terms, the Crusaders are right; the devil represents the truth that paganism is the source for the majority of biblical lore. But since the church has no use for people making those connections, they throw everyone off the trail by associating paganism with satanism.

Returning to the myth at hand, lent means a catholick renounces earthly pleasures like food and meat via fasthing to re-emphasize that the material world is fleeting and an eternity awaits the true believer beyond the grave (just as the ashes symbolize).

But if that's the case, that the material world is fleeting, then why should any of us deny material pleasure for the brief time that we're here?

Do fasting and sacrifice build character or do they lead to self loathing and complacency with one's lot in life?

Fasting is just like accepting ashes, repenting for one's sins. One has to genuinely believe that god is genuinely pleased by the action of giving up burgers on Fridays, otherwise it has no meaning for the faster.