Whisper #237

The germ of original sin that infects one’s reason used to have only one cure: seeing one’s whole life as a test whose examiner was the Almighty. This was an ingenious way to control a mass populace prone to superstition and brimming with fear of things unknown that discharged in mass disorder, which fear became explosive and numbing when its object was demonstrated as unknowable.

Yet, this germ could also have been, in many cases was and eventually will be cured by another means: seeing the Almighty examiner as cruel and what follows when it dawns on one that the source of love is also the administer of cruelty.

Eventually, one suffers so much more from the recognition that the source of love engages in acts of cruelty that one becomes embittered and out of weakness lashes out at the messenger: the person, the book, the institution claiming one’s miserable life is a test.

Then, of course, out of guilt over having disobeyed the messenger of the Almighty and in turn the Almighty, one grows flimsy, weak and receptive—one suffers an emptiness that hides fear of the unknown, of the unknowable… Therefrom, one grows increasingly open, hungry and receptive to another, more lenient, less demanding, more unblocking, more liberating messenger of the Almighty. All this in order to ameliorate one’s emptiness—to patch over, to bandage, one’s guilt.

The germ of original sin can and will eventually be cured differently. Here comes the sly, cunning one who proclaims: all your sins are forgiven by the Almighty—the devil told you ‘you are sinful by birth’, ‘your life is a test’… Do not listen to his message, listen to my message, which says do X, Y, Z to enter heaven—listen to mefollow me, and all your previous sins, including your original sin, will be forgiven… My Almighty is all-compassionate, all-forgiving—my Almighty’s love of you is unconditional, my Almighty wants to guide you eternally, not punish you eternally.

Those with a keen eye for someone’s well-being are obligated to ask: have we cured anyone here, or have we merely justified eternally an infection and its corresponding illness?

Whisper #236

Late in the day, when the slave finally achieved his final revenge against his master, he looked back at his master, whom was now miserable, decadent, cowering, ‘equal’ and bade him:

My resentment of you and my unbending desire for you to be my equal was born from my realizing that you are not worthy of me, my suffering, my sacrifice, my struggle, my devotion. No, it was never out of some so-called ‘truth’ about human nature or our being made in the image of God, before whom all are equal.

I created those concepts by using what my obedience to you taught me, what you taught me, with a view to overthrowing and challenging you. I used my ‘cunning’ and ‘resistance’, my disobedience of you and your command, to reveal to you and myself what I have always suspected: you are not worthy of me. I used your fear and degeneracy against you to render us equal—in truth, to reveal that you are unworthy of me.

But, I omit, I wanted nothing more than for my efforts to prove futile before you and your highness, your nobility, your power. I wanted it to fail against you. I wanted nothing more than for you to restore my faith in you, my devotion to you, my sacrifice and struggle for you—I wanted you make it worthwhile. I wanted you to prove worthy of my obedience, my effort, my sacrifice, my devotion to you…

I hate you not for doing what you did, but for not making it count in the long run and, most importantly, for not continuing to make it worth it by restoring my faith in you when I had finally lost it.

Whisper #235

None of us are as committed to the truth as we say we are. We are more committed to the good opinion of others; to morality; to ‘God’; to the next job up the career-ladder; to those who pay the bills; to the ‘law’; to what nourishes our ‘thoughts’ of being truth seekers, i.e., to our vanity; to those whom we see as our idols, masters, parents, teachers, benefactors…

No, the truth is a coy, elusive, evasive young lady, a mythological creature of the forest that reveals herself only to the worthiest, the best, the noblest, the most courageous, the most powerful… The Greeks and Romans thought she hid in a holy well—they were right about her hiding!

But, enough teasing, allow me to warn you worthy, best, noble, courageous, powerful ones and take my warnings as seriously as you can, or—as is more keeping with your personalities—take me as seriously as might be pleasing to you.

Do not make the soul-destroying mistake of assuming that her revealing herself to you means she is thereby committed or betrothed to you. The moment you think you know the way to her dominion is precisely the moment she has moved on and left you with the faintest memory of her presence and an unquenchable thirst.

Why? You might ask. Well… that is the golden question that inspired Rodin’s The Thinker, which aptly demonstrated why I will not answer it for you. I will give you my reason for not answering it, however, for I unlike you who might be driven to ask this question I am not only committed to truth, but also to good will.

What would this creature of the woods do to me if I gave away so cheaply the way to her dominion? Alas, the temptation to divulge her secrets strikes me with the sound of fire and brimstone—Dante was right about this as he was right about hell.

But, our dear Dante forgot to mention what his being right about hell meant for his soul? Did his ‘truth’ about hell redeem him from it? Fortunately, several centuries after, we may have finally learned and now we know better—have we learned, do we know better, my dear beneficiaries of truth? How many more of us must risk hell before we learn, before we know . . .

Her Golden Fleece

And then He said:

Whenever you laugh from the bottom of your belly; whenever you are shy and that glowing red dawn glosses your cheeks; whenever you cry silver jewels from the depths of your soul, which flow and drip from your rosy, pouted lips; whenever you explode crimson with anger and bless your body with a graceful manner and movement putting the best dancers to shame… Ah, my heart is full, rich and bright with the love that is spring to nature, to its plants, to its animals. You fill me with spring’s glad tidings.

But, please dear, do not receive my growing soft as an offence. Do not see my laughter over you laughter as my mocking you; do not see my smile over your shyness as my enjoying your failure or mistakes; do not see my happiness over your tears as my Schadenfreude; do not see my awe over your anger as my not taking you seriously. Take this from me as I try to give it, as my imploring you on both knees. I am a pleader, my dear. I am your eternally loyal, royal subject…

I am strange to you, indeed, but let me try to dispel a little of the mystery—just enough to preserve its pleasure for us, however. So, beneficiaries of truth, pardon my artistic and mystical expression—look at it as my attempt to hold firm the pleasure I claim as our right, as mine and my beloved’s human right.

Sometimes, my dear—though not always—I just love you full of life and want to see that fullness fill your body. I want to see the current of life run right through you. I want it thrown over your whole body as a golden fleece. I want you to wear the golden fleece that gives you exclusive rights over my life, my happiness, my softness, my yesterday, my today, my tomorrow… Can you claim that responsibility, my dearly beloved? Can you hold in your bosom this form of authority and queen-ship over me? Can you be happy without at least trying to claim it…?

Whisper #233

A: I am depressed. Unable to move. A boot hangs over me and presses upon my head; paralyzes me. What do I do?

B: Look at the boot. Close your eyes. Now, imagine it was a knife. Open your eyes.

A: Why are you holding a knife over me! Get away from me!

B: Did you feel that jolt in you that just made you jump and ready to fight?

A: Yes…

B: You need a life. A mission. A goal. Something to live for. Find it.

A: Ok, I will.

B: Before you go. Remember one thing: make it your mission; not someone else’s. Don’t be a distress junkie seeking to solve other people’s problems to hide from your own, to fill the gaping hole that is your own life. Find your mission, even if that mission is to solve other people’s problems–make it your mission. Do it for you. Not, for them.

A: Ok…

B: You’d do well to remember that, or else you’ll come back here and I’ll need something bigger than a knife to jolt you back to life.