A Sixth Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll – The Doctrine that Cannot Be Challenged

    “Hey Carter!” came a shout and I knew who it was without turning my head, which was good as I was experiencing a wash of vertigo at the moment. I’d come home from work and took a moment to relax, sitting on the porch with the feral cats who hang out near our house. We feed them and they allow us to pet them. Sometimes. Anyway, I’d spent a few minutes petting and talking to the one we’ve named Sorrow, but he took off. He’s skittish. I would have gone inside myself but, as I said, the vertigo.

    “Hey Carter!” came the shout again.

    “Gunner, it’s been a while. Where’ve you been?” I didn’t really want to speak to him. He’s a bit of a troll, always trying to rile me. Always read to condemn me. But I try to be patient. I try to put up with him even if I wasn’t feeling right side up.

    “Where’s your American flag?” he asked as he stepped up to the porch. “You’ve got a Palestinian flag, a skull and cross bones pirate flag, and a queer pride flag in your window, but no American flag and I’m just wondering why you hate America so much.

    Yeah. That’s usually how it goes with Gunner. “Patriotism is the doctrine that cannot be challenged, eh Gunner?” I said with my head still between my knees. “As it happens,” I answered him, “my American flag is safely folded and put away in a closet somewhere. I have plans to get it out for flag day.”

    “To put it up?” he grinned. “Excellent. I knew you'd come around eventually." “No,” I said. “Not to display it. To wash it. I’m going to sit on the courthouse lawn with a bucket of soapy water and spend the day washing the flag. I’ve made up a sign to take with me. Stained with Oil. Stained with mud. Stained with War, Stained with Blood. We are not the good guys.”

    His grinned disappeared. “You know, Carter, there are three heavens, but none of them are yours.

    Another wave of vertigo washed over me and I closed my eyes to keep from spinning. It’s the end of the world – alive or dead, doesn’t matter. We’ve got to move fast while national security concerns are still beating. There are opportunists waiting and grasping for exploitational exposure. Which is just another method of murder. Clean and simple kill counts. The lower depths of darkness rule here. It is not enough for the burning fire. Not enough for the burnt offerings. The god of this land is not placated without death. Blow it up. Burn it down. It’s a rigor mortis policy long past its prime. It’s all in the CIA monitoring and redacted FBI files.

    “All the nations,” I said after the vertigo receded. ALL the nations – this means you, this means us – are as nothing before God, Gunner. Nothing. And no American exceptionalism, no rugged individualism, no protestant work ethic will make a damn bit of difference. That flag is nothingness and emptiness.”

    “You’re such a hypocrite, Carter. If you really thought that you wouldn’t have that terrorist Palestinian flag in your window.”

    I nodded slightly – too much motion might have triggered another wave. “You could be right, Gunner. I’m a messy bundle of contrarian contradiction. What can I say?”

    Gunner huffed and waved me off before storming back to his noisy pickup truck and driving away. I watched him roar away.

    Sorrow poked his head out from beneath the porch and meowed at me. “Yeah, buddy. Hang on. I’ll bring out some food for you,” I said as I stood and went inside.

Consider the Pilgrim

    Do not be thrown to confusion, with a drunken feeling in your mind. Contaminated. Do not be alarmed. Do not be deceived, but in the air with holy hands immortal, and your face to godward be ready for the storms, and gales, and wind. The Day of the Lord (green to gold and gold to black) comes with flaming fire.

    Consider the pilgrim, the bacterial smell of sweat upon him still who the Lord still loves. He suffers tribulation, as you know. Called to glory of the road. Keeping the traditions of the way. To sail upon the ocean and stand upon the sand. Ceaseless steps and ceaseless hope.

    Consider the gardener - sweet mock orange, hyacinth, allium, phlox, and hollyhock. Buzzing, ringing in the soil, listening to the sun – slender sunbeams and yellow flowers in the lawn. The message spreads quickly. Received with blooms of honor.

    Consider the baker and the brewer, both with the scent of yeast. Life and rising bread. Cast your bread upon the water and draw back sweet dark ale to encourage and strengthen you in every good word. Every good deed.

    Be thou saving everything, Lord, be merciful to your people. The Lord of peace himself.

    This is my own writing.

Twilight at Saint Gerald’s – Another Friday, 1987

    Judas the Hammer brings ruin to many!
    Judas the Hammer will capture the city!

    The growling vocals and throbbing, distorted guitars of This Corpse Alive shook the room. They were our favorite band back in 1987 and we listened to their albums whenever we got together, despite our parents objections to that ‘devil-music’ as they called it. We were at Dave’s place – in the upstairs unused half attic of the apartment – our usual spot. It was me, Dave, and Micah. And Allison

    “I appreciate that you’re here to do this, but aren’t you supposed to be at rehearsal, or something,” I asked, twisting my head to see her. I liked her cinnamon hair. And that her older sister, Beth – a senior while we were freshmen – would sometimes get us some pot. She was there to pierce my ear with a safety pin. My mom was going to be so cheesed.

    “Sit still,” she insisted and squeezed my ear with the ice cube to numb it. “Yeah,” she said. “Stupid Guys and Dolls.” She snorted. “They cast me as one of the Hot Box dancers. But it’s not like I can dance all that well. It’s just ‘cause I have boobs.” Micah, Dave, and I blushed and turned away from her and she laughed at us. I sneaked a look at her chest as she squeezed my ear again. Harder.

    “Hold still,” Allison said. “This is gonna’ hurt.”

    “I thought the ice…” I started to say and then she stabbed the pin through my lobe. I screamed, but it was done.“You’re such a puss,” she said and handed me a towel. “Wipe up the blood.”

    Micah brought me a small hand-held mirror and nodded in approval. “Cool,” he said.

    “Are you guys still into that Satan shit?” Allison asked as I preened in the mirror with my new punk rock jewelry.

    Micah shook his head back and forth, nearly dislodging his yarmulke. Dave laughed and said, “We’re not Satanists, you know. We just thought it’d be cool. Not that it worked or anything.”

    “Do you have anything else planned?” Allison asked as she sat down on the couch next to Micah.

    “We were just going to watch a movie. I think The Brides of Betrayal is on tonight,” I said.

     “So. Just another boring Friday night for the Three Investigators?” Allison said with a slightly sardonic grin. Now I almost regretted telling her about my childhood obsession with those books. Almost. She grinned at me and continued. “But what if I said I know how we can get into the old Saint Gerald of Aurillac hospital.”

    The three of us stared at her as the This Corpse Alive album continued playing on the stereo.

    My heart is bewildered, a dread overwhelms
    The twilight I longed for has become my terror.

    The Saint Gerald of Aurillac hospital had been empty – abandoned since before any of us were born. None of us really knew why. There were stories, of course, each more outlandish than the last: human breeding experiments, Nazi doctors, you know the sort… Weekly World News kind of stuff. It was probably something entirely boring like taxes or insurance but the stories circulated. The city kept it pretty well boarded up so that it didn’t become a hobo camp and there was very little graffiti on the walls. A tall chain link fence cordoned off most of it.

    “Hellfire!” Dave shouted. “Let’s go!”

    “But how are we going to get there?” I asked. “It’s on the other side of town.”

    “I’ve got Beth’s car,” Allison said.

    “But no license, right?”

    “Are you coming or not?” She asked and followed Dave down the stairs. I looked at Micah. He just shrugged and followed along. We piled into Beth’s maroon and rust Ford Escort and Allison drove us across town to the Saint Gerald. Micah offered a cassette for the tape deck, but Allison refused it. “No more of that death metal crap tonight, boys. You’re going to hear some real music.” She played some synthesizer Euro pop. Micah just sulked in the back seat staring out the window.

    The Saint Gerald was boarded up and secure – except for one basement entrance that Allison knew about. The iron stairs down to the door were dangerously sloped and bounced uncertainly as we made our unsteady descent. I felt a wash of vertigo as I stepped down, but it passed. At the bottom she pulled away a band of yellow and black barricade tape and pulled on the door. It opened. Reluctantly, but it opened.

    We were ready to enter but Allison held out her arm. “Should we pray first, or something? For protection?”

    “Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s probably a good idea. Dave, what have you got in the way of protection prayers?”

    He looked sheepish and said, “I don’t know. I guess we could recite the Lord’s Prayer or Psalm Twenty-Three, maybe.”

    Micah held his hands in the air with his fingers spread like Mister Spock and began to pray: “Hashkivenu Adonai, Eloheinu l’shalom v’ha’amideinu shomreinu l’chaim. Ufros aleinu sukkat shlomecha v’takneinu b’eitzah tovah milfanecha v’hoshee’einu l’ma’an sh’mecha. V’hagen b’adeinu v’haseir mei’aleinu oyev, dever, v’cherev, v’ra’av, v’yagon, v’harcheik mimenu avon vafesha. U’v’tzeil kenafecha tastireinu ki el shomreinu umatzileinu atah ki el chanun v’rachum atah. Ushmor tzeiteinu u’vo’einu l’chaim u’l’shalom mei’atah v’ad olam. Baruch atah Adonai, shomer amo Yisrael.”

    “Amen,” we all agreed, though we didn’t know what he’d prayed.

    “Dude, was that from Star Trek?” Dave asked and Allison smacked him on the back of the head.

    “Hold up. Hold up,” Dave said rubbing his skull. “I’ve got something else. I’ve got these.” He pulled out a small wooden box from his jacket. He opened the lid and revealed three communion wafers. “I smuggled these out from Mass when we were getting ready for the summoning ritual.” He looked at Allison. “I didn’t know you’d be with us or I would have gotten more…”

    “Isn’t that blasphemy or something?” she asked.

    “No. We’re doing something dangerous here. We might encounter some evil spirit inside there. We need the holy presence to go with us.”

    “Still seems iffy to me,” I said. But we each took one. For protection.

    “I’ve got something too,” Allison said handing us a piece of chalk. She looked at me and said, “Just like The Three Investigators, right?” She smiled and I melted.

    “So we don’t get lost,” Allison explained and drew an arrow on the wall. She stepped through the door into the darkness and we followed after her.

    Inside it was stuffy and dark but not like a cave. When my family went to the State park caves near here for vacation, they smelled fresh and clean. Living even. Saint Gerald of Aurillac hospital, abandoned for so long, smelled dead. I don’t know how better to say it. Our flashlights did little to illumine the facility. There was little to see. If we expected to find medical equipment and blood stained walls we were disappointed. It was just an empty building. Empty hallways. Empty rooms.

    But there was something, some nervous hesitation, some unexpressed unfamiliar dread. “Aren’t these places full of radon?

    “Radon?” Dave said. “What’s that?”

    “Radioactive gas that seeps up from the ground,” I explained.

    “Radioactive gas? You’re full of crap. You know that right?” Dave said.

    Maybe it wasn’t Radon, but there was something. I felt. We all felt it. And my newly pierced ear was throbbing. I think I saw interdimensional flashing lights. Fairy lights and there was …

    It’s here that I mostly have to end the story.

    I don’t really remember what else happened. We woke up in the hospital – the actual functioning hospital, with doctors and nurses and everything. Our parents were there, sobbing and squeezing us until we were nearly crushed to death. Alternately laughing and crying and shouting at the doctors. It turns out that someone (we never learned who) made an anonymous phone call to 911 reporting a gas leak in the area of The Saint Gerald of Aurillac hospital. Police and Fire Department responded and found the four of us unconscious in the heating system of Saint Gerald’s. They followed our chalk marks, apparently. They flooded the room with fresh clean air and we were revived and taken by ambulance to the hospital.

    I still don’t know how we got into the heating system.

    And, what is more, Saint Gerald’s had been vacant for years, everything shut down. No power, no utilities. No gas. Who made the call? Why was there the smell of gas there? These things we never learned.

Rituali di Sangue - Friday, 1987

Emmaus

    Come risen Christ to the confused
    from light to shadow and return

    Come uncanny Christ seen unseen
    unrecognized and with us all the while

    Break bread and he is gone.
    Break mystery and he is here
    within our burning and broken hearts

    Come hidden disappearing Christ
    live and live again

This Man Only a Moment

    He is on the news again, this man. This man, who never shuts up. This man, this man – is not a man. He is a living lie. Even when he tells the truth it is in furtherance of a lie. Big hair, big mouth in front of the cameras and microphones. But the internal indicators are not functioning. No light. No tick, tick, tick haptic. Whatever you think, or feel, or vote – this is his time. This man, this moment.

    He sits upon the surface of evil – marking divisions and offenses. Using leverage as the key to the deal. It goes like this: with easy way capitulations or hard way negotiations in the back room. The artifice and the fraud become accepted reality. Packaged for grift and for graft.

    This man, this man – mighty before but urgent now with a loss and lack of integrity. Disintegration on the screen in front of us. A living lie falling apart. And we are herded into semiautonomous waiting in small rooms in a smaller and smaller world. Dangerous dimensions. All that sorrow, all that ache. We are thundered asunder. Waiting to be pulled under.

    He never shuts up. A thousand thoughtless words -for a day, a week, a year – like a sword, cutting and slashing anyone at hand. Striking and lashing out at friends and allies as often as his enemies. Active for decades, but soon he’ll be done. Sincere lips endure forever but the lying tongue – this man – with his lying lips lasts only a moment.

Proverbs 12: 18-19