12, 637. RUDIMENTS, pt. 992

RUDIMENTS, pt. 992

(no  words for this time of life)

I didn't always know where

to turn, and whenever that

happened I just went deeper

into things to study. I guess

maybe it was assumed that,

in such moments, a person

would instead turn to the

assigned 'Spiritual Director,'

who was supposed to be able

to guide us each through our

troubles and distractions. My

guy was named Father Jude  -

'Jude,' in Cathlolicism, is, by

the way, the 'Patron Saint of

Lost causes.' Really! What's

that tell you? I never thought

it would even be worth the

try. The Catholic thing has

a million of these saints, like

one for every cause. We used

to eat our meals, certain times

of year, in silence, while

someone read, up at a podium,

aloud, from a small book

called 'Lives of the Saints.'

A different episode or two,

each day. There was a saint

for everything  -  Patron

Saint of Fisherman; farmers;

warriors; weavers. It was crazy.

What made it even crazier was

how it reflected absolutely nothing

of the modern world, which, it

seemed to me, was a lot more

in need of Patron Saints for

race-car drivers, slot-car guys,

gamblers and pimps, than it

was for lepers and jousters.

Maybe by now they've fixed

that up  -  even if they just

reached the 1950's, there

could be a Patron Saint for

machine gun killers, mass

murderers, and atomic bomb

droppers. How about moon

travelers and astronauts? They

too probably need one.

-

Each of these stories, many of

them anyway, often had grisly

ends, vaguely tied in with the

connection to the patron saint

things. It was pretty crazy, and

we were expected to eat during it

too! And in silence no less! Not

even laughter was allowed!

Some poor early Christian

fanatic, claiming visions of

Jesus' mother, gets his skin

peeled off with little knives

and needles, and then gets

thrown into the fire  -  and he

becomes the Patron Saint of

Needleworkers and the Needle

Trades. Go figure. Might as

well have also been the one

for firemen too. The whole

twisted set-up of religion like

that made little sense to me;

in fact it seemed already

perverted, a lost claimant to

a means that justified only a

made-up ends. And there I

was, smack-dab in the middle

of it, and stuck. I wasn't 'stuck,'

per se. I could have left freely

at any time, I guess, with the

proper preparations  -  others

had done it. You'd wake up

one day and Fred Poncet

from Illinois would be gone.

Bed unused; locker emptied.

But I didn't have the energy

nor interest for that. I'd figured

to just stick around and see what

came. In fact, when certain

people used to tell me they

thought I'd have been a death

by suicide of my own by now,

I always say 'I want to stick

around to see how this thing

ends up.' Same deal. As it was,

it lasted a few more years, and

then they just told me to get

lost anyway. I was a 'bad fit,'

and should go home for the

break and think about my

'vocation,' and maybe not

return. So, I followed

instructions.

-

I thought about my 'vocation.'

I also thought about what a

stupid-ass effeminate mess I

was in the middle of. I didn't

fit? I also thought about girls.

And why I'd ever want to

willingly cut myself of from

them for the sake of piety,

false idols, distraction, bingo

halls, and swooning old ladies

pretending at a death-defying

salvation by way of religion,

mass, hero-worship and fake

bread, and wine. I didn't fit?

I figured, yeah, many of these

guys did know about fit, but

it was the wrong hole.
Vocation? Vacation?

-

The thing about a lot of this 

Catholic misery stuff, and I'm

being perfectly blunt about it,

from full experience and just

saying my piece, is that it's

rooted very deeply in sexuality.

A sort of sexuality that the church

people have never rightly figured

how to deal with. Flat out, at

bottom, that's the crux of the

problem. (That might be a pun).

I'm certainly not here excusing

perversion, lust, or crazy, mad

sex, but what I am saying is that

in a Human life, initially, and

continuously, 'sex' throws up a

big smokescreen, and if it's not

dealt with, correctly and face to

face, it's a problem. Any of those

really weird, early-sainted females,

like St. Theresa of Avila, or a few

others too that come to mind, their

claims to fame became no more

than twisted scene of orgasms with

a secret Jesus. There's one saint,

I forget, from Lascaix or somewhere,

who writhed in bed for years, in

love and ecstasy with her Lord and

Savior, who granted her sexual

pleasure and the forever but still

fleeting paroxyzms of fervor. No

different from any weird sex scene,

but handled, and then made revered,

in such bizarre ways that I could

never understand how the 'Church'

could come up with and then

tolerate all that gibberish, And

then 'indoctrinate' their stupid

faithful ('doctrine' being the

root of indoctrinate). These stories

were almost gruesome, or sadistic,

in their details. That's spiritual

health? No, that craziness, sorry.

-

And yet, again, there I found myself,

growing right into the middle of it.

Comedy, to the rafters! It was all

I could do to stay sane. Don't get

me wrong, I found my ways  -  as

I've gone over, the farm work, art,

Mike and his music, the stage and

drama stuff. I was about as far away

from the real material at hand,

religious wise, as I could be and

still have my feet in the seminary

grounds. It wasn't just me either.

I'd say there were 5 maybe 6 of

us, all pretty much iconoclastically

going through the same routine.

We talked, but we never really

made a gang of it; just loose

guys, staying loose. If any

one of us had set out to explain

it to another of us, it would 

have failed. There were, truly,

no words for this time of life.