| Writing Samples - Novels "Dear Me" Second Sample |
I have been inside so long that the other day when I finally went outside, it seemed weird – it was bright and windy and generally uncomfortable – outside! – I felt like God was staring at me and didn’t like me much – I mean, I can understand that, if he was and did, if he felt that way – but that was a long time ago! – I’ve changed – no really! Anyway, I had to come back inside to light a fire – only there was no wood – so I then had to go back outside to get more wood and suddenly I realized everything was okay – God was gone and I felt fine, again – there was just my yard and the woods and the water – and me looking at it – and it was enough I don’t know what happened, but I hope it doesn’t happen again. Chapter 15 The Right Reverend Otis “Move Over” Flaubert—no relation whatsoever—hanged himself in his rectory. Despite his tongue sticking out, purple and stiff, anyone could see: Otis Flaubert was smiling. Why? Otis got Arthurized. Chapter 16 Dad once said, “Religion is all about palatable lies.” It’s hard to argue. Chapter 17 Presbyterians, Lutherans, Methodists, Baptists: all the same. At least as far as I was concerned. I never appreciated the differences, or even why there were any. They were all “Christians,” weren’t they? So, what was the deal? My young ears heard only minor variations on the same dull (but loud), repetitious (nee redundant), pay-as- go (because if you don’t: You’ll be sorry!) theme. “Pomp and hooey,” Dad used to say, cheerfully. “All the same.” So, I ask you: Has there ever been a single religion so internally (and eternally) divided; so positively (negatively): Divisive? I mean: Didn’t they idolize the same savior? (Who, as I recall, ordered his followers not to idolize, never to idolize.) Didn’t He say, “Be One”? But! Look in a thesaurus and there are more listings under “Christian” denominations and sectarians than under “Religions.” All religions. Then: Look in the Yellow Pages under “Churches” and… Good God! (When I looked) there was not One; there were dozens –dozens of headings, that is. And those were just for Baptists! (“The most contentious Christian cult of all of them,” according to Dad.) But others joined in the fray with more or less equal devotion to praise—self-praise, that would be, as in: “Hallelujah! We’re in the Yellow Pages!” Indeed, each incrementally divisive (Christian) sect had its own heading. (I parenthesize this one religious area of preference because others, such as Jews and Buddhists, had only one heading each in my old phone book. Which, says something—even if I’m not sure what. There were no listings for Atheists.) I counted thirty-eight headings for different kinds of, sects of, Christian churches. Again: not listings, headings. Thirty eight! This proves: There is no unity. There is only: Marketing. Each sect vying for business in the Good Book that is The Yellow Pages—and some with full-page ads. Full page! Once, during a brief stint of selling used Dodges, I priced full page ads in the blessed Yellow Pages, and: Holy Tax Relief! Which, further proves Dad’s main contention that: “Religion is a business (the same as) Automobile Dealers, Dry Cleaning, Investment Securities, Painting and Roofing Contractors, Real Estate Agents, and Cigar, Cigarette and Tobacco Dealers—which comes directly after Churches, which comes directly after Chiropractors. “Do you notice a theme, here, DJ?” I was only about seven at the time, but I nodded—and, shortly thereafter, asked myself: What is it with these people? Aren’t they all worshipping the same guy? That guy who preached peace and acceptance, love and understanding, for all? Who died for it—for them! Wasn’t that the whole point? Did anyone learn anything from any of it? I mean, Why fight about it, for Christ’s sake! But they all do! Well, did. Chapter 18 On the flip side, take Episcopals and Catholics. Please. (A Henny Youngman moment!) When I was a seven and a half, I asked my father to clarify the difference between Episcopals and Catholics. He told me that the former was simply a watered down version of the latter, but that wasn’t good enough. (And, quite frankly, I didn't know whether to believe him or not. Dad was like that.) I did not flag in my quest. Later, when I mentioned this definitional dilemma—purely as a question—to Episcopalians I met, I was met with a vacant stare. Then they told me their priests could marry. Well! Then, later still, in the mass-consumption confusion of the otherwise-devoid-of-any-real-meaning (Nineteen) Nineties: The Episcopalians merged with the Lutherans! What was up with that? Divine corporate mergers for God's sake? No, that one got past me. (A note: This new compound faith summarily got its own heading in the phone book. Shouts were heard across this great land: “We are defined! We are real! We exist! We’re in the…Yellow Pages!” And again, “Hallelujah!” Resulting in, one would assume: Early Onset Rapture.) Now, Baptists I get. They're easy. They hate everyone including themselves, but they only take it out on others. That's easy to understand. That's all of us. The Baptists just made a religion of it. (“The religion of intolerance! Come! Pray with us! Be safe with us! From us! Probably. For awhile. Maybe. Oh, and don't forget the car wash and cross-burning this Wednesday. Check the Bulletin for times and please remember to bring a covered dish. Creamy macaroni salads encouraged.”) Okay. But the Amalgamated Episco-Lutherian Church of the Latter Day Merger? Right past. Later still, it was explained to me that, aside from allowing their priests to marry, Episcopalians believed in apostolic touch; i.e., Jesus touched the apostles, who touched their followers, who then touched their followers, and all the way down the line until, now, some guy in a funny hat touches you and you've been touched by Jesus— by proxy. (By Jesus, By Proxy! could be the name of a damn good religion.) There became the sticking point. The Lutherans don't believe in apostolic touch; so they really didn't like it when the Episcopalians told them they had to be touched to join in the fun. So they worked something out about someone being touched in private. (Private Touchings: a good name for an escort service; not particularly appropriate for a religion. But who knows? I mean, really: Sales were slumping; they had to do something.) The United Episcopal-Lutheran Conglomerate: One Stop Saving Service—We meet all your Godly needs! (And some of us touch in private!) Wow. Count me in! Pass the plate. Chapter 19 Dad would say: “DJ, there are people out there…” And he would drift off. Then, he’d come back with: “These people, actual Americans, DJ—despite what Mrs. Pomillor taught you in second grade—these people out there don’t actually believe in Free Speech. At least not in actually exercising it, in actually speaking freely. At least about anything they don’t agree with. That is to say, disagreeing…with them. That: “They don’t believe in at all.” I was maybe almost eight by then. And Dad said, “Some of them, these patriotic Americans, are the president and some are his cronies, and some are cops on the street, and judges and prosecutors, and some are the people next door.” So: “Be careful.” And I would say, “The Mortons?” The Mortons lived next door. They were always nice to me—fed me brownies for no reason, told funny stories, the occasional adult-like joke, that sort of thing—so, I was understandably confused. And Dad would frown a little. “You know what I mean,” he’d say, even if he knew that I didn’t. And I would say, “Well, what about you?” because Dad talked a lot, you know, about all kinds of things. (Most of which I didn’t understand at the time, or at least didn’t understand that I understood until later when it all came back to me in a blinding flash of horror, clarity and purpose.) And Dad would say, would answer, with his smile, “I'm just testing their Christian charity, DJ. “Call me a cynic,” he said once. I said, “What’s a cynic?” and Dad said he was very disappointed in me. I then pointed out that the Mortons were Jewish, “Aren’t they?” and Dad left the room. I sort of understood, though, to be fair, his implication about their—or anyone’s—calling in life to be kind; we had learned about that in Sunday School. This was just before Mom stopped taking me to church—okay, making me go—during the summer after second grade. She announced—and not surprisingly, Dad agreed—that, at age 8, I was “old enough to make up my own mind about the nature or existence of God.” One of the few times I saw Mom and Dad cry together. I didn’t understand that at all. But I was happy to be free of church—not to mention church people—and it made Sunday mornings a whole lot more productive—not to mention a whole lot more fun. I asked Mom why I (we) didn’t have to go anymore—probably just to be sure that she meant it—and she said, “I want you to learn to think and make decisions for yourself, Dan. I gave you a foundation, we did, now what you do with it is your own concern.” Dad was still crying. I said to her, “Dad says he’s a cynic. He wants me to call him one.” Mom said, “Well, there’s something to be said for healthy cynicism.” I asked her why she was smiling—choosing to ignore her new round of robust tears—and what cynicism was and what it had to do with my health and Mom said to go look it up. (She, and Dad, always told me to go look up things I didn’t understand. “That way, “ they said, “you’ll get the truth, more or less unvarnished; at least without our personal biases tainting it.”) I did, and: Wow! That was me. It was we—our whole family! I like to think of it like: Dad helped me to become a cynic; Mom made it healthy—like she did pizza when she cooked it at home. And for the record: The people next door to my father, the Mortons, were very nice. They flew an American flag on all the appropriate holidays and actually believed in it—and for one or two of the right reasons. Also for the record: The Mortons died in a violent car crash while on vacation in Los Angeles, on Melrose Avenue, not too far from Hollywood, their intended destination, when they were plowed into by a speeding police cruiser involved in a high-speed chase with a gangbanger who had stolen a twelve year-old dented Toyota, and they all missed The End entirely. Lucky them. Call me a cynic. Chapter 20 So, as you may have already surmised: Dad was a practicing atheist. It was an interesting way to grow up, un-conflicted about religion. In our house, things was simple: There is no God; don't waste your time looking; you won't find Him. We never found Grampa, either. I always wondered if the two were related—God and Grampa; looking and not finding—and in a weird way: I guess they were. Raining again - fog, too - I don't know if it's that it never seems to end or it just gets this way when I'm thinking about how dreadfully grey my life is - (and I'm always thinking that, these days!) - either way, it fits - but some of the ugliness has fallen away, thank God...whoever you may be - wherever you might be - did You make it out, too? - or just me? It's awfully quiet around here. |
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