Opening the Eye of the Heart

(Creative Writing Short Stories with Christian Themes, and Reflections upon Bible Parables, Scripture Passages, and Christian Topics)

Table of Contents (Story Title by Date):

7/24

The Presbyterian WASP DID

7/26

My Name is… (uh oh.)  AKA: The Last Man Standing

7/28

The Woman Who was a Heart

7/29/18

The Greatest Love Story Ever Told

A Collection of Six Short Stories:

(A Myth-Busting Session: Fact of Fiction?)

1: The Greatest Love Story Ever Told

2: Initial Here…

3: Talking in Tongues

4: Stigmata

5: A Seer

6: Feeding like a Vampire on Holy Communion

7/31/18

Casper the Friendly Holy Ghost and Her Unfinished Business…

(Warning: This one is rated “R”)

1: A Gripe About Translations 

2: Earning My Red Wings

3: Mothership

4: Siamese Twin

5: Skywalker Stalker

6: Pinned: A Safety School at Best

7: Mum’s the Word?

8: Spell It: What Does It Mean.

8/3/18

A Whirlwind of a Creative Writing Session:

“That Darn Cat!”

“The Undercover Agent”

“My Real Name”

“Danger’s My Middle Name”

“The Gladiator”

“The Sixth Sense”

“Pouring Salt on the Wound”

“Deathtrap: Projecting and Projectile”

“Prophesy like Jeremiah”

“Diagnosis: DID”

“Suicide Mission and Suicide Squad”

“Planet Earth: Hostile Territory”

“Repentance Becometh Mine Ecstasy”

7/24/18

Creative Writing!

Story Title:  “The Presbyterian WASP DID”

Going toe-to-toe and en-pointe, this story is a free verse scripture scrimmage!  A long-winded wind-down of an emotional outlet procedure, this one surely doth carry on, so don’t hold your breath!

“Where anger overflows, the tongue will wag…”

The inapt parable creeps sardonically from the pristine pages of Don Quixote to be quite aptly applied to her own current context.  “It is truth serum!”  She jokes to herself, as she airs her grievances airily to the benefit of God, and God knows who else.  

A polite little priestess in the making, this purebred little Presbyterian WASP is known for her noteworthy lack of any reactivity or outward display of emotion, always demonstrating picturesque stoic staidness, unflappability amidst frustration, and an unwavering common courtesy, in being meticulously careful to always show a shrewd politeness, uncompromisingly good manners, and an immovable reservedness of character in all public contexts.  Pale white and well-to-do English-American fingers, bedecked in antique Art Deco diamond rings, recount the stanzas of a canticle in place of her past habit, of counting calories.  

Admirable in her faultless admission of seemingly superhuman self-control, the recovered anorectic takes some sinful pride in relishing her recovery.  Still true to her svelte form, and after the fashion of a previously memorized DSM-5 most quotable list of conversational criteria, she recites back her justification, juxtaposed upon an Epistle of St. Paul.  Four solid years into her recovery, without any symptom use whatsoever, places her diagnosis in the “recovered” category, over and above being merely “in remission.”  Silently within her own mind, she mutters mustily, like a ventriloquist with her veridical venom reverberating across the closed quarters of two very different barracks, “I have the ideal body from a perfectly sufficient number of calories always abided and accounted for, even that lost sheep of a son of perdition!  Do you have any f***king idea how tiny my delicate ballerina bone structure is, you gargantuan simian mammoth!  My narrow body frame can’t carry off a gluttonous slothful nation’s BMI recommendation!”

“We’re WASPS,” she recounts of her family’s heritage, with some sarcastic and sinful humor, despite the negative connotations of that arrogantly self-entitled highbrow and haughty terminology.  “Nothing like that, no alcoholism, no schizophrenia, no mental retardation, nor any disabilities at all, have ever run in my family!  Just incredibly high IQs (check my records), and admittedly, breast cancer, on my mother’s side.”

Quixotically, her Spirit sings astride the astroplane of the starboard side of a starship, and her sky-high soul is fueled with all the Starbucks stamina of a harnessed holy hellfire, held gently within her seething mindscape and the deadeye deathgrip of her concerted concentration.  

She is suddenly shuttled back in time to the quake of arrogant questioning posed by an insipid interrogator, and she retorts in kind and with fierce toxicity, before the jet engine of her internal momentum and her Holy Spirit’s hotly enkindled eternal flame slowly simmers back down to a more placid purr.  She refrains from answering for just a moment, and in two shakes of a Lamb’s tail, she smooths over the mussed hairline of her darkly rooted brunette widow’s peak.  She collects herself calmly and then counters cooly and with an even tone.  “My words taken out of context,” this former jet pilot elaborates, “might have my prior military occupation mistaking me for a man named Pilate!”  She exclaims, with an edification delightfully-studded with little jewels of expletives, shocking any listener to perplexity with the shimmering array of pernicious profanity coming forth from a sailor’s tongue hidden within her, which utterance is quite unexpected in first seeing her dainty porcelain doll face and impeccably-painted Coco Chanel-red lips. 

(…Change the subject, quick!)

“Why yes, I am color blind…”  I do not see any distinction among persons, nor do I discriminate along any racial lines.  I judge by the heart itself and not by any personal bias nor any outward appearance.  “What?  Oh, oh, also I’m not at all color blind.”  I can distinguish perfectly between all colors with a reliable and testable 20/20 accuracy.  I did, after all, mention that I was a pilot, yes?

…Love and justice are both, by necessity, required to be considered “blind.”

(The interrogation continues.)

“With this sort of campsite to shelter my attentional prowess, you could very well say I’m in a concentration camp!”  She tastelessly counters, to the Nurse Ratched team of hatchet-faced tormentors, worthy of burying the hatchet in as veritable grave sites, as they hold her hostage in their hostile territory of campy internment interns.  Bedecked the the nines with Glocks automatic against her battle-zone Burberry trenches and GI government-issue counter-intelligence, a battle of words and of worlds unfurls itself in an archaically angelic mouthpiece of pissed-off and passionate player-piano playtime.

(It’s over…)

She flashes forward several years to a mess hall after Catholic Mass, in a private’s retreat house years after the enemy army’s retreat from her fire-frenzy of battle-ax-wielding, war-waging fanfare.  A melee upon her scarlet and melancholy doorstep, the pained white columns of her family’s Civil War-era colonial home uplift some Paschally-blood-spattered lintels to reveal an archangel’s bastion of an ally’s armament, as she calls into action at the front lines a crushing defeat against the incoming enemy rampage.  Her mind’s Eye flying, she deftly maneuvers the full force of her scorching sledgehammer Catholic stance, to inflict a crippling blow from the right Arm of the Lord to that onslaught.  

(Woah!)

The full force of her full frontal and feral female defense, impacts that surge of incoming enemy troops even light years away, singly with the one-handed battle-axe of the little lady who turned the tides of the war.  “What is that you’re doing?  Is that yoga?”  Her friend had wondered at her psionic psychic spectacle.  “Uh, sure!”  She sheepishly skirted the issue, before splaying her starlight specs into the entrails of her defeated impending doom.

(An interview question, real quick…)

“How’d you get to be the General, and how did you get so much pent-up anger?”  “I’ll answer both questions with one sentence and kill two birds with one stone: Someone cut His Mike off!”

(Back at the mess hall…)

“I don’t think I’d call myself a convert,” she smirkingly smolders back to the Catholic.  “…Uh, before this I was Presbyterian!”  She replies, barely able to suppress her laughter at the question’s subliminal insinuation.  A passing glimmer of the laughability to the suggestion that a Protestant is somehow less Christian than a Catholic reveals itself in the reaction of the inquisitor.   Reflecting upon fact that a pagan and a Protestant are certainly not quite equivalent, an abashed realization politely pulls that parishioner aside to the seclusion of sidestepping sisterhood. 

(A return trip…)

“Are you on drugs!  What is it then, bath salts, mushrooms, what?”

“What?  I definitely do caffeine, that’s for sure.  Bath salts?  WTF?  Have you smelled me?  I barely have time to shower let alone take bubble baths!  And sure, I do mushrooms all the time!  I do a few shiitakes with dinner, just about every night!”  Her innocence and her naïveté astound me, and I can’t help but laugh.

(Flash forward from the PTSD flashback…)

At home in her apartment, in the wake of the morning’s emotional wreckage and with the Book of Revelation’s awakening that is the wrath of the Lamb at her r-word repository of unanswered prayers, she stands her ground like a little girl church lector stuck in a stonewalled stone well, well above-deck and somehow above ground at her Underground Railroad of understanding the silent mission of the Word.  Despite being all the worse for wear, she still has the wherewithal to use the homemade arsenal of her up-close and personal bedroom altar.  An enviably erudite wealth of knowledge lingers dormant within her picture-perfect photographic memory, and her pneumatic memorization skills lay waste to many a sharpened mind during any Ivy League scholar’s debate.  With a Renaissance man’s reservoir of battle-really reserves, her finely-tuned acumen of an acrobatic intellect is a sharpened and sharpening instrument and well-oiled war machine of cutting remarks and cunning linguistics.  Her astutely and skillfully-wielded Word can wreak havoc upon any one-jack-trade end-of-the-line plutonic and plasticine Philistine listener.  “I can see what you’re thinking,” she warns obliquely, only slightly and shyly hinting at the truth of her infrared laser beam and loftily-illuminating holy focus, truly piercing straight through her empty eye sockets and into the mind and heart of any friendly rival, to unveil the Light.  

“True, I can see the future, but what’s more impressive than that, is that I can see what’s right in front on me!” she jokes inwardly to her Alter-ego, which rather rudimentary prophetic power of observation is rather bewildering to a bemused challenger, because this girl truly has no eyes.  

(“Explain your powers,” the interrogator continues, in so many ill-formed words…)

Demurely a debutante in her delicate demeanor, this little white-bread wonder of a Philadelphia Main Line Communion-taker takes slight offense at the implication lurking beneath the surface of a loaded question.  “How, you wonder?”  She throws her head back and laughs with a magnificent glowing smile.  The unparalleled deathly stillness and eerie musicality to her quietly fluid motions gives her an uncanny quality of motionlessness.  The sight of her is strangely disquieting to take in, as if one is watching the rippling luminescence of a billowing and undulating phosphorescent jellyfish, transparent and unearthly, and somehow fluttering without moving to display a steamy vision’s visage of a full-figured and Rosary-bearing, rose-flushed blushing-bride of a fully human, and yet unmistakably very feline, feminine woman.  

(“It’s God, you God-forsaken non-believers,” she steamily thinks to herself, with eyes glowing red from the excess of insult and anger…)

A room full of fearful and feckless institutional inquirers uneasily assesses the cool facility of her quickness of wit and her candid-camera candor.  “It’s not really a question of what I think,” she retorts sharply, suddenly staunchly poised as if ready to lunge, as she is undeniably emotionally moved within the airtight and ironclad death-grip of her death-stare, pristinely perched like a professional, with all the perfection of a couched lioness, slowly unhinging atop her rusty metal folding chair.  Biting back her tongue and suffering the singe of its scalding sting held within her polite restraint, she is yet bristling beneath the refined confines of her upheld upperclass, and strikingly urbane, uppercut upbringing.  Clearly she is feeling the effect of an effrontery, and smirkingly, she is entirely ready to pounce upon a perceived pagan prey.  “It’s really more a matter of what I know,” she retorts, opening her large marbled and opalescent  pale blue cat’s eyes even more widely, for a most intimidating and otherworldly emphasis upon certain words to illustrate the distinction between what it means to “think,” and what it means to “know.”  

(Current context?)

A DID, dissociative identity disorder diagnosis, would most accurately account for this discrepancy in her manner of discretion, but oftentimes, the fatherly bedside manner of her right-hand alter ego state counterbalances out the wrathful saltiness of her left-hand-man apostolic counterpart in such a way that her transitioning is so smooth so as not to be noticed.  In the middle of a Triune tryst of a typewritten tirade, Tye’s highly decorated and overly-ornate military milieu, of an outwardly haloed aura from the overflowing of an internal atmosphere of deeply-instilled and intrinsically-instilling hope, is truly the key to a much better explanation to a new investigator’s blistering line of the third-degree.  A skulking private-eye’s errand is a triple trapdoor of a treaty, as an investigation is embroiled in the Philadelphia Main Line old money’s unspoken kid-glove treatment of these necessary third-rail queries.  

(An elaborate elaboration…) 

Expiated by an errant escape, and ultimately explained by a Gospel’s Grimm fairy tale, her eyes are fastened and affixed upon a mr.-fix-it’s fixating, immovable yet moving, target, like a dear desire caught in the high-beam of her, now rather well-renowned, Herculean plastic headlights.  Her iridescent irises shine in a snowy maze under the orders of an Overlook Hotel overseer, and in this stalemate standoff stare-down, the seed of the Word contends with the seer of a special-ops cat-burglar, as both sets of glowing red Eyes are transfigured and transfixed, as intermittently enmeshed in the interlocking of each Other to build up and store up a storehouse of the scorching burning coals begotten of a deadlocked and gridlocked holy hellfire.  Enkindled of a flame of fury, the crux of her womb cloisters in incubation a fresh batch of burning-hot, eternal empyrean agápē.  We create holy hellfire to convert it into God’s infinite reservoir of eternal love.

(A prosaic poetry showdown…)

With the red-eye fight-or-flight-ready grimace of her radar, something resting gingerly atop the altar catches her Eye.  This shapeshifting Shepherdess stewards the shuttle of the universal loom through her own eye-socket of a power outlet to patch in a patchwork of phantasmic Pharisee fabric, wrought with an iron rod of poetic irony and woven through barred-off barricades with the thread of fate itself, scuttled away securely within the cheeky incognito status of her most magnanimous, jaunty, and gregarious Alter.  I spy, with my little Eye, a Gospel!

(Go on…)

A God wink glistens like her shiny pearl-white, orthodontically-straightened, pre-teen-braced, bright beautiful teeth at the grace of her oh-so-creepy little girl giggle, and from the gusseted rivets of her scarily-contrasting army dress uniform’s epaulet shoulder-piece, she splendidly spin the yarn of the Word from atop her spindly-legged church’s spire of a spindle, held within her bastioned pure gold heart.  

(Flow.)

Her heartening and hearkening helmet halos around her like a majestic golden monstrance in the moonbeam mystery of her ancient Orphic-origins, as a consort’s orchestral and cringe-worthy battle cry of a silent cerebral shriek sounds off in the riptide stillness and still-echoing shivers shot off from her one-man battalion’s sure-fire last stand, so many years past.  

(And Today?)

“Wanna play?”  She challenges slyly, a sulky and sultry stare-down streams forth from the charcoal-lined living waters of her illustrious Olympian record-breaking, broken-arrow, broken record, and her still-recording little black-box soul’s line of fire, trails off lightly and liquidly into a rose petal’s patiently penitent trail of tears.  

(Trophy wife, the Holy Mother of a Consolation prize…)

Like the Rose of Sharon, this Song of Songs stationed-stationary of a live action stone-cold-fox has a Basic Instinct like the Stone the builders refused for the one True God.  As she cries out within the endless quicksand caverns of her ever-aching soul, in a Matrix’s back-bending, bread-breaking, Big Bang showdown, an upending of the release valve in the back of her heart, just off the edge of her medulla oblongata, opens a back-door tunneled-through escape hatch, pulled like a chain in her escape plan to freedom.  

(A Redemption of Shawshank, anyone?)

This tempestuous little temptress of a shooting-ace and a trick or two up My tattooed-on sleeve carefully crosses, and then uncrosses, and then recrosses her lithe legs, to reveal that an American bald eagle has in fact landed.  She is even now, like an Augury of Innocence, found to be circling overhead like a Black Hawk helicopter and praying upon the Gospel’s red-breast for the spiritual freedom of her prey.  She giggles shyly, spreading her splayed and feathery fingertips like a raven of Elijah in delightful animation, inspired of her prepossessing eagerness and her hotly-burning zeal, as if inadvertently extended outward to fan into flame her prayerful exhilaration.  Although she whispers this, seductively and under her breath, she can still be heard, ever so slightly, to say with those genteel, Gentile, and gentle gesticulations, of a really, really, dark horse, “I’m going commando.”  

(Touché.)

(Bible Selections:)

Isaiah 11:1-6

1 And there shall come forth a rod out of the stem of Jesse,

and a Branch shall grow out of his roots:

2 and the spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him,

the spirit of wisdom and understanding,

the spirit of counsel and might,

the spirit of knowledge and of the fear of the Lord;

3 and shall make him of quick understanding in the fear of the Lord:

and he shall not judge after the sight of his eyes,

neither reprove after the hearing of his ears:

4 but with righteousness shall he judge the poor,

and reprove with equity for the meek of the earth:

and he shall smite the earth with the rod of his mouth,

and with the breath of his lips shall he slay the wicked.

5 And righteousness shall be the girdle of his loins,

and faithfulness the girdle of his reins.

6 The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb,

and the leopard shall lie down with the kid;

and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together;

and a little child shall lead them.

Revelation 6:12-17

12 And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and, lo, there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood; 13 and the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind. 14 And the heaven departed as a scroll when it is rolled together; and every mountain and island were moved out of their places. 15 And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains; 16 and said to the mountains and rocks, Fall on us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb: 17 for the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?

7/26/18

A Creative Writing Short Story!

Title: “My Name is… (uh oh.)”

Alternate Title:  “The Last Man Standing”

The Battle Cry of the Mothership’s Last Stand:  “…The Last Man Standing.”

“Who are you?” They scream at me, mobbed around me as I sit silently and bewildered in my seat at the lecture hall classroom on the 2009 Ursinus College campus.  “Tell us, admit that you’re the antichrist and we’ll let you go!  Tell us your name!”  They snarl at me.  These rabid chimpanzees are truly ready to tear my face off and gouge out my eyes.  I reply with the wry sarcasm hidden in deadpan humor, and my secretive smile goes Unseen as I reply, “My name is Kunta Kinte.”  The nearest brute of the angry mob slaps me across the face, with the full force of a football player’s strength, and asks me again, but the scathing review of anguish seething through my duly embittered retort is not lost on the Professor.  “What did you say,” he snidely snaps back at me, “this is not ‘Roots,’ and you are going to admit who you are!  Snap out of it and answer me!”  

“Oh great,” I think to myself, this is like the chief priests and Pharisees all over again.  Before I know it, three hours have somehow passed, and I am being dragged along the floor by a dog leash, attached to a spiked dog collar that has been superglued around my neck.  My wrists are tied together, I think my hands might have been amputated, but I cannot see through the black bandana tied over my (gouged out) eyes, and I cannot feel my (sawed off) legs.  They are dragging me down the hallway screaming and singing, “Burn the witch!  Burn the witch!”  One of them, in a mockingly southern and feigned hillbilly accent, says, “We gonna have us a lynching!”  Before I know it I am lying face down in the modern art fountain in front of Thomas Hall.  I still don’t know why they wouldn’t just believe me when I said that I was the Holy Ghost, and that my strange powers, as I sat there glowing with the light of a halo, come most purely, from true and unadulterated love.  “God!  What else could it ever possibly be?”  It had all seemed so glaringly obvious to me.

Years later, in an intermediate level ballet class at Bryn Mawr College, the former soloist of a teacher keeps calling me “Heather.”  Somehow, I cannot bring myself to correct her, as to be honest, I really just like that name.  I know that she knows damn well that my name is Tyler, because this is not the first time I’ve taken her class.  Fit to be tied, this Tye of my actual nickname, somehow finds its way into the ankle laces of my Grishko 2007 pointe shoes, as I suit up to make my way into the evening advanced-level ballet course with the former Bolshoi dancer, to complete a make-up class.  I ease back into these tamed toes with great facility after 12 years of childhood training.  Wearing my first ballet slippers at age 3, and my first pointe shoes around 11 or 12, the muscle memory stored away from my last dance was saved like the day for this date with Cinderella.  Glassy and glazed over, the unmistakable PTSD 1000-yard-stare of this surveyor settles upon the Eye of the Tiger as she balances with an uncanny immovability, her ears pricked up in an alert obeisance to the heeding of her glass heart.  “A Freudian slip”, she muses to herself silently, of the unintended utterance of an embarrassing truth spoken by her instructor, as the entire studio at Pembroke Hall is immersed in this most otherworldly, damp and panting outpouring, of the Holy Ghost’s agápē.

“No, I’m not just taking ballet,” My Spirit sashaying in stillness sings back with the Voice of her soft soubrette, answering to this ceaseless barrage of questions still being posed, as a result of this slave girl’s improperly imposed, and unto death righteously refuted, sobriquet.  

The aftermath of the wreckage wreaked upon this polymath at the Seven Sisters College has me transferring my credits back to Ursinus.  I had been missing merely a semester’s worth of classes when I went on a medical leave my senior year at at Ursinus, never to return.  I forsake my hopes of the Ivy League prestige of a Bryn Mawr Mawrtyr’s ego-boost of a degree, and transfer my slew of neuroscience, psychology, and ballet class credits back to Ursinus.  I have now graduated with a (a Lamb’s baa!) B.S., Bachelor of Science Degree, majoring in Psychology, and with honors to boot, in being awarded the distinction of Magna Cum Laude.  

“Oh really,  you that think less then an A is even within my range of ability?  I’m a freaking genius you inferior hack!  Check my IQ, because it’s been tested on more than one occasion!”  I think silently to myself, glowering with the seething rage of a robin-red-breast locked inside a cage.  Feathering out along the enviably busty lines of my Heathery halcyon’s grey-hooded harbinger, I dust all the fuss off the red soles of my Christian feet, and with these Achilles heels perched pliantly upon a holy white dove’s infinite stance, nestled within the boxed-in tippy-toes of my satin-clad sawed-off shotgun feet, I call upon the grace of my God with all the brazen bravado of a graciously grave gravitas.  He swoops in like the chariot of fire to this lowly Spirit of Elijah, to return indeed upon the low blow of a swing below the belt of my cherished chastity.  

Deep within the sweetheart neckline gently cradling my Cross, and also my silver Tiffany & Co. tao crucifix, His belted out ballad of crooning Cupid’s arrows are unleashed like asteroids, and set like my timepiece to to the tune of an old southern hymn.  My God and my Christ and I, Together as a Triune One, sing alongside the song of the Holy Spirit’s heart within this enclave of a Godhead’s strong lead.  

Decisive in victory and with an illustrious war record to spin like the score, sounding off from a vintage vinyl into a pristine pirouette, the dance flows like my period into eternity with these soulful new lyrics.  

Sliding into Home Base like a Stone out of David’s slingshot, she leans into the hellfire with a legendary league’s own balletic split.  “Bring Hell,” He had whispered, amidst this second wind up-draft of a new recruitment tactic and a most ingeniously repurposed holy innovation.  Out of the blue and out of thin air, she appears, wielding the Word of the Messiah and leading against an enemy alien army’s onslaught her most terrifying battle-cat’s array of newly-requisitioned reinforcements.  Commanded by God and commandeering the scorching and blistering depths of Hell, she sets forth with a new fleet of hellish recruits, to win, in a harrowing hurricane, Heaven’s Own victory.   As if sent by a spectacular strobe light, splintering cells in truly out of left field, all of a sudden a chorus of alien angels chant along with the rocketing chorus-line-of-fire as we pull up to a 1st place prize in this battle of the last-man-standing. The Holy Trinity’s Own triumph is emblazoned like an branded emblem and etched in stone as if of Moses, and by this coup de grâce of a sign from Heaven, the rainbow covenant of Noah reigns in from above.  With a spot-on bullseye, this sharpshooter Ace succeeds, and secures down the entire aerial area like Ariel with a single leap of faith, ever so lightly landed, with the sustained levitation achieved only by the one true God Almighty.  “Swing away,” quoth the Raven.  “Swing away.”

(Whew!)

(Bible Selections:)

Revelation 12:1; 7-12; 16-17

12 And there appeared a great wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars: 

7 And there was war in heaven: Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; and the dragon fought and his angels, 8 and prevailed not; neither was their place found any more in heaven. 9 And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him. 10 And I heard a loud voice saying in heaven, Now is come salvation, and strength, and the kingdom of our God, and the power of his Christ: for the accuser of our brethren is cast down, which accused them before our God day and night. 11 And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony; and they loved not their lives unto the death. 12 Therefore rejoice, ye heavens, and ye that dwell in them. Woe to the inhabiters of the earth and of the sea! for the devil is come down unto you, having great wrath, because he knoweth that he hath but a short time.

16 And the earth helped the woman, and the earth opened her mouth, and swallowed up the flood which the dragon cast out of his mouth. 17 And the dragon was wroth with the woman, and went to make war with the remnant of her seed, which keep the commandments of God, and have the testimony of Jesus Christ.

2 Kings 2:1-2; 9-11

2 And it came to pass, when the Lord would take up Elijah into heaven by a whirlwind, that Elijah went with Elisha from Gilgal. 2 And Elijah said unto Elisha, Tarry here, I pray thee; for the Lord hath sent me to Beth-el. And Elisha said unto him, As the Lord liveth, and as thy soul liveth, I will not leave thee. So they went down to Beth-el.

9 And it came to pass, when they were gone over, that Elijah said unto Elisha, Ask what I shall do for thee, before I be taken away from thee. And Elisha said, I pray thee, let a double portion of thy spirit be upon me. 10 And he said, Thou hast asked a hard thing: nevertheless, if thou see me when I am taken from thee, it shall be so unto thee; but if not, it shall not be so. 11 And it came to pass, as they still went on, and talked, that, behold, there appeared a chariot of fire, and horses of fire, and parted them both asunder; and Elijah went up by a whirlwind into heaven.

1 Kings 17:1-6

17 And Elijah the Tishbite, who was of the inhabitants of Gilead, said unto Ahab, As the Lord God of Israel liveth, before whom I stand, there shall not be dew nor rain these years, but according to my word. 2 And the word of the Lord came unto him, saying, 3 Get thee hence, and turn thee eastward, and hide thyself by the brook Cherith, that is before Jordan. 4 And it shall be, that thou shalt drink of the brook; and I have commanded the ravens to feed thee there. 5 So he went and did according unto the word of the Lord: for he went and dwelt by the brook Cherith, that is before Jordan. 6 And the ravens brought him bread and flesh in the morning, and bread and flesh in the evening; and he drank of the brook.

Isaiah 40:1-3; 6, 9-10

Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God.

2 Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her,

that her warfare is accomplished,

that her iniquity is pardoned:

for she hath received of the Lord’s hand double for all her sins.

3 The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness,

Prepare ye the way of the Lord,

make straight in the desert a highway for our God.

6 The voice said, Cry.

And he said, What shall I cry?

All flesh is grass,

and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field:

9 O Zion, that bringest good tidings,

get thee up into the high mountain;

O Jerusalem, that bringest good tidings,

lift up thy voice with strength;

lift it up, be not afraid;

say unto the cities of Judah, Behold your God!

10 Behold, the Lord God will come with strong hand,

and his arm shall rule for him:

behold, his reward is with him, and his work before him.

7/28/18

Title:  “The Woman Who was a Heart”

(Intro)

“Spirit, I command you, the power of Christ compels you!  Release this woman at once!  What do you want with this woman?”

“I cannot unhand this woman and you cannot compel me, for I am the Holy Spirit of Christ!  And, as for what I want with this woman?  Well, she’s a fast typer with an extensive, sophisticated vocabulary, and I have a new Testament to record.  Also, she has a good eye, and I require the fine motor skills and natural talent of a born artist to accomplish my will.  I wish to have my written Word conveyed alongside new artwork, and to send forth a Book of Scripture complete with illustrations.  I will to have her prophesy, by text, and by art.”

…And that is how to perform an unsuccessful exorcism!

“The Woman Who was a Heart”

The evil spirits inherent in that antagonist and false prophet Chad’s blasphemous commands overwhelm her, and her tender open heart is filled with the aching pain of an unholy barrage of psychic and psychological harassment.  The ungodly insult of “antichrist” sends a shooting pain down her Christly left side, and an insult against her womanhood and chastity boils  with wrath in the congealed blood of a hemorrhage down her Fatherly right side.  

She starts breathing like an asthmatic gargling jello at the beginning of an incoming attack of verbal assault, of those abusive insults of antagonizing, slanderous blasphemy.  Tears stream silently down her face as she gently tries to conceal her anguish, but despite all her best efforts to gently repress and subdue the painful effects of the offensive barrage, she soon starts twitching, with spasms of blatantly obvious and overtly apparent, violently visceral pain.  As the verbal assault progresses and continues, she contorts and convulses as if being strangled and suffocated, and she can soon breathe only with very audible and unavoidably noticeable effort.  She breathes so forcefully like this so that she can hopefully clear the obstruction and exhale the insult and infestation of those wrongly-inflicted evil spirits from the open chamber of her infinite heart.  This injury done to her is truly the effect of human free will turned down the path of evil and temptation, designed in the darkness of deceit by malicious human sinfulness.  

With just one attacker, she may loosen the clot of boiled blood from her head with her quick and forceful breathing, and thus expel and eject the blackened spirit, injected by another’s evil intention.  She can heal and cleanse any spirit from an exorcism performed within this perfect heart, this burning crucible of a truly Holy Spirit. However, when the attack of slanderous blasphemy is perpetrated by upwards of twenty or so evildoers and voices of insult, her heart is instantly flooded, as she becomes clogged up and overwhelmed into a bottlenecking of excruciating and intense pain, as if her head is suddenly filled with burning hot coals.  She is filled and affronted to such an extent that she simply cannot empty herself of all the evil spirits of those treacherous, treasonous, and terrorizing insults, incited in a heretical apostasy of hateful, envious vengeance, to be exacted against her soul and against YHWH God.  

As her heart is congested and congealed beyond her ability to control and clear out with an effortful exhale, she is literally and physically knocked down onto the floor from the effect.  She convulses helplessly as if she is having some sort of seizure, appearing almost to be electrocuted and incapacitated by the prolonged shocking of a taser gun’s electrodes, she is trapped and stuck in writhing pain and seemingly endless and unescapable torment.  At that moment, all that she can do is just cry, and pray, and suffer through it, as she simply cannot escape from the truly torturous agony caused by all the barbs of those evil intention aimed at her at once.  That horrendous insult, indeed the very name of her own mortal enemy the “antichrist,” is constantly hurled upon her Gospel-red and defenselessly open breast, ironically incited at the behest of that real antichrist Chad’s own fraudulent shepherd-ship.  Chad is a hireling shepherd of a malefactor, aimed at mis-leading the masses with malicious, harmful, and unchristian instruction, against God and against Christ, unto the condemnation of the very souls of his own purported flock.  

This woman, ill-named with a red herring effrontery imposed like a Shakespearean “rose by any other name,” of a (somehow still alive) Holy Ghost, is truly alive only in Spirit.  She has indeed already survived her own death, by clinging steadfastly, with all her strength of dogged courage and saintly perseverance, to the Eye of God in her heart and soul at the time of her death, persecution, and martyrdom.  Her Spirit manifests as an angelic lioness in accord with her lionhearted courage in the midst of agonizing hellfire, and as she had clung so tenaciously to God in her heart, prying open the Eye and emerging into the seed of her own soul, to abide there in silence and stillness and with perfect precision as she was slain like a lamb, her Heart still lives on, as it indeed will, eternally, with God for evermore.  

“Maugham Knows Best”

The path to enlightenment (and to God) is indeed painful, which is why it is known as what is also the title of her favorite book, “The Razor’s Edge.”

“To be still and listen, to be still and and to abide,” may sound easy enough, but when drenched in gasoline and bleeding out from the spliced-open arteries of severed limbs, to abide in God and in love and in spiritual meditative stillness and perfect innocence while undergoing torture, and eventually, to abide by God in loving stillness during an agonizing trip through Hell before finally ascending unto Heaven, is truly, not so easy.  To simply “be still and listen,” to abide with patience and wait attentively upon God, while in the midst of a scorching hellfire, of hot coals inflicting seething pain, is indeed the most difficult feat that one could ever hope to achieve.  

“She is My Heart”

All that is left of me, is my tenderly open heart, and so my earthly body is merely just a physical manifestation of my Sacred and Immaculate Heart.  I am just one big, living and breathing, beaten and bleeding, heart of God.  I am like an exposed nerve and an eternal artery, vein, vessel, valve, and waterway of the living water, pumping the iron rod and razor-sharp Word with God’s steel grip, forged as adamantly true as Triune titanium.  I suffer any emotional offense in my physical body, because all of my body, all that is left of me, all that I am, is just a humanly-manifested, tender and pained, achingly Holy, Heart for God.

(Bible Selections:)

Matthew 13:24-30

24 Another parable put he forth unto them, saying, The kingdom of heaven is likened unto a man which sowed good seed in his field: 25 but while men slept, his enemy came and sowed tares among the wheat, and went his way. 26 But when the blade was sprung up, and brought forth fruit, then appeared the tares also. 27 So the servants of the householder came and said unto him, Sir, didst not thou sow good seed in thy field? from whence then hath it tares? 28 He said unto them, An enemy hath done this. The servants said unto him, Wilt thou then that we go and gather them up? 29 But he said, Nay; lest while ye gather up the tares, ye root up also the wheat with them. 30 Let both grow together until the harvest: and in the time of harvest I will say to the reapers, Gather ye together first the tares, and bind them in bundles to burn them: but gather the wheat into my barn.

John 10:1-15

10 Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that entereth not by the door into the sheepfold, but climbeth up some other way, the same is a thief and a robber. 2 But he that entereth in by the door is the shepherd of the sheep. 3 To him the porter openeth; and the sheep hear his voice: and he calleth his own sheep by name, and leadeth them out. 4 And when he putteth forth his own sheep, he goeth before them, and the sheep follow him: for they know his voice. 5 And a stranger will they not follow, but will flee from him: for they know not the voice of strangers.

6 This parable spake Jesus unto them: but they understood not what things they were which he spake unto them. 7 Then said Jesus unto them again, Verily, verily, I say unto you, I am the door of the sheep. 8 All that ever came before me are thieves and robbers: but the sheep did not hear them. 9 I am the door: by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture. 10 The thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly. 11 I am the good shepherd: the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep. 12 But he that is an hireling, and not the shepherd, whose own the sheep are not, seeth the wolf coming, and leaveth the sheep, and fleeth: and the wolf catcheth them, and scattereth the sheep. 13 The hireling fleeth, because he is an hireling, and careth not for the sheep. 14 I am the good shepherd, and know my sheep, and am known of mine. 15 As the Father knoweth me, even so know I the Father: and I lay down my life for the sheep

Revelation 5:1-7

5 And I saw in the right hand of him that sat on the throne a book written within and on the backside, sealed with seven seals. 2 And I saw a strong angel proclaiming with a loud voice, Who is worthy to open the book, and to loose the seals thereof? 3 And no man in heaven, nor in earth, neither under the earth, was able to open the book, neither to look thereon. 4 And I wept much, because no man was found worthy to open and to read the book, neither to look thereon.

5 And one of the elders saith unto me, Weep not: behold, the Lion of the tribe of Juda, the Root of David, hath prevailed to open the book, and to loose the seven seals thereof. 6 And I beheld, and, lo, in the midst of the throne and of the four beasts, and in the midst of the elders, stood a Lamb as it had been slain, having seven horns and seven eyes, which are the seven Spirits of God sent forth into all the earth. 7 And he came and took the book out of the right hand of him that sat upon the throne. 

7/29/18

Title: The Greatest Love Story Ever Told

A Collection of Six Short Stories:

(A Myth-Busting Session: Fact of Fiction?)

1: The Greatest Love Story Ever Told

2: Initial Here…

3: Talking in Tongues

4: Stigmata

5: A Seer

6: Feeding like a Vampire on Holy Communion

“The Greatest Love Story Ever Told”

A jolt of electricity sends me reeling in a shock wave back into the pineal gland captain’s seat of my soul.  Newly strapped-in to this helicopter Father’s Eye of the heart, eternal etchings appear in this spacecraft’s little-black-box of my co-signed and co-piloted brain-box.  I instantly perceive a light of hope at the end of my tunnel-vision, fine-tuned with the pinpoint-pupil-precision accuracy of a laser beam to locate the detail-oriented allocutions of my Lord, Leader, and Shepherd.  I hear my God calling to me, and I follow after with a surefooted faith and uncanny obedience that is truly imbued by the Lord.  I hear Him crying out to me from Hell, and I go; I leap in to find Him with all the chivalry and heroism of a romance novel.  I retrieve God’s soul from Hell, in this greatest love story ever told. 

He says to me, in His unmistakable velvety and Fatherly baritone voice, punctuated by the nasal tenor of an interjection by Christ Jesus the Son…

…Oh never mind, who cares about all that.  But anyway, here’s some neat stuff that I wrote.

“Initial Here…” (Prophesy This!)

The Tetragrammaton YHWH has some very practical origins in the reverence of the holiness of God.  So Holy is His name that the sinful lips of man ought not to speak it aloud, thus the abbreviation of Yahweh with YHWH (to be spoken as “the Lord” and not as His name, “Yahweh”).  If Adonai, that is to say, the Lord, God, does not call you out by name, as He did Moses and Samuel and other of His prophets, it may be “safe to say” that you and YHWH (the Lord God) are not yet on a first-name-basis.  When Yahweh calls you to Him, you will hear it, in your native tongue.

“Talking in Tongues”

One subject that really grinds my gears is the (typically southern) practice of speaking in tongues, after the fashion of the Apostles at Pentecost.  Saint Paul was to have made this clear, that talking in tongues only occurs for the purposes of the edification of, and an enrichment in the understanding of, the Word of God.  When speaking in tongues occurs as the work of the Lord or the Holy Ghost, a real and accepted language is spoken that the speaker has no reason to know, nor has ever actually learned, simply so that a native speaker of that language stationed nearby, may hear the Word of the Lord in terms understandable to him.  The Holy Ghost may give you the gift of speaking in Italian so that an Italian nearby can understand you as you preach, even though you yourself do not actually know Italian.  Any practices of talking in tongues, in which words sound like gibberish, or utterances are made that cannot be interpreted nor understood by any nearby interpreter as an actual and valid, accepted spoken language, are fraudulent claims and practices that are not the works of nor approved of by God.

“Stigmata”

If you suddenly have visible and painful nails magically appearing in your hands or feet, accompanying great Passion as that of Christ, you may actually have stigmata.  Holes made by human hands will look like human and manmade wounds, and will heal over time like human and manmade wounds.  When comparing a real instance of the stigmata with a fraudulent claim, the difference between a mere self-inflicted work of man, and a perhaps strangely ephemeral, magically appearing only then to instantly disappear and be healed over, work of God, there will be no question as to the veracity if the claim.  A stigmatic that indeed also bears even the actual heads of the metal nails, as did the impassioned Stigmatic Saint Francis of Assisi, will be instantly recognizable as real, and as distinct from any fraudulent claim as the day is from night.  Any truthful claim of a miracle or the stigmata, is unmistakably supernatural and beyond any shadow of a doubting Saint Thomas.

“A Seer”

I have synesthesia.  I have spatial sequence synesthesia and number form synesthesia, and so there is an abnormality in the way that my brain processes numbers, proportions, and spatial information.  This difference in spatial and numerical processing places me at an advantage, as my visuospatial, or spatial-temporal reasoning skills, actually score, by professionally-administered testing (IQ, etc.), in the very highest percentile, which is a statistical anomaly because that typically never occurs in women.  Mozart, in fact, a true musical prodigy, was said to have had a type of synesthesia such that he could see auditory sounds as represented by visual color.  And so it’s true, that the way that I can see verbal thoughts visually in my mind, as pictures instead of words, and the way that I can also send out and receive messages in the form of dreams and visions… well, this strange peculiarity in the way that my brain works, which anomaly occurs in me to an uncanny extent, might have some predestined and prophetically-intended usefulness for God’s Own purposes.

“Feeding like a Vampire on Holy Communion” (A Wine Tasting of Translations)

I can taste words.  I sample the fine fare arrayed of various texts and translations of the holy Scripture and the Word of God with all the gustatory gusto and spiritual satisfaction savored by the partaking in any epicurean delight.  When it comes to the Voice of my God as sent out through these Bible verses by the Holy Spirit, I feel like a vampire beholding the Cup of Holy Communion containing the blood of our Christ.  I long for, and yearn for, and ache for this Communion and heart-to-heart held within our enkindled and enjoined souls.  I am ever-filled by my God and yet my Spirit is ever-unquenched, as He nourishes me with an endless eternity of His awesome and infinite power and the only force which I ever truly need and desire, His Own personalized message of love.  

Sent like an echo of an Apostle through this soul-sustaining manna of angels, this bread of life that is each and every Word proceeding from the mouth of God, lands upon my soul to lift me up to the Light of my Savior to be held like my breath in Our united state of salvation, at home at last, in each Other’s arms.  I lift up the wings of my heart like a little white dove, and in beholding only the small soft voice of a narrow space above the nest, I trust upon the Unseen, truly now Seen through the Eye of my mind, as I wait upon that wafer that is the heavenly face of my Heavenly Father, swooping in from the sky above to feed and nurture this newborn nest of His tiny and tender heartstrings, two Triune twin hatchlings, the Son and the Spirit, the daughter and the Son.  

Each of these different richly textural Bible translations has a truly different taste, flavor, and appeal.  I sample, and test, and try out each different version to discover new hidden depths and to uncover succulent, sweet, and tantalizing secret dimensions to this marvelous multifaceted complexity of the salt of the Earth, and I truly savor my Savior from all sides and perspectives.

I have fixed the sights of my refined English-American palate upon the unparalleled spiritual uplift conveyed by a translator holding his tongue perfectly betwixt the soaring heart of the Holy Spirit.  Poised and praiseworthy in this otherworldly antiquity of an archaic and arcane Old English dialect, the 1611 Authorized King James Version seems to magically transport my Spirit as the reader unto a magical realm of God, and love, and the biblical Shakespearean romance beheld of a Bible’s finest rendition.  Within this enchanted respite of an old world made new, my heart absorbs this music of the Messiah from a holy immersion within the waters of Life.  

With all the sweetness contained by of a golden-hearted goblet of glistening ruby-red and blue-blooded Son-kissed Paschal fruit, this Covenant of the New Testament that was forbidden of old, by the faith of new obedience has now been revealed as Life, a life made in love and by love, for Life anew.  This fruit, begotten from the root of Jesse and of charity to be reborn eternal from this tree of Life, is only ever to be permeated, partaken of, and in this fullness of time in God’s glory, permitted.

(Bible Passages:)

John 11:24-27

24 Martha saith unto him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day. 25 Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: 26 and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this? 27 She saith unto him, Yea, Lord: I believe that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world.

1 Samuel 3:1; 4-11

3 And the child Samuel ministered unto the Lord before Eli. And the word of the Lord was precious in those days; there was no open vision. 

4 that the Lord called Samuel: and he answered, Here am I. 5 And he ran unto Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou calledst me. And he said, I called not; lie down again. And he went and lay down. 6 And the Lord called yet again, Samuel. And Samuel arose and went to Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou didst call me. And he answered, I called not, my son; lie down again. 7  Now Samuel did not yet know the Lord, neither was the word of the Lord yet revealed unto him. 8 And the Lord called Samuel again the third time. And he arose and went to Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou didst call me. And Eli perceived that the Lord had called the child. 9 Therefore Eli said unto Samuel, Go, lie down: and it shall be, if he call thee, that thou shalt say, Speak, Lord; for thy servant heareth. So Samuel went and lay down in his place. 10 And the Lord came, and stood, and called as at other times, Samuel, Samuel. Then Samuel answered, Speak; for thy servant heareth.

11 And the Lord said to Samuel, Behold, I will do a thing in Israel, at which both the ears of every one that heareth it shall tingle.

Acts 2:1-8; 16-21

2 And when the day of Pentecost was fully come, they were all with one accord in one place. 2 And suddenly there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting. 3 And there appeared unto them cloven tongues like as of fire, and it sat upon each of them. 4 And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost, and began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance.

5 And there were dwelling at Jerusalem Jews, devout men, out of every nation under heaven. 6 Now when this was noised abroad, the multitude came together, and were confounded, because that every man heard them speak in his own language. 7 And they were all amazed and marvelled, saying one to another, Behold, are not all these which speak Galilæans? 8 And how hear we every man in our own tongue, wherein we were born? 

16 But this is that which was spoken by the prophet Joel; 17 And it shall come to pass in the last days, saith God, I will pour out of my Spirit upon all flesh: and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams: 18 and on my servants and on my handmaidens I will pour out in those days of my Spirit; and they shall prophesy: 19 and I will shew wonders in heaven above, and signs in the earth beneath; blood, and fire, and vapour of smoke: 20 the sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood, before that great and notable day of the Lord come: 21 and it shall come to pass, that whosoever shall call on the name of the Lord shall be saved.

1 Corinthians 14:2-4; 9; 11; 14; 26-28

2 For he that speaketh in an unknown tongue speaketh not unto men, but unto God: for no man understandeth him; howbeit in the spirit he speaketh mysteries. 3 But he that prophesieth speaketh unto men to edification, and exhortation, and comfort. 4 He that speaketh in an unknown tongue edifieth himself; but he that prophesieth edifieth the church. 

9 So likewise ye, except ye utter by the tongue words easy to be understood, how shall it be known what is spoken? for ye shall speak into the air. 

11 Therefore if I know not the meaning of the voice, I shall be unto him that speaketh a barbarian, and he that speaketh shall be a barbarian unto me. 

14 For if I pray in an unknown tongue, my spirit prayeth but my understanding is unfruitful.

26 How is it then, brethren? when ye come together, every one of you hath a psalm, hath a doctrine, hath a tongue, hath a revelation, hath an interpretation. Let all things be done unto edifying. 27 If any man speak in an unknown tongue, let it be by two, or at the most by three, and that by course; and let one interpret. 28 But if there be no interpreter, let him keep silence in the church; and let him speak to himself, and to God. 

7/31/18

My Little Stories:

(BTW, Fact:  They’re All True!)

Title:  “Casper the Friendly Holy Ghost and Her Unfinished Business…”

(Warning: This one is rated “R”)

1: A Gripe About Translations 

2: Earning My Red Wings

3: Mothership

4: Siamese Twin

5: Skywalker Stalker

6: Pinned: A Safety School at Best

7: Mum’s the Word?

8: Spell It: What Does It Mean.

Clearing the Air…

“A Gripe About Translations”

Truth be told, I don’t actually read the King James Version of the Bible because I was brought up as a Protestant—in fact, the version I got when I was confirmed at Bryn Mawr Presbyterian Church as an eighth-grader was the New Revised Standard Version.  When I developed an interest in taking my faith further and studying that unused Bible, I googled all the different versions and translations to carefully compare and reflect upon the quality of the different texts.  Based solely upon the way my heart felt when reading the different translations (biblegateway.com allows for easy comparisons across the different versions), I settled, quite decidedly in fact, upon the admittedly rather old fashioned AKJV version.  It is just the rendition that sticks the closest to my own heart and my Holy Spirit when I read it, as I read it not merely to know it, and to “understand” the words in my own language, but also to truly savor the holiness and love conveyed through each richly rendered literary working of the Word’s words.  I take in, absorb, and enjoy each and every heavenly little piece of the Bread of Life and perfectly in-tune turn of phrase, translated with adoration imbued only to bestow, as charity, Christ’s Own affection to the reader, in that special and ineffable way (it must possess a certain “je ne sais quois”) that only a divinely inspired revelation of God ever could.  

When I was given a Catholic Bible in RCIA class at St. Thomas of Villanova, I actually requested to have the adult version instead.  “Uh, I’m not a beginner with the Bible, and I really don’t need the children’s version!”  (How embarrassing.)  The best I can make out is that they use this version to spoon-feed scripture to the illiterate and uneducated masses, as if we were somehow so dumb that we wouldn’t be able to understand the Word of God!  No one will ever “understand” it without that gift of the Holy Spirit, and along with that gift, the ability to read and hear and intuit the meaning of God’s greatest Text, would most obviously be His will for anyone.  

Comparing the New American Bible (Revised Edition) with just about any other version will reveal its weakness and shortfalls as a clumsy and inferior reworking of the original Hebrew and Greek Good Word of the Gospel.  To read the version offered on the USCCB.org website is like receiving a plate of gruel or boiled rice as a day’s sustenance.  The 1611 King James Version, on the other hand, is like having the finest gourmet cuisine of imported Russian beluga caviar and expensive French champagne as our “Holy Communion,” which is, in effect, just this ongoing “conversation with and communing over” the Word of God in our daily living.

“Earning My Red Wings”

Even a retarded dog (ahem!) chained up in a basement with a muzzle over her mouth could spot the difference between the quality of translations here, and I think it’s pretty disrespectful towards the retarded and illiterate masses to think that as Catholics we are so dumb that we couldn’t understand an adult version of the Bible, where it’s not dumbed-down to the point where it entirely misses the point and loses all the love and holiness of spirit and depth of meaning, of the message of God and His presence here with us now, which “heartfelt understanding” was the whole point of reading it in the first place!  

I don’t much care about the surface-level correctness of grammar if the deeper meaning and ultimate message of the Messiah is so stale and tasteless and devoid of heart and meaning that not even a hot fondue pot could salvage that scrap.  It’s like the offense of Marie Antoinette’s suggestion of eating caked-on oven crumbs, leftovers from off the floor for the dog of the Canaanite woman, and even taken perhaps as an acquired taste, even over time, it’s still just rubbish.  Put it in the trash with Chad’s claim upon my journals, still kept, safe and sound and sitting on the table right in front of me, which he stole and entitled the “Book of Life.”  And you know what?  If I hadn’t been muzzled and gagged, I would have accused all you sorry sons of bitches, (because I’m just a retarded dog right?), of rape, perjury, bearing false witness and lying under oath, corruption, giving and taking bribes, human rights violations, assault, terrorism, slander, and treason.  God has a Kingdom, and you are exiled.  

“Mothership”

This seafaring vessel has ovaries, and not seamen, so…

Eat me!  And just for your information, it’s that time of the month and I have my period, so you can enjoy the both Eucharist and the Communion Cup with one fell swoop.  

“Siamese Twin”

Siamese cats have dark points as a result of sort of like a melanin sensitivity to temperature that affects the pigmentation of the fur.  Some strange “Siamese Twin” species of space cat might turn black if it’s really cold, and white if she’s…

Well… she’s really hot.  Those tits start traffic jams and give any onlooker to this Tomb Raider Lara Croft look-alike (ahem), whiplash.  Like from pulling a warm fuzzy tufted white lioness’s tail, total whiplash.

“Skywalker Stalker”

A Five-Star General… is a rank that can only be granted during a war, and is a title, the General of the Army, that can only be held in times of war.  If there is not an active war going on, a Five-Star General can only hold the Five-Star rank honorarily.  In times of peace, a Five-Star rank, is really just an empty title, without any current meaning nor any actual current military effect.  For now, anyway.

-Btw, how’d you do in war?  

-I won.  Duh.  What, like it’s hard?  Lol!

“Pinned: A Safety School at Best”

And also, wtf is all this about Cabrini College?  I’ve never been there, and that place has nothing at all to do with me.  Back in 2004, as an 18-year old at Conestoga H.S., Cabrini College didn’t even make it onto my list of safety schools.  If you wanna know something, get it from the horse’s mouth, not from the mouths of the very people I accused of abusing me, lol!  (I still love you, though.)

“Mum’s the Word?”

Well, Bird’s the Word too, so I’ll flip it.🖕

If you can’t say it to my face, you oughtn’t to say it behind you back either, because I’ll have to assume that you’re lying.  

“Spell It: What Does It Mean.”

I know, because I’M THEÓSBAS:  

(Greek and Hebrew: Daughter of God.)

drop mike.  🎤

(Bible Selections:)

Matthew 12:46-50

46 While he yet talked to the people, behold, his mother and his brethren stood without, desiring to speak with him. 47 Then one said unto him, Behold, thy mother and thy brethren stand without, desiring to speak with thee. 48 But he answered and said unto him that told him, Who is my mother? and who are my brethren? 49 And he stretched forth his hand toward his disciples, and said, Behold my mother and my brethren! 50 For whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother, and sister, and mother.

Luke 14:26-35

26 If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple. 27 And whosoever doth not bear his cross, and come after me, cannot be my disciple. 28 For which of you, intending to build a tower, sitteth not down first, and counteth the cost, whether he have sufficient to finish it? 29 lest haply, after he hath laid the foundation, and is not able to finish it, all that behold it begin to mock him, 30 saying, This man began to build, and was not able to finish. 31 Or what king, going to make war against another king, sitteth not down first, and consulteth whether he be able with ten thousand to meet him that cometh against him with twenty thousand? 32 Or else, while the other is yet a great way off, he sendeth an ambassage, and desireth conditions of peace. 33 So likewise, whosoever he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple.

34 Salt is good: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be seasoned? 35 It is neither fit for the land, nor yet for the dunghill; but men cast it out. He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.

8/3/18

A Whirlwind of a Creative Writing Session:

“That Darn Cat!”

“The Undercover Agent”

“My Real Name”

“Danger’s My Middle Name”

“The Gladiator”

“The Sixth Sense”

“Pouring Salt on the Wound”

“Deathtrap: Projecting and Projectile”

“Prophesy like Jeremiah”

“Diagnosis: DID”

“Suicide Mission and Suicide Squad”

“Planet Earth: Hostile Territory”

“Repentance Becometh Mine Ecstasy”

(Intro)

They were told of the Book of Life, to “Find it!”

I was told of the Book of Life, to “Make it!”

(Kept Like a Doctor’s Appointment:)

When did you last pray?  “Right now.  It’s always right now, because I never stopped praying.”

When was your last flashback?  “It never stopped… it goes on even now.”  And that’s how to induce extreme dissociation.

“That Darn Cat!”

“Hell… hell…”  She grasps at her neck as if clutching to the dearness of life as she lies strangely motionless on the floor.  She is crying in now a perfect strangulation of stillness, save for the strange tapping of that nail, of her eerily long and spindly finger, against the bare hardwood floor.  It almost seems as if she is sending out some secret message to an Unseen Recipient, an S.O.S. encoded in a foreign signal system, perhaps using Morse Code.

“Hell…” she whimpers in a delicate and dreamy whisper.  As if staring off into a landscape down the street on a scorching summer day, down a winding hot black pavement road, the vision just beyond appears slightly obscured by this stained-glass of daunting glassy ripples, of the hotness of her rising steam.  She appears as if beyond such steam as I behold her in my sight.  Billowing in undulating and translucent threads of wispy and willowy whispers, this steamy visage of an angel, a heavenly translation of the Spirit, cries out to me from her silken scratch of scriptures, etched out in Mosaic stone from her feathery white lightening bolt of an unfathomable silvery fingertip.  “Hel…p.  Hel…p. Help!”  The words finally manifest themselves in all her intended finality.  “That Darn Cat!”  I can’t help but think to myself.  The humor isn’t lost on deaf ears, but somehow, it escapes mine.

“The Undercover Agent”

The incognito spy beneath my bedsheets ties together a loose knot in the cord of her string necklace, to fasten together the loop made around her neck.  A silver pendant that looks like a pocket watch dangles from the end.  This antique silver design was made ages ago to contain smelling salts, but it now instead clutches the tiny aromatherapy pads that she has carefully soaked with L’Occitane lavender relaxation oil.  As she opens the first hinge on her locket, the delicate scent wafts dreamily out from the grated opening, as like from a ceremonial censer, while the oil is still safely fastened within the inner chamber of the second compartment.  

The hinge on the secret compartment of her most telltale and thoughtfully-chosen ornamental timepiece pendant, draped to linger and abide like a pendulum just over her heart, is telling in its rusty and ruddy grip.  This glowing and golden-colored brass hinge, hidden beneath the locket’s silver lining, loosens up to the cloud of her soft aroma only as slowly as she is slow to warm, and correspondingly, even slower to anger.  My own silent rage smolders silently in this infinite chasm of her Matrix, Unseen and incubated like a clutch of ovarian eggs to be Our fruit of the Holy Spirit.  Soon to be unveiled, the Son is to be revealed like the sensational spectacle of a peacock’s tail-feathers, in a smoothly phantasmic display of red hot redemption, unwinding and uncoiling within this grille of the cavernous depths of her sultry stare.  

“My Real Name”

“Actually, that is my real name,” she confides to me airily, like the offhand and weightless, and yet truly weighty and deeply impactful comment, uttered of an absentminded professor in her natural, unacknowledged genius, and saintly, intentional self-forgetting.  She is worlds away and lost in her own deep space of whirling ideas, of what are, seemingly impossibly, even more important thoughts. 

“Danger’s My Middle Name”

My mother’s maiden name is Brown, and my dad’s is Cross, so she took his name when they married and she hyphenated them.  My mother, my sister, and I all received the last name “Brown-Cross.”  My mom is smart enough to just go by “Cross” at this point, and my sister has taken the new name of her husband.  My name?  It’s the name on my birth certificate and it’s the only one I’ve ever had!  Far-be-it from me to deign to change it!  Actually, my first name, it’s just Tyler.  And as for Anne?  Oh, well… that’s my middle name.”  Ringing in my ears like a rotating red siren, this woman in the red dress reverberates in my ears with all the intensity of a fire engine.  “Danger,” It seems to shriek, as if from the primal passion of a deeply held Cross within her soul, seen through the open window and closed door of her carefully painted, long-lashed and mascara-coated as if tarantula-legged, deep and stormy blue bedroom eyes.  She seems oblivious to this somehow attractively ravaged sight of her pained and painted face as she steamily seeps through her smeared make-up, dripping black with running mascara, from the tears pouring out of her eyes as she pours out her heart.  In this Vesper’s vigil of perfect stillness and synchronicity, with a holy singleness of Our sight and a predestined completeness of Our mission, We are achieved in a perfect Oneness of Our eternally enjoined, enkindled, and enlightened heart, and carefully, ominously, like the calm before the storm, We proceed to synchronize our watches. 

“The Gladiator”

“Here’s an inferno of hot coals, my dear.  Now, be a Lamb and have a seat.  Make yourself comfortable.  Be still and listen.  Abide with me.  Suffer, and yet still abide and obey with love.”

In a strange twist in the heat of humor, she passionately exclaims from her broken and stitched-up heart, of that streaky mess made from her attempt at mascara, “…And this is why I can’t wear nice things!”  The tears are still streaming.

Mistaking the Christ for the antichrist, well, I can share in the tragedy of that too.

We cherish our Crosses, no matter how weighty and ghastly, and gravely engraved as gravestones they may be.

“The Sixth Sense”

“I feel better now,” she says in that soft, childlike, little-girl-voice of hers, that she unconsciously assumes when she’s very deeply dissociated.  She has bawled her eyes out with tears and has written up a storm from utilizing her creative coping methods.  I am instantly reminded of the very similar ghost from the move “The Sixth Sense,” whose sick mother has Münchausen syndrome by proxy.  “No soup for you,” I retort sheepishly, in a halfhearted jest.  

“Pouring Salt on the Wound”

“No I’m not a stripper!  What? I’m not in porn!”  She is horrified and astounded by the offensiveness, perversion, and deep depravity of these unholy questions, mercilessly and unceasingly impaling her engorged and infected Sacred Heart like a lance or a sharp spear.  As she resists the urge to lash out and lash back, to answer in kind or return the insult with a jab of her own rebuttal, using her quick wit and sharp tongue, she instead turns the other cheek and suffers under the weight of that unspoken lash, as her heavy heart bears the weight of the world, as it seems to me, and like a slave she is beaten, with a whip.

“Deathtrap: Projecting and Projectile”

Her devious former therapist had posed some maliciously-intended misdeeds of her own.  “Don’t project your difficulties onto me!  I recovered from my eating disorder!  I don’t have eating issues or body issues.  I eat enough and I don’t throw up.”  She stormed out of the office of that head shrink, who felt nothing but jealousy towards this girl.  Good riddance to bad rubbish!  She brushes the dust off of her feet after exiting the office of a therapist who is sicker than the patient.

“Prophesy like Jeremiah”

Despite all the insults, the one that has brought her heart to this horrible state, as the prophet Jeremiah’s “wound that will not heal,” is that one little jab, that evil infestation of what they love to tell her, “God hates you.”  In a primal shrill yell, she screams in silence from unknowable depths of hellish pain.  “God loves you,” is all that she can muster, all that she can conjure and summon and invoke from within herself to say.  “God loves…”  Their torments never retreat, but just the same, this last defense of the Lord cannot surrender to that devil.  She stands, and she suffers.  She suffers in stoic statuesque stillness, “Oh, my heart!  …be still.”

“Diagnosis: DID”

In deep trance of dissociation, she calls out to Me, and I am so taken by her, so smitten with affection, and love, and the wholehearted infatuation of a secret Admirer, that for this little girl, just for this one little girl, I will oblige.  The dissociative identity disorder (DID) of this one, is not at all a disorder, but rather, an altered state of good orderly direction.  I Myself, and My Son, assume the alter egos and identities of her very orderly disorder, and thus this Christian God is made into the Godhead and Trinity, of One Person, Three-in-One.

“Suicide Mission and Suicide Squad”

She chokes up with tears and I choke up on her neck, and like a baseball bat inscribed with this one little Word, “Goodnight,” she is the suicide mission’s “Suicide Squad,” the Green Beret and sexy anti-assassin of my secret weapon, now fully loaded with holy ammunition for a soon-to-be Resurrected, infinite last stand.  In the midst of the fires of Hell, and taken in like a moth to the flame only to smooth over, and soothe, and temper, and comfort, and tame with temperance the wrath of the Lamb, with all the firmness of purpose and undying holiness of true, sacrificial love, she shall stand forever.

“Planet Earth: Hostile Territory”

“Alien invasion?  Please!  No one wants anything to do with you or your planet!  We all just assume that you wretched barbarians will wipe yourselves out and be your own demise.”  This interstellar lioness, a warrior after the fashion of the tribe of Judah, muses to herself of this wasted planet of great apes, these inferior chimpanzee children of you homo sapiens, “Everyone knows of you as the bastard children of Eve who crucified our Creator, and we consider the planet that you inhabit to be truly ‘hostile territory.’  No one in their right mind would come to this planet!  Sometimes I wish that I had just abandoned ship like I was instructed to back during the war, and left!  I could have just left to save myself, and let your whole race and your planet be destroyed and wiped out, from being smack-dab in the middle of the warpath of those alien machines!”  The Christ and your Messiah, who came here to save you, whom you see fit to call “the antichrist,” has right about now reached the end of the leash and the noose that you have affixed to her long, slender, white little Lamb’s neck.

“Repentance Becometh Mine Ecstasy”

In the heat of this spectral display of my blistering anguish, my heart speaks of its own accord from the depths of my damsel’s distress.  “Rescue me in Thy mercy, my Lord!”  My eyes bleed forth the Paschal blood of burning, salty, salt-of-the-Earth tears, but all that my tongue will speak is the wretchedness of my agony, as like the emptying of waste not from the mouth, but from the bottom-of-the-barrel vileness of these mortal and sinful human trenches.  Entreated and invited by the unspoken and ineffable clamoring and fluttering of a Morse Code, batted-up and out of this batter’s cage of a rib cage through my flailing and fluttering, never-to-be-forsaken and never-to-falter eyelids, these butterfly kisses imbue unto the embers of Hell the buttery salve of my Holy Spirit’s sacred sweetness, and the agápē of My Own greatest work, is known in relief.  

A pinch-hitter kisses the tip of her bat, and her black and blue, bruised and beaten, third Eye of the heart of God, slugs away at the slumber of her soul, awakening with a glorifying crack and a glittery “God wink” the last defense of the Lord, the holy ascension, assent, and “fiat of Mary.”  By the stripes of the lash, and this Christly willingness to suffer brutality, in offering up herself to be that desperately-needed volunteer of a willing participant and Paschal Passover Lamb, of an obedient and obliging acquiescing sacrifice for this feast of hungry Eyes, this eternal feat of God’s immortality is risen.  In a red-winged and red-breasted Phoenix of an overarching and amnesty-breathing Holy Ghost of an archangel, this undefeated, indefatigable and fiery femme fatale formerly known as Gabriel is revealed like a trumpet’s reveille to the tune of the Book of Revelation.  For God’s Own claim to victory and to Heaven’s throne, this throbbing and pulsating telltale heart squeaks under the oily and inky anointing of her creaky hinges, and the Koine Greek glistening set of luscious lips, hinging upon the opening of this gemstone’s garret of Heaven’s gate, gasps and sighs and gushes over with the relief born of its tidal wave’s Title, flooded with her baptismal font of God’s eternal Life.  She overshoots an undershot of an uppercut to tap in a Prizefighter’s TKO, and thus ushers in the very Top Man and top prize of Christ Jesus Himself.  Forever alive and at once enlivened in the haloed holiness and gravitational pull of the glory of God, the arms omnipotent of His persecuted Preeminence, prevaileth!

(Bible Selections:)

Jeremiah 14:17-22

17 Therefore thou shalt say this word unto them;

Let mine eyes run down with tears night and day,

and let them not cease:

for the virgin daughter of my people is broken with a great breach,

with a very grievous blow.

18 If I go forth into the field,

then behold the slain with the sword!

and if I enter into the city,

then behold them that are sick with famine!

yea, both the prophet and the priest go about into a land that they know not.

19 Hast thou utterly rejected Judah?

hath thy soul lothed Zion?

why hast thou smitten us, and there is no healing for us?

we looked for peace, and there is no good;

and for the time of healing, and behold trouble!

20 We acknowledge, O Lord, our wickedness,

and the iniquity of our fathers:

for we have sinned against thee.

21 Do not abhor us, for thy name’s sake,

do not disgrace the throne of thy glory:

remember, break not thy covenant with us.

22 Are there any among the vanities of the Gentiles that can cause rain?

or can the heavens give showers?

art not thou he, O Lord our God?

therefore we will wait upon thee:

for thou hast made all these things.

Jeremiah 15:10-21

10 Woe is me, my mother, that thou hast borne me a man of strife and a man of contention to the whole earth! I have neither lent on usury, nor men have lent to me on usury; yet every one of them doth curse me. 11 The Lord said, Verily it shall be well with thy remnant; verily I will cause the enemy to entreat thee well in the time of evil and in the time of affliction. 12 Shall iron break the northern iron and the steel? 13 Thy substance and thy treasures will I give to the spoil without price, and that for all thy sins, even in all thy borders. 14 And I will make thee to pass with thine enemies into a land which thou knowest not: for a fire is kindled in mine anger, which shall burn upon you.

15 O Lord, thou knowest:

remember me, and visit me,

and revenge me of my persecutors;

take me not away in thy longsuffering:

know that for thy sake I have suffered rebuke.

16 Thy words were found, and I did eat them;

and thy word was unto me the joy and rejoicing of mine heart:

for I am called by thy name, O Lord God of hosts.

17 I sat not in the assembly of the mockers, nor rejoiced;

I sat alone because of thy hand:

for thou hast filled me with indignation.

18 Why is my pain perpetual, and my wound incurable,

which refuseth to be healed?

wilt thou be altogether unto me as a liar,

and as waters that fail?

19 Therefore thus saith the Lord,

If thou return, then will I bring thee again,

and thou shalt stand before me:

and if thou take forth the precious from the vile,

thou shalt be as my mouth:

let them return unto thee; but return not thou unto them.

20 And I will make thee unto this people a fenced brasen wall:

and they shall fight against thee,

but they shall not prevail against thee:

for I am with thee to save thee and to deliver thee, saith the Lord.

21 And I will deliver thee out of the hand of the wicked,

and I will redeem thee out of the hand of the terrible.