This Post Wasn’t Meant To Be And Yet It Is

Last night, I listened to depressing music followed by the latest episode of Skins followed by more depressing music. I prefer depression these days, it seems. There’s probably some psychological term for people like me. And whatever it is, I’m sure it’s absolute bullshit. Not that I thrive on depression. Not at all. It’s the sense that I’m undeserving of an ounce of happiness. This morning, my physical body caught up to my emotional one. Something I did yesterday has caused me to remain prostrate in bed for most of the day.

I listened to each song carefully last night, writing down the ones that caught my attention the most. I’m compiling a list—I share it here along with a story or a review or whatever—to burn on a CD (who does that anymore?—Trust me, if I could, I’d be recording mixes on cassette tapes).

The other night, I started writing a letter. Ashton knows about it. I meant to share it on here, but it’s far from completion. Even my correspondence goes through drafts, apparently. So many thoughts traveling through my head. Sometimes I just want to meet someone who can just—I don’t know—balance me. That’s not so much to ask for, is it?


An Interview with God (A Rough Draft)

The person sitting in front of me—this person who is enjoying a luke-warm cup of Earl Grey (with a generous squirt of honey, but passing on the lemon wedge), while our barista sets down a marbled sliced of cheesecake—isn’t what I imagined. Though, I can’t say what I imagined. Or who, for that matter.

“Expecting a long, wisely old beard and a toga?” the person asks, reading my mind. It takes some getting used to, I admit. However, it isn’t very long before this person—what gender pronoun can I even use here?—continues, “Neither and both. Considering the consensus of the religiously”—air quotes—“astute in this country, you may call me him. But no capital ‘H.’ I hate that shit.”

After a sip of his tea, he adds, “Call me God, Logos, or Prometheus. Any name will do, actually. Given the opportunity, which I’ve had several times in the past, I’d call myself Lloyd. Can you imagine that, though? Going to church—if you went to church that is—and reciting, ‘All praise be to Lloyd, who all things obey?’”

Lloyd, God, Logos, Prometheus stands no taller than five-six in platform boots. His frame is feminine and thin, with slight muscular undertones which is visible beneath the skin-tight, long sleeve shirt he wears underneath a blazer. He is garbed in black with facial piercings, resembling a person who listens to the lyrical genius of Dani Filth than Amy Grant. He takes a ginger forkful of the marbled cheesecake in front of him, and makes a face when the taste registers on his tongue.

“The things you people put into your bodies,” he says taking a drink. “I’m sure Luci is going to get the rap for this one, as well.”

“Who?” I ask.

“As in Fer. Lucifer,” he laughs. “Satan. The Morning Star.”

“So he’s real, too?”

“Oh, you’d better believe he’s real, too.” He stink-eyes the cheesecake, makes a move for it, before retracting back into the lean of the sofa chair he occupies. “He’s not too bad,” he continues, “Satan. Gets a bad rap for what’s written in the second half of that book. He’s a pussy cat, really.”

“So original sin, Job, and all the end times?”

“I’ll give you Job, but he was only doing what I hired him for,” he answers. “When I found ol’ Luci, he was stuck in some middle management job over the Betelgeuse sector…” He pauses and looks me over, smirking. “Yes, Heaven is all encompassing the entire universe, not just the earth as some of you”—air quotes—“astute religious leaders believe. When I designed the big bang, I had this plan to spread out as far as possible and create as much as possible, but I couldn’t be everywhere—yeah, I said it—so I started up a franchise and hired a bunch of angels to do my bidding in the other sectors.”

“So is ours the center of the universe?”

“Of course, not. We’ll get there shortly, however,” he takes a drink of his Earl Grey and makes for the marbled cheesecake once again. After a grimace and forced swallow, he opines, “That’s me awful.” Continue reading “An Interview with God (A Rough Draft)”