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(Hed) Planet Earth (Jesus) of Nazareth
Once again I have been perusing the archives and this piece of literature from October 2013 was just crying out to be anointed. It’s bizarre looking back on something which was scribed at such a nebulous time in my existence and there has been much water under the bridge since I originally gave my sermon. However, the core structure of this piece remains the same. Even then, with hope often appearing futile, something kept my head above water. That something was you and, two years down the line, it remains you. It may appear sometimes as though I write for my own amusement and, admittedly, I like to tickle my own pickle when sculpting prose. But it would mean nothing if I wasn’t sharing it. For some time now, I haven’t had so much as a bowel movement without putting it out there in the public domain, and while I appreciate there is such a thing as a little too much information, I know you appreciate the sentiment. I trust S.E.R.M.O.N. will resonate in some way, however diminutive that may be, and should you be left feeling cast aside, then scroll to the foot of the page for some nuns in compromising positions. I never said I wasn’t something of a devil.
Sharing, Energizing, Redemption, Motivation, Opportunity, Nourishment
Do you go to church once a week or recite passages from the Old Testament every night before you slumber? Perhaps you kneel at the foot of your beds and pray to a divine being? Or maybe the whole concept of religion sickens you? A mere handful of weeks ago I sat forlorn in a place of monumental despair. It appeared as though all avenues were sealing before my eyes, my heart was in dire peril and it appeared it may literally burst in my chest through sheer despondency. However, when faced with my grim fate, something reeled me back in. This isn’t how it’s meant to play out; like the melancholic cyclops from Krull, my destiny has supposedly been scribed in stone way before my actual existence. I am not supposed to wither away like a hamster with wet-tail; when I expire it should be with a full heart and melancholy replaced with contentment. I have a duty and guess what? I adore such faith being placed in my work. As I plummeted to the pits of my own self-loathing; an epiphany transpired. Who wants to end their mortality at the bottom of a cavernous abyss? Not bloody likely; I wish to be lifted on the shoulder of angels and span around on the spot until I vomit through my nostrils. You lot are the cherubs I speak of, you helped me identify my quandary, and empowered me to lift myself out of this sorry slump. Such acts of kindness do not go uncompensated by Keeper.
While I don’t subscribe to one religion in particular, there is much to be said of the beautiful Pagan faith and no that has nothing to do with Britt Ekland grinding her growler against that varnished door frame and the excess wicker it afforded me. I have learned the peace that the Wiccan belief provides when practiced liberally and have found the self-resolution to enable me to recalculate my trajectory. Death actually doesn’t become me; not yet at least. It simply isn’t my time. I have been laid down at an elevated vantage point, nourished and revitalized by the actions of our extended family and, as a direct result, I’m positively buoyant. It’s a far cry from the dubious locale I found myself marooned at previously and I am blessed that so many people truly care about my life baggage. Anyhoots, I may not practise religion openly, but I do possess my own quiet and respectful faith. That has been reinstated now, thanks to you, and I give my solemn oath that I will not squander this opportunity. Praise be!
So you could say that I have been born again although my seventy-year old mother will be relieved to know that this hasn’t involved carrying me around in her womb for a further nine months. This time was far less gruelling and the only place I was required to vacate was the dark crawl space in which I had tucked myself away indefinitely. I am still in possession of 99 problems (a bitch ain’t one) and my personal turmoil is very much active, just as it was prior to my enlightenment. The notable difference now is that I no longer feel destitute. I don’t do what I do for monetary gain although it would admittedly be nice to put my hand in my pocket and not grasp only my testicles. I do this to reach out and, by doing so, I help others realize that our paths are strikingly similar. Whatever your faith should be, it’s ultimately about picking those cherries. Ladies collect them in your outstretched petticoats and, gentleman, stuff your pockets to capacity. Inhale all that light essence and exhale any wasteful surplus straight back out into the atmosphere. It is an intoxicating pastime; suddenly our fight returns and life doesn’t appear quite so desolate and unyielding.
Take it from Keeper, I had to recall every single episode of Sesame Street ever digested as an infant to maintain my smile; those garish pink hoops from Big Bird’s child-bearing hips south married with Snuffleupagus’ long lustrous lashes kept me in the game. You may well be averse to Jim Henson’s creations and, should that be the case, then I suggest using whatever works for you. If faced with indiscretion imagine your persecutor in a pair of polished clown-shoes if it helps you rise or, better yet, butt naked. Others’ negativity only infiltrates if we allow such, as a collective we are prepared for such eventualities and forewarned is, of course, forearmed. We’re truly fucking armed by banding together; who needs weapons of mass destruction when our minds can supply every one of the tools necessary for battle? By rising above bullshit our machetes are very much raised aloft. We don’t now have to cut our pelt to bleed, our purpose is life, each other, and making a difference unified.
The Grueheads are easily identifiable by the numerous causes we champion, the great pool of talent whose growth we encourage, and the fact that our natures need not be combative. And that shit feels good. I never could fathom the concept of learning without sharing. Why do folk hold on so tightly to any intelligence gained? Can we take it with is beyond our mortal shells? Negative, every single fact and figure hoarded dies with us. Mortality is fleeting and we can decide to wait until our death beds for the penny to finally drop or fast-track to the promised land and save ourselves the heartbreak. I would much prefer to let it out and fuel others’ fires rather than kindling my own wood alone. I never considered myself a leader but, if that should be my calling, then I would rather do so with integrity and purpose, forgiving trivial indiscretions and allowing hurtful words to deflect from the impenetrable armor our association provides me. This is how I have located my inner peace and the same reason why I’m not currently worm meal.
Now that I feel so energized and have learned through the tireless motivation of some of the most beautiful souls I have ever been exposed to, I can channel that into something inspirational to others. Like Swayze and Moore on their potter’s wheel, I sculpt words for your pleasure, and always with the sole intention of empowering you to fashion your own ceramics. That’s ultimately what it boils down to; it has never been about doing the hard work for others and leaving them none the wiser as to their own exclusive ability. It is about offering belief when theirs appears to be faltering and encouraging them back to that happy place where their judgement once again becomes sound. When our worlds seems to be against us; we have a tendency to capitulate which I’m assured just makes us human. But faith can work wonders if shared with supportive parties and the Grueheads represent one such aggregate. We need not be separated by color, sexuality, gender, or indeed religion. It matters not whether buddhist or atheist; only that we know how to unify and choose to do so.
There are arguments for every religion and a catalogue of candidates to choose from when selecting one’s deity. I have decided against weekly worship or constant recital of the holy scripture but I do get the general gist of what it’s driving at. Charity begins at home and it is imperative that we get our own houses in order before applying the scaffolding for others. It can seem rather clichéd suggesting that we must love ourselves before we can love another but, actually, there’s more than a grain of virtue in such a statement. I haven’t always led the best life possible and have bent many of the commandments en route to the place I find myself now. However, thanks largely to the power of many, I have found some kind of redemption. As I grow in stature, others will flourish around me, as that is the only way this shit works. I have no inkling as to whether I will be permitted beyond the pearly gates when my number is punched but I do know that I am finally sleeping restfully at night and that’s a step closer to utopia in my eyes.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Director’s Cut 2015)
There is one very good reason to consider a life of fellowship and that is nuns. I’m not speaking of mother superior, sat in the vestry soaking her bunions, I’m talking about the kind that lick gun barrels and reveal their lacy crotchless undergarments. Anyone reared on seventies exploitation cinema will know only too well of both the sisters and their acts. Thus, I have decided to continue God’s good work; offering further enlightenment as to their glorious gospel. To quote the scripture itself, “thy two breasts are like two young roses that are twins, which feed among the lilies”. I kid you not, the Song of Solomon includes some priceless lines and, later in that verse, goes on to speak of “juice squeezed from my pomegranates”. I feel justified in my decision to celebrate these women of the cloth and, if you take exception to my antics, then I propose you take it up with Solomon. For the rest of the congregation; please bow your heads. I don’t suppose I could trouble you for an amen?