The Eyes of God

Persistent, disinterested yet rapt, the eyes of God look on, look over, look through us to the other side of our lives.  And God is everywhere, before us and after us, omniscient and thus outside of time.  

So what is this life anyway, a maze made to order with movable walls, uncertain corridors, impatience, frustration and...?  Wait!  The maze is made to the measure of space and time and dimension.  We are the pink-eyed rodents that wander these hallways, somnambulists, zombies, automatons... 

This world is a three dimensional labyrinth siting on a four dimensional table in the multi-dimensional cottage where God lives, amidst the swamps of infinity, gardening a little, reading aloud from old, familiar books, and watching the soap operas that are our lives on the black and white TV.  Make no mistake, the television was not cheap.  In its day, the mahogany console was top of the line, big, and still occupies its corner of the room with weight, presence.  But the stories--playing out in grainy, high contrast with a constant hiss--seem almost inconsequential to the piece of furniture itself.  These are old flowers moldering in a beautifully crafted vase.  There is  nothing so hackneyed nor nothing so predictable as a human life.  And yet God does not nod off, not even after noon, after lunch,  God stays after the dialogue has gotten particularly stale, or the vertical hold has run amok.  With dedication God watches and watches and watches until...

Loss of picture.  Loss of sound.  

It appears that the antennae has been dislodged by the storm, or the tremor, or God's own recognition that this drivel is a slow toxin  that goes right to the brain.  God makes a resolution:  "less television, more exercise."  God scribbles over this and tries again, this time succinctly, a resolution:  "no television."  The front panels on the console are closed covering the screen.  The static sparks that shot off the surface of the glass are our voices, now silenced.  We remain trapped inside.  We are ghosts ensnared in microwaves, an encompassing net.  Nervous and trembling, we stand behind the television's curtain.  We are unseen, unfelt, unloved.  We scratch, but God won't answer.  

God walks the narrow berm through the bog.  It is not a long way out of the swamp glowing with the dance of phosphorescent angels, through the black and white vigil of the devoutly patient stands of birches, past the the little lake that is indulging the sky's vanity, the coming sun.  God arrives at the ocean in time to watch the orb rise.  Like some beautiful piece of amber glass shattering on the water's surface...