There is no consolation for the lack of visitations, the baroque hallucinations, the icon that refuses to weep. And dutiful in my prayers, I had expected some (damning) evidence that I too might be a favorite. Chosen... or at least considered, given an interview. And standing to the side, I watch the pilgrims wheeled by other pilgrims or on their own and on their knees while the twilight fights with tapers to decide the color of the light. I have said the rosary a dozen times today. I imagine this penance puts my call a little higher on an absurdly long list--the unrolling scroll unleashed from some daft angel's elevated desk and covered with her fanciful notations--that God (who sees everything) will most assuredly never see. There are no waking visions to be pieced together from the shattering rays of the setting sun. There is no divine intermediary, keys in hand, waiting in the thicket of my dreams.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
No comments:
Post a Comment