To a Redder World

Last night, I was mesmerized by the crescent moon hanging over a fogless Monterey Bay.  It was January but it could have been July.  The moon was the color of coral, the way coral used to be, the way coral could one day be again in a redder world.  There were plenty of stars, too, but the stars were clearly playing second fiddle.

I thought there had to be a reason lurking somewhere.  I mindlessly think that a lot.  The wayward, renegade night was scant, airy, piercing.   All angles were impossibly acute.  Skinny kids were walking on water atop sleekly carved boards.  Insouciant caps were turned backwards without a shred of respect.  They went for spins with screw top bottles.  They lifted and hauled craven idols.  They had their own charmed Gods in their pockets.   They were digging it while it was happening.

Me too.  I was perfectly free to think my own stupid thoughts.  It was all life and life only, all over.  Stupid knows no bounds when it comes to my version of human thoughts. Evolution is unfortunately slow and not at all trasnparent.  Opposites attract, split, then fight it out.  It was unstoppable.  I was about as far west as you can get without falling over the edge of the obviously flat Earth.

What a dope.

I forgot I was not looking behind me.  If I was thinking mindlessly I was probably not alone.

I know that this same crescent moon is very big as an inspiration in the prayerful Arabian deserts.  That’s way far to the east, at least the way I’m facing.   The same moon that looks to me like a juicy slice of cantaloupe looks more like a sword hanging over the shifting sands

The locals like to add a single, simple star to their desert version of the crescent moon,  often accompanied by additional swords, to use on colorful hats and flags and banners as an icon, and it looks pretty cool if you ask me, which I don’t think any of them ever would, because I have such a bad attitude about all organized religious institutions that bend at the knees and grovel in the dirt, which is all organized religions I think,  certainly not just theirs, which I’m told is severely against the law.

In more western sectors of our somewhat shared sphere, multiple stars tend to be preferred as objects of worship, on many surfaces, in and out of any obvious context, some simple stars, some falling stars, some that are bent and wrinkled, some flimsy, some complex, some as dumb and out of place as a gaping asshole exposed to a circle of gawking kids, some that actually work, some that only try, the more the better, despite all the resultant debris that zips around our horizons like lemmings on crank and ether.

All of these arid, conflicted religions, it seems to me,  that began in that same Arabian desert before spreading out to seek worldwide domination, share most if not all of the same old names, shapes, tastes, and faces, including the one true, if schizophrenic, God.  Only the dates have been changed to protect the unimaginative who were unable to come up with anything truly original, the vision deficient who for some reason like their Gods small and petty, to look a lot like them.

All of these hawkish religions seem to have the same massive fixation on wars as well, wars both won and lost.  It seems that’s where all the real glory resides for them, before rising high like smoke and mirrors.  The believers like to pretend to be victims, too.  I don’t know why they don’t just get up off their knees if it hurts.  I guess that’s where Heaven comes in.

I hear lots of blather about these religions daily.   I hear chimes go ding-dong.  Word and deed diverge.  Sex is dirty and God knows it.  Plus, he is watching.  Deep breathing is heavy, conflicted.   An arcade version of Heaven is invoked that I suppose is supposed to be an incentive.  Chains get rattled, threats made.  Pipes burst.  Out and out jerks get off.

I think, what the fuck is so great about virgins anyway, either to have or to hold?

Business is getting bigger for the big religions, though.  It’s some kind of miracle, isn’t it?  Life is always hard in any desert and doesn’t come cheap.  The big better get bigger, or die. That’s what’s known is basic economics.

Pick a number, any number.  Seven billion and counting at last count.  Believe it.  That’s a lot of knees to fall upon and bruise.  This religion, that religion, all these fucking religions that believe, believe, believe, without having to know anything, pea brained religions that can’t come up with a universe any bigger to dominate than a scrubby back yard, that are so dumb and retarded they have to shoot their wads and blow up first, and last,   and plead divined ignorance later, that make a big deal out of memorizing gibberish so old it crumbles like dust,  need to shut the fuck up, and listen for a change.  You’re not making any sense, dudes.  You’re only embarassing your sillier parts.  I need you to make sense, or else why bother?  I would like to include your dudettes but they do not appear to count for very much.  I think you all need to feel some humidity, sweat a little.  Dig the jungle.  Listen to the drums.  Or get the fuck out of the way and chill.  Can’t you see all the freely flitting points of light in space?   You’re blocking my view.  All I want to do is be able to see the waves of Monterey Bay break in peace.

I’d like to see Osama Bin Laden and Pat Robertson locked inside the cage for an illuminating round of ultimate fighting.  Then Ben Netanyahu could go at it against Hassan Nasrallah.  Ben used to be a wrestler in high school, which was outside of Philadelphia, not Israel, in the Suburban Conference, and was pretty tough for a smarty pants Jew.  Don’t tell me any of you bully boys are too holy to fight your own holy battles.  You’re not afraid, are you?  You are all absolutely certain, aren’t you?  As a prelim, I’d like to see one of those bearded Orthodox rabbis banging his head against the wall in Jerusalem go toe to toe with flying fists, no overt weapons,  against one of those bearded imams holed up in Tehran, waiting for the infidels to make one more false move before blast-off.  Do it out in the open, not for any prize, but for the pure bloody sport.  Then we’d see who’s who, and where who ends up.

It seems pretty clear to me, even looking out into the more usual fog of Monterey Bay, and despite the hefty asset sheets on both major sides of the desiccated religious divide, that the train hauling the one real God that’s been touted to be coming around the next bend for so long is coming to the end of the line.  Sorry, buds.  Time is up, finally.  Take a good look around.  You’re nowhere.  Enough is enough, after all.  That’s like a law of physics, or should be.   There’s only time to jump off while there’s still time.  The time can be now if you choose and seize the time.

Believe what you want, but if you ask me, keep it to your stupid fucking selves.  That’s what your expensive glassy eyed temples are for.  Hide out and have at it.   Grovel like earth worms and night crawlers.  Have another glass of dry wine.  Drink your tea.  Suck it. Calm down.  Stay where you are.  Be still.  Stop jerking off so much in public.

That’s my opinion, not yours.  I know you don’t want my opinion, which is good, because you can’t have it.  It’s mine.  And I’m not sorry.  I’ve got kids, too.

If you jump, though, watch where you land.   Bend those knees.  Roll with the fall and you should end up okay.  A little dirt won’t hurt.  Just rub it off.

Then take a look around.  Why not for a change believe more of what you see than what you have been told?  You claim you’re looking for new ideas, right?  Make up your own stories.  Believe less of  all the spooky old tales of golden rules and iron fists.  Rulers are the ones who made the rules.  That’s them, not you, not me, not us.  Which side are you on?  You don’t look like a king to me.  Not even a queen, not even around the eyes with the fake lashes.  You say you don’t know.  It’s not surprising.  Try your own side for a change.  It’s guaranteed to be different.  You may not find out on the first try.

Then try again.  Trying is free.

After first things first,  after all, comes all the crazy shit that comes next.

About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
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