INRI: Chapter Six (Conclusion)

(Note–Maybe there is a cosmic force after all. Too many odd little coincidences in life to explain away, as I see it. Today would be my late mother’s 87th birthday. The publication of this was not planned that way and if it had been a Sunday this would not have happened. The mother in this story is much more than based on her–Leila)

It was the day after Tess’s last attendance at Good News that we visited our father’s grave at New Town Cemetery. Anna-Lou had told her where to find it; frankly, until then I never thought about him having a grave. New Town was a bit of a walk from the apartment, the center of our little childhood universe, on what many locals facetiously called “Hereafter Hill.” 

Dearest Hester,

Can’t walk on water without you–

Miss you bunches–

Jesus H. Christ  

I had “autographed” those words in the Bible the Presbyterians had given Tess upon her brief conversion. For about a little over a month after attending Good News, Tess had been as good a Christian as you could hope to find–yet not in the by rote sort of way. I think she understood the message of the man; the ideal; even allowed for the show biz. She later told me that she could have loved him if it wasn’t for all the impossible stuff attributed to him. The Sermon on the Mount was enough, having him cure lepers and raise the dead placed simple yet complete compassion out of human reach.

Mrs. Graydon gave Tess a sash to wear to Good News as well as one of  the cheap little Bibles they had by the gross. 

Tess filled the sash with badges earned from memorizing psalms and such. She even got up at an unholy hour on Sunday to ride in a van that took her to service and Sunday School. 

“Don’t forget your spazzy sash, molecule,” I’d grumble from under my pillow, not feeling at all blessed because we shared a room.

“Har dee har, Sar-duh.”

For that brief time I had to conduct the Fort Oxenfree business. But I knew that it wouldn’t last; I knew that there were too many people like Mrs. Graydon between Tess and the Lord for Him to exist in the Dreampurple sense. In a way it was a shame, because Tess had it in her to be holy; she knew that the actual heart of religion didn’t involve not saying fuck or getting sniffy about smoking cigarettes. God, if there is such a thing, and Dreampurple, which actually existed in Tess, had the appreciation of beautiful pain in common. But there were fatal differences: mainly, God kept secrets.

“What happened to Jesus?” I asked as we made our way uphill to the main gate, for we had left without a prayer and there was also that I don’t think so to get to the bottom of.  

“Mrs. Graydon says suicides go to hell.”

“She ain’t God, besides, she says that about the Jews too.”

“Yeah,” Tess said. 

Despite my own conflicting feelings, I found myself wanting Tess to hold onto church. We were still young enough not to have been touched by poverty in any lasting way. But that would come. Faith at least tried to help. Still, that’s something I used to believe. Tess could have been born a Kennedy and the dope with its dreampurple promise would have found her. It’s hard not to listen to the words of dark things, those that claim the birthright of fate, those that whether they be truth or lies are the only words you hear. Conditioning and ignorance, I suppose. But I already knew the score.

“Still goin’ to church?”

“Don’t think so.”

“It’s alright,” I said. “Mom’s still got a tab.”

The End

(Book Two “Music” will appear soon)

10 thoughts on “INRI: Chapter Six (Conclusion)”

  2. Leila

    I totally agree with you about “coincidences” and your mother’s birthday. Too many people in this world would shrug their shoulders about such a thing and merely turn away. Other people might say how can such “cosmic” occurrences occur in the context of the vast, sprawling, secular mess of modern technology.

    But on the contrary!

    Both those types of responses SO miss the point.

    The Hebrew Bible says that God speaks in a whisper. That formulation is itself a metaphor. I believe Art sharpens our responses to the world. Suddenly, one starts seeing all the things that aren’t there but really are there after all.

    And the messages are NOT 2 + 2 = 4 easy to figure out, either.

    Chris Stapleton says in a country song called “Broken Halos”: “Don’t go askin’ Jesus why. / We’re not meant to know the answers. / They belong to the by and by.”

    Even if it’s only us speaking to ourselves through the spirit of them, the profundity is way beyond mind-blowing. Such things don’t simply blow away in the wind.

    Thank you!

    D.

    Like

    Reply

  3. LA

    I hope you feel better soon. I feel uneasy when you are unwell, so please get better soon for my sake. Just kidding! Take your time; no pressure! But I am worried about you! Hope you get better soon! Take care of yourself!

    DB

    Like

    Reply

  4. Irene

    Regarding the “missing chapter” for this, or rather the longer version of this chapter which is missing, I wish to say this.

    A lesser, or less advanced, artist might run around chewing their knuckles and wringing their hands about such a thing. Miguel de Cervantes, Charles Dickens, or Stephen King, would NOT be three such people. When art starts to get big enough (as yours did at least a decade ago or more as near as I can tell), smaller pieces of it start to matter much, much less. Little bits of it, or even whole vast sections of it, can drop away, or be changed, or not be found for now, and this does little (or nothing) to dampen, or ruin, the effect of the whole.

    Your work is one massive and vast tapestry now, with many different kinds of connections, sections, interconnections, within it. Also, after art becomes this big, it becomes hard, or rather impossible, to keep track of ALL of it.

    It’s like how Bob Dylan records his songs, ALL of his five hundred plus songs. Some of the musicians he works with will run up to him after the fact and say, “But Bob, I played the wrong notes in the middle of the song, it has to be changed, we have to do it again!”

    Dylan knows when it’s right, or “right enough.” His response to such quivering musicians is often, “It’s like it should be. Leave it alone.” And move on to something else (or maybe get back to it later).

    Thanks!

    DWB

    PS, An artist as advanced as you is someone the rest of us should look up to as a model, and a goal. Yet, there are so many lesser artists in this world who sneer and look askance with scorn at the great ones. This comes from envy, jealousy, misplaced arrogance, and utterly weak, false pride, not to mention LOADS of misunderstanding. Geniuses are NEVER fully understood while they live. Such a thing is even impossible.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

    • Hi Dale
      Thank you for your fantastic support.

      It wasn’t until just today that I understood that the final chapter (as here) needed more. More what? Unsure, just more. But that is all right. More will come.
      Thanks again!
      Leila

      Like

      Reply

    • Hi Doug

      Eh, it is always something. Wine, heroin, crack, meth, now fentanyl. I suppose it sounds cynical, but really, there will be a next and a next…just a part of the human system. No getting to them “sacred mysteries.”

      Thank you,

      Leila

      Like

      Reply

  7. I don’t have a lot of time for organised religion of any sort (I did enjoy the spiritualist temple and still wonder about where we are when we’ve gone and that) The misuse of drugs is the bane of humanity it seems to me. Every bad thing can be traced back to greed and a huge part of that is the trade in these poisons. Don’t see a solution at all in this lifetime but I think we need more compassion for those who have fallen under the spell. How sad that a life can be so lacking that there is this need. I can’t help but wonder if decriminalization would be a start but that’s too big a subject to pin on the end of your super story. Thanks for this – dd

    Like

    Reply

Leave a comment