Thu, 19 May 2005

Blisslessness
During the war, from first declaration, the church of the twelve apostles began ringing the bells, which rang constantly for three weeks and were to continue ringing until the war was over. You could hear them throughout downtown, from the campus all the way up to Jefferson Hill. The people of the neighborhood complained of being unable to sleep. The alley-dogs went mad and started attacking dumpsters. People threw rocks through the stained-glass windows; Wednesday and Sunday sermons had to be held at the Y in order for Father Anders to be heard. Finally, despite the inevitable PR disaster, two priests and three others were arrested for disturbing the peace, breaking the PM noise ordinance, but while they were being taken away, one of the parishioners snuck into the belltower and began ringing the bell. When Father Anders, who refused to post bail and demanded to go through the entire proceeding, was released he discovered the city had bought out the land on which the church was built and had it demolished. Anders spent the day salvaging as much from the site as he could, storing it on the lawn of his home for the remainder of his days, a reminder of a war that was to crawl on for what seemed like ever. Father Anders never lived to see that war end, but his children keep the remaining pieces of the church, of which the largest is the main bell, untouched since it was rung at Father Anders’ funeral.

Tonight it rings for an entirely different reason, and all the children will have the fitful sleep of fevers and their parents will stare into the heavens and hold each others hands until it stops.

…

“Come on over,” she said. “Tim’s having another funeral.”

Sheila’s brother Timothy was convinced there were any number of terrible illnesses which only affected stuffed animals. For days he would hold a vigil over his terminal patients, breaking only for school and naps, until finally they could fight no longer and passed away. At this point Tim would get his dress suit, slick his hair back, and invite the family and loved ones of the recently departed to the backyard for services, burial, and kool-aid. If asked, Tim could go on at length about the terrible suffering Mrs. Cephalus had undergone, the way Beene the Moo-Cow had been isolated from the family due to the terrible exploding tumors. Generally these funerals were a small affair, but I hadn’t seen Sheila since she went off to ISU (of all places) back in August, so I got the clothes I had worn to my last job interview out and thought about where I could get flowers at this time of day.

Sheila and I had been weird ever since we met at a drama thing back in the day; she was into me because I could buy her vodka and I was into her for less honorable reasons. I had never met her parents, and was worried about what kind of setup this’d be for first impressions — would formality be considerate or overcompensating or just dumb? I pulled up to the house and took the gate’s entrance into the backyard, where the family was already gathering around the hole. I laid a small fistful of stolen daisies at the foot of the grave as Tim nodded, ready to begin.

“Kafka speaks of the shaft of Babel. Each grave is one more brick in the inverted tower. One day, the last piece put in place, the floodgates of heaven will open and we shall all rise up from our graves. As above, so below, so you know it’s time to go. Kittymonster, rest in peace, hidden by soil from the sun’s judgment.”

Sheila, whose entire wardrobe consisted of mausoleum castoffs, all wound in material made for the touch, a velvet that swallowed light, took my hand and led me into the kitchen as her parents sung “Onward Christian Soldiers” over a slow tape of churchbells. She offered me a glass of water and told me she had some pot down in her bedroom, so I followed her down, listening to her convince me her parents would be out in the garden for at least half an hour; they took this very importantly, seeing it as a necessary part of Tim’s development, not wanting to stunt his notions of the afterlife, his notions of mourning.

Sheila’s bedroom was exactly like you’d expect it to look, with the nearly-required assortment of stuffed animals piled atop her pillows. Even death-fucking protogoth girls keep their child-friends. I sat on the bed and felt her red-chipped fingernails on my chest, pushing me back, and soon her mouth was around me, the pull of the tongue and the close of the throat. The sound of the backyard I could hear all the while, two sounds I knew: the recordings of Alessandro Morechi, castrato, and the bells of the church of the twelve apostles, which I suddenly think of in the terms of what David Tibet (Sheila’s influence) would call the bloodbells. My head was surrounded by stuffed animals, all worn and loose eyes, and I saw that they were all filthy, as if rolled in dirt. She had crawled atop me, rocking back and forth, watching her family through the basement window.

“Don’t come yet. Don’t come yet.”

“Nnnnngh.”

“Not yet, sweetie. Just a bit. There’s something I have to tell you.”

“Aaah. Ah ha ha ha.”

“I have cancer.”

And I came.
(12:06.05.19.2005) [/alpha] #