jude discovers a convent
under the iglesia de caspana
i open the lid of the desert like a coffin and climb into the shadow of the milky way, scorpions zigzagging up ramps from the graves grey cluttered laboratories to hunt across the undulating memory of sand
my first thought is that i need god - stupid i realize, considering the long ago, the many petty horrors of the temple, its purveyors practitioners charlatans, the sexual hypocrisies, moral schizophrenia, virtue-masked domination, generous ineptitude and imbecility - but there are always ways compounding confounding ways - not only hamlets problem in the pit of polypolar realization but truly unruly what belongs most deeply to each one of us in our common fragmentations
and those other ways - i dont say theyre better truer prettier - but theyre there ... we have to say that for them, theyre here
im not one of those - come back to the church, return to jesus, repent, the error of my life, tears if ones the type, stories blogs books speeches hallelujahing, saint to sinner to saint, as beautiful as flowers in the mud
nothing to do with reason or institution, belonging or forgiveness, regret or insight, nostalgia or epiphany - i just know i need to seek god in the atacama ... not with some intangible or mystical approach, but actually in physical dimensionality
it has we know not even anything to do with god - certainly not any experience notion of god in relation to their existence (a debasing orientation for both god and me) - nothing to do with whether anythings alive or dead (these infantile bifurcations) - but the word itself - i seek the word god - not as an artifact of literacy or monument or manufacture of orality but as indivisible omnipresent immanent numinosity - word as polyomnispiritmeat
i join the scorpions who encircle and look at me incredulously and say - if you question the sign you will get stung and die but if you question yourself yet not as sign well guide you to god
but scorpions i say would you suggest methods for designing myself so i can be so questioned
and the scorpions draw closer, join nippers and sing
the atacamas all thats left
we predators skittle on the sand
days become the global brand
every now and where its light
whos accomplished this outrageous theft
stranger hunger wronger anger stinger venger
mourning for night
its a lovely song children of serket but were no nearer to signlessly questioning ourselves
they draw yet closer in nippered union and sing
the desert is a jewel
we prey to live live to pray
that night becomes again the day
that bipeds bow to somites
all return to the ancient rule
stinger anger venger wronger hunger stranger
mourning for night
i say nothing and they descend on me like hailstorms and their venom replaces my blood and my eyes become as fallen funfairs and i sink into the sand and dream and in my dreams a temple in a desert raised like a trapdoor and inside are steps downward made of chitin and tectin and theyre sticky and im a mess when i finally arrive at the arcade of the convent of the nuns of knot
a conventual in violet coif veil guimpe approaches from beyond and asks for the shibboleth
i have no idea i say
youre the first visitor weve had since 1649
why a shibboleth then
we are eccentric and melancholy penitents
does that really answer the question
really
im seeking god
so are all we who plod the lost ways
yet youre a nun
a nun of knot
different
we might let you in but only in our habit
your habits nearly naked
here the habit of the nuns of knot covers only our disgrace and you shall join us and leave your desert rags behind
shall i see god
thou shalt see the unknown across all the faces
i undress and assume the habit of the nuns of knot
