Daughter of The Gods

 Paranoia

Part 8 of 30

Hmm, I want to be therapeutic about paranoia. I've had problems with it for centuries and I don’t want the so-called relief to be more of the same, driving me and everyone down into deeper and even more treacherous depths. I'm like anyone, I see a naked lady tied and surrounded by crocodiles or alligators -- aren’t they like one chromosome off? -- and I’m thinking, Pessimistic! She's a goner...

But then I realize, Damn it, you fool, you're giving up on the gods a little too soon! Where's your faith? Where's your patience? Haven’t you learned by now that the gods tend to be on the surprising side? Inscrutable, in the end aroused, certainly not incapable, not quick to yield or cede territory, especially among their own. Is there a pantywaist god among them who'd send his or her only begotten daughter into a world of sickness and sin only to be had, to be a mark, to be defeated? I think to myself, How many questions was that? Then repeat the whole spiel back in my head, counting fingers. Five questions. I quickly answer, “No, no, no, no, hell no...”

Among the gods everything (potentially) has a quick reversal, the rug pulled out from under the enemy’s feet, the establishment of justice, a claiming of glory that was never really lost, and a surprise ending that should be no surprise. They like to get the enemy right where they want him. In the sweet zone for leveling them, flattening them, going nuclear, boom! Of course there’s no real blame for the alligators, so their death is incidental. They’re only doing what’s in their nature, and if their nature says the chick's indeed fit for eatin’ on, that can’t be wrong. But they still must be defeated, because ... this is the daughter of the gods.

Which could be true of any of us. Explaining in terms anyone can understand why it is that bad things simply never come to fruition, but are thwarted just in the nick of time. And certainly any foe that felt it might have it over on the very daughter of the gods, eating her and justifying it lightly, would have to be deluded, or to put a positive spin on it, more optimistic than the situation warrants, given a considered examination of the circumstances. Enough for theodicy, albeit explained in simple terms. The gods wipe the shit off their shoes on the enemy.

How about me -- I'm no crocodile -- could I possibly have the hots for the daughter of the gods? I feel that is too personal a question and a question wrought with potential consequences via-a-vis my continued existence in the world and in the presence of the gods to answer truthfully. So let me answer it by really not answering it, while not quite not answering it: Given the right circumstances, anything is possible if the gods are not offended. If they're happy with a potential son-in-law like me, who first wants to sample the goods, that’s their business. I can only accede to their desires, although I would not be quick to give alligators the same rights. There would definitely not be a joining together of them in my thoughts as a party to any menage a trois, her, me, and them.

I guess what I should really say is, the gods are a psychological help to us, and the daughter of the gods would be a salvific figure, a metaphor, of the communications from that realm to this. As the alligators of sin threaten us -- even raising paranoia in me, and other unfortunate folks -- we desire the sweet and innocent nudity of this precious daughter, bestowing the goodness of heaven to take away our paranoia and allow us to swim free. Just to make everything crystal clear, so there’s nothing left to chance between the gods and us, I want to lose paranoia, not gain piranha.

Beware the Ides of March

It's the Day of Days, folks, the Ides of March! I may sound happy about it, but really I'm not. Because if I learned anything in school, and I'm not saying I did, it was to be careful on March 15. Because if anyone's going to knife you, stab you in the back, it's gonna be today.

So I got up, kept my eye on the dog, watched out for neighbors when I had her out, and was even wary in church. The church has numerous hallways and hiding places. And a few of the folks aren't crazy about my completely dismissive attitude toward theology. A quick knife to the back would make short work of me, and even be divine justice of a sort.

Fortunately, though, I survived today -- I knew I'd survive through the offering at least -- and lived to tell about it. Not that there's that much to tell. Had I actually been stabbed, but not fatally, that would've been a hell of a story. Guess what, I was stabbed in church, right after the offering. This after an earlier argument on how many angels could dance on the head of a pin. This one guy comes at me, yelling, "Dance on this, heretic!" This isn't really beyond the realm of the possible, since the subject of angels and dancing on pins in fact came up within the last month.

But no, it didn't happen today, thankfully. Although back in literary times, of course it was common. Like in the days of Julius Caesar, when the other guy stabbed him, and Caesar said something in Latin, "Et tu, Brute?" In literary times they were always talking the Latin, you know, like when the guy shot Lincoln, "Sic semper tyrannus," literally translated, "I'm sick with distemper, like a dinosaur!"

Ever since that first tragic Ides of March we've been whooping it up when it comes along. Reminding me of the old story of "The Husband and the Wife":

One year the husband comes in and wishes his wife "Happy Ides of March," and immediately stabs her in the back. She falls to the ground. The next year it's the same thing, she immediately goes down. The third year rolls around and there he is again, "Happy Ides of March," she's stabbed and goes down. But the fourth year comes and she's smart enough to leave home and come back the next day. The husband shows up, says, "Happy belated Ides of March," stabs her, and she dies.

I hope that doesn't happen to you. And if it does, I hope you're smart enough to leave the guy after the first year. Call the police and send him to prison. You don't need a guy like that ruining your life. I should know, for I am the husband in the story. Maniacal laughter here ... and fade to black.

The Three-Fold Hallelujah

As part of my spiritual regimen, in meditation, I've been chanting the Three-fold Hallelujah. It goes like this: "Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah," then a pause.

I know, just seeing it in print like that doesn't tell you much. But here's how it sounds: The first Hallelujah is said in a strong voice at a particular pitch. The second is completely identical to the first. Then the third drops the "-lujah" part down a note, making it lower. Followed by a pause that is silence.

Whether this does me any good, objectively, I don't really have the standing to make that determination. However, subjectively, I know it does. In recent days, I've seen the sky ripped in half and great visions of heaven. But enough about that.

So, I was describing all this to my minister, who listened carefully and respectfully, then tried it himself, "Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah." He paused and did it again, and said, "Yes, that sounds like a very good thing to say. I like it."

Then he asked me a strange question that I wasn't expecting: "Which Hallelujah of the three do you like the most?"

Hmm, that's really a tough question, isn't it? because I think each one has its good points. And I'd hate to have to pick just one, because what would be the point? It's the Three-fold Hallelujah, not a chant with only one Hallelujah. I looked at him, searching his face for a clue; was he putting me on? But his face, as usual, when he sets it in a determined way, was stolid, unflinching, unwavering, and, I hate to say it, without a hint of mercy. I felt a trickle of sweat burst forth on my forehead, and knew I was probably flushed, and suddenly seemingly vulnerable under his piercing, unrelenting stare.

Since I couldn't escape, I began reasoning it out: The first and second Hallelujahs are identical. The third is the only one distinctively on its own. So what it comes down to is this: Do I prefer of the ones that are doubly pronounced or the one standing alone? And beyond that fact, what of the sound? Do I prefer the first and second's tone or the third's? Does doubling make the first and second tones less precious, playing on the third's distinctiveness? Or is the third somehow inferior because it does stand alone? The first and second seem like they're being said as a progression worthy of eternity, with a single focus of concentration, and even bliss. The third, one might argue, in its denouement is something of a let-down, even an unfortunate claim that eternity is not real, and an expression that only finiteness (it being the third of three) is real. That would be depressing, although I'd have to argue, every good thing has to end, except, of course, eternity itself, presumably.

So I'm thinking, thinking, thinking, worrying, stewing, busting a vein over my answer. I look over and, in the meantime, Pastor has turned away and is filing a bushel basket of old sermons. He sees me return to life, and I tell him my choice: I prefer the second Hallelujah. Even though it's identical to the first, still it has a place in the order. It repeats the first, true, but it also leads to the third. And even though the third is the third, with all the problems that might suggest, without a third you wouldn't have three. And the fact that it is the denouement and with its lower note is something of a let-down, it does make a legitimate third, whereas a third identical to the first and the second would simply terminate the sequence ambiguously. As it is, in relation to the third, the second is the last note of real strength. So the middle one, for me that's where it's happening.

I urge you to consider this as part of your own spiritual life, the Three-fold Hallelujah. But it might be best not to tell anyone, so they don't put you on the spot.