We ought to have a place for invertebrate prose. Vertebrate prose? I admit there’s a certain appeal. It’s structured. Centered. Supported.
But what of the spineless, amorphous– the writing that bobs and weaves through 84,000 dharma doors in the Funhouse of the Page!
God loves a good thesis, don’t misunderstand me. But every once in a while, you give the horse her head, yeah? Your mind, a dog, snapping at each bumper. You hate double yellow lines, April 15th, and TSA security checks? Well, take off your shoes, my discalced Carmelite: all the earth is holy ground!
I, who side-eye any man who would allow his thoughts to ossify into belief, asked my father, “Daddy, what is the true substance of the Christ?” And my Abba told me: “You want to grasp the man from Nazareth? Then think in vectors.“
But I have an eye for shortcuts to the throne room of God.
“Maybe know him by what he ain’t,” I supposed. And I stripped him of all his names and conceptions and knew him only by his attributes. He bared his face and it was Awful because it was Mine.
And I studied Kenosis and I even dabbled, but what’s the use in turning yourself inside out–just to be god but still know there’s nothing to be done about it? Except maybe to forget?
And now, a word from God:
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