I saw something reborn today. Turning away from the smoldering remains of religion and knowledge, I regarded the monolith. Neglecting the faithful and the ignorant, the giant protector had allowed the unthinkable to occur. Thirteen floors high, the only defense from eternal damnation had abandoned its city, and its reasons were clear to no one but me:
The tower itself had been abandoned.
Not by the human filth who inhabited it, defiling the walls with grime and its beds with copulation. No, they remained, and would remain until eviction by their own demise. This crumbling fortress now lacked its Lord. Exiled or executed, He was gone and there would be no second coming.
I approached the edifice.
Throwing open the flimsy doors, I stepped into the empty lobby, pushing through the gathering crowd floating towards the exit. When the doors to my chariot slid open, I entered and pressed the button for the very top. With the ringing of a bell, I began my ascent.
In that moment I realized who I was not anymore.
I was not the dying man afraid of the sky. Not the guilty offender who gets out early for good behavior. I was not an insignificant looking for someone to come to my rescue. I did not need to be rescued. I was not confined to the sidewalks.
In that moment I realized who I am now.
I am the King in the Tower, the beekeeper. I grant unto the sun. I drive the bus. I am the fallible judge whose every word is law. I burned the seat of the one I followed, and now I am more than Him. I am the watcher, the instigator who remains far off. I am the almighty blinding light, the Almighty.
I am God.
From the penthouse apartment, I gaze down upon my kingdom: frozen, just as I had left it. To thaw it, I have begun a third fire. In the early morning, my followers on the ground are gathering around the smoldering building, waiting. I can see the paramedics pulling a lifeless woman from the rubble.
As the ambulance pulls away silently, cars resume their travel. The world spins again.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
“Most surely your Lord is watching.” [Surah-al-Fajr : 14]
I watched something end today. The mosque, my mosque, aflame. Lightning will only strike the highest feature of an area, but this bolt had a mind of its own. Thrown by an angry God, who was its target? The imam ran from the building, his robes burning. I watched. Was it him? What had he done? I’m certain of one thing.
The tower won’t be saving us anymore.
The smoke poured into the sky but no blaring sirens were coming to stop it. I watched as the violent clouds swallowed up the vaporized remains of the structure. They crashed together, deafeningly, but emitted no further light. All encompassing, the blackness of my spirit enveloped the world.
It was grinding to a halt.
Why wasn’t I afraid? My God’s only tiny bubble in this melting pot of beliefs was ablaze now and I didn’t feel even the slightest sorrow. Not the slightest sympathy. God wasn’t stopping it, he started it. God wasn’t inside, burning with his followers.
God was outside, watching it happen.
Turning my eyes away from the chaos that was the mosque, I gazed upon a second blaze, this one from a human source. Enflamed by an unseen light, the lost boys of this city spun around the burning carcasses of books, piled high. Their empty hymns carried the flames through the air, the heat reaching both sides of the street.
The air was so clear here at the tower.
The whores with their keeper, the drunks and their drink, and the heathens with their devil gathered to the earthly pyre. Singing? Dancing? Screaming? They were celebrating, each in their own way. The cars screeched to a halt and traffic stopped. The scene was immobilized with the festivities of Armageddon.
All I did was watch.
My eyes, unobstructed by smoke, tears, or blind faith, took in this final day and didn’t blink. There would be no saving, no stopping; all God did was watch. Now without fear of the beyond, and without a burning desire to stay in my new Hell, I was content with this outcome.
I watched as the world stopped turning. I had stopped it.
The tower won’t be saving us anymore.
The smoke poured into the sky but no blaring sirens were coming to stop it. I watched as the violent clouds swallowed up the vaporized remains of the structure. They crashed together, deafeningly, but emitted no further light. All encompassing, the blackness of my spirit enveloped the world.
It was grinding to a halt.
Why wasn’t I afraid? My God’s only tiny bubble in this melting pot of beliefs was ablaze now and I didn’t feel even the slightest sorrow. Not the slightest sympathy. God wasn’t stopping it, he started it. God wasn’t inside, burning with his followers.
God was outside, watching it happen.
Turning my eyes away from the chaos that was the mosque, I gazed upon a second blaze, this one from a human source. Enflamed by an unseen light, the lost boys of this city spun around the burning carcasses of books, piled high. Their empty hymns carried the flames through the air, the heat reaching both sides of the street.
The air was so clear here at the tower.
The whores with their keeper, the drunks and their drink, and the heathens with their devil gathered to the earthly pyre. Singing? Dancing? Screaming? They were celebrating, each in their own way. The cars screeched to a halt and traffic stopped. The scene was immobilized with the festivities of Armageddon.
All I did was watch.
My eyes, unobstructed by smoke, tears, or blind faith, took in this final day and didn’t blink. There would be no saving, no stopping; all God did was watch. Now without fear of the beyond, and without a burning desire to stay in my new Hell, I was content with this outcome.
I watched as the world stopped turning. I had stopped it.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
“And proclaim among men the pilgrimage: they will come to you on foot and on every lean camel, coming from every remote path." [Qur'an 22:27)]
I opened my eyes today. Low light flooded in through the high window, for it was early evening before the sun fell. The pain was still there. The pain, ever-present since my brush with eternity, a thorn in my sanity, tormented me with its resilience. My mind, set ablaze by sin, slowly fired electrical impulses to coax my hurting body into movement.
The clouds moved to cover the sun.
Why did these people help me? Me, with all my guilt and damnation. They hardly know me. Almost two weeks after my fall, they’ve kept me in this shelter from the Hell outside for an eternity. They told me we’re one, family, all because we believe in the same god. That’s why they help. I don’t know what I believe anymore, except for one thing.
I believe that I’m going to go outside.
Stepping out of the mosque, the light dimmed across the street ahead. Behind me, the imam’s advice reverberates into the mud. With each shift of the muck, he breathes into my ear. It’s deafening now, as the sludge flows off of the road I’m approaching. I must continue my trek. To rid myself of the pain, the voice, and the shame, I’ll embark on an odyssey.
My trial is upon me.
Forcing my feet ahead of my discomfort, I started towards the stand. The courtroom around me seemed already decided: The defendant buildings lay empty and lawyer-less to my left. The tower’s accusing gaze bored into my right side, never letting up the assault. The jury of the impoverished judged me from their shantytown, gathering on the sidewalks to observe. The spectator cars honked as the squeezed by me.
I’m going east.
The voice in my ear buzzes incessantly, but now I do not question it. Lightning cracked as the first stop on my journey drew nearer. With no watch and an ever-wandering mind suddenly all-too-focused, I’d lost track of time. But time was of no importance. It was still a day, and the selfish spin of the world still occurs every hour of every day.
It’s getting ready to stop, just for me.
A once-beautiful girl stumbled in the street, briefly blocking my advance. Stricken with hunger and confusion, her almost-empty gaze reminded me how far an angel could fall. I stopped to help her up. Without a word she moved off of my path. My eyes rose to fall again on that nearby bus stop, which I sought. A freshly posted sign told me the bus had broken down.
Mistrial. Because of this, the pain is gone now.
The clouds moved to cover the sun.
Why did these people help me? Me, with all my guilt and damnation. They hardly know me. Almost two weeks after my fall, they’ve kept me in this shelter from the Hell outside for an eternity. They told me we’re one, family, all because we believe in the same god. That’s why they help. I don’t know what I believe anymore, except for one thing.
I believe that I’m going to go outside.
Stepping out of the mosque, the light dimmed across the street ahead. Behind me, the imam’s advice reverberates into the mud. With each shift of the muck, he breathes into my ear. It’s deafening now, as the sludge flows off of the road I’m approaching. I must continue my trek. To rid myself of the pain, the voice, and the shame, I’ll embark on an odyssey.
My trial is upon me.
Forcing my feet ahead of my discomfort, I started towards the stand. The courtroom around me seemed already decided: The defendant buildings lay empty and lawyer-less to my left. The tower’s accusing gaze bored into my right side, never letting up the assault. The jury of the impoverished judged me from their shantytown, gathering on the sidewalks to observe. The spectator cars honked as the squeezed by me.
I’m going east.
The voice in my ear buzzes incessantly, but now I do not question it. Lightning cracked as the first stop on my journey drew nearer. With no watch and an ever-wandering mind suddenly all-too-focused, I’d lost track of time. But time was of no importance. It was still a day, and the selfish spin of the world still occurs every hour of every day.
It’s getting ready to stop, just for me.
A once-beautiful girl stumbled in the street, briefly blocking my advance. Stricken with hunger and confusion, her almost-empty gaze reminded me how far an angel could fall. I stopped to help her up. Without a word she moved off of my path. My eyes rose to fall again on that nearby bus stop, which I sought. A freshly posted sign told me the bus had broken down.
Mistrial. Because of this, the pain is gone now.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
“Whoever takes partners with God has gone astray into far error.” [Qur'an 4:116]
I went up too far today. I was nervous about going that high. It’s not that I’m afraid of falling. I’m more scared of what’s up there, above everyone’s heads. They say it’s enlightening to elevate oneself. To almost touch the clouds. To almost touch what’s above the clouds. Tempting, but I know better. I know those things should not be touched. The dirt under humanity’s fingernails has no place scratching at the Lord’s doors. We were put here on the ground for a reason.
But still, I ascended.
At that altitude the irrelevant fabrications of man shrink away, leaving only the imposing divinity of the Tower superior to me in position. Every incident of hurt and suffering diffuses through it into the sturdy foundation. That lightning rod of this miserable district, absorbing every celestial misfortune towards itself until the ground around it burns without bearing a hint smoke.
It’s a flash point.
An edifice like that is built to handle nature’s bombardments. But only this one, filled with violators, liars, and butchers, has been reinforced by something greater than the carnal steel of this world. Wilshire Tower has been blessed. It’s the only explanation that justifies it standing through its wicked history. Nothing inferior should endanger itself by approaching that height.
This Ferris Wheel comes close.
My seat climbed higher and higher. The air was colder up here. Cold and inhuman. I could feel demons brush against my dark, fragile skin. I wanted to go down, but there was no stopping this rise. Going up and up, like it was my time already. With a slight charge building in the air, it was all too clear that this aberration could be struck down at any moment.
I’m not ready to go yet.
In a panic, I began to yell for help. Ten stories below, the mostly-empty lot listened dutifully, but gravity expressed no inclination to expedite my descent. At the apex of the machine’s torturous climb the motor stalled and the world froze. Above the earth but not quite able to reach heaven, would I be allowed to return to the carnal planet below me? No, going back was impossible at this point.
The ground was on fire.
With current passing above me and heat rising from beneath, my shouts became screams of terror. Stretching over the sweltering tents and dubious rides, my cries were returned by the wailing of echoes off the back walls of the distant library and theater. Below, surely the uniformed officer strolling to his car must have heard the desperate stereo. A man in his position ought to have come charging to the rescue. But no, he was gliding away in his car with somewhere else to be.
After all, why should He care? To Him, I was just another freak at the carnival.
But still, I ascended.
At that altitude the irrelevant fabrications of man shrink away, leaving only the imposing divinity of the Tower superior to me in position. Every incident of hurt and suffering diffuses through it into the sturdy foundation. That lightning rod of this miserable district, absorbing every celestial misfortune towards itself until the ground around it burns without bearing a hint smoke.
It’s a flash point.
An edifice like that is built to handle nature’s bombardments. But only this one, filled with violators, liars, and butchers, has been reinforced by something greater than the carnal steel of this world. Wilshire Tower has been blessed. It’s the only explanation that justifies it standing through its wicked history. Nothing inferior should endanger itself by approaching that height.
This Ferris Wheel comes close.
My seat climbed higher and higher. The air was colder up here. Cold and inhuman. I could feel demons brush against my dark, fragile skin. I wanted to go down, but there was no stopping this rise. Going up and up, like it was my time already. With a slight charge building in the air, it was all too clear that this aberration could be struck down at any moment.
I’m not ready to go yet.
In a panic, I began to yell for help. Ten stories below, the mostly-empty lot listened dutifully, but gravity expressed no inclination to expedite my descent. At the apex of the machine’s torturous climb the motor stalled and the world froze. Above the earth but not quite able to reach heaven, would I be allowed to return to the carnal planet below me? No, going back was impossible at this point.
The ground was on fire.
With current passing above me and heat rising from beneath, my shouts became screams of terror. Stretching over the sweltering tents and dubious rides, my cries were returned by the wailing of echoes off the back walls of the distant library and theater. Below, surely the uniformed officer strolling to his car must have heard the desperate stereo. A man in his position ought to have come charging to the rescue. But no, he was gliding away in his car with somewhere else to be.
After all, why should He care? To Him, I was just another freak at the carnival.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
“…rivers of honey pure and clear.” [Qur’an 47:15]
I had lunch with Preston today. Well, I was eating. He wanted to talk. But my health matters more to me than words, so I focused on my food rather than him. His voice, a muffled buzzing against my eardrums, was just another reason to ignore him. We finished quickly and I said "thank you" and left. No, wait. I said "Thank you, Preston" and left. He doesn’t like it when I call him Preston. He prefers I use his title.
He apologized as I left.
It was cold and cloudy, but I decided I’d walk home this time. The bus driver wouldn’t miss me now, or ever. He’ll drive his habitual route, permanently ignorant. His job description is “move the masses but stop for no one.” And no one asks if that’s wrong. It just works, so they just work. They’re drones in this big beehive, and one day someone’s going to ask to see the honey and there won’t be any. They can’t produce.
They can only reproduce.
Those busy cars raced by me all the way. They were going places, but so was I. What made me different was that, while all they could see were the other cars, I had time to consider the road they were on.
It was in rough shape.
On the other hand, my sidewalk was covered in mud. But my shoes were dirty from before, and I didn’t have to worry about soiling my socks, because I wasn’t wearing any. So I trudged onward, soon letting my mind fall on other things. Something occurred to me.
I can’t remember what Preston said.
The crown of Wilshire Tower soon came into view over the rooftops of less important structures. That sight of it, the pinnacle of this localized world, the high point sitting over this godforsaken kingdom, reinvigorated my trek. I hurried my stride.
Suddenly the world started spinning.
Losing sight of the building, I panicked. As sleet began raining down on my body, nausea rose in my stomach. I went down on my knees. It didn’t help, and I was sick right there. No one saw it happen. The car windows were rolling up and not coming back down. The beggars were scurrying into their hovels, cursing their hardships. Even that young boy on the corner, who tries every day to seem like a man, was abandoning his darling lemonade stand to get out of this wicked weather. I retched again and the wildest thought came to me.
I don’t have much time left. That’s what Dr. Preston said.
He apologized as I left.
It was cold and cloudy, but I decided I’d walk home this time. The bus driver wouldn’t miss me now, or ever. He’ll drive his habitual route, permanently ignorant. His job description is “move the masses but stop for no one.” And no one asks if that’s wrong. It just works, so they just work. They’re drones in this big beehive, and one day someone’s going to ask to see the honey and there won’t be any. They can’t produce.
They can only reproduce.
Those busy cars raced by me all the way. They were going places, but so was I. What made me different was that, while all they could see were the other cars, I had time to consider the road they were on.
It was in rough shape.
On the other hand, my sidewalk was covered in mud. But my shoes were dirty from before, and I didn’t have to worry about soiling my socks, because I wasn’t wearing any. So I trudged onward, soon letting my mind fall on other things. Something occurred to me.
I can’t remember what Preston said.
The crown of Wilshire Tower soon came into view over the rooftops of less important structures. That sight of it, the pinnacle of this localized world, the high point sitting over this godforsaken kingdom, reinvigorated my trek. I hurried my stride.
Suddenly the world started spinning.
Losing sight of the building, I panicked. As sleet began raining down on my body, nausea rose in my stomach. I went down on my knees. It didn’t help, and I was sick right there. No one saw it happen. The car windows were rolling up and not coming back down. The beggars were scurrying into their hovels, cursing their hardships. Even that young boy on the corner, who tries every day to seem like a man, was abandoning his darling lemonade stand to get out of this wicked weather. I retched again and the wildest thought came to me.
I don’t have much time left. That’s what Dr. Preston said.
Monday, January 18, 2010
"The sun asks permission to rise again. It is permitted." [Bukhari:V4B54N421]
I left the mosque early today. Too hot and crowded in there, I felt an attack coming on. Nobody missed me; this isn’t the first time I’ve had to slip out. The asthma subsided after a few minutes. Instead of returning inside I sat upon a bench in the children’s playground.
It was no longer night.
I arrived early this morning and the sun had risen while I was inside, but it was still low. I let it ascend a few inches before I turned my eyes, looking across Dusty Bluff to the shantytown that graces the northern side of Wilshire Tower. Those people… the beggars, the criminals, the sinners. The children…
God will save them one day.
My aging bones won’t move if I don’t move them often. So at that time I stood. With no place noteworthy to visit, I walked to the corner of Katz Avenue. No, I don’t own a car, but a hundred must have whizzed by me in the minute or two I spent idling at the intersection, debating if there was a point in crossing to the other side.
I decided to linger on this side for now.
Where are all the cars going, anyways? Work? Home? Who’s got to go somewhere so urgently that they must drive? Who is that busy? Why are there so many cars, so many busy people? So many people? Are they important?
They kid themselves.
I found myself facing upwards, staring into the underbelly of that overpass on the west side. It mocked me with its altitude, so I found the hill leading up to it. It was steep, but I dragged my body and got my clothes dirty. I hurried my climb, because I wasn’t the only one going up this morning.
I was racing the sun.
I made it to the top. Staying on the wrong side of the railing lining the overpass, I scooted along the narrow walkway towards the center of the bridge. There were cars here too, but I didn’t see them. I was facing the wrong way. I was looking over the city block I’d come from.
They were so small down there.
Just as I reached the midpoint of the bridge, the sun peeked over the top of Wilshire Tower. I could see the shadow receding. There was the herd with their coffees. The mules of society. The congregation dispersing to walk the earth. It was a humbling experience, once in a lifetime.
I’m lying. I’ve done that before.
It was no longer night.
I arrived early this morning and the sun had risen while I was inside, but it was still low. I let it ascend a few inches before I turned my eyes, looking across Dusty Bluff to the shantytown that graces the northern side of Wilshire Tower. Those people… the beggars, the criminals, the sinners. The children…
God will save them one day.
My aging bones won’t move if I don’t move them often. So at that time I stood. With no place noteworthy to visit, I walked to the corner of Katz Avenue. No, I don’t own a car, but a hundred must have whizzed by me in the minute or two I spent idling at the intersection, debating if there was a point in crossing to the other side.
I decided to linger on this side for now.
Where are all the cars going, anyways? Work? Home? Who’s got to go somewhere so urgently that they must drive? Who is that busy? Why are there so many cars, so many busy people? So many people? Are they important?
They kid themselves.
I found myself facing upwards, staring into the underbelly of that overpass on the west side. It mocked me with its altitude, so I found the hill leading up to it. It was steep, but I dragged my body and got my clothes dirty. I hurried my climb, because I wasn’t the only one going up this morning.
I was racing the sun.
I made it to the top. Staying on the wrong side of the railing lining the overpass, I scooted along the narrow walkway towards the center of the bridge. There were cars here too, but I didn’t see them. I was facing the wrong way. I was looking over the city block I’d come from.
They were so small down there.
Just as I reached the midpoint of the bridge, the sun peeked over the top of Wilshire Tower. I could see the shadow receding. There was the herd with their coffees. The mules of society. The congregation dispersing to walk the earth. It was a humbling experience, once in a lifetime.
I’m lying. I’ve done that before.
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