I remember going to the church during my school days and in my condemned childhood with my parents. Not that my parents used to cane me or made me revel in grit and slime, but I always found that my mind was free to roam and wander in solitariness. But when I grew up, I began to detest the sweet smell of old-ceilings, the sound of brass bells going off; resonating the old priests’s cracking voice into an auto-tune, the neatly-tied bows that hung over my alter-boy clothes, the words off the giant black Bible.
I also remember my first holy communion. Clad in white dress holding a white candle, adorned with a white ribbon. Holy Fucking Christ! Could you say I was virgin in more ways. But. nevertheless, I was excited to have the tiny white circle that the priest gave to my mother every Sunday. Dipped in an little alcohol, the priest was offering me what I desired the most all through my childhood. Holy communion is the visible form of something completely invisible. And for me, it was desire. Desire to share something from my mother like siblings.
I would hum to the ecclesiastical tune of hymns before sleep, recite the rosary with fervor or read those stories of saints and wonder what it was to be them. They were to many what Harry Potter was to many children. They ended in the heroes dying for what they love. And its’s that meta-physical love that I gathered contrary to my parent’s pious intentions. So, in Christ I saw gore and suffering and in saints I saw fan-girling.
In my early days of writing, I would wait for days for this holy spirit to descend on me, so I could write. I even had a ritual that i shall not mention. Until, my English teacher in eleventh standard told me the ‘muse’ never arrives. Now, if I think about it, she told me walk towards her and to bask in her bosoms but I did not perceive it like that at that time. And maybe, that was also the time, I lost love.Only to be regained with a new sense of revolt. A burning desire to prove that I am right and everything else is wrong.
I writhed in the pain of this loss, that I shut tight the doors of my chapel. Locked it with a strong, big golden lock and swallowed the key until it reached my gut.But only to be revived the slender legs of men in shorts playing football. Men of many sizes and color, in full-length and ankle socks, adorned by sharp pointy studs in the colors of gay flag. Long evenings would be spent under the giant clock-tower on those cemented seats that overlooked the basketball court, wondering if the ball was going to reach the goal.
But later when I began to write, I had forgotten everything that was me. I was empty and dry. I began to wrote about the emptiness but I still was parched.And then among strong pressure for time, I met my next love–lying motionless in a steel cup, the black filmy surface reflecting the unruly hair i possessed. We went a long way in weaving sweaters in cold nights and doing a bit of gardening in my garden in the backyard. We never left each other except for moments of human error.
But what I was still forgetting is that I had lost something. Something I really liked . Now, when I look at candies, I see Christ in them and eat them with reverence as if I was performing my own little mass. I began to see Christ in crispy fried chicken. I began to see him in the music. Even so in my frantic efforts to become a man with the help of a laptop screen.
But in my dreams you scream
of the places we could have been
if only we had opened a tiny tear
into the castle, so dark
that water floats.
light would walk
in freshly dressed leaves
mating in the Eden;
Bare naked telling the stories
if only we stopped
to hear the gurgling stream,
beating and pumping-
the river Nile of my existence.