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agentotero-blog · 5 years

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..//application prompts

If you could steal anything, what would it be?

Zo had long since lost track of the time, despite it being a work night. ‘Just stay for one beer,’ Kit had urged, shoving the opened bottle into his hand before he had a chance to respond at all. That one beer had turned into two, then three, then four. The laughter had become cacophonous, meddling with whatever had been playing over the speakers at the time. He met Monty's eyes whenever his gaze was hidden by the tilt of glass bottle. The look alone was more than enough to keep him in his seat while they were still there.

The discussion had transformed from reminiscing over old jobs to what ifs. None of which he could participate in, of course, but he didn't mind listening in. It was a rarity that he actually felt like one of the group, a truly integrated member, so he was content to be a fly on that wall. Watching the others and how they interacted when they weren't all business was interesting. They actually seemed like normal people. Like friends.

“What about you, boy scout? What would you steal?” It took a few heartbeats of silence and everyone looking at him for Zo to realize the question had been addressed to him. He had been so engrossed on just being there he hadn't even noticed who’d asked it. He was certain it was a loaded question, it was no secret his association with them was the only thing he did that was even remotely illegal. He took a long draw from his near-empty drink, scanning the circle they'd formed and met each one's eyes.

“I know you all expect me to say nothing since you all think I'm a boring asshole.” He said, a bemused smirk tugging at the side of his mouth. “Can it be anything? At all?” A few nods and shrugs answered the question. “Logistically, this makes no sense but bear with me--” He held up both hands in a moment of suspense. “Dogs. I'd steal all the abused dogs that I could house. I'd be Crazy Dog Dude, and it would be awesome.”

Tell us about a time you nearly got caught.

It had taken a long time to get used to lying. As a child, it'd been a sinful thing, something that had earned him knuckle raps from the nuns at school. As a teenager, it'd simply just been a near impossible task with his sisters around; they saw through every attempt with snarky comments and loud announcements around the dinner table.

As a cop, it started feeling more natural. Zo still obtained the same doubtful looks now and then, but they were hardly as persistent or dissecting as his sisters’ had been. The duality of his actions were a simple thing, white lies Cliff had called them. Seemed valid coming from someone like him. Still, the more Zo told them, the more confident and fluid he became.

Then there was the Bureau, who expected him to lie. It was a course all in its own. Beating lie detectors, stifling your tells, reading everyone else's, it was a complete reversal to everything he had learned back home. For once he was grateful for his time on the force. If nothing else, it had hardened him for the life of deception he had apparently chosen to adopt.

When a suspect USB stick was found in a Bureau computer, it was easy for Zo to say it wasn't his. If he really broke down the semantics of the question, he was telling the truth about that. It was The Hacker’s, he simply plugged it in. It was only the second time he had asked to do it, but he was determined not to fail. If he was going to begin a life a crime he wasn't going to fuck it up on the second week.

So when his turn for interrogation came, he followed all the rules as he so often did. He kept his eyes straight ahead, focusing on the interrogator but not so much he looked fake. He flooded his thoughts with a calming memory to keep his heart rate down. He didn't fidget. He was calm, relaxed and seemingly honest, as though he had nothing to hide.

He'd even managed to swipe the stick from lock up after it was all said and done. He had swiped the access card for the poor sap who had taken the fall, an intern who was already on thin ice. There was a voice that scraped at the back of his brain, it was either Sister Tomlinson or his mother, he wasn't quite sure. This is what you do now, mijo? This is how you live? How the mighty have fallen.

“That's what the confessional is for.” He muttered to the unspoken voice as he climbed into his car.

What’s the hardest part of being in a heist group?

The group was gathered around a large table in the apartment dining room. It was odd to Zo that they called it that since in his time with the group he’d never seen them eat there. In his head, he always referred to it as the crime room, but he’d never utter it out loud. If he did, perhaps some would laugh, but others would likely not see it as a joke. Which, in truth, it wasn’t. To him what they did seemed intense, forbidden and highly illegal. But to them, it was their job, their livelihood, just as much as the Bureau was for him. How would he react to someone being so flippant and dismissive of his job?

It’s part of why he felt like such an outsider at times like this. The planning stage, arguably the most important, was when he felt most useless. Zo was perched in the corner of the room, his back leaned against a wall with crossed arms and ankles. He was listening, but he was too far away to see. His role was always secondary, supportive, or in the very least, protective. Most of the time he wasn’t even there when things went down, he was covering them in an ancillary role. Yet Dante had always insisted he was around for conversations like this one.

It was hardly the first time he’d felt like he was on the outside looking in, but for some reason now it hit him far harder than it ever had in the past. Roman and Dante spoke the most, but others chimed in with inside jokes that send a ripple of smirks and laughter down the table. The fact that he was one of the newest additions to the group was probably the real reason the comments went over his head, yet somehow there was still a bemused grin on Mirasol’s face.

He knew he’d probably never be one of them, but part of him couldn’t help but wish he could.

What’s the best part about it?

After everything he’d done on the force, Zo never thought he would be able to repent. Somehow he’d moved on to a better job. Somehow he’d moved into a nicer apartment. Somehow he managed to find serenity again. The peaceful familiar quiet of suburbia certainly helped with the latter two, as did the lengthy phone calls with his Mother. But the guilt of it all still nagged at him. He said as much, during a confession with the new parish Father he’d joined since his move upstate.

“Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. For he that soweth to his flesh shall of the flesh reap corruption; but he that soweth to the Spirit shall of the Spirit reap life everlasting.” The Father’s voice drifted quietly through the distorting window of the confessional booth, his voice calm and firm. “Karma is not a Catholic belief, my son, but the Lord God does see fit to punish those who act against his teachings.” Zo didn’t need him to tell him that, he’d figured that much out on his own when he’d been assigned to the RICO division. An argument arose inside his chest, but he stifled it. Once upon a time, he’d had no issues spilling all his secrets and apprehensions to his Priests, but now, since he’d become a part of this group, the secrets weren’t just his own.

He’d left the booth the predicted prescription of prayer and Hail Mary’s but he also left with a new thing to contemplate. Why hadn’t he told the Father about the heist he’d only a few days prior? Or the infiltration goggles prototype he’d stolen from work yesterday? Both sins-- both worthy of a confession. He’d confessed plenty of sins he and his fellow officers had committed when he was on the force, so why was he so hesitant now?

Zo crossed himself as he left, stepping out into the harsh morning sunlight, a huge contrast from the pinkish weak pre-dawn glow that’d been there when he’d gone inside. It hadn’t been his intention to detour to the church on his run, but that’s where his feet had led him, and he let them take over once more after he plugged his headphones back in. Sneakers stomping on the pavement and a hard-pumping heart were his two favorite feelings in the world. He let himself get lost in the feel of it, the beat of his music, the rush of adrenaline.

He finally drifted to a walk on a too-familiar street. It wasn’t his own, he hadn’t run home. He’d run to the group’s apartment. Breathing heavy, he halted in front of the stoop, squinting up at the white building that almost glowed in the morning haze. Like a revelation, it hit him. A smile broke across his face despite himself. What had baffled him not moments and miles ago, was suddenly as clear as the crystalline windows glinting the reflection of the tree that lined the street. He couldn’t confess against them for the same reason he’d never been able to against his sisters: because they’d become family. Against all better judgment, against all better reason, against all better logic, they were his family.

Were they criminals? Sure. Were they sinners? Absolutely. But they were his, and that’s all that mattered.

#about;;

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thefamilyineverknew · 6 years

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Turning 47: pt. XV

“Ch-ch-ch-changes”

26 May 2018

“You know, in Sweden they make these perfectly shaped butter knives. They’re just ideal for spreading butter on pancakes,” I say as I wolf down a hot stack. It’s a bright Sunday morning in Evergreen, Colorado at Benny & Kathleen’s. Thankfully, they were home last night and were willing to put me up for the night (kicking their middle child out of his room for me...extra thanks to him). I woke to a family of deer peering in my window from the surrounding forest and the smell of breakfast coming from the kitchen upstairs. How did I deserve all of this? Again, I am overcome by the generosity and warm hospitality of people who I haven’t seen in forever.

“So, how did the meeting at Barnes & Noble go?,” they ask with baited breath. “Well, wow...,” I reply, and proceed to reiterate the details of the story that I have laid down in the previous parts of this tale, showing them the photo of Arla and me in the park. “Oh wow! It’s really undeniable,” they marvel. I am here and present, but also in a bit of a daze. That just happened, and here I am in the home of old college friends on a Sunday morning, eating breakfast before they go off to church. Time is playing ALL KINDS of tricks. Now is then is now is then. Waxing and waning. Kathleen is buzzing around the kitchen, whipping up pancakes in her Sunday best, while Benny and I commisurate over coffee. It’s as if I walked through a wormhole from 1993 to 2018. I feel the same way in their presence as I did when I was 22.

“So, are you going to the reunion?,” Kathleen asks, effervescently as she does. ”I think I have to, seeing as I was professoring there this last term. If I can cobble the funds together; definitely,” I say, and we commence to listing all of our old classmates who we should pester to be there. “Do you think Dan Rauter would come?,” zips Kathleen. ”I’m not sure. I’d love to see him. Just the whole gang. That was one of the best things about being back at Wheaton, being able to see so many people who I hadn’t in so long. It was crazy. Yes, I really need to be there,” I say. Declarations are made, and names dropped. It’s so good. So bizarre. It was crazy to see so many people over the Spring term, slipping in from a faded memory to LIVE, flesh and blood reality, just like sitting here at Kathleen & Benny’s dinner table.

The house is bustling with activity as Kathleen and the kids are bolting out the door to make it to the Episcopal church. Benny and I are engrossed in a light theological conversation, and he asks Kathy to save him a seat as he will catch up soon. Benny has already been to one early morning service this morning, a Catholic mass, and he is explaining to me his slow conversion to Catholicism.

Unbeknownst to me, Benny had grown up in the Evangelical Free Church (a merger of the Norwegian and Swedish Free Churches in America from 1950), just as I had. It turns out we were both at the same Youth National Conference in Denver in 1988. “Did you know Big John?,” he asks. “Wow....there’s someone who I haven’t thought of in decades. Yeah, I even drew a cartoon picture of him,” I confirmed. Neither of us knew much of who Big John was or where he came from, but he was definitely memorable; a man in his 50’s or 60’s, who must have been on the spectrum. Who or which group was he connected with? If it raised any eyebrows at the time, I didn’t hear of it, nor did I hear anything ever happening. Today, I don’t think his presence would be acceptable, just cause, well, you know. But again, it didn’t cross my mind then and there was nothing untoward that happened to my knowledge.

Going to the National Conference was the hilt of summers for me back in high school; 2500 teenagers converging in one place for a week. Half of those were girls, and my hormones were racing around like atoms in the particle accelarator at FermiLab. It was a perfect stage on which to try out all my extroverted show off tricks; breakdancing, skateboarding, or just being able to make people laugh. It was heaven, and the fact that all of these kids were coming from a similar place in the church community meant that I didn’t have to feel awkward or edgy about being a pastor’s kid. And I remember, there was this one person at this very National Conference in Denver who left a massive and lasting impact on me, one which solidified the course I’ve been on to this day. His name was Fred.

Fred was a part of the youth group that came down from Rochester, Minnesota, and, in my opinion, that group was THE coolest bunch of kids I’d ever met in person. They were punk and New Wave, and while I had dabbled in the style a bit, this was the first time I had ever been around people actually like that. I mean, I had seen that style in John Hughes films and on MTV, but never in real life. Where we came from on the Eastside of Des Moines, it was all Classic Rock (when it was just known as Rock); feathered hair, Van Halen, combs in back pockets, and muscle cars. These kids from Rochester were all laid back skaters. There were so many firsts I witnessed coming from that group. I just wanted to hang with them. And in right there in the middle of all of them was this guy Fred.

The thing about Fred that blew me away was that he was plain, and at least physically, NOT cool, but every one of the other cooler-than-Alaska kids deferred to him with respect. Fred was fairly overweight, which where I came from was an instant social death sentence, but if it was something that he ever felt insecure about, it didn’t show. No, he was solid, sitting in their midst like a Buddha, normal as could be; the sun in a solar system set-up. And I thought....if this guy, who by all appearances should be a cast aside (in my limited, teenaged prejudiced opinion), is able to just be, cool with himself as he is and command the respect he does...then...why should I ever give a second thought to what other people think about me? And that set a tone for me, going forward. My early leanings toward non-conformity were absolutely crystalized meeting Fred. I think I may have written him once after that conference, but there was never a correspondence kept up. I don’t even remember his last name, but I do remember the impact he had on me. Thank you, Fred.

So, Benny comes out of the same soil that I did, which is just wild to me. Wilder still, is that his train has switched tracks toward Catholicism. As he explains it to me, it all comes down to doctrine. The Catholic church is less emphasis on one’s individual personal responsibility in attaining and keeping up one’s salvation. It’s already a done deal. Its all in the doctrine and the sacraments , allowing him to just go and worship, without having to strain and stretch to try to receive God’s favor. It’s already been done, he just needs to be present. Kinda like Fred, just being there, content in this space. He makes an appealing argument, and I am very far from being dogmatic about the different flavors of Christendom. “Do you think it’s the Protestant appointment to continually fracture into smaller and smaller shards of belief until it stops meaning anything?;” I ask. How many denominations can there be, each one believing their way and vision is the RIGHT way? Benny says this is part of why he started investigating Catholicism.

I remember back when I was in undergrad at Wheaton, one of the best parts was trying out these different flavors of Christian worship. There was the hippie church, Jesus People (JPUSA), in Chicago. Then there was the generic, big box non-denominational variety, like Wheaton Bible or College Church. And the Presbyterian churches. And the Episcopal churches, like Church of the Resurrection and St. Mark’s (where I had my first communion with REAL wine, not Welch’s Grape Juice). It was a blizzard of experimentation, investigation, and research into the style, views, and formats. Now, at Wheaton, being a college firmly rooted in evangelicalism, going to church was basically expected, which meant that Sunday lunch in the cafeteria was a natural place for assessments on whether or not others had gone to church, based on the clothing people wore. I am more than certain that several stressed out about this to the point where they would dress up for lunch if they hadn’t made it to church. I couldn’t be bothered with that. If there were ever a snide comment like, “Where’d you go to church, Kurt?”, I’d just say I had spent some time in The Word. Not only did it cut the snark, it was 100% true. I called my bed “The Word”, with a big sign on it stating its name. This became a problem for at least one of the underclassmen on my floor when I was an RA, borderline heretical. I do remember, Brendan. 😉

It is easy for me to listen to Benny describe his journey and thinking. We come out of the same place, and I can understand transformation and maturation far more than I can stagnation and samey-sameness. I live in Sweden now, have been for 16 years. True belief in Jesus, or any deity, is highly out of place and foreign; viewed with eye-narrowing suspicion. While Christianity is solidly a part of Sweden’s history and heritage, it has also always been lock and step with the government. For hundreds of years, it was mandatory for the people of Sweden to attend church. The church was in charge of keeping people in line, as well as for the country’s census and population control. It was not optional. Therefore, church in Sweden is not viewed as a place to receive any kind of true belief, but an institutional organism where tradition is upheld; in infant baptism, weddings, and funerals. This underlines my conviction that church and state should always remain separate. Belief should always be a choice, not compusory.

So, I don’t blame Swedes for being narrow-eyed, at all (I half-expect my Swedish friends to be reading this side-eyed, all this church talk, but I’m cool with that. This is my story, this is my song). Moving here was a cultural womp on a multitude of levels, including spiritually. I share this with the Hindus, Jains, Buddhists, Muslims, Jews and anyone else I’ve encountered who has moved here with a spiritual belief system from outside. It is a spiritual desert, with a fixation on the sensory and material here-and-now. Belief is dead wood, relegated to tradition or the sole domain of the sciences. But it is good to know, life still does thrive in the desert (if you’ve ever watched David Attenborough), it just looks and behaves differently than, say, a jungle or forest. I have adapted and I feel good about where I am, and I feel good about the people around me. I reject “us vs. them”. It’s just us. If I am viewed as a “them”, whether it’s true or not, so be it.

Benny and I wrap up. I go downstairs to pack, and do a couple “idiot checks” to make sure I am not leaving anything behind. And then we’re out the door, headed to our cars. “Benny! It’s so great to see you. Send me your address. I will send you some Swedish butter knives. You’ll see,” I bark in parting. And we head out, up the drive and onto the winding roads of Evergreen; Benny to join his family at the Episcopal church, and I, through the soaring cathedral of the Rockies and up to Boulder to see if I can meet up with Jolly Northrup.

I text Jolly... “Jolly!”

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regaldragonempress · 6 years

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The 1969 Easter Mass Incident

Content Warnings: Religion, food, symbolic cannibalism, symbolic gore, penis mention, Blasphemy, SO MUCH BLASPHEMY, weapons, war mention. Mind the warnings and your health always comes first. Its a HILARIOUS story, I promise.

As always, all the names have been changed to protect people’s identities. This is a long one, so Press J now if you want to skip it.

When my dad was a young man and still a practicing catholic, he participated in a small church communion that nearly got him and six other people excommunicated.

Father Patrick ran a small church outside of California Polytechnical and tended to be… rather more liberal in his interpretations of scripture than most of the church was, which made him something of a hit with the local students and liberally-inclined populace. Pat went to all manner of civil demonstrations, condemned the shit out of the vietnam war and the politics that lead to it and so on. In January of 1969 a series of incidents lead him to start exploring “nontraditional” means of holding Mass as a means of reaching out to his community and exploring his own faith, which ultimately culminated in the 1969 Easter Mass Incident.

For those of you who weren’t raised catholic, Communion is this ritual where you become one with Jesus by eating a really horrible bland wafer cookie and taking a shot of wine (called hosts), which then *literally* become the flesh and blood of jesus in your mouth, allowing him to become one with you. It’s big McFucking deal, and you have the opportunity to take communion at every mass. All this had to be explained to me second-hand because after this and Dad’s 51 days in the army, Dad decided he wouldn’t inflict religion on any children he might have in the future.

“Hey dad,” Six-year old me asked the first time he told me this story after my practicing friends were talking about getting wine at church. “Isn’t that cannibalism?”

“We’re getting to that.” He waved.

The First Incident in January when, due to a serious cock-up by the church, all the hosts Father Pat received were moldering and spoiled and probably would have killed someone if he’d actually fed anyone them. But it was the first mass of the year, when a peak number of people came in after vowing to got to church more for new year’s. He couldn’t NOT have communion.

“I’ll bake.” offered Maria, the parish secretary and probably the best baker in the county. “So we have hosts. Jesus will understand.”

Father Patrick, not one to pass up the chance at Maria’s cooking, immediately agreed.

A Host is supposed to be composed solely of unleavened wheat flour and water, which is why they taste terrible. It’s a theological point of some importance relating to Exodus or something but Maria had an important theological counterpoint: Jesus both divine and loves all his children, ergo, Jesus would neither be a nasty bland cracker nor want his children to suffer as such and so instead, she made Mexican wedding cookies.

They were a SPECTACULAR hit. Many praises were heaped upon father patrick for the Much Better Wafers and that they’d be sure to show up next week as long as Maria kept making them. Father Patrick figuring that hey, anything that gets people in the doors is good and really, if it was turning into Jesus once inside the parishioner, did it really matter what the wafers were made of? So he continued to let Maria bake the Hosts, and encouraged her to try out new flavors, like nutmeg and cinnamon.

This went on swimmingly for a few weeks until The Bishop showed up for a surprise visit the same week Maria decided to experiment with rainbow sprinkles.

Dad remembers hearing the bishop through the windows roaring “THE HOLY BODY OF CHRIST DOES! NOT! CONTAIN! RAINBOW! SPRINKLES!”

The matter went clean up to The Archbishop, who decided that while Pat was probably right to not feed spoiled hosts to his parish, he should attend some remedial classes to remember what Communion was all about, so that if it happened again, he’s come up with a more suitable substitute.

Father Patrick returned in late March, full of spite and some fascinating new ideas.

“Is this where the Cannibalism happens?” Six-year-old me asked, eager to get to the good parts.

At his remedial classes, the teacher had stressed the importance of transubstantiation, aka “That bit where the wafer and wine, Actually, Literally, become the flesh of Jesus Christ and we expect you to swallow.” Also on the syllabus was understanding the importance of Christ’s suffering and sacrifice.

“So, I was thinking about Easter Service.” Said father Patrick one afternoon while dad was doing his computer science homework at the church because his dorm was a barely-standing fire hazard and the library was where you went to have sex.

“Well, we do re-enactments for christmas. Why not on easter? Why not re-enact the crucifixion of Christ right here? Make it real for everyone. Trauma’s great for bonding a community together.”

“Who’s playing Jesus?” asked Maria, always one for a good laugh.

“That’s the thing- A Host, it doesn’t look much like flesh, right? Doesn’t look like much of anything, really. Not great for reinforcing one’s belief.

What if, instead, we- and I mean you, Maria, I can’t cook to save my life- make a man-sized loaf of bread, maybe in the shape of a T, and we have some of the boys dress up as romans and whip the bread and we pour the wine on so it’s bleeding and them- then we make a big wooden cross and actually nail the bread to it with, I don’t know, railroad spikes, more wine all over. And we raise the cross, all while telling the story of the crucifixion.”

He paused to take a drink, Maria slowly crumpling onto the floor in horrified laughter and Dad now thoroughly distracted from his homework.

“Then we lower the cross, and invite everyone who wants to take communion up to tear a hunk of Jesus off. Just descend into his corpse like vultures. I think that’d really be a good bonding experience for the church.” he nodded thoughtfully. “The hard, part, I suppose, will be finding enough romans.”

“I WANNA BE LONGINUS.” bellowed my father, barreling into the room.

And so, the plan was hatched. Dad hit up every other guy in the Church and eventually rounded up four more romans, three of them from the Education Department of Cal Poly, and one guy from Chemistry, who just liked to watch things burn.

This, being a play, naturally meant that there was a rehearsal, and test Bread jesus. Maria had decided that if they were going to start being extra-literal, she needed to make the most lifelike Bread jesus possible, and made a distressingly buff and human-proportioned Jesus by Advanced bread-braiding, complete with plaited hair, quail’s-egg-and-raisin eyes, bready muscle groups, and an eight-pack because why not make the lord completely shredded?* She also made the important theological decision that since Jesus loves everyone and was happy to die in spite of all his suffering, he should be smiling, and had a toothy corn-kernel smile. He was Wonderful and Terrifying all at once.

“Maria,” asked Father Patrick after a few minutes of delighted and horrified cooing over Jesus’ toothy grin and abdominals. “Why is he wearing a tea-towel?

“Well, he’s the Son of God. A Man. With all that entails.” She said, pointedly staring at Father Patrick while everyone stared at the suspiciously lumpy tea-towel. “And he might have… burnt, slightly.”

Everyone nodded and agreed that the tea-towel was the best course of action. The rehearsal goes splendidly and everyone agrees that this is the most delicious Jesus they’ve ever had.

Easter Sunday arrives and the Church is PACKED, from the more lapsed Catholics showing up for a high holiday, parents visiting for spring break and a whole horde of newcomers who had gotten wind that something was up and they ought to come.

Dad is a lanky as hell 21-year old composed mostly of technical jargon and acne but he is STOKED to be playing Longinus, the roman that speared Jesus on the cross, because he gets to do the BEST technical effect in the whole parade. Since he came in at the end me missed a good portion of the sermon, but did hear the “oooh” from the crowd as the massive cross was dragged in by the other Romans, followed by horrified gasps and high screams and a discernible “What the FUCK” as they brought in Bread Jesus 2.0, whipping him enthusiastically, and hammering him into the cross, the sound of wine splashing onto the floor loud in the terrified silence of that Parishioners.

Finally Father Patrick gets to the part about Longinus, and Dad comes sprinting down the aisle as hard as he can, because in order for Bread Jesus to be seen by everyone, his middle had to be about 10 feet off the ground, so Dad had to run, shrieking latin curses, down the length of the church, with a big honking spear and take a flying leap at Jesus in order to spear him in the gut.

Please take moment to imagine you are some normal god-fearing catholic who has decided to visit little bobby or maybe patricia at college and you’re all going to church together like a nice family and this Fucking madman has decided to go all Silence of the Lambs on mass and now there’s some sort of underfed translucently pale man in ill-fitting Roman armor and cape flying at a horrifying glutinous effigy of your lord and savior, with an actual fucking spear, screaming like a madman. Don’t you feel yourself drawing closer to God already? Defensively, perhaps, like an octopus trying to ooze itself into a crevice against the horrors of the ocean.

However, two things happen that were not planned on

1. Dad misses. In his defense, Bread Jesus is close to but not quite the size of a man- more like the size of a doughy teenager, and his middle is a small target 10 feet up in the air and dad is has a computer science minor, not an athletics scholarship. He misses by about 8 inches and instead very solidly stabs Bread Jesus right through the groin, leaving a big hole in Maria’s tea-towel and the spear jutting out at a decidedly… attentive angle, as Bread Jesus’s Bread Dick drops to the floor with a splat. Nobody notices this, however because

2. In rehearsal, Dad had managed to get the spear right in jesus’s navel but neither Father Patrick nor the other romans could get the wine up there to make his middle appropriately bloodied.

Maria come up with the Genius solution that since wine is made of grapes and Jam is made of grapes, she could make a jelly-filled Jesus for Dad to stab. There was a normal-sized test loaf and when dad stabbed it on the table, it had a nicely gooey dribbling effect.

However, this time the loaf was torso-sized, still hot from the oven and upright, so when dad speared the very end of the loaf, all the steam-pressured jam had collected at the bottom and a spray of lukewarm smuckers exploded out from bread jesus, turning the first three pews into a splash zone of symbolic entrails.

There was a hot, sticky minute of complete silence in the church after that.

Then, Father Patrick indicated it was time for the cross to be lowered, and continued on with the normal preparations of the Host, he himself covered in hot smuckers, as though nothing particularly ordinary was occuring, quietly kicking the bread-dick under the altar. At the end of it all, Father Patrick and invited everyone up with the Last Oration:

“Thou, O God, has kindly allowed us to have a part in this Holy Sacrifice; for this we give Thee thanks. Accept it now to Thy glory and be ever mindful of our weakness. Amen.”

…And everybody came up, shuffling like terrified zombies, pinching off tiny bits at first but then the madness took them and they began tearing apart bread jesus by the handful, weeping as they partook, scattered prayers and begging for forgiveness. The whole congregation was kneeling about the altar, tearful and united in their guilt and their need for God.

“IS CHURCH ALWAYS LIKE THAT?” six-year-old me asked, absolutely stoked. I’d convert on the spot if I got a show like that.

“No, it’s normally bland wafers and lots of chanting in latin.”

“Well that’s boring as hell.” I remember muttering and Dad snorting the coffee he was drinking out of his nose.

As people filed silently out of the Church to a gloriously sunny California afternoon, faces wan and smeared with wine and jam, Father patrick turned to Maria and asked “You don’t think that was too much, do you?”

“No.” Said Maria with a sarcastic deadpan so intense it was hard to tell from sincerity.

It was the exact same tone she used when the Archbishop and Six other high clergy showed up, clutching a letter someone had written, Livid and almost foaming at the mouth, demanding to know if such blasphemy had transpired.

“No. That’s crazy.” She said, staring down the archbishop like he was an idiot.

“Such imaginations some people have!” Said Father Patrick, much less convincingly.

“And you- you didn’t… Spear an effigy of our lord and savior?” the archbishop demanded of my father.

“Do I look like I can jump that high?” Dad asked, having in the interim been drafted for 51 days then nearly died of pneumonia from it, and therefore no longer afraid of the Church, the Law or God.

Somewhat relieved that he’d only received the extremely detailed ramblings of a doddering parishioner, the Archbishop sat down and complemented Maria on her most excellent Mexican Wedding Cookies, may he please have another plate for his nerves? Perhaps the ones with sprinkles?

Dad went on to help build the internet, Father Patrick converted to Buddhism and Maria became a Nun.

*For those of you wondering, Jesus was made of Challah.

If you got a laugh out of this, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi or Paypal, as telling stories on the internet is my only source of income right now. Thank you very much and I hope you enjoyed it!

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noldorinsherlock · 5 years

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Reposting from my main but here’s my thoughts on water in the films we’ve been watching in my Spanish class. Not really relevant to Sherlock, but the water=emotion thing did influence my thinking somewhat and I’ve concluded that the water/emotion connection goes further than just being a motif in Sherlock.

So to start with, the three main films I’m talking about are Y Tu Mamá También, Krampack (Nico y Dani), and Sueño en Otro Idioma. What these films have in common is that they range from kind of to very gay, and I guess I have no idea why my professor decided to do this but I’m also not complaining. These films also all use water as a recurring motif, especially the ocean. In all three, the ocean is a place of youthful summer exuberance, especially for lovers. It’s a place of freedom - in Sueño, it is at the beach and in the water that the two young men can kiss and be openly affectionate - returning to the normal world, social disapproval and the Catholic church scare one of them (Evaristo) into rejecting and denouncing the other (Isauro), causing a 50 year rift between them. Likewise, in Krampack the ocean and water in general is used to convey freedom and intimacy, as the four central teenagers play around in the water. And while I didn’t watch all of Y Tu Mamá, class discussion made it clear that the pattern holds there too. Moral of the story is, you can be gay in the ocean I guess? Say rather the ocean represents idealism, a paradise isolated from the rest of the world.

In Y Tu Mamá, swimming pools also recur throughout the movie and are something of a counterpoint to the ocean. At the beginning, the two teenage boys (Julio and Tenoch) spend certain afternoons swimming at this exclusive rich people resort while it’s closed for maintenance, because Tenoch has access because his father is rich. The pool there is huge, pristine, and screams money and privilege. That pool represents the bubble these kids live in - theyve never faced any real difficulty or emotional upheaval, they’re basically just here to mess around and have a good time. (Also they’ve definitely got unresolved sexual tension between them but at this point in the movie it remains subtext, although the scenes at the pool hint at it). Later in the movie, once they go on the road and get into a fight over a woman they both want to sleep with, they end up in some random hotel pool - small, unimpressive, and covered in leaves. The world isn’t an uncomplicated bubble anymore! They’re at a low point in their friendship, and the pool reflects this - the water is full of dirt and ugliness, just like their emotions towards each other. Whereas once they reach the ocean, they’ve worked out some of their interpersonal problems and can return to having fun in the water together (it is also around this time that they have a threesome of some sort with the aforementioned woman and apparently make out a bunch, idk I didn’t watch this far).

Returning to Sueño, we see this idea of water as emotion further fleshed out. One of the characters (Evaristo’s granddaughter) is literally named Lluvia, meaning rain. There are rain storms at several key points in the movie, tying together themes of love, death, and grief. Furthermore, in the movie, whenever one of the Zikril people dies, a river is heard throughout the whole village, again representing grief, death and life or rebirth, as the Zikril believe that the dead continue to live on in a land called The Enchantment. Nor is it an accident that the conflict between Isauro and Evaristo took place on the beach all those years ago - that conflict is a paradise lost, so to speak (with respect to their previous happiness), an association further supported by the religious imagery of Jesus bleeding on the cross that terrifies Evaristo into repressing his love for Isauro.

Interestingly, the fourth movie we watched, Roma, also represents water as emotion but in a slightly more negative context. In Roma, the ocean does not represent paradise like in the other movies, but rather is a place of danger - two of the children nearly drown, and the main character Cleo must wade in to rescue them despite not knowing how to swim herself. It is not an accident that this scene takes place immediately after the childrens’ mother tells them their father has abandoned the family: here, water represents emotion but in a negative sense. The children are literally submerged in the water even as they are figuratively submerged in feelings of loss, abandonment, and confusion. And Cleo doesn’t know how to swim - she doesn’t know how to navigate her own emotional ocean of giving birth to a stillborn child she didn’t really want in the first place and whose father turned out to be a violent jerk who abandoned her at the first opportunity. But all three of them make it out alive, in the end.

TL;DR water represents emotion and ties together complex emotional experiences in the films we watched in class, but my peers cannot stop harping on the idea that it represents “fluid sexuality” because gay people must automatically be “sexually fluid” right?

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lorettalivingston6911 · 6 years

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Two Additional Women Speak Out About 'Predator' R. Kelly's Alleged Sexually Abusive Ways!

I look younger now than when I was in my early 20s

There's a reason the Time's Up initiative is coming for R. Kelly!

As you surely know, the hitmaker has been hit with several accusations of sexual misconduct, as he's said to run a sex cult out of his homes in Chicago and Atlanta. Although the Ignition singer has denied the troubling allegations brought against him, two more women have spoken out about the 51-year-old's predatory ways.

Related: Russell Simmons Isn't "Too Angry" About The Rape Allegations

While the women had different experiences with Kelly, they're each claiming they've witnessed first hand the abuse he's inflicted on others. The first claim comes from Lizzette Martinez, a woman who claims R. Kelly took her virginity at 17. In an interview with BuzzFeed News, Martinez says her relationship with Kelly started in the winter of 1995, after first meeting the chart topper at a Miami mall.

Per Lizzette, the then 28-year-old celebrity knew she was underage at the time of their meeting. Their relationship lasted until early 1999, but it wasn't a pleasant romance. Reportedly, R. Kelly hit the young woman on five occasions and pressured her to engage in sexual acts against her will.

On her first encounter with Kelly, Martinez recalled:

"I was at the mall with my girlfriend, and I was an aspiring singer in an R&B group, so I knew of him. I followed music, and I saw him with a really tall guy, maybe 7 feet tall, and I said to my friend, ‘Oh, that's R. Kelly.' I guess he overheard me, and he came over and gave me a hug, and I was kind of stunned. Then he walked away, and his bodyguard came and gave me his phone number."

Lizzette later had a sit down with Kelly at an Outback Steakhouse. The meeting was attended by the artist's bodyguard and then manager Barry Hankerson. In case you were unaware, Hankerson was Aaliyah's uncle -- yes, the very same Aaliyah that Kelly illegally wed in 1994.

Apparently, Martinez asked about the Aaliyah scandal, to which Kelly replied:

"You can't believe everything you read."

Dodging responsibility since the '90s. Smh.

At first, Lizzette and Kelly's connection seemed to be a professional one. Their second meeting took place a music studio, where Lizzette displayed her musical abilities. Still, within the first month, things became sexual between Kelly and the aspiring singer:

"The first time I had sex with him there was a party going. Some of his crew gave me alcohol and I was drunk basically when we had sex...

It's really difficult for me… I had stars in my eyes. I came from a home where — it was a broken home, I didn't have a lot of support from my family, and for me, I wanted to make it, you know? I mean, 17 — I have a daughter now that's 18. You know, she's a kid. I was, like, really naive, really innocent."

Poor thing. To make matters worse, per Lizzette, her life with Kelly was "very controlled." In addition to telling her how to dress and who she could hang out with, Martinez says she was pressured to engage in sexual activity that made her uncomfortable:

"I did these things, and I felt like it was always — he was directing stuff. You know, it felt really weird. He was really overbearing… I'm like, ‘I don't want to do that.' But he has a way with people, with women. He's just so controlling, so abusive."

That seems to be the reoccurring theme in all of these allegations. Lizzette says she was trapped in "a typical domestic abusive relationship," but struggled to see it as it was the "first relationship in [her] life." Things took a turn for the worse when Martinez became pregnant with Kelly's baby. The extremely Catholic Lizzette was distraught when Kelly requested she have an abortion.

Ultimately, the woman miscarried, something she believes is "for the best." Lizzette was later hospitalized after Kelly gave her mononucleosis. In response to the health scare, Kelly wrote Lizzette's mother a $1,000 check. Martinez left Kelly not long after she recovered:

"I was really hurt. I was damaged. I didn't want to do music anymore. I kind of gave up on my dreams. I wanted to live a normal life. I was too young to go through those things."

Oof. We can't even begin to imagine the toll this had on her psyche.

On what she's thinks of Kelly now, Lizzette expressed:

"I see Robert as a child still. He's a grown man, obviously. He's 51. But I don't think he ever grew up. I don't know if that makes sense to you. I see him as childlike, but he's a predator."

Related: 27 More Women Accuse Charlie Rose Of Sexual Misconduct

The second claim comes from a mother, named Michelle, who says her daughter (referred to only as N.) is a current victim of Kelly's sex cult. According to Michelle, the A-lister began a relationship with N. when she was 17:

"Being silent is not the answer, so I said, ‘It's time.' I want my child home."

It's said that the Chicago-based mother of three has been in contact with other outraged parents, whose children have also been allegedly victimized by the industry powerhouse. Michelle is convinced that her daughter is "brainwashed," as she hasn't spoken to N. in three months and believes her flesh-and-blood is in trouble:

"I don't know what hold he has on her, but her last words to me was, ‘Don't ever give up on me.'"

Currently, despite the many complaints made by supposed victims' loved ones, no action has been taken by local law enforcers in Illinois or Georgia. As for the FBI, they will not confirm nor deny that there's investigation against the music icon.

Michelle's concern is certainly valid, as back in 2017, Jerhonda Pace broke her NDA with the singer as she was concerned about N.'s safety. As Pace has detailed it, she and N. were R. Kelly "super fans" and were lured into an abusive life under Kelly's care. At first, N. lied about the sexual relationship she and Jerhonda had with Kelly.

Michelle relayed:

"She was working at McDonald's like any teenage girl would. I remember coming home from work one day, and this random girl was there at my house. I'm like, ‘Who is this?' And she said, ‘Oh, this is Jerhonda. I know her from school.' So they had their little lie planned out."

Eventually, Michelle was informed about the relationship, as another one of N.'s friends told her about the situation. N.'s mother did call the police on Kelly, but according to Pace, the singer ordered them to hide and did not let the authorities into his home. Former police chief Jeff Chudwin previously stated that "no crime" was apparent and so he chose to close the matter.

N. tried to squash her mother's concerns by telling her that Kelly had offered her a job as a personal assistant. By mid-2014, N. announced that she was moving to Atlanta with Kelly. This didn't illicit any concern in Michelle, as N. always came home for the holidays and (prior to the move) could always get her daughter on the phone.

Sadly, things changed after N. moved. Not only did Kelly give N. a phone where Michelle couldn't reach her, but N.'s visit became more infrequent:

"The last time I saw her was the summer of 2016… I didn't know she was in town, and one day she had an earache or something, and she called me and told me to meet her at Northwestern Hospital. That was actually the last time I seen her — I want to say, like, Aug. 13, 2016. ...

I don't have no number for her. Anytime I need to talk to her, I have to go through [Kelly], and then he'll say, ‘Oh, she's at the mall. She's busy.' And one time I asked him — he FaceTimed me, and I said, ‘Why you ain't letting my daughter come home?' And he was like, ‘She don't want to come home.' Nigger, you're a liar! Anybody knows me and my daughter, we are best friends, like literally, you know?"

In an attempt to get Kelly's attention, Michelle says she sent him several of his own songs -- including When a Woman's Fed Up, The Storm Is Over Now, When a Man Lies, Prayer Changes. N. responded to this message by demanding that her mother stop "threatening" Kelly.

Apparently, Michelle spoke to the FBI in September, but has yet to hear anything since. Understandably, Michelle feels that "enough is enough" and has the following message for R. Kelly:

"Ain't nothing in your life going to go right until you let these girls go home and face your judge, your maker."

Snap! Snap!

We're sure this is only the beginning of what's to be a very big controversy for R. Kelly. Be sure to stay tuned for any and all updates.

[Image via WENN.]

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