That’s me, to the core.
I used to want to believe that I was a good man, a good man with bad traits or a lost soul who has no clue searching for the truth. But sadly, that not true. I’m just a bad reverend with spit and vinegar running through his veins instead of love and light. The plain and simple fact is….that’s how it’s always been. Spit and vinegar has run through my families veins for millennia.
So you ask;
“Well rev, what brings this up? Why now are you coming clean with us now after all of these years”?
As of late, a few readers have told me how much they love my florid sermons. The ones with deep thoughts and no cursing. The ones where I use the English language to its fullest, it’s most eloquent forms. Where I bathe in the luxury of language. But that’s not me really. That’s just me trying to be someone else.
I am a Brutalist. (Look it up)
I read flowery posts from folks and I want to throw up. I find the “California hug” insufferable. I eschew vapid emotional outbursts for the sake of showing the community that you care, that you’re in love……
I take pride in that as well. As fucked up as it is it’s true. My veneer of concrete will never be broken.
A true story:
In a different lifetime, I had a girlfriend who had many sisters. One of the sisters had a young son who had some emotional issues at the time. I need to point out before I resume, that this child has turned out to be a wonderful man who is kind and responsible. The goddess would be pleased and proud.
As I was saying the child had a few issues and was prone to fantastically overblown outbursts of anger. Now his mom would do her best to help the child, but as it takes with some folks, time and wisdom were needed to be present to help him make the changes needed to become the man he is today.
We went out to dinner one night, some place where they still had those wonderful comfy booths back to back and Killer (we used to call him “Killer”) was having a hard time at dinner when all of a sudden he sat up, turned around on his knees facing the booth behind and at the top of his lungs with machine gun precision shouted out; “FUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOU”.
He turned back around and sat quietly for the rest of the meal.
Needless to say everyone was horrified: everyone but me. I was rolling in the aisles almost breathless from laughing so hard. The table behind us was in a state of disarray and disbelief. It looked like the Caribbean after hurricane Irma! The man’s toupee was in his pasta, bowls were overturned, clothes strewn everywhere, children were crying and the mother was shouting something at us which sounded like English, but I couldn’t really hear her over the sound of my own laughter. But from then on, every so often, Killer would let the fuck you’s rip, always out of nowhere, always when he couldn’t find the right words.
Now back to the blog:
I have never let go of Killer in my head. When I read those flowery posts I think FUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOU as if he was right next to me in that booth, both of us on our knees screaming. When someone whom I don’t really like or even know comes up to me and tries to hug me I think; FUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOU.
I can’t help it, lord knows I’ve tried but it comes soaring out of the back of my mind with ballistic speeds.
I, of course, respond in reality with all of the proper decorum one should have, let alone someone who pretends to be a man of the cloth. I use the correct “like buttons” on Facebook or nod my head and smile that inane vapid smile. I make the small talk that says “I’m here making contact” but am actually sitting with Killer in that booth. I try to get away as fast as possible from the hug but when cornered I allow it to happen.
Still I hear Killer, screaming-not knowing what he’s doing is socially wrong. Not knowing that in one moment he is breaking apart long-standing traditions of grace and decorum.
Sometimes it’s the only thing that conveys the correct emotion.
I’m a Brutalist and I call it as I see it.