All One Horse

bones of god

We are trying so hard to get this place ready in time, to make it empty. We scrub the floor, whitewash the walls, clean the windows, polish the mirrors. We know we must clear the space, make it sane, if we wish to entice and to trap the presence of the Supernatural. And we wish it so. Had there been furniture we would even have roped these to the ceiling. The state of expectation is always preceded by the process of cleaning, and both devolve from the condition of emptiness. We are waiting for the fullness of time. When this thing is suddenly there.

Lord Alone knows from where. It is horrible, huge, green, objectionable, obstructive, flailing around because it seems to be maimed or incomplete, lacking a mandible or a few limbs, like an enormous broken intromittent organ, outsize ma non troppo. It must be of the locusta species, though not loquacious, but bigger than either lobster or locust, with a head reminiscent of the size and shape of the horse’s. This one is glass-like and eyeless. Is it a visitation? It is only too real. An iconoclast then? A defacer, eraser, barbarian? Can it be a parasite? An insect by figure of speech? The imago? Bug? Louse? Nit? Maggot? Earwig? Mite? Weevil? Ant? Termite? Horse? Pest? Groping grasshopper? Cicada? Cricket? A guzzler in other words? A gormandizer? Vulture? Hog? Trencherman? Pantophagist? A belly-god? Limbless Lucullus? Or is it on the other hand? A mantis? A kind of orthopterous heirophant, munshi, initiator, mystagogue? A sort of monstrous coryphaeus which will devour the inmate hard after the joyride?

Ah, we break our heads but we can come to no understanding except that it is horrendous, of another intelligence because of no intelligence perceivable by us, perhaps a computer in wild screaming revolt, and in the way. We must get it out of the way if we wish to continue. And we so wish it.

So, with great trouble, using sharp pens, we manage to bundle it into the broom-locker. We bar and lock the door: from behind the partition or the page we can hear the thumping and the sounds of shivering. How very tiring.

By the way, that night we dream. We dream that some One has come to our Place to explain. In our dream we shed tears of humble understanding.

How can we believe our eyes when we wake up? In the mirrors there are many grey drawings of the mantis explaining all, divulging the sequences, showing where the Word comes from and whence the Silence. There are no secrets, ever; only their intimate reflections. The sun is so bright that it must refract all light. A drawing is always in the present tense.

Then we comprehend that we didn’t comprehend, that is all. It is quiet behind the door, no more scratching or other life or lifelike ness. And we are in heaven. So glad, so glad. We now know we have the sacred Hompus lompus in the cupboard. We shall make of the cell a sanctuary. From far and wide, pilgrims will come to prostrate themselves before the absent bones of God.