Feeling flat
God, I feel flat.The scintillations have all shimmered off,the fibrillations have decelerated,the fabulations gone to spin and drivel.My plain is sandy, desert-brown —goannas lie in shade of boulders;do they live or die? Do I?
I feel God is flat.He craves our jubilation — but we miss his:celestial festivities have lost their funding,concelebrations only at committee stage.Heaven's up for lease or purchase,the sales pitch unconvincing,why bother moving in? God feels I am flat.He knows I've tried his energising programs,his wordy Word, still in black and white,saw me merely startled by the trumpet voice.He can spot apathy a mile off —trouble is, he shares it,and empathy's no comfort. God and I are on the couch.The finest counsellors have offered help,comforters brought rugs and camomile;spilling all has left us vacant.But if God has lost his touchwho on earth can counsel him?We might as well get used to feeling flat.
Counting my blessings I count my blessings at the end of day,and if I'm short, or void, I do the negatives:Lord, I thank you that you held back rainfor Sammy's picnic, and we did not feud —it's the best that can be said for it.No suicidal bombings featured in the news;no scandal rocked the city, not today. I did not surrender to vainglory, envy, pride,nothing in that line need be confessed;I did not pig out on muesli or warm salad,there was no malice in my talk, or very little —I may have slipped, in speaking of that dinnerwhen infidelities were breathlessly revealed —need I confess, or merely ask indulgence? No earthquake shook the Philippines,nor Japan, New Zealand, Mexico;bushfires did not roar through our brown land,the sea devoured no beachside mansions.The nations did not rage togetherany more than usual, at least,whales and rhinos had an easy day. And you, Lord, did not cast us outin any obvious way. From your silencewe assume your love and fatherly concern.At number 12, nothing in fact happenedto disrupt our comfortable ways.We praise you, Lord, for quiet nightsand days of limited enthusiasm.
No sex please, we're praying In prayer, our minds are sex-free, let us hope;our thoughts of God do not include the body,his or ours, svelte or chunky,erotic perfume should be undetectable,ditto the sense of orgiastic writhingsent down to us from digital porn heaven. That's hell, in fact — I've been there;Hieronymus would have drawn it well,the actors having extra sex organs.They would not know the gentle joy of