Hose on a Indie Heist.

I’m heading into Holy Week (Passion Week, whatever you call it), and I still have a shard embedded in my heart.  My heart has been shardened.  Take that, ol’ Pharaoh.

I guess I must be Bruce.  That’s how the post begins.  But we’re so tired of the actors today.  Don’t ask who’s playing me.

I reach up to my chest, while looking down at it, and see that it is now a scar.  No dried blood anymore, but still a nasty scar.  If it run my fingers along the scar, it feels rough, almost scaly.  Scales.  Yeah, why not?  I’ll think of it today as something that I have to scale.  Climbing, but also attenuating in its intensity, “scaling back.”

Ah, but there’s the point of the “heading into Holy Week” part, it would seem.  It’s not I who can scale, or scale back.  I (or someone in the selfsystem) talked to someone else about prayer, and it came easy (because it was not about me) to talk about prayer being so much more than asking G-d for help.  (Sorry, I’m feeling Jewish as well as Catholic this week, because there’s truth every damn where.)  It may be telling G-d that I’m not inclined to ask for help, and then leaving open the possibility that I need G-d’s help with that.

Sometimes it might just be not asking anything, but being here, with G-d here too, and just saying “OK, here I am.  Don’t want help, but neither am I running.  Here I am.”

I lightly stroke my scar again.  I tug at it just a bit.  Sure enough, blood begins seeping.  It will not completely heal.  Not by itself.

Not by myself.

Not myself.

Why have you forsaken me?

Where the hell is anyone else?  I’m on my knees on hard, arid ground.  There is shit nearby, scattered on the ground.  Droppings from an animal.

And palm leaves.  Palm leaves on the ground along a path that the animal must have followed.  But no one else is here now.

No.  Not.  Negation.  Eyes close.  Blot out.  Not here.

I wait with my eyes closed, and notice after a moment or two that I’m trembling.  “Sometimes it causes me to tremble…”

I drop my hand and feel the ground without opening my eyes.  It’s sand now.

On my left, the sound of lapping water.

The fucking beach.

I still keep my eyes closed, and wait some more.  No change.

Finally, I speak.  “Okay, here I am.  I guess I don’t want help.  But I guess I do.”

No response, of course.  Not audible, anyway.

“Here I am.”

I’m guessing I have to wait a few days.  Gently stroking my wound.  Still bearing the name ‘Bruce.’

For now.

Why have I forsaken me?

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