falling away with you

More ranting... have been doing an awful lot of late. If you are really keen on the Catholic Church or are easily upset by profanity, I advise you NOT to read on.

2.00 am on a saturnsday morning. Saturn, of course, being the roman god of the hearth but more specifically Cronos, from whom he was adopted, chief of the titans before they were overthrown by the gods. It was foretold that one day his children would kill him, so naturally he ate them all whole, but his wife Rhea (the original earth goddess, prior to Gaia, also Greek) fed him a stone wrapped in swaddling clothes and Zeus was raised by the centaur Chiron on far away Crete. Until he was fully grown, at which point he fed his father a potion to make him vomit up his brothers – Poseidon and Hades. There was a war between titans and gods… the gods won and the sea was given to Poseidon, the sky to Zeus, and the underworld to Hades. Then it gets complicated, but anyway that’s why we have Saturday. He was also considered a god specifically of corn so we should all eat our corn flakes on the weekend.
Though I think Cronosday would be better since the Greeks came up with it not the Romans.
Gentle light and soft chords in the night. I hereby celebrate Cronosday by eating a clonazepam. Also the feast of Saturnalia was held um lessee EXACTLY AT CHRISTMAS TIME. Which was settled on as Christ’s birth 450 years AD. I can’t imagine such a time. Such chaos and devotion, idea after idea held to the point of death, of torture, by so very, very many. The martyr’s courage does not lose its sadness nor power because I do not believe in its cause. It gains pathos, but it becomes something so exceptionally, harshly sad. From Christ’s first sacrifice. So sad. Peter crucified upside down as he felt unworthy to emulate Christ. Paul offering his neck to the sword. James the great beheaded at the same time as his recanting accuser, offering the cups of their blood and skulls to the lord.

I hate this I hate to make this comparison. It is NOT a comparison but it runs lines similar sleek with pain and luminous with symbology to the point of swelling my mind with twists and flinches at the thought of such violence. Remember 1984? The book; Orwell, not the year with the ra ra skirts and torn stonewash and mullets and the school beatings. No, Orwell, who had typed out the last words of the novel in a shack in the far Hebrides without power or hot water in the freezing winter while he slid and coughed and hacked and typed and died from pneumonia.
There was a scene. I shall never forget. I shall NEVER FORGET. After torture, true torture, absolute and requisite with blood and personalised horrors… Winston Smith is asked what two plus two is. He answers “four” and is tortured. He is asked again. He answers “five” and is tortured and tortured. He tries many combinations of numbers to escape his fear; his real pain. The torture continues, is intensified. Winston Smith is beginning to lose his mind.
Finally when asked what two plus two equals, he screams out “WHATEVER YOU WANT IT TO BE”. And he is free.