Boum

“But suddenly, at the edge of her mind, Religion appeared, poor little talkative Christianity, and she knew that all its divine words from ‘Let there be light’ to ‘It is finished’ only amounted to ‘boum.’” – E.M Forster, A Passage to India.

I suppose love was there once. In amongst the politics and the prejudices and the rules of admission. Love had pride of place once, actually—in the middle the mantelpiece, in the centre of the table, at the head of the bed. But love didn’t quite answer all of the questions, you see. Love was quiet, unassuming. In the end it headed into a corner to wait silently until it was noticed. I think love was eventually swept under the carpet.

It’s still there waiting, actually. There’s a few people who know where it’s hiding. They drag it out every now and then, put it on parade, throw it a party, put some of it to good use. Those who aren’t quite sure where it went try to recreate it—paint a portrait, make a sculpture. They grind it into a powder and put it on their faces, in their hair. They sprinkle it on their skin, they ingest it.

I heard that love can be found in a book, in black ink on white pages. Yes, love lies dormant in print. Edited, compiled, reworded, translated. But love has never mixed very well with black and white. It’s too colorful, takes some getting used to. If love was a fruit, it might be an apple (versatile: green, yellow, a hundred shades of red). But the black print says the apple was loves downfall. The man says it was the woman.

Ah, the woman. She is the virgin or the whore; Mary or Delilah. She is sexless or sex; the white veil or black heart. But I am blue in the cold and pink in the heat. I brown under the sun and when I’m sick I am green. Who can tie me up in a neat little box now? My paper is torn and my string unravelled.

(I’m afraid I’ve lost the end, and I can’t quite remember where it began.)

“Oh! That’s right.” It began with the man. The man on a Monday, in a suburb not a few blocks from here. The man who promises to take all my pain away with some hefty books, a few hard talks and a mustard seed of faith. He’s always there—in the street, near the cafe’s. Felt bible in hand, bony skull as hard-set as the thoughts inside; “do you know where you’re going?”

The man’s at the podium, shaking hands, weilding words. On Wednesday he’s a black suit, a white shirt (you know the one I mean). He fits into the squares like words fit into verses. On friday it’s the gym; pumping iron, sweat like drops of blood.Strength of muscle and bone, peppered with arrogance, salted with power.

But there’s only one man, you say to me. One man—one love. Yes, against remarkable odds. Love exists only in one culture’s history. One man who came at one time to one place. For those already dead? For those across the world who could not know it? To those of another race, another tongue, to those of anotherGod?

Oh, I’ve tried to argue. But you are a file-o-fax of every inadequate Sunday School answer I’ve ever heard. Your without choice and without room for grey. You are a veritable cathedral of right. There are no chinks in the armour. Your boundaries are established and your cases closed.

And you only tell me I’m not quite right in the head. I am not quite right; my hair is too short and clothes too tight and the devil’s face is too close to my pillow. I use words that don’t exist in your dictionary and my eyes cannot see right from wrong. Oh, I can’t make it easy for you. I am outside the parameters. I am outside your mythical garden and your nuclear family. Outside your binaries, and generally out of order.

I suppose love existed once. But it was not in that mythical garden or that black and white text. It was not without colour or choice or valid opinion. It was not without women or gays or Muslims or atheists. And it did not come from the father.