Our Father

November 25, 2008

by Cathy Borders

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Our Father, who ar(en’)t in Heaven.

God? Are you there God? It’s me, D.M.

Wait…. Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been….three-no-four years since my last confession. I’m not sure I needed that, I’m not sure I’m confessing. I’m scared. This is what I do when I’m scared. But I haven’t been scared in a while, well, not scared enough to do this. I mean, I haven’t been alone and scared, and without Xanax, in a while. But I feel like I can’t ask you for anything unless I confess. And there are loads of things I feel bad about. Shit.…

Loads. I feel bad talking to you. I don’t really believe in you. I’ve always been told you’re there, just there, here, all the time. At first I accepted it. Why not? But then, as I got older, studied, thought about some things, the probability of you seemed less likely. Now I feel pathetic. Like this is a return to you, tail between my legs, and I know I’m not really returning. I don’t even know what I’m returning to. I can’t imagine you. I can, but it’s not you. It’s that eyeless, foreheadless, image of you from the white beard down, in a white robe, being you, on a cloud, in the clouds, with gold tassels and Birkenstocks. It’s a cartoon rendition of you. But I don’t think things were always this way. At some point, very, very early on I melded you with my father. Yeah.…it was that scolding thing, and that the throwing me into Hell thing. But then Daddy stopped scolding me. I grew up. Now I can’t really get into trouble with him. And I realized I can’t with you either, (well not with you now) just myself. I mean, the Super Ego and all…. I never liked that image of you, as my father, or as a partially decapitated cartoon. I started believing all religions were one. You had many personalities, many faces, but it’s hard to talk to you as a Siamese twin, well, multiply that by ten, or something. It’s best to picture you headless, since I guess it’s a sin to give you a face, because you’re all faces, but of course I give you my father’s. He kind of looks like me, and of course, I’m supposed to want to fuck him, not consciously, Electra Complex, and since I can’t do that, or acquire a penis, I want a baby. But that’s neither here nor there, really, it just explains the desire to turn you into my father. Because you’re supposed to penetrate me right? Whisper sweet nothings into my ear and impregnate me? How come you don’t touch people anymore? Reveal yourself? Burn a bush?

Shit. I’m getting hostile. I didn’t mean that. I really wanted to talk. I’m frightened. It’s just hard when I don’t know who I’m talking to, and I can’t talk to my father right now. Which isn’t the reason I’m talking to you. I guess I could call him, but it’s very late, and I know he’s sleeping. I can’t call anyone right now. Hence….

I’m blanking out. I feel guilty. I’ve been silently saying this all along, silently thinking it, but I know you can hear me. I know you can hear my thoughts. Who prays out loud anyway?

There is nothing here. Nothing at all. I’m

lying, I’m sure you know. Let me collect my thoughts. Wait. Let me put them into words.

….

 

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