All of you. All your fear. I lie, inasmuch as I don’t know the truth. Inasmuch as everything I say is some dialogue of script I’ve written moments before, seconds before, split microframes of life before speaking it. And I mean it. At the time. But it all fades. Truth is ephemeral. It’s a whisper misheard and repeated with mutations and twisted with prerogatives and turned into hateful resentment. I’m drinking now, and I’m posting publicly. Now, I know this...
My father kept a picture of Jesus on the console of his car. It was the Anglo Jesus we Americans raised as Christians know so well, with the soft flaxen locks and the blue eyes. This was after the divorce, and I remember seeing the picture there and asking him about it on one of his weekend visits. It was to remind him that “God is his co-pilot.” He wasn’t always a Christian. I have vague memories of him explicitly...
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