When Yaweh advanced into Ezekiel in the form of penetration, the four wings of the chariot became instantly erect and bloodshot and then fell directly into limpness: violated prey shot by the gibbering hunter. The four live animals (man included) that were previously sprawled beneath the bronze base of the chariot in servitude to it shook until their vestments fizzled off them.
The enforced baring of beasts does not make them feel respectable; animals don’t like to have their hair removed. Hair is a part of the body of a beast for a reason: it protects. How can beasts be expected to behave in the manner in which they were previously commanded when the commander takes identity away from them? This is the threshold where chaos ensues. This is battalion: the rebellion of the rue. As he attempts to walk away, the man’s feet suddenly de-materialize from beneath him.
How are we to serve when the shapely appearance of the divine in a form reverts our evolutions and advancements? How am I to ever walk the lonely miles of the vale of bones and schisms if the very feet on which I would walk have been taken from me? I am not a miracle worker. I can’t walk many miles on these stumps, and, even if I tried, the rising tide of the dead might flash through the desert as a flood: drown me in my effort.
Frankly, projections of a harlot over my homeland hurt my feelings. They do not enable me to offer the best parts of my vision to the work at hand. Couldn’t Yaweh have just given me a little tenderness? The caress of a mother would do. A prophet is, after all, a version of a human. Humans have needs. Keep in mind that my nuances are apteral. If my wife suddenly croaked, after divine pronunciation that this would occur, I would be hard pressed to not shake my fist at the once dry sky: teeth clenched as the water engorges. The water is now up to my thighs.
Ezekiel is a hamster, spinning his wheels in a graphic design that is, in fact, not rotating with him. Imagine the exhaustion: around and around in the inside of a stilled, prismatic wheel. You could pass by many lifetimes like that, staring into the starry pupils that froth on the rims, sole witness to the baring of the teeth and those terrifying eyes.
When I learned to inaugurate merge, I knew approximation as a valid method of worship. Approximations of the divine fatten wonder. I prefer approximation because it just might be an approach that the divine and I could share in. If we both approximate, will the hue be diverse enough to hold us both? Will it enable equality rather than keeping only one of us in our place?
An apocalyptic soothsayer prefers. I spin with the thing meant to spin. I spin over towing the line. Compliance only gets you so far in a meadow that no longer bears anything green. Even the grass looks brittle here. Green’s bones are too exposed for existence to not feel eerie. I suppose that eerie has now become a way of life: fractional organic by which I must now live.
Originally posted at Berfrois
j/j hastain is a collaborator, writer and maker of things. j/j performs ceremonial gore. Chasing and courting the animate and potentially enlivening decay that exists between seer and singer, j/j, simply, hopes to make the god/dess of stone moan and nod deeply through the waxing and waning seasons of the moon.