Since coming of legal age, she had voted her conscience, though this time, she knew it wasn’t so important that others knew why she voted the way she did, but that she knew why, & she needed to justify to no one of her reasons, which were her own. In remembrance of a life well-lived, she recalled her grandpa’s words when someone had asked who he was voting for, & he had said, without apology & without hesitation, “None of your damn business.” She realized then that just as everyone had a right to their opinion, no one had a right to hers.
When she’d been LDS— a Molly Mormon on the outside & some kind of nondenominational, free-spirited Christian on the inside— she’d had friends, good & plenty, but when she’d lost her testimony of Joseph Smith & returned to her Protestant roots, she reclaimed her creativity. When she went back to school at a liberal arts college, where she was often the red elephant in a room full of donkeys in varying shades of blue, she realized that the life she was living wasn’t a remake but rather, a sequel.
Her view of herself was such that she felt most comfortable when she stood behind her words. His view of himself was such that he felt most comfortable when everyone stood in front to hear him speak those words. She felt like a silent ventriloquist, a Wizard of Oz who made the dummy come alive, even as he felt like he was the ideal receptacle for such pep rally rah-rahing that made them believe that if he won, they all won.
When Lily Bedletter ran for political office, her private life was made public— her divorce, her bankruptcy, her emotionally-Facebook posts— even the two black eyes she’d given Susan So-and-So way back in third grade. The voters made their judgements— not by casting stones at her, but by casting ballots against her, for they knew so much less about her opponent, and the less they knew, the less they could dislike.
She blurred him from every record, burned every photograph, the ink dripping off the page, mixing with the ashes at her feet, but it wasn’t till he returned to the earth in a pile of dust, that she was able to breathe it all back in.
One man discusses climate change, the other, pro-life policies. Two futures—imminent & distant— the former, having affected his ancestors, the latter, his descendants.
It was a book of drunken incest, & admonitions for slaves to obey their cruel taskmasters. There was the genocide of children– rainbow promises that never again would God destroy the earth with a flood, but rather, with every other thing. It was the story of a jealous God, a God who played favorites, but a God who sent His Son– a better version of Himself.
For here lies the Morgan family memorial– the Morgans, who lived together by choice, who died together from having that choice taken away, & whose ashes, in the same vessel, were scattered– death imitating itself.
When they lost their wealth, they softened their conservative values, for to accept help long enough was more important than making what was already hard, harder than it had to be.
She was a natural blonde, unnaturally stacked; he was naturally white, unnaturally tanned. Kenny and Barb, from the South Side of Malibu Heights, found themselves in a minority’s plight. So they moved to the Capitol Dollhouse, where the Hobbyists, like the hands of giants— played The People’s servants, only to help them become the served.
Call me in four years when maybe we can be friends again; or better yet, call me in eight, when the Presidential deck, rather than being reshuffled, has been replaced, for how strong is the animosity that transmits like static electricity amongst the winners, the losers, the lost, and those who remain in half-mast shock.
The spiritual sister of ditto, it lets the pastor know, just how far he can go.
Feedback from the flock— a barometer of not just his words, (cited from narrators, be they reliable or unreliable), but also the deliverance of those words, and his interpretation of them.
The secularism of the divine, the divination of the secular, is becoming omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent, in this Age of Technological Trans-Humanism.
The man of the cloth cannot be divorced from politics; just as the politician cannot help but marry religion, for they are two sides of the same coin. Heads or tails, no one knows, which one has more control.