God Wars (revised)
Posted: January 31st, 2010, 6:10 pm
Nothing but rock and sky on the far side of a brilliant arc, drenched in arid heat and roots rhythm exploded in quiet thunder, turned low to fill up expanse, bathe it in desolation, ricochet off mesas. Rock and sky. Big beat earth. Jah roots have a foothold in mountain rhythms, grinding bedrock, the heat and grit of this place, a pulse so blown open, transformed and drifting. Hard to believe it came from Jamaica, mother ocean. Reggae is trivial beside warrior dub deconstructions, the fluff they play at Beach Casino at happy hour. Dub is lost in the wilderness, far side of radiance, shaded Biblically, the lost tribes.
It was A.D. 2001 and another God war raged, and such battles get messy in a hurry. One True God hurled a thunderbolt at another One True God, which is to say, agents of the former steered jumbo jets into skyscrapers of the latter, which fell down in a terrifying, twisted pile of obscenity, as the One True God willed it. You don’t need the word “evil” to address these physics, only naked, utter failure of the act, done of sentient free will. Everything changed. Nothing new. Meanwhile the stricken One True God was on the airwaves and reader boards, rumbling volcano. God bless.
You never saw so many men of God so profoundly agitated. Or oddly serene. Some of them were quiet—prophecy is being fulfilled, no need to despair. Too early to tell if it brings the trumpets and earthquakes and four horsemen. It was simply vengeance, laced with acrid, high-tech smoke, spit and bile onscreen. George the Second rallied the flock, mumbled about the other One True God’s religion of peace, and turned the dogs loose.
Enter into fury and utter doom Jah rhythms. “Hey Gods, I’m over here." On rock and sky, thundering interior, mother ocean on auburn tides, immaculate inversion, subversion and dread roots, dust and grit. They may never see the desert again in such urgency, though born of their own tribal war and hard streets, a way to navigate wreckage. Heaven is gravity; so is hell. We met a high priest on a radioactive fortress, on the big bang’s highest, holiest hot rock, short of grazing the nearest star yet taller than other fortresses built on everyman’s sinking sand. He peered down when he could, our big bang father who art in heaven, who loves chaos soaked in diesel, smashed into verse. We barely made him out he was so high. Other times he sat next to us with a brochure and heaven’s black hole pull.
It is instinctual, desert space, emptiness, spirituality. In the third century, before faith became a monolith, before Christ became an empire, monks and outcasts went to live in the Egyptian desert. The “desert fathers.” They sought austere, open solitude in the way of Jesus and John—rough-edged hermits. Christ was more humble then, like Jesus fasting in the desert, not yet legalized by Rome. Seems most Biblical prophets fell back into the desert naturally, necessarily, to subdue noise. But storms rattle the empty as well, hushed at first. Elijah knew a cave next to a spring, out of corruption’s reach, if not God’s gentle murmur.
You hear a murmur in the empty, vanishing stammer of vanquished walls, rattle and wane, and your own whoosh, more than enough. How could you take theology seriously? John the Baptist heard louder reverberations. He was no simple, withdrawn hermit; he carried a fire of scorched earth. God, at any moment, would descend in utter terror to destroy evil, the apocalyptic consummation. It is imminent! Nothing like a holy bloodbath to attain the Kingdom. How could you take it at face value? Do we wait for God, or does God wait for us?.
(added more)
It was A.D. 2001 and another God war raged, and such battles get messy in a hurry. One True God hurled a thunderbolt at another One True God, which is to say, agents of the former steered jumbo jets into skyscrapers of the latter, which fell down in a terrifying, twisted pile of obscenity, as the One True God willed it. You don’t need the word “evil” to address these physics, only naked, utter failure of the act, done of sentient free will. Everything changed. Nothing new. Meanwhile the stricken One True God was on the airwaves and reader boards, rumbling volcano. God bless.
You never saw so many men of God so profoundly agitated. Or oddly serene. Some of them were quiet—prophecy is being fulfilled, no need to despair. Too early to tell if it brings the trumpets and earthquakes and four horsemen. It was simply vengeance, laced with acrid, high-tech smoke, spit and bile onscreen. George the Second rallied the flock, mumbled about the other One True God’s religion of peace, and turned the dogs loose.
Enter into fury and utter doom Jah rhythms. “Hey Gods, I’m over here." On rock and sky, thundering interior, mother ocean on auburn tides, immaculate inversion, subversion and dread roots, dust and grit. They may never see the desert again in such urgency, though born of their own tribal war and hard streets, a way to navigate wreckage. Heaven is gravity; so is hell. We met a high priest on a radioactive fortress, on the big bang’s highest, holiest hot rock, short of grazing the nearest star yet taller than other fortresses built on everyman’s sinking sand. He peered down when he could, our big bang father who art in heaven, who loves chaos soaked in diesel, smashed into verse. We barely made him out he was so high. Other times he sat next to us with a brochure and heaven’s black hole pull.
It is instinctual, desert space, emptiness, spirituality. In the third century, before faith became a monolith, before Christ became an empire, monks and outcasts went to live in the Egyptian desert. The “desert fathers.” They sought austere, open solitude in the way of Jesus and John—rough-edged hermits. Christ was more humble then, like Jesus fasting in the desert, not yet legalized by Rome. Seems most Biblical prophets fell back into the desert naturally, necessarily, to subdue noise. But storms rattle the empty as well, hushed at first. Elijah knew a cave next to a spring, out of corruption’s reach, if not God’s gentle murmur.
You hear a murmur in the empty, vanishing stammer of vanquished walls, rattle and wane, and your own whoosh, more than enough. How could you take theology seriously? John the Baptist heard louder reverberations. He was no simple, withdrawn hermit; he carried a fire of scorched earth. God, at any moment, would descend in utter terror to destroy evil, the apocalyptic consummation. It is imminent! Nothing like a holy bloodbath to attain the Kingdom. How could you take it at face value? Do we wait for God, or does God wait for us?.
(added more)
Because of the wind, the dryness, the sand, it´s difficult to talk, also at moments to make water pass your throat... (I needed a whole ginger & honey day tea treatment to recognize my voice again! 
) and it made me wonder about "the shout in the desert" thing ....! Also visited San Pedro´s archeologic museum: one third of the objects in exhibition are very, very delicate and shophisticated objects to inhale alucinogic substances... first place I saw that profusion.. wondered also about their god/s...