God Wars (revised)

[mnaz]

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)

[stilltrucking]

Thank you.

[mnaz]

Thanks, Jack. reading about the "desert fathers" now-- "hermits, ascetics and monks, who lived mainly in the Scetes desert of Egypt in the third century, the first 'christian hermits,' who abandoned the cities of the pagan world to live in solitude." Merton wrote a short book about them-- "The Wisdom of the Desert." Fascinating stuff. To me, anyway... a far cry from where Europe took Christianity.

Hopefully these things I've written in the last 2-3 months will "flow" a little better when stitched together in the right sequence...

[Arcadia]

Enter into fury and utter doom Jah rhythms. “Hey Gods, I’m over here, remember?” On rock and sky, thundering interior, mother ocean on auburn tides, immaculate inversion, subversion and dread roots, dust and grit.

I was during five hours walking the Atacama desert some days ago (we didn´t plan at first to go there, but because a Perú public transport huelga and being already in Arica, to go to San Pedro was the easiest way to cross Chile-Argentine border): incredibly beautiful! Hard to breath there, though -it was easier at 5000 mt high-.! 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...

keep wandering, amigo!. I enjoyed the reading!

[mnaz]

Thanks Arcadia. Sounds like an incredible trip! There's something about the clarity of such places...

That was a strange time for me-- '01-'02. The rhythms and space got me through.

added some more...

[mtmynd]

Nice imaging, em-naz. Beginnings of book #2, maybe..?

Desert Fathers... sounds like a tempting read. Your mention had me recalling the Essene's ... "an ascetic Jewish sect that existed in ancient Palestine from the second century B.C. to the second century A.D."... who likely were the writer's of the Dead Sea Scrolls. You might want to read up a bit on them, too.

Thanks, Mark... enjoyed.

[mnaz]

Thanks amigo. Yeah, I've written quite a bit since mid-November-- started when I dredged up some of my notebooks from all that motelin' on the long, long road the last 7-8 years, and expanded from there. If a book ever materializes, it'll probably have the word "motel" in its title...

.. was reading Merton when I stumbled onto "the desert fathers"-- Zen and the Birds of Appetite-- good read. Merton also wrote a book on the desert fathers-- "Wisdom of the Desert"-- a short compilation of their philosophy and sayings. Thanks for the Essenes reference. Need to read up on them for sure. Quite a bit of research and sifting yet to do... (How to explain citing research within a "motel" milieu?-- libraries and Google, of course! Or maybe ignore the question.)

....probably the last "dub-lit." excursion... kind of wish I wrote this into the last collection of scribblings. was part of the connection...