I wanted to step outside of my usual style of writing and tell you a little bit more about myself. As many of you know, I am a follower of the teachings of Jesus. I wear His thorns on my chest out of pity for those who choose not to be guided. I carry Your burden, as I carry His burden. I am plagued by Your anguish as I am plagued by His anguish. But more than anything, I give and I believe in love. I believe in the Flesh. I have an ability to touch people. I am consumed with Pride. I rescue people from sadness, from their own perceived nothingness. I say: follow me, let me be your guide. I show them light.
Would you rather happiness? Would you submit your Spirit if I promised you fulfilment?
I have known intimately, three girls, maybe four. The first was fourteen. She hung on my every word. She believed all I said. But in her lazy ways, she made the ultimate mistake. She did not believe that Jesus is the route to Love. She did not believe that all acts of loving lead to Jesus. I can barely speak of this girl, her name fills me with many kinds of anxiety. She was the first I knew of intimately, we made love in her parent’s bed, with her parent’s dog breathing over my arse, it’s languid eyes watching us with some kind of dogged amusement. I would slap that dog on its snout with any opportunity that arose. I used my boot whenever it came near. I made it my subject. It soon knew when to leave us both in privacy. Fourteen years old. The worst kind of whore. A pretty girl with a chafing between her legs.
I rescued my second girl, a self confessed atheist, on her eighteenth birthday. She was filled with stubbornness and hatred. And, as with my pretty fourteen year old, she was filled with a certain juvenile sadness. It didn’t take long to break open her barriers and climb between her thighs. She thought I was delusional. But she was more open to fun than I was. I taught her that we both believed in the same thing – that I did not believe in a God in the same sense that she did not believe in a God. I had a love for Jesus, just as she could love anyone who gave her the attention. I taught her the teachings of Christ. I taught her the power and feeling of love – or, should I say – I gave her the attention she craved. Either way I taught her that her way of questioning things was the right way. I taught her all about the true meaning of life, its purpose. Sex was easy. If I mentioned Nietzsche I knew I could push my fingers that little bit further. She was no prude, but she was the most unintelligent of the three – she had no concept of irony.
My third girl, oh what can I say? She was a girl prone to intoxication – the first time we made love it was far too easy. I started by teaching her the evil in her ways. It is always easier to bed a girl who has a taste for alcohol. But bed is perhaps not the right word – we made love in a parking lot – her dress smeared with semen and oil. I began to pity her understanding of the world, her naïveté. Her passion for the drink. If only she had given herself to Jesus, she would no longer have had the thirst. She had no idea where my fingers had been. She was only sixteen.
They want me to write words. They want me to choose my words carefully. The first word I ever spoke was tractor.
They are calling me a rapist now. There isn’t any hope once the stigma becomes parasitic. I don’t know which word to call it. Belief is not even considered a true word. (For a description of true words, read my published essay: “I Sat Upon The Face Of Feminism.”) The truest words are ‘Culture’ and ‘Society,’ words that mean nothing and mean everything all at once.
I am Society. We are all of us Society. If you blame Society, you carry the blame on your own back. I don’t know who said that first.
This isn’t even a confession. They want to know how old I was when I had sex with that girl. I think it makes them happier in their own lives if they can find someone who has done something terribly bad. They can go home happier. They can drive their cars happier. They can bring up their children in a great cocoon of happiness, knowing that they will forever be consumed in secular righteousness.
The age of consent varies around the world. Sometimes America is the world. Other times America is not the world. It becomes a story when there is a tale to tell. I can stick my fingers between the legs of a girl in Spain. I can never remember what becomes of my hands after the deed. I become a mess.
Some people find this disgusting.
I consider blame the only evil. I am writing, and I will always write until I become a book. Where will you put your fingers if I lay upon your lap? Never judge. Are you the kind of girl who sticks her nose inside a book? Of course not. But I like the scent of heat on wild animals all the same.
They ask for words. They ponder – What does he mean by this? Why do his fingers twitch so?
There is shame to be found in splitting hairs between one crime and another. I am only full of sin as much as You or He. Where I put my fingers is no worse than where yours have forever been.
Have you seen Theresa in ecstasy? It is what every young girl craves to embody. I like nothing more than to rub my own spit into flushed cheeks. I know what I am, I don’t need reminding of what it is that I am. I carry the stigma with pride.
When confronted by men, I blame my twitching on cigarettes. I am no fool to swallow medication. The fool is he who blames Society and takes a step back to choke on his — or her — own innocence. (There is little difference even at fourteen. One anal canal is just as tight as another, medically speaking.)
All is easier with manicured hands. One thing is always more acceptable over another thing until we are told to think otherwise. Yes, I am aware of my own contradictions. I have never touched a young male. This does not make me homophobic until you tell me otherwise, until you shift my thinking either to the left or to the right, or until I persuade you to choose the path that God defines.
What words should one choose? You do not listen. I gave them all my notes yesterday. I gave them my photographs. I bought postcards with magpies on the facing side. I don’t get visitors. I twitch more often than I used to.
“Man is caught – on the one hand believing himself to have absolute freedom over his thoughts and decisions, and yet – on the other hand – needing to appear to be thinking the same thoughts as everybody else. The paradox being that there is an essential need in Man to conform in order to obtain freedom.”
If indeed I bruised a girl between her legs at fourteen – poetically or otherwise – it was simply an expression of my liberty. There are two sides to every story: you either choose God, or you choose against God. God forgives your sins no matter what they are. God already sees the absurdity of life and wipes the slate clean. That is why I pity those who do not believe in God – they have no control over life’s absurdities. They are forever lost inside the paradox of what’s right and what’s wrong. There is no right and wrong. There is only life, and in life there is God.
I have now gone seven months without sexual contact of any kind. Yes, there was a fourth girl. Oh, I find it increasingly difficult to feel empowered – even my hands have lost their touch. I began to notice the frailty of my decisions on my last encounter, the girl was struck dumb, I forget her age. What is age anyhow? I forget what they call them – tights or stockings – they seem to be interchangeable these days. I made her say yes. She nodded her head tenderly. She felt different.
The First Man
‘… they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.’
‘God is my refuge and my strength.’
“All of this is illusion. Words aren’t real, words are only themselves of illusion. There is no future in the utterance of mere words. Ideas expressed with words appear like the mirror that can no longer reflect the world. God is the only word that comes close to apprehension. They say that to be your own God is the only way to live, but not even Man is worthy of the title of God.”
It has been sixteen months since I last stepped outside. I do not know what I miss the most - I do not know if I have the capacity to miss anything. When everything has been taken away from your reach, there is at first, a moment of intense relaxation. I had not expected this, but then of course it was something that could not last. I became panicked - I don’t believe I had ever experienced panic before. My thoughts raced through encounters. I recollected my sins. I had an overwhelming desire to show myself to the nurses, a complete shaming desire. I would redden in their presence. I could not control my urges. My medication was altered. I had consultation after consultation with men. Always men. I did not see a woman for nearly two months. I complained that it was a basic human right for a man to see a woman, but my complaints disappeared. My medication makes me sleepy. I no longer have desires. They allow me one book a week. I cannot read a single word. Words do not contain meanings for me. I have asked for help - for days I have asked for help. I try to skip my mealtime medication. They now inject me once every three months. I am no longer of a stable mind, but they tell me that my medication is to keep me of a stable mind. I can tell you when it is Thursday, every Thursday.
Last week, one of the patients passed away.
A male nurse helps to wash my body. They do not allow me to be washed by female nurses. I think the male nurse is homosexual, but I cannot tell. He does not try to touch me, but I have oftentimes caught him looking at me in disgust. I have urges when I see the male nurse, but I think they are a repressed hatred of all mankind or some kind of homophobia that I am unaware of. I no longer have my freedom. I can see the true condition: Futility. Boredom. It is better to repent your sins whilst you still have your freedom. I can only read picture books now. I have a book on St. Anthony that I renew once a week. Nobody else wants to look at pictures of St. Anthony. Everybody else wants to read The Catcher in the Rye, or The Bell Jar, but these books only contain words and nothing else. The only book of words worth reading is the Bible itself.
I have to be supervised when I am writing letters. I have nobody to write letters to, but I have complained that it is a basic human right to be able to write a letter, even if that letter is to remain unposted. This does not explain why I have to be supervised when I write letters - I drew pictures of St. Anthony upon the walls in biro when I was supposed to be writing my first letter. My medication was altered and now my hands feel lifeless. Sometimes a male nurse has to feed me. I have dreams of choking to death upon a cupful of semen, but I do not tell anybody this. I wake up coughing and trembling. I think I have a complex, but I no longer recall what the word means. Or its relevance. Everything has become sliced, and I am living out my existence one slice at a time and I hope it kills me.
After invention came the farce of the grand reinvention. Coffee everywhere. I gave up on your promises of lifestyles. (One had collapsed on top of the other.) I passed out staring at an empty cup, as though you’d ground an eraser so hard against my bare cheeks that I’d found holes wide enough for my fingertips and tongue. We saw Francis Bacon in teaspoons.
Your promise of a Godless future was a soft hand and a push towards despair. Not even my therapist has dared engage me on the subject of God since. In my twentieth year I became a follower of the Tolstoyan Jesus, to what end? A relapse? Let us get one thing straight - I barely recognise what it is I’ve become. I barely recognise my days.
I’m fully aware that my writing is no excuse for my fondness for fondling schoolgirls. It was never exactly their tears that I enjoyed wiping from their faces - but I still wiped their faces all the same. Call me whatever, my only crime was attempting to fill a void in their lives. I’m someone they can be proud of when they’re carrying a child.
Oh, and what Hell had you offered me in place of God! An image of future perfection? It was all too simple - there was never any image to perfect. The mirror couldn’t handle your reflection of nothingness. Don’t offer me a lifestyle that can’t be attained. I’ve given up. You might have chopped off my fingers at birth as sliced through my umbilical cord. I don’t want knowledge, I want the freedom to create. The freedom to rise above your jealousies. I’m someone to be proud of.