Tough call

that of poll voting —wrong if you vote for the winning party, because of the awful politics they’re going to implement thanks to your vote and from which you’ll be responsible no matter how hard you’ll try to convince yourself you aren’t; wrong if you vote for the losing party, because, well, you become a loser yourself with all the features that come along with defeat —remorse, envy, despair; and wrong again if you don’t show up at the polling station, with the accompanying sense of aloofness and the encompassing fruitless and bleak feeling of the cynic.

I’ve gone to church today

Nobody has accosted me, nobody has tried to sell me anything or convince me or convert me to something. The church was there, just there, in Sant Jaume Street, in good isolation from the outer world, almost empty but open to everyone willing to enter and walk, or stand, or sit down, or kneel and pray or not pray. It offered silence and shelter —solace.

A sizable figure of Christ on the cross was located down the altar, right side from my view, at ground level. I don’t like that, don’t like that kind of imagery, I’m not here for that, has been my first reaction. But then I’ve known why that was there. That is God’s own, single, and dearly beloved son; he’s bleeding from those terrific wounds, his hands hammered to the wood; he’s dying an unthinkable cruel death, and he’s dying just because his father has committed him to die, just to remind me, every time I enter this particular church, that I’m not that special in my suffering; that all the comfort I can get, and that they can offer, from this particular church, lies on that fact —that life in itself is nothing but suffering, and that I’m not alone in my suffering. What a magnificent, if you follow the myth, act of love for humanity —sacrifice your son for its sake, and for such petty one.

And I’ve prayed. After years, months, minutes of resistance, I’ve prayed. I’ve prayed to a God I once believed in and to whom I know I can’t believe in again the same way I did. I don’t know to what or who I’ve prayed. I feel hurt in my humanistic pride right now, but I think that has been the purpose of my going to church today —to humble myself, to get to the ground, to admit that I’m helpless, fearful, anxious, weak, and in desperate need of mercy from life.

Give me something, please

Anything that I can blame my ill-adjustment, my frustration with life, the unwillingness I have to accept my own agency and responsibility, my joyless existence, for —capitalism, globalism, zionism, catholicism, christianity, patriarchy, free trade, free speech, free will… Whatever I can hang banners about and shout chants against in the comfort of the crowd.

Anything with which I can turn free happy people unhappy, fearful and in mental bondage so I can feel a tad less miserable myself.