Post by deirdre on Oct 19, 2007 16:50:59 GMT -5
Hey 'all,
I've been working on something other than art, and thought to post it here and get some impressions! It's obviously incomplete, and it's something of an experiment.
Peace and love.
---
Matilda was reasonably sure she wasn't an extremely bad person, but she was also reasonably sure that she wasn't good, either. She never made any spectacular efforts to be good, although, on occasion, she would sporadically begin to attend Mass daily and say numerous rosaries. Then she would stop. And start again. "I know this isn't the way saints are supposed to be," she thought to herself, "therefore, I must be going to hell."
She carried this conviction into daily life. When photographs of her were taken, she picked them up and examined them. A certain shiftiness about the eyes confirmed her belief that she was actually a duplicitous woman. A hazy red glow in a laughing picture of her, she would think were the flames of hell, pre-claiming her as one of its own.
This made her incredibly unhappy. It wasn't so much that she doubted that God was merciful, or that He could forgive her small sins, so much as she believed that she was warped to an extent where she could not accept forgiveness, no matter how much she longed for it.
When she was younger, people had seen her as someone marked for something. Her mother used to say that when Matilda died, she would be called "St. Matilda of ____," and Matilda's mother enjoyed this prospect. A slightly crazed Franciscan once saw her and insistently laid his hand upon her sleeve, telling her in a nasal voice that something set her apart and that her vocation - whatever it was - was something great. "I don't believe them," she thought, as she saw all the Franciscans say this to generally everyone who came about their way, or any other order who seemed hellbent upon recruiting young souls for heaven-joints.
"I'm certainly marked as a target," she thought.
When she was eight, she began saying the rosary every night, before bed, encouraging her little sisters to join in. They resisted at first, preferring to read or play, but Matilda prevailed and after their parents went to bed, they would take out their crystalline rosaries. Amidst the stuffed animals, books, and an occasional peacock feather, they would sit and the gentle hush of prayer would overwhelm the room. One night, their father happened in and saw them sitting quietly together. "What are you doing?" he asked. Embarrassed, Matilda simply stated the obvious, as her rosary draped picturesqely around her hands. Matilda's father simply walked off, looking slightly puzzled.
When she was thirteen, she suffered from the terrible onslaught of spiritual sickness - scrupulosity. One night she woke up, and realized that she had gone to bed without cleaning the house. But her father had told her to clean the house. So at 2am, she crept downstairs and swept the floors, picked up miscellaneous objects that she couldn't see because it was so dark, righted the books in their shelves, and washed some dishes. After that, she hid in a closet filled with hangers, clothes, and boxes, so that her family couldn't hear her, and wept and wept and wept. "God is so good, but this is too hard. God, it's just too hard! Jesus. Jesus, be with me." The fabric from one of her mother's coats brushed against her and she held it against her cheek.
This spiritual disease lasted for three years. Halfway through, she realized what was happening, and fought viciously against it. So she frequented confession in an old Church with an old confessional. The confessional was made from deeply brown walnut wood, and was warmly dark and small on the inside. The grill would slide open, casting golden pinpricks of light out and she thought redemption was spilling out with it, the walls of the confessional turning into the embracing arms of Christ. The priest would bend close to hear the whispered sins, and she would be forgiven. That was how it used to be. Now, when she left the confessional, she felt barren and sick. She was still forgiven. But she knew she'd be back in there that same week.
She desperately wanted to be guided by the priests, which is why she sought out confession, but they only added to her darkness. When she confessed her "sins," the priests contradicted each other in their diagnosis of the problem: one thought she was practically devil-spawn because - being imaginative - she could always describe her "sins" with earnest conviction and great fiction. "It isn't lying," she thought. "It is what it is." Another thought she was mentally unbalanced and suggested she tell her parents to bring her to a psychiatrist, which caused poor Matilda's heart to twist until she couldn't breath. Another simply reassured her again and again that God was not out to get her. "Of course He's not," she thought."He's all good."
She was a sinner in a void.
I've been working on something other than art, and thought to post it here and get some impressions! It's obviously incomplete, and it's something of an experiment.
Peace and love.
---
Matilda was reasonably sure she wasn't an extremely bad person, but she was also reasonably sure that she wasn't good, either. She never made any spectacular efforts to be good, although, on occasion, she would sporadically begin to attend Mass daily and say numerous rosaries. Then she would stop. And start again. "I know this isn't the way saints are supposed to be," she thought to herself, "therefore, I must be going to hell."
She carried this conviction into daily life. When photographs of her were taken, she picked them up and examined them. A certain shiftiness about the eyes confirmed her belief that she was actually a duplicitous woman. A hazy red glow in a laughing picture of her, she would think were the flames of hell, pre-claiming her as one of its own.
This made her incredibly unhappy. It wasn't so much that she doubted that God was merciful, or that He could forgive her small sins, so much as she believed that she was warped to an extent where she could not accept forgiveness, no matter how much she longed for it.
When she was younger, people had seen her as someone marked for something. Her mother used to say that when Matilda died, she would be called "St. Matilda of ____," and Matilda's mother enjoyed this prospect. A slightly crazed Franciscan once saw her and insistently laid his hand upon her sleeve, telling her in a nasal voice that something set her apart and that her vocation - whatever it was - was something great. "I don't believe them," she thought, as she saw all the Franciscans say this to generally everyone who came about their way, or any other order who seemed hellbent upon recruiting young souls for heaven-joints.
"I'm certainly marked as a target," she thought.
When she was eight, she began saying the rosary every night, before bed, encouraging her little sisters to join in. They resisted at first, preferring to read or play, but Matilda prevailed and after their parents went to bed, they would take out their crystalline rosaries. Amidst the stuffed animals, books, and an occasional peacock feather, they would sit and the gentle hush of prayer would overwhelm the room. One night, their father happened in and saw them sitting quietly together. "What are you doing?" he asked. Embarrassed, Matilda simply stated the obvious, as her rosary draped picturesqely around her hands. Matilda's father simply walked off, looking slightly puzzled.
When she was thirteen, she suffered from the terrible onslaught of spiritual sickness - scrupulosity. One night she woke up, and realized that she had gone to bed without cleaning the house. But her father had told her to clean the house. So at 2am, she crept downstairs and swept the floors, picked up miscellaneous objects that she couldn't see because it was so dark, righted the books in their shelves, and washed some dishes. After that, she hid in a closet filled with hangers, clothes, and boxes, so that her family couldn't hear her, and wept and wept and wept. "God is so good, but this is too hard. God, it's just too hard! Jesus. Jesus, be with me." The fabric from one of her mother's coats brushed against her and she held it against her cheek.
This spiritual disease lasted for three years. Halfway through, she realized what was happening, and fought viciously against it. So she frequented confession in an old Church with an old confessional. The confessional was made from deeply brown walnut wood, and was warmly dark and small on the inside. The grill would slide open, casting golden pinpricks of light out and she thought redemption was spilling out with it, the walls of the confessional turning into the embracing arms of Christ. The priest would bend close to hear the whispered sins, and she would be forgiven. That was how it used to be. Now, when she left the confessional, she felt barren and sick. She was still forgiven. But she knew she'd be back in there that same week.
She desperately wanted to be guided by the priests, which is why she sought out confession, but they only added to her darkness. When she confessed her "sins," the priests contradicted each other in their diagnosis of the problem: one thought she was practically devil-spawn because - being imaginative - she could always describe her "sins" with earnest conviction and great fiction. "It isn't lying," she thought. "It is what it is." Another thought she was mentally unbalanced and suggested she tell her parents to bring her to a psychiatrist, which caused poor Matilda's heart to twist until she couldn't breath. Another simply reassured her again and again that God was not out to get her. "Of course He's not," she thought."He's all good."
She was a sinner in a void.
