Falling Idols

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Once more, for D.J.

How you shine.

What is the curse upon religion that its tenets must always be associate with every kind of extravagance and falsehood.

— Aleister Crowley, Book 4

I became aware, more vividly aware than I had ever been, that the secret of life consists in sharing the madness of God.

— John Cowper Powys, Autobiography

Stick Around, It Gets Worse

You weren’t there when it happened, but you’ve spent so much time imagining what she went through during those final moments that she was aware of the world around her, you feel as though you were. You know the details pieced together by forensics experts analyzing the crime, and these feed you plenty of insight, but you knew her as the experts never could.

Remember the swoop of hair that would mask her left eye, and the way she’d always be pushing it back with two fingers, never three, and how that eye, when revealed, seemed to notice something worthwhile in you that no one else could recognize? Remember the way she would listen to music, sitting with folded legs upon the floor, doing nothing, just listening? Remember her penchant for giving money to downtrodden panhandlers and her tolerant smile when you complained, a smile that made you feel so small, so petty, so much less formed a creature than she was? Of course you remember. You remember everything, and still so clearly. Somebody has lied — time hasn’t healed a thing, not for you.

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