Epistles

Dear Chris, I am in rehab, but you know this, having dropped me off this morning. It’s cold and the light is part glue. Where is my God moment? No rush. I’m told metanarratives are of no use here. I said the teeth I have are healthy— hell, I put them on my gratitude list. I’ve been collecting all the love down below, if you follow, but when will I get to part white curtains while listening to Enya?

Dear Enya, when will I get love from you? God dropped me so I’m sending Chris. No narratives here this morning but rehab remains. Where is my moment? Is Meta good? I have gratitude and darkness in my heart. I am listening to others and I don’t like it. Are there judges in the Book of Judges? Having to rush this letter because I’ve been tying up parted curtains from down below, if you smell me. BTW I just found out hell is not hot!!? Where have I been?     

Dear Letter, when will Chris get Enya? No white curtains here. I’ve dropped metanarratives so you can know me. Where’s the love? Maybe we need to send God off to rehab, no? I have Gnostic suspicions about the darkness in His heart. Give me a moment, don’t rush my morning. Are there numbers in the Book of Numbers? Nearly every sickness is from the teeth. They say self knowledge avails us nothing. I say that the ‘inferno’ is more place than temperature. 

Dear God, they said you’re collecting me from rehab. Where are you? Am I no good? Is Ruth in the book of Ruth? Who is she? Am I her? Morning is whiter while one listens to Enya. I’m sending you love— but how do I feel it? I’m tipping into darkness. NB. Down here no metanarratives can reach me, but I know well this moment— infernus: lying beneath. When the curtains close, I’ll be down to this letter, so here’s some Latin: Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina. Oh Lord, help me, please.

Dear Holly, no one is coming to get you. We organised a little collection to pay for your taxi, and you got nothing. Several fights broke out; Enya lost a finger and we can’t find Chris. I’m not sure God put in anything, but He did write on the card, in the third person, which you are now reading; You can relax in my house. It is your job in this life, to let love in— from this, the poem springs; how we can inhabit this place. Welcome home, we missed you, love, “Ruth.”

^{Footnote: ‘Nearly every sickness is from the teeth.' is a line from Flann O’Brien’s novel The Third Policeman}