The Chapel of Hidden Vice
A Collective Analysis Of The Human Condition
Mom and Dad must be gone today because I’m home alone with the neighbor boy. He seems so old, at least seventeen. He wants to play a game, a new game; it’s called Spin the Bottle. Round and round and round, it goes. Money is involved—-nickels or dimes-—but I don’t know how to count yet. I have a coin now, but my underwear is around my ankles. I stare at the country lanes in the carpet and drive my imaginary car—-this time without even moving my finger-—farther and farther away. I don’t think I am winning this game.
I am a ghost that haunts this house. My footsteps fracture its frozen silence, startling me. The breeze of my wake makes the dust tremble. But by the time you pick up on my scent, I am already gone. Perhaps, I am upstairs or down. Or I am under the bed. Sometimes I am just behind the pillows on the shelf of the hall closet. It is a game I play: how invisible can I be? But sometimes I get so angry, so uncontainably angry, that I must send myself to my room. After all, “that kind of behavior isn’t tolerated, young lady.”
I don’t know if I should feel fortunate for the lack of outer chaos or just lonely, but I sure wish I had someone to fight with sometimes. Anyway, I like it here in my room; it’s not so confusing as being around people. Sometimes--comfy, quiet times like tonight--I sit in the living room while Dad reads the paper. The living room carpet has lines that curve like country lanes. I drive my finger-car around the living room carpet. Time stands still until dinner.
It’s nighttime and I lie in bed listening to the ringing in my ear. It's faint but definite, like from a phone in a booth down the hall of an empty building. But there's no one else here, so it must be ringing for me. As I lay on my back, I count the flower patterns on the wallpaper and ponder, who could be calling me? Is it possible for me to call myself without knowing it? Maybe it's really aliens from outer space! Or it's this God guy I've heard about, in which case it'd be interesting to pick up the receiver, but I don’t know how to answer. In any case, I hope whoever it is will keep calling until I figure out how this works. Because it sure is lonely in here otherwise.
I live on the corner of Mohawk and Arrowhead Streets. You could say that I’m three years old, but I haven’t started counting yet. My neighborhood has street names like Iroquois, Bison, Algonquin. The syllables feel good in my mouth. My favorites have the letter ‘q’ in them. I imagine these are names of stars who long ago fell from the night sky onto my little world. The people on this street have pedestrian names like Thompson and McCormick. Every night, I look up from my window to my far away brothers and sisters. It seems that all heavenly bodies have since left these suburbs....
The mind is a mercurial thing. Mine sometimes runs around in circles and circles and repeats itself. It plays several tunes at once, and it's sometimes hard to pick just one chord out of the cacophony. It's a puzzle... the puzzle that is picking out words like pearls to string into a sentence. You are something painful and addictive and delicious. You are opium with teeth.
Thoughts like to tumble over one another and put each other's clothes on to play dress-up. This one is the taste of blueberry disguised as the sharp fragrance of candle flames that have just been blown out.
Bleeding should hurt it should not feel like this it should not feel like cherry tart satin sheets ocean breeze on a foggy day.
If the wind blows from the proper corner of the world, you can see right through it. You can see through the gauze that separates this world from theirs and you can see them dancing always dancing. Always dressed in white. Always always white.
I just can't seem to find my own words so I took these. You know a little about taking don't you, I mean that's what you do. You manipulate, abuse, punish, lie, and take. You broke me daddy, pieces of me lay at your feet. Why can't you pick me up and put me back together?
If I had just one tear running down your cheek
Maybe I could cope maybe I'd get some sleep
If I had just one moment at your expense
Maybe all my misery would be well spent
Could you cry a little
Lie just a little
Pretend that you're feeling a little more pain
I gave now I 'm wanting
Something in return
So cry just a little for me
If your love could be caged, honey I would hold the key
And conceal it underneath the pile of lies you handed me
And you'd hunt those lies
They'd be all you'd ever find
And that'd be all you'd have to know
For me to be fine
Give it up baby
I hear your doin' fine
Nothing's gonna save me
I can see it in your eyes
Some kind of heartache, darlin
give it a try
I don't want pity
I just want what is mine
I saw you on your knees today in front of the Virgin Mary; your prayer book laying open. Your long black hair was tousled by the wind and drops of rain shone like tiny diamonds. You made no sound but your lips moved unceasingly. Your eyes darted back and forth between Mary and the book. Belief seemed to flow from every pore of your body.
It took every ounce of strength I had to remain still. My whole body wanted to get up, walk over, and slap you with that book. I wanted to yell at you and scream that your are a fool for kneeling in front of a statue and believing that you were participatiing in some thing sacred, that there was actually a God listening.
And then it hit me. I didn't hate you, I was jealous of you. I wanted to feel what you were feeling. I wanted to crawl inside your skin and be warmed by your faith. I wanted your God to be mine as well and make me feel welcome in this house of stone.
More people walked in but their presence didn't disturb the air around you. You were too intent on making this prayer heard and answered.
The pew you knelt on had room for one more...
Struggling, struggling forever in my mind
As good and evil fight each other logic loosens time.
Fine lines I choose to walk along,
Temptation fills my soul.
You think you know me oh so well,
But little do you know...
That through my darkest fantasies
In the nightmare you've been lead.
Your every essence I control,
And on your weakness I have fed.
But when I awake I feel so pure,
Angelic as I rise.
The secret psychopathic one
Is slumbering inside.
But once again as darkness falls
And I see the moon emerge,
When good and evil become one
I embrace that intoxicating urge.