[sic] In the Beginning …
Like, one time, I had it perfect! The whole thing. I mean I really did, but I bent down to get a brush, you know, to add a little more life to it, but when I looked back up, my world fell apart.
I(t) was the wrong color, I guess. It’s amazing how a little color here, a little there—I like glitter, you know—makes a BIG mess.
I am not patient. If you could see my face. If you could see. You’d see. You’d see me. I am very serious. I was so mad. Red is such a strong color. You can never get the stains out. No wonder you pulled my fingernails out. I smashed the whole thing. If I would have parents, they’d be mad at me.
So you wanna stop the pain?
I smash things often.
Such makes me Anne-Frank pretty. If that won’t work, I will create another.
It’s so big, the universe is. So cool. I feel proud in making a mess. And, and, it’s not a mess. It turns out. Because I, or it, you know, the mess, is just a star in the universe, a dot on a really big page.
God is an artist, not a scientist, I’ve come to know. It’s good when one knows one, “I am what I am,” I recall that. I mean, I don’t like math because it’s hard.
You were so cute when you were little. A bit like me, remember? I heard, it’s not like I have telepathy or anything, but heard from some old guy on the radio that when you were little the teacher asked you what you were drawing? Remember? You said you were drawing God.
You have guts because God is not patient, you know. And she told, you remember, what she said? She said, “You cannot draw God because no one knows what he looks like.” And I now think that you are God because of what you said, at six. I mean I am a bit older than you. You said, “I will in a minute.”
Can you help me make a better world? I like glitter, did I mention that?
Oh, I forgot. Time goes so fast. You are not little any more.
But the world is not a dot, I mean, like it is a dot, but some things live in it. Many things. Your dreams, and mine, too. But yucky things, also: Plagues, and pandemics, and little amoebas, too. You can be so little but dangerous. I am little, too. Yes, dots can be deadly and godly, too.
I get crushed a lot.
Do you want to know a secret, as if we are girl friends?
I have a dark side. I do. I get very angry. But I still love you.
You cause me much pain, you do. And I do you, but my pain I cause you is delivered not out of vengeance and hate. I love you through indifference as to gain love. Death is nirvana, you know?
You know, without hell there would be no light and without light there would be no darkness. A bad thing cannot be bad without a good thing, and most of you, I mean I love you, but you are such a mess, you adults. Dots on a page that never got better. I worry you are all wrong, too big to be eaten but too small to save the world.
It’s better if a child could stay a child for all of eternity. You do know that adults never become gods? Because sometimes adults do really bad things.
Because, children are closer to the darkened light, for the breath of God’s love just departed their fragile lips. Oh, LOL, I am full of the Good Book. I would be God, but three strikes and you’re out it turns out well for only one side. And in truth, there is no side.
So I make dots.
You forgot, didn’t you?
No worries! I am here now. I go away sometimes and lose track of time. I gotta pee, too.
When I laugh a lot, I pee. It’s embarrassing, but that’s better than peeing before you really hurt me there, well everywhere.
Gosh, you are just like me. We lose parts of ourselves because of bad choices. It’s not pleasant being in a duffle bag. But, silly me, you don’t need to hear that …
I sometimes think … I am embarrassed … that it is lonely to be God. There is nobody to hug. It’s not like I or you have parents. Oh, silly me. You have parents. I forgot. I hope they like you? Ghosts are like God. Some even call God a Holy Ghost. That would be cool to dress up as for Halloween, a Holy Ghost, the food of heaven with the pain of life. Parents are like Holy Ghosts, a step-fallen-short of godliness.
Not all parents do! I am serious. Some don’t like their kids, so their kids get to feel like God does. No hugs, not even pandemic-ridden distant ones. It’s tough not getting loved I should have you know.
It’s tough living in darkness but sometimes light hurts even more. When dark, you can pretend you are loved, but light can make things different. When blind, one can be God and envision the world. When the lights are on, someone else already started. It’s good not to have little siblings sometimes.
Love uses pain as its measure, often in unequal parts.
It’s not my fault. What can I do but make messes and hope they turn out like you?
Wow, I am proud of myself sometimes, but something isn’t right with this dot, this little mess on this canvass.
Such big canvases always have space for another.
Big hearts do to.
See, ya, I gotta pee.
Did you call me?
You are not into peeing girls, are you?
You are lonely. I am, too, lonely.
I got a question. Oh, oh, please, let me ask! You seem older than me but you know what they say about appearances.
Are you seeking God?
Ah, I thought so. I can read minds when I like.
I have another question. Shhh! [a child’s whisper] Let me speak.
What if you empowered God to look like what you desire?
What if you made God?
What would God look like, do you remember?
What color skin would you give God?
Would she have a penis [giggles] and he a vagina? I sometimes call it a Virginia [giggles again] and I do like rather big snakes, but don’t tell the devil that.
What color eyes, would you give me [seductive] if I were God?
What nose? A cute perky one, please? Big or small? Not breasts, now! I am too young … or is it too old?
Would I have full lips like a fish, or pale like those boring Greek gods?
How old would you make me? I won’t tell, promise.
Would I be your “thicc” girl?
Would I be your fantasy?
Or would I be your worst fear?
Would you be my slave that serves or the one that will not serve?
Would I have a long tail between my legs and whip you so?
Would I have cute soles and toes. Sorry [blushing], I knew that?
Would I have body hair or be squeaky clean and pure?
Don’t worry, I mean, if God can make the world in seven days, you, even though you are only a messy little human, should be able to make a person in one.
You’re thinking too much [pouting]
I TOLD you. I am not patient [shaking finger].
What if I told you a story, but I want you to understand that I am very angry?
Words do not make gods, and faiths do not come from words. God is a feeling before the bliss. You know the devil? It is she.
It’s kinda yucky, but if God was your significant other, how would you make God to look? Hm?
I told you I was little, right?
Sorry, I have a lot going on in my head. I am speaking to you because I know you are angry, too, but remember that God’s voice is only voiced through you. And I have, what do you say? A bone to pick with the Gospel because words do not carry Hannah Nirvana but are oft-interpreted as weapons to kill.
Since when did the Good Book become the book that kills, huh?
And you all worry about sex?
Okay, we can create your god-lover later though gross, but let’s start with the apostilles.
Where is the femininity? Like really, it’s just a bunch of deadbeat old guys that left their wives. There is absolutely nothing exciting.
Were the saints, fathers? At least they were not Abrahams.
You’d think that a good book would have something nasty and disgusting in it, you know, so that people would actually read it instead of buying a bunch to put in hotel rooms.
I mean, like, think about it. The Bible is in there but a bunch of spermatozoa is flying around out there, hitting walls, splashing off mattresses, kissing the screen and dripping off ewe [sic]! I’ve even had to dodge a few myself.
What if some dribbled on it, through a forbidden crack?
Sorry, really so inappropriate, given how you’d see God you dirty little doggie, you.
But I am all for truth and such is so.
That’s because it does not relate, the book? The book does not relate, yet spermatozoa does.
So what is natural and what is not?
Why am I not natural?
Why is god not natural?
Is sperm the breath of life?
Or is it eternal death?
I’m waiting …
Not so quickly.
You can be patient.
You are embarrassed. I’m sorry, but I think you get the connection, no? I thought so.
To be continued in The First Book of Trinity
Earl Yarington (LMSW) is a social worker and school bus driver. He taught literature and writing for nearly 20 years and spent 3 years working in forensic social work internships with offending populations, including work at Delaware Correctional facilities and the Federal Bureau of Prisons. He has a PhD in literature and criticism (feminism/women writers) from Indiana University of Pennsylvania, Master of Social Work from Louisiana State University, and an interdisciplinary Master of Liberal Arts from Arizona State University, where he studied the impact of visual image and girlhood in media/social media. He also has an MA and BS in English from SUNY College at Brockport. The opinions and analyses that Earl writes are his own and are not necessarily the positions or views of his employers, the agencies he supports, or that of his colleagues. Reach out with comments or questions.