The Dark Theological Irrationality of the Soul: a musing on time and mindset in various phases.

There was the darkness--too utterly blank to be called gloomy or foreboding; indeed there was something peaceful or restful about it--and me too absorbed in looking about, I had not noticed there was a strange glow--

and it was me: I had handily road-mapped my own demarcations and turnabouts on the thoroughfare and service road of the Dark Night of the Soul; and all that taken as second nature in embers and eminations of my own nitre putrescence--something of not the systemically rational and some modicum semblance of rational mathematics that breaks too un-spirited for a theology of the irrational.

I was not dead, nor sought by the authorities, and beyond that I was in particular neither pleasing nor perturbing anyone, in particular; I was watching Wings and Just Shoot Me.

There was the darkness, and without contrast, in a frame of reference to establish perspective, the world would then be merely a dark gradient, and myself, some kind of Rudolph the Red Nose Ju-ju-bee, that transmits his random nonsense into posterity like some kind of motivated, irrational beacon:

--we call this the spirit of a person.

--the elements so mixed in him
that all of nature might stand up
and say, "this was a man!"--
(Edgar Lee Masters)


--too absorbed in looking about, his 12 would be better still if it was 15--his two day movie would better yet become a 5 day movie--his huggerboo would scream for continual embrace and a protracted, long-throated "boooo!".

Not dead, of course, but as the fictional Blizzard Branch Ponefish sits on the creek bed and waits for dying insects to float by, so too does the soul providentially leave its mawl agape, hoping to catch hold and take-up whatever--and the 12 seeming like it would be so much better as a 15--the 32 ounces become regular, and the yearning spirit venturing to either 42 or 48 ounces.  Posterity: some great toilet waiting placidly for the next exhalation.

--we call this the great restroom of eternity.

--"too un-spirited for a theology of the irrational", lacking substantial arrays and polygons for any form of design, hurtling "dead-stick" through the ether, all the charm of an electric eel repelling an enemy and that schizoid irrational glow betraying the magic hour Esperanto of inspiration.

Even as we know Christmas will come again at the end of the year, and then next year, too, does inspiration put its boots under our bed now and then--and its up to posterity to take the measurements, the metrics, the statistics that comprise and form a theology of the irrational in retrospect.