Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Take this cup away from me: blood sacrifice


Burnt offering


She came slippery and she came dark. She came along a stone place hollow with echoes. Smells of animals lurked, and moaning. She came dragging. A handful of hair.


This was the sacrifice, the Blood Sacrifice. It was time. Time to put it all down, to skin the dog and hold up its flesh. She was not good at hunting but knew when it was time to dismember prey.



The temple was dark and full of moisture and praying, moans. It was a dark and terrible God they appeased. Every day, every week the sacrifices. He was merciless. He had no name, because they were afraid to name Him. They were afraid to look Him in the eye.




If you come face-to-face with God, if you see God in person, stand before God, you will die. This was why Moses went around with a veil, for an ungodly light streamed from his face and blinded everyone as if they were looking directly at an eclipse.


Eclipse. Sacrifice was an eclipse, was it not? A raising of talent. A skinning, a hairing. A giving up. A lifting. The smell of blood was everywhere, and as she raised the head of the bull the dark thick blood slimed down the drainway into a hole in the floor.


The blood had to be captured in a certain way. It reminded her of menstruation a little, but that would be her own blood, and forbidden. Deeply forbidden. With blood everywhere, why couldn’t you touch a woman? But this is about talent, is it not? Burnt offerings, sacrifice?


Singed hair, gutted dreams?


Giving it all up for the sake of peace?



Take it out of me, take it out of me, takeitoutofmetakeitoutofmetakeitoutofmeGOD. Just remove it. Whatever desire I had to please Thee with my inborn gift, rip it out. You made a mistake, see? God DOES make mistakes, look at that two-headed calf over there. You call that perfection? Yes, sometimes you DO make mistakes, such as instilling in me the dream. The dream of fulfillment such as I saw around me. As if that were a sin, too.



Lift high the head of the calf, slit his throat, catch the blood in the chalice, lift it high. No, don’t drink it, that would be too theatrical. And you’re guessing at this, aren’t you? This isn’t any Charlton Heston movie. This is sacrifice. Burnt offering.


Given up, given up for You! For You, God, you big son-of-a-gun, my Destroyer. You shatterer of dreams. You who giveth with one hand and taketh with the other big, suffocating hand.




Here. Here have it back. Right now rightnowrightnow. Have my dream.

 


13 comments:

  1. Bloody good, this, dark and gruesome tho it be.

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  2. I was going to delete it. I'm not sure what it means and I am sure it won't cast me in a good light. Hardly anyone is interested anyway, so I'll leave it lay. (Maybe change the title to Hot Fellatio Babes in the Suburbs?)

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  3. Now you're cookin' with gas, as my dad used to say, whatever the hell it meant. How about, Invasion of the Hot Fellatio Babes from the Suburbs? Stoke the sedate urban male fantasy a tad. Hell, I might even buy that one.

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  4. I can think of a better word than fellatio, but this is a a PG-rated blog. Almost (except for twat).
    Fellatio sounds like a Shakespearean character ("There are more things in heaven and earth, Fellatio. . . "), or else an opera singer from the late 19th century (Enrico Fellatio).

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  5. Alas, poor Fellatio, I knew him well!

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  6. I'd recognize those lips anywhere, Margaret.

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  7. How did we ever get on to this?

    Now, cunnilingus. THAT is an odd, odd word. I always thought it meant cunning linguist. Why do we (they) have to come up with such hideous terms for something that ought to come naturally?

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  8. I like "cunning linguist." It's a rather apt pun, too ~ almost a translation ~ when you consider the imaginatively nuanced dexterity some practitioners bring to the art.

    Are we having fun yet?

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  9. Ya never know, Margaret. This could be your break-out post - hundreds, thousands! Your old gradeschool teachers, clergy. It could go viral!!

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  10. Makes me FEEL viral. I think I'll go lie down now.

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  11. Ah, the potency of the creative imagination. Or is it pruriency?

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