Three Churches
In the early hours of this morning I vividly dreamt of churches. Three of them. With my mother and two sisters. We were in the process of visiting to join.
The first, a very real place for me though I have been inside only once, Sacred Heart Church in Lanesville, my father-in-law's church. We entered and it was strangely empty, stripped of all religious paraphernalia and I wondered how, because yesterday I had read about Roman Prybot painting the inside of the church. How to remove paint quickly and without marking?
Our voices sounded dull in the coldness of the room. Dead it was, as if people had never lived there, sung there, worshipped there. God was not there and I'm not sure whether or not he had ever been there. I suppose for some, he had.
As we drove away I noticed the rectory light, soft and dim. I pictured a priest inside, but not Father Bullock. He had his feet up and was drinking a cup of Earl Grey, tea bag still in cup, cup resting on saucer, saucer resting upon the darkness of his exhaling chest. Where does a priest go when a church closes?
Next we visited a large, foreboding and hideously square church. It reminded me of the Pentagon. It was dark, grey and the people inside were hushed and faceless. I looked up and could not see the ceiling. The sterility and the familiarity of it all frightened me and we immediately left.
The landscape changed and the weather too. We came to a place that could have been New Mexico. Stucco, adobe, color and wildness. Sun and light. We entered to music and sat near former Mayor Tobey, slapping his thigh to the beat and grinning. The music upbeat, perhaps rock and roll by Amanda's definition, ended and the revelers boarded a train to another room. A large room with Mellors, Lady Chatterley's lover, standing at wooden podium similar to the one I inherited from Heather and had come to live in room 1209 at Gloucester High School, until that room was taken over by ROTC.
Mellors, at the podium, about to deliver a sermon or a homily. Are they the same? It was wild, the way he moved in and out of dialect. Less concerned with what he was saying and more concerned with how he was saying it. Tobey, Mellors, a train, colorful Latin American artwork, rock and roll. Absurdity. And I loved it.
It is important to say that this dream ended with fighting. Outside of the church, loud and colorful, my mother, my sisters and I disagreeing over what church is. They were offended by the spectacle of it all. And all the while it was the spectacle that made me want to stay, to see what would happen next.
A few things: I actually had this dream, though I did include two or three artistic embellishments. Recently I talked with Amanda about church, with Heidi about church shopping. Sacred Heart closed and John, who has been going to this church since he was six, has to find another space to be. Yesterday I saw Bruce Tobey in the library and asked about Emily, a former student and his daughter. I read about Sacred Heart Church in the GDT. I spent two hours at coffee shop with Lady Chatterley's Lover and I ate sweet Italian chicken sausage for dinner (Tad thinks it was the sausage). I also have issues with religion. As if you didn't know.
And to think, I don't need Freud or my therapist to psychoanalyze me. I think I can interpret this one myself.
The first, a very real place for me though I have been inside only once, Sacred Heart Church in Lanesville, my father-in-law's church. We entered and it was strangely empty, stripped of all religious paraphernalia and I wondered how, because yesterday I had read about Roman Prybot painting the inside of the church. How to remove paint quickly and without marking?
Our voices sounded dull in the coldness of the room. Dead it was, as if people had never lived there, sung there, worshipped there. God was not there and I'm not sure whether or not he had ever been there. I suppose for some, he had.
As we drove away I noticed the rectory light, soft and dim. I pictured a priest inside, but not Father Bullock. He had his feet up and was drinking a cup of Earl Grey, tea bag still in cup, cup resting on saucer, saucer resting upon the darkness of his exhaling chest. Where does a priest go when a church closes?
Next we visited a large, foreboding and hideously square church. It reminded me of the Pentagon. It was dark, grey and the people inside were hushed and faceless. I looked up and could not see the ceiling. The sterility and the familiarity of it all frightened me and we immediately left.
The landscape changed and the weather too. We came to a place that could have been New Mexico. Stucco, adobe, color and wildness. Sun and light. We entered to music and sat near former Mayor Tobey, slapping his thigh to the beat and grinning. The music upbeat, perhaps rock and roll by Amanda's definition, ended and the revelers boarded a train to another room. A large room with Mellors, Lady Chatterley's lover, standing at wooden podium similar to the one I inherited from Heather and had come to live in room 1209 at Gloucester High School, until that room was taken over by ROTC.
Mellors, at the podium, about to deliver a sermon or a homily. Are they the same? It was wild, the way he moved in and out of dialect. Less concerned with what he was saying and more concerned with how he was saying it. Tobey, Mellors, a train, colorful Latin American artwork, rock and roll. Absurdity. And I loved it.
It is important to say that this dream ended with fighting. Outside of the church, loud and colorful, my mother, my sisters and I disagreeing over what church is. They were offended by the spectacle of it all. And all the while it was the spectacle that made me want to stay, to see what would happen next.
A few things: I actually had this dream, though I did include two or three artistic embellishments. Recently I talked with Amanda about church, with Heidi about church shopping. Sacred Heart closed and John, who has been going to this church since he was six, has to find another space to be. Yesterday I saw Bruce Tobey in the library and asked about Emily, a former student and his daughter. I read about Sacred Heart Church in the GDT. I spent two hours at coffee shop with Lady Chatterley's Lover and I ate sweet Italian chicken sausage for dinner (Tad thinks it was the sausage). I also have issues with religion. As if you didn't know.
And to think, I don't need Freud or my therapist to psychoanalyze me. I think I can interpret this one myself.
posted by Jane | 12:54 PM
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