Franz Stuck: The Guardian of Paradise (1889)

"I might convene my ComingToFuckingJesus Meeting,
but nobody even remotely resembling Jesus ever attends."

I am, by nature, a patient man. I am taken to making generous interpretations. I think of myself as forgiving to a fault. I travel without the burden of grudges. I have never been obsessed with the presence of even imagined enemies. I am, in short, usually happily oblivious. Go ahead, take mean advantage of me. I'm unlikely to seek redress in the thoroughly unlikely event that I notice. I am a well-known and long-standing schlemiel, born to be humiliated. But even I have my limit. I rarely experience it, but somebody will likely hear about it when it finally appears. I'm likely to convene what I call a ComeToFuckingJesus Meeting to air my ill feelings. I will expect contrition and compliance from the target of my considerable vehemence. I will come pissed and usually surprise myself with the swiftness of my truly terrible sword.

I am not now, if I ever was, a Christian. After decades of struggling to comprehend the metaphors involved with the religion, I finally concluded that they didn't want or need me in their congregation. Otherwise, they might have based their legend on something I might have managed to comprehend. I cannot grok the idea of a personal lord or savior, me not having been the product of the Middle Freaking Ages. The closest I've managed to muster is the image of Jesus as my personal shopper, a role I've always considered existing exclusively for the convenience of those disabled by burdensome personal wealth. I've always been more of a DIY shopper, more skilled at deflecting assistance than accepting it. I'm always "just looking" when asked if I could use some help, and I suspect I'm the same way with my religion. I doubt that I might need a personal savior, whatever that acceptance might entail.

God The Father baffles my imagination, too, for I can't seem to break through into whatever might prove necessary to believe that an omniscient figure is hovering and watching. I accept that transcendent realms might exist unnoticed, but I wonder what that might have in store for any of us. I conclude that if God's in his Heaven, then all's probably more or less right with this world, however terrible some of it is, and leave that controversy to that. The idea of fealty to such a character seems like prima facie evidence of the commission of a grave sin of self-importance. Who in the Hell would I have to be to become worthy of such an overseer, and worse, who would I have to become to appreciate the oversight? I do not usually require adult supervision, having somehow grown my own moral compass without the direct influence of any heavenly supervisor.

All that said, I become the true thirty-seventh great-grandson of the first Holy Roman Emporer I am whenever I finally exceed my limit. I chalked up those first three failed inspections as lessons, learning experiences informing me about my relationship with my concrete contractor. The fourth failed inspection left me feeling like the schlemiel I secretly think I actually am, which leaves my concrete contractor in dangerous territory. As a consultant, I eventually learned that each of my clients secretly feared that they would be discovered to be the schlemiel they knew themself to be. It was concomitant upon me, as their short-term employee, to respect that dread fear and to try to avoid publicly exposing this fact. I knew myself as a schlemiel, too, so it wasn't a far stretch to accept that everyone else might have the same deep fear. From personal experience, I knew that I could become The Incredible Hulk if so provoked, but I trod lightly around that aspect of my client/consultant relationships. Pablo, my concrete contractor, crossed that line and is about to gain a little education.

The city assessed a sixty-five dollar excessive inspection fee on the operation, a modest fine but clear evidence that we've crossed some line. I will, of course, expect Pablo to open wide and swallow that fine. I will also take to riding his suddenly sorry ass as if I didn't trust him, which I no longer do. This is a sad state for any relationship because nobody does their best work when somebody, especially a suspicious client, rides their ass. This pisses off both the contractor and the client, but it's a standard part of any half-decent vengeance. I will also increase my expectations. While I might have once been satisfied with a few surface imperfections, I will henceforth anticipate absolute perfection, a state impossible for any contractor to produce. In short, we're screwed. I will convene my ComeingToFuckingJesus Meeting, extract a sincere enough apology, and then set about undermining the project. Vengence is mine, sayeth somebody's Lord and savior. I might convene my ComingToFuckingJesus Meeting, but nobody even remotely resembling Jesus ever attends.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Grace, #PureSchmaltz