Repetition Repetition

It’s the best time of night, when the darkness is palpable and the world around is resting in deathly silence.  It is as if creation has been postponed till tomorrow; the only sounds are the sounds of expectation of what is not yet known to come, and the sounds of preparation for a first morning freshness and unveiling of what is dead and escaped or alive and burdened by the light of revelation.  But in the beginning there was nothing, not even anticipation, or the concept of life and death.  So expectancy hides unnoticed with full stomach and an expired due date of childbirth.
Let there be light.  It’s read from right to left and straight into her heavy and awkward body; standing and sitting and standing causing her to tire and even sweat a little.  .thgil eb ereht teL  It’s difficult for her in a synagogue; she hasn’t prayed in so long because backward letters don’t mirror her English mentality.  She is flavored in timid openness that’s starting to sour, guilt that ages like Manischevitz , and a looming wonderment of her place so wrong so wrong—the back pew is too far away from the closet of Torah scrolls that she doubts the eternal light even shines on her.  She still closes her eyes when she whispers the Shema, but the beauty isn’t as overwhelming as it once was, when she could actually join in the singing.  Her throat is much too plagued with sin to get the words out.  613, she thinks in agony (for she has and realized that she has broken more than a third of them).  Mixed messages:  the interpretation that she grasped is starting to fray, for tzit-tzit are not meant for the weight of a pregnant doubter, they are only strong enough to support the weight of participation and love. 
Getting dizzy from the rotations around the Sensara, she blinks her eyes.  She has trained herself to premeditate all of her moves, for she does not want to do something rash that would kill something, but she hasn’t yet mastered the art of not blinking.  She restricts her breath because it might harm the wind; self-denial will only make her stronger.  Ahimsa, she repeats in her head.  Nonviolence, it means, but sometimes she still must gasp for the air that she doesn’t allow for herself.  Cross the river, she commands herself, despite her tired body telling her she is too far along to battle the current of temptation.  Five Vows Five Vows she carries in her back pocket.  Now she adheres to them, but before she did not.  The white cloth over her mouth was once missing, her steps were not always monitored with a soft broom, and she ate the seeds of fruit (the possibility of life killed in between the grinding of her teeth:  murderer of the future…).  Her karma has been upset with her sins, the biggest one on display in her physiology.  No hiding that, she shrugs.  She is not recognized as a member, and so she practices on her own.  Loneliness is her attempt to balance her karma.
Primordial willingness set just to understand what life is and where it came from.  Don’t know what the world is yet, you only know the allegories of a religion in the making:  before they are corrupted by organization and blame and impulses of thought that would create guilt (the best way to attract newcomers is to threaten them with guilt).  And she stands there, with no expectations, wondering if she will be invited, despite her pregnancy.  The idea before the institutionalized churches and temples that the god of unknown fear or happiness or whatever a self-elected leader of spirituality wants, and still can preach humbleness… They smoke to transcend time and remove themselves from the pessimism of life.  She closes her eyes and hopes to be picked, but she is a woman she is a woman.  So she smokes by herself; in the woods where the scent blends with the odor of life without restrictions.  It makes her busy, the constant attack on her of innocence and purity.  Smoke up, she thinks.  It will replace the nightmares awakening in an unborn child.  Our body, she realizes, has more control than a god created by curling smoke and distorted sight.  To be alive, truly and fully, she must overcome her bodily restraints.  Self mutilation and restriction of breath.  Whip till it doesn’t hurt and hold your breath till you faint.  Then:  everything is equal.  Life is pure and unadulterated with preconceptions.  This is the moment.  The only moment of life.
She calls herself a virgin, because being raped is not the same as having sex.  Fear fills her eyes with wet, clumsy tears, which she fights to hide from the positive pregnancy test—the angel that delivers this shock.  “I was raped by God…”  Her baby will be far more important than the pain it will cause her.  She knows His life already.  She knows that her uterus will house a miracle, and that miracle will give hope to the people.  Death will forever be permanent and everlasting for everyone but Him, who visits vitality one last time.  She sits in the confessional, slouching back to the wall behind her and swinging her legs as a natural habit.  Waiting, daring, finding the words to make things right.  This child that lives off half the food she eats is early.  The realization that this is real, as her stomach dissents and her breasts begin to sag, haunts her.  She attempts to prepare what she is going to say.  A little poor girl, more innocent than her pregnancy appears.  The funny thing is that she believed the angel that came bearing the news.  What a shock, to find a foreign life within you, one that could not be explained or shamed for.  In the story, Mary was unquestioning unquestioning of her faith, but here, now, she is unsure.  They called her, the first pregnant virgin, a story, a piece of entertaining news.  How she escaped the nonbelievers, how she let her eyes remain downcast and her heart—she had to mend it every night—in pain with the visible stars staring, imploring, mocking, judging.  God raped me, she says it again to help her believe it herself.  I was raped, she practices.  Oh, by who?  The masses would shout.  God raped me, she repeats.  God raped me…
The Lie.  She lies she lies.  Shielding her eyes with her hand, she understands the severity of the demons and their Lie.  Around her, fire dwells as a highly revered protector of innocence.  Another eternal light, still made with fire instead of light bulbs; through the flames prayers are melted, then ease slowly away as the grey smoke rises toward Ahura Mazda.  She is winded, trying to run between good and evil, as ethical dualism spins around, consuming her mind and touching her body.  She wonders if she, too, will be eaten by holy flames, as the first, Zarahustra, was.  Human breath and heartbeats can contaminate all elements.  Her baby, quiet in her womb, kicks softly, searching for the response of warm touch.  Fetus and mother won’t be buried or cremated together. Instead, their corpses will feed the other residents of Iran:  the vultures, who circle the “Tower of Silence.”  She thinks of death, of rebirth, of resurrection.  Unworthy, she calls herself; too valuable, she touches her belly gently…At least their bones will be clean and innocent.
And then, the ultimate return to reality.  She has her baby, already dead on arrival into the world that would have killed it anyway. Clearly, her ritualistic and religious revelations corrupted along with organization and rules cannot extend life, only shade it with uncertainty.  Too much light.  Too much adventure.                     
Maintain sanity despite the onslaught of confusion.  When too many doctrines infest one mind, the confusion stops bodily functions.  Breathe slowly, He says, in a Yiddish accent.  All is equal, the strength of life answers with an attempt to not open its mouth so wide that an insect could enter.  Faith is instinct faith is instinct.  Trust the religion molded around the truth of innocence in life, even from conception. All is sacred if humans do not ruin the purity of God.  Just an explanation that, as usual, we will die having committed great crimes.
And so life ends and death renews itself in beauty and misfortune.  We still believe, but only in fear.  Answer the question:  where am I and where is the world in which I currently inhabit?  So much so much doubt that reality doesn’t even exist.