The church, the temple, the feast day and festival are sacred spaces set apart. Man is a moral creature and thus has prohibitions and taboos against certain behaviors in order to uphold society. Did religion arise out of society for this reason? Or did society arise out of religion? Interesting to think about. Religion tells man what to desire as forbidden fruit. It is only here in the religious sphere of social life that you will find these prohibitions and taboos temporarily and selectively lifted for events deemed sacred. Thus we relish the sacred all the more and feel truly free. Man goes to church to be told not to do the very things that he later does, in private, and feels guilt and shame, but then is allowed to do them when sanctioned by the sacred and so feels all the more exhilarated. What is taboo is, at its root, present in all cultures: sex and death.
Archibald was a great friend. He would take his place in the chorus several times a week and sing to the Lord. So many words carried up into the rafters, the same words repeated over centuries, borne on melodies that sailed like boats on the current of prayer. Even though I spoke the language, I could rarely understand what was being said. I would catch a word or a phrase every now and then, but most words were inhuman flowing water serpents writhing along with the current until a familiar word would form in my ear and make everything human once again. I saw my dear friend several times a week in this sacred setting, along with his family. I felt I knew him but the sacred is a world set apart. It is the opposite of knowing in the everyday sense. It is inhuman. Archibald’s human side was vastly different and no one saw it coming, although it happens all the time. I wonder if these things can be helped at all or if we are just who we are for better and worse.
These days I find myself in a different setting, different only in the frosting. What’s that saying? Everywhere I go there I am. Something like that. We are doomed to repeat our patterns until we dissolve them. With a mostly chewed burger still in my mouth and fingers greasy with ketchup, I place the half-used bottle at the shrine of Matangi and begin to feel those same water serpents that would appear to me in church choir. Writhing and flowing, they mingle words with songs into something wholly unrecognizable, something sacred. I say a prayer:
Matangi, who delights in the wildness of the forest
Sought equally among people
Send nada through my bones like thunder and rivers
And whisper truth in my ear.
You make pure the most impure residue,
Adorable maiden with swelling breasts
Made of dark emeralds and clothed in blood red petals.