Only with a certain obtuseness of vision, a will to simplicity, does the beautiful, the ‘valuable’ appear: in itself, it is I know not what.
Will to Power. Nietzsche.
‘Jesus has many demands,’ Paul begins to eek out, ‘he has many promises.’ I watch Paul wrestle with this idea. Then I see Paul’s eyes begin to bulge, redness covers his hands as they balloon.
‘Of course there is a sense of simplicity, here, upon Jesus’ demands,’ Paul blathers, ‘but they are also monstrous.’
Paul’s ears wiggle, cheeks sag.
Click to another click. Click. Paul’s belt snaps loose. His chest is rolling outward and inward. He is a balloon being blown up not with air inside, but with air outside. ‘If you forget this excess, the excess of Jesus’ demands that seem out of our reach,’ I watch Paul’s lips turn to melons,
‘You will equate Jesus with a rose.’
As Paul floats into the air I watch his pants drop to the ground. To the left is his shirt.
‘But Jesus is a tattered rose at best,’ I hear Paul’s throat echo amongst the trees, ‘for doesn’t he still have holes in his hands in heaven?’ The sky turns light blue and I loose the color of Paul’s skin.
‘Jesus is beautiful, I think,’ Paul’s voice flattens the Earth, ‘I think we mean, he is monstrous. He is beyond beautiful, really.’
Paul clears the horizon.