On the Nose of Satan

The Storms have spent their fury- the thunderstorm is over- Job has been censured before the face of humankind- the Lord and Job have come to an understanding… Job is blessed and has received everything double. -This is called a repetition.

Kierkegaard. Repetition.

Paul,

It’s so cold, now, it must be early. My face has kept company with the sand, it has drifted little piles around my hair. Darkness, I feel, rests upon my soul. It holds its cold breath. I can only feel last nights dreams with the blurs in my eyes. I look upon the horizon, and there, I see two, now three, now innumerable horizons. I see slivers of stars, they blur, they then erase. I’m too afraid to look for my feet, to look and find them clouded into innumerable members.

I tried to keep it, to keep it a distance, but it has now puddled around my body. I am sitting in the shallows of beauty, something we might never call beauty again. Why did you tell me that? You knew it would slowly palm, then finger, its way across my body. Into my mind. Why did you tell me you gave Hymenaeus and Alexander over to Satan? Why had you taken you hand, grabbing coal, to squelch a flame? In handing them over- to Satan, did you touch his hand?

Job? How do you feel? Can you feel Hymenaeus and Alexander? How they are privileged, in the worlds new order, to see the one who gave them over to Satan. That the golden hand, holding the diamond, sucked out the light. That the display, the theater of the divine, shown so clear. They saw the face of both Satan and God… in the face of Paul.

Paul, how do you feel? I cannot fathom how you stand, today, deep in the divine. At such a depth that you can wield Hell. A Hell to pay.  And, to know Hymenaeus and Alexander will return. That your conviction on one side of the action, ellipsed. That your conviction stood with Hymenaeus and Alexander at the door of Heaven, looking back at Hell. That in your hand, a rusted hand, you will carry Hell to Heaven.

Only you know, o only you, know how to drop things at Jesus’ feet, right. That one must burst through the doors, the gates of heaven, with fire. With a package. That to drop it at the throne- in Heaven, one must carry Hell to eternity.

So I sit here, in bubbles of air, feeling them bounce between my chest. Feeling, the sting of air collapsing, thinking of Job. I am thinking of what it must feel like, from within Heaven, to never forget your life on Earth. Endlessly repeating. Pulling upon the threads of details, where in the magnifying glass of Heaven, one lives out Hell. Where on both sides of Eternity Job experiences Hell.

Paul, is this what it means to save some to loose some, or, to loose some to save some? Either way, it is a repetition. I can feel your confidence even here, miles away in the blurs of my body and gravity. I feel how important the theater is for you, how you must terminate your thoughts upon displays, the depths of the realist, Jesus.

I promise, as soon as I can feel my feet, without the shattering nibbles of dust crunching, I will hunt for some ripe fruit. I will keep my water draped in wine as you suggested to Timothy.

Of always,

~Your hearty one

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About Rene Diebenkorn

Lifetime Artist. ETC.

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