Untitled Conversation

"An apology for the devil: It must be remembered that we have heard only one side of the case.  God has written all the books."
-Samuel Butler

And God spake, "I am the Lord, thy God, creator of the Universe, God of Abraham, Isa-”
”Hold on, hold on, wait. I'm sorry. I mean no disrespect, really, I don't. But can we just skip all the pomp and circumstance? I know your little schtick, but it's really unnecessary. Can't we just have a normal conversation without it getting all Biblical? "
God paused for just a moment to allow the firmament to settle. "I apologize. It's a really terrible habit and I've been trying for a few eons now to break it. You know how it is; habits, I mean. The older you get, the harder it is to break them. Well try being eternal some time."
"Ta, mate. Bloody great racket that was, playing death metal on me eardrums. You gotta get with the times. All that King James holier than thou crap, it's old hat. Get yourself a Twitter or something. Update the lingo.  Take a tour of New York City."
"I am everywhere all the time."
"All the noise must get bloody distracting."
"Well... it's not too bad.  Actually, it's a lot quieter now than it has been in centuries.  Nobody really needs me anymore.  They think they do, but most problems are things people can easily solve themselves.  I really just manage to upkeep and let the angels do whatever minor miracles need doing."
"Feeling a bit lonely lately?  I guess that's to be expected.  All those religions down there nowadays, everyone certain they've got it right.  All invoking Jehovah for this, Allah for that, Jesus fucking Christ, oh lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes-Benz?  The wars must be playing hell on your conscience, oh all-loving and all-powerful."
"It's sad really.  I gave mortals free will, conscious, my very image of morality and wisdom, and yet look how some foolish few have squandered my gift.  But there are so many down there, those beautiful masses who innovate, propagate, elevate their communities.  I couldn't be more proud.  This is exactly what I had set out do."
"I s'pose it is.  Cheers on you.  I...ah--ah--choo!"
"God bless you."
"Heh, feeling clever, are you?"
"It's just good manners.  People say it all the time.  You did ask me to, what was it?  Update my lingo?"
"Don't get cheeky with me.  I'm just saying, the whole blessing people after sneezing?  What's up with that anyway?  It's dumb if ya ask me."
"Nobody asked you."
"Silly old superstition.  It's just a sneeze.  You don't bless someone after they burp or fart.  Hell, then the blighter whodunnit need be polite to those around them.  'Excuse me,' he says.  But a sneeze?  'Bless ya.'  Betcha 99% of the morons out there doin' it don't even know why.  Politeness, they think.  They don't even know what they really think is their goddamned souls are gonna fly out their faces.  Like I said, silly superstition.  Like the devil collects souls covered in snot."
"Haha, you make an excellent point.  I guess it is a bit farfetched.  I get enough spam prayers and requests for blessings as is.  I really don't need all these requests to bless human nasal cavities."
"That's the spirit.  Anyway, I digress.  What was I saying?  I don't remember now.  How've you been?"
"So-so.  I've been nostalgic for the good old days.  Not the plagues or the witch hunts or anything like that.  I never really like lording around as God, but I felt I had more of a connection with the people back then.  Like I said, I don't do much in the way of miracles anymore.  No point.  It would just cause more fighting down there so I just stay out of it.  Besides, it would interfere with the free will thing and I don't want to go back on my word."
"Hate being a hypocrite?"
"Well, if you did something that went against your creed, that would just be in character.  But if I were to reverse my stance on something, I'd effectively wipe out all of Creation.  It's a tricky business.  It's not like I haven't thought about putting a stop to the suffering on Earth, the war, the famine, the disease, the death, but in doing so, I'd inadvertently and ironically cause the apocalypse, which just isn't in the cards right now."
"Wait, that's actually coming?"
"Nothing lasts forever.  The sun will expand into a red giant and consume the planet in 4 billion years.  Will humans be around for that?  Who's to say?  It's not my place to prognosticate on such matters.  You'll just have to wait and see.  Do I have a plan?  Is it all random?  It's all a matter of point of view."
"I suppose that's why so many people have stopped believing in you.  Sure, when nobody could explain things, it was easier to blame a deity or three for their lot in life.  But people finally starting to think.  So much can be explained these days that couldn't be before.  And if you don't know it, Google's got the answer.  You're really not much more than a concept anymore, a free radical anachronism who may or may not exist as anything more than idea in the human collective conscious.  Who's to say our conversation is even happening?  The very idea of talking directly to God?  And getting such straightforward answers?  That's ridiculous.  For all we know, this is all just something being read in front of a bloody Creative Writing class as part of an assignment.  We'd never really know."
"I know what you're doing.  Please stop."
"Ha!  Well, you know what they're saying down there?  God is dead.  People don't need you to lay out their morals for them anymore.  It's choice, free will.  The one's who need to put their faith in a higher power are those who can't make moral decisions for themselves.  Every time they do something bad or see some unspeakable horror, they say the devil did.  But you and I, we know the truth.  I don't do anything.  Satan, that's what I was called by the ancient Hebrews, the adversary, the accuser.  All I do is question your actions to make them think and progress.  But all that bad stuff people do?  It isn't me.  You said it yourself: free will.  They do it to themselves.  Great gig I got.  I get to sit up here and laugh."
"Do not invoke my anger, little angel."
"What are you going to do about it?  There I go questioning you again.  You can't do anything to me.  You decreed that I am your adversary.  This is my job.  Unless you want to go against your word, and we both know how that will turn out.  Let's just talk, big guy."
"You're really trying my patience here.  I may restart the universe just so I don't have to deal with you in the next."
"Like you could.  You're nothing more than an outmoded idea, old man.  More people these days invoke me than you.  It's in every swear, every act of vengeance and murder, every time a holiday shopper viciously attacks his fellow man for that sweet deal on an HDTV.  They don't even know that they're doing it, but it's all instinctive.  They're nothing more than animals playing at being more.  Nope, you and I, we're on our way out I think.  Might as well pack it in now."
"Why are you so dead set on convincing me of the folly of my own existence?  What is in it for you?  Certainly, if God does not exist, the devil cannot either."
"I'm a nihilist.  I don't believe that any of this really is, especially you and I.  And I don't think you're nearly as important to the maintenance of the world as you believe.  If you stepped away from it all, who would ever know?  Certainly not either of us.  Certainly not them."
"Maybe you're right.  All of this was getting a bit old anyway.  Maybe I will go away for a while.  Maybe I was never really there at all.  Maybe I am everywhere and all things.  Maybe I am not.  Maybe..."  And just like that, God and the devil just aren't there.

"The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he doesn't exist."
-Charles Baudelaire

Writer's Block is a Serious Disease

I haven't submitted a new post in a while.  There's a reason for this.  I've been rewriting the bible in more modern terms.  Please allow me to share the new Genesis:


Lo, and in the beginning there was naught but a blank sheet of paper and a Writer, a Writer who sat before this loose sheet of empty whiteness with pen in outstretched hand and many wonders in His mind. And He looked before His canvas, bereft of all letter or word or sentence and He knew that He must put pen to pad and write as none had ever written before, lest the paper be empty and the words spell out nothing and the story remain unfulfilled. And He sat and He thought, and He thought and He sat, and for a very long time He stared at the blank white sheet before Him and the Writer wrote nothing down, not even the word nothing, but a void of intention to write but not a word for said void. And as He sat and planned and plotted and meditated upon the nature of the written word and how He could put all of these new ideas to paper could He only find the right way to string them together, the Writer grew petulant with his page of pearly parchment.

The Writer said, "Let there be an end to this infernal task." And upon growing tired of staring at a perpetually barren piece of paper, the Writer stood up and wandered to His television and sat upon His couch, remote control in hand, and meditated upon the nature of cable and how there never seems to be anything of interest to watch. And as He sat there and pondered watching Netflix instead despite knowing that there was nothing any better on see on that, the king of all streaming services, He knew that it was probably best if He should turn off the television set and sit back down before His empty papyrus, pen in hand, or typewriter, or keyboard (perhaps He'd join the rest of the 21st century and finally utilize a word processor) and finally get to work on that story He was meaning to tell. Or not. There were certainly other distractions at hand that could pass by an afternoon, He thought.

The Writer said, "Let there be feast so as to get my creative juices flowing." And so, rising up like a phoenix from his comfortable couch, the Writer walked not towards his pen and pad, but rather towards the kitchen to make within its hallowed chamber a sandwich through which He sought the comforts of a full stomach and through said stomach filled with food, the energy necessary to at long last complete, nay begin that tale of which He hath promised to write so fully but hath yet to truly tell. And upon His sandwich, the Writer drew to Him many a deli meat, both of the ham and the salami, for this was an Italian combo, and it would require both the Genoa and the pepperoni. And of the vegetables, there were a plenty, both the lettuce romaine and the onions red, banana peppers for a bit of spice, and olives. He liked olives, and black olives, neatly sliced were certainly called for here upon this most revered of sandwiches. And all this, the Writer laid out before Him neatly upon a hero roll, with several slices of Swiss cheese and a generous dollop of deli mustard. And the Writer looked upon the sandwich and saw that it was good.

The Writer said, "Let the sandwich be shown to the world before me and all shall take pleasure in my accomplishment." And before taking a bite, He would inform all of His culinary creation. Bringing forth from the depths of his pocket the iPhone of wonders, He snapped a photo of the sandwich for all to behold upon the Instagram. And once the photo was posted to the internet, He looked upon the many likes and mouthwatering comments and the Writer saw that it was good. And there was much rejoicing and the Writer ate His sandwich. And it was delicious.

The Writer said, "Let there be books, comics, internet articles, anything really with words in it that I can read and perhaps gather some inspiration." And before Him was laid out that book He kept trying to read, the latest issue of "The Amazing Spider-Man", and a few articles about the latest bullshit spewing from Donald Trump's mouth. Beyond those articles, He sat and He read the comments coming from those loonies who actually want to vote for Trump and He laughed. And none of it was really very inspiring or intellectual or world changing, and yet the Writer read it all. And He continued to read this, or watch a clip of that, and it all amounted to a wasted afternoon. And the Writer was growing tired, and He saw this and thought it was good?

The Writer said, "Let there be video games and Facebook and binge watching that new show everyone keeps talking about and porn. And before long, a whole lot of time had passed and not much was accomplished, and that paper upon his desk laid dormant, gathering dust, still devoid of any sort of meaning or purpose. And still the barren paper continued to haunt the Writer who knew that He had not accomplished His intended task to create, to build, to nurture and structure a world of His own. And the Writer looked upon his failed creation and he saw that it was bad. And the Writer sighed, for every creation story must have a villain, He mused, and mine are procrastination and writer's block.