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The thing that sucks most about my computer is that I'm still operating Mac OS 9. So many vids and clips (esp. from QaF) do not have a working video on this monstrosity. Given that I do not have Showtime, and consequently will not see the new season until it comes out on DVD, or until i get a new computer, or until I get brave enough to use my parents computer.
This makes me sad.
And I was thinking about Easter, and about religion, and why i don't believe in it anymore. I did, once. I remember feeling it, all the time, this lingering conversation with God about my life, and what I should be doing, and how I should be going about getting things done, and I always felt like I was being answered, even if it was just me answering myself (the gift of perspective, I think). Going to church on Sundays was a quiet space where, suddenly, nothing else felt so heavy, and I could think about what to do with my problems.
I had a mental picture of how all this happened. It was one of those offices, white walls and dark rusty brown carpet, dark wood . . . warm but orderly, with a huge window behind the desk, and a backyard where it was always fall, except when it was spring, and three chairs up against the wall, like in a waiting room. And I would be maybe five, because secretly that's how old I actually am, at least to myself (and that's only when I'm not twelve, which is the age I feel myself to be when I've got to decide things by myself, or evaluate my own capability). And there was a man behind the desk, older, maybe fifty, and a woman and another man in the chairs . . . and one of the chairs was for me. And that was sort of my religious experience for a while, talking to god and stuff in a warm little office.
I don't know when I lost that. I don't know if it was when I left for college and stopped going to church, or if I stopped going to church because I couldn't find that place, that sense of self, anymore.
And it isn't that I'm not spiritual, because magic (which isn't the right terminology, but neither is power . . . mystery, maybe, that acknowledgement that I can't know everything, and just because I cannot see it or know it, doesn't mean it isn't there, noticing me as much as I notice the ants in the grass) is real, in the same way that I'm real, or my inner image of myself is real. And god is real, i know that, too, although that might not be his name or his face, and you might be closer to him than I am, but that's all right.
But i miss the bone deep certainty that this is true--I believe it, still, but I used to know it--and I hope one day I'll get it back.
This makes me sad.
And I was thinking about Easter, and about religion, and why i don't believe in it anymore. I did, once. I remember feeling it, all the time, this lingering conversation with God about my life, and what I should be doing, and how I should be going about getting things done, and I always felt like I was being answered, even if it was just me answering myself (the gift of perspective, I think). Going to church on Sundays was a quiet space where, suddenly, nothing else felt so heavy, and I could think about what to do with my problems.
I had a mental picture of how all this happened. It was one of those offices, white walls and dark rusty brown carpet, dark wood . . . warm but orderly, with a huge window behind the desk, and a backyard where it was always fall, except when it was spring, and three chairs up against the wall, like in a waiting room. And I would be maybe five, because secretly that's how old I actually am, at least to myself (and that's only when I'm not twelve, which is the age I feel myself to be when I've got to decide things by myself, or evaluate my own capability). And there was a man behind the desk, older, maybe fifty, and a woman and another man in the chairs . . . and one of the chairs was for me. And that was sort of my religious experience for a while, talking to god and stuff in a warm little office.
I don't know when I lost that. I don't know if it was when I left for college and stopped going to church, or if I stopped going to church because I couldn't find that place, that sense of self, anymore.
And it isn't that I'm not spiritual, because magic (which isn't the right terminology, but neither is power . . . mystery, maybe, that acknowledgement that I can't know everything, and just because I cannot see it or know it, doesn't mean it isn't there, noticing me as much as I notice the ants in the grass) is real, in the same way that I'm real, or my inner image of myself is real. And god is real, i know that, too, although that might not be his name or his face, and you might be closer to him than I am, but that's all right.
But i miss the bone deep certainty that this is true--I believe it, still, but I used to know it--and I hope one day I'll get it back.