Desecrate the Saints

When I was young and foolish, I placed the basest rascals upon silver pedestals, superior to all other mortals, elevating them to an exalted God-like status in my stories. I remember writing, night after night, deluded obviously, with even self-awareness of being so due to my Guardian Angel, but defying the Angel and creating demigods, Saints clad in white, mimicking in my fevered reverie the romantic poets like Tennyson, Shelley, Byron. Mortal clay cannot withstand such elevation; laughter, derision and mockery are the inevitable result. In the first place, I was mistaken. Those I thought were High were Low. In the second place, they loved no one but themselves, and to worship such as they is to place a crown of thorns upon one's head. There is no percentage in making oblations to an ambivalent or indeed hostile Deity. This Truth, if accepted, solves half the world's problems, but remains unseen by most, and so they persist in self-destructive behaviors, the mindless infected of viral memes. We do see in this world as through a glass darkly.

The Law is so. Think first upon serving thy Self. Then think of others. Because they will not think of you.

Now I am old and wise, I think of the same godlings with derision and contempt, and only feel wonder and amusement that I ever saw anything at all in them. In cold blood, the only right blood, I evaluate their decrepit ancient mortal forms and savor Time's rue, a punishment far surpassing any I would have contemplated. Surely some infernal spirit played tricks with me, led me far astray, and it was only Grace that kept me from getting entangled with these low creatures.

I think that rock-n-roll music is the culprit, the gateway that leads many folk to look for the divine in base mortal clay, so convenient, right at hand and so wrong. I hear some songs today and think, oh, that is a spell, and to listen too closely is to be taken.