The Dead

Everyone is dead. The world is full of skeletons walking. Pestilence is our father. Worms are our sister. Dead bodies enlivened by necromancy.

I like to think of myself as a living creature. The living, the living. I pray for the dead. I hope I am alive. The living, the living. But I am a creature. A creature has a creator. The Office of the dead for a poor dead soul whom I love. One can pray for the living as well as the dead. Poor souls. Among the living as well as among the dead.

There is a famous sermon where a pessimistic sainted priest relates two private revelations where it is claimed that basically only one out of every ten thousand or so people who grow to adulthood are saved. It is something that people talk about on the internet where all everything ever written is kept in digital databases and people share the strangest things. Even I am not so pessimistic. Because these stories come down to us from times when the people were more pious. To think at a time where everyone went to Mass and everyone tithed and they built all those beautiful Churches which I have never visited and never will visit, as I am a creature of New York and will never travel to Europe or South America to see them. But it is frightening. To think that all of those souls who contributed so much to the Church and lived far better lives than we did are damned. Are there no children of God?

But in these times I try to have a heart full of love. I am just a poor creature. Of no account. I am of no account. One day a possibly drunken man came up to me and kissed my hand and said I was a good man. No I was a great man. It was so strange that it seemed like a hallucination. I spoke to him for only a moment and then went away. It was as if I was a noble lord and he was my peasant. Though he was an old man. I should have stayed with him. But that was a few months ago.

Nodoby knows me. Prayer in this time of plague. I am feeling okay. On the day after St. Patrick's day, when Michael arrived with the girl, I was so stressed out that I had to have some beer for the second night in a row. My father was worried so he drank with me to make sure I was alright. Then I finished and went right to bed. I am not an alcoholic, but sometimes, and it is not very common, I get stressed out, and when I do, I like to have beer and it cuts my nerves and helps me sleep, and usually I feel better in the morning. This time I felt better, and now, four days later, I am almost perfect. I still would like to go to confession. I did not fall into a new sin, but I was thinking of something I did a long time ago and felt remorse for it and a pain of soul came upon me. But Mass was cancelled and the Churches are closed. I may call a priest and ask if he could meet me so I could confess. I am young and have no symptoms so it would be no danger to him.

Prepare for death. For when it comes, it comes quickly, and the preparation for death is the only thing that matters in this life.

I am not afraid and my nerves are getting better. I just wish things would go back to normal soon. Pestilence is our father. Worms are our sister. Not that I am afraid. But I would rather be praying before the Blessed Sacrament than alone and I would rather eat heavenly bread than mere human bread, even the finest sourdough from the best bakery.

I may indeed go to the Lourdes Grotto again. But not tomorrow for it is supposed to be raining.

I was reminded of the Japanese director Kenji Mizoguchi and how he made some wonderful movies. If I ever get back into watching movies, I think his should be the first ones I watch. I don't like most movies anymore.

In this time of pestilence perhaps I should listen to more classical music. And maybe some old Church music. I have to go pray for the dead now. I am waiting for the time when there will be nothing to eat but rice. Everyone is dead. Especially here in New York City. The whole city is a mirage. A fantasy like the spirit house in "Ugetsu" and we are really living in ruins and desolation but our soul is tricked into thinking we are in a beautiful mansion. When will this veil be lifted?

The living. The living. Everyone is dead here in New York City. Everyone is dead.