Entire Contents Copyright ©2004 writeThis.com. All Rights Reserved.
 | ||||
| ||||
writeThis
sept. 2003
the cabal
| ||||
| ||||
| ||||
------------
------------
-------------
------------
-------------
-------------
-------------
-------------
--------------
"the confrontation of aesthetics..."
writeThis.com
a pretendgenius.com production
mandible
vol. ii, issue vii
feb. 1, 2005
Fate of Faith or “The Opium of the People”
suzanne nielsen
I go to the health club most mornings at 7 a.m. This isn’t a
fancy club by any means; the carpet stains leave leery shadows while
fans bolted and padlocked to the half wall in front of the side-by-side
20 treadmills squeak rusty sounds from human sweat, thus lacking
efficiency. Passover morning while on treadmill number five a power
play of faiths emerges from sideways chatter. One runner’s just been
diagnosed with Osteitis Pubis Symphysis, a condition that is to ban her
running entirely for the next 12 weeks. If she continues, she will be
bed-ridden the doctor predicts. As her feet pound in place she
announces she isn’t looking forward to Friday because her psychic
foretells Friday will be the worst day of her life. She must have
faith in some prediction. Another woman praises Allah for finding the
strength to divorce her Jewish ex-husband and his traditions. Two
walkers gossip incessantly, calling it venting to their higher power.
A background murmur of a faithful runner prays to Christ Jesus Lord of
Lord’s out loud from 7:10 until 7:33 every morning, for all of our lost
souls.
Norm, a senior regular, wants machine number five. He asks me to
move, says five is his lucky number. Jerry, a retired Minneapolis cop
with scar tissued extremities, leans into me and says, “You’re
fllllirtin’ with five, Norm’s machine.” I stare at the TV to my left’s
breaking news: Nicole and Tom might reunite, thanks to Scientology.
Gideon’s Bible saved Rocky; scalloped Sanskrit covered the ocean’s
floors in unison with the ghosts of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Seraphim and
Shiva genuflected at the stupa all the while Mother Mary declared it
all falderal.
“Goddammmmit, Norm wants his mmmachine,”Jerry stutters through
poor fitting dentures. I think about the fate of faith all the while
walking nowhere on Norm’s number five until I realize that the praying
runner is silent, and it’s only 7:19; the reformed Jewish wife is
fixating over the tangled chord of her headphones, and the woman who
shouldn’t be running, most likely a Taurus, is blaming the sun, the
moon and mercury for her dismantling tabernacle. She can’t stop the
machine and the ritual of endorphin release any more than I can let
Norm have number five. But why?
Norm climbs on a stationary bike as does Jerry. They mumble
something, lots of S sounds. I see them out of the corner of my eye, a
disobliging shadow casts over their bent bodies, their slowly peddling
legs, and I realize that the shadow casted is not mine alone. It is a
leery onlooker that lurks inside us all, coming to pay homage to our
bolted and padlocked souls constantly running and getting nowhere. I
want to say I am in a hurry to contact a Wiccan circle, have them brew
me up a remedy for the chronic pain in my ass. But it is no more
outside of me than it is any of the rest of us. But why?
