We’ve beat records for rain this year in central Minnesota. The sidewalks are pillowed with lilacs, and Saint Paul’s hundred-year-old storm sewers bring up syringes and squirrel tails and fish dropped by eagles over the Mississippi’s shore. The rain stains the sides of old high-rises; I love to walk in it and look at the patterns it makes, the grey sky that affirms the crumbling capital city’s true Goth self.
When the lightning peeks over the limestone cliffs that cup downtown, I calculate resistance to its strike: 100,000 ohms of denial mounted by the human body, less in bone, more in fat and muscle, but almost none when skin is wet. Water creates a parallel surface, an attractive conductor to lightning, but we work with what we’re given, our oscillations of resistance and susceptibility, and I walk faster.
I’ve been going to church lately. I hate church. I hate the pretend understanding of what is incomprehensible and ridiculous, I hate never knowing the proper procedure for any ritual, I hate that women are often treated as fractions of whole people, and I hate that I always drool my Communion wine.
I am judgmental and contemptuous in the absence of experience, a trait that keeps me frozen and perpetually terrified. [Read more…]