Wearing a St Christopher Pendant, Possibly Like a Fool

My sister gave me a St Christopher. I asked if I could have one. She chose one and it's fine. I have already gotten over its intense shininess and my unfamiliarity with the sensation of wearing what amounts to jewellery around my neck. I am almost never self-conscious about it any more. Forget it's there. But I still have to ask myself why it is there.

I wanted it as an affectation. I don't even know what I believe, or if there even is any point believing anything. Our thoughts on the issue one way or the other are hardly relevant. And even if you do have an opinion, articulating it, even to oneself, seems like an exercise in futility. We could never know anything anyway, not with complete certainty. We have to rely on our own perception, and trust our senses, even, in the belief of people who tend more toward the fantastical, trust some innate, may-as-well-be-make-believe sense, which arises from who-knows-where. Our perception could be some film printed behind the eyes and laid out for us like a poisonous sustenance from birth.

Anything could be possible. There is almost certainly no god. Not in the conventional sense. And almost certainly not in any other sense either. So wearing a bit of metal is pointless also. Yet I like it. It is my St Christopher. I know it has no magic power, but I like the story of a giant man ferrying the needy across a river. The idea of selflessness is definitely worth observing.

But none of those things matter really. It is an affectation. If a character in a movie can wear one, and my life proceeds apparently in as much of a whacked-out mode as any movie, then I feel I can wear one, too. Lying on the grass forever would also be an option. Baking in the sun, devoid of motivation, sweating furiously from action that drives on always trying to speed up the end, that is also an option. I am generally unsure how to face this life.

Yet still, I like my St Christopher. It is my own affectation. My shiny bit of metal. Jewellery round my neck, and I am almost unselfconscious about it, though not quite. Forget it's there, sometimes. I should thank my sister for it.

"I like the St Christopher!"

How to explain the way it makes me feel. In life you don't often get a chance to witter on as if someone is listening. And even when you do get such a chance, unfamiliar nonsense, as if spoken by someone else, comes out. Unless of course some, again alien, inspiration appears from the back of not doing anything at all and you say something you agree with, surprising yourself.

"I like the St Christopher" will have to suffice, but probably won't do the trick.

Tenth Pointless Literary Exercise

The front page of yesterday's Guernsey Press said something along the lines of "Revellers at Church Hall". Being contrary, I decided to write about revelling in a temple setting. The headline reminded me of Matthew 21:12, which is, as we all know, about Jesus going all throwy-outy on dove vendors and money changers, but it also made me imagine revolutionary scenes. Being a pedantic contrarian, I looked up the word revel and saw that it has roots in the Latin verb 'to rebel'. Personally, I like the idea of writing about church-based rebellion, so I set myself the task of producing this quick post.

They whipped the pews and drove them out into the quiet of the street. Some of them lifted the tabernacle onto their shoulders and carried it up to the gallery, where they played tunes to it on the organ. Wine was taken from the chalice and love was made in the rectory. Once it got dark, a fire was made on the stone floor. Its flames passed illumination over the exhausted faces of those gathered there.

During the day, when candles were flung through the centuries-old stained glass windows, the light that flooded in was joyous, a celebration of its own. One could take fresh air into one's lungs. These screams, that reigned over all the chaos, were not disturbing, they were some holy, human incantation hung around them all.
Holy water flew through the air in so many arcs that one would have questioned just how much of the stuff there'd been in that font, were one not busy revelling. As it showered down, a pair of sweating merry makers lifted their faces, closed their eyes and opened their mouths. A puddle had formed in that corner of the vestibule. Beside it a grinning woman raked her hand over and over into the font, dragging handfuls of blessed water up into the crowd.

A pigeon flew in and was immediately confused. It almost drove itself to injury by flying in circles around the roof beams. A Korean man, manic with concern for the bird's well-being, managed to take it in his hands and set it free in the church gardens.