“I think a lot about god’s plan,” she says, “who he brings together and who he plans decimation for. It’s not something we prefigure – we don’t have the intuition of an angel or a Christian Union President or a Bible writer. We’re bet-placers, with money down on our favourite TV characters dying before season’s up, to distract us from the fact the real life people we love will be dead soon. Might be. Could. But we’ve not got money on that because we’ve not got money and we don’t want to know. But what I would know, what I’d want to, is how we took separate routes on a gameboard with only one track. It almost disproves any fate or factual, prefiguration or plan, don’t you think?”
But Jack doesn’t.
American TV taught me I’d succeed eventually and I don’t think that’s right because it doesn’t feel right and there have been no breakthrough moments, successes lasting longer than seconds and out of 34 tries in five months it’s been all no and not maybe and it must be what I do is minuscule like Dweebs or Cheerios, holey, full of holes or air or, and just so easily crushable, and every letter’s an accident, puncture, and I’d like to say I cared enough to keep trying, redoing, it’s tough though, and at what point is?
I am abandoning Jesus, every decision I made in the throes of him, and all unexplored territory I sink in like deep puddles or marsh or mud baths, foam beds, especially flesh. Specially.
I am erasing vows women make and men don’t have to, masturbation lectures, pre-marital, post-marital definitions, verses backing every decision, justifying a plethora of opinions I held and rectified only to take up following super spiritual youth groups, camps, festivals. Worship was the wetness of a Tom Cruise night, a Pixies’ Brixton reformation, a Radiohead paperless extortionate worth-it bad seat tour ticket.
Every self-flagellation is the repetition of a Bourne movie, the degradation of straight to video sequels of blockbusters or semi-successes or indie movies, the impetus to kiss Emma’s boyfriend and never doing it, daring to imagine on-top-of-the-clothes -sex with him or boys or girls in my form group or the teachers, changed each year like seasons in shops, like logos, the availability of Wispas.