|The stairs to my cellar, where Fr. Corapi hid out, and where I've sentenced The Poet.|
The Poet, who often shows up here drunk and writing annoying things about his Lady and his longing for her, is finally locked in the cellar. I put him down there with the cat and the wine. He refuses to clean the litter box, but he's happy to drink the wine.
But I miss him, and I really miss his Lady, though I've never met her. I can't tell by listening to him, though, whether she's celestial or psychotic. One thing I know - she utterly, completely, deliberately and maliciously destroyed him. She's a piece of work. But he forgives her, for she "knows not what she does" (yeah, right). Anyway, he really cares for her and he's really forgiven her and he really holds her dear. He's even made up with the Princess, who had him arrested, and somewhere I suspect he may have a wife who's a better woman than the other two put together. Maybe she's down there with him.
Anyway, because he sings every night and keeps me up, he's starting to influence me. I'm starting to write like him.
I wrote to my actors the others day ...
Actors, artists, writers - acedia (sloth, despondency, depression) is a great temptation.Our longing is so great. We hear the far off song more than others. That's why we do what we do. We try to communicate it. Sometimes it seems we can't, or that the song is an illusion, or that our longing is neurotic or merely selfish. Those four lost chords - will we ever play them?Will they get lost in our scramble for a career, in the harshness of the business, in the dull light of the daily grind?Yes, our lives are painful, painful because we hear God singing and we try to imitate him and we open our mouths and we croak and can't even find the right key. But to deaden that pain and to stop singing that song is to "accede" to acedia.I have never done anything as glorious as it ought to be, never loved without selfishness, never gone a day without sin. But every now and then I am touched with God's Spirit and I pass along that touch. Every now and then a flicker of the eternal glory shines through.
The Poet and I agree on one thing. And it is this: God is so very real, my friends. If we let Him, He'll fill our bodies with light.
Therefore, if your whole body is full of light, and no part of it dark, it will be just as full of light as when a lamp shines its light on you. (Luke 11:36)
Maybe it's not as dark in that cellar as I had thought. Maybe I should let The Poet out. Maybe he would shine, like a light. (He's lit. That much I know.)