Tubthumping

Despite the bitter and poorly edited written attacks that have been made against my name, I press on. I may get knocked down, but I get up again, because as both The Other and Narcissus know, I too am a child of the honorary path of truth. If 200 pages of reading and 20 critical journals will not push me off the deep-end, then surely the driveling words of an acquaintance will not either.

Now that the true facts of my physical situatedness and current occupation have been revealed, I suppose that I have no need to further the guise of my mysterious existence. However, since identity itself is a constantly morphing and socially constructed entity - nay, not even an entity...a construction, a concept - as I have tirelessly reiterated, I cannot concede that the rants of Mr. Narcy have truly succeeded in uncovering my true self. For who really can? It is nice to at least know that Mr. Narcy concedes that I have a soul. Thank heavens for that.

Speaking of the heavens, I was recently in a small house of worship, tucked down a dark and twisted alley that The Other knows as the potential site of lurid night-life and lusty excitement. Being in this blessed place made me think of The Other because of her obvious devotion to the Papal throne. It also made me think of Mr. Narcy due to his disagreeable view of the world as a Godless place. While I will willing own up to a certain cynicism, skepticism, and even negativism, I fear that I could never accept a world quite as destitute as the one that Mr. Narcy envisions. Then again, I am currently living in, and will continue to have my residence in, a place where soldiers of the pen are not pushed down side-streets before certain physically enduring events. Thus, I can more easily believe in a faith-filled, hopeful world, since the blessing to be able to speak out of any orifice, even one's arse, is essential to a society that is saor, as the local people would say here. (Translations not provided. Deal.) While I worry for Mr. Narcy as he inhabits a world a little different than the one I currently occupy, I do know that he will surely find a way to subvert the social norms and bring peace and justice to everyone that touches God's good earth.

Nonetheless...entering this place of devotion reminded me of my honorary comrades and I could not help but imagine what it would be like to watch the two of them in a celebration of the body of Joshua Ben Jospeh in this foreign land. Surely, The Other could make herself a bit more discreet. But let's just imagine....

As the ringleader raises the cup to the sky, chanting worlds that the devoted silently ignore while thinking about how much they need to confess but won't because that lad in the bar the other night was just too delicious for words, Mr. Narcy suddenly realizes the choice that is about to be put in front of him: accept this nectar of the gods - sorry, God - or risk offending the local culture that he trying to blend into. Now, this would be no problem were it not for the horrific effect that God-nectar has on Narcy. He nudges the elbow of The Other, who has her head in her hands. The Other ignores Narcy and gracefully rises from her kneeling position, getting into the processional line leading to the main table in this humble and faithful abode. Narcy has no choice but to follow the dark-haired beauty of The Other, stepping on the aged marble with a force that might require restorers to sigh for the futility of saving remnants of the medieval world from modern intruders. As the cup is presented before The Other, he pauses. Out of the corner of his constantly turned eye, he sees the bottle from which the nectar came, only moments ago. It is a Chilean Cabernet, not at all the wine that would properly accompany the meal that Narcy only just cooked for himself before leaving his home and racing across town on a child's bike. Grimacing, Narcy takes the cup and swallows enough red liquid to wet his tongue. He follows The Other back to their pew and kneels down very slowly. But within moments of kneeling, the dark juice has gone to his face, his hands, his hair, his nose, his lips. It hath infected and it hath made him drunk.

Now, being drunk in a house of worship ain't no big thing for most people. For most believers. Yet Narcy has a certain...grip, on rationality. A grip like that of a mother on her rosary beads before her daughter gets married. That will not let him go and that he will not let go. Thus, any loss of control strikes every fibre in his being like a wooden stick on a bodhran, beating, beating, beating, him senseless. Stumbling out of the edifice, suddenly loosed from the need to control his outward expressions, Narcy starts mumbling incoherently about the authenticity of the individual soul, the separation of the artist from the art itself, societal constructions of...gender, universal ethics, Kant, and most importantly - JUSTICE. Stumbling and mumbling until he sees a flash of coarse hair, the color of fish-blood, out of the corner of his eye. Before he knows it, a glass of cold water has been splashed on his face, his cheek has been slapped, and he has begin come to his senses.

As Narcy comes to, he looks up from his groggy haze to see The Other, standing a few feet from him. In dark brown boots, red lipstick, and a black skirt that hugs her ivory legs, she drags on a cigarette (tobacco free), and sweeps her long bangs across her face, looking at Narcy with one eyebrow raised. The Other, in preparation for an impending journey, has fully taken on a new look that has men stopping for autographs. But she merely waves them off with a few Czech words that she can't yet translate but convey that she doesn't have any English. She just looks at Narcy and sighs.

"Wha...wha...was that the Fireheaded Celt? God-damn her!" Narcy asks as he jumps at The Other.

"What iiiissss presence...was the Fireheaded Celt here...physically....perhaps.....mystically....always..." The Other flips her hair off one shoulder in a flourish and hugs her dark green shawl closer to her.

"Feck her". Narcy sighs and collects his bike.

"Elizabeth Bennet was nicer."