191: "So I Did Sit and Eat"

The rhythmic rocking of the rail car carries me across to a gilt gates of gentle slumber. With a rude jolt I awake to find an idyllic dream intertwined with reality's confusing Sprawl, now all tethered to the bedrock of Memory. There, they will stay; Here, I take my step.

Camille Paglia in her book, "Break, Blow, Burn," says that religion and sex are intertwined in Renaissance and Baroque art, like in Berlini's Ecstasy of St. Teresa. Inspired by the Holy Bible, Christian theologians interpreted the book of the Song of Songs as "an allegory of the bridegroom Jesus knocking at the door of the female soul." The Song of Songs portrays, if I remember the book correctly, the male lover as the epitome of masculinity, virile and potent. Just imagine Jesus, the hot bod lover, knocking, ready to enter the door of your soul. My mind conjures up an ever so puerile image and I giggle. But I think: if the ecstasy of knowing the Divine is akin to or is better than the ecstasy of sex, should the Church continue to frown on non-procreative sex? What if the soul is masculine?

But let's let these debates wage elsewhere. It's a dream I want to capture. The dream that was prompted by a poem I read just shortly before my eyelids amassed great weights. It's George Herbert's "Love."

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guiltie of dust and sinne.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lack'd any thing.

In my dream, I am at a fancy dinner party, no, I'm sitting a table across from the dinner party, gawking longingly at it, when this beautiful guy gets up from his circle of friends, walks over, and extends his hand to me. "Join us," he says, giving me a smile that can melt ice. I jump up, thrilled, to extend my hand. But I notice that I have on my unfashionable yet comfortable bum clothes, which unfortunately has a funk. Compared to the other party guests, I am inadequate in every way. As his hand touches mine, I feel my hand grow weak and limp. I'm consumed with shame.

A guest, I answer'd, worthy to be here:
Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkinde, ungratefull? Ah my deare,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?

He pulls me up and drags me to the table, he places a seat next to his and leads me to it. He sits and shifts his seat closer to mine. The chinks and clinks of utensils fade, the murmurs of jovial conversations dissipate, and all the people there turn to shadow. We are left alone, me and him. "You are hot," he whispers, and for a brief split second, I believe him. But doubt fuels me and I fall from grace.

Truth Lord, but I have marr'd them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, sayes Love, who bore the blame?
My deare, then I will serve.
You must sit downe, sayes Love, and taste my meat:
So I did sit and eat.

The table is filled up with an array of delectable appetizers. I nibble, peck, and taste everything I can see, hold, and have. With pure abandonment. Without a care in the world, he also nibbles, pecks, and tastes. Then yet when the entrée is served up, the sheer grandiosity of it freezes me. Can I eat it with my hand? Of course not. Do the fork go to my right and the knife to my left? Oh, which fork must I use? What if I don't eat it perfectly? Paralysis. I excuse myself. On my return, the plate is gone (or was it I who took the plate away?). But he takes me by my hand and offers dessert. So, I sit and eat.

So I did sit and eat.