Ok. We are at the end of a week of religion-based entries, and this is the final installment. No, this doesn’t mean I will never write about religion ever again–only that I have other things about which I want to blog, and a week solid of any one topic is more than enough (except, of course, chocolate and Alan Rickman).
So, how am I planning on tying up the loose ends from my previous six entries and summing them up in one neat, coherent, thought? I’m not. I’m just going to ramble on some more, as is my wont, and then come to a screeching halt. I will say one thing in advance of the verbal torrent, though, I want to discuss the impact of religion on my personal life and the impact of religion on my political life. For the purposes of this blog entry, I am going to assume the two do not overlap.
First up, religion in my personal life. My friend, Natasha, says she doesn’t take offense at the religious people in her life because they are trying to save her from eternal damnation. In their minds, her soul is at peril, and they are trying to save it. I actually agree with this. I don’t particularly care if people (like my mom) want to pray for my soul. In fact, it’s sweet when my niece tells me, her eyes wide with concern, “You’ll go to hell” (because I don’t believe Jesus is my savior).
Brief Intro: I write fiction as well as essays, screeds, and movie reviews. I have another blog for my fiction, but I haven’t gotten it up and running yet. To that end, I have decided that I will occasionally post fiction pieces here. The problem is that I tend to be verbose (duh), so even the short stories are fairly long. To give you an idea, this is one of the shortest pieces I have ever written. Enjoy.
She lifted one arm out of the water, dribbling bubbles to the floor. Her previously immaculate tiles, waxed every day by her by hand. Her husband chuckled indulgently over his wife’s finicky habits.
“Whatever my baby wants,” he chortled, a big smile creasing his moon-shaped face. He was a hearty man with hearty appetites which showed in his ever-expanding waistline. “More for my darlin’ to love,” he chortled, pinching her cheek. She would flush and inch away, her black hair covering her face.
Now, she sank into the hot water which threatened to overflow the tub. She held her head erect, careful not to dip her hair in the bubbles. Even though her hair was piled high on top of her head, she wasn’t taking any chances. She was a planner, some would say anal. Hosting dinner parties was excruciating because she labored over whether she should write the place cards by hand, or do them on the computer. Calligraphy was so elegant, but doing it by computer ensured that they turned out identical. China or crystal? Formal or semi-formal? Her mind ran in circles. Gilbert would tell her to leave everything to the housekeeper, but Mrs. Jackson was common. A nice woman, a superb housekeeper, but not an ounce of class in her. No, if Leilani wanted things done correctly, she had to do them herself.