Father O’Che and the death of the soul
He readied himself in
front of the TV, comfy chair, side table with sheets of white notes, tv
remote in hand. He’d heard about it, new TV, didn’t have one at home,
hadn’t the time for it, so he had to book into a local hotel. He needed
privacy. Being a priest, time was rarely his. The screen lit up.
satellite had changed the world, no longer spying machines they were now
broadcast beacons, global in reach, though they were still spying
machines. Harry wasn’t naive. Competition for the soul was how he
described it, his reason for being, job if you call living it work,
living. If it wasn’t nourished, it died,
Heart, soul or whatever makes you decide between doing
or bad, money most likely. Most parents he knew bribed their kids, what
was new, he hadn’t thought of that one though, honesty. Nearly a
thousand of them, media channels, all competing for attention and your
electronic loose change credit card. After a quick flick, he needed
directions, where was the list of numbers already typed out for him,
numbers game, bit like the mafia rackets of the past, but with more
menace within, they were in his hand with the remote, he looked at them,
went on for miles, the list, each combination of numbers a digital
location for a TV station, a long day from the two channel world he grew
up in, he’d be here for ever if he was to go through them all. For a
moment he’d wished for a jack Daniels, then remembered he was working.
Angels never sleep. Could have used some cocaine though, hadn’t done
barack obama any harm, he was still alive. Barack had class A medical
support to fall back on.
A happy voice, even a sweet melody, was
considered entertainment then, when news was written and reported by
journalists, a long time ago he sighed, used to the daily outpouring of
propaganda. The news, truth important, politicians didn’t seem
interested in it, only getting elected, women weren’t interested in it
either, preferring plastic surgery, and archbishops, well they were no
better it seemed, good at avoiding it, truth.
He fumbled with the
controls, he liked sport. It took him a few minutes though, but finally
he managed it, to hit the net so to speak or target. Sports TV, he could
relate to it. Topic, transfer season, money what else, time of year,
early January. Harry liked to start the new year on a positive note,
doing something new, learning maybe, even research. Tonight was research, a break from the daily funeral routine. He’d buried three this week, all elderly. Cold kills, so did cold hearts.
(copyright 2001 bwcarey....)