Father O'Che 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 good 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.

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
good 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....)