Monastic self-flagellation.

De profundis clamavi ad Te, Domine.

Ever seen The Sixth Sense? Of course you have. If you haven't, it's because you have been living in a Highland New Guinea thatched hut for the past ten years with only a healthy case of jungle-rot and fancy cassawary headdresses to show for it. Of course, there are the days when you get in your prop airplane to pick up supplies in Wewak or Port Moresby, but you'd kill to see a Rambo movie.

Anyway, as I was walking through yet another Indiana "First People's Summer" day (Elizabeth, you are a goddess for making THAT up), and that quote was my brain regurgitation. Ok, ok, so I did take four years of high-school Latin, so I was probably more prone to remembering that than most people. By the way, for all of you bone-nosed Highlanders--hey, stop scratching that! It'll spread!--it means "From the abyss I cry out to Thee, O Lord." Fun, huh? Certainly uplifting. So, what I realized was this: it was a sign. You know, when you talk to nuns and they tell you, while strumming on their acoustic guitars, that they got "the call" one day whilst, oh, I dunno, weeding their beet patch or whitewater rafting down the Zambezi. That kind of sign.

As a kid I went to a Catholic school for my entire pre-high school education. Every Friday we would all gather as a school and have Mass. I looked forward to Fridays because hey, no math class. I would kneel on shards of broken glass and uncooked rice whilst harpies sprayed lemon juice and detergent on my hobbled limbs to get out of math class. Plus, and here's the fun part:

I was an altarboy.

I guess the correct term now is "altar server" or even "acolyte", but back ages ago when I was a pup you had to be possessed of a "y" chromosome to work for the Lord. So there we were. We got to play with matches. We fussed with incense and chrism (holy balm for Confirmation) and we got to fiddle with unblessed hosts (those bread-like wafer things you get at Communion). Best of all was Scary Jesus Man. Our church had a crucifix with a very realistic Jesus hanging from it. From the main hall of the church, his head rested on his left shoulder and you could only see his profile. From where the altar boys got to sit, Jesus was looking right at you. This was, surely, to prevent us from snickering when that one woman with the huge hair decided to go soprano during a rousing rendition of "Nearer My God to Thee." Anyway, here's what was scary about the Lord Jesus:

His eyes were rolled back in his head in agony. Yes. Completely white. In the semidarkness of the sanctuary before lights were turned on for morning mass, it was terrifying. I guess if I had thought about it too much I would have been really, really afraid. At any rate, I was a faithful altar boy for years. Dozens of weddings, hundreds of funerals, thousands of masses. They called me "The Little Priest."

I can hear you all laughing at me. Oh, you'll get yours. Smell that sulfur?

Everyone expected me to don the cloth and take vows after high school. Instead, I moved to Protestant Maine, became best friends with a lesbian, got a degree in anthropology and went to go live in a Muslim country for half a year.

It all catches up to you. I guess I just have to shave my head, fetch a loom and sell my earthly, pagan goods and move to a monestary.

Or, uh, not.

Thanks to those who posted! You have a special place in my heart. It's near the place that got very happy yesterday when I ate SEVEN PIECES OF BACON for breakfast. You know, the clogged-up part. ;)

Off to French. Or, as I like to say it, "Off for something I utterly loathe but am compelled to do." It IS the adult thing, right? Right? Come on.

Dom (Demir)