My Higher Gods and Goddesses

So the fellows over in India have so many Gods and Goddesses because they believe strongly that one's god should be personalized. Your God should make sense to you. Perhaps its one you can relate to or one that you just hear above all the others. Unfortunately Christianity, as I see it, gives me only 1 to maybe 3 options. God Himself. Himself. Jesus. Himself. Or, if you want to stretch, Mary the Virgin. Now, if the Kingdom of Heaven (or Freedom) is truly inside of me - way down deep - I have to be able to hear and feel The Great Spirit through all the chatter and noise and screaming lunatics in my head. A voice and a presence that I feel has got to be a loud and mighty one to cut through all my bullshit. I have a pretty clear picture of what the voices in my head are and look like because I hear them 24 hours of every day of my life. It is like they work in this office of a company whose sole purpose is not to make money, but rather to make my life the most unbearable situation.

Here are some of the employees of Unbearable, Inc.:

There is Melody, the depressed customer service representative: [In a flat voice] "Thank you for calling Unbearable, Inc. customer service, this is Melody how can I help you?...Oh, you are not pleased? Tell me, what is the problem...Uh-huh...Yea...Wow, that is a problem. I just don't know why this keeps happening. We've gotten ten thousand other phone calls lodging the same complaint. I have suggested to my boss that we just close this thing down. I mean, what's the point really? This just keeps happening over and over again. [She slumps over her desk and starts sobbing] Her Mantra the rest of the day is: "I can't take it. I can't do it anymore. Everything is wrong."

Then Harold comes in, late as usual. He's only late because he's wearing a straight jacket and this makes it difficult for him to open doors and push elevator buttons. He still hasn't quite mastered his motor skills because of uncontrollable, jerky spasms throughout his entire body. Also his eyes are glazed so it makes it difficult for him to see the doors and buttons. For the first hour of his work shift, he attempts to violently wriggle out of his special jacket to no avail. He sits in the corner and just writhes getting sweatier and redder and more frustrated. His coworkers offer to help but he always shakes his head no and sometimes he barks at them. Eventually, he wears himself out and falls asleep. About twenty minutes later, he wakes up and finally gets into his office where a TV and a DVD player begin playing all of the things that happened to him the previous day. He watches the same twenty minutes over and over again and throws himself around the room. It costs quite a bit of money to replace all the broken vases and chairs, but Harold is an asset and the company would not be the same without him.

There are about 300 other employees in the company that all have the same job: to run around the office in panic, screaming and crying two things: "No!" and "This is bad!"

The main boss of the company is Mr. Richard Rothman who sits in his office with the shades drawn, in pitch black. His computer speakers play slow, goth house music - the score for impending doom. He sits in his black leather chair, hunched over his desk, his forehead leans heavy on his folded heads. A rising stack of unattended to manilla folders sits at the corner of the desk and towers over him.

Given the vivid nature of the negative forces at work in my brain, it would seem that I would need some pretty kick ass yins to those fucking yangs. A force to counteract Unbearable, Inc. This is America, there can be no monopolies, damnit.


So there's The Bearable Alternative Company. Their logo is a soft, cuddly teddy "bear" with his arms thrown wide open wanting a hug. His eyes are bright and joyful.

Here are some of the workers or Gods and Goddesses of The Bearable Alternative Company:

The first and primary Goddess is a big, beautiful, black lesbian woman named Vernetta Dupree. When she speaks, she sings. She always calls me "sweet child." I like this name. This is God HERSELF. She sings to me, in her soulful glory, "Sweet child, I will watch over you. I know your heart is true and I love you..." She radiates light and warmth and I want to crawl inside of her arms, against her belly and sleep. She always smells like an earthy incense, like Sandalwood. When I leave her arms I smell like this Sandalwood and I feel light and warm.

There is Annette Percocciollio: a skinny, loud, emotional, Italian south philly woman. She's a little nuts, but she's got a lot of very practical things to say. She wears scrunchies and makes it ok for me to be me. Always willing to get a cup a coffee wit' me and say "Listen, no matter what, it's gonna be ok." She also teases me and reminds me not to take myself too seriously. "Listen, you know I kid wit' ya cuz I love ya."

There is the one who looks like my mom and gives me everything and more that she has. She loves me no matter what shit I try to pull.

There is the chubby gay god named Carmichael who just makes me laugh hysterically. He loves dance music from the early nineties. He'll come in my room when I have the covers pulled over my head and he'll say "Girl, get up. Quit all this shit. It's time to dance."

Then there is a fiery goddess who always carries around a hatchet and a bow and arrow and is super sexy like a comic book character. She usually comes crashing through my window and says in a forceful, but calm tone: "Emily, dont' worry about it. I'll handle this. I will protect you." Then I say, "yeah, but Melody and I were talking and she said..." Then the fiery goddess cuts me off with: "fuck what Melody says. I'm about to go hack that miserable bitch to pieces." I've tried to name the fiery Goddess, but she refuses to be named or categorized. "I've got it. Relax. Go live your life."