Logs:Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight.
| Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight. | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | may, 2021 "{You come at this all fucking wrong.}" |
| Location
a search for meaning | |
The air is cool and pleasant in the backyard, the garden a peaceful contrast with the intermittent sirens and continued beeps of horns punctuating even the late-late night of the city outside. Does Ion seem more at home on one side of the tall wall or the other? SHRUG. Here he is, though -- at least he's left his bike just outside -- perched on Luci's garden table, leg swinging, one hand (plastic baggie with its white powder swinging) gesticulating animatedly while he talks, the other intermittently patting Luci on the arm like it's punctuation. "-- 'chu talmbout anyway Mass ain't where Jesus lives {Jesus live in here.}" He's thumping his chest with a fist now, earnest. "{You come at this all fucking wrong,}" sounds more excited than a criticism, like he's just delighted to be telling this Exciting New Thing to Lucien, "{Jesus everywhere the hell else would I be?} I'on choose shit you choose to be some French cracker? {You never just know what you are, know what you do, know what you love? I do lightning. Go fast. Talk at God. He my boy. He love everyone why not me? Someone love me I love them the fuck back.}" Only now does he toss the junk lightly down in front of Lucien like he's just remembered what he's here for. "You try sometime, Brujo, bet he love you twice you slick as hell charm the fucking robe right off him." --- Leo has been draped on the Tessiers' couch for some time now, the brownies slow to take but heavy in their effects once they have done so. Thankfully, this house ie never short on snacks, and he is currently picking his way with a surprising delicacy -- given his current state -- through a fourth flaky spinach-and-goat-cheese pie. His forehead is scrunched, his expression one of deep and intense thought. Is it deeper than the question warrants? That's probably a bit subjective. Perhaps it is exactly as deep as the question warrants, because when he finally does speak -- has it been five minutes of contemplation? Has it been five hours? That's less subjective but maybe hard to tell right now all the same -- there's an extremely earnest, extremely intense weight to his words not only lent there by the edibles. ... probably helped by them, though. "I think that that is such a personal question, yes? A personal relationship. Love always is, isn't it? It comes with feelings -- I hope it comes with feelings, but at the end of the day faith is a choice. Love is a choice. Every day we wake up and choose to love God, just like I choose to love you or any of my friends, like I choose to love Kitty, like I choose --" For a second his jaw tightens, something flexes and roils inside him, and then quiets again. "It's a commitment that I have choosen, a conversation, and the ways that we each decide to best express that -- I don't think you can just pick up a book and learn why. Why is fresh for me each day." --- "The one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church," Steve slurs gravely, "is full of shit, Lord have mercy on me." He raises his newly refilled glass of Tullamore Dew from where he's slumped comfortably on the kitchen counter chez Tessier, and salutes Lucien with it before downing half its contents. "Well, no. The Church is actually the Body of Christ --" The faint touch of Irish in his Brooklyn accent is more evident than usual in this advanced state of inebriation that almost no one ever sees, though it's entirely drowned out by his startling Provence accent when he switches to French. "{Right, so, the Church gives the -- the Sacraments --}" Somehow the timbre of emphasis that he invests the word "sacrements" sounds distinctly profane, which he seems to notice, though he ultimately doesn't correct himself, "{-- and the Sacraments are our actions. We're the Body of Christ!}" He gesticulates intently between himself and Lucien. Then stops. Frowns. "Well, not you. Unless you want to be...?" He lapses into a crooked smile. "In which case, maybe 'full of shit' was a little strong." Tosses back the rest of the whiskey. "Oh, heck, you like ritual, you gotta admit we give good ritual." --- There are no cameras here -- thank God for that. Elliott hasn't literally let her hair down but there is a relief all the same in her posture. Elbows propped on the balcony, weight shifted languidly to the side and more noticeably off her sleek black and silver leg, a cigarette held between her fingers that she's savoring in her slow drag. Her brows have lifted. Her eyes flick to Lucien, only just long enough to try to divine how earnest a question this might be. On a steady exhale of smoke she looks back to the city. "Family's Catholic." --- "See, this kinda thing, s'why folks leave the church. I should know." Deeply improbably, Jax is currently draped -- legs hooked over its back and head tipped upside down over the edge of the seat -- on Lucien's futon. He's made himself a cup of tea, though he has, at the very least for this intrusion, made Lucien one as well, set on a coaster on the edge of the desk. "You go back you gon find nearbout all our current twisted-up-ness somewhere in here and boy will that take a load of work to un-twist." There's a copy of Augustine's Confessions in his hand, a pile of other tomes from church fathers on the desk -- he's waggling the latter towards the doorway before he goes back to holding it up over his face with a scrunch of nose. His eye flicks back to Lucien, quick crooked smile brightening his face. "I'm sure you don't need all this no more, though. You probly got it figured out by now, yeah?" Lucien's expression upon finding "Jackson" in his room at this late hour has shifted -- minutely -- upon opening the door; a blink, a small hitch of brow, and then a slow sort of resignation. He's slipped inside, taken a seat at his desk. Picked up his tea, sipped it with a slow inhalation. At the final question he just lowers the tea -- and himself -- to the stack of books with a groan, hand scrubbing over his face long and slow. "Tabernak." | |
