Of Merdia 39 - 41

39.        Dead orators have given words to democracy’s nobility.  As have a mayhem of thinkers, a motley of confused poets.  Tomes of praise have been erected to its necessity and worth.  Olympian pools of blood have been filled to achieve it.  But I say to you a smaller pool achieves the same ends with much less effort.

Fellow citizens of Merdia’s kind kingdom, ideals aren’t actualized in words, philosophies, blood, books or bile, but only in the bowl of perfect excrement, in which we are all accepted, we all are made one.  The bowl of grace and unity, the golden bowl of proffered love.  We do not need to wait for an impossible time; rather, it is here with us, glorious, now.  We have entered the kingdom of Heaven; here it is, just below our voiding mounds.

40.        Consistency is a constant concern of any of Merdia’s children worthy of their ancestry.  Consistency of timing (who does not want her offerings to be regular and full?); consistency of texture (neither obstinate or stony or too similar to that other lesser yellow stream); consistency of spirit (given freely, in the sweet knowledge of donation).  These three consistencies:  these our desired attitude and product.  Merdia, be near; ah, fruity Merdia, be near.

41.        What peace our goddess gives us.  I think particularly of the moment upon entering her temple, when the preponderance of electronic and communicative noise ceases and I am left alone with Her pure natural sounds.  This peace is an increasingly rare gift:  music is pumped into almost every public space, indeed, even invading our homes; talk occurs everywhere in hallways and offices, bedrooms and boardrooms.  But.  No speakers yet in Merdia’s graceful domain.  No discourse there but the chocolate dumps of dreamy derrieres, the Dasein of our charm and timber.