Berlesker: Handcrafted Literary Journal vol II | Page 28

She tells me how the slaves would pray to the Catholic idols. Little bobble-head figurines of The Virgin and
other saints, I’m imagining, thinking that at the bottom
level of a ship at sea, bobble-heads would really sway
and look alive. They were actually praying to their own
gods, she says (only, Ms. International doesn’t say, gods,
she says, Orishas). They used the Catholic saint figurines as disguises, she continues. So long as the Spanish crew thought they were praying to their completely
non-fictional santos and not some make-believe Pagan
god, then they would allow the slaves their prayer.
This, to me, I say, is all religions. Rain soaked and
bleeding together. A chimera bobble-head with the
hair of its main swaying over its goat-like body and
serpent tail. They all borrow images and ideas from
one another. The town through the windshield. Silver
screens and drive-ins. Christians in Australia -- they
took more than rabbit for game to hunt; they took the
fucking Easter bunny too. An entire ecosystem ruined.
Of course my ignorance of Voodoo makes me think
about pinpricked dolls and headless chickens. And
so now I have an image of Pinhead from Hell Raiser
as a bobble-head dancing on my dashboard.  Its head
swings to Caribbean grooves that come from some
white guy singing about sticking the barrel of his .45
straight down Sancho’s throat, like a needle in a cursed
doll.
My silly thoughts do not hide my true interest though. I’m rather intrigued by this new knowledge, this
history and philosophy and religion all meshed together: a syncretism -- a new “–ism” in the confinement
of my car.  I want to keep Ms. International talking.
Teaching me. Her knowledge is like wild hares escaping to Aboriginal planes.
I respectfully ask Ms. International if she believes in
or practices any kind of sacrificial killings. A question
logically in sync with my ignorance. I do in fact make
offerings to certain Orishas, Ms. International says
(only, I now know Orisha means god). Each Orisha
requires specific offerings for specific blessings. An offering means you give something up and is very much
a sacrifice in this way, but, she says, killing animals is
done only by high ranking spiritual leaders -- Santeros,
Babalawo, and others in the hierarchy -- those atop the
food chain, and it’s only done in very rare occasions.
When you give something up, something is given
in return, Ms. International says. And when you take
away from others, something is taken from you. So taking the life of any creature carries great risk.
Now I’m thinking about Native American’s saying
thank-you prayers to a dying buffalo as they rip its
heart out, then make use of every square inch of its

body. This is Eucharist type ‘a shit. To be one with the
Earth in this way. The universe. Buddhism comes to
mind. Hippies. Yuppies. Hindu. Karma. Christ on the
cross. It’s all watered down and drenched, bleeding
together as one. And even though I don’t admit it, I
think about that Cosby girl, Lisa Bonet, in that movie
“Angel Heart,” dancing around a camp fire in some
Voodoo trance while strangling a headless chicken.
And still, that fucking song, jingling away about Sancho stealing his girl. But now, this deep in the hole
with Ms. International, I see that just as Sancho has
taken, so shall he soon lose something, taken via the
barrel of a .45 straight down his punk ass throat.
It all comes together in a way that makes sense.
And I tell Ms. International one of my favorite quotes
from Ralph Waldo Emerson: “Man recedes as fast on
one side as he gains on another.” Technology, I say, is a
perfect example (though this comes from no place of
wisdom on my part since Emerson uses the Geneva
watch as an example in the essay this quote is from:
“Self-Reliance”). Look at all the world around us and
how it developed new and fascinating amenities; we
can travel by car, plane, and boat, but we’ve lost the
ability to walk great distances; we can send emails,
text, and Twitter but we no longer speak verbally to
one another. Man has a fine Geneva watch, Emerson
says, but he can no longer tell t ime by the sun itself.
And I’m thinking about the slanted town’s people,
one half hemp bracelets and the other half with Fossil
watches. Neither can tell time by the sun,  And with
this and so many other similarities and offset relationships, both sides bleed together and become the
same mess. I recognize truth in Emerson’s claim; I always have. I explain to Ms. International that I also
believe the opposite to be true. Emerson says that
through any gain, a loss naturally occurs; and so contrarily, I believe that through a loss, so too would a
gain occur. A sacrifice. Whether given or taken. One
and the same.
I realize that I myself do believe in sacrifices, Karma, Jesus on a stick, Pagan witches burning on a
stake, bobble-head shish-kabobs. It’s all the same, I
say to Ms. International.  Hypnotized by the water on
the windshield. Every inch of Christ’s body was used
like a buffalo, salvation for those still living, feeding
off his remains. Flesh of my flesh. Here and now. Give
and ye shall receive. Eye for an eye and all that shit.
We are all Pagan Christian Santeriaist Voodoo Children of the Corn Cob Buddhists. All of us—floppyeared mutant beasts offsetting ecologies because we
have no known predators. Even Ms. International, as
she sits in my car, changes me with new knowledge