As a new category of entertainment emerges, namely pop culture in the Trump era, including the salty sayings of Saramucci, I would like to do my bit to raise the tone.
Claiming fair use of all the facts, documents and material in my police reports, court documents, and elsewhere, I have added artistic value to the originals by creating new new aesthetics, new insights, and understandings about the nature of true faith in God in the form of a book. Or at least the start…
Since time immemorial writers have used real life to inspire them. I am no different now as I seek to give an account of my experiences here in Greece.
Anyway, this is an excerpt. It is set at the end of April 2015 in St John the Forerunner Monastery in Greece. The scene described is true to the kinds of things I saw and experienced as well as to the characters I saw in the monastery.
More scenes are planned for the Maximos Mansion and the Areios Pagos in Athens as well as Larisa court and police station. There will also be a visit from Russian TV journalists.
Join me in co creating this new form of internet entertainment, relevlit, or real time events turned into an attempt at literature.
She opened the chapel door with weary eyes to incense and candles, to figures barely discernible.
Like leather bound books standing sealed, incomprehensible, their contents dark to anyone seeking an explanation, the nuns stood in their stalls.
Small, stout with heavy jowls and small eyes, Theodeceive, prominent by the pult, made a sign to hurry up.
Hurry? For what? Theocisty thought to herself. At the same time, she could not help but feel a twinge of panic. It was absurd since she was in her own monastery attending vespers. But a threat now lurked here.
In her interior, she might rebell against Theodeceive’s crimes and evil. In her exterior behaviour, Theocisty knew, however, she had to maintain the role of the subordinate nun, ever ready to obey her Abbess. For she realized her life might be in danger. She was, after all, a witness of Theodeceive’s crimes as well as a highly disposable asset to political and other financial powers on whose behalf Theodeceive had just tried to silence a journalist staying as their guest.
At nearly 65, Theocisty noticed her age. A twinge shot through her toe.
“Why should I make so much effort to rush? For what?” she thought to herself as she limped, rather than walked, the length of a wall in the mountain monastery chapel, built like a fortress offering protection from the elements. Roof of oak beams, slits for windows.
“I am certainly not going to bow down to her this evening,” Theocisty thought to herself, gripping her prayer beads more tightly.
“I will bow down before God, not to a criminal.”
She made a determined effort to straighten herself as she walked up to Theodeceive. She met her eyes, black like smoke. Those black eyes seemed to bore down into her soul. The incense, the candles, blurred before Theocisty’s eyes. As a sheep, a straggler, whose coat has become muddy from wandering, lost on the hills, feels when a ravenous wolf baring its fangs hurtles through pine branches, so Theocisty, losing all heart, made the required bow. Mechanically, she held out her hand to kiss her Abbess’. For what seemed to her like an eternity, she was kept waiting in the posture of a bent over, down trodden slave by Theodeceive, who had turned away to look at the icons in front. Finally, fingers, fat and short, the very fingers that had just pulled together to form a fist to punch Jane in her office, dropped down from a sleeve, made of smooth, black cloth. Theocisty kissed the fingers. As she rose up again, she felt a heavy blow of humiliation.
Next, Theodeceive started to intone a chant, some secret formula in an obscure Byzantine language. When she lifted up her hand, it was as if she held an unseen wand. As children flock to a magician, a sorcerer, to see their tricks, their faces shining with awe, forgetting themselves as they become absorbed by the performance, the 16 other nuns in this international community joined in a chant.
Theocisty took her place just behind Theodecy and Theoliekey, the tall, spare German nun with steel rimmed glasses who had beaten Jane, the journalist, and wrapped her hands around her neck while threatening to murder her even as she was packing her things to leave as fast as she could.
Like someone who has drunken a potion or some herb, Theolieky joined in the chant under the direction of Theodecty. It was clear from the expression on her face that all memory of the crimes she had just committed were erased from her mind. She looked spell bound, mesmerised, hypnotized not by any thought of God but by the melody of the chant, the candles and the incense. The gold of icons glittered mysteriously in front at the altar. Islands of purple, scarlet and blue floated in the darkness.
As the music swelled, Theodeceive felt how a part of her also was drawn to join the stream of forgetfulness, tempted to sing along, go along with the mirage of togetherness, of service to God, which Theodeceive so desperately wanted, especially now when she had been caught in acts of unspeakable evil.
But another part of Theocisty resisted drinking the potion of ceremonial enchantment.
We have handed over our will to the devil, she thought to herself as she glanced over at Theodecty.
This softening up of our minds and wills by music and incense is the means of getting us to abdicate our will, our sense of our selves and our responsibility before God. This is all a sham.
Theocisty bowed her head. She shut her eyes and tried to focus on that place inside her soul where she was aware of the presence of God as light, inspiration, energy. She searched for a familiar inner light. But she found only darkness.
Hearing the wind, sweeping down from the snow capped Mt Kissovos, a mountain almost eye to eye at two thousand metres with mighty Mt Olympus, the gusts howling down ravines, leaping over forests, surging like waves against the windows panes, drowning out all other natural sounds, the rustling of the oak trees, the murmur of rain sluicing down the gutter, the guard dogs yapping, she felt as if all the, disturbances of the outside world were swirling just as chaotically inside her as memories of all that had happened marched before her eyes.
It was supposed to be a sacred place to meet encounter God directly. There could be no question of a genuine worship of the spiritual and the objective reality of God after all that had just happened. The ceremony that evening, she realized, was really all about power, the power of Theodeceive over her, over the other nuns and believers, of the ritualized exercise of power, of the sorcerer over the ignorant.
Hadn’t she too spent years believing Theodeceive had some deeper insight into the mysteries of the divine ?
Perhaps because of her natural diffidence and because they were opposities in character in so many ways, she had ascribed to Theodeceive some higher sphinx like power. While she was the more reserved, an intellectual Oxford graduate, carefully weighing her words, Theodeceive was impulsive, emotional yet with enormous business acumen. Theodecty’s outbursts in Greek had been like an oracle to Theocisty even after she had learned the language. She had always assumed that even her most puzzling or banal words had had a deep, profound meaning which she was too shallow to understand. But now she saw the other side implicit in Theodeceiv’s oracle like words. Lies, tricks, manipulation.
It was not just that Theodeceive had committed crimes in the sense of something that could result in a conviction in a court of law and a long sentence in jail. It was also that Theodeceive had violated her own deepest subjective sense of morality, of what was right. As a person who had grown up in England, she shared the conviction that there should be freedom of the press. A journalist investigating matters of the public interest should be protected. To sell them out for a bribe was despicable. Especially when tha journalist was blogging about a plan to depopulate the world using vaccines being carried out George Soros in a secret alliance with the Greek Prime Minister Alexis Tsipras, a friend of Theodeceive’s brother. At first, Theocisty had found it hard to believe herself. But as the evidence piled up, she had come to realize life was stranger than fiction. She had been brainwashed by the media and the education system into accepting a worldview in which such conspiracies did not happen.
Until that moment, Theocisty had always believed Theodeceive was also committed to the same goals, to the desire to know God and to live good, honest lives, to help the free press expose the crimes of the elite. Her loyalty had been unquestioning. But Theodeceive’s sudden and shocking explosion of criminality and violence had created a collision of loyalties, a collision between her loyalty to Theodeceive and her loyalty to God and Jesus Christ and his commandment of love.
Theodeceive adamantly refused to acknowledge any wrong doing . At any mention of her crimes, she became irritable, angry, issuing a flood of denials, self justifications and even abuse if pressed. All she wanted to do is to go to the church and begin her chants.
And so this collision of loyalties had come to be internalized inside Theoktisti’s own mind and heart. She stood fearfully divided within herself as the music swelled.