Holy perversion

Praying the rosary in fishnets and lace // a short musing in prose

Catholicism has a certain allure to a witch well acquainted with guilt. The Christian God is packaged to us in a rather unique way, offered up not so much as a guiding figure down a path of expansion, but as a stern patriarch for those of us in need of discipline.

Only as I feel the hand of shame begin to rap at my door as the fabric of my life starts to burst at its knackered seams, do I find myself reaching out - scrambling for the hand of the Father like I’m searching for my fix.

Guide me. Lead me. Have me close my eyes and open them once more to the sight of the life You’ve laid out for me. I can’t make these decisions anymore.

There is a certain fetishism in searching for your superior to take the reins, no matter how you dress it up.

One can’t help but ponder if certain individuals would be better placed in the hands of a Dominatrix than a God. Is it the faith that is the fetish or the fetish the faith? Saint or sinner, everyone needs somebody to lead, and just as many have seen heaven in the welt of the whip than the bottom of a bottle of holy water.

Every one of us is searching for our Divine Intervention in one way or another; all doe-eyed and pigeon-toed at the feet of the great relinquisher; that special somebody who will take the all pain and transmute it into something easier on the eyes. The parent. The mentor. The dominant. The God.

Some of us, like myself, are greedy with our search for submission. I keep my Bible with my tarot cards, one drawer above my paddle. I will surrender to the Lord, to the universe, to the touch of another, if it means I can rest easy for the night. I can’t help but feel like a little lost child in my desperation for someone else, anybody else to tell me what to do. I have worked too hard and for too long and I have so very little to show for my efforts. I need somebody more capable than me to lead me down my path - someone strong enough to shovel the snow from my driveway. My arms are so very weak.

Fleabag: I want someone to tell me what to wear in the morning. No, I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like. What to hate. What to rage about. What to listen to. What band to like. What to buy tickets for. What to joke about. What not to joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in. Who to vote for and who to love and how to...tell them. I just think I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because so far, I think I’ve been getting it wrong.

I am too crass to fit in at church, too shy for the dungeons. I am too solitary in my ways for the coven and too insecure for trusting my gut. I craft my own altar in the four walls of my bedroom to my Frankenstein’s monster of a God; I have stitched Him myself from the beliefs of the so many versions of myself that have lived and died before me. I create my own religion with my scrapbooking scissors and glue, cutting and pasting until the picture looks pretty and my mind quietens down. I clutch the rosary in my fishnets and lace with The Empress card propped up against my crucifix.

I worship everything and nothing, but the tides of life itself. I worship the unseen forces and the pleasures of the earth, and I rest my head easy at night, knowing my prayers were heard - even if only by me.