Another busy studio day. Sitting here after midnight I am reminded that studio work is physical stuff indeed. Ouch. But it does soften the minds keening whine. Ahhhh. Ouch.
She is down, down, down. It's a small window, so get your kicks in while you can.
The discussion turned to religion, as studio discussions sometimes do. Yes, Ben, I am a dreamer. I hope eventually humanity will outgrow it.
Ben says religion is hardwired into humanity.
I say religion is not. The question is hardwired.
Ben wants to talk about the new pope. The prophesy that this one or the next, soon, pope and city, will be moonbound. Boom. Pow. Ben has a weakness for cheesy books.
I say whatever comedy he may have squeezed out of that one is long gone.
What about marriage? Is society moving toward a different sort of arrangement?
Where one (religion) goes, the other may follow.
Ben presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. I ask him what is the matter. He says his head hurts and he likes the pressure.
Really? I ask him and then, Does this help?
I touch a small box with holes from which bursts the It's a Small World melody in high, shrill electronic tones.
Ben says he's extremely proud of me. I recognized his moment of pain as a prime opportunity for a little karmic payback. The box is for a sculpture, no doubt. Not the red baby. Something else.
He winces while beaming, which is a facial expression I am incapable recreating, or even describing.
"Listen," he says a hand cupped to his ear, "You're even tormenting the neighborhood dogs."
Sure enough, a chorus of howling begins to overtake the notes.
We agree that we believe religion isn't hardwired. It's the question of purpose. What are we? Why are we here? It's the empty slot that must be filled. Religion can provide answers that don't require explanation.
So, right. We're hungry for the answers to the burning questions of our existence, but, as a whole, lazy enough to accept the first explanation offered.
This is depressing.
We turn our conversation to Ben's recent ingestive mishap. He thinks badly pickled cauliflower is the culprit. I say if he was eating pickled cauliflower he deserves what he got, which began with vomiting and ended with a rash on his face.
He should stay home from work when feeling so. I'm fairly certain he scared my gardener away. He sounded like a bear with his head in a bucket. Always lovely.
I suggested he might just this moment harbor the virulent strain that might ultimately wipe out humanity.
He says "Now that fulfills me."
I'm going to make myself a chocolate rat, and eat it. I am way too tired for typing.