She Doesn’t Laugh

It might not be easy to truly reject God. But it is possible to confuse other humans.

Lacey hates competing for food. For shelter. For love. That doesn’t mean what’s really yours isn’t rightfully yours necessarily. The opposite, possibly. More that fighting isn’t ideal. And ideally what’s yours is yours. Having to fight for it shouldn’t be necessary… That’s part of the fallen world.

“Don’t you enjoy winning?”

“No. I used to but then I won and watched other people look and feel sad. And what’s fun about that?” Lacey says. “What’s mine is mine. Don’t get it twisted. But where’s yours?! God isn’t poor. He cares about the poor. His son was poor on Earth. But God is God…” says Lacey.

“Is it evil to be rich?”

“It’s complicated.” she responds. “And I’m too exhausted to explain right now.” She sighs. “Sorry.”

“She doesn’t enjoy when I make fun of myself.” says Lem.

“I can’t figure out why it’s funny beyond the common English humor sort of-like Mr. Bean. aspect to it.” Lacey observes.

Olivia Newton John stands there, contemplating it all in her early 30’s, looking gorgeous. Playing tennis. Observing good and evil with cathartic remove. Experiencing God, Lacey hopes. She’s a rare soul after all. It wasn’t just a lie. At least, not really. Not necessarily.

Lacey cries.

“Congratulations.” she says to her. Congratulations on a life completed.

Life after death is about God. How terrifying and wonderful that is.

You’ll experience it too.

And if the Illuminati exists they need to stop.

“Stop what?” asks Louis Hill Jr..

“Stop the competition.” Lacey says.

It seems manufactured to her.

“Lem doesn’t look gay.” says a girl Lacey knew in high school about the above photo. “He looks like the Englishman you were exceedingly happily married to in the early 1900’s. Reincarnated. At least in that photo. Identical. …My name was Katie. By the way. And I’m dead…”

“But I doubt I was reincarnated.” says Lacey.

“You weren’t.”

“But he does look like him. Of course that means I’ve dreamt of Lem.” says Lacey.

“I take it if Lem was reincarnated he didn’t need glasses when he was married to you.” his mom says as a joke.

“No. He was healthier.”

His mom smiles. Perhaps Lacey is just seeing him dead.

But the God of the Bible is the only one who knows for certain. And it’s not salvation if it’s real at all. It’s lost Christianity. But there’s no sense adding it…the Bible must be left alone.

That’s also another post.

“But basically they need to stop using witchcraft to cause a false competition between us. Let God take His course. Move the mountains. Etc..” says Harold.

“Do they exist?” asks Michael Rockefeller.

“Don’t be so easily fooled.” says Lem to Lacey. She has no idea what he’s talking about.

And if she does. God knows. Don’t forget that.

Who Does Lacey Belong To

Lacey belong to her parent’s class. To her parent’s best attempts to be good in only the way God is good. To the best ideals and morals and virtues and insights they steeped her in.

But does she belong to Michael, Harold, Lem or Louis? It’s unclear. It’s painfully unclear.

Her parent’s upper-class freedom gave her freedom. Their ice-cold distance combined with “There Will Be Blood” parenting…gave her a sense of how to be a genuinely good and loving person but left her waiting for a true love to be love. The only love she’d ever receive. And that’s the thing, Louis and Michael understand that. Michael better than Louis.

The depths of inner self-love…not a selfish love…necessary to survive…combined with a fatal amount of loneliness.

Fatal? Yes. But not always easily seen or right away. No drugs. What good are those? How about outright death like suicide…or…maybe art? God? Drugs, outside of an occasional gin and tonic or a reasonable amount of coffee, only numb or distance you from the self-love you use to survive. They’re stupid. Danger isn’t the point.

“That isn’t you?!” asks Inga. “But it’s so tough and brave like you.”

“No. That’s not me. That’s Lacey and Michael and Harold Loeb. Sitting in Jeep in Minneapolis, California.” Jack smiles at her.

“That’s nonsense then?”

“No. It’s not. It’s not nonsense.” he says.

“She is telling me to apologize to you.” Inga says.

“For giving me a compliment, you might not have meant?”

“I’m sorry, Jack. I do think you’re those-I know you are tough and brave. I’m sorry.”

“Then why would I sound like a woman?!”

“I’m sorry.”

And she leaves.

The question posed to Inga was why she would be confused enough to think Jack was a woman. That’s the point. That Inga made no sense. That she’s petty. Hurt, less attractive and petty. And Jack, as cruel as he was to her, probably got hurt too.

“I don’t despise her. I don’t just see his side. But in this instance it seems she was being very catty.” says Lacey.

“What!? She’s either like a step-mother or an older sister to Jack.” J. P. says. “Or was.”

Harold grasps it. Although he thinks he felt loved by his mother and was. And his dad too, although more his mom…actually.

But Lem is confusing. Does he know what it’s like to be loved by a wall? Not an abusive, clingy, needy narcissist who (as a side-note would make a great son or little brother but that’s beyond the point) isn’t the right gender…but…by Vikings combined with secretly blue-blooded, Civil War-disassembled-plantation-power without…real care? No narcissistic love, as questionable as that is in its existence. But no, just…approval of your best attributes doled out like a computerized analysis. …And a seemingly real, secretly possibly brilliantly faked real parental love.

“I’ll give you the tools to be wealthy. Healthy. Wise and truly good. But you are invisible to me.”

Lacey cries. Then Lacey stops crying when she realizes her mom can’t register her pain on a deep level. Her mom is kind. Her mom is lovely. In a way. She teaches her a great many useful things. Patiently. Lovingly. But her mom doesn’t respond to her real deep pain. It’s not narcissistic. There’s no hope of love. It’s…not grim, necessarily. There are thoughtful gestures. Wisdom… But Lacey’s never had a good birthday once. And she stopped crying uncontrollably without being told to in childhood.

“Lacey holds herself. Well.” Michael says. “And no, she is not nor ever was a man.”

Jazz is jazz. But it’s not something that ever overcomes those of this sort. Nothing does but true love. God’s love. So maybe jazz does warm your soul a bit and you love it…but it doesn’t overwhelm you. You just feel it’s depths. The same way you feel your own depths. Quietly.

“Someday you’ll let loose and find yourself laughing uncontrollably.” said a psychologist to Lacey.

But that’s absurd. Lacey has already done that. She’s not disassociated. Just deeply sad. She was raised in the upper-class. And it’s a singular experience in some cases, indeed.

You laugh. You have consensual sex. You buy things. You live. You die. …And you find out how fallen this fallen world is.

Dear narcissists, it’s not meaningless. You’re terribly wrong. It’s very meaningful. It’s just that the meaning truly does only spring from God and His love for us. Allowing us to love each other in the four separate, distinct ways not without Him like a soul in Hell but as His children should we accept salvation. …And that’s amazing. *smile* And in an evil world not without God’s mercy the love can become marred, lost, stolen, or truly tragic. …Or it might not exist at all in certain people or things or situations, etc..

“So which of us have meaning?” asks Lem of Lacey.

“Yes. Possibly exactly.” she responds.

She doesn’t enjoy hurting any of them. They’re so dear. So beautiful, each of them. She has a conscience and she cares about them as humans.

“Just!!” yells a middle-class woman hatefully. But it’s a half hot narcissism. A dim, idiotic desire to live as a wall…combined with remnants of love still remaining intact. Haunting them and all who encounter them.

Lacey decides to ignore her. She wishes her opinion was helpful. It’s not. Lacey has realized that. …If her parents had been her parents she’d maybe be able to better relate but as it stands…she’s been soaked in almost 40 years of wide open prairies under her possession, so to speak. Watching the Earth surrender under the sky. Literally. It’s a singular experience. Get over it. Right? Get over it?

Can you get over it? Can she help you? Or she and you best off when you decide not to outdo and “shake it” more than the indigenous of the 1800’s? You’re not the most high, generational priestess, ruler of Mandan. Sorry. *smile* Or would you like to destroy the US to destroy us? To do what? Get rich or die tryin’?

Oh well. Oh well. …Oh well?