James N. Roseburg made a lithograph of a crumbling New York City entitled “Dies Irae”, the very day the stock market crashed in 1929.

Dies Irae- Latin for Day of Wrath. The poem goes like this:

Day of wrath! O day of Mourning!

See fulfilled the prophets’ warning

Heaven and Earth in ashes burning

And so on. It gets worse from there.

I didn’t write it, Thomas of Celano did. What if scientists are prophets? The Pope now says that to pollute the planet is to commit a deadly sin- one more reason we are all screwed, no matter how little our footprint.

However, like I always told my mother, I can only talk to Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac, James Joyce, etc. in Hell so I may as well get myself screwed.

Here’s a story:

I grew up Mormon. When you turn Twelve you are old enough to be allowed to go into certain parts of the temple and participate in what Mormons call “baptisms for the dead”. It’s weird, but not as weird as it sounds. Our youth group would meet outside the temple, dressed in our Sunday best. I was always nervous, gazing up in the dark at the well lit gray façade towering over me. I wanted to see if the golden Angel Moroni, perched atop the highest spire, had lowered his trumpet and was watching me. Inside, we would all wait in line to show the attendant at the desk, usually a smiling, white haired retiree, our Temple Recommends.

A Temple Recommend is a laminated ID card that tells everyone that the proper authorities have deemed you a pure and worthy person, a person fit to be inside God’s Temple. They have to be renewed every year. I remember when I was seventeen the Bishop called my house and asked if he could see me after church the next day. Hot dread flooded my veins as I chirped a chipper, “Of course, I always enjoy talking with you.”

Religion molds such good liars.

“Must be time to renew,” my mother noted, “any reason you wouldn’t pass?” She despised me and wanted proof that I was the demon she thought me to be. As if I would ever confide in her. Confidant she was not and I was not a fighter, I quit her presence and headed for my bedroom. Not exactly my teenage sanctuary, my mother searched it daily, but at least it offered limited privacy. There I could fabricate a believable litany of minor trespasses. Perfection breeds suspicion, damned if you do, damned etc.

May as well skip to the good part. Me in an office in the church house in a hard wooden chair facing the Bishop. His chair, a soft leather one, is so close to mine our knees are touching.

“Honeygloom, how are you?”

“Fine, thank you. And you?” Oh so polite.

“Is everything going well at home? Are you getting along with your parents?”

“Well, I wish I didn’t have to do the laundry on Saturday mornings, but otherwise everything is going well.”

“We all have to do our part as a family unit to make our lives peaceful and full of love.”

“Of course, I know that, I’m sorry.” Head bowed, contrite little thing.

“What about school. Are you doing well in school?”

“Yes. I don’t like math though. I mostly write stories during math class.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Just about life and people I know. Real stuff. I also like ghost stories.”

“Hmm… maybe you should just write children’s stories.”

“Yes, of course.” Because I’m female my brain doesn’t develop that well, how silly of me to have forgotten.

“What about the laws of chastity? Are you obeying those?”

“Yes, of course.” Here is where the eye contact starts. He just stares right into my eyes, no blinking, nothing.

“I know how hard that is for girls your age. Are you telling me the truth?”

“It’s not hard. I’m not that popular.”

“Problems with chastity don’t always have to involve the opposite sex, you know. Teenagers have thoughts. Thoughts are sins which may lead to other sins. Sins you can commit all by yourself.” Oh those eyes.

“Really, I don’t think much.”

“If you don’t tell the truth, I can’t renew your Temple Recommend. What are you going to tell everyone if you can’t go with them to the temple?”

“There’s nothing,”

“You can tell me. I’m a safe person. Do you touch yourself?”

“Ok, fine, I have.”

“Have what?”

“Done that.”

“Say it.”

“I have touched myself.” Our knees are rubbing together, those eyes are just boring into me.

“Often?”

“No, not often.”

“What do you think about?”

“Please, I don’t remember.”

“You remember.”

“Please. I’m so sorry. I’ll never do it again.”

“You remember.”

“I can’t.”

“Ok, pray hard and long about this. I think we’ll have to meet again in a few months to make sure you’re doing OK.” Shake hands, mine are cold and sweaty.

No more words from me. I just need a shower. The beginning of My Great Depression.