God is in the Detail
(and sebastian)
Sebastian was losing the vision in his left eye. When he closed the right and tried to see, the world was no longer discernible and clear, but floated among itself in a myriad of shapes that fluttered from his view as he tried to catch them. It was strange; looking at a world which had lost its clarity. He believed he had been able to see clearly from this eye before, but the more he looked the less sure he could be. Had there really been a time when this all made sense? He looked over to the past, and things seemed a little clearer there. The colours still spilled into one another, but the outline seemed to reverberate less, and he could attempt to understand some of what was going on. He could almost convince the imagery to settle, persuade the people and shapes to sit on their restless hands and refuse to let them quiver around their faces in expressions of discontent. He wished he could say the same for the future. If looking around now confused him, if he was disconcerted by those blurred visions which clouded today, then what he saw in the future was even less settling. Even the shapes themselves lost form in the fog, and the colour had long since diffused into a crazed myopic swirl. Sebastian despaired his loss of clarity; it had been the one thing which allowed him to bask in pretend understanding and enlightenment. He realised he would need to buy glasses, and the thought comforted him greatly. Not only could he regain his clarity, but perhaps he could buy thick black rimmed glasses and pretend he was an emo kid again. It seemed unlikely, but the promise of the unconsidered possibility gave him new hope and excitement.
Sebastian hadn’t considered his lack of money though. Glasses were expensive, every kid looking for their own little hope at enlightenment, or maybe it had just been deemed cool by those who know, and then somehow (stupidly) they let the secret out. Of course, once the businessmen all knew, the price spiralled and rocketed until there it was, far beyond anything he could afford. Sebastian had spent all his money on his art, that is to say he had spent all his money on tippex and biros in the misplaced belief that he could make something special with them. He had been visionary then, and believed the world would pay to see the fruits of his enlightenment. Of course, that didn’t help him now; losing his vision, and no money to save it. He would have to hope and pray for a miracle, or resign himself to the possibility of losing himself in the fog forever. He couldn’t take that chance, giving himself up to the fog. The very prospect scared him beyond belief. He decided to pray, and see where his thoughts took him. Perhaps there would be some salvation there.
The pews of the church were hard and uncomfortable, and Sebastian hoped the penance of sitting upon them for so long would bring him some luck. He knew better than to consider this though, and the minister brought condemnation before solace. “God is in the detail” he told Sebastian. “See the detail, and you will know the love of God”. Sebastian tried to explain that he was here precisely because he couldn’t see any more, and wouldn’t the minister help him at all in his plight, didn’t he realise what turmoil he was in without the staunch cotton comfort of the detail? The minister’s advice was misplaced and delivered with an air of irritatingly self-satisfied fulfilment. “Consider the bigger picture, then look inside yourself and see the detail.” Sebastian left, more frustrated and despairing than ever. He couldn’t see the detail and now would never know the love of god, and furthermore he had twisted his ankle on the over-polished floor which some kid with too much Pledge on his hands clearly thought would tempt God from his busy schedule into this church for these people. It was shiny, he could grant him that, but it struck Sebastian as phony, and he hoped that God wouldn’t be taken in by such a cheap trick. He knew he had to find glasses now, more desperately than ever. The love of God was at stake, as well as his own sanity.
Sebastian remembered at one time he had owned an old acoustic guitar, and considered if he wouldn’t try busking for a while, and see where his music would take him. He remembered finding solace in his music once before, and pictured himself packing up a wad of loose leaf sheet music in some dishevelled bundle and standing on the scuffed pavement slabs with his visionary songs outside the station. He thought back to his childhood when he had once seen a woman standing outside the station singing. Her eyes stank of poverty and hatred for the world, but her voice reverberated above the mundanity of a Wednesday afternoon and somehow penetrated the insular lives of the commuters who were normally heading somewhere too important and too desperately urgent to allow anyone to interrupt their steady chain of pace. But she was different, he remembered. Something in her voice ignited the languid dust in the air, spiralled outside the realms of suits and appointments to move those who rushed by, and they paused, terrified in wonder of what had pierced their normally impenetrable exterior, but still too self absorbed to consider it could have been anything outwith their busy lives. He couldn’t remember if she’d made much money busking, and considering the audience she was forced to contend with, he was doubtful. But he decided he had to try, if only to take his mind off his terrible loss of clarity and the troubles that it would bring him if he allowed it to take over.
~*~
It was over, and Sebastian knew it. The music he had played was the maudlin reflection of his soul, and the tune of a Thursday afternoon that the world listened for was beating frantically with grateful anticipation of the weekend ahead. They could have hated him and hated his music, and he could have secretly cursed their cultureless philistine existences. He would have returned to his own world bruised and poor, but still aware of his own specialness. If anyone had even noticed he was there. It seemed to him now the gulf between their existences were so great that it was no surprise they would never penetrate each other’s worlds. In hindsight, it would have been stranger if they had heard his songs, acknowledged his presence and welcomed him.
Sebastian was losing the sight in his right eye too. He let it fade. There was nothing much he wanted to see anymore anyway.
Sebastian was losing the vision in his left eye. When he closed the right and tried to see, the world was no longer discernible and clear, but floated among itself in a myriad of shapes that fluttered from his view as he tried to catch them. It was strange; looking at a world which had lost its clarity. He believed he had been able to see clearly from this eye before, but the more he looked the less sure he could be. Had there really been a time when this all made sense? He looked over to the past, and things seemed a little clearer there. The colours still spilled into one another, but the outline seemed to reverberate less, and he could attempt to understand some of what was going on. He could almost convince the imagery to settle, persuade the people and shapes to sit on their restless hands and refuse to let them quiver around their faces in expressions of discontent. He wished he could say the same for the future. If looking around now confused him, if he was disconcerted by those blurred visions which clouded today, then what he saw in the future was even less settling. Even the shapes themselves lost form in the fog, and the colour had long since diffused into a crazed myopic swirl. Sebastian despaired his loss of clarity; it had been the one thing which allowed him to bask in pretend understanding and enlightenment. He realised he would need to buy glasses, and the thought comforted him greatly. Not only could he regain his clarity, but perhaps he could buy thick black rimmed glasses and pretend he was an emo kid again. It seemed unlikely, but the promise of the unconsidered possibility gave him new hope and excitement.
Sebastian hadn’t considered his lack of money though. Glasses were expensive, every kid looking for their own little hope at enlightenment, or maybe it had just been deemed cool by those who know, and then somehow (stupidly) they let the secret out. Of course, once the businessmen all knew, the price spiralled and rocketed until there it was, far beyond anything he could afford. Sebastian had spent all his money on his art, that is to say he had spent all his money on tippex and biros in the misplaced belief that he could make something special with them. He had been visionary then, and believed the world would pay to see the fruits of his enlightenment. Of course, that didn’t help him now; losing his vision, and no money to save it. He would have to hope and pray for a miracle, or resign himself to the possibility of losing himself in the fog forever. He couldn’t take that chance, giving himself up to the fog. The very prospect scared him beyond belief. He decided to pray, and see where his thoughts took him. Perhaps there would be some salvation there.
The pews of the church were hard and uncomfortable, and Sebastian hoped the penance of sitting upon them for so long would bring him some luck. He knew better than to consider this though, and the minister brought condemnation before solace. “God is in the detail” he told Sebastian. “See the detail, and you will know the love of God”. Sebastian tried to explain that he was here precisely because he couldn’t see any more, and wouldn’t the minister help him at all in his plight, didn’t he realise what turmoil he was in without the staunch cotton comfort of the detail? The minister’s advice was misplaced and delivered with an air of irritatingly self-satisfied fulfilment. “Consider the bigger picture, then look inside yourself and see the detail.” Sebastian left, more frustrated and despairing than ever. He couldn’t see the detail and now would never know the love of god, and furthermore he had twisted his ankle on the over-polished floor which some kid with too much Pledge on his hands clearly thought would tempt God from his busy schedule into this church for these people. It was shiny, he could grant him that, but it struck Sebastian as phony, and he hoped that God wouldn’t be taken in by such a cheap trick. He knew he had to find glasses now, more desperately than ever. The love of God was at stake, as well as his own sanity.
Sebastian remembered at one time he had owned an old acoustic guitar, and considered if he wouldn’t try busking for a while, and see where his music would take him. He remembered finding solace in his music once before, and pictured himself packing up a wad of loose leaf sheet music in some dishevelled bundle and standing on the scuffed pavement slabs with his visionary songs outside the station. He thought back to his childhood when he had once seen a woman standing outside the station singing. Her eyes stank of poverty and hatred for the world, but her voice reverberated above the mundanity of a Wednesday afternoon and somehow penetrated the insular lives of the commuters who were normally heading somewhere too important and too desperately urgent to allow anyone to interrupt their steady chain of pace. But she was different, he remembered. Something in her voice ignited the languid dust in the air, spiralled outside the realms of suits and appointments to move those who rushed by, and they paused, terrified in wonder of what had pierced their normally impenetrable exterior, but still too self absorbed to consider it could have been anything outwith their busy lives. He couldn’t remember if she’d made much money busking, and considering the audience she was forced to contend with, he was doubtful. But he decided he had to try, if only to take his mind off his terrible loss of clarity and the troubles that it would bring him if he allowed it to take over.
~*~
It was over, and Sebastian knew it. The music he had played was the maudlin reflection of his soul, and the tune of a Thursday afternoon that the world listened for was beating frantically with grateful anticipation of the weekend ahead. They could have hated him and hated his music, and he could have secretly cursed their cultureless philistine existences. He would have returned to his own world bruised and poor, but still aware of his own specialness. If anyone had even noticed he was there. It seemed to him now the gulf between their existences were so great that it was no surprise they would never penetrate each other’s worlds. In hindsight, it would have been stranger if they had heard his songs, acknowledged his presence and welcomed him.
Sebastian was losing the sight in his right eye too. He let it fade. There was nothing much he wanted to see anymore anyway.
posted by Jane at 9:32 pm
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