Sodom and Gomorrah

Maria and I brought Faf to the Hill Cumorah Pageant and sneaked her in back. We actually got caught but convinced the kindly guards that she was harmless and that we'd be quiet (even while Faf did her super cute girly howl for being held up) so they let us through. In all my years living among the Mormon's I generally like the folks - they tend to be kind, sober and inviting. Unless you're gay or a drunk or otherwise human and were born on the inside but since that isn't my experience and since it doesn't pain me to be an outsider I rather enjoy their company. The company of the Church of Jesus Christ of Later Day Saints, not Mormon - an insistence of obvious psychology that many of the post adolescent "elders" probably don't realize has worked on their delicate spongy masses since before birth. The perception of innocence is a wondrous thing, never let the man drag it from you. On the way in there were, of course, protesters - men with booming voices and bullhorns shouting bible verse at the wayward cult of Mormons.
"That's just fucking awesome," were the first words I said to the faithful parking attendant.
"I think you just told the parking guy that those protesters were 'fucking' awesome," Maria repeated wryly.
"Shit, I suppose I did. I just love this Sodom and Gomorrah Pageant, it's just fucking perfect."
Maria laughed.
And we were in, a beautifully clear night in the remote upstate village of Palmyra, NY. Home of Joseph Smith and his polygamous cult. Perfectly absurd, perfectly American. I'd do anything I could to defend these people. I wouldn't follow a single policy, I thought as we sipped on the outlawed wine from our blanket in the fields, but I'd go down defending the absurd.

(days pass)

I started blinking more on purpose, until Cheryl from the design center noticed what I was doing and asked about it, "What are you doing?," She asked. "Why are you blinking so much?"
"I don't know, it makes me feel more productive."
"Oh I see. But you're not, you're not more productive right?"
"I'm not more productive? How's that? I'm blinking more furiously each moment," I said while putting a bit of extra emphasis into each blink.
"How's that productive?" She said. "You're just wasting energy squeezing your lids together forcefully. You're forcing it."
"Maybe," I replied. "But I'm getting it accomplished."
"Getting what accomplished? Those aren't accomplishments, it's just hard blinking."
"It's practice."
"For what?"
"For future blinking."
"But blinking just comes from a body, it's like breathing."
"Good point, people choose to alter their breathing all of the time right?"
"They do?"
"As in Yoga or controlled breathing, people with heart conditions, athletes, astronauts, all that stuff."
"That's different. That's a whole different deal when you're sick or in a fitness program, an athlete. Your forced blinking doesn't fit a purpose."
I kept doing it, her protest seemingly bolstering the effort.
"Now you're just trying to annoy me."
"Am I? You don't have to watch."
"It's distracting. (pause) And annoying."
"Don't let it get to you, just ignore it," I said blinking hard and in rapid succession, this time lifting my checks higher so it felt like they were touching my top lids. Then release. This extra effort amazed her.
"Well I'm not going to sit here and watch you blinking like this. I'm just not going to do it. It's dumb."
"Maybe, but I'm trying at least."
"Trying what? That's not productive, that's wasted effort," she replied visibly more shook up with each retort.
"Maybe," I replied again, blinking on.
Then she left. I just stood there for some time blinking, controlling it, pushing it, seeking future effort.