On Sundays, which are simulated, Neena sits in the eastern
chapel, the one with all the disused satellite dishes, and kneels, head bowed,
as a parable is read, ostensibly for her edification, that seems to have
something to do with the cellular re-absorption rates during the mitosis of
self-cannibalizing cancer cells. Along the walls large computer screens have
uploaded photo retouches of celebrity deaths designed by Gnostic internet
priests and Neena finds herself confronted now with the live disemboweling of
the minor late 20th century actress Alicia Silverstone by medical anatomists,
which is anachronistically set sometime in the 17th century.
Neena,
aroused from a daydream about a parachute drop she may or may not have
experienced, does not hear correctly such partial phrases as “to die again and
again and again” and “a paradigm of the beauty of ritualistic human sacrifice”
and “the voluntary abrogation of the human ego at the moment of nonconsensual
climax,” and other things besides, misunderstanding the true nature of the Mass
as l she drifts off sideways into a dream that has something unspecified to do
with false doors.
She
misses entirely the grand finale and the distribution of the Eucharist which
she cannot participate in anyway, even though she has been “confessed” during
her interrogation. As best she can make out the reason she cannot take
Communion has something to do with the fact of her special role as a “lovely
and exclusively grain-fed animal without blemish.” But this is rather dismissively
and off-handedly explained to her in simplified terms, as if she were a mere
child too young to understand. She is advised to simply accept what she’s told
as a “Holy Mystery.”
The
mass is ended. Go in peace.
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