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16. MY FATHER TALKING
d. Scripture Classes, Keenly Interrupted By Our Geology Teachers
in primary school, the daggy christian teachers, with big crooked noses and nasty old faces, dropped into the sadness of our lives, there was ugly mrs ford, the kids who were forced to sit on the cold polished floor boards equated her with ford pills, an overhead projection of a german jesus in soft sandals walking through the sandy streets with the donkeys, palm leaves and shady villas, a beautiful distant jesus with his soft open hands, whom we all loved, him with the child inside dressed in white cloth and followed by the children like us, along those long sunny stretches, beneath the blue skies of jerusalem, then each easter, when jesus was nailed to the cross, we knew that the child inside had died a little bit more, nailed up by the school system and those terrible scripture classes during high school, keenly interrupted by our geology teachers, who would debate the religious visitors, beside rocks in the test tubes and all those dead animals curled up in the turpentine, the most spiritual thing i could think of, was the smoggy sky of casula outside the classroom window, so i day dreamed, like every child and adolescent who tries to save themselves, during school hours |
