Today, I went to the 5:00 pm mass at St. Patrick's by myself. I felt compelled to go, not really knowing why. I've been thinking about Victor Villasenor's speech, especially the part where he talked about a conversation he had with a Hopi Indian. This man told Victor that he didn't believe in God; instead, he did God. They have no nouns in their language. Every word is a verb. It actually makes sense, since things are changing all the time. Everything is changing, and God is in everything; therefore, everything is godding. Earlier in the day, I was looking at things and thinking about how people believe that we are all God. And so I imagined (maybe even believed) that I was looking through God's eyes, just looking around. And then I thought of that scene in Waking Life where the two actors are talking about how film is simply a recording of God's manifestation. That everything is only one moment, now, and it is holy. So I'm looking around, thinking: these are God's eyes I'm looking through, everything's holy, and this is just one moment. I can't decide if it's a really long moment or short moment. It just is what it is. And it's all very confusing, and despite all the theology classes I've aced, the number of times I've been to church, the number of deep, religious conversations I've had and spiritual retreats I've attended, I don't think I'll ever grasp it. But that's okay. Because I can do this thing now where I just look, and think, or not think, and since it's just one moment, everything is pretty damn near peaceful and perfect.

So I went to church by myself hoping that the hour long session might give me some more insight into this complex thought I'm having. I look at the pews and know that they're Godding; their molecules are shifting, and they're physically eroding. I try to imagine how the pews are so scratched up. Little boys running their Hot Wheels up and down the seats; keys from pockets leaving their little indentations; women tapping their long fingernails on the wood. Is it even real wood? When did the Catholics decide: "We're going with pews!"

Nothing out of the ordinary happened. I sat in the far back corner by myself, my hands in my blue track jacket. An older woman, smelling of car air freshener, sat in front of me. Then the smell became graham crackers until I realized it was probably just cigarette smoke. The scent brought up old memories of preschool, my uncle Mike's car, my girlfriend's mom. Sometimes I wish I could just sit in a room and smell every smell I've ever smelled, good or bad. Some girls at Watsonville high smell like my cousin Grace did. I wonder if it's shampoo or perfume.

The priest told everyone that, contrary to popular belief, the church didn't have very much money. He referred to that part as his "sales pitch." I never carry cash, so I didn't have anything to give. Which reminds me, this man in Santa Cruz gave me a copy of the Bhagavad-Gita and asked for a donation. I couldn't give him anything, obviously, but he still let me keep the book.

Today is my cousin's birthday. He's 28; he's Godding. Meagan's grandpa died this week. He's Godding, too.

I don't know how to end essays, blog entries, poems or short stories. I guess I'm supposed to say something witty to pull myself out of it. I won't.

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