Secrets from a Church Basement: The Desperate Diary of Fresco Ayers

Your Senses Require No Apology

Your Senses Require No Apology

It's happening. I'm now convinced of it. All of my work is being exploited for the selfish purposes of a few. But they have no idea what they are doing.

It's getting warmer. The trees along the street outside are usually full of fresh leaves this time of year. Today, I saw many falling off of their branches as if it was late autumn. It's the kind of thing I'd expect.

After Wednesday's noon service, I was polishing a few of the pews. Several of the regular parishioners were gathered in a corner of the cathedral whispering to each other. These are older folks, many in their eighties. They've lived around here most of their lives.

I managed to get close enough to hear a little of what they were talking about without looking suspicious. (I don't want the priest getting on my case about freaking out his little old lackeys of the Lord. Heaven forbid they spot a black man showing interest in what they've got to say.)

Anyway, they were saying they have never seen a year like this. They talked of the sun rising in the wrong places, clouds of the wrong texture, a lack of bees in their neighborhoods, and a constant vibration under their feet. Their bones are rattling, they say.

It would be easy enough to write their observations off as nothing but the effects of too much holy wine, candle smoke in the eyes, and the brown cloud that hangs over this city. But it's the last bit that gets me: the bones. The vibration. I feel it too.

Then, of course, there are the blood drifters. I never accounted for anything like them in my research. I'm determined to find out if they are real. I just don't know how yet.

I paid one of the priest's altar boys to make a run to the art store down the street. As a result, I'm fresh out of cash for another week. (No new books for me for a little while. I hope I don't snap.)

I placed the supplies into the shadows along the furthest wall from my bed. Within minutes, they disappeared into a swirling blob of red mist that smelled of sweaty Parmesan cheese. I don't know any other way to describe it. It was kind of disgusting actually.

I vomited for two days afterward. The priest suggested I pray to this healing saint or disciple or some such dead guy with a goofy name. I told him to suck on some Junior Mints and offered a couple. He took 'em and shut up.

I'm worried about what'll come from the paints. I really can't stand most artwork these days. A lot of it looks like the work of monkeys and elephants on meth. Actually, that's not fair; stoned animals would do a better job than the human hacks of today with their unintelligible conceptual cries for mama. 

Mind you, I can't be certain that "art" is what the supplies will be used for. It could be that my shadow friends intend on defiling the church. That's a clean-up job I really don't want. (There's something about having to wipe down statues of a virgin and her tortured half-naked son that really doesn't sit right with me.)

In any case, it's either time to put me away with the other crazies or to start paying attention. When I get some real evidence to share, you'll be the first to know. Please stay with me.

It's all starting to happen.

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