The Church Of Me
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Kissing in the churchyard, I know a righteous woman

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Suddenly, he arose from his sopha-bed and exclaimed at the incoming flood of light from the Heath. It was as if he had been visited by an abrupt but deep miracle and had been cured. The blood and pain had ceased; he had scarcely found it easier to breathe in at least two years. In this world he grew up, and stayed with Fanny Brawne, and lived to encounter both Dickens and the Brontes.

His mouth open and aghast, his coat bloody red, he plugged his fingers into the wound and the life flowed back like chariots of redemption. The eyes. The infinite compassion their clarity entails. It was all he had wanted; the strength of patience and selflessness to allow him to wave the white flag of defiance, in the face of unwarranted death.

That doubting has been evicted through kindness and a generous fullness.

She alone could look into my eyes and glimpse the troubled and willing soul beneath. She did not fail in her persistence to salvage that soul, or to cherish, nurture and develop it to even profounder heights.

She, who is not simply the only one who accepted me, but also the only one who was so ready to accept me and understand instinctively that redemption was the glowing inverse of the dull coin of ruination.

She who loves me, and who is loved in unending return.

The lavender blueness of Plath's house, in Chalcot Square. The white blueness of the ice cream parlour and restaurant, not ten minutes away from her soul's domain by foot, and where, at about 2:30 yesterday afternoon, I proposed to her, Lena Friesen, and she accepted with surprise and joy.

We are thus now engaged to be married. We recognise that the road towards realisation of our fully realisable permanence will be a long and complex one. But the road has to be travelled. She is my salvation, the angel who brought my life back to me after five years of gradually decreasing spiritual imprisonment, and she nurtures me and tends to me by my side as I am writing this pledge.

The story here has therefore reached its long-desired ending. This is not to say that there is an end to The Church Of Me, for altars of true worship are by definition and principle endless, its corridors to be delineated by the experiences we are yet to have, and to which we look forward with unbounded happiness and expectations.

We stand at the summit, atop a cloudy Parliament Hill Fields, the city beneath us so inextricably ours. This world now ours, these souls now united.

I thank those who have shepherded me through the many and treacherous footholds encountered upon my disabled climb back up to that summit; their names are well-known and need not be repeated here.

Lena, however, is not merely my conquering sherpa, but the companion I want for the second halves of our lives. We intend to remain on that summit and turn its icy surface into a tender and colourful garden of oceanic and Arcadian splendour.

The life lost has been regained. That first life went into suspension five years ago tomorrow. Now it has been resuscitated, defrosted, and, quivering but utterly confidently, it rises once more to live the life it, and we, deserve.

Marcello Carlin
Born: Dennistoun, Glasgow - 25 January 1964
Suspended in limbo: Oxford - 25 August 2001
Reborn: London - 21 August 2006

Her memory will remain undiminished.

But our life together will make the world a brighter and fuller place to inhabit.

All of these words were intended for only one pair of living eyes. I am honoured and humbled by the gracious, lucid and wondrous pair of eyes which saw me, and to which I now pledge eternal fealty and devotion.

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