HEAVY METAL PLENITUDE
It is 12.30 pm on a Spring day and I’m on my way to the ‘Château Abbaye de Cassan’ in order to write an article on the rock artist Marilyn Manson’s art exhibit opening, in this ancient place. My editor-in-chief gave me the contact information of Nathalie, the director of this castle-abbey. She also gave me the directions to get here. As soon as I get there, she welcomes me warmly and points me in the direction of the great gallery where the Reverend himself supervises the location and order of the paintings for this exhibition. Jean Pierre, in charge of the maintenance, helps Manson. “There you go,” says Marilyn, “the chronology is just right. Now all we need is to see the people’s reaction to my controversial artwork, right in this church where this sulfurous antichrist will reveal his expressionism.” “Fantastic, we’ll have something to nibble on,” says Jean Pierre. Nathalie introduces me to Manson, who observes me through his white lens. He shakes hands warmly with me with his special mittens which incorporate crucifixes. He also wears a bracelet and Gothic rings. He’s dressed in black like a retro gentleman from the 1930’s, while exhibiting his tenebrous tattoos. The artist lays his cards on the table and here I am face to face with the Reverend of the Gothic movement, baptized the antichrist superstar since his 1996 album. “As Pope John Paul II used to say: don’t be afraid! I won’t eat you as an appetizer during the opening. I even cut back on my absinth consumption for this event…I didn’t want to play the whimsical diva. And anyway,” he says with a smirk, “if I were plastered the event would be ruined and this château’s reputation would be ruined with it. I’m quite a fan of McDonalds’ products. I’m happy you came here today to immortalize my exhibition of Christian hell. That will allow me to send your article to my religious friends from Nice.” Manson is, in my opinion, quite different from the image that certain media give of him. He shows me around the château while Nathalie manages the turmoil of crowds of Gothic visitors and other paparazzi.
The Reverend tells me about his creative addictions: “Painting has been my great passion for a long time. It allows me to exploit those things I’m not able to do in a record. It gives me peace, delivers me from everyday life, allows me to present my paintings to people – thanks to my celebrity, of course – and to meet interesting people and have exchanges different from those I can have with my borderline fans or groupies with an overdose of libido. In my paintings I evoke childhood memories or political problems with the irony of a child who observes the world from his hiding place. It also helps me,” he confides, “cope with the greedy record companies now very worried about profitability, following the fall on the stock market”. We walk through the château’s arcane places. “This place corresponds exactly to my artist’s sensitivity, separated from the popular commercial mass culture,” says Manson. “Churches, for example, really fit my artistic approach and identity.” We look at the paintings of his friend Dita Von Teese. “She was a great inspiration for me and I wanted to immortalize her in my art. It’s a subtle way of telling her that I love her rather than repeating the traditional words which have lost their force from overuse throughout time. You can always say I love you to the one you love while having an extra marital affair. With my paintings and my gesture she understood that she’s the key to my redeeming soul.”
We get to the painting of the two adolescent murderers of the Columbine High School, he smiles ironically. “The media are an integral part of my artistic expression. When you turn on the TV, you’ll see: ‘Here is the bad guy!’ and each time, the ‘bad’ guy is different depending on the situation. It can be a tornado, a disease, a war… and I’ve also been the ‘bad guy’. I’ve been accused of being responsible for the Columbine drama. You can let the media describe you as they like, or you can use them as an element of your palette in the painting of your portrait. It’s not so much the written media but TV which bothers me… especially as I was a journalist myself and thus I had the opportunity to have this double perspective. I had to go back to the beginning and understand why I had started this. But because of Colombine, I was in a critical position. People not only threatened me but also my career. I received numerous death threats. I installed cameras everywhere in my house, and sometimes I stayed up at home watching the screens. I was completely paranoid. When I stayed up all night I would drink absinth for hours and often I imagined hearing noises in the garden. I would shoot into the darkness thinking I hit the intruder, but most times it was a coyote. The media attention was such that I was immediately held responsible of anything. With the war in Iraq, America finally found a new bad guy. The United States loves to select a target and pursue it. I presented myself as the ‘Antichrist Superstar’. The choice of this name was hot chosen haphazardly. I wanted to be a ‘bad guy’ because they are always more attractive and have the most beautiful women around them. I’ve loved this type of character since I was a child.”
“But Columbine,” he continues, “was not a battle I could fight. How could I defend myself? I wasn’t guilty of anything except of being myself. The two adolescents were not fans of Marilyn Manson. And even if they had been, that wouldn’t have changed a thing. There’s nothing I could say. All the media wanted me to talk to them, just to maintain their cycle of fear and consumerism, which I have always mentioned. So why play their game? Why should I say in public how atrocious it was what those kids did? Nobody ever listened to them. They wanted to be famous and they succeeded thanks to the media who perpetuated this cruel irony. There was no debate. I was the easy target they could point at as being responsible. I became more dangerous than the two murderers themselves. All the radio stations, the dj’s, and those who work for the music industry turned their back on me and closed all doors. I locked myself in my attic for three months without talking with anybody. That was a very dark time of my life which could have been the end of one thing or the beginning of another. Finally, my fans’ support made me decide to channel all that into an album about this subject: 'Holy Wood (In The Shadow Of The Valley Of Death)'. It was a very beautiful and tenebrous album, a necessary conclusion,” he muses, before taking me to the great reception room.
“We could think of a Gothic cathedral crossing many centuries. The irony with the media is that they take me for a living fairground attraction; however in the churches I symbolize an apocalyptic fear. They make fun of me; they spread false harmful rumors about the apocalyptic Reverend. Yet I’m an artist and I have an opinion about the things around me. I use the political and religious horrors to describe the dogmas that people impose on themselves because of traditions and fear of governments or even of God, because toward the end of our lives, people suddenly start believing in the grace of Jesus and in the eternal paradise. They fear that, after their deaths, their scientific and rational theories may condemn them to nothingness, so they believe in the after-life! Only God can absolve you of your sins. No use in praying allegiance like machines on Sundays during mass. Knowing ones lesson and repenting on command does not reflect what I learned from reading the Gospel. The masses I attended regularly did not symbolize the offering of Christ and the message of religion. It took me a long time to accept this fact,” explains Manson before leaving to get changed.
The crowd is humming; the flashes from the paparazzi machine gun the Reverend, who responds to multiple questions and diverse demands under the attentive eyes of Nathalie and Jean Pierre. Manson looks at them smilingly and cast his Gothic arm with his tenebrous rings against his chest. “Long live the heavy metal plenitude!” he proclaims. “We’re going to inflame the château with this exhibition; it’ll be rock’n’roll and make all the Dracula ghettos jealous. Soon you’ll all be very popular rock star hosts.” Nathalie and Jean Pierre laugh at Manson complicity.
He comes toward me. “Look how I’m taken care of. It seems ages away from the times I was forbidden to sing in certain ultra-conservative and religious cities. How far away from the time when fundamentalist Christians mailed death threat letters or failed bomb attacks to me because I wanted to express my art and exhibit my wounds. I believe that this opening will be up to the same standards as Christian hell and rival popular events broadcast non-stop in the media until the digital recorders get bugs and burn down whole TV sets,” he jokes. “Then the journalists will, ironically, cover the fires as another story. They’ll say that the technicians were probably taking a nap or perhaps accuse them of being my fans and having set fire to the places on purpose, out of respect for me in the name of the arma-goddamn-motherfucking-geddon of the tenebrous Reverend.” A man walks toward Manson, who shrieks with joy and energetically shakes hands with him. “Alleluia, you’re here!” says Manson to this man called Michel Brun who seems rather enthusiastic. “Is this artistic arma-goddamn-motherfucking-geddon to your liking? I hope I haven’t shocked your friends and acquaintances,” “On the contrary,” replies Brun with a mischievous smile, “they adore your paintings. They even bought some. But to be honest they’re a bit disappointed not to hear you sing your songs on the stage of the great room. The traditional violin evenings slightly bore them, you see.” The Reverend bursts out laughing. “Great, we won’t need an exorcist. I will biblically inflame the audience of this château without any fear of evangelical reprisals!” he jokes. “And I will also broaden my fan listing without fearing a purifying napalm bomb hidden under the stage during my ecclesiastic performance. Amen, my dear”.
During the exhibition, the Reverend watches the people, who seem to wonder about his painting. “Let’s hope that when they see my paintings, they don’t call an archbishop because they had apocalyptic nightmares. It’s true that my art is sometimes a bit subversive, but with time I’ve created a cocoon in order to hatch as an artist, rather than to stagnate in my apocalyptic reputation broadcast non-stop by journalists and the media. True, I once intentionally courted controversy, but every human being can repent. I have kept my title of Reverend in order to support all the kids who feel excluded due to our complex society’s duplicity. Some kids end up committing suicide because they are harassed due to their cultural differences or identity. They prefer to die to stop this rejection imposed by the existent conformist society. And then they accuse me of all the evils of society, because I sing dressed as the Pope in front of millions of people during a festival broadcast on television. There were protests everywhere: religious, from activists, from the cops or from the politicians. They use me as bait in their election campaigns to say: ‘we are in the right way and the eternal paradise will be ours with God!’ That reassures them, because during the week, certain people don’t hesitate to fuck up a tax control or to fire innocent people who end up as old statistics. Where is God in the heart of people? I’ve observed the evolution of human nature a lot in my career. I haven’t shocked God, but rather the children of God who sent Christ to save us and especially to give us the owner’s manual of religion. I see today that humanity is devious and hypocritical.” He confides all this to me before going to ask Nathalie for a glass of water.
Manson is admiring the architecture of the place when a woman asks him about two of the paintings. “This one” he responds “for example is the anticipated representation of my fear of my addiction to absinth. This reflex of consuming comes from the fear of not being able to create and strengthen my art. I read somewhere that Rimbaud and Baudelaire needed absinth in order to write, so I do the same. I’ve been drinking absinth to be sure to create and write, to pursue my artistic progression while avoiding the dictates from over-conformist managements and hierarchies inside the competitive marketing. Today, the notion of art has become obsolete. That is one of the reasons that pushed me to drink absinth, for fear of neglecting everything I’ve built. Even if I’m aware of the side effects of this addiction,” he explains, “fear dominates each of us.”
A child watches the Reverend, who sends a friendly smile his way. “I don’t bite. You can come shake my hand.” He holds out his ringed hand ensconced in his Christ mitten towards the fascinated kid. “Don’t you like my look? You’re not used to it. At school they are more bling-bling and listen to rap music non-stop.” The child smiles and is captivated by the smiling Reverend’s tenebrous tattoos. “This is to set myself apart in front of Jesus” he jokes as the father swiftly and discreetly removes the child. “He’ll be able to say: ‘He’s the rock star, he has tattooed arms.” Manson observes them walking away and then looks at me. “When I was the antichrist, I wrote down my observations of the consequences that humanity imposes on itself. There are many questions. Through my work, I’ve witnessed what I’ve felt and I asked myself those questions. What is most unfortunate politically and socially has resulted in the antichrist I was! If I created a religious universe in my work as a marketing image, it’s not to offend, but it is my artistic signature and what made me think about things as a child, especially during my stay at the Heritage Christian School. Hence the depth of my sulfurous excess and multiple provocations, which allowed me to exist, back then. In my work I’ve never stopped asking why. Why do dogmas remain so barbarian and succinct? Why do the politicians use people like toys? And also, why so much cruelty and dictatorships through fear?” Nathalie brings him water and he thanks her. Some Goths greet the Reverend who puts his Christ-like hand showing his Gothic rings against his chest. “Amen, my children from the Dracula ghetto. It feels good to know you are present at my artistic expression. Alleluia,” he says while staring at them through his white lens.
Nathalie comes to check if everything is ok. They exchange some words. “It’s the heavy metal plenitude, dear friend,” he says. No evangelist or campaigning politician has shown up to convert or recruit tourists with their propaganda. Besides, the atmosphere is very serene and less sulfurous than my usual concerts. And I’m high as a kite.” “Great, then you’re going to have a great memory of this event?” she asks him. “I’m going to provide you with a hellish publicity. Soon you’ll see hordes of buses filled with Goths who will come to take pictures with you and Jean Pierre,” smiles Manson while Nathalie laughs. “From now on you’ll have to organize heavy metal parties,” “Amen,” she adds with complicity. Later some people from the nobility walk past criticizing the Reverend’s paintings right in front of him. He stares at them stoically and shows them his gothic heavy metal middle finger. “Thank you, dear damned. I was delighted to have you among us today. Please don’t forget to write down your reforming insults in the golden book at the entrance. I can probably use them as a chorus in my next biblical album, which will be broadcast on radio and television,” says Manson calmly. “What an extraordinary symbolic souvenir of our meeting, full of poetry it shall be when you hear non-stop your gibe in your snobby bling-bling car! Repent for the upcoming arma-goddamn-motherfucking-geddon. You’ll need your bible to survive.” “Alleluia, Reverend, I see you’re not letting these puppets step on you’” replies dryly Jean Pierre who passes by just then and grips the Christian Goth hand of this famous artist honored at this château of Cassan. The nobles leave the place in silence. The Reverend wants to have pictures made of him with Nathalie and Jean Pierre, exhibiting his rings and Gothic eye.
The stream of visitors continues and Manson tells me about his father. “I was about 12 years old and my father was wearing make up in the Kiss style and he was taking me to their concerts in this outfit. My dad was a cool guy, a good guy. He is very proud of me and collects all the articles about me. Absolutely everything. He hangs them up on his wall with the interviews from the Rolling Stone mag and even the yellow press articles saying I’m the offspring of an extraterrestrial union between Nazis and Egyptians who then send me to Earth to destroy it! Unfortunately, my dad is my biggest fan. He wears promotional T-shirts from my early career with inscriptions such as ‘God of Fuck’ or ‘Everlasting Cocksucker’, which is quite embarrassing. Really, I’m ashamed! I’m not keen on the idea of Rap stars dethroning Rock stars. Rappers wearing expensive clothes are not necessarily a sign of having more charisma or pretending to have more longevity. I don’t consider anybody around me as a contemporary or a competitor. I never even considered myself a musician. In the past, I’ve always given all I had to my audience, but often people didn’t understand my objective because everything was always censured for television or during prime time. Today my attitude toward art and my actions has changed. When I started I was afraid of considering myself as an artist because art was pretentious, something reserved to a small elite. On the other side, if you say you’re an entertainer, people think what you do isn’t artistic. I feel like the right person for being both at once, and the fact of entertaining people is a great art in itself. Jesus was the first celebrity and the first marketing object was the crucifix. That seems quite clear. It’s also a way of talking about the hypocrisy of those who claim you’re no longer an important Rock star, that you’re marginal. It’s the opposite,” he affirms.
I ask him about the arbitrary judgments of him by certain conservative Americans. “Humanity has always played a strange roll in its own evolution, switching back and forth between domination and submission, between chaos and order. This is how I’ve always lived, but more towards nihilism. And in the same way I imposed on myself the challenge of making them react to politics and religion, I wanted them to question me. It’s in my nature to react differently from everybody else. I’ve said so much about politics and religion that it seems ironic, almost funny for me, to respond to questions about war. These events show that violence and self-destruction are in human nature. For me, the most intelligent way of being patriotic, although I’ve never agreed with the government and I’ve never supported a single president, is to be an artist and fight for democracy and freedom of expression, but also not to ignore the US duplicity who want to control the rest of the world. There’s still the need for freedom of expression due to enormous censorship. I still am the object of numerous attacks because of my art in my own country. Having to choose between two parties is like having to choose the ‘lesser’ of two evils. The more conservative party definitely scares me more, it seems more dangerous to me. Yet, paradoxically I almost preferred the Republican Party with its clear limits never to cross, with a great censorship because this type of government inspires me in my work and gives me a reason to exist the way I am. If the USA is at war, it’s not a situation I can change with a pacifist song. My way of being an American patriot is never to have agreed with the various governments and never to have supported any president. Consequently I prefer to live under a conservative rather than democrat government. On TV they compare Saddam to Hitler. I believe that history is written by the victorious and the one who has the role of the ‘bad guy’ depends on who writes the history,” he explains to me. “Most people think that, but they’re afraid of saying it. Americans have always been very patriotic and it has worsened since the attack on New York. I sometimes feel that we are all on the verge of terror. When they constantly try to make you repent of your sins and force you to say that you have to believe in God otherwise you go to Hell, it means… fascism is not really dead, it has been re-created through capitalism.”
Once the crowd of visitors, fans, paparazzi and tourists are gone, the Reverend thanks his hosts Nathalie and Jean Pierre. “It was an excellent day, the opening went really well,” he says before shaking hands with me with his gothic mittens, rings and tattoos and staring at me through his white lens. “Your support has given me a lot of strength. It’s the goddamn motherfucking heavy metal plenitude, it really touched me.” I leave the château Cassan transformed.
THE SYMBOLIC BATTLE
I’ve been observing humans for centuries, between multiple aborted assaults of the angels from hell during our allegiance services and communions with the eternal Father and Jesus. The world is disintegrating and humanity is seeking to reach the bottom due to this unconscious God defying game, righteously following the path of delinquency. They create pointless conflicts leaving behind many real victims. I belong to the celestial regiment which is supposed to protect the Kingdom of Heaven from attacks of the fantassins from Hell. Each religious festivity, as the commemoration of the redeeming Christ is, for mortals, a symbol of peace and fraternity. For us it means a massive rebellion against us, while my fellow creatures sing absolutions with God. We’re just lying in wait. We wait for clandestine intrusions. The fantassins arrive as an exodus of hell screaming about their possible victory; their appearance is that of skeletons wrapped in flames. During celestial prayers, we charge against our enemies, staring at them glacially with our wings spread out, under the rhythm of our bells and trumpets which are supposed to prepare us for the attack. We fight and suffer in order to protect the salvation of human souls and to maintain the salvation of our millennia old esoteric heritage.
As a lieutenant, I stare at our enemies from hell and I yell out the confrontation call to my soldiers at the gates of heaven. We rush towards to battle and we fight, we feel the fear for our homeland infiltrate our sensations as well as the fear of defeat for the mortals, but also the glacial kiss of the liberating death crosses our immortal conscience. At least we know what is at stake in these conflicts. Many a fellow creature passes away in the name of faith; I must, however, remain alive and strike down the hordes of soldiers from hell who arrive with screams of agony sounding through the flames that surround them. We fight; sometimes we die; yet we succeed to preserve heaven and my other fellow creatures busy praying for the vital grace of the mortals’ redemption. I report to God, together with the other lieutenants of our army, before sighing and going to observe the unconscious humans for whom we fight until death! This is the evolution of humanity’s ages where decadence and multiple shameless indecencies thrive! Later humans arrive like flowers under the resonance of the bells from cathedrals for mass, having become a routine where they recite their learned-by-heart dogmas, ignoring who we’re fighting to preserve this gift of God which they have received and which they neglect by the indecency of their behavior. All this generates a bitterness in me which infects my motivation to show up at the front; bur I have taken an oath towards God and I have a commitment. I observe the hymns in slow motion every Sunday, after I observe lives deteriorate in clubs where frenzy brushes against devastating anarchy under the deafening rhythm of popular music. Yet I can distinguish certain nobility within some creative artists of industrial metal when facing wild human waves. These rockers recall the homage of our offering at the front against hell’s arms. These artists strive artistically in the excess both to entertain the audience and to exorcise it, proclaiming and showing their past suffering or their sympathies.
But there are absolutely no strikes or truces during religious festivities! And my fellow creatures meet around the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost in order to sing and pray relentlessly for the absolution of the mortals. In the meantime, my troops and I watch the horizons until our enemies ferociously rush to our encounter. We block them; stare at them coldly, asking ourselves if we’re going to survive this eternal and painful Intifada, under the resonance of the bells which boost our suicidal adrenaline as well as the fears that assail us. We must ignore our fright, we pray before we cross ourselves and we establish strategies for our attacks. I stare stoically at the hostile approach of our enemies, regulating my breathing along with my doubts together with the bells before charging under the leitmotiv of our faith and our duty as eternal protectors. The battles are hard and demanding, we are submerged by the massive assaults, but I manage to survive, deploring certain losses of my fellows and the subtle mourning of our mission. I now fight with the hope of encountering death, I feed on suicidal adrenalin. To kill a fantassin from hell intoxicates me to the point of questioning myself. My invisible immortality is at the service of the mortals’ salvation, which can be shattered by the burning blade of a soldier from hell. What could peace be like, since I remain alone with myself in the midst of the eternal omnipresent fear of failing my task?
My fear is that the hourglass will transform me into a glacial and pitiless archangel, and my emotions will remain absent. Why can’t I finally pass away? What does God expect from me but to serve human delinquency? Yet I believe in the purity of his love as in Christ’s redeeming sacrifice for humans; would they be capable at all of understanding and accepting this? When I confront my enemies, who try to take hostages and wave their flags in God’s chapels; or when I see them massively rushing under the infinite sound of the bells and trumpets from our kingdom, which announce to us the times of combat and prayer, accompanied by fear and suicidal adrenaline, I have no one to hold on to, and that implies an eternal life. So, I rush into the throng, not caring about my existence, about my mission, only about my quota of eradicated enemies, which symbolize my redeeming host. The screaming from each fighter is my requiem, I observe the battlefield and I deplore the biblical Armageddon.
I find it extremely hard to think in these moments; I need to remain alert constantly. After surviving, I contemplate the religious grace for the funerals of the mortals so they rest in peace and cross over to the netherworld, under the respectful non dogmatic liturgy. In this moment, a girl makes a speech to give homage to a deceased; her name is Hortense, her pearly face and delicate skin of an exquisite softness and beautiful blond hair light my millennia old, archaic soul. What is this I’m feeling? Could it be the same false emotions my peers seek to save when they fight, while for me suicide delights my palate? Mortals ignore the symbolic meaning of this divine gift and transform it over time. This girl, Hortense, fascinates me and captures all my attention. Could she be the key to my redemption to face the Armageddon in heaven? It seems possible, as a token of God’s message concerning the mortals, the immortal messengers and us, the millennia old other celestial soldiers. Although these emotions are completely foreign, as soon as my army and I stare at our enemy, stoically defying them in silence under the sound of bells and trumpets, I cross myself before going to the front and I think about my sweet and dear Hortense, who is at the center of my prayers. I replaced my suicidal adrenalin with the hope of seeing Hortense again throughout her existence; she is now my main motivation for surviving the symbolic and religious battle. In the name holy faith, Amen !
DEFUNCT CONVICTION
The sound of the bells of the cathedral lulls my dull and silent immortality throughout the passing centuries. Each Sunday, mass, for the mortals, symbolizes unique moments whose calculated devotion I observe. In those moments I forget my position in the functioning of the celestial hierarchy. I am the archangel of death. I’ve adopted the appearance of a gentleman from the beginning of the 20th century, all in black, styled with gothic. My wings fit comfortably within my suit, and I observe humanity’s decay through my esoteric cindered eyes. While mortals pray in the rhythm of an assembly line, I am fascinated by the cathedral’s archaism. The religious symbols and the crucifix are magnificent, as is the person who captures my interest: Aghate, a young woman with the softest mother-of-pearl skin and exquisite features, under a clad of long nut brown silky hair.
While I contemplate the ballet of this splendor of the damned, facing the crucifix which dominates the church, I reminisce of the Middle Ages. Right here in this cathedral I followed the eternal parade, at the break of dawn, of the asylum of the numerous battered wives. They found refuge in prayer to be delivered from the bloody pains imposed on them by misogynous religious traditions, hoping for God to lead them toward eternal celestial peace. And that’s what I did most of the time, because the husbands always found a ruse through filial blackmailing to get them to come out of the church and impose their male dominated rights and dictatorships. If a wife refused this violence and subservience, she was doomed in advance. I used to read their pain in their faces when they prayed for the Eternal Father to shorten their suffering, before they met me as the redeeming savior taking them to heaven. But in the Middle Ages barbarity was omnipresent and mostly carried out in the name of Christ. The easy way was to rehabilitate themselves, through confession, from the sickness of their sins or responsibility. I started to wonder what nature, vices, feelings, compassions the souls of mortals consisted of. I often freed souls from public torture, which was also entertainment for the onlookers, wherever I saw humans spread their aphrodisiac blood thirst and violence, at the expense of the suffering of an innocent. What were mortals really seeking with their actions throughout the centuries? When I heard a seraph call for mass with God, all the angels gathered with me, we are brothers and messengers of the Eternal Father. Nevertheless, my role kept my peers at distance. Seeing the angelus sung by the angels under the divine light around them near God’s throne, who remained attentive to the evolution of the creation, watching them light our fatherland, made me feel confused. Am I qualified enough to save the mortals after the eulogy of their loved ones at funerals and direct them toward the immortal myth of a very real paradise?
Back on earth, I continue with my fatal but redeeming task toward women who show their dignity secretly, because men force them into silence. I believed in the feminist cause. As centuries went by, every Sunday at church I would listen to the sounds of the bells to escape. I guided souls and prayed with great intensity for the feminist cause during the angelus of our mass in heaven among my peers. God and His angels enjoyed the redeeming illumination of those who beam esoterically through their singing, while I remained focused on my prayers for the women who were struggling to be heard. My nature got stronger and I bitterly followed men’s negligence of aristocratic women’s romantic, pure and chaste offerings, men who preferred to beat the women whose fragile appearance contrasted with their amazing emotional strength and resistance. Even little girls were a problem, because they had to be held on a leash and forced them into marriage with an aged nobleman. Certain genitors ended up sending me their daughters due to disobedience and rebellion against the established rules of that time’s conformism. These children were fascinated with my religious appearance, my wings and my eternal smoldering eyes, before being guided toward deliverance and eternal peace in the love of God.
During the French revolution in 1789, I used to contemplate the devastating anarchy of citizens drunk with vengeance, searching for a purifying salvation, to the point of killing, burning, devastating the whole city of Paris. While they were storming the Bastille like an apocalyptic army, I didn’t idle very much and rushed back and forth between heaven and Earth. During the apocalypse of the 14 July 1789, a child was killed although she had no clue about the political situation. When she died, I tried to reassure her serenely while the national riots were in turmoil around the two of us. What should we think about the successive heads of state who claim the holy name of patriotism in the effigy of this murderous anarchy? Do they think that all these murders justify our silence, with our hands on our chests during the patriotic, even dogmatic, anthem? In my opinion they haven’t understood anything about the popular message and they mask themselves in order to lull the citizens. During mass in heaven, the seraph was trying his best at blowing into his trumpet in his religious call of my peers. We prayed and some spoke, as I did, in order to share our respective feelings. God listened to us attentively. While I spoke, my peers stared at me perplexed; they couldn’t fathom that the angel of death could believe in the strength of women, that I deplored the death of children and I told them that we had to preserve the existence of the innocent, the victims of the established human conformity. God stared at me perplexed during my discourse, astonished at my fatal and eternal task.
Towards the early 20th century, I observed the excess of youth, drunk with existential frenzy, at the border of provoking my meeting with them in their false paradises which slowly eats them up and uses up their long forgotten childhood innocence, out of rebellion against their parents. The debauchery reappeared even stronger than before. Wenches are exploited like profit toys, before being raped and meeting me. Some are victims, while today girls pretend that virtue is only an illusion. I enter into conflict with myself and my ancestral beliefs, no longer knowing where my allegiances are. They unexpectedly and violently collapsed as time went by. Humanity is disintegrating and running wild even more with excess of debauchery and lack of conscience. I broke away and progressively took some distance from human compassion, especially from my engagement to preserve the deposed dignity of women. Seeing how today the disgraces they impose upon their ancestors who fought so hard in silence to get respect for their equality. These modern young women subject themselves to man dominated dictates, abolishing past victories. I am a witness of that. While the seraph called us to God’s mass, I am perplexed about my own speech. We pray under the being angelus and receive the blessing of the eternal Father. When it is my turn, I enflame my defunct beliefs and tell about the degradation of the mentality under the rhythm of contemporary delinquency. Both the angels and God watch me in cold silence, surprised by the annihilation of my former convictions. My rage against mortals submerges me. The celestial audience is stunned and wonders about humankind’s future. If the archangel of death who once preached for the protection and the grace of pardon does not believe anymore in mortals’ decency and becomes glacial, some line has been crossed. God, Christ, the Virgin Mary and all the angels observe me silently with desolation, but attentively.
Since then, I continue with my task as the archangel of death without showing perceivable emotions because presently I deem them fatal. These emotions have stabbed me violently through a conflict against myself; and the disenchantment with grace, once of great courage and of a feminine dignity in order to survive, reverberates dully in my immortality. I attend the religious services of heaven – absent – and I lull myself with the Gothic rhythm of the cathedral’s bells on Sunday. Seeing Agathe follow the magnificence of the damned confuses me. She is very attractive, but it is only an appearance that hides a cold being and a merciless calculation. I forbid myself now to trust human nature, rather than allowing myself to be transported by lies and a major hypocrisy. Maybe there is more redeeming appeasement in death, of which I am still the guide, than in this deformed existence? The question is vague, it torments me.
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