The London Magazine - - STANLEY MOSS -

I paint Spinoza’s por­trait with a faith­ful brush. I am not in­dif­fer­ent. I am aware that in some lan­guages I love is just a verb, pro­noun un­der­stood. Which lan­guage is bet­ter in bed? The Verb is a good be­gin­ning. I play iTunes, love songs and sa­cred mu­sic, some­times I need to hear oth­ers pray. I’ve been knocked off my axis by the Gods in places of wor­ship. Re­spect, ad­mi­ra­tion is not de­vo­tion. I’ve for­saken all the Gods. I lis­ten to Bach’s Saint John and Saint Matthew Pas­sions. Saint John’s Christ died on the cross know­ing His res­ur­rec­tion would redeem mankind. Saint John’s open­ing cho­rus, ‘Come you daugh­ters help me mourn.’ Saint Matthew’s Pas­sion has less fore­knowl­edge, Christ died a Jew, the first words of Psalm 22 on his lips, ‘My God, my God, why have you for­saken me...’ Martin Luther On the Jews and Their Lies: ‘Burn their homes and syn­a­gogues!’ I watch the flam­ing Horse of the Apoc­a­lypse leap from later-on back to the present that is ‘eter­nal tran­si­tion, per­pet­ual cri­sis.’ The earth is cov­ered with tears and blood. God is the wish to live.

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