14 years of sublimity

   
   "14 years of sublimity"
   
   James Joyce, the 20th Century's most brilliant bard, fancied himself as a type of Count of Monte Cristo; specifically, an Irish slave to the imagination, hitting the English Queen's Language hard in the sanctimonious gut with his epic brilliance and admittance of his own corporeal truth through the wandering Jew, Leopold Bloom.
   Anyway, he would not kneel down and pray for his sick mother; nevertheless, Catholicism was always on the tip of his stream of consciousness quill, dipped truly, in the Blood of Christ.
   And was not the Virgin Herself mystically enchanted before Her Inviolate Ovaries were touched by the supernatural around Her 14th year?  Forged beforehand in the Book of Genesis, whether the mystical scribe was Moses or Ezra--who cares.  She steps on the adder's venomous bite; next, put in a holy sanctuary by Her parents due to revealing angelity and those scratches on the Godsmack that melts the cold hearts of men into marching Christian Soldiers, armed with benevolence and tamed by the Holy Spirit Herself.     
   What the French should call It:  La Saint-Esprit; indeed, Saint Jerome and his Latin tongue to camouflage dancing woman might have been a bit hasty.  But hell, he campaigned for the celibacy of the Priest, ascetically probing:  "Are these men afraid of sleeping in their beds alone at night?"
   And there is no hatred of femininity in Catholicism; moreover, the reverse.  They honor the Virgin with dignity.  They know She formed the fabric of Christ's Genetic Material in Her Sacred Womb; indeed, She is the egg-giver.  That was Her Blood and Tissue upon the cross at Calvary as well.  Yet possibly, only a celibate man, one who mimics Christ can obtain for the masses the divine art of the Transubstantiation.  
   Again, I will quote Jack Burton himself, the truck driver wisely knowing:  "Never can tell."  Save for the knocking mystic, that is.