Christ of Saint John of the Cross, by Salvador Dalí, 1951, Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, Glasgow

I rectify, Father. Forgive them, because they do not know what they are doing, except that damned painter who has depicted me this way and the impenitent Gestas, that treacherous thief who, taking advantage of a shared crucifixion, revealed my secret to the centurion, who buried it in a time capsule that the histrionic artist must have found.

Abba, Father, take away this cup from me, because I can’t stand it anymore! I have tolerated everything, but enough is enough!

I demand my usual torture. I want my classic torment, the one everybody knows. I miss my thorny crown, my long abundant hair soaked with sweat and blood, the rusty nails  piercing my hands and feet, my purulent ulcers, the marks of the whip, the spear-wound in my side. The avant-garde martyrdom, without bloody attributes, clashes with so many centuries of history. I am old-fashioned and You well know what is afflicting me. I inherited my condition from my mother. You did not do her any favor freeing her from her death. Assumed into Heaven, what a bright idea!

What a rough time for her, being so afraid of heights! But You don’t understand this, because You are the Highest! Hanging from the void, floating into the ether, I am expiring with terror. My vertigo is killing me.

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