Cup and Cake

     Arriving early at the studio one morning, before unlocking, I crossed the grass to sit by the river, for a snout. When I blew out the first drag, there wasn’t even a whisper to blow away the smoke, but I saw the ripples cross the water towards me, and I said, quietly-

     “And the spirit moved on the face of the deep”. In my head came the reply-
     “What you brooding on, boy?”
     “Communion”, I said. “I sort of miss it, but when I’ve been, its not been what I’ve missed. It seems smothered, somehow”.
     “Try a bit of lateral thinking. I wish I’d thought of that phrase. Remember Frank Joynes?”
     I knew the story of the old man who’d palled up with Uncle Leonard’s young fishing crowd. When he was dying, he asked the lads to have a drink with him, sometimes, so they developed the routine of occasionally going home via the cemetery, to pour a bottle of Guinness over his grave, until the war poured them into Burma.
     “I suppose that was a sort of communion” I said.
     “Not unlike my Son. He knew He hadn’t long. Out with his mates for a pub meal, over Passover. All right; they’d had a few, but He was under pressure, knew what was coming. He needed a space to focus, Him and them. The bread and the wine was a way of connecting. Suggesting they do it to remember Him by was- ‘Look what you’ve got and don’t lose it’. Nobody mentioned worship. The only commandment He gave them was to love each other. All the other stuff came later- dinky little cupboards, red night-lights, ice-cream wafers, sweeping up crumbs like holy toe-nail clippings- and putting water in the wine. 2000 years ago, drinking water might just get you the six chrome handles award. Are  you listening to me, van Coff?
     “Yes. Its just that when you mention- him- it comes out with a capital H”
     “Habit. All them monks with their manuscripts. I leave out the Gothic script, though. Makes your mouth sore- all them prickly bits”.
     “You’re pulling my leg” I said.
     “How’s that for communion? It’s a shame. The Christians grant me omnipotence, but deny me a sense of humour. When ST. Lawrence was roasting on the grid iron, he called out to his torturors, ‘Manduca! Iam coctum est!’- Eat! Its done to a turn! Not many people know that. The Jews may not give credit where its due, so to speak (there’s another) but at least they allow me into their homes, invite me to their parties. You should try to get to a Passover; do you good”.
      “I’d better go dash off another masterpiece. It’s a hard life, slaving over a hot paint brush”, I said.
      “Suddenly, everyone’s a comic. Alright, from you, I’ll take that as a prayer of thanksgiving. Shalom, Goy. Shalom!”