Sound mornings

Wilson Max Costa Teixeira

God scratched his chin, bread crumbs fell; this morning the old demiurge woke up attacked by ailments, he just did not fire down from the sky because the undesirable people were already gone; with a sideways glance he only saw the angels sweeping the sands – it was his habit to observe the servants who were struggling with chores. God was moody in the mornings, he even had a bad habit of pricking the shiny carapace insects over the table with his gold fork. And even though He was the emanation of all things, he could not prevent a more qualified voice from reprimanding him for slaughtering his own creatures. This morning, he regretted not having a stone at hand to take from a bird that interrupted the silence of the angels at work – it was these carelessness of God who called his great mercy.
Now that he was old and ate at the kitchen table, looking out the back door, he was not quite up to conversation in the early hours of the day; he buried the bread in a bowl of milk and took it to his mouth without haste; he only interrupted the frugality of his gestures when the kitchen was very dirty, attracting the flies, which teased his ears and fell into his cold milk; these days God screamed, turned someone into a statue of salt, released lightning through the corridors to complain about the servants. He was also angry when his milk was too sweet, because he attracted bees, always they, impertinent and sweet; but in this regard God did not sincerely complain: while they were flying, buzzing over the table, God made them come to the halo of his presence to land in his mouth; and without anyone seeing him do it, the Creator, sort of distracted, was pushing with the tips of his fingers one by one, without haste. It was with reasonable satisfaction that the Most High was chewing on the sweet and tenuous flesh of insects; but of the animals that held his face, God no longer cared.
While God was eating over the table, a child was crawling near a sink for washing dishes, it was a boy with a dirty ass playing with the blue glass globe of golden minutes; he would drag the sphere with his little hands, push it hard away, and the sphere would bounce, scratching the ceramic floor between sparks, stirring with the feet of the Almighty. The globe hit the corners of the walls and broke into thousands of shattered glass … The boy laughed all over. But, suddenly, the sphere of blue glass and golden minutes was miraculously remade for the prank of the Eternal Son and the disgrace of stillness. The other day the Child God irritated the Sacred: the Firstborn, crawling under the table, innocently touched his wet sex while playing with the sphere; God got angry, launched a lightning bolt that made the entire kitchen shine, singing the golden curls of the God Son, who wept for the Old Man’s anger.
God could not bear the age of childhood, he had only made himself a boy so that he would not be called outdated, or grumpy, a word that came from scolding and sounded very similar to “dirty tail”, which reminded Satan and his angels. But it was a superhuman burden that noisy child in wet pants swirling the blue sphere across the floor; had he been a quiet boy, had not trampled on the Most High, the merciful God would not have given him to the mass of killers.
God was silent over the table eating bread with cold milk. I felt immense pleasure from that ethereal sound of angels sweeping the sands – the passing of brooms on the fine sand, which the wind has been moving incessantly since the foundation of the world. God was trembling with joy at the sound of the grains descending on the dunes in light swirls, the desert of all creation turning like a sick body. The angels held by the bar of the stole, as if to imitate women in dresses: it is that the charps of their garments should never touch the ground, bring a tiny grain of sand to the Eternal’s dwelling. The days should be like this, and if they did not sweep the whole sand until the end of the hours, the sun would not go down either at nightfall. However, even these moments of perennial enjoyment did not satisfy the Blessed One for so many inopportune interruptions. The so many offal, the birds’ psittacisms, the scrofulous poorly cured, all sorts of misfortune came to land at the feet of the Almighty.
The Eternal’s mother, who spent her days bending over a distaff, sewing a cloak that covered her, tormented him. The door to the small cubicle where the Virgin worked was of black oak, with brass strips; there was a small hole in the lock,
where no key passed; and no matter how much they knocked on her door to stop her with the noise, the Virgin could not hear, that she herself is already old and deaf in the solitude of her alcove. God was too busy with the somber noise of that distaff hitting unraveling string, he hated that mantle that was never finished making. But he hated, above all, the lamb that bleated in the cubicle, the woolen lamb of the Virgin.

God scratched his chin looking around. Then he would hold the bowl, drink the wet bread porridge, clean his mouth. The flies that flew just fell on the table, God had transformed them into roasted beans. The bees that walked on your face are also gone.
The angels fought outside, and the darkness never came. But now that the Virgin was still with the spinning tachycardia, only an uncomfortable chirp made the morning imperfect: it was an unsuspecting little bird that trilled irritatingly. The melody of the little bird ignited the wrath of God in God: the Eternal grinded his teeth and lowered his lips, wanted to strike the stupid bird; but he soon fell, leaving the apoplexy to fall into complete despair; is that God had long since become catatonic – it was the centuries of living with the imperfect creatures of creation. The little bird, this one had snuck in through the arches of the warheads, from there the clerk went down to the Secret Garden where the clay doll pisses continuously from above a fountain; the bird plunged into the fountain, gurgled in the water, nibbled on a forbidden fruit, and flew to the open rose window overlooking the kitchen of God.
The stupid bird chirped melodies that greatly irritated the Most Holy. At that time God regretted not having a stone at hand to draw from the bird; God looked around, elbows on the table, hands loose, groping, as if looking for something; it was when he held a bread, which quickly materialized on a heavy pebble … From the sound morning, nothing else was heard. The garden fell silent to the sides of the singing.
Times passed without anyone else hearing another bird; in those hours only a grave and wide silence spread throughout the house involving the creation, involving God while He ate. Those were the days of old age.

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