today I had to start all over again.
the psalms could not be sung, and I needed to try to 'understand' them again.
monday psalms. saying them, and trying to condense them down a little seemed to be important.
prayer too: starting from scratch in a world which I do not recognise.
'religion' made no sense here and there was no recourse to memory either except in the blindest faith I can recall.
but there is life and I am alive and I give myself into that life whatever the consequences. 

je te donne, mon seigneur. je te donne avec tout mon esprit et tout mon corps.

having said that of course this was remembered:
blind faith is from memory:
I knew to do this because I remembered from yesterday and the day before.

a strange sense of stories that I have never heard or understood overlapping with mine.
a sense also of other times and other places crossing mine.
difficult to describe.

if I was an artist I would be doing a collage of old newspaper cuttings, none of which could be complete, and none of which would have matching dates. There would be a few creased pictures too perhaps: faded; hard to discern and incomplete . . . . . .
I look with joy at my collage.

the crucified one.
those who are in pain and broken.
those who hurt and grieve.
those who are in despair and who are humiliated and excluded - in any way at all.
[but I worry here about cliche.]

Is it that I understand them as brothers or that I patronise them and pretend?