Lately I’ve been praying to the love gods and goddesses. I pray to multiple deities in this case because no one who’s ever been in love could believe only one being is in charge. I pray to the love deities because if I’m going to believe in any mysterious beings, I want them to be ones who can help, and I’ve got a plan that requires their services. The prayer is for everyone to wake up tomorrow and be helplessly, thoroughly and retardedly in love. We won’t be in love with any random person (though that’s an idea…); it’ll be with specific people, and everyone will be in store for some embarrassing emotions.
The Pope will wake up with a boner for the Dalai Lama. He who holds the Oxford Chair for the Public Understanding of Science will invite a Jewish theologian to sit in his lap, and the Jewish theologian will invite the Prime Minister of Palestine to tag along. White Pride marchers and black gangster rappers, Mormons and Evangelicals, antitheists and Christian scientists will be dying to hop into bed with each other. Folks with stricter morals won’t succumb to lust, but will instead feel the burning desire for long walks and handholding with people they previously found disgusting. Prudes will timidly invite strippers down from their poles to share a drink (of ginger ale – they’re only human). Previously heterosexual men will fall for other previously heterosexual men, wherever humbling is warranted. Dictators will fall for the lowest classes, not in the fashion they’ve lied about doing, but in a terribly polygamist fashion that makes them wish all the fieldworkers could move into the mansion. The rich will fall in love with the poor, and not in the meager philanthropic sense where a billionaire gives half his money to a charity, but the kind that gets the rich to move into the ghettos, because the only way the poorest, most run-down parts of the country will improve is if the empowered actually move into them, and have to see and deal with it all the time. Secularists will not only respect non-secularists as seekers of meaning, but as really cute people they could spend the rest of their lives with (the irony is they were going to do that anyway, but under the spell, they’ll do it from the same living room). Non-secularists will have the same experience, while wearing something different around their necks (perhaps a locket with a cross on the outside and a picture of your Hispanic transvestite skeptic girlboyfriend on the inside). Discussions over who can display what where will go much differently when they’re always with a girlfriend toeing the grass and whispering, “But can’t we please…?” Under the peace of love, arguments over whose religion is true and and the veracity of morals in nihilism will feel less like rewriting the world and more like doing the Sunday sudoku. All this, because of blind love. Blind love – not love that blinds, because love doesn’t blind; it opens the eyes to new spectrums that are often prettier or downright more important than what we’re normally staring at. With that vision, with an adoration and affection too deep for anyone to pull himself from and take advantage of, the only thing anyone in the world would have to change will be his underwear. And that’s worth a prayer, whether or not anyone is listening.