and waving garlands of sweet smelling flowers—without thorns—in the air, for me, me! Closer and closer I approach the ultimate goal of earthly redemption. If I reach it, I will be the first CheeseMeister Penitent of Kob- lentzto have done so in 132 years! I— humble Klaunpantz-Schwecter— shall, in complete humility and purity, go to the very top of the mount and attain complete salvation for the sins of all humanity. Lord; be ye by my side! The world and its concerns are beginning to fall away, the way that troubles seem to disappear after eight liters of Koblentzian stout ale. The sunlight which was so harsh earlier in the day is flickering in soft, languishing pulses; it is really quite beautiful. A deafening charge of electricity passes through my entire body which is becoming rejuvenated with each passing moment. I am not currently aware of any pain or sufferings: was it I who labored under the weighty and cumbersome cross of cheese hours earlier? It is difficult to keep a train of thought as bristling waves of awe sweep through me and opiate every cell of my body and brain. I am wracked with pleasure. I am receiving the gift of spiritual intoxication directly from the Father. Everything is increasing in size and intensity but I am not afraid. It seems as if the entire, population of western Europe now rushes forth to my assistance, so anxious to be one of those who is able to help plant the cross at the zenith—those who had so shamelessly tortured me only hours ago! But I am beyond judgement of them; I love each and every last one of them. Many are kissing my feet, caressing my face, pushing soft drinks and sausages toward my head, and some have gone so far as to slip their strong, stubby hands under my robes to fondle my genitalia. It feels good—all of it. I am in a trance but I am not altogether irresponsible; there is a distant, nagging sense that I should be feeling a lot more guilty about much of what is taking place. But all blame cannot be placed upon my shoulders alone. I am, as I pointed out, in the throes of a very great, profound trance of the highest order. Who is doing this? I am not even aware of the activity of my body as I begin tearing huge chunks of cheese from the blessed cross and throw these down to the eager, physically and spiritually hungry swarms of Koblentzians. Even the tiniest curd is invaluable: if it is eaten immediately, it assures the consumer of absolution, divine protection, and decency of the soul for up to five years, depending on the condition of one’s soul. One crumb could save an average Christian from the agony of limbo if he or she were todie within ayearof eating it. A torrent of words is pouring out of my mouth in an astounding array of languages and dialects— I can see by the bewildered, slack-jawed looks on the faces of the tiny heads below me that my pronouncements are powerful and poignant; their eyes do not leave me for even a second. More incredible yet is the fact that I am concurrently stuffing my mouth full of the cheese—I must look like some sort of rodent with expanding cheek pouches—because I’ve not stopped tearing apart the cross and jamming fist-sized portions of the finely carved Koblentz cheese into my oral cavity. Perhaps I will suffer a constipation problem tomorrow but my mind will not allow itself to be concerned with such a small, worldly problem as that now: this is religion! Everything is in the here and the now. I, Klaunpantz- Schwecter, have attained the holiest of holy states—a condition so rare that it is not even mentioned in the Bible: I am eating in tongues. In only a few moments I have eaten over 50- kilograms of cheese. The multitudes are screeching in fervent, albeit savage, delirium and I am blessing them with lumps of the hard, slightly viscous, redeeming cheese. As I occasionally break wind (and this can be heard at quite a distance), the devout throngs leap toward me like American football players and try to capture my flatus in plastic sandwich bags and the like. Everyone wants momentos —anything! Such zeal they demonstrate! They are trying to document the event on film, video tape, paper, vinyl, laser discs, audio tape: whatever is available to them. They would preserve the sounds and the images of the most sacred event since the time that our sweet Lord Jesus rose again from the dead. So many of them are weeping with the realization that they are witnessing a mighty miracle in their very midst! This is not a dream or a wish or a prayer of some sort: God is on the field in the humble guise of your battered, true servant: former CheeseMeister Penitent Klaunpantz-Schwecter. Thank you! Tonight I shall sleep on a bed of the finest silks and linens, in a room full of flowers and a bevy of beautiful, devoted virgins who will see to it that I sleep in absolute happiness and comfort. I will then awaken in one or two days, at which time I will evacuate my bowels—in a special golden pan—of the cheese that had once been my personal Sacred Carved Cheese Cross. That same fecal material will be used to start a new batch of the cheese which will, long after I am dead and gone, form the new crosses that will be so painstakingly carved by the cheese-carving guilds and borne by future CheeseMeister Penitents. The tradition shall live on. There are no more sins; there is no more guilt or shame: I have eaten them all for you. But I do not expect your gratitude or admiration. Just come to the lovely town of Koblentz, in the heart of eastern Bavaria, for a week or two. Attend one of the many daily masses that are held in all our regional churches and cathedrals. Buy a few souvenirs that have been blessed by the local priests—these items will greatly increase in value throughout the years and will truly become cherished keepsakes of good Christians everywhere. Eat a miniature commemorative cheese crucifix — an exact replica of the very cross that I carried—which can be purchased at one of the many convenient shops that surround the base of Mount Geltbaum. Then feel your sins drift out of your soul, one by one, never to return. Try the local cuisine, visit our museums and art galleries, do a little sightseeing. But do not look for me, for I will be in Hawaii. God bless you. Tim Miske is a visual artist who has been writing short stories for four years. He currently lives in Minneapolis. He has hopes that upon publication of this story Oral Roberts will do for him what Ayatullah Khomeini has done for Salman Rushdie. Gabriele Ellertson admires the epitaph on Degas headstone—Here lies a man who loved drawing greatly. Dave Rathman is a Twin Cities print maker and painter. Designer Gail Swanlund is a regular contributor to the CSQ. Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1989 17
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