Blood is a life force that belongs to Jehovah. You might be under the impression as it whizzes through your veins it belongs to you. That giving some of the red stuff to save another’s life was a good thing.
Not if you are a Jehovah’s Witness. Obeying God’s command not to eat blood, would mean better dead than have a blood transfusion. The loop hole is the courts ordering it; Caesar has spoken and must be followed. The important thing is to relent before the law rather than consent willingly – and to do so hopefully in time. It is that farcical.
I have broken plenty of taboos of the old faith from my childhood. I’ve thrilled to holding chess pieces, or other exciting things in my hand which were frowned upon. Mating, in every sense, is not approved of.
Unless your destiny is to be a serial wanker or fornicator. Then marriage is the lesser of two evils. Ideally nothing should distract you from saving others. As ever, Paul’s letter to a congregation suggesting to eschew marrying has become the gospel. Regrettably.
Anyway back to blood …
Attending the Hay Festival this year I spied a pizza called Magna Carta. Among the various ham toppings (read Alom Shaha’s excellant Young Atheist Handbook for eating bacon) there was black pudding. Why I waited so long to try, I will explain later.
Now though was my chance to eat blood. Blood no less commemorating the idol that Magna Carta has come to be revered as. Man’s law is nothing compared to the divine. Handy, if you do not want to stop sex offenders knocking on doors and giving bible studies. Nor reporting such to the authorities.
I looked at the pizza, like Christopher Lee at a white virginal neck. I sunked my teeth into it. The similarities ended with a vampire. It was agreeable, but overwhelmed by the sensory taste of other things.
My quest for blood not sated, the morning after I went to town. I had breakfast where black pudding was served, round the corner from an ISIS coffee shop. A fundamentalism of a different kind; if only they just tried to flog a magazine sending people door to door, not shore to shore killing people.
This time eating the black pudding was wonderful – this should have been my first time moment. What fans of this dark food had told me on twitter made sense now. I licked my fangs clean with relish.
This ended a journey of a chess captain, a lover, a blood donor, a Darwinist, an onanist, tree decorating gift wrapper. The Birthday cake, Christmas pudding muncher had now feasted on the black pudding. Ingesting blood – the last of the taboos that made no sense.
I had enjoyed it. Not because I was now dammed, or because it was two fingers up at a past childhood.
Rather because the act felt normal. Unlike all those other times, when there had been an illicit thrill at the breaking of a taboo, the act was enjoyed as part of dining. A culinary experience.
I had waited this long to see if I had got over how I felt about my childhood in a cult. To not feel anger or sadistic joy at doing things once proscribed.
What I had hoped for with this taboo was an experience never experienced before. Feeling normal.
That is what I longed for as a child apostate.
Kid, I only wish I could have whispered in your ear: one day you will feel normal doing these things.
Article written by John Sargeant on Homo economicus’ Weblog
(Unpdate: thanks to Robert McLiam Wilson have ironed out a few grammar issues in original piece)