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Souls were at stake. When an angry Martin Luther affixed his Ninety-Five Theses in public view in 1517, precipitating the Protestant Reformation, he had many complaints against the Catholic Church. (Ninety-five, to be exact.) Chief among these was the selling of indulgences. This was a transactional practice—give the Church money, get time off of purgatory. Indulgences had a long history (and, technically, still exist today), but by the Renaissance things had gotten out of hand. As Luther was quick to point out, indulgences had become less about congregants’ salvation and more about augmenting the very worldly resources of the Church. The Holy Father in Rome, infallible? More like corrupt as hell. So Martin led a little schism. Last year was the 500th anniversary of Luther’s Theses. I happened to read an article about them and ended up with indulgences on the brain. The word brought to mind lowfat yogurt and Dove chocolate commercials, with their portrayal of female temptation and “acceptable” satisfaction—women and their just desserts. After some percolation, I made this project.1

 

And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”Time to turn back and descend the stair,With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin — (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume?

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