It really is a startling epidemic. All at once. Across two States, five households, within a week of each other... laptops started to die. And PCs too. And everyone's sense of humor. No, it wasn't a virus spread by the fwds of the naked mole rat joke, it was just a bad string of Windows updates and open source downloads and older machines getting jealous of newer machines. It was chance. It was bad luck. Whatever it was, it led to this moment. Me. No computer. Hand-writing my blog for the first time in more than a year.
The first thing I realize is that it's hard to write with rings on five fingers. Second thing I notice is that the feeling of a roller ball across fine textured paper is mesmerizing. Like, putting me to sleep mesmerizing. I need to get out more.
I switch to a fountain pen.
The pen is mightier than the sword. We've all heard this saying and most of us just adore the heck out of it. We love it because it allows us to pretend that we can sit on our righteous donkeys and write (or type) our way to world peace, revenge, justice and love. We want to think that without truly putting ourselves at risk, we can change the world. This, of course, is a barrel full of pickles.
I'm a grrl of some conviction. Despite my joke above, I do get out, and often. I club-to-dance three nights a week, hit the gym to box four days, share a meal with a friend (or enemy LOL!) at least one in seven, and I have a job that puts me in the mix with 120+ cast and crew pretty much 15/7. But if I had my way, I'd sit at home with a hot cup of coffee, my favorite d6 socks, and a warm... book... on my lap. But hey. Life is what happens while you're busy making ends meet (or while you're busy deriving virtual jackalopes, but whatev). In short, I'm not a super social beast. I'm surrounded by people, co-workers, ravers, boxers, but I'm quiet, relatively reserved and more apt to gaze intently rather than blather on about public policy and world views. I hate talking on the phone and I simply do not do small talk.
I think this might come from being a Christian... who isn't a Christian.
You may already know what I mean. In America, a Christian is a church-going, cross-wearing, we've-been-on-our-own-since-Ascension, buttoned-down conservative who would be horrified if little ole brown-skinned, motorcycle driving, leather jacket wearing, chaps-clad me were dating their son (or daughter *wicked grin*). An American Christian sings hymns, sits in a pew, doesn't swear, votes unabashedly Republican, shuns queers, loves Israel, and believes that a woman's place is in the home, in the kitchen and sometimes lying quietly on her back concentrating on being a good womb.
Now, funny thing is, I am some of those things and I do some of those things (no... not that one) but mostly, I'm the kind of Christian who prays three times a day, on her knees, and hears Christ as clearly as I hear the alt rock station on my stereo. I'm the kind of Christian who can recite thousand-year-old scripture for five straight hours... and about three lines can be found in the printed Bible. I believe a dandelion can show me how to live better than a pastor at a pulpit. I believe a black-headed gull (or, at least, one out of every ten) speaks to me more than a twentysomething youth leader with a winning smile and a patient demeanor. I do not believe that any man can stand between me and Christ nor do I believe that a mortal can speak for Christ. He isn't dead so He can speak for Himself, thank you very much.
I believe that faith is the core of self-confidence and that self-assurance is the key to redemption. When we question ourselves, we should turn first to Christ because only He can speak outside of culture, transcending human preconceptions and filters built of fear.
As Elizabeth Gilbert writes, “...when the question is raised, “What kind of God do you believe in?” my answer is easy: “I believe in a magnificent God.”
I find myself thinking of a friend, far away, golden-red hair like copper under the heavy silver clouds. She is walking alone along a rural road, no sidewalks and no division between her and her Christ, because she closed that space between her and the Lord consciously, determinedly, and without ever looking back. She wrote to me:
“Today I walked to the cemetery. Where you have walked before. Where I found the quartz on the empty path and laid some on the grave of the young man who passed at seventeen. It is often intense to walk there, but today it was more so. The air was thick. The sky overhead was filling with pewter clouds, sliding over the ocean and creeping between the mountains to find this place outside of time. The only sound was crickets, their low trilling a frequency that carries like none other. Somehow, cushioned between land and cloud cover, their song felt quieter than true silence. Looking at the gravestones puts life in perspective; it becomes quantifiable. Something almost tangible that can be held and measured and felt. I walked down the path, snapped a picture with my cell, stopped and just stood.
“I had been praying, silently, from my heart, since I left home. But suddenly the urge to speak, to pray aloud, took me and I didn't deny this emotion, command, directive. Perhaps what I said might be considered expected, being where I am in my life, my gender, my age... but to me, to Christ, it was everything I had. Everything I am. Everything in my heart:
“I prayed, 'Christ, I haven't done so well with my life so far. I've screwed up pretty bad in the past. I want to live better. To follow your path. My path. The path that you've set out for me. I want life vibrant, vivid, real. I want to *feel.* I want to bring people to you. I want them to see you, to see your world, this world you have given us, as I see it. My life is yours, Lord. I want my hands to be your hands. I give my life completely to you, to do your work. Whatever it takes. Whatever that means. No matter how difficult, how easy, how intense, how complacent... it is yours, as I am yours.' And then I took a deep breath and I began walking. Continuing the conversation until I passed through the gates of home... and knew I had done just that. Come *home.*”
Because religious *conversion* or rebirth is far less likely and perhaps less true and lasting than religious *conversation*... to that moment when we truly begin to converse with our Lord. This doesn't take a pastor. It doesn't take a book. It takes you and your Christ. Crossing into that space, internal, where trust becomes faith and the path is laced with golden threads before you.
Now, lest you think this is yet another blog focused on the importance (vital!) of the impassioned path, let me assure you that this is not where I am going. Today I'm waxing poetic (or not so much, depending on your tolerance of metaphor and turns of phrase) on the importance of *letting go.* And by this I mean both “Let go. Let God.” and “Baby... just *let go*...”
I do believe that Christ sometimes wants us to stand and watch life. To be still and complacent, to shut the heck up and learn from the pain, joy, music, passion, rain storm around us. I think listening... waiting... especially before you speak, is valuable. Despite what Hollywood movies want us to believe, I have never known anyone to lose something or someone utterly and completely simply because they took things slowly and thoughtfully.
However...
Though Christ was certainly a thoughtful and gentle man, it can also be said He was opinionated and decisive. Impassioned and driven. Relentless. Courageous. Strong. A man of words *and* actions. To live as Christ lived, we must know when to take a stand. And then... we must take it.
This includes standing up for one's own body.
I'm not going to veer into politics and rights. I have no interest in these things and I would most certainly alienate 100% of my readers since I believe, for instance, that life begins at conception even as I feel a responsibility to empower women to take control of their lives and educate themselves about their own bodies (which, btw, never includes taking the life of a baby). I *am* going to veer into the importance of dance, boxing, and the fine art of desire.
God *could* have made us in so many different ways. But He chose this form. From the tiniest particle within us to the color of our eyes. On a cellular and spiritual level, we're so full of mysteries. On the surface, physically, so sweet and simple to understand. Our bodies are temples? Yes, I can see that. Our bodies are instruments? Yes, I see that more. We are both instruments we are intended to play and instruments of our Lord. Instruments that make music and that make change. We are both part of the symphony and the tool that builds the concert hall.
God did not place us on this Earth to stand still. If He had, we wouldn't have been born with legs and minds and curiosity. Likewise, we are not meant to ignore the mortal form – divine clay – that Christ built for us with His own hands. Is this temporary, purgatory? A shell we should rejoice will some day be cast off?
Turn on the stereo. Be alone. Find music that moves you. And move. I don't care if you're stretched out on the couch, eyes closed, head back, chin bobbing to Bach or Bennett... it doesn't matter if the windows are shaking with hard rock or even if there is nothing but silence (a music of its own). Find that thing that inspires your body to move. Is it music? Is it laughter? Is it rain at midnight or dawn? To me, dance (which is any inspired movement) is celebration. It is allowing something – in my case, music – to guide my body to move. To me, Christ is music. He guides me. He says to me, “Move.” and I do. Always.
Then, when it is time to *act*... the music is gone. That is when I turn to hiking or rock climbing or boxing. That is a different command, a different place to take my body, to celebrate the sheer strength, the prowess that Christ weaves into our bones and muscles. If dancing is freeing, then fighting, climbing, swimming, running is about focus. Intense and powerful. Claiming... unlocking... the primal force that Christ gives all of us because we need to be able to survive in a world that is deeply flawed by its very nature.
Free the body. Focus the body. The soul stays healthy. The soul learns desire. Incorporates desire into our life where it becomes that pure, burning matter that drives us forward to do His work. By desire I mean both the passion we feel when we love another, and the desire our bodies build for us when we explore our senses. We can read our lover's words or look into their eyes... we can touch fine petals, trace creases in bark, taste dew drops or heated summer air on our tongues. All of these things are desire. Desire is a physical, emotional, psychological response to external stimulus when it crosses the barrier between “ourselves” and “other.” There is a reason why lovers whisper to each other, “I want you like the air I breathe, like sunlight and rain on green growing things. You are a requirement, nourishment to my heart, my body, and my soul.” Desire fuels us.
Free the body. Focus the body. Fuel the body. Suddenly, you find yourself walking on your path. The vehicle for change, the vessel is prepared. The journey begins, like a conversation... a continuing conversation. Deny any one step and the body is imbalanced. Unsure. The path becomes indistinct and we turn to nonessential elements. We forget: Christ did not build us this way so that His work be ignored. Divine clay, living clay, home of the immortal soul.
Heartbeat beneath our fingertips, we must never forget.
EJ
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Untamed
I believe the generally accepted belief is that human life first originated somewhere on the continent now called Africa. However, there is also quite a movement of archaeologists and geologists who argue that human origin – including the Garden of Eden itself -- was in the Armenian highlands. The first country to accept Christianity as its official religion, and still today more than 90% Christian, Armenia is a captivating mix of old world and new ideas. I like to tell myself that this comes from the New Testament Christian tenant:
“So much as we, mothers and fathers, are mature branches on the olive tree of the Lord, standing strong in His orchard, so must we not grow our young upon that tamed and studied tree but rather cultivate them in the wild, beyond the stately rows, so that Christ, the Orchardist, might gather them back to graft them to the tree and keep it whole. For without the wild branch, brought in from the forest and mountainside, the Living Word which is the root, deep and eternal, will eventually quiet, speaking only in silent tongues. Only the untamed branch can renew faith.”
Because, truth be told, I'm less interested in the science of the human body, and more drawn to the soul of the olive tree.
Jiteni, native to Armenia, was brought into Palestine around 4000 BC and taken by the Phoenicians to Greece, perhaps best known for her. It is the Greeks that, of course, were gifted the olive tree by Athena, warrior daughter of Zeus, and namesake for Athens itself. The underside of the olive leaf is gray and when the wind blows, these flashes are considered the gaze of gray-eyed Athena, watching, wisely, over her people. Though a child of Zeus, Athena was unique in that she could openly oppose his plans and question him. Though almost always emotionally controlled, Athena was wild in her own way. She was new tradition born, literally, from the head of the old.
“It came to fall that some branches of the olive tree did wither and others broke away, and thou, the wild olive branch, cometh now to be grafted to the tree and partake from the root of the Lord...” (Romans 11:17)
The olive tree has Biblically been used as a symbol of the covenants and promises to Israel with Christians being the wild grafted branches among the natural ones, all of us fed from the same divine tap root. Times change. Time passes. New ideas – like the ideas laid at our feet... or rather, pushed into our hands, by Christ – come to the tree and are grafted there, adding their genetics and power of belief to the tree as a whole. This is looking at the olive tree on a global sense, of course. On a plain where denomination means something, and authorship (as in the authorship of various scripture) has meaning.
The heart of New Testament Christianity is to return from the universal to the deeply personal. Our “mothers and fathers” are encouraged to allow their children the freedom to explore and discover “outside the stately rows of the orchard of tradition.” Change is recognized as something previous generations cannot recognize but can embrace and accept through the children of the following generation. Change is grafted to the tree of the community, the family, the self.
Our children are encouraged to laugh loudly, to play in the rain, to be everything but stayed. Our youth, when they feel desire, are said to be “wilding,” and this word may as well be interchangeable with “praying.” Have opinions. Disagree. Articulate. Dance. Turn up the volume on your stereo... especially on Sundays. I don't know anyone raised New Testament Christian who has “left the fold.”
Because how can you leave what you carry within you? There are no trappings. There are no implements. There is nothing but you and Christ. So turn up the music and bring that bassline back to the tree.
“...a tame olive-tree, which a man took and nourished in his vineyard; and it grew, and waxed old, and began to decay. And it came to pass that the master of the vineyard went forth, and he saw that his olive-tree began to decay; and he said: I will prune it, and dig about it, and nourish it, that perhaps it may shoot forth young and tender branches, and perish not. And it came to pass that he pruned it, and digged about it, and nourished it according to his word. And it came to pass that after many days it began to put forth somewhat a little, young and tender branches; but behold, the main atop thereof began to perish. And it came to pass that the master of the vineyard saw it, and he said unto his servant: It grieveth me that I should lose this tree; wherefore, go and pluck the branches from a wild olive-tree, and bring them hither unto me; and we will pluck off those main branches which are beginning to wither away, and we will cast them into the fire that they may be burned.” (Jacob 5:3 (3-7))
These olive tree allegories are just unending. The appear in almost every Christ-centric religion and yet very infrequently are they allowed to be more than parables of denomination and Israel. I remember my grandmother – who looked like my mother only silver-haired and even sharper – arguing with my mother, their accents coming out stronger and stronger until finally they lapsed into Armenian with a fluidity that left me out of the conversation:
Rae'sol: Where is the *risk* in Juilliard, Pahmela? Where is Christ in the performing arts?
Pahmela: You want her, perhaps, to mission in Iraq? Or take the Word to Beijing?
Rae'sol: I want her to attend Goddard. I want her to paint.
Pahmela: Because brushes are divine, dangerous...?
Rae'sol: Yes. Yes, they are. Brushes and pens.
My grandmother and my mother had very little in common in terms of their personalities, though they looked very much alike. But one thing they shared identically was their blazing gazes when they were impassioned... which was most of the time. Yes, my mother's always seemed to have an untempered edge... and grandmother always seemed to have unspoken secrets... but the fire was the same. The fire said:
Burn the branches from the tree. Their ashes will feed the new grafts. The tree first. The tree forever. It is eternity. It is salvation. It must be kept alive. It must be kept whispering the Living Word. Do you hear it? If not, then it is time to prune and graft.
As in nature, so in our bodies. As in nature, as across the universe, so in our souls. Mathematics do not lie. Fractal repetition is a given not a theory. Nature does not lie. If it exists in nature, it exists in man by the hand of Christ. His design is divine. All other is interruption. Abstract art.
“The trees went forth on a time to anoint a king over them; and they said unto the olive tree, Reign thou over us.” (Judges 9:8)
Reign thou, Christ, over us as thou reigns over the wind and tides and dawn and dusk. Reign over us as our sun and moon, as our lover and friend, as our father, brother, and Orchardist with hands both gentle and skilled, to graft and prune, to renew and end. My trust is in you.
“I am like a green olive tree in the house of the Lord: I trust in the mercy of Him forever and ever.” (Psalms 52:8)
Be like the young olive tree. Wild and renewed outside the stately rows. Do not mirror the studied trees that grow already for our Lord. Be unto Him a celebration of change. Laughing loudly in His sunlight. Wilding together under His moon. Hear the Living Word. It does not always have to whisper.
Sometimes it sings.
Sometimes it proclaims.
Sometimes it shouts.
EJ
“So much as we, mothers and fathers, are mature branches on the olive tree of the Lord, standing strong in His orchard, so must we not grow our young upon that tamed and studied tree but rather cultivate them in the wild, beyond the stately rows, so that Christ, the Orchardist, might gather them back to graft them to the tree and keep it whole. For without the wild branch, brought in from the forest and mountainside, the Living Word which is the root, deep and eternal, will eventually quiet, speaking only in silent tongues. Only the untamed branch can renew faith.”
Because, truth be told, I'm less interested in the science of the human body, and more drawn to the soul of the olive tree.
Jiteni, native to Armenia, was brought into Palestine around 4000 BC and taken by the Phoenicians to Greece, perhaps best known for her. It is the Greeks that, of course, were gifted the olive tree by Athena, warrior daughter of Zeus, and namesake for Athens itself. The underside of the olive leaf is gray and when the wind blows, these flashes are considered the gaze of gray-eyed Athena, watching, wisely, over her people. Though a child of Zeus, Athena was unique in that she could openly oppose his plans and question him. Though almost always emotionally controlled, Athena was wild in her own way. She was new tradition born, literally, from the head of the old.
“It came to fall that some branches of the olive tree did wither and others broke away, and thou, the wild olive branch, cometh now to be grafted to the tree and partake from the root of the Lord...” (Romans 11:17)
The olive tree has Biblically been used as a symbol of the covenants and promises to Israel with Christians being the wild grafted branches among the natural ones, all of us fed from the same divine tap root. Times change. Time passes. New ideas – like the ideas laid at our feet... or rather, pushed into our hands, by Christ – come to the tree and are grafted there, adding their genetics and power of belief to the tree as a whole. This is looking at the olive tree on a global sense, of course. On a plain where denomination means something, and authorship (as in the authorship of various scripture) has meaning.
The heart of New Testament Christianity is to return from the universal to the deeply personal. Our “mothers and fathers” are encouraged to allow their children the freedom to explore and discover “outside the stately rows of the orchard of tradition.” Change is recognized as something previous generations cannot recognize but can embrace and accept through the children of the following generation. Change is grafted to the tree of the community, the family, the self.
Our children are encouraged to laugh loudly, to play in the rain, to be everything but stayed. Our youth, when they feel desire, are said to be “wilding,” and this word may as well be interchangeable with “praying.” Have opinions. Disagree. Articulate. Dance. Turn up the volume on your stereo... especially on Sundays. I don't know anyone raised New Testament Christian who has “left the fold.”
Because how can you leave what you carry within you? There are no trappings. There are no implements. There is nothing but you and Christ. So turn up the music and bring that bassline back to the tree.
“...a tame olive-tree, which a man took and nourished in his vineyard; and it grew, and waxed old, and began to decay. And it came to pass that the master of the vineyard went forth, and he saw that his olive-tree began to decay; and he said: I will prune it, and dig about it, and nourish it, that perhaps it may shoot forth young and tender branches, and perish not. And it came to pass that he pruned it, and digged about it, and nourished it according to his word. And it came to pass that after many days it began to put forth somewhat a little, young and tender branches; but behold, the main atop thereof began to perish. And it came to pass that the master of the vineyard saw it, and he said unto his servant: It grieveth me that I should lose this tree; wherefore, go and pluck the branches from a wild olive-tree, and bring them hither unto me; and we will pluck off those main branches which are beginning to wither away, and we will cast them into the fire that they may be burned.” (Jacob 5:3 (3-7))
These olive tree allegories are just unending. The appear in almost every Christ-centric religion and yet very infrequently are they allowed to be more than parables of denomination and Israel. I remember my grandmother – who looked like my mother only silver-haired and even sharper – arguing with my mother, their accents coming out stronger and stronger until finally they lapsed into Armenian with a fluidity that left me out of the conversation:
Rae'sol: Where is the *risk* in Juilliard, Pahmela? Where is Christ in the performing arts?
Pahmela: You want her, perhaps, to mission in Iraq? Or take the Word to Beijing?
Rae'sol: I want her to attend Goddard. I want her to paint.
Pahmela: Because brushes are divine, dangerous...?
Rae'sol: Yes. Yes, they are. Brushes and pens.
My grandmother and my mother had very little in common in terms of their personalities, though they looked very much alike. But one thing they shared identically was their blazing gazes when they were impassioned... which was most of the time. Yes, my mother's always seemed to have an untempered edge... and grandmother always seemed to have unspoken secrets... but the fire was the same. The fire said:
Burn the branches from the tree. Their ashes will feed the new grafts. The tree first. The tree forever. It is eternity. It is salvation. It must be kept alive. It must be kept whispering the Living Word. Do you hear it? If not, then it is time to prune and graft.
As in nature, so in our bodies. As in nature, as across the universe, so in our souls. Mathematics do not lie. Fractal repetition is a given not a theory. Nature does not lie. If it exists in nature, it exists in man by the hand of Christ. His design is divine. All other is interruption. Abstract art.
“The trees went forth on a time to anoint a king over them; and they said unto the olive tree, Reign thou over us.” (Judges 9:8)
Reign thou, Christ, over us as thou reigns over the wind and tides and dawn and dusk. Reign over us as our sun and moon, as our lover and friend, as our father, brother, and Orchardist with hands both gentle and skilled, to graft and prune, to renew and end. My trust is in you.
“I am like a green olive tree in the house of the Lord: I trust in the mercy of Him forever and ever.” (Psalms 52:8)
Be like the young olive tree. Wild and renewed outside the stately rows. Do not mirror the studied trees that grow already for our Lord. Be unto Him a celebration of change. Laughing loudly in His sunlight. Wilding together under His moon. Hear the Living Word. It does not always have to whisper.
Sometimes it sings.
Sometimes it proclaims.
Sometimes it shouts.
EJ
Sunday, August 17, 2008
“Breaking Dawn,” Katy Perry and the Rape of the Inner Lilith
...or...
The Madonna/Whore Complex and the Modern Gamer Grrl
Last night in Washington State, at 3:45 in the morning, when the sky was slate blue clouds against velvet black, illuminated by a heavy moon and held up by evergreens, the pressure and heat between the cloud cover and the land were equalized by booming thunder that rolled down the mountains and white-blue lightning crackling through the atmosphere with the type of urgency and natural desire that I so often bring to you.
And after this picture was painted for me, beautifully and intricately across two minutes on my voice mail (one of the reasons I insist on surrounding myself with friends who are writers), there came twenty minutes of storm sounds laid over by adamant, seductive, live harp music, original and uncaptured, lost the moment it was played, found only now in my memory and heart and fused forever with the sound of thunder cradled between the Olympic and the Cascade Mountains.
Are you surprised to hear that no one has ever called me melodramatic or opinionated... to my face, at least? I am. Both. Yet no one has pointed it out. I refer to this as the Tony Kushner phenomenon. When Harper blathers on about the souls of the departed linking hands into a great big wonderful net and healing the holes in the ozone layer, reviewers murmur about spiritual relevance and symbolism. This is because an hour ago, Tony was convincing you that Roy Cohn was a human being and that scent, which brings the molecules of one lover inside another, is inexplicably hot even when you're staring up at two truly amoral characters. In short, I can get away with it, baby. So I do.
Four months ago, someone I just met paraphrased my feelings about organized religion by saying simply, “So, as a brown woman, you feel marginalized and under represented in North American Christianity?”
Uh. No. I feel that building doctrine around faith is like encasing a new rose in sheet metal. I feel that man deciphering divinity is like asking a chimpanzee to decode the socio-spiritual climate of “Peer Gynt.” Wrapping ourselves up in the politics of denomination is as ludicrous as an Australian studio asking my ex to attempt an American accent on prime time tv *wicked grin* which was pretty darn ludicrous.
There is an epidemic of over-simplification in this country. “Give it to me straight,” I hear a lot. The unintentional humor always puts a smirk on my face. “No hand holding. Cut the ****.” Yeah. Because life is really textbook black and white easily categorized. Right? Life is simple like fiction with only so many plots retold over and over again. Life is one great big archetype. Easy to label, shelve, and understand. Oh... *bite me.*
So... fine... I'm gonna (for once LOL) do exactly what everyone else tells me to do. Here's a day in my week, labeled, categorized, and perfectly understandable ;)
I woke with dawn because that's when my day begins (“Morning Person”). I was due on set (day job) in four hours (“Actor”). But in my boxers and tank (“Tomboy”) I drank my black, sweet coffee (“Addict”) and crunched out some movement and resource comparison charts for a “Mardi Gras 3000” expansion set (“Geek”). I started day dreaming after eight pages, my eyes drifting up to the photos of mi amour tacked to my wall (“Taken”). My thoughts turn decidedly less academic (“Slut”) and I whispered an audible prayer thanking Christ for changing my life by bringing you into it (“Jesus Freak”). I checked my father's pocket watch which I keep on his desk, now my desk (“Daddy's Girl”) and realized I had enough time to hit the local gaming store to pick up a new set of d6 to celebrate the arrival of a new gaming O.S. from my operating system designer buddy (“Gamer” or “Nerd” or another great big “Geek”).
That day I spoke with my friend XYZ who grew up poor, was a prostitute for six years, and is now a spin master for independent companies (“Whore”... because that's the only fact most of you will remember). And I exchanged messages with my friend ABC who grew up religious and pious, destined to, above all things, become a great mom some day (“Madonna”) but then (oops!) happened to fall in love with a woman (“Queer”). By the end of the day, I've got labels stuck to everything I see from my Kawi to my skin, to the Key Grip on set and the gorgeous guy in the plaid shirt and scruffy beard and great big little boy eyes who hands me my baby blue dice. (*sigh* Why oh why do all the cute guys adore the DeckMaster system?!)
If I squint my eyes, and tilt my head, I can actually start to believe that life is this darn self-adhesive.
Then I start to think about Katy Perry.
Every freaking time I hear that song (yes, I do wear cherry chapstick so I must be biased) I cannot stop myself from staring at the radio. I thought it was just me but Goggle says no way. Google says quite a few grrls – not just gay grrls, either, *all* grrls – find Perry's song so alarmingly homophobic it's a shock to hear it played on the radio. “It's just a good song!” I hear you squeal. Yes, a song perfect for a culture of teens who think it's acceptable mean-girl behavior to say things like, “This is Ginny, my BFFN.” That's Best Friend For Now, btw. A whole darn generation of girls who think toying with another chick is oh so titillating and acceptable... as long at (at the end of the video), we open our eyes to our manly man boyfriend. It's the ultimate boytoy fantasy song: Girl on girl but then she brings it home to me. Oh, *sweet* message. Us girls are so magical? And guys are so what? Anti-climatic? Here's a magical message: There's a four-letter word that starts with a T and means “tease” but a tad bit stronger. If you wanna taste cherry chapstick, smear it on your boyfriend next time and keep the misogynist emotional sadism in your own safe-and-sound, State-sanctified bedroom. Your boyfriend doesn't mind it, but every other grrl in the world *should.* Or... the next time a girl catches your attention, could one of your BFFN take the drink out of your hand and slap you? That would so work for me.
Of course, I know that Perry (I *hope* at least) isn't writing autobiographical gems here. Though the media reports that her stellar (ugh) “Ur So Gay” is autobiographical. I would hope that Perry doesn't *personally* condone thoughtless sexual exploration where the other person is treated like an object and both parties are likely sauced. I would hope... but that doesn't matter. Because pop culture is the chapter-and-verse Bible of the current generation.
When Stephanie Meyer claims that it was much harder for her to give away Bella's immortal soul than it was for Bella to give it away... when Meyer insists that her “Twilight” books were always intended for mature grown ups like her and her sister... not for the thousands of fourteen and sixteen year old girls who picked up “Breaking Dawn” and learned that it's okay to have bruises after sex because “I only remember wanting him to hold me tighter, and being pleased when he did...” Oh, *barf*
But that's okay. That's *okay.* Because American movies and books have already proved that grrls get hurt the first time, right? Gosh, it's *supposed* to hurt. And after living a hundred freaking years or whatever, Edward (with his “...brilliant mind” and his “...incomparable face” and “...glorious body”) certainly hasn't learned a thing about tenderness, delicate sex play or even how not a shred a pillow when engaging in sex with an *eighteen* year old. Did Meyer actually think that after more than a thousand pages of sexual tension that the only thing that would satisfy her teen readers (and her grossly cookie cutter characters) would be violent sex?
“It's a *vampire* book!” you squeal. Yes... true. “It's just fiction. Escapism!” You want to escape to a place where your 100+ year old lover leaves you with bruises and a baby that breaks your ribs when it kicks and has you vomiting blood? Wouldn't it have been eternally more sexy had Edward dropped to his freaking knees and taken Bella in his mouth? I hear that Meyer's vampires don't have fangs, so there shouldn't have been a problem. Or maybe Meyer knew that violent sex would be more acceptable than oral sex, or any female-centric sex act to most American readers.
Because, gosh, Perry has proven with her chart-topping hit, that treating women like objects is oh so smexy cool.
It should come as no surprise that the men in my life tend to be gamer guys with slightly socially awkward demeanors and hecka respect for grrls. But perhaps surprisingly, like Camille Paglia, I like my men, *men.* I don't want them to look like grrls or act like grrls. I want them to be strong, opinionated, protective, resourceful, decisive, and, well, manly. However, no where in my definition of “manly” is a sentence about how okay it is for him to brutalize me in bed (or ignore me in bed, for that matter) because, well, heck, he has *needs.*
Funny thing is, I'm not actually a spurned ex-grrlfriend. That would be the easy label. Like “Ball-Buster” or “Feminist.” I don't actually walk around growling or shaking my fist at The Man and instructing “my sisters” to “fight the patriarchy.” Because, in general, most men I've met, are pretty awesome. The problem is with the women.
It's the Perrys and the Meyers of the world, that continue to perpetrate the filthy myth that it is okay to trample women. We're not worth as much as someone's boyfriend. Our immortal souls aren't as important as our desire to be screwed or have a blood-guzzling baby. Our bodies are just meat. Our hearts and minds are easily ignored. We'll do anything for a thrill – kiss another grrl or succumb to a “glorious body.”
“So...” you paraphrase my point for me. “You feel that ever since Lilith was tossed from the garden of Eden that Woman Power has been suspect and suppressed?”
Uh. No. I think that women will never “take back the night,” as long as we continue to set each other up as trash. Respect, after all, begins at home. And I don't mean with our parents. I mean *tapping my heart* home.
Melodramatic? Of course. After all, I'm wearing cherry chapstick.
Thank you, Christ, for giving me a brain that may not be as brilliant as Edward's but at least one that knows how to teach my future daughters how not to rot their minds.
EJ
The Madonna/Whore Complex and the Modern Gamer Grrl
Last night in Washington State, at 3:45 in the morning, when the sky was slate blue clouds against velvet black, illuminated by a heavy moon and held up by evergreens, the pressure and heat between the cloud cover and the land were equalized by booming thunder that rolled down the mountains and white-blue lightning crackling through the atmosphere with the type of urgency and natural desire that I so often bring to you.
And after this picture was painted for me, beautifully and intricately across two minutes on my voice mail (one of the reasons I insist on surrounding myself with friends who are writers), there came twenty minutes of storm sounds laid over by adamant, seductive, live harp music, original and uncaptured, lost the moment it was played, found only now in my memory and heart and fused forever with the sound of thunder cradled between the Olympic and the Cascade Mountains.
Are you surprised to hear that no one has ever called me melodramatic or opinionated... to my face, at least? I am. Both. Yet no one has pointed it out. I refer to this as the Tony Kushner phenomenon. When Harper blathers on about the souls of the departed linking hands into a great big wonderful net and healing the holes in the ozone layer, reviewers murmur about spiritual relevance and symbolism. This is because an hour ago, Tony was convincing you that Roy Cohn was a human being and that scent, which brings the molecules of one lover inside another, is inexplicably hot even when you're staring up at two truly amoral characters. In short, I can get away with it, baby. So I do.
Four months ago, someone I just met paraphrased my feelings about organized religion by saying simply, “So, as a brown woman, you feel marginalized and under represented in North American Christianity?”
Uh. No. I feel that building doctrine around faith is like encasing a new rose in sheet metal. I feel that man deciphering divinity is like asking a chimpanzee to decode the socio-spiritual climate of “Peer Gynt.” Wrapping ourselves up in the politics of denomination is as ludicrous as an Australian studio asking my ex to attempt an American accent on prime time tv *wicked grin* which was pretty darn ludicrous.
There is an epidemic of over-simplification in this country. “Give it to me straight,” I hear a lot. The unintentional humor always puts a smirk on my face. “No hand holding. Cut the ****.” Yeah. Because life is really textbook black and white easily categorized. Right? Life is simple like fiction with only so many plots retold over and over again. Life is one great big archetype. Easy to label, shelve, and understand. Oh... *bite me.*
So... fine... I'm gonna (for once LOL) do exactly what everyone else tells me to do. Here's a day in my week, labeled, categorized, and perfectly understandable ;)
I woke with dawn because that's when my day begins (“Morning Person”). I was due on set (day job) in four hours (“Actor”). But in my boxers and tank (“Tomboy”) I drank my black, sweet coffee (“Addict”) and crunched out some movement and resource comparison charts for a “Mardi Gras 3000” expansion set (“Geek”). I started day dreaming after eight pages, my eyes drifting up to the photos of mi amour tacked to my wall (“Taken”). My thoughts turn decidedly less academic (“Slut”) and I whispered an audible prayer thanking Christ for changing my life by bringing you into it (“Jesus Freak”). I checked my father's pocket watch which I keep on his desk, now my desk (“Daddy's Girl”) and realized I had enough time to hit the local gaming store to pick up a new set of d6 to celebrate the arrival of a new gaming O.S. from my operating system designer buddy (“Gamer” or “Nerd” or another great big “Geek”).
That day I spoke with my friend XYZ who grew up poor, was a prostitute for six years, and is now a spin master for independent companies (“Whore”... because that's the only fact most of you will remember). And I exchanged messages with my friend ABC who grew up religious and pious, destined to, above all things, become a great mom some day (“Madonna”) but then (oops!) happened to fall in love with a woman (“Queer”). By the end of the day, I've got labels stuck to everything I see from my Kawi to my skin, to the Key Grip on set and the gorgeous guy in the plaid shirt and scruffy beard and great big little boy eyes who hands me my baby blue dice. (*sigh* Why oh why do all the cute guys adore the DeckMaster system?!)
If I squint my eyes, and tilt my head, I can actually start to believe that life is this darn self-adhesive.
Then I start to think about Katy Perry.
Every freaking time I hear that song (yes, I do wear cherry chapstick so I must be biased) I cannot stop myself from staring at the radio. I thought it was just me but Goggle says no way. Google says quite a few grrls – not just gay grrls, either, *all* grrls – find Perry's song so alarmingly homophobic it's a shock to hear it played on the radio. “It's just a good song!” I hear you squeal. Yes, a song perfect for a culture of teens who think it's acceptable mean-girl behavior to say things like, “This is Ginny, my BFFN.” That's Best Friend For Now, btw. A whole darn generation of girls who think toying with another chick is oh so titillating and acceptable... as long at (at the end of the video), we open our eyes to our manly man boyfriend. It's the ultimate boytoy fantasy song: Girl on girl but then she brings it home to me. Oh, *sweet* message. Us girls are so magical? And guys are so what? Anti-climatic? Here's a magical message: There's a four-letter word that starts with a T and means “tease” but a tad bit stronger. If you wanna taste cherry chapstick, smear it on your boyfriend next time and keep the misogynist emotional sadism in your own safe-and-sound, State-sanctified bedroom. Your boyfriend doesn't mind it, but every other grrl in the world *should.* Or... the next time a girl catches your attention, could one of your BFFN take the drink out of your hand and slap you? That would so work for me.
Of course, I know that Perry (I *hope* at least) isn't writing autobiographical gems here. Though the media reports that her stellar (ugh) “Ur So Gay” is autobiographical. I would hope that Perry doesn't *personally* condone thoughtless sexual exploration where the other person is treated like an object and both parties are likely sauced. I would hope... but that doesn't matter. Because pop culture is the chapter-and-verse Bible of the current generation.
When Stephanie Meyer claims that it was much harder for her to give away Bella's immortal soul than it was for Bella to give it away... when Meyer insists that her “Twilight” books were always intended for mature grown ups like her and her sister... not for the thousands of fourteen and sixteen year old girls who picked up “Breaking Dawn” and learned that it's okay to have bruises after sex because “I only remember wanting him to hold me tighter, and being pleased when he did...” Oh, *barf*
But that's okay. That's *okay.* Because American movies and books have already proved that grrls get hurt the first time, right? Gosh, it's *supposed* to hurt. And after living a hundred freaking years or whatever, Edward (with his “...brilliant mind” and his “...incomparable face” and “...glorious body”) certainly hasn't learned a thing about tenderness, delicate sex play or even how not a shred a pillow when engaging in sex with an *eighteen* year old. Did Meyer actually think that after more than a thousand pages of sexual tension that the only thing that would satisfy her teen readers (and her grossly cookie cutter characters) would be violent sex?
“It's a *vampire* book!” you squeal. Yes... true. “It's just fiction. Escapism!” You want to escape to a place where your 100+ year old lover leaves you with bruises and a baby that breaks your ribs when it kicks and has you vomiting blood? Wouldn't it have been eternally more sexy had Edward dropped to his freaking knees and taken Bella in his mouth? I hear that Meyer's vampires don't have fangs, so there shouldn't have been a problem. Or maybe Meyer knew that violent sex would be more acceptable than oral sex, or any female-centric sex act to most American readers.
Because, gosh, Perry has proven with her chart-topping hit, that treating women like objects is oh so smexy cool.
It should come as no surprise that the men in my life tend to be gamer guys with slightly socially awkward demeanors and hecka respect for grrls. But perhaps surprisingly, like Camille Paglia, I like my men, *men.* I don't want them to look like grrls or act like grrls. I want them to be strong, opinionated, protective, resourceful, decisive, and, well, manly. However, no where in my definition of “manly” is a sentence about how okay it is for him to brutalize me in bed (or ignore me in bed, for that matter) because, well, heck, he has *needs.*
Funny thing is, I'm not actually a spurned ex-grrlfriend. That would be the easy label. Like “Ball-Buster” or “Feminist.” I don't actually walk around growling or shaking my fist at The Man and instructing “my sisters” to “fight the patriarchy.” Because, in general, most men I've met, are pretty awesome. The problem is with the women.
It's the Perrys and the Meyers of the world, that continue to perpetrate the filthy myth that it is okay to trample women. We're not worth as much as someone's boyfriend. Our immortal souls aren't as important as our desire to be screwed or have a blood-guzzling baby. Our bodies are just meat. Our hearts and minds are easily ignored. We'll do anything for a thrill – kiss another grrl or succumb to a “glorious body.”
“So...” you paraphrase my point for me. “You feel that ever since Lilith was tossed from the garden of Eden that Woman Power has been suspect and suppressed?”
Uh. No. I think that women will never “take back the night,” as long as we continue to set each other up as trash. Respect, after all, begins at home. And I don't mean with our parents. I mean *tapping my heart* home.
Melodramatic? Of course. After all, I'm wearing cherry chapstick.
Thank you, Christ, for giving me a brain that may not be as brilliant as Edward's but at least one that knows how to teach my future daughters how not to rot their minds.
EJ
Monday, August 11, 2008
Rain Begins
There is only glass--impossibly thin, that amorphous molecular structure that has always fascinated me, the little grrl picking up pieces of green and brown and clear from city sidewalks to the horror of my parents—between me and baptism. But I’ve already given myself to Christ so why are my wet eyes pinned to those insistent trails of heaven’s tears? What is... what is the Lord telling me? Why isn’t He speaking in words, sentences, paragraphs, novels? You know... like usual.
The table is small and round and black-and-white checkerboard. We could play chess but Alyson has already won. MMA submission on the red sparkle lino.
“It’s all or nothing, Angel...”
“How assuring.”
“I’m serious.”
“Hm. I wasn’t.”
And I watch her carefully over the rim of my chai with chocolate. I am wary. Today she is a redhead with crimson lipstick and as predatory as a velociraptor. Though, considering the avian connection, far more cold blooded. Under the table, my hand is turned palm against the glass café wall. The rain falls down the cold glass. I can feel my heart beat where my fingers meet. I...
*I censor myself. I think you’ll find me--*
*Baby, you don’t need to edit with me.*
*I dream of you. Bathed in light. So much it aches. Fills my chest with desire. The divinity of pleasing you washes over me. I want to whisper softly, your pulse under my lips, your curves and hallows under my hands. I want to discover the poetry of your body with my eyes closed so I come to know you first by touch and taste and scent. I'm a visual thinker, yes, but I want to share you with all my senses. I just....*
*Why would you hide that?*
Why am I hiding this?
Why am I visiting that day in the café again and again in my dreams? Lord? Some answers please.
I’m waiting.
“Talk to me about it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“If you don’t want to talk about it, than it isn’t love.”
“What?”
“I implore you, Angel...”
“What?!”
And I remember psychology class. That truth about the mind leaving reality during trauma. I didn’t think that drinks with Alyson counted as a trauma. Blunt trauma. To the chest. I wish I’d had some warning.
Do you remember the last time you thought that? Or prayed, quietly, not quite angry, but not real amused, “Christ, a little warning... a little warning that I’d walk in on them together when he was suppose to be mine... a little warning that the pink slip would come three days before Christmas... that the car would blow... that the bike would crash... some kinda writing on the wall... it would have been nice to have had a hint, to catch a clue.”
“You have to make exceptions, being in the public eye.”
“Concessions.”
“You’ve changed, Angel.”
“We’re always changing.”
“You’ll wrap her up in lies.”
“In my arms.”
“There are consequences.”
“I'll change my name.”
“You already did.”
*Tell me about your morning. I want to feel like we’re together.*
*A thousand miles... more...*
*Lots of couples are apart for work. Tell me about your morning?*
*Okay... This morning... I woke in pale new light but my pupils were dilated, wide with passion. My skin tingled with heat, my breath caught somewhere in my throat. My shoulders, stomach and thighs were tight with exquisite tension. I wanted you above me or beside me, but close enough that your every breath would press you nearer. What did I dream? Did you send me kisses and slow dancing? I think I dreamt of your strength. Your intelligence. Your gaze. When I say that I want you, I mean it in a great many ways. Some of them physical. Some of them sexual. Some of them spiritual, emotional, creative. But this morning? This morning what I felt for you was *primal.**
When you believe, as I do, as all New Testament Christians do (and a couple other religions as well) that the Lord speaks to us through direct communication, allowing for private revelation and a Living Word, personal scripture and verse, it is hard to remember – to accept -- that sometimes He wants us to try harder. Sometimes He doesn’t want to make it easy.
We have to work for it.
“But she can't stop shaking and
I can't stop touching her and
this time when her kindness falls like rain
it washes her away. And Anna begins
to change her mind.
These seconds when she’s shaking
leave me shuddering for days...
Am I ready for this sort of thing?”
“You’ll pin her down like a butterfly in an album.”
“I’m not going to bend on this, Alyson.”
“Keep her at a distance, a beautiful thing.”
“I’m not going to break.”
“How can you live with yourself?”
“My name’s on the lease.”
“How can you sleep at night?”
“I don’t really...”
Sometimes, even when we pray, Christ does not answer in words we can understand. He wants us to learn not just the right path but how to find it in the wilderness. He wants us to go the long way around.
I’m not fond of these lessons :)
But sometimes you have to live it to learn it. You have to have that experience in your hands, your heart, your head. Sometimes the answers simply will *not* be there. Christ didn’t walk this Earth to make it easy for us. He walked this Earth to make it more real. The mortal coil should not be spent in oblivion any more than eternity should be.
“She's talking in her sleep.
It's keeping me awake.
And she begins to toss and turn.
And every word is nonsense
but I understand them all.
Oh Lord, am I ready for this sort of thing?”
“If you won’t listen to me...”
“I am listening.”
“You can’t possibly believe this is safe.”
“Still listening.”
“You’d throw your work away.”
“Listening.”
“The work you claim is God’s work.”
And I stand up. And I push my chair back. It falls over and the silver metal hits the empty table behind us and there is a sound like anger and even though my face is composed my eyes give me away. “I have *never* made that claim.”
But even then I trembled. Even then I shied away. Because I should have shouted: “How dare you suggest my love is not divine.”
*I want this time done. This waiting.*
*You've never said that before. You're always so patient.*
*I’ve been faking.*
*In His time...*
*Ugh! I want you here. Now. Before me. I want your hands in my hair, under my shirt, against my skin. Want your mouth on mine. Want to shout for you, throw my head back and shout your name. Push against you, crying tears I can't stop because you make me feel so fine it's like dying and being reborn. Want to whisper to you what I like... guide you... kiss you. Feel your breath against my neck. Sink to my knees for you. Whisper that I love you. Forever. Beyond forever because forever would come too soon to contain what I feel for you. I want to shout that I love you *now* because this is the golden moment that Christ gave us.*
*You just did. All of that. Perfectly.*
Sometimes, we have to accept that Christ does as He did long ago. Because long ago and right now and into the future are all pretty much the same to Him. Sometimes He speaks to us in abstract signs and symbols and methodologies that seem strange and impossible and mysterious and way better than fiction. Sometimes when we pray for angels, He drops white feathers on our black leather jackets. Sometimes when we pray for rain, He makes a friend email us a description of a thunder storm. And sometimes, when we pray for clarity, He makes a song replay for us and unfold for us like origami and the verses recount a RL conversation and the chorus repeats our general disposition and we realize... our friend has assured us. He gives us all... even when He gives us nothing.
*Do you?*
*Hm?*
*Do you know?*
*Know?*
*I prayed about it. So much. I want you, too. Under my lips. In my hands. Pressed against me. I want to feel you. I want to cry with you, let go of reason and control. To feel completely wild and in love. I want to grow closer, our paths becoming one path. To whisper my secrets to you between kisses. To hear you make that sound you make unbidden every time I pause or pull away. I want to inspire you... in every way possible. I want... *you.* Yes, in so many ways.*
You are whispering to me, the things which are divinity to only my ears. Ragged and worn, He washed me up on your shores, moonlit blue-white sand, strewn with rose petals. And you are sweet on my tongue. The salt of the water is the salt of my tears. Your face is feathered by the moonlight. And this is why we're together. You are a voice of Christ incarnate in my life. You are here when His whispers aren't loud enough to be heard over the din of my life. I dreamed of you in my personal mythology... but I never dreamed you would be so *right* for me... for all of me.
I'm thirsty anyway... so let it rain.
I'm watching for signs, Lord. So carefully.
I'm watching.
EJ
The table is small and round and black-and-white checkerboard. We could play chess but Alyson has already won. MMA submission on the red sparkle lino.
“It’s all or nothing, Angel...”
“How assuring.”
“I’m serious.”
“Hm. I wasn’t.”
And I watch her carefully over the rim of my chai with chocolate. I am wary. Today she is a redhead with crimson lipstick and as predatory as a velociraptor. Though, considering the avian connection, far more cold blooded. Under the table, my hand is turned palm against the glass café wall. The rain falls down the cold glass. I can feel my heart beat where my fingers meet. I...
*I censor myself. I think you’ll find me--*
*Baby, you don’t need to edit with me.*
*I dream of you. Bathed in light. So much it aches. Fills my chest with desire. The divinity of pleasing you washes over me. I want to whisper softly, your pulse under my lips, your curves and hallows under my hands. I want to discover the poetry of your body with my eyes closed so I come to know you first by touch and taste and scent. I'm a visual thinker, yes, but I want to share you with all my senses. I just....*
*Why would you hide that?*
Why am I hiding this?
Why am I visiting that day in the café again and again in my dreams? Lord? Some answers please.
I’m waiting.
“Talk to me about it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“If you don’t want to talk about it, than it isn’t love.”
“What?”
“I implore you, Angel...”
“What?!”
And I remember psychology class. That truth about the mind leaving reality during trauma. I didn’t think that drinks with Alyson counted as a trauma. Blunt trauma. To the chest. I wish I’d had some warning.
Do you remember the last time you thought that? Or prayed, quietly, not quite angry, but not real amused, “Christ, a little warning... a little warning that I’d walk in on them together when he was suppose to be mine... a little warning that the pink slip would come three days before Christmas... that the car would blow... that the bike would crash... some kinda writing on the wall... it would have been nice to have had a hint, to catch a clue.”
“You have to make exceptions, being in the public eye.”
“Concessions.”
“You’ve changed, Angel.”
“We’re always changing.”
“You’ll wrap her up in lies.”
“In my arms.”
“There are consequences.”
“I'll change my name.”
“You already did.”
*Tell me about your morning. I want to feel like we’re together.*
*A thousand miles... more...*
*Lots of couples are apart for work. Tell me about your morning?*
*Okay... This morning... I woke in pale new light but my pupils were dilated, wide with passion. My skin tingled with heat, my breath caught somewhere in my throat. My shoulders, stomach and thighs were tight with exquisite tension. I wanted you above me or beside me, but close enough that your every breath would press you nearer. What did I dream? Did you send me kisses and slow dancing? I think I dreamt of your strength. Your intelligence. Your gaze. When I say that I want you, I mean it in a great many ways. Some of them physical. Some of them sexual. Some of them spiritual, emotional, creative. But this morning? This morning what I felt for you was *primal.**
When you believe, as I do, as all New Testament Christians do (and a couple other religions as well) that the Lord speaks to us through direct communication, allowing for private revelation and a Living Word, personal scripture and verse, it is hard to remember – to accept -- that sometimes He wants us to try harder. Sometimes He doesn’t want to make it easy.
We have to work for it.
“But she can't stop shaking and
I can't stop touching her and
this time when her kindness falls like rain
it washes her away. And Anna begins
to change her mind.
These seconds when she’s shaking
leave me shuddering for days...
Am I ready for this sort of thing?”
“You’ll pin her down like a butterfly in an album.”
“I’m not going to bend on this, Alyson.”
“Keep her at a distance, a beautiful thing.”
“I’m not going to break.”
“How can you live with yourself?”
“My name’s on the lease.”
“How can you sleep at night?”
“I don’t really...”
Sometimes, even when we pray, Christ does not answer in words we can understand. He wants us to learn not just the right path but how to find it in the wilderness. He wants us to go the long way around.
I’m not fond of these lessons :)
But sometimes you have to live it to learn it. You have to have that experience in your hands, your heart, your head. Sometimes the answers simply will *not* be there. Christ didn’t walk this Earth to make it easy for us. He walked this Earth to make it more real. The mortal coil should not be spent in oblivion any more than eternity should be.
“She's talking in her sleep.
It's keeping me awake.
And she begins to toss and turn.
And every word is nonsense
but I understand them all.
Oh Lord, am I ready for this sort of thing?”
“If you won’t listen to me...”
“I am listening.”
“You can’t possibly believe this is safe.”
“Still listening.”
“You’d throw your work away.”
“Listening.”
“The work you claim is God’s work.”
And I stand up. And I push my chair back. It falls over and the silver metal hits the empty table behind us and there is a sound like anger and even though my face is composed my eyes give me away. “I have *never* made that claim.”
But even then I trembled. Even then I shied away. Because I should have shouted: “How dare you suggest my love is not divine.”
*I want this time done. This waiting.*
*You've never said that before. You're always so patient.*
*I’ve been faking.*
*In His time...*
*Ugh! I want you here. Now. Before me. I want your hands in my hair, under my shirt, against my skin. Want your mouth on mine. Want to shout for you, throw my head back and shout your name. Push against you, crying tears I can't stop because you make me feel so fine it's like dying and being reborn. Want to whisper to you what I like... guide you... kiss you. Feel your breath against my neck. Sink to my knees for you. Whisper that I love you. Forever. Beyond forever because forever would come too soon to contain what I feel for you. I want to shout that I love you *now* because this is the golden moment that Christ gave us.*
*You just did. All of that. Perfectly.*
Sometimes, we have to accept that Christ does as He did long ago. Because long ago and right now and into the future are all pretty much the same to Him. Sometimes He speaks to us in abstract signs and symbols and methodologies that seem strange and impossible and mysterious and way better than fiction. Sometimes when we pray for angels, He drops white feathers on our black leather jackets. Sometimes when we pray for rain, He makes a friend email us a description of a thunder storm. And sometimes, when we pray for clarity, He makes a song replay for us and unfold for us like origami and the verses recount a RL conversation and the chorus repeats our general disposition and we realize... our friend has assured us. He gives us all... even when He gives us nothing.
*Do you?*
*Hm?*
*Do you know?*
*Know?*
*I prayed about it. So much. I want you, too. Under my lips. In my hands. Pressed against me. I want to feel you. I want to cry with you, let go of reason and control. To feel completely wild and in love. I want to grow closer, our paths becoming one path. To whisper my secrets to you between kisses. To hear you make that sound you make unbidden every time I pause or pull away. I want to inspire you... in every way possible. I want... *you.* Yes, in so many ways.*
You are whispering to me, the things which are divinity to only my ears. Ragged and worn, He washed me up on your shores, moonlit blue-white sand, strewn with rose petals. And you are sweet on my tongue. The salt of the water is the salt of my tears. Your face is feathered by the moonlight. And this is why we're together. You are a voice of Christ incarnate in my life. You are here when His whispers aren't loud enough to be heard over the din of my life. I dreamed of you in my personal mythology... but I never dreamed you would be so *right* for me... for all of me.
I'm thirsty anyway... so let it rain.
I'm watching for signs, Lord. So carefully.
I'm watching.
EJ
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Risk & Gain
Headphones in, eyes closed, shirt unbuttoned to the starry night, I sat outside the open kitchen window, four storeys up, leaning back on the fire escape. I wore loose blue jeans and a gold link belt. A toe ring with a bright blue stone. You were balancing the annual budget on a FlipStart handheld computer while you baked cookies. Your thick auburn hair was short. Your blouse was green. Your slacks were black. Your nails were done. Your perfume was roses. I was so hot for you I couldn’t speak. There were children in the other room. There was a cat or two. You were talking to me about you brother in the military; PTL he had finally found his way. Your full lips moved without sound I could hear. You laughed a lot, glancing over at me, sparkling eyes, bold and beautiful; You had a gaze that danced over my body. I called you Wings.
I suppose it might be called composite dreaming. Four or five real people making up one not-so-real lover. I woke and wondered where in the world you were. Certainly not in LA and obviously not beside me. LOL!
Radio plays...
“I had a dream.
For a moment I believed it was true.
I'd have given anything,
just to be there with you.
Are you hiding somewhere behind those eyes?
I just freeze every time you see through me.
And it's all over you...
On my knees, help me baby.
Tell me what do I do...”
On Saturday evening I get an email from one of you. The boss... my boss... not the archetype, the real thing. Though... kinda an archetype in my life, nonetheless. Not pleased. Must have found out how much *not* working I’ve been doing. Boss knows my limits. Knows how I can push. Knows I'm obviously not doing it. Giving in to a new addiction. No, not coffee, something sweeter, more buzz than a doubleshot and a much better conversationalist. I apologize and set my determination on high. I snap open my work files. I sharpen my pencils. I open my sketchbook. ... I pick up the phone and call Alyson.
“I'm losing sight.
Don't count on me.
I chase the sun.
It chases me.”
I close my eyes. I refuse to look at the papers on my desk. I refuse to look in the mirror. I keep my back to your photos pinned to the wall. The house seems too small. I am replaying that message again and again. Running it like lines. Repeating the “Oh no...” I thought, I muttered, as I sat and read and blushed and finally covered my face like a little girl. Wasn't I just talking about how much it sucks to let you down? Wasn't I just praying over how much I owe you? How selfless and strong you are, how little I have done for you? “Why would a smart grrl act stupid?” I could read the thought behind the words in digital black on white. I don't like the answer: Because it's easier. Because it's excusable. Because everyone always says: It's okay.
Oh.
But sometimes, okay just isn't enough... is it, Wings? I stand up. Chair hits the foot board of the bed. Fist. Meets. Wall. “Alyson... pick up!”
“I can feel you
hold me down...”
Music before a voice. The ringing replaced with decibels shaking the guts out of my cheap cell phone.
“I won't let you
hold me down...”
Warring stereos play through the tinny speaker. Music mash up. People shouting laughter. Feet striking hard wood floors. If passion had a sound...
“You know my name.
You know my face.
You'd know my heart
if you knew your place.”
The rock is steady-hard, danceable, shorter bursts than a round of boxing, harder to find a good sparring partner. Alyson hums in my ear, contented -- perhaps artificially, perhaps just augmented -- either way buzzed. She’s wondering why I’m calling. She murmurs about button hunting. She laughs. She laughs again. She sounds... free.
“Invited?”
“...”
“Alyson?”
“Not your speed, Angel.”
“Don’t tell me my speed, baby.”
“Get here.”
My two, new young roomies watch me leave. They are baking. Maybe cleaning. Possibly discussing their future and being in love. I buckle my boots. I buckle my chaps. I grab my helmet and keys. Black wrap top and my riding jacket against the wind. Two wristlets. Leather choker with a golden bell. The door closes behind me and my roomies are, no doubt, staring at it still, looking for clues as to Angel’s mood.
Clue: I want to move.
Warring stereos over a cell? Not so much. Wide open space, incredible acoustics, different music synced to shake in unison? Oh baby... if I can't have you, least I can have is this. 1200 square foot loft, great big windows let the night in like the sea, great big view so high above the city, oak wood floors. Two levels. Fifty dancers. Six thousand rainbow Christmas lights. Two hundred empty bottles. More names than I know, so many I am surprised to see. I just want to dance. But nobody just dances at Alyson’s.
Only the Christmas strands light the space except for the far wall under the loft, past the forest of golden oak support beams and couples not bothering to get rooms. Natural light, pouring pure and soft, illuminates six original paintings, all hung bare canvas against the neutral parchment white. Across the expanse I recognize two of them as mine, from seven, maybe eight years ago. They are washes in black and brown and russet, two nudes of the same model, painted in reflection of one another. They sold at a show. I haven't seen them since. I had no idea Alyson owned them. Lightly impressionistic... top of my portfolio when I really let myself go, gave myself permission to just... move.
“Cure this wait.
How I hate this wait...
Enlighten me.
Reveal my fate.
Just cut these strings
that hold me safe.”
Beat. Hard. Drums and guitar . I’m discovering a pattern. I want music I can feel in my bones. I want to strip down to the bare essentials and anchor myself to the bass line. Feel my spine become liquid. Feel my muscles bulk and tense and release. Hm. Amazing what a body can do in under five minutes. Respond to a whim. Dance harder. Open my eyes to find another non-drinker with a sharp, clear gaze. Zero to sixty in one... two... three. Want to forget the complications of living and fall into the release Christ provides me, has always provided me, in five dozen cities and on four continents. I am ready for revelation. Take me down to my knees, Lord. I am so ready.
This is my holy gospel. This is how I pray. This is where I go to be close to my Lord. I make my old world fantasy, with a house of doves on my city roof top and a keylime Kawi like my trusty stallion. But the real world is not glowing, sparkling divinity and easy answers and harp music playing when I make the right decision. And, heck yes, I drop to my knees in prayer when I cry but I also drop to my knees in desire. My world is not easily classified or neat and trim. It is messy and sloppy and physically dangerous and emotional draining. It is a *real* life that sometimes enjoys throwing grit in my face and other times gives me strong arms to hold me and whisper, “How can you think you're not beautiful?”
I don't always know what to do. I don't always know what to say. Sometimes I just want the whole dang world to fall silent like that YA book about the twenty-fifth hour. I just want to be able to stand in the suspended night and *dance.* While cars and people and stray cats and wind are all still, while everything is just me and God, I want to move... and find myself somewhere new. Without politics or expectations, dramas or emotions, I just want to decide without deciding and act.
I wish I could be the good angel all the time. Get all my work done. Share with others. Eat my vitamins. But sometimes this angel doesn't fit the mold. Sometimes I risk everything to break away from the mortal trappings I'm supposed to ape and revel in the exquisite sensations Christ built into my body. I have never blown a class. I have never seen a “B” or been terminated from a job. My risks, I suspect, as actually leaps of faith. I leap away into the darkness to dance, to leave the light and explore the unknown, only to find that Christ has left me a treasure horde. I suppose my straight and narrow, just isn't either.
You asked me recently: “How do you wear a leather jacket with your wings?” And you grinned with that little emoticon I've never seen before. I answered what I always answer, because I get that question quite a bit: “Sometimes... the jacket comes off.”
Because, in the end, the truth cannot be denied. When this angel is good, she's very, very good. And when she's bad? She's better.
EJ
...who is done typing with her thumbs and is ready to dance again... and then, with dawn, return to work renewed, refreshed and *inspired*
I suppose it might be called composite dreaming. Four or five real people making up one not-so-real lover. I woke and wondered where in the world you were. Certainly not in LA and obviously not beside me. LOL!
Radio plays...
“I had a dream.
For a moment I believed it was true.
I'd have given anything,
just to be there with you.
Are you hiding somewhere behind those eyes?
I just freeze every time you see through me.
And it's all over you...
On my knees, help me baby.
Tell me what do I do...”
On Saturday evening I get an email from one of you. The boss... my boss... not the archetype, the real thing. Though... kinda an archetype in my life, nonetheless. Not pleased. Must have found out how much *not* working I’ve been doing. Boss knows my limits. Knows how I can push. Knows I'm obviously not doing it. Giving in to a new addiction. No, not coffee, something sweeter, more buzz than a doubleshot and a much better conversationalist. I apologize and set my determination on high. I snap open my work files. I sharpen my pencils. I open my sketchbook. ... I pick up the phone and call Alyson.
“I'm losing sight.
Don't count on me.
I chase the sun.
It chases me.”
I close my eyes. I refuse to look at the papers on my desk. I refuse to look in the mirror. I keep my back to your photos pinned to the wall. The house seems too small. I am replaying that message again and again. Running it like lines. Repeating the “Oh no...” I thought, I muttered, as I sat and read and blushed and finally covered my face like a little girl. Wasn't I just talking about how much it sucks to let you down? Wasn't I just praying over how much I owe you? How selfless and strong you are, how little I have done for you? “Why would a smart grrl act stupid?” I could read the thought behind the words in digital black on white. I don't like the answer: Because it's easier. Because it's excusable. Because everyone always says: It's okay.
Oh.
But sometimes, okay just isn't enough... is it, Wings? I stand up. Chair hits the foot board of the bed. Fist. Meets. Wall. “Alyson... pick up!”
“I can feel you
hold me down...”
Music before a voice. The ringing replaced with decibels shaking the guts out of my cheap cell phone.
“I won't let you
hold me down...”
Warring stereos play through the tinny speaker. Music mash up. People shouting laughter. Feet striking hard wood floors. If passion had a sound...
“You know my name.
You know my face.
You'd know my heart
if you knew your place.”
The rock is steady-hard, danceable, shorter bursts than a round of boxing, harder to find a good sparring partner. Alyson hums in my ear, contented -- perhaps artificially, perhaps just augmented -- either way buzzed. She’s wondering why I’m calling. She murmurs about button hunting. She laughs. She laughs again. She sounds... free.
“Invited?”
“...”
“Alyson?”
“Not your speed, Angel.”
“Don’t tell me my speed, baby.”
“Get here.”
My two, new young roomies watch me leave. They are baking. Maybe cleaning. Possibly discussing their future and being in love. I buckle my boots. I buckle my chaps. I grab my helmet and keys. Black wrap top and my riding jacket against the wind. Two wristlets. Leather choker with a golden bell. The door closes behind me and my roomies are, no doubt, staring at it still, looking for clues as to Angel’s mood.
Clue: I want to move.
Warring stereos over a cell? Not so much. Wide open space, incredible acoustics, different music synced to shake in unison? Oh baby... if I can't have you, least I can have is this. 1200 square foot loft, great big windows let the night in like the sea, great big view so high above the city, oak wood floors. Two levels. Fifty dancers. Six thousand rainbow Christmas lights. Two hundred empty bottles. More names than I know, so many I am surprised to see. I just want to dance. But nobody just dances at Alyson’s.
Only the Christmas strands light the space except for the far wall under the loft, past the forest of golden oak support beams and couples not bothering to get rooms. Natural light, pouring pure and soft, illuminates six original paintings, all hung bare canvas against the neutral parchment white. Across the expanse I recognize two of them as mine, from seven, maybe eight years ago. They are washes in black and brown and russet, two nudes of the same model, painted in reflection of one another. They sold at a show. I haven't seen them since. I had no idea Alyson owned them. Lightly impressionistic... top of my portfolio when I really let myself go, gave myself permission to just... move.
“Cure this wait.
How I hate this wait...
Enlighten me.
Reveal my fate.
Just cut these strings
that hold me safe.”
Beat. Hard. Drums and guitar . I’m discovering a pattern. I want music I can feel in my bones. I want to strip down to the bare essentials and anchor myself to the bass line. Feel my spine become liquid. Feel my muscles bulk and tense and release. Hm. Amazing what a body can do in under five minutes. Respond to a whim. Dance harder. Open my eyes to find another non-drinker with a sharp, clear gaze. Zero to sixty in one... two... three. Want to forget the complications of living and fall into the release Christ provides me, has always provided me, in five dozen cities and on four continents. I am ready for revelation. Take me down to my knees, Lord. I am so ready.
This is my holy gospel. This is how I pray. This is where I go to be close to my Lord. I make my old world fantasy, with a house of doves on my city roof top and a keylime Kawi like my trusty stallion. But the real world is not glowing, sparkling divinity and easy answers and harp music playing when I make the right decision. And, heck yes, I drop to my knees in prayer when I cry but I also drop to my knees in desire. My world is not easily classified or neat and trim. It is messy and sloppy and physically dangerous and emotional draining. It is a *real* life that sometimes enjoys throwing grit in my face and other times gives me strong arms to hold me and whisper, “How can you think you're not beautiful?”
I don't always know what to do. I don't always know what to say. Sometimes I just want the whole dang world to fall silent like that YA book about the twenty-fifth hour. I just want to be able to stand in the suspended night and *dance.* While cars and people and stray cats and wind are all still, while everything is just me and God, I want to move... and find myself somewhere new. Without politics or expectations, dramas or emotions, I just want to decide without deciding and act.
I wish I could be the good angel all the time. Get all my work done. Share with others. Eat my vitamins. But sometimes this angel doesn't fit the mold. Sometimes I risk everything to break away from the mortal trappings I'm supposed to ape and revel in the exquisite sensations Christ built into my body. I have never blown a class. I have never seen a “B” or been terminated from a job. My risks, I suspect, as actually leaps of faith. I leap away into the darkness to dance, to leave the light and explore the unknown, only to find that Christ has left me a treasure horde. I suppose my straight and narrow, just isn't either.
You asked me recently: “How do you wear a leather jacket with your wings?” And you grinned with that little emoticon I've never seen before. I answered what I always answer, because I get that question quite a bit: “Sometimes... the jacket comes off.”
Because, in the end, the truth cannot be denied. When this angel is good, she's very, very good. And when she's bad? She's better.
EJ
...who is done typing with her thumbs and is ready to dance again... and then, with dawn, return to work renewed, refreshed and *inspired*
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Surprise
So this morning
(Oh, the evil "So"!)
I placed all my model photos
into a skinny pink album dotted
with blue unicorns
that I bought off a boy on the street
for $1.25 and a Snickers bar.
And I found myself thankful
(of all of you, always...
...but of *you,* this time)
that you cared enough about me
and my art and my general sanity
to pose nude, reclined, standing, sitting
smiling, sighing, eyes closed...
and open, all per my request.
I stop and go back to my notes
holding one glossy snap in my hand
not remembering asking for a shot
of you looking directly at me
just your face, auburn mass of hair
blue eyes unnerving, wise, quiet
sad, angry, my Terrapyre friend.
Is that... a smirk?
I should never have sent you
that darn remote timer ;)
But that's what I get, I guess,
for asking for a favor
from a woman who knows a friend
from a client, an hourly rate
from a freebie.
I should have known better.
Next time, I'll beg that
Catholic grrl I know... you know:
the one I painted with henna tats
(after the fact, on canvas)
fifty tiny flowers down her thigh
while she talked with me about
the politics of power and desire
in the Vatican.
Geez...
the mothers in my life
are just so...
*so.*
EJ
(Oh, the evil "So"!)
I placed all my model photos
into a skinny pink album dotted
with blue unicorns
that I bought off a boy on the street
for $1.25 and a Snickers bar.
And I found myself thankful
(of all of you, always...
...but of *you,* this time)
that you cared enough about me
and my art and my general sanity
to pose nude, reclined, standing, sitting
smiling, sighing, eyes closed...
and open, all per my request.
I stop and go back to my notes
holding one glossy snap in my hand
not remembering asking for a shot
of you looking directly at me
just your face, auburn mass of hair
blue eyes unnerving, wise, quiet
sad, angry, my Terrapyre friend.
Is that... a smirk?
I should never have sent you
that darn remote timer ;)
But that's what I get, I guess,
for asking for a favor
from a woman who knows a friend
from a client, an hourly rate
from a freebie.
I should have known better.
Next time, I'll beg that
Catholic grrl I know... you know:
the one I painted with henna tats
(after the fact, on canvas)
fifty tiny flowers down her thigh
while she talked with me about
the politics of power and desire
in the Vatican.
Geez...
the mothers in my life
are just so...
*so.*
EJ
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