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*
