Remind Me Remember You

...what comes from asking fourteen friends when they are most themselves

And they try to break us. Because they think we are powerless when we are broken. They nailed Him to a cross. They crowned His head with thorns. They beat Him. They tore Him down with words. He knew betrayal and fear. He walked this land, this land I have seen with my own eyes, have touched with my own hands.

They try to break us. And they do. And when we are pieces scattered at the feet of their emptied eyed soldiers... they will find that we rise remade more powerful than we were before. For even in my destruction, another sister, brother, child, lover stands. For my Christ is now, then, forever. Never absent, always present. He walked here once but walks here, my heart, your heart, this kiss, this midnight prayer, now.

I’m finding myself at a loss for words... but the last thing I need is to be heard. I need only to hear what you have to say. Christ. My Lord. In your light, in your arms, beneath your hands, I am remade. Renewed. Reborn every dawn. Teach me. Guide me. Lift me to skies adorned with constellations that only you know their names. Place your mark upon my brow. I am ready to stand up.

“Word of God speak!
Would You pour down like rain?
Washing my eyes to see
Your majesty.
To be still and know
that You're in this place.
Please let me stay and rest
in Your holiness.
Word of God speak...”

In the quiet I hear your voice. In the midst of you I find release from this coil. Foil to faith, this culture of breaking, tearing. All I need to find myself is the knowledge that you already know who I am. I am unafraid then. I do not need to blush in shame or hide my eyes from what I know stands within me. Because my Lord, my Christ, you already know and you love me. Show me then? I’m looking. Draw me close. Whisper. Don’t let anyone else hear. It’s just you and me. Like when I was a child. Show me... please.

Musing, wondering
how it is
that you can inspire such
confidence
in me.

Once, I thought
that only my
Christ could continuously
break and remake
me.

But, now
it's as if I've
transformed into another woman
nearly unrecognizable
to myself.

And I muse. In your light. In your velvet dark. Beneath your sky. I hear the sleeping sounds of doves. I hear the movement of the universe. I realize that I am not interested in being stable. Even if it loses me the one I love more than any other. I am not interested in being anything other than the angel I have always been for you, Lord. I am finding myself, again, in the midst of you. And all that I need is to be with you. In this quiet... I hear your voice.

Divinity rises white-light before me and I lose my connection to this thing called consciousness. I prefer the place I visit. You are there. And you. And you.

Who is this woman
before me? I don't
recognize myself
in the mirror.

What is this
feeling? Primal.
Almost dangerous.
Confidant.

Christ?
What have you done?
This intensity.
What has she shown me?

Walk into my life, Lord. Walk into my room as lover, child, friend. I will recognize you. I will know you instantly even hidden behind roses-and-cream skin or eyes cerulean blue. I will know you if you are listening to rock ‘n’ roll. If you swear like a sailor. If you wail like a toddler. If you sip coffee, if you ask me for change, if you cut in line. I will feel you like a cascade of kisses. I will feel you like the caress of poetry. I will blush. I will cry silently, tears hot on heated cheeks. I will know joy as a golden welling in my chest. I will know you. I know me. I will know you. Test me. I will not fail.

I find myself
I find my Christ
when I dance with her
the woman
who completes me
as no one ever has.

And the beat
carries us through
these dark times
forever times
beginning times
the children laugh
she is crying
and I love her
endlessly.

I feel Him to the core of me. I feel Him at the core of me. He is my bones, holding me here. He is my muscles, moving me through. He is my heart, beating in my love for you. A seed of perfection in a mortal woman who is far from perfect. But not so far from Him.

He had his reasons.
He had his lies.
Saying he loved
but he didn’t.
If you could only see
the way she loves me.
Then maybe
you would understand.
Why I feel this way
about our love.
And what I must do.
If you could only see
how blue her eyes can be
when she says she loves me.

My hands
on her face.
Her hair falls
over my fingers.
My eyes are closed.
But still I see her.
Her breath
on my cheek.
I find myself.

And I rise and walk into the night. The sound of the waves is beneath the fog that’s rolling in. I recite aloud. I think my voice sounds like my own. I know your scriptures better than my parents think. Those words that may or not may be your own. I know your scripture.

Where is that sound
you make only for me?
Let me trace the shape
of your mouth
with my fingertips.
My own lips pressed
close to my own hand.
To feel and taste you
at once.
Make that sound for me
again so that I
can know you.

Can we serve Him before we know ourselves? Do little children serve Him? Do those still in the harbor of their parents, moored and bobbing? I want to know who I am in this world of His so to know exactly what I can do. I don’t want to find myself in the heat of battle. I want to know my armory.

“I can make you feel yourself again.”
“You certainly can. No one makes me more *myself* than you do.”

Lord? Speak to me. I am right here. Find me. I call to you... unbidden. Oh sweet Christ. Your touch like none other. Lover, father, teacher. I recognize you. Shh. I’m listening. Shout for me. I’ll find you. Help me... recognize myself.

Christ...
You placed me here.
Divinely inspired.
To protect and defend.
Impassioned.
Absolute fire.
Days, weeks, months...
years. I am
yours.
I am
me.

Place me in your
moment. I will
see seize be
in that moment.
I will live
cry bleed shout
in that struggle.
I will fight.
I will fight
for you in your
name until
the calm comes.

Finding myself, finding my God. Finding you, finding my God. Opening my eyes, opening yours. Name it. Name me. Name us. Claim me. Take me. I have taken you into my heart, into my body, into my blood stream. My heart breaks against my chest. And it wasn’t until He showed them the wounds at His side and in His hands that they believed it was Him. And these are the men I’m supposed to trust for my scripture?

Hm. Baby? I don’t think so.

For in my heart
I love and cherish you.
Forever.
This feeling will not calm.
Walking my divine path
to make this love
with you.
You make me
the most myself
every moment
of every day
because I am yours
and you are mine.
Being yours
is sacred.
And I find myself.

Toss my hair. The wind like birth. Cold here. I strip my jacket away. There is something to remember. Broken bones. Something. Not sure. Father? Watch me. This is called... running.

“Rivers flow into the sea
yet even the sea is not so full as me.
I’m not blind so I can see:
That a circle can’t fit
where a square should be.
This hole in my heart?
Can only be filled by you.”

In the hospital, I dream of the night we went dancing. You were the symbol of everything I desired (and could not have). You were the symbol of my Christ (which I could and did have). My back against the bar, the blonde from Bellevue draped off my neck, I watched you while she whispered Saccharine nothings. My gaze was not exactly friendly but exactly Christian. There was a passion for you I could not contain. You danced with your hands above your hand, your shoulders rocked back. I watched the arch of your neck and your spine. I saw Christ. And I know that every New Testament Christian who has ever laid eyes on you will know exactly what I’m talking about. Owl wise eyes so closed, you were living music. I re-found my Christ. Finalized Mardi Gras 3000 that dawn.

Wanted to wake up with you. Wanted to roll into you arms after making love and flutter my eyes open against your cheek. Knew I would feel the most myself in that moment. Instead I woke up praying. It was the same. I woke up myself.

“I’m not ashamed
to be the person that I am today.
These are my words
that I’ve never said before.
I think I’m doing okay...”

I was born this way. In love with my Christ. I was born this way. To celebrate this body. I was born this way. A woman unwilling to compromise for the finite mortal phase. I’ve been wrong. I’ve been blind. I refused to be myself while my Lord danced for me. I’ve covered my ears. I’ve turned to His world instead of to Him.

But I’m done. Being undone by you, I am finally done.

Lord...

“This is how you remind me
of what I really am.
It's not like you to say sorry.
I was waiting on a different story.
It's not like you didn't know that.
I said I love you and I swear I still do.”

And I asked, “When do you feel the most yourself?” And you answered:

Who am I? That first is the question. I would like to be many things. I have dreamed of being many things. But I *know* only that I am one thing. I am Christ’s. I belong to Him as I have belonged and will belong to no other. I am without the empathy that I think my fellows were born with. I recognized it early enough to not know to shut up about it. I will break anything and anyone and not wonder why. I will make someone, fight for them with words and fists and savvy and not question their worth. I will pray for deliverance and not expect it. I know only that He whispers it, and so I do it. By His light I have walked and will walk these dark streets. I am not afraid. My shepherd in dark alleys and the back’s of cars and cheap hotel rooms and expensive condos that over-look the water. This is who I am. This is what I am made of. He put me here. This is what I’m good at. I am myself when my head is bowed. I am myself when on my knees. I am myself... when I celebrate everything He is, when the fire of prayer burns over my hands, fills my mouth, rocks my body like thunder. When I feel the force of Him, I am myself. The force of Him that has allowed me to survive.

This force.

Lord?

Beneath your night time sky. Shooting stars. This force. You. I am found.

EJ

Diligent

I'm waiting for you only... you alone. But not so easy when I get in my own way. Amazing how I can compose and even murmur entire conversations to you which always end in my breathless yes... at least once a day... twice on Sundays... and yet it seems that Christ will return before I can muster a yes for you live.

What exactly is my issue again? What does it say about my character if I'll drop to my knees but won't drop my pants?

Oh. Too candid? My publisher tells me I should consider an anonymous blog for writing essays like this. But isn't every part of me -- aren't all my thoughts Christian thoughts? And aren't all of my musings, gamer musings? And so, they all belong here, do they not? I think someone, somewhere may need to hear me.

Wow. Aren't bloggers full of themselves?

I think... *I* may need to hear me.

"Go on, come on leave me breathless.
Tempt me, tease me until I can't deny this.
Make me long for your kiss.
All we have is here and now.
And I'm happy just to have you."

I want to be diligent. I want to be a hard-working angel with great big white wings that lift my brown body and dark eyes into star-filled night skies that are wide and warm and impossible to tame. I want to throw away laughter, trade it in for a serious gaze and taut-lipped expression. I want to be serious and respectable. To enter into that quiet place with the marble pillars and tile floors; that place called Accomplishment.

But guess what? I only seem to apply myself in one arena. And right now it's covered in jelly beans... and an emerald-colored silk sheet.

I am so tired from not shouting from mountain tops that my throat is sore from holding back cries.

"But if my lady

soft as night before dawn
and sweet as new cream
and ready as summer peaches
pressed beneath my tongue

were ever to find herself
satisfied and satiated
by my touch

laying tucked at my side
or straddling my lap
or breathing steady under me
her body languid from pleasure

what then, I ask
what then does my Christ
intend for me to do
with my hands?"

I find joy in poetry and passion. I look to lyrics and prayers. I surround myself with people in love. I walk with others on their impassioned paths. I find myself in love with you in this world in everything. I feel part of something bigger than this heart that pounds unrelenting in my chest... I feel part of something small and private and holy.

"The soft blue of the tiny dangling lights appears every time I close my eyes. At work at the dining room table, I cover my face with my hands in thought... and stifle my gasp. My fingers and palms carry your scent. Behind my hands, I pass my tongue over my lips, taste you there. You are everywhere. Stress falls away... but I continue to pass my hands over my face, through my hair. I want to bathe in you."

Baptize me, indeed.

EJ

Untempered

“Cuddle up, angel.
Cuddle up, my little dove.
It's just the three of us:
You, me and all that stuff we're so scared of.”

My coffee is hot and sweet and rich sitting on my tongue as I read an article about addiction. I walked away from this particular one several months ago and have just recently jumped off the wagon with a glorious reverse somersault and a perfect landing. It won't wake me up (only one thing does that, babygrrl) but I find it strangely calming. Like an old friend. A tradition unchanged since I started school in NYC at sixteen. There were so many cold mornings and always that hot cup of coffee, dark as the nights I loved, to mark another day begun.

You are awake. I can tell because there is a thrumming in my chest and a warmth in my belly that has nothing to do with the coffee. It is almost dawn. I have fought my desire for you all night. I am somewhat more than unwilling to have you see me like this: so willing to throw away stress and demands and the whole rest of the world to fall to my knees before you. I am not yet ready for you to see the desire on my face like scripture. This living divinity that breaks and remakes me: my passion for you.

“Save tonight
and fight the break of dawn.
... burns like me for you.”

I return constantly to these late nights, so still and sleepless. Here I can quiet my thoughts if not my pounding heart. Here I can become myself, feel every inch of the woman I have grown to be, and be content and strong in that knowledge. But as my parts fall into place I find that I want you even more. We compliment each other. We...

Why do I try to make this into something so complicated and complex? It isn't. This love I feel for you is simple and bright and burning like my love for Christ. I love you because you are you. Not perfect. Not refined. You are untamed and untempered and more than anything else unbroken. I may be able to lay you down, lay you back, but I could never bend you to my will any more than anything in man's world could bend you. You are that perfect balance of elements and reactions and responses and stillness. I want you because you are wild and beautiful and bold. I need you... simply because my heart beats.

My heart beats. I raise my hand, touch my skin with my fingertips. Slide my hand up to linger at my pulse. There is a knock on the door. Isn't it dawn? Oh. Yes. But my work day begins at dawn. My day begins:

Ginny doesn't care if I use her real name because she quit two days ago and this is her last day on set. She thinks Hollywood pretty much bites but she loves it anyway. She just couldn't wake up any more and go to work and be part of a system “screwing so many women.” So Ginny doesn't care about anything right now other than watching me eat pancake sandwiches with sausages and eggs. Ginny is concerned that work requires I stay ten pounds below the optimal weight for someone 5'2” and I'm 5'5”. Ginny doesn't really understand that skipping meals stopped bothering me ten years ago when I started this.

Over breakfast, Ginny stares out the window. She is twenty-one and four days. She looks twice that in a bad way. She looks worn down by a system she's just starting to grasp. Not just the entertainment industry, but all of it. Life. Ginny says:

“It ought to be easy, ought to be simple enough.
Man meets woman and they fall in love.
But the house is haunted and the ride gets rough.
And you've got to learn to live with what you can't rise above.”

And the waitress asks for my autograph and Ginny frowns and we leave and I wonder if any young woman, any young person at all, ever enters the world to find it as they expected. I think I know of only one person who would claim that knowledge and she grew up in a way none of us would exchange for that premature education. I think that life is easy (even when rough) when we're children; Our choices are simpler. The world is the black and white of our parents' beliefs. The surface of everything is reflective. We see ourselves in everything. Life is as simple as looking in the mirror. Then we grow up... some of us at eighteen, some of us when we're first without a boyfriend, some of us when we have our first child... sometimes when we realize our children won't swallow the simple answers we're given them. No man knows another man's destiny. And though there are certainly universal truths, fact is stranger than fiction, and each of us billions have fingerprints all our own. Perhaps reality isn't one-size fits-all after all. So eventually we all grow up into us... and that new us is not the same as the old us.

Ginny wants to know where is the world that she thought was out there. Ginny wants to know when it gets easy and if Christ will make it clear. Ginny wants me to tell her it'll be okay and pat her hand and smile convincingly... just so she can shrug it all off for another day... but what Ginny doesn't realize is that by walking away from her lover and her job and the shelter of family name, she has already traveled beyond the place of easy comforts and convincing platitudes. Though she is not consciously aware of it yet, she has already begun her journey, all of it uphill and none of it easy. Despite Winterson's retelling, Atlas never shrugged and neither will Ginny.

Instead I say to Ginny: I'll get the bill.

T meets us outside. Motions us over to coffee. Tells us quietly that trouble is brewing without being explicit. He exchanges a few more words with Ginny, code worded to speak in front of me, about me, without me really knowing it. T speaks to Ginny like an equal because he is a decent man and doesn't see the difference between cast and crew but more than that, in this moment, when they are speaking about me, they are peers. They are both my friends.

“Somebody did.”
“Or didn't... you know?”
“More copies. Yellow highlights.”
“Unreal...”
“Tabbed even...”
“Somebody counting their lines?”
“Or not.”

T is not a small man. He likes to speak in short sentences and has a vocabulary that includes silences that are heavy and rich. To say his eyes speak volumes would be somewhat overly dramatic but the phrase works for me. I have always had this thing for eyes that speak. For men and women who say more with silence than with words. Not to say that I don't like words... I do. Very much. But T has a gentleness in his gaze that cannot be condensed into words. The way Wings has a confidence in her gaze that cannot be encompassed in a sentence or phrase. Some people just say more when they are silent.

“I can't believe they're making this something dirty,” Ginny says.
T just tilts his head to one side, purses his lips, blinks once, slowly. Ginny nods. She shakes her head. Looks away. “Yeah...” she says. “Yeah.”

By the end of the day, forty bound copies of my entire blog are circulating throughout the set. Seems my two worlds have collided. I call my lawyer at 7 and my publisher's lawyer at 8:45.

“If this is where memories are made
I'm gonna like what I see.
And everything and nothing is
as sacred as we want it to be.
And this time, this time
is fine just as it is.”

I am unshaken. The nonreality of reality strikes me as humorous today. I want to go dancing. I think clubbing on the Sabbath is why there's no cover on Sundays at my favorite spots. I'm simply meant to remember my body, this tangible gift from Christ, more than ever, on this day. I think about a friend singing: “Let's give them something to talk about... a little mystery to figure out...” She laughed to me about humming it for three days straight. The flip attitude, the joy in stress, the “oh, get a life, people” murmur behind the words. I found myself fixated on:

“Give me your sweet forgiveness
sweeter than honey.
Give me your sweet forgiveness
sweeter than wine.”

And I wasn't sure what I wanted to be forgiven for but I sure did know that sweeter than honey is exactly what you are to me, so I hummed that one all day while the strangers in my friends muttered about expectations and persona and responsibility.

I walked off set when a grip mumbled that four-lettered word while I sat eating my side salad. Funny... but I'm starting to think of it as a badge of honor.

“These people 'round here
wear beaten down eyes
sunk in smoke dried faces.
They're so resigned to what their fate is.
But not us, no, not us.
We are far too young and clever.
Ah come on...”

In the Catholic church, Cecilia is the patron saint of musicians. A muse of sorts bringing inspiration, watching over music makers. But if I ever had a patron saint it was Joan of Arc and the inspiration she brought me was historical proof that the more faithful one is, the higher the chance that she will be called a lunatic. I was equally inspired by Galileo and moved to smiles instead of tears when I walked into the Spot to hear:

“Cecilia, you're breakin' my heart.
You're shakin' my confidence daily.
Whoa, Cecilia, I'm down on my knees.
I'm beggin' you please to come home.
Come on home...”

And that's when it hits. I have my muse. I have my inspiration. That is why the dark drama at work is unable to strip me or burn me at the stake. I have my armor and sword, yes, yes, always... but they are often not enough. As in war and football, not always in life. A good offense is not always a good defense. Sometimes we need something *bright* not just something *sharp.* Sometimes we need something funny, sexy, challenging... responsive, irresponsible, wild and, of course, untempered, to remind us why we continue to fight.

And as I come to this realization, I know at last that sleep will stop eluding me. The night after night of dropping into exhaustion for two hours and then waking for the rest will be gone. I tore myself apart looking for why... *why* wasn't I *worried*? Why wasn't I hurt by that nonreality that was my very personal collision of worlds? Why, why, why?

Because I have you.

“You flash your bedroom eyes like a jumpin' jack.
You drive the pretty boys outta their heads.
Then play it pretty with a pat on the back.
You know you got it... so come and get it.”

I laugh myself through three hours of music. My laughter appears to be contagious. The energy on the floor is light, bright, sweet and fluffy like cotton candy. Like the Monster Bag I loved at the Puyallup Fair... both of them *blush* At one point, a lanky leather-and-neon raver I've seen before sizes me up. She grins crooked and cocky. “Well,” she's all-knowing, this punk. “*Somebody* got laid.”

And I laughed harder. Much harder. Because she was right. *Somebody* did get laid all right. But it wasn't me.

“Who's that casting devious stares
in my direction.
Oh baby, this surely is a dream.
Yeah baby, this must be my dream...”

There was tension -- exquisite and torturous and pounding through my bones and muscles and veins. There was stress and danger and betrayal and deceit all outside my control. And then...

And then it was just gone.

I have been called many things, some of them four-lettered and others much longer. But Polly Anna is not one of them. And so... I worried. I fretted. What insanity had taken my mind that I was so content? So settled? So pleasantly resigned to my fate? Why was everything, suddenly, so good to go? Who had harvested my emotional state?

But now I know...

“She don't like losing,
to her it's still a game.
And though she will mess up your life,
you'll want her just the same,
and now I know:
She has a built-in ability
to take everything she sees.
And now it seems, I'm falling,
I'm falling for her!”

And I was still laughing as I tumbled into dreams, beneath skylights of scattered stars and wispy clouds, and a three-legged cat snoring loudly and announcing, most certainly, the beginning of the End Times. But hey *shrug* I'm down with that *grin*

EJ

You look at me and I fall into the forest of your eyes. I am enchanted and lost and found and saved and damned. I would walk through fire to live this life, to love you. Dear Lord, sometimes, I think I do. Do you think me a fool? I look at you -- a treasure, an angel, a warrior -- and I see you quiet and fierce. Talk to me. Tell me anything. Let me read your internal state in the cadence of your words over the still night quiet. Tell me you walk with me. Tell me that nothing is left unsaid. Tell me you love me.

Working on the Sabbath

Christmas morning. I open an alarm clock from Santa. It wakes me with my mp3 player. Santa doesn’t need to give me the receipt. I already paid off the card.

Hard beat. Heart beat. I bolt up sweating. Blood on my pillow. I’ve bitten my lip. Hand shakes as I thumb the volume up. My CK Playlist.

“Why do we crucify ourselves?
Everyday... I crucify myself.
Nothing I do is good enough for you...
and my heart is sick of being in chains.”

They wake me at 5 a.m. to tell me they’ve replaced me with a white grrl. They go out of their way to tell me the name of her live-in boy-toy lover. They use newly hyphenated words like financial-risk and quantifiable-liability and loss-and-win-ratio. They use saccharine words like pay-off and flat-fee.

Because I couldn’t conjure a lie and look like I wanted a guy between my legs.

“Where’s the chemistry, EJ?” I wasn’t aware this was AP Science. Do I have to retake the lab or can I get by with just the multiple choice? Can someone text me the answers? I was too busy not going down on my grrl to study.

Chemistry. Snap. You’re looking at the camera. Strawberry curls. Snap. You’re looking at her. Pupils wide. Snap. She didn’t mean to send me the photo. Not that photo. Oh baby. That’s chemistry. Catch-my-breath crackle. *shaking my head* No, I can’t fake that. They’re right.

So take back the Emmy and I’ll stop phoning it in.

“Every finger in the room is pointing at me.
I wanna spit in their faces
then I get afraid of what that could bring.
Figures that my courage would choose to sell out now.”

They call back at 6:15 to tell me they’ve changed their minds. The trades have printed a good review of an earlier version (one with me) and pulled me out as the heart-and-soul. They’d need an exorcist to replace me now. They’d need a voodoo high priest, poppet. Tammy is the only female EVP. They are standing around her, no doubt, clustered like vulture-slash-voyeurs while she croons to me. A lover’s voice. Intimate and immediate. Like asking me to stay in bed and touch her one more time. Tammy says, “I want things between us to be like they were.” I have never slept with Tammy. “Why do you put us through this, Angel?” I have never clubbed with Tammy. “Why do you make us do this?” Rape me? “Why can’t you just enjoy this?” Oh... Lord... I scramble out of bed and vomit before I reach the bathroom.

“Why do we crucify ourselves?
Everyday... I crucify myself.
Got enough guilt to start my own religion.
Where are those angels when you need them?”

And I yank the player off the alarm clock connector cord and grab my keys with my other hand. My jacket is somewhere, there, now here, over my shoulders, heavy like armor, like anger. The door slams behind me. A baby wakes. I don’t... can’t stop. “Not my baby...” Means so many things. New bike roars in the crisp morning. Rock her forward and throw my helmet into the corner of the garage. Bolt her out and flash on straddling you, my head thrown back, crying your name over and over and over again.

Some stand and some crumble. Some shout and some weep. The lions roar differently for every ear. “Do you hear your lions?” Grandmother used to say. “Is that why there is fire in your eyes?”

I don’t wait well. The den is cold. I step out of the darkness. Never wait for the angels. Christ is always right here... and my heart beats. If my heart beats, I want to be fighting. I don’t lay it down until He knocks me down. And He has certainly had to before.

“Not very stable... is she?” Hm. Make believe? Misheard? Rumor and innuendo? Lucky I don’t need someone to sign post my path. The white-washing of faith should be a sin... if it already is, someone should send out a letter.

Five things I'm dying to confess... but never will:

1) Leave me.

“Don't know if I could stand
another hand upon you.
All I know is that I should.”

And every moment I have spent with you comes into clarity as the truly dangerous and destructive force that it is. How you have torn my life apart and I have fallen to pieces like a scattered jigsaw puzzle on the floor. Your hands made me tremble while you remade me yourself, and I caught my breath at the picture of me, no reflection in the mirror, a magical creature. Creation and destruction, my Shiva. Your demolition of my life was more welcome than wind on the ocean and lightning over the waves. Your danger is sweeter than spring air and burns brighter than any dawn. Wreck me, take me apart, and hand me to Him.

“Give me life. Give me pain.
Give me my self again.
Oh these little earthquakes...
Here we go again.
Doesn't take much to rip us into pieces.”

Zero to seventy-five.

Forgot my wallet at home. Forgot the city limits behind me. Travelling north I’m moving toward everyone I love. I’m running after the rain.

Today is the Sabbath. I close my eyes.

Eighty. Eighty-five.

2) I have forgotten his voice.

More than a thousand miles away, my family is sweating. Hard work on the Sabbath clears the mind for Christ. They are hauling, hammering, cleaning, scrubbing. They are caring for animals and children. They are loving one another. They are whispering names in the quiet of the night. They are one heart even when shattered. They are a flock of angels, in all states of grace. They are alone, together, their own, and mine. All at once. All now.

Ringed by trees. Evergreens in every green holding up the sky. Strong bodies move across their earth, that region of Christ, living the Word. Only there does the Sabbath exist for me. While strangers pack churches and hum hymns and mutter morals, I know truly only those souls walking there on this day. Every Sabbath I know. She is true as rain on my face. She is passion, unbridled beneath steady hands and eyes. She is still as night sky. My patron saint. I pray at the stations of the cross. I contemplate Him when I imagine that sacred place.

Sixty. Fifty-five.

Want your arms around me. Telling me it’ll be okay.

Want your hands on my shoulders. Your gaze lit from within.

Want your attention. Your outside-the-box solutions.

Want your lips on mine. Silencing my no.

“But we unleashed a lion.
Gnashed his teeth.
And the boy was something
mommy wouldn't wear.
Jeremy spoke in class today.
Try to forget this...
Try to erase this....”

3) I would never let him yell at her. He’d be on the floor before her eyes formed tears.

And there’s no way I’ll reach the ocean because I’m travelling in the wrong direction. And there’s no way I’ll reach my holy land because I’ve no money for gasoline. I spot the high and dry median, pull the U-y across four and take myself home hovering at the speed limit. I feel myself coming down off the adrenaline high. I want waffles with strawberries and bacon. I want dark, strong coffee with raw sugar. I want you.

“There's a fear in me, but it's not showing.
I look ahead too all the plans we made
and the dreams that we had.
I'm in a world that tries to take them away...
but I'm taking them back.”

I park the bike and go inside. The house is empty. But it is never quiet. A radio is on somewhere spouting an en mass mass. The tv is on low with no one to watch it. A child’s toy is reciting the alphabet. I strip in the hall. Pull on old jeans and a tank. I go next door. Lillian is only in her late sixties but she is a woman of society and she never learned how to clean a gutter.

4) The Clozaril took away the nightmares... but it also stole my ability to paint.

Ten hours. Ten hours I bend over her roof line, mend fencing and tie up brambles. Three storeys up, I rip the butt off my jeans and lose both pockets to the uneven composition roofing. The slop from the gutters is just one season’s worth; she paid someone last year. I fill buckets, up and down I shimmy because she doesn’t have a ladder. I turn it into her flower beds, the shovel growing impossibly heavy after the first five hours. There is a dead crow in the attic eaves. There are nests of doves tucked into the observatory dome. There is a view of unbroken sky from the highest peak.

I sing “Oh Holy Night” horribly off-tune and burn away everything in me by sweating until I want to strip nude and every muscle in my body aches with the tension of not breaking my neck by falling off the roof. Ten hours. This is a Sabbath. The highest peak is my pew. My God asks that I worship under His roof, this sky. In His world. In His way. My worship is never easy. It sweats and bleeds and aches and *works.*

Ten hours I celebrate this body that Christ made me.

Lillian invites me inside when it gets too dark to see. She hands me a plate of hot scones with blackberry preserves. She hands me a gold-rimmed cup of steaming espresso. I drink it like wine, like salvation, like poison, like choice. I drink it and count the days in my head until it will be out of my system. I drink it with my eyes closed and tell myself it will strengthen my will. The bottle said, “Drink Me” and so I did.

“Cause when push comes to shove
you taste what you're made of.
On your knees you look up...
You get mad. You get strong.
Then you stand.
One more small piece of you
falls into place.”

Lillian plays harp music. It pipes through the house. I recognize it. But how can I recognize it? I am too tired to ask. She does not speak because women of class do not make idle chatter. She gazes at me quietly, appraisingly. I feel my body humming with strength and purpose and faith. I sip my espresso, roll it over my tongue. I eat my scone with a fork. Spread the blackberries sparingly. I am sweaty and I stink. But the scent is like wild roses and maple leaves and green moss and growing things almost ready to wake. In the high-backed cherry wood chair with the very white upholstery, I am out of place... and more in my place than I have ever been before.

“You’re a very beautiful young woman,” Lillian says. And she means it just as it lays. There is nothing more behind her words. She says it like she’s telling me my eyes are brown or my skin is cinnamon or my hair is raven. She is just telling me a fact because she knows I don’t believe it and she’s disagreeing with me.

I look up at her. Her eyes are slate grey. Her hair is silver and white. Her skin is like honey oak parchment. I say softly, “I’m a lot of things.” and my voice is so much smaller than I intend it to be... but it has been said and the truth is steady.

I am steady.

EJ

5) Sometimes, I want them to be right. Thirty is long enough.

Scattered

"Oh holy night
The stars are brightly shining
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn."

Can't stop myself. From wanting you. From shaking for you. Can't ease the throbbing that grips me, the desire that surges in waves, unrelenting. I think your name, your face and my body responds; you may as well be here, right here. I pace here in the darkness of the cottage, all expensive ceramic white tile and warm honey oak. My boots make steady sounds across the floor until they seem too much and I kick them off. The cold tile does nothing to cool me down. I light two candles. The bloom, flowers, speaking in tongues. I need to write my blog... but I can barely think. You strip away reason and logic and responsibility. My passion for you leaves me bare in the universe, here beneath this ceiling full of sky lights scattered with Christ's own stars. I close my eyes. I think, ‘I want you.’ That isn't enough. I cast, ‘I need you.’ There is no power there. I sink to my knees, my head back, my face to the sky. “Take me. Dear Lord, take me.” And that is the nearest I can come without you here to hear my cries.

Two months ago:

I’m gritting my teeth. Been gritting them all day. This day started with me wanting you, and stayed that way. I need the media boy in front of me to *shut up* and give me an opening to thank him profusely, squeeze his hand a moment too long, and escape the lot – *this* world – to lose myself to speed. After all... it’s Friday night.

Straddling my bike at last at 11:48 p.m., I zip my jacket, catch the scent of the steel zipper, snaps and buckles set in earthy black leather. I remember the first time you wore leather pants for me. It wasn’t in your nature then... but it is now. I tug on my gloves and remember my hand slide along your thigh as the glove caresses my palm. I leave through the golden gate, my helmet making me anonymous.

The street is populated by steel and fiberglass beasts. Here is the only place I’m not color blind. I take in the rainbow of the automobile industry. I think of Skittles. I think of gumdrops. I think of sprinkling gemstones through my fingers. I think of touching you, taut beneath my fingertips, under my tongue. I exhale, sharp and loud. My muscles twitch across my shoulder blades. I pull over and close my eyes. The freeway traffic buzzes. My head spins. Gotta think about a different kind of merging if I want to get home safely.

“You spin me up so tight, baby... no wonder you can play me like a stringed instrument, every word you whisper a single strum across twenty-two strings. I tremble for you, your music in my blood, brisk storm winds that crash suddenly across the landscape of my body. My hands shake. This addiction... is so sweet.”

I am praying:

“I fall on my knees
I hear an angel's voice
Oh night divine
Oh night, this love was born”

I think of you and the world dissolves. FlipStart, laptop, whatever. It doesn't matter the delivery device. I want you. Now. Any way, every way I can have you. I read your words and you might as well be whispering them in my ear, your hands playing across the little cream-colored buttons on my shirt. I can close my eyes... or heck, leave them open... and I can feel my body fall out of sync with everything around me. I go to that place where we are together, were we cross the distance to stand in one another's arms. It is enough. I thank my Christ for every heartbeat. It is enough. I am blessed with you here, in this realm of desire of that no man can find, and will take you here if I cannot have you elsewhere. I am thankful. I praise His name for this gift.

I remember my grandmother speaking of transcendent love. I never knew who she meant until recently. And I never knew what that might feel like until I came to know you. You have brought me closer to my own blood which, for me, brings me closer to my Christ and I can never do or say enough to thank you.

“But sometimes I wonder how I'll even get through the night . . . through an hour . . . a minute, a second . . . without you. Without you beside me. Without your cerulean eyes locked on mine . . . But you are here, in so many ways. The scent of your perfume is still on my skin. I know it well. The taste of you is on my lips, though, it is so hard to narrow down . . . cinnamon and nutmeg sometimes . . . other times you are somewhere north of curry but west of cumin . . .”

Two months ago:

I make it home, though I’m not sure how. I realize that I really should stop driving under the influence (of you)... but then... when would I be able to drive? I push my helmet across the counter, feel my hair spill over my collar, lean back against the door, closed and relocked behind me. I

close

my eyes. One. Inhale. Two. Exhale. Three...

I unzip my jacket slowly, a tooth at a time, liking the sound of the thick-cut steel popping down my chest and stomach. Slide the quarter inch hide off my shoulders, which are taut and tense, let it drop around my boots. Gloves next. Then cotton polo, red with three black stripes, single button already undone.

“I button the bottom two buttons. Right now . . . I want one thing, only. You. I want to hold you so tight that we become one being. I want our mouths crashing together, lips, tongue, and teeth. I want my hands along every inch of your skin. I want to hear you gasp, me inside you, as I hold you, as you come for me. I wonder how long these two buttons will last . . . because, baby? I'm already undone.”

I cross my arms and lift my shirt off in one easy move that I’ve never utilized for my work on-camera but a thousand times alone like these. Boot buckles loosen with a nudge and I kick them off... walk in tank, jeans and chaps, into my room. I am led, of course, by you. Your hand in mine is bold, firm... but your eyes, your gaze is shy.

The radio plays:

“You're my only reason
You're my only truth...
I need you like water
Like breath, like rain...
There's a freedom in your arms
That carries me through
I need you”

I go to a poetry slam. Spoken word has made me a believer in more things than I can count. I nod and close my eyes. I smile and my brown cheeks get darker with my blush of understanding.

“I'm starting to think that Christ is more involved in my love life than I'm entirely comfortable with. That perhaps His hand formed you and me and lays down this love for us to pick like miniature daisies. I imagine you weaving garlands, delicate summer crowns of white petals and tiny sunshine yellow eyes. For some reason, in this fantasy, you are always grinning. Perhaps because in your long walks with our Christ, He has whispered to you His plans? I certainly know that someone divine is whispering to you. Because, baby, the way you touch me? Your fingertips, your lips. Your force, pace, certainty. Your strength, your patience. The way you reassure me. The way you never give in. I say no, no. But you pay attention. My social conditioning is not who I am even when, sometimes, it carries me away. You feel my trembling and know my heart. You lift me – hallelujah! You lift me – and as I no, no, shaking my head, you pull me tighter. You don't hesitate to tell me, firmly, oh yes. But doesn't Christ have better things to do? Oh wait. Is there anything more holy than two people in love?”

A picture of a cream-pink rose from a friend appears in my inbox. I blink. I smile. I blush. I wonder if she knows.

“Another thing I absolutely love . . . is when I'm looking for a scripture passage that I remember . . . and it's not there. And I realize that it was not something I read, but something that Christ whispered to me in those times that I was asking.”

“...so possessed by you, laying so still they think I’m napping...” But this is not sleep. This is prayer. This is discovering scripture that has not yet been written down.

Three months ago:

I want you like that. Shy gaze, bold hands. Seeing you see me... knowing that the face I turn to you is full of desire. Knowing you see what you do to me. All that and yet you meet my gaze with shy. You stand, confident and open. You wear society’s grin. You are an elixir that sparks my passion, the perfect potion, an alchemy of desire. I wanna play along, whisper, “Come here, baby. Come here...” You can play shy. I can play bold. We’ll both know the truth. Shh. *whispering against your ear... your head tips back* It’s our little secret, lover....

These politics of desire. The changing times that change not at all. The States that still make it illegal to proclaim a woman’s right for desire. Brown paper wrapper packages can be mailed only north of their borders. I think about these things sometimes. When I talk to intelligent women and passionate men who long to be something other than what culture demands of them. The Paglia approach to male prowess and female worth... do we really need to go there? She and I may agree on a great number of things... but we’re in the grips of another generation of young people coming of age without knowing what an orgasm is or how to define sex or why any of it is important to the spiritual completeness of their bodies. So... perhaps we should drop the pretenses and the brain-washing and turn the lights off and the music on and when the rave strobes catch nothing but commitment rings, let’s keep our eyes on our partner (and off the clock, Wings) and remember why Christ gave us bodies in the first place.

Because these sacred clockworks were not meant to be wound up... they were meant to let go.

"...at the point of orgasm he
becomes vulnerable.
Truly my own.
I wait for that moment.
It is what I live for.
When the ceiling of my apartment
disappears and there we are,
he and me, sitting
on the cold, steel bench,
on the playground,
not chosen for the team
that all the other boys are on.
Our elbows are touching. And
above us, the clouds roll by
like elephant kings."

“He taught us to love one another
His law is love and His gospel is peace
Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother
And in His name all oppression shall cease
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,
Let all within us praise His holy name.”

EJ