On our impassioned path: Are we walking alone? Are we walking peacefully, contentedly? Are we equipped? What are the things we carry?
These are the questions that came to me this week in my quiet moments. They came by email and PM and conversations online and off. They did not come by dove. My path turned this last week and it has taken me away from those Christ-eyed messengers. When anyone whispers that the impassioned path is not a path laid down with pain and hard choices, I will remember the moment when I turned my back on them for the last time and felt like I was cast from heaven.
Are we meant to hurt like this on our impassioned path? Are we meant to bleed? Are we meant to sing hallelujahs? Whisper amens? Are we meant to shout, to rail against the world and beat it into salvation? Are we meant to be content? Isn't contentment another word for death?
I do not know the answers to all the questions. Just a digital pastor here; at least that's what they call me. Not Christ by far. He has all the answers. I have answers that are only questions. Pickover writes (as a friend reminds me) that until we ask the questions that are outside our comfort zone, almost outside our capacity of comprehension, we will not begin to understand the face of God. For He is and was and will be so far more than us that to even begin to glimpse Him, we must go to that unexplored place within and without ourselves. That place that is terrifying and joyous, like the birth of a child.
I know:
That anger is a tool, not a right. My father always said, "Only those who walk an impassioned path have the right to use anger." My father was never angry.
I was raised that life can be hard, alone and cold, and it can also bring us support, comfort and warmth. But on the impassioned path, comfort is granted but by the grace of God. No light is cast that does not originate from Christ. The traveler on the impassioned path does not rejoice unless the joy is heaven sent.
"You don't have to do this alone," my beloved often whispers. But all my life and in my heart, I know I do, I am, I always will be. Even Christ had a beloved, after all, but I do not see that man who prayed and wept in the garden as feeling not alone. He walked only with God. I walk only with Christ.
De Vries writes, "It is the power of God that He need not exist to be our salvation." Guided by Christ and the principles laid down by His words, His deeds, we walk on those cobblestones that line the impassioned path. We affect the fabric of what we see and what we know as our world. We are rain on water. We are changer and changed; His hands as we carry on.
And sometimes we carry gear with us. We are equipped for battle. We sally forth with talisman and tools. We link ourselves to the water and to the rain and to each other and to our Christ.
"Living metaphor like our Living Word. What is this thing? This powerful desire that resides in my chest, that burns through me like my passion for you? This need to give you that vow, that grant and bond? We are kissing and my fingers trace the lines of your hand, circle your ring finger. I linger and my blood turns golden in my veins. I know what I want to do.
"These meanings we weave into the trinkets and treasures that pepper our days and years. These tokens of time and memory and magic. Each item like a prayer. Like a promise. Like a thread in the tapestry of who we are. I wear my symbols with joy and pain and everything else that memory entails."
This is armor on our path. Even when we bind each other with that most sacred exchange, the exchange of bands, two never-ending circles, we are still alone. We are only concentric with Christ.
A friend asks me, "What does it mean to be baptized by the blood?" She has asked this question of others and of Google, crossing denominations and pop culture. The answers have been unsatisfactory. I smile. I feel my smile. It is movement across my face, yes, but also an emotion that spreads like that first sip of hot coffee on a winter morning -- warming and stimulating and addictive as soft kisses. I answer:
"Do you know in your head that He died for you? Or do you accept on your shoulders, carry the cross, see the blood on your hands, your head? Do you walk your path armed with His death for you, His rebirth for you, His pain, His humiliation, His sacrifice? Do you think about how He asked if there were *any* other way for us to know salvation... if there were *anything* else that He could do or that could be done... if God could please, *please* just lift this fate from Him? Do you ever think about how young He was? Do you ever think about how *mortal* He was?
"Have you decided to be His missionary and soldier (same thing)? Do you comprehend what He did for you? Do you recognize and contemplate that no other prophet, pope or preacher has ever or will ever do the same? Would you walk and fight and die just to give others the *option* of salvation? Would you live even when you felt like dying?
"If yes, than you are baptized in the blood of Christ. Full immersion? Baby, you know it."
And He said, "If any man should want to come with me, to walk his path, than he must lose his life and carry his cross." To be baptized in blood is to come through your own trail by fire, to be burned, to be reduced to ashes, and only then be reborn.
"And there was blood on the floor, on the sheets, on the window and wall... all summer long. But I survived."
Christ's blood washes over us and becomes our own blood. This man, born mortal to understand us. This man, reborn our savior. The only man to speak with the voice of God is Christ. Christ is the voice we hear in our hearts. Christ is the Living Word. Christ and Christ alone. We are saved not by His tears or His gentleness or even His guidance. We are saved by His blood. Christ's mortal death becomes our own impassioned life. Now... how will we spend it?
This is the true question, perhaps, behind all those others I began with. How do we walk our impassioned path? How do we spend our days? They are not unending. They are expensive and rare and precious. The eternity that awaits us will not be like this. Only this, here and now, is this mortal coil. Throw it away and you have thrown away something beautiful and wondrous that even Christ relished.
Scattered among the cobblestones on my impassioned path there are garnets like drops of blood and sapphires like deep blue raindrops. Sometimes I dream they are d6s or d20s and I wake laughing but mostly that are teardrops of blood and rain. Each one holds a memory or a promise or a prayer. There are so many of them that I treasure this way, that I scatter like seeds on my path, that at times I cannot see the scripture-poetry that is engraved into the cobblestones except by gazing through a kaleidescope lens of red and blue.
How will I spend my days? I will celebrate my Lord, my Christ. In dance and prayer and making love. In song and gasp and new dawn in your eyes. In change and challenge and defeat. In choices and exclamations and claiming my identity. In back-beat and stomp and speed at midnight. In sky and stone and child's touch. In everything and everywhere. In pixels, in steel, in oil and rain. In you and me and honesty.
But most of all, I will spend my days in awe of this life my Christ has granted me.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Skillz... You Gots 'Em
It is the question I receive the most. Through email, through PMs, in person. I see in eyes and words that certainty and hope that whispers either, "Tell me your secret? How you found it?" or, more honestly, "Tell me where mine is?"
The impassioned path.
At fast count, a hundred people have asked me for road maps to divinity. Not one of them was a New Testament Christian. (Defined: One who hears Christ directly. Who accepts personal revelation. Who embraces the journey. One who answers only to Christ.)
Scripture says that no man knows when the Rapture will occur. Period. Not prophets or popes, not preachers or teachers. This is almost universally accepted in sane denominations (did I just write that?) but rarely do they go so far as to admit that no man will know another's impassioned path. Cast not the first stone? Yes, and how about cast not another man onto a path not his own?
So does this mean I have the map but I'm just not sharing? That I'm pulling a caterpillar/butterfly "The Dream Tree" ego-trip and whispering to the wind, "You will know it when you get there, little caterpillar. You will know..." *voice trailing off as I spread my gossamer wings and fly*
*smirk*
No. I don't have a map and I never had one. Not to my path and not to anyone else's. If someone had handed me one (a helpful pamphlet perhaps or brochure with a ten-step approach) I would have dropped it at their feet or thanked them politely and dropped it in the recycle. If another man could tell us our way, we wouldn't need to shut up and hear Christ now would we? So... when someone tries to tell me my path, I can only assume I'm either talking to a well-meaning idiot or to satan. No *shaking head* this gamer grrl angel don't ask for directions. I've got what I need right here *tapping my heart*
So. Why are you here then, right? What good is it if I won't give you easy answers? I said to a friend lately, "If were easy, everyone would be walking their impassioned path, everyone would be a New Testament Christian and no one would care who kissed a grrl just whether or not cherry chap stick brings glory to God." The answer might surprise you.
It begins as a feeling. Maybe distant. Maybe overwhelming. You may confuse it at first with "passion" because the impassioned path is often passionate, enraptured truth. It will give your cheeks color. You will not be ashamed to think about it or talk to Christ about it again and again and again. You might keep it a secret from some for safety... but not from Christ. He will be your best friend. You will laugh and sigh and blush for Him when you share how you feel. You will feel like a child, free and alive. You will feel like an adult, strong and confident. You will feel like you have wings.
You will become an angel of the Lord.
The impassioned path brings glory to Christ. It rarely brings glory to you. If it does, remove that component. I waive my royalties. I changed my name. I don't run photos. I am not the story. I am the angel and everyone knows that angels are hard to find.
The impassioned path is different for everyone. It is a new age. Think outside the box. Some friends of mine walk impassioned paths. They are: Publishing a free GLBT-positive e-zine for Mormon grrls (Ginny and Kim); Educating young men about scripture and the "Way of Christ" through online gaming (Jason); Clean, straight-talk about our bodies and how they work through in-class lectures and a line of provocative statements on modest clothes (Bobbi). Thought the impassioned path was teaching Sunday school to five year olds? Not for everyone.
The impassioned path is not about loving a single person (no matter what); or only having children (oops, sorry); or being a good elder in your house of worship. Nope, nada, negatory. These are all too easy. However, all of these things might very well be part of an impassioned path.
Also... Christ didn't say we must all walk an impassioned path. Nor must we walk an impassioned path or stay on the path once we find it to achieve some goal called heaven. Heaven is not a tier system like the developer program at IMVU. Redemption does not come in flavors or levels of tasty goodness. Levels are called incentives. Incentives were invented by man (donkey, stick, carrot) not God. Salvation is not an incentive. Christ is our savior not our point-system prize. You cannot trade in two bottom shelf amens for a top shelf hallelujah. Mother bird doesn't bribe her children to do the right thing by dangling worms in the sky. She pushes them out of the nest. Either they fly or they fall. If she has taught them right, they soar.
Think about your life. Think about when you felt happy and worthwhile, truly worthwhile. Proud in a clean and humble kind of way. Think about when you felt passionately about something, doing something, being with someone. Now think about what has been even better than that. Where was there joy like a well-spring? It wasn't in creating drama with false importance. It wasn't in hubris. It wasn't in selfish pursuit. Where was it? Find it. Remember it. Take this moment, this day, this month, this year (next twelve months) to recognize and analyze the parts of your life. Deconstructionist theory is always best either taught by a dashing college professor or applied to one's own life vigorously over corn dogs and Jello. You'll find it amazing how easy it is to see the lay of the land when you clear out the smoke and shatter the mirrors.
And if there has been nothing yet? If you can't see the path, have never felt it... then start looking now. Expose yourself to as many new things and new experiences as possible. Find it. If you want it, find it. No one else can make it happen. No one else can stop it.
The impassioned path is not a group endeavor.
Hm. What say you there, angel gamer grrl? Not a great big juicy team effort? I thought we were all in this together?! We're all working for the Big C, right? Isn't it one great big wide path? Yellow brick fun and socialization with a Christian bent? Uh, in short, no. We are born with Christ, we will die with Christ, and we live with Christ. Ultimately, we answer only to Christ with no man our intermediary and no one fully able to understand us as He does. He is all knowing. All the rest of us are small knowing.
The impassioned paths may all lead, eventually, to the same place (the arms of our Christ), but we walk them of our own accord, with our own two feet, our own heart as direction and our gaze and our gaze alone on the sky, the path and the surrounding terrain. We are responsible for our own provisions, our own deadlines, our own forks (sporks) in the road and whether or not we actually move and act or just stand and bask in the light of impassioned goodness *snort*
There might be fifty people walking the impassioned path called "Mardi Gras 3000" but every single one of them has a different path. Not a single one of us should, could, would describe our paths as the same. And none of us are waiting for someone else to give us what we need to *move.*
Life gives us the tools we need. Christ gives us the skills. Lovers, enemies, crummy parents, human parents, strangers on the street, providence, terror, falling in love, feeling desire, holding a child, making a friend laugh... life gives us the tools. Software packages, good walking shoes, brand new paint brushes, used jeans... life gives us the tools. And sometimes we look at these tools (blank book, html how-to-manual, invitation to the local church to speak) and know instantly and deeply and surely what to do with them. Other times, other tools (yellow yarn, chop sticks, an angry preacher, a goldfish named Hans, a cranky child) we have no idea... at first (make a God's Eye and give it to the preacher; teach a child about the ocean of air that we swim in and how Christ made it just for us).
Take an inventory of your tools. Quantify your assets. Think outside the box and further outside your comfort zone. Think that Christ won't appreciate your deluxe garden rake or your experience with troubled teens? Think your skills as a live-gamer or BB RPGer won't measure up? Think again. Welcome to the new day, nothing like the old day. Pray in pixels, baby. Catch up. Christ needs your whole toolbox. List them all. Use an Excel spread sheet. Sort them by how well you wield them. 1 being you manage. 5 being mastery. Go.
Leverage your tool assets into your skill set. Brainstorm what you do well. Apply these skills, backed by these tools, to that thing in your life that is impassioned. One hour every day, do it. Mix it up. Make it happen. Repeat. Increase time as able. Go.
Feel it. Think about it. Recognize it. *Walk it.*
No one is meant to stand still on an impassioned path. No one.
Not ever.
EJ
Dedicated to Honesty and Sky, forever.
The impassioned path.
At fast count, a hundred people have asked me for road maps to divinity. Not one of them was a New Testament Christian. (Defined: One who hears Christ directly. Who accepts personal revelation. Who embraces the journey. One who answers only to Christ.)
Scripture says that no man knows when the Rapture will occur. Period. Not prophets or popes, not preachers or teachers. This is almost universally accepted in sane denominations (did I just write that?) but rarely do they go so far as to admit that no man will know another's impassioned path. Cast not the first stone? Yes, and how about cast not another man onto a path not his own?
So does this mean I have the map but I'm just not sharing? That I'm pulling a caterpillar/butterfly "The Dream Tree" ego-trip and whispering to the wind, "You will know it when you get there, little caterpillar. You will know..." *voice trailing off as I spread my gossamer wings and fly*
*smirk*
No. I don't have a map and I never had one. Not to my path and not to anyone else's. If someone had handed me one (a helpful pamphlet perhaps or brochure with a ten-step approach) I would have dropped it at their feet or thanked them politely and dropped it in the recycle. If another man could tell us our way, we wouldn't need to shut up and hear Christ now would we? So... when someone tries to tell me my path, I can only assume I'm either talking to a well-meaning idiot or to satan. No *shaking head* this gamer grrl angel don't ask for directions. I've got what I need right here *tapping my heart*
So. Why are you here then, right? What good is it if I won't give you easy answers? I said to a friend lately, "If were easy, everyone would be walking their impassioned path, everyone would be a New Testament Christian and no one would care who kissed a grrl just whether or not cherry chap stick brings glory to God." The answer might surprise you.
It begins as a feeling. Maybe distant. Maybe overwhelming. You may confuse it at first with "passion" because the impassioned path is often passionate, enraptured truth. It will give your cheeks color. You will not be ashamed to think about it or talk to Christ about it again and again and again. You might keep it a secret from some for safety... but not from Christ. He will be your best friend. You will laugh and sigh and blush for Him when you share how you feel. You will feel like a child, free and alive. You will feel like an adult, strong and confident. You will feel like you have wings.
You will become an angel of the Lord.
The impassioned path brings glory to Christ. It rarely brings glory to you. If it does, remove that component. I waive my royalties. I changed my name. I don't run photos. I am not the story. I am the angel and everyone knows that angels are hard to find.
The impassioned path is different for everyone. It is a new age. Think outside the box. Some friends of mine walk impassioned paths. They are: Publishing a free GLBT-positive e-zine for Mormon grrls (Ginny and Kim); Educating young men about scripture and the "Way of Christ" through online gaming (Jason); Clean, straight-talk about our bodies and how they work through in-class lectures and a line of provocative statements on modest clothes (Bobbi). Thought the impassioned path was teaching Sunday school to five year olds? Not for everyone.
The impassioned path is not about loving a single person (no matter what); or only having children (oops, sorry); or being a good elder in your house of worship. Nope, nada, negatory. These are all too easy. However, all of these things might very well be part of an impassioned path.
Also... Christ didn't say we must all walk an impassioned path. Nor must we walk an impassioned path or stay on the path once we find it to achieve some goal called heaven. Heaven is not a tier system like the developer program at IMVU. Redemption does not come in flavors or levels of tasty goodness. Levels are called incentives. Incentives were invented by man (donkey, stick, carrot) not God. Salvation is not an incentive. Christ is our savior not our point-system prize. You cannot trade in two bottom shelf amens for a top shelf hallelujah. Mother bird doesn't bribe her children to do the right thing by dangling worms in the sky. She pushes them out of the nest. Either they fly or they fall. If she has taught them right, they soar.
Think about your life. Think about when you felt happy and worthwhile, truly worthwhile. Proud in a clean and humble kind of way. Think about when you felt passionately about something, doing something, being with someone. Now think about what has been even better than that. Where was there joy like a well-spring? It wasn't in creating drama with false importance. It wasn't in hubris. It wasn't in selfish pursuit. Where was it? Find it. Remember it. Take this moment, this day, this month, this year (next twelve months) to recognize and analyze the parts of your life. Deconstructionist theory is always best either taught by a dashing college professor or applied to one's own life vigorously over corn dogs and Jello. You'll find it amazing how easy it is to see the lay of the land when you clear out the smoke and shatter the mirrors.
And if there has been nothing yet? If you can't see the path, have never felt it... then start looking now. Expose yourself to as many new things and new experiences as possible. Find it. If you want it, find it. No one else can make it happen. No one else can stop it.
The impassioned path is not a group endeavor.
Hm. What say you there, angel gamer grrl? Not a great big juicy team effort? I thought we were all in this together?! We're all working for the Big C, right? Isn't it one great big wide path? Yellow brick fun and socialization with a Christian bent? Uh, in short, no. We are born with Christ, we will die with Christ, and we live with Christ. Ultimately, we answer only to Christ with no man our intermediary and no one fully able to understand us as He does. He is all knowing. All the rest of us are small knowing.
The impassioned paths may all lead, eventually, to the same place (the arms of our Christ), but we walk them of our own accord, with our own two feet, our own heart as direction and our gaze and our gaze alone on the sky, the path and the surrounding terrain. We are responsible for our own provisions, our own deadlines, our own forks (sporks) in the road and whether or not we actually move and act or just stand and bask in the light of impassioned goodness *snort*
There might be fifty people walking the impassioned path called "Mardi Gras 3000" but every single one of them has a different path. Not a single one of us should, could, would describe our paths as the same. And none of us are waiting for someone else to give us what we need to *move.*
Life gives us the tools we need. Christ gives us the skills. Lovers, enemies, crummy parents, human parents, strangers on the street, providence, terror, falling in love, feeling desire, holding a child, making a friend laugh... life gives us the tools. Software packages, good walking shoes, brand new paint brushes, used jeans... life gives us the tools. And sometimes we look at these tools (blank book, html how-to-manual, invitation to the local church to speak) and know instantly and deeply and surely what to do with them. Other times, other tools (yellow yarn, chop sticks, an angry preacher, a goldfish named Hans, a cranky child) we have no idea... at first (make a God's Eye and give it to the preacher; teach a child about the ocean of air that we swim in and how Christ made it just for us).
Take an inventory of your tools. Quantify your assets. Think outside the box and further outside your comfort zone. Think that Christ won't appreciate your deluxe garden rake or your experience with troubled teens? Think your skills as a live-gamer or BB RPGer won't measure up? Think again. Welcome to the new day, nothing like the old day. Pray in pixels, baby. Catch up. Christ needs your whole toolbox. List them all. Use an Excel spread sheet. Sort them by how well you wield them. 1 being you manage. 5 being mastery. Go.
Leverage your tool assets into your skill set. Brainstorm what you do well. Apply these skills, backed by these tools, to that thing in your life that is impassioned. One hour every day, do it. Mix it up. Make it happen. Repeat. Increase time as able. Go.
Feel it. Think about it. Recognize it. *Walk it.*
No one is meant to stand still on an impassioned path. No one.
Not ever.
EJ
Dedicated to Honesty and Sky, forever.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Rain
...in celebration of passing the 4000 subscriber milestone.
Like green growing things need rain and sunlight, I need your whispers, your touch. Divinity made flesh, you are my living prayer, my heart, my everything. I love you.
It is raining. With rain, comes cleansing. Sweet baptism of the world.
In the café, where once a “friend” tore out my heart over you and laid it on the checkerboard table, I sit now and laugh. Extended dinner break from work, our mutual true friend (a sister in Christ) laughs with me. “Well, they don’t *know* you...” and she inflects a perfect talk-show guest accent, complete with head bob and street attitude. “Maybe they should worry that their daughter is dating a pastor. That’s a big responsibility. I mean, she’ll always have to come second to Christ.” And I look down, a hot blush flooding my brown cheeks.
And Christ turned to His apostles, and His body was not quite the flesh it once was. This was risen flesh. This was form held between Earth and Heaven. Marked by the evil of man, wounds at His side and feet and palms of hands. His brow still marred by their mockery of thorns. Yet to look upon Him was transcendent. They knew He was not long for their world. He had given enough.
“What shall we do? Where shall we go?”
They were voices of fear, tangible and terrified, and this was their moment of truth. He looked at them. They already looked so alone.
“We belong to the light.
We belong to the thunder.
We belong to the sound of the words.”
There is power in numbers. Power in hands, voices, votes, belief, all joined in union so strong and unshakable that they become blind to opposition only aware of attack and survival. There is power in numbers. Binary. Prime numbers. Factual truths that are the foundation of science and the proof of my Christ. There is a golden thread between us that thrums with the certainty that our path is not accepted by the blind masses in the same way that Christ’s path and the path of His own were not accepted.
There are palm boughs. There are rocks thrown. There is a silver web that connects all true Christians, Christianos, that allows us to share truths instantly, across time and space and ignorance. This is web is often called: faith
The Terrapyres and Celestials aren’t the only ones with racial knowledge. Our bloodline is His bloodline. The blood He shed for us is our lineage. Our inheritance.
What do you say in His name? What do you do in His name?
A true Christian is found not in words, man’s rituals or dictates, but in his actions. Does he live as Christ did? Or does he wrap himself in the drama of man’s world, the egocentric construct of the church? Pedestals are for fine art. Ignorance is not pretty.
And I realize, looking up into His sky, feeling His baptism on my face, that I am still... very… angry.
Or is it hurt?
No.
I prefer anger. My heart is yours. It cannot be wounded except by your hand.
Christ looked at them. His eyes were that maelstrom of gentleness and strength that they had seen so many times before. “You will not be alone,” and His voice was benediction, was truth, was Living Word. “As you hear my voice now, you will hear my voice again. I will speak directly and divinely. I will find you, touch you, hold you, wherever you are, wherever you are lost or found. You will write my stories and make them your own, but the truth will be passed to each of you, to each of them, forever, revelation to your own hearts alone. For only then is the word alive.”
Whether I am here or there. Close or far. Whether the distance is two thousand miles or a single breath, I stand with you. Perhaps the first trial you felt alone because I had never given you the words. I had never verbalized this truth, this promise, this reality. They cannot strip you down because I will not let them near you. Let them step close. They may not see me, golden armor wrapped around you, but I will be there. And their darkness with strike me and shatter away from you like glass. Close your eyes. Just breathe easy. We will fight together.
It is raining. The rain falls from low clouds that limit my world, encasing it in something safe and manageable. Life happens around me while I pray for you. How I dread and love Sundays. My Sabbath with Him. Your Sabbath in what I have come to see as a den of lions. There is great faith there, where you walk, but I believe it resides in you alone. All else is laid there by man. Such clarity you possess when you speak with me of Christ. In the last month alone we spoke for 84 hours. In those hours we spoke of Christ, said His name, 115 times.
“I hope she knows what she’s getting into.”
Yes. It’s called service. Praise the Lord she’s found it. My heart breaks that she can’t share it with you.
“There is one mission. One goal. One path. Bring the people to Christ.”
“This is the path I walk with you.”
“This is our path.”
“Come what may.”
“Amen, my love.”
“Amen.”
My father, before he died, lived with me in a home in Washington that was up on a cliff, looking out over the Puget Sound and the ferry lines. On Sundays, before we went walking and spoke of Christ, before we went trekking about town, finding others, naturally, to start up conversations with, to invite for dinner out (to mention Christ over chocolate cream pie for dessert), he would watch the preacher men on tv. My father loved all things American and that meant tv. He liked to do this with a demitasse cup of espresso with thick spices in his hand and his hair down about his shoulders. He had a gentle demeanor and a quiet voice. He never teased, was incapable of sarcasm and simply blinked his eyes when startled by anyone’s anger or rudeness. His eyes were always gentle.
“Do you see this, Eliza? Do you see how denomination always turns back to itself? It does not spin outward to reach Christ. It must fold back in to support its own survival. Denomination is a beast. It is hungry. It is business and market strength. It is the opposite of divine.”
And at my easel, my back to the tv because I truly despise tv (LOL!), I would fake a laugh or a chuckle, “I know, Dad. I hear it.” How I loved to hear his accent roll with tender inflections. He meant them – those evangelists – no harm or malice. He was amused by them. Like children playing grown up. Like scared children making up stories to stop themselves from fearing the dark.
I sometimes prayed that I could have his calm. My father’s calm. That I could stop saying “denomination” like a four-letter word. It took me twenty-seven years and falling in love with you for that prayer to be answered. So now, at least, I don’t breathe fire when someone proclaims, “The church says...”
But, babygrrl, really? Churches don’t speak.
What is the opposite of Living Word? Huh.
Christ drew His apostles to Him one raw winter night when the wind battered the humble shelter that they huddled within. He said to them, "Do not be afraid. You will weather this storm with me."
But one of the apostles said, "What if the shelter fails us, Lord?"
And Christ answered, "Then I will stand with my arms around you in the rain and wind, and we will weather the storm."
Then another apostle said, "What if we are bruised and broken by the falling trees?"
Christ answered, "Then I will lift the tree from your back and carry it for you."
A third apostle asked, "What if falling rock crushes us from the cliff above?"
Christ only smiled His most gentle smile. "Then you will be crushed and remade."
"In Heaven?" groused a doubting apostle.
Christ shook His head patiently. "No. Those who stand strong for me, shall be imbibed with my courage and filled with my light. And so should he fall, that light eternal will remake him. He will not be in Heaven. He will be on Earth. But nonetheless, he will lift the stone that crushes him."
“Whatever we deny or embrace.
For worse or for better.
We belong together.”
It is raining. My grandmother, ex-soldier, used to say: “Go stand in the rain, Eliza Jean. My Angel. Go stand and find new scripture in every rain drop.” And so I stood.
When you touch your lips to mine, do you taste divinity? Shh. Let them think we’ve never met.
“No distance, no time, no darkness, can take me from you,” and His words were benediction and His benediction was truth.
There was a pastor. A youth pastor. He ministered each Sunday to the children and teens. They gave him a chance to speak to the adult congregation. They mixed the children and adults and let Alan speak.
My dear friend, my mentor, the mother I always wanted, she was thirteen then. It would be six years until I would meet her. She sat, hair to her waist, pale blue eyes like washed denim sensitive to every light but the filtered light cast through the simple stain glass windows. She wore a robin’s egg blue cotton dress with antique white lace edging. Black patent leather shoes. A small gold cross. Her Bible, dog-eared in her lap, sat beneath still, small hands. She was already a survivor of kidnapping and rape. She was already a survivor of clapboard poverty. She was already so many things. She was not sheltered. She was not blind. She was simply alive.
Outside the small, nondenominational, nonaffiliated church, it was raining. The sound was the torrents of the world. The sound of existence. Alan spoke to forty rows of packed pews. Alan spoke to my friend:
“Why are you here? Is it because it’s raining? Is it easier to sit here, on worn smooth pews, than stand out there where it is wet and cold and dark? Do you see Christ here? Why would Christ sit in a building and huddle and pray? Why are you here? Do you see blind eyes here? Hearts that bleed for the light of truth? Get up! Go! Find Christ and walk with Him to where He can change lives with His hands -- your hands -- in His world. Go!"
And people *stood up.* Not one. Not two. Ten. Twelve. Twenty. People stood up and left. But my friend wasn’t one of them. With her grandfather’s hand firm on her arm, she stayed where she was. But her eyes burned and she never returned to that building. She spent her Sundays in service to Christ instead of sitting in a service about Him.
The church “lost” members that day when Alan preached. And they never let him preach again... until they asked him to take the pulpit as his own fifteen years later. They “lost” members (faith is *not* supposed to be a club) but how many souls did those ex-members save? More than have ever been saved from any pulpit. Because that pastor didn't care about the building. He cared about Christ.
The rain continues to fall. It is softer than it sounds. I shiver, but not from the cold, rather from the feel of Christ all around me. I thank Him for everyone in my life. Even the people I wish would wake up or shut up or look up. I sit in silent contemplation with our Christ. I wish I could record the sounds and send them to you. The wind. The city. The doves. The rainfall. I don't want to move. I want to stay in this moment. It is divine. Living transformation. And I love you.
“And I miss you.
Like the deserts miss the rain.”
Christ whispers: Look up.
Faith whispers: Look up.
You whisper: Look at me.
It’s really all the same whisper.
* * *
From: ej@email.com
To: jo@email.com
Subject: Rain like diamonds
Date: Wednesday, August 20, 2008 12:43 PM
Google says it's still raining in Port Orchard. Close your eyes a moment. Imagine shrugging into my leather jacket, which smells like my perfume, and stepping out into the rain with me. I take your hand, lead you up the path into the wood. Don't worry I'll knock down any spider webs. Half way up I won't be able to wait, I'll turn into your arms, tip my face to yours, reach up, my hands in your hair, and guide your mouth to mine. After a moment, I'll back away a tiny bit, touch your lips with my finger to hold the kiss there, then turn away, take your hand, and lead you further into the woods.
Past the little shed cabin to the right (West) and looping around the hidden trail to Owl Tree. We'll walk carefully so not to lose the path. It will take ten or fifteen minutes. By the time we reach the old lightning-struck tree, the leather jacket will shine like armor across your shoulders. Under Christ's own perfect sky, silver and heavy, I'll kiss you again, tasting rain on your lips, finding the heat of your blush with my fingertips, finding the heat of your mouth with my own. It will be enough. In His eyes. In His time. It will be enough.
I love you. I cannot help but think of you this way. Somewhere North of a letter, but Northwest of poetry. You have made me what I am today. You have taught me to be loud. You are the first to walk with me. Christ bless and keep you always. You deserve so much more than I could ever give. But I am so willing to try.
Angel
* * *
And I was on my knees and I flung the laptop out of my hands, didn’t care as it bounced off the fire escape railing. I was powerless to stop them from hurting you. And I wept and I begged and said to Christ, aloud... very loud... “Why won’t you tell her to leave me?!” Because goodness knows I was telling you to. Over and over again. Six hours... eight hours... with every possible argument I could dream up.
And He was so quiet. But just as He promised the apostles, the first apostles (and please note that the word is not capitalized), He was with me. Quiet. Still. But so there. Such a presence that I could feel His hands on my shoulders. You said: “He told me to love you. Are you asking me to turn away from Him?”
It was the first night you ever wrote Him instead of him. It meant more to me than you may ever know.
* * *
From: ej@email.com
To: jo@email.com
Subject: The rain arrives...
Date: Wednesday, August 20, 2008 3:00 AM
...and with it my passion for you rekindles and I recall your face in a dozen photos, your voice, poised and worried across the sound of an early summer day, and the feeling of my heart, pounding in my chest, flooding my cheeks with heat, when your words, live and slowly rising, first meet my eyes every Monday and Friday evening. It has, I think, been raining for you all day and into the evening.
The formations of clouds and wind and heavenly turbulence are far harder to read and decipher than the emotional punctuation you use to show me you. It is now... this is my "midnight"... these are my quiet hours when prayer is possible and probable and always so real. The power of prayer, like the power of creation, floods my chest and fills my eyes with thankful tears. The rest of the world around me has left me behind. The clock chimed twelve and they have all changed the day on their calendars and moved on. I am here, alone with my Christ, in what remains of His good day. Fools rush in. But I am content to stay and wait out the hours with my thoughts of stars and conception and salvation and conversion.
You have seen me in panic and in stress. You have comforted me. You have turned me on. You have teased, argued, cried, played, prayed, worried and fallen asleep with me. But if you messaged our mutual friends and asked, "How is she most?" their answers would be the same: She is quiet. She is thoughtful. She watches everyone and everything... she looks and *sees.*
My eyes drift closed, my prayers are done... two hours each morning, two hours each night... continual throughout the day... often more when it rains. I should sleep. My call is at 8. But I linger here. I do not want to leave the window seat. I like the feeling of the wind sheering mist off the rain drops and enfolding me in tiny sparkling gems. I close my eyes... and look up. You are standing in the doorway, the faint recessed light of the hall is behind you. You are tall and confident. You know that I like what I see. You are silent. You are asking without words if I have returned from walking with my Christ, our Christ, to stand again on your golden shores, rose petals at my feet. Am I dreaming? No, I think you are here with me. Always near.
Good night, my love.
Your Angel
* * *
Christ whispers: I am with you. I am with all of you.
Hear me.
EJ
Like green growing things need rain and sunlight, I need your whispers, your touch. Divinity made flesh, you are my living prayer, my heart, my everything. I love you.
It is raining. With rain, comes cleansing. Sweet baptism of the world.
In the café, where once a “friend” tore out my heart over you and laid it on the checkerboard table, I sit now and laugh. Extended dinner break from work, our mutual true friend (a sister in Christ) laughs with me. “Well, they don’t *know* you...” and she inflects a perfect talk-show guest accent, complete with head bob and street attitude. “Maybe they should worry that their daughter is dating a pastor. That’s a big responsibility. I mean, she’ll always have to come second to Christ.” And I look down, a hot blush flooding my brown cheeks.
And Christ turned to His apostles, and His body was not quite the flesh it once was. This was risen flesh. This was form held between Earth and Heaven. Marked by the evil of man, wounds at His side and feet and palms of hands. His brow still marred by their mockery of thorns. Yet to look upon Him was transcendent. They knew He was not long for their world. He had given enough.
“What shall we do? Where shall we go?”
They were voices of fear, tangible and terrified, and this was their moment of truth. He looked at them. They already looked so alone.
“We belong to the light.
We belong to the thunder.
We belong to the sound of the words.”
There is power in numbers. Power in hands, voices, votes, belief, all joined in union so strong and unshakable that they become blind to opposition only aware of attack and survival. There is power in numbers. Binary. Prime numbers. Factual truths that are the foundation of science and the proof of my Christ. There is a golden thread between us that thrums with the certainty that our path is not accepted by the blind masses in the same way that Christ’s path and the path of His own were not accepted.
There are palm boughs. There are rocks thrown. There is a silver web that connects all true Christians, Christianos, that allows us to share truths instantly, across time and space and ignorance. This is web is often called: faith
The Terrapyres and Celestials aren’t the only ones with racial knowledge. Our bloodline is His bloodline. The blood He shed for us is our lineage. Our inheritance.
What do you say in His name? What do you do in His name?
A true Christian is found not in words, man’s rituals or dictates, but in his actions. Does he live as Christ did? Or does he wrap himself in the drama of man’s world, the egocentric construct of the church? Pedestals are for fine art. Ignorance is not pretty.
And I realize, looking up into His sky, feeling His baptism on my face, that I am still... very… angry.
Or is it hurt?
No.
I prefer anger. My heart is yours. It cannot be wounded except by your hand.
Christ looked at them. His eyes were that maelstrom of gentleness and strength that they had seen so many times before. “You will not be alone,” and His voice was benediction, was truth, was Living Word. “As you hear my voice now, you will hear my voice again. I will speak directly and divinely. I will find you, touch you, hold you, wherever you are, wherever you are lost or found. You will write my stories and make them your own, but the truth will be passed to each of you, to each of them, forever, revelation to your own hearts alone. For only then is the word alive.”
Whether I am here or there. Close or far. Whether the distance is two thousand miles or a single breath, I stand with you. Perhaps the first trial you felt alone because I had never given you the words. I had never verbalized this truth, this promise, this reality. They cannot strip you down because I will not let them near you. Let them step close. They may not see me, golden armor wrapped around you, but I will be there. And their darkness with strike me and shatter away from you like glass. Close your eyes. Just breathe easy. We will fight together.
It is raining. The rain falls from low clouds that limit my world, encasing it in something safe and manageable. Life happens around me while I pray for you. How I dread and love Sundays. My Sabbath with Him. Your Sabbath in what I have come to see as a den of lions. There is great faith there, where you walk, but I believe it resides in you alone. All else is laid there by man. Such clarity you possess when you speak with me of Christ. In the last month alone we spoke for 84 hours. In those hours we spoke of Christ, said His name, 115 times.
“I hope she knows what she’s getting into.”
Yes. It’s called service. Praise the Lord she’s found it. My heart breaks that she can’t share it with you.
“There is one mission. One goal. One path. Bring the people to Christ.”
“This is the path I walk with you.”
“This is our path.”
“Come what may.”
“Amen, my love.”
“Amen.”
My father, before he died, lived with me in a home in Washington that was up on a cliff, looking out over the Puget Sound and the ferry lines. On Sundays, before we went walking and spoke of Christ, before we went trekking about town, finding others, naturally, to start up conversations with, to invite for dinner out (to mention Christ over chocolate cream pie for dessert), he would watch the preacher men on tv. My father loved all things American and that meant tv. He liked to do this with a demitasse cup of espresso with thick spices in his hand and his hair down about his shoulders. He had a gentle demeanor and a quiet voice. He never teased, was incapable of sarcasm and simply blinked his eyes when startled by anyone’s anger or rudeness. His eyes were always gentle.
“Do you see this, Eliza? Do you see how denomination always turns back to itself? It does not spin outward to reach Christ. It must fold back in to support its own survival. Denomination is a beast. It is hungry. It is business and market strength. It is the opposite of divine.”
And at my easel, my back to the tv because I truly despise tv (LOL!), I would fake a laugh or a chuckle, “I know, Dad. I hear it.” How I loved to hear his accent roll with tender inflections. He meant them – those evangelists – no harm or malice. He was amused by them. Like children playing grown up. Like scared children making up stories to stop themselves from fearing the dark.
I sometimes prayed that I could have his calm. My father’s calm. That I could stop saying “denomination” like a four-letter word. It took me twenty-seven years and falling in love with you for that prayer to be answered. So now, at least, I don’t breathe fire when someone proclaims, “The church says...”
But, babygrrl, really? Churches don’t speak.
What is the opposite of Living Word? Huh.
Christ drew His apostles to Him one raw winter night when the wind battered the humble shelter that they huddled within. He said to them, "Do not be afraid. You will weather this storm with me."
But one of the apostles said, "What if the shelter fails us, Lord?"
And Christ answered, "Then I will stand with my arms around you in the rain and wind, and we will weather the storm."
Then another apostle said, "What if we are bruised and broken by the falling trees?"
Christ answered, "Then I will lift the tree from your back and carry it for you."
A third apostle asked, "What if falling rock crushes us from the cliff above?"
Christ only smiled His most gentle smile. "Then you will be crushed and remade."
"In Heaven?" groused a doubting apostle.
Christ shook His head patiently. "No. Those who stand strong for me, shall be imbibed with my courage and filled with my light. And so should he fall, that light eternal will remake him. He will not be in Heaven. He will be on Earth. But nonetheless, he will lift the stone that crushes him."
“Whatever we deny or embrace.
For worse or for better.
We belong together.”
It is raining. My grandmother, ex-soldier, used to say: “Go stand in the rain, Eliza Jean. My Angel. Go stand and find new scripture in every rain drop.” And so I stood.
When you touch your lips to mine, do you taste divinity? Shh. Let them think we’ve never met.
“No distance, no time, no darkness, can take me from you,” and His words were benediction and His benediction was truth.
There was a pastor. A youth pastor. He ministered each Sunday to the children and teens. They gave him a chance to speak to the adult congregation. They mixed the children and adults and let Alan speak.
My dear friend, my mentor, the mother I always wanted, she was thirteen then. It would be six years until I would meet her. She sat, hair to her waist, pale blue eyes like washed denim sensitive to every light but the filtered light cast through the simple stain glass windows. She wore a robin’s egg blue cotton dress with antique white lace edging. Black patent leather shoes. A small gold cross. Her Bible, dog-eared in her lap, sat beneath still, small hands. She was already a survivor of kidnapping and rape. She was already a survivor of clapboard poverty. She was already so many things. She was not sheltered. She was not blind. She was simply alive.
Outside the small, nondenominational, nonaffiliated church, it was raining. The sound was the torrents of the world. The sound of existence. Alan spoke to forty rows of packed pews. Alan spoke to my friend:
“Why are you here? Is it because it’s raining? Is it easier to sit here, on worn smooth pews, than stand out there where it is wet and cold and dark? Do you see Christ here? Why would Christ sit in a building and huddle and pray? Why are you here? Do you see blind eyes here? Hearts that bleed for the light of truth? Get up! Go! Find Christ and walk with Him to where He can change lives with His hands -- your hands -- in His world. Go!"
And people *stood up.* Not one. Not two. Ten. Twelve. Twenty. People stood up and left. But my friend wasn’t one of them. With her grandfather’s hand firm on her arm, she stayed where she was. But her eyes burned and she never returned to that building. She spent her Sundays in service to Christ instead of sitting in a service about Him.
The church “lost” members that day when Alan preached. And they never let him preach again... until they asked him to take the pulpit as his own fifteen years later. They “lost” members (faith is *not* supposed to be a club) but how many souls did those ex-members save? More than have ever been saved from any pulpit. Because that pastor didn't care about the building. He cared about Christ.
The rain continues to fall. It is softer than it sounds. I shiver, but not from the cold, rather from the feel of Christ all around me. I thank Him for everyone in my life. Even the people I wish would wake up or shut up or look up. I sit in silent contemplation with our Christ. I wish I could record the sounds and send them to you. The wind. The city. The doves. The rainfall. I don't want to move. I want to stay in this moment. It is divine. Living transformation. And I love you.
“And I miss you.
Like the deserts miss the rain.”
Christ whispers: Look up.
Faith whispers: Look up.
You whisper: Look at me.
It’s really all the same whisper.
* * *
From: ej@email.com
To: jo@email.com
Subject: Rain like diamonds
Date: Wednesday, August 20, 2008 12:43 PM
Google says it's still raining in Port Orchard. Close your eyes a moment. Imagine shrugging into my leather jacket, which smells like my perfume, and stepping out into the rain with me. I take your hand, lead you up the path into the wood. Don't worry I'll knock down any spider webs. Half way up I won't be able to wait, I'll turn into your arms, tip my face to yours, reach up, my hands in your hair, and guide your mouth to mine. After a moment, I'll back away a tiny bit, touch your lips with my finger to hold the kiss there, then turn away, take your hand, and lead you further into the woods.
Past the little shed cabin to the right (West) and looping around the hidden trail to Owl Tree. We'll walk carefully so not to lose the path. It will take ten or fifteen minutes. By the time we reach the old lightning-struck tree, the leather jacket will shine like armor across your shoulders. Under Christ's own perfect sky, silver and heavy, I'll kiss you again, tasting rain on your lips, finding the heat of your blush with my fingertips, finding the heat of your mouth with my own. It will be enough. In His eyes. In His time. It will be enough.
I love you. I cannot help but think of you this way. Somewhere North of a letter, but Northwest of poetry. You have made me what I am today. You have taught me to be loud. You are the first to walk with me. Christ bless and keep you always. You deserve so much more than I could ever give. But I am so willing to try.
Angel
* * *
And I was on my knees and I flung the laptop out of my hands, didn’t care as it bounced off the fire escape railing. I was powerless to stop them from hurting you. And I wept and I begged and said to Christ, aloud... very loud... “Why won’t you tell her to leave me?!” Because goodness knows I was telling you to. Over and over again. Six hours... eight hours... with every possible argument I could dream up.
And He was so quiet. But just as He promised the apostles, the first apostles (and please note that the word is not capitalized), He was with me. Quiet. Still. But so there. Such a presence that I could feel His hands on my shoulders. You said: “He told me to love you. Are you asking me to turn away from Him?”
It was the first night you ever wrote Him instead of him. It meant more to me than you may ever know.
* * *
From: ej@email.com
To: jo@email.com
Subject: The rain arrives...
Date: Wednesday, August 20, 2008 3:00 AM
...and with it my passion for you rekindles and I recall your face in a dozen photos, your voice, poised and worried across the sound of an early summer day, and the feeling of my heart, pounding in my chest, flooding my cheeks with heat, when your words, live and slowly rising, first meet my eyes every Monday and Friday evening. It has, I think, been raining for you all day and into the evening.
The formations of clouds and wind and heavenly turbulence are far harder to read and decipher than the emotional punctuation you use to show me you. It is now... this is my "midnight"... these are my quiet hours when prayer is possible and probable and always so real. The power of prayer, like the power of creation, floods my chest and fills my eyes with thankful tears. The rest of the world around me has left me behind. The clock chimed twelve and they have all changed the day on their calendars and moved on. I am here, alone with my Christ, in what remains of His good day. Fools rush in. But I am content to stay and wait out the hours with my thoughts of stars and conception and salvation and conversion.
You have seen me in panic and in stress. You have comforted me. You have turned me on. You have teased, argued, cried, played, prayed, worried and fallen asleep with me. But if you messaged our mutual friends and asked, "How is she most?" their answers would be the same: She is quiet. She is thoughtful. She watches everyone and everything... she looks and *sees.*
My eyes drift closed, my prayers are done... two hours each morning, two hours each night... continual throughout the day... often more when it rains. I should sleep. My call is at 8. But I linger here. I do not want to leave the window seat. I like the feeling of the wind sheering mist off the rain drops and enfolding me in tiny sparkling gems. I close my eyes... and look up. You are standing in the doorway, the faint recessed light of the hall is behind you. You are tall and confident. You know that I like what I see. You are silent. You are asking without words if I have returned from walking with my Christ, our Christ, to stand again on your golden shores, rose petals at my feet. Am I dreaming? No, I think you are here with me. Always near.
Good night, my love.
Your Angel
* * *
Christ whispers: I am with you. I am with all of you.
Hear me.
EJ
Sunday, November 09, 2008
I Don’t Want You
for Wings, Meg, and Sarah
“Every now and then
I can see that I'm getting somewhere.
But where I have to go is so deep.
I was angry back then
and, you know, I still am.
I have lost so much sleep
but I'm gonna find it....”
“Wings, baby. Stop. Stop it.”
And it begins. That buzz, that voice, that thing that pegged me crazy at sixteen. That angry sound that’s my own Second Coming. Sweet Lord, how many times has Christ walked this Earth since Ascension? Three times last week... at least twice when we made love. Seven, eight hundred times in just shy of twenty-eight years. He returns in these moments, when He is needed more than the air we take in, in sharp, short gasps.
“No, Wings. No more.”
And I’m shaking my head and standing up and cocking my head to the side. And staring at her message and re-reading. “No...” And then, resounding: “NO.”
And someone wrote her back. But it wasn’t me. Because the hot tears on my face were too heavy for me to see the keys or the screen or the thick mason jar of brushes now shards of broken glass on the floor of my room. Or maybe... maybe what Dad said is true: “Women don’t see with their eyes, Eliza Jean. Women see with their hearts. Where Christ resides.” And so someone, that someone maybe me, wrote, and the words were hot and furious, tempered by the cool, crispness of the medium. Neutered by the distance between our bodies. But so full of everything... so elevated by the passion I feel in this life, for her, for everyone he touches and destroys, for every green-eyed (blue-eyed, brown-eyed) grrl who has ever been bent and almost broken. I know she heard me. Or heard Him. Whatev.
“Baby. Stop it. Just stop it. Listen to me. Hear me the way Jo hears me. My arms around you, us sitting together, fitting like two parts of a strong whole. The overheads are off and the glow of the red strip light reminds me of a club in NYC but my thoughts are with you and only you. Hear me with my cheek against yours and your eyes closed and my voice steady and warm. Just the truth. Always just the truth: You. Don't. Want. Him.
“There you were silent. There you were bent to his will. There you were alone. You are not there. You will never be there again. You are not silent. You will never be silenced again. You are not powerless to him. He does not own you. He will never own you again. No one but Christ. He is the only one. And He cannot be displaced.”
“’Cause when they own the information
Oh, they can bend it all they want.”
You know it. You are smarter than the statistics. You are not a victim. Say it. Say it, grrl. You are *not* what the newspapers say you are. You are at the other end of the bell curve. You *see.* You get it. Open those beautiful eyes for me. Look at me. You see through the smoke and break the mirrors. You don’t wanna stand around, baby, and wait for the world to change. You’re standing up beside me. You’re shouting with me. You want to wait on *him* to change? You wanna live like *that*? No *shaking head* No, baby. You can’t jump off this mountain now. You’ve climbed too far. You’ve fought too long. If I must, I’ll carry you. You haven’t been climbing alone. I’ll drag you kicking and screaming, if I have to. But I won’t let you jump. No. I won’t let you jump.
The Warren Street bridge is not that pretty. I know. I’ve been there.
“Charm is seduction. Anger is exhausting. It is easier to believe the lies. Always easier to believe the lies. Fighting is hard. Oh baby... I just wrote all this last Sunday. Don't you see? I know you do... but you're working so hard and feeling so bad that just a little bit of easy must feel *so* good. Just a little bit of easy... seems like you’ve earned it. But this ain’t the easy you want. This easy is pain all dressed up as rock candy.”
“As a little girl, I came down to the water
With a little stone in my hand.
It would shimmer and sing to me.
And we knew everything.
As a little girl, I came down...”
Here we are. Our End Times. Let me join the ranks of my fine friends, the Rapturists. Let me herald our end. Watch and I’ll call down the sky. All those nighttime clouds are flocks of End Time angels. The stars in the hilts of their swords mesmerize me. I am a little girl (grrl) again... eight or nine... standing in their gaze. The temperature drops to 60... I drop my jacket over the side of the roof. 55... I pop the buttons on my shirt, my eyes on the angels. 52... winds from the Northwest, ten miles per hour. Five storeys high, but lower than the sky. Tank top, jeans and boots. Might be chilly if I wasn’t burning with indignation.
My heads falls back. I close my eyes. It seems so easy. This, right here. Me and Christ and my thoughts of you. On the raised edge that has become my friend. I lay myself back. I own my moment beneath the angels.
“But in a little while, I got steeped in authority.
Heaven only knows what went wrong.
There is nothing so cruel than
to bury that jewel
when it was mine all along.
I'm gonna find it...”
There is glass in the carpet. There is an angel on my canvas. There is a warm stillness in the apartment that doesn’t fit my current mood. Woke up this morning with heat in my cheeks, in the pit of my belly, in thoughts of Cherry Coke. I couldn’t shake the idea that you were right around the corner of my room... you were leaning against my door frame. “Awake at last, Angel? ’Bout time.”
Awake at last.
And my earbuds turn this warm silent softness into a world that reflects my interior space. Echo on. Rolling in. Play it twice. Once again. Slower... now. Dance with me.
“Don’t take it. You make the rules. Don't let him twist up your world. I will talk with you about this every night if you need me too. I will hold you and laugh with you. Don't dream yourself there with him. Dream yourself here with me. I won't hurt you. I won't lie to you or insult you. I won't crush you except in my arms. Dream yourself laughing with any of us who love you. Dream yourself plotting and scheming and fighting and *living.* Dream yourself raving with me. Hiking. Drawing. Singing. Dream anything with anyone but not him. No. Not him.”
Alone you are so strong. I see you. I hear your words. I know you. Let me know you? We only need them when they tell us we do. In those magical moments when the alchemist turns our gold to stone and then fills our pockets and pushes us under. You think I haven’t sunk beneath that current, baby? You remember, right?
“Can’t imagine a woman being so stupid...”
“You’d be beautiful if you gained a little weight...”
“Is there anything you’re actually good at...”
“Took you long enough...”
“I love you sometimes...”
“EJ. I’m not actually listening.”
Jo says to me that anything that hurts us, that makes us miserable, is not by the hand of God. Christ doesn’t hurt us *here,* at our core. I bleed for Him, yeah. I fight. I struggle. But He doesn’t hurt me here *tapping my heart* Satan does not manifest like a horned beast with a leery glare. He struts and charms and seduces. He peer pressures and murmurs and twists the cultural dictates. He weaves magic so shiny it blinds us to the snakes that are biting us. He wraps us up in his arms of smoke so that we can’t see ourselves and our own pain... so that we’re hidden from the ones who truly love us.
But I can see you. I see you.
“You're shining. I can see you.
You're smiling. That's enough.
I'm holding on to you
like a diamond in the rough...”
He knocks. Our door is almost always open. But he can’t cross that threshold. We have to invite him in. He might be obvious. He might be less so. He might come as the stranger on my porch (why did I open the door?). He might come as a lost child. He might be brother, grandmother, lover, mother, friend. He might come as denomination, holy and structured. It is hard to realize that sometimes the people we have known the longest and love the deepest can have moments of weakness when they allow that possession to take them. When they become conduits for him. When Satan manifests in our lives (as lover, mother, friend) we have to be brave enough to turn away. No. More. We have to say, “Go. Leave me be.” We have to see past the vessel to him. We have to make the decision not to let him in.
Wings? Don't let him in.
“I'm not here for your entertainment.You don't really want to mess with me tonight.Just stop and take a second.I was fine before you walked into my life.”
This is my Sunday sermon. This cold winter air that cuts to my bones and makes my eyes bright. Here, alone, alive, my muscles taut and my breath misty with desire, I feel in control of everything I see and everything I feel. My world is here, somehow held between Rapture and Earth. Beneath this sky, I find it. That jewel, that stone that authority buried, that woman that you tried to break. I reclaim me, take back my night (which has never been silent), rediscover my truth, here, beneath my angel.
Beneath this sky of my Lord’s. I am smiling. And that’s enough.
“Thank you, terror.
Thank you, disillusionment.
Thank you, frailty.
Thank you, consequence.
Thank you, thank you, silence!”
We are born so ready. So pure. And we are broken again and again as our parents try to form us. Their hands sometimes move with love but we are impossibly fragile. Like dandelion tuffs, a million seeds on the wind, scattered just as easily to stones as to fertile ground. We are rarely witnessed, more often molded. We are hemmed in, fenced in, taken down, taken out. Even those of us who buck the system fall pray to the whispering commands of culture. We love, hate, take, give, live, die, as we are told is right, moral, expected.
Christ was rebel among the rebels. Christ was warrior-brother. Gentle man. Furious and brave. Articulate in the voice of the people. The working man’s Christ. The Christ of whores and children. The Christ of nonbelievers. A real man. A real changer. My Christ.
I am whispering to you on canvas. Fingers in feathers. My breath passes your lips, gives you life. I am praying. I am alone in the darkness. I am every where under the sky. I stand on the edge. I close my eyes. I jump.
“How about how good it feels to finally forgive you.
How about no longer being masochistic.
How about remembering your divinity.
How about unabashedly bawling your eyes out.
How about not equating death with stopping.”
End Time Angels, carry me home. I am as bold as I need to be. I am stronger than I ever thought I could become. Let me walk with these apostles I love. Let us change the world. Together.
I am tired of waiting.
“Snakes in the grass
gotta step on the gas.”
EJ
“Every now and then
I can see that I'm getting somewhere.
But where I have to go is so deep.
I was angry back then
and, you know, I still am.
I have lost so much sleep
but I'm gonna find it....”
“Wings, baby. Stop. Stop it.”
And it begins. That buzz, that voice, that thing that pegged me crazy at sixteen. That angry sound that’s my own Second Coming. Sweet Lord, how many times has Christ walked this Earth since Ascension? Three times last week... at least twice when we made love. Seven, eight hundred times in just shy of twenty-eight years. He returns in these moments, when He is needed more than the air we take in, in sharp, short gasps.
“No, Wings. No more.”
And I’m shaking my head and standing up and cocking my head to the side. And staring at her message and re-reading. “No...” And then, resounding: “NO.”
And someone wrote her back. But it wasn’t me. Because the hot tears on my face were too heavy for me to see the keys or the screen or the thick mason jar of brushes now shards of broken glass on the floor of my room. Or maybe... maybe what Dad said is true: “Women don’t see with their eyes, Eliza Jean. Women see with their hearts. Where Christ resides.” And so someone, that someone maybe me, wrote, and the words were hot and furious, tempered by the cool, crispness of the medium. Neutered by the distance between our bodies. But so full of everything... so elevated by the passion I feel in this life, for her, for everyone he touches and destroys, for every green-eyed (blue-eyed, brown-eyed) grrl who has ever been bent and almost broken. I know she heard me. Or heard Him. Whatev.
“Baby. Stop it. Just stop it. Listen to me. Hear me the way Jo hears me. My arms around you, us sitting together, fitting like two parts of a strong whole. The overheads are off and the glow of the red strip light reminds me of a club in NYC but my thoughts are with you and only you. Hear me with my cheek against yours and your eyes closed and my voice steady and warm. Just the truth. Always just the truth: You. Don't. Want. Him.
“There you were silent. There you were bent to his will. There you were alone. You are not there. You will never be there again. You are not silent. You will never be silenced again. You are not powerless to him. He does not own you. He will never own you again. No one but Christ. He is the only one. And He cannot be displaced.”
“’Cause when they own the information
Oh, they can bend it all they want.”
You know it. You are smarter than the statistics. You are not a victim. Say it. Say it, grrl. You are *not* what the newspapers say you are. You are at the other end of the bell curve. You *see.* You get it. Open those beautiful eyes for me. Look at me. You see through the smoke and break the mirrors. You don’t wanna stand around, baby, and wait for the world to change. You’re standing up beside me. You’re shouting with me. You want to wait on *him* to change? You wanna live like *that*? No *shaking head* No, baby. You can’t jump off this mountain now. You’ve climbed too far. You’ve fought too long. If I must, I’ll carry you. You haven’t been climbing alone. I’ll drag you kicking and screaming, if I have to. But I won’t let you jump. No. I won’t let you jump.
The Warren Street bridge is not that pretty. I know. I’ve been there.
“Charm is seduction. Anger is exhausting. It is easier to believe the lies. Always easier to believe the lies. Fighting is hard. Oh baby... I just wrote all this last Sunday. Don't you see? I know you do... but you're working so hard and feeling so bad that just a little bit of easy must feel *so* good. Just a little bit of easy... seems like you’ve earned it. But this ain’t the easy you want. This easy is pain all dressed up as rock candy.”
“As a little girl, I came down to the water
With a little stone in my hand.
It would shimmer and sing to me.
And we knew everything.
As a little girl, I came down...”
Here we are. Our End Times. Let me join the ranks of my fine friends, the Rapturists. Let me herald our end. Watch and I’ll call down the sky. All those nighttime clouds are flocks of End Time angels. The stars in the hilts of their swords mesmerize me. I am a little girl (grrl) again... eight or nine... standing in their gaze. The temperature drops to 60... I drop my jacket over the side of the roof. 55... I pop the buttons on my shirt, my eyes on the angels. 52... winds from the Northwest, ten miles per hour. Five storeys high, but lower than the sky. Tank top, jeans and boots. Might be chilly if I wasn’t burning with indignation.
My heads falls back. I close my eyes. It seems so easy. This, right here. Me and Christ and my thoughts of you. On the raised edge that has become my friend. I lay myself back. I own my moment beneath the angels.
“But in a little while, I got steeped in authority.
Heaven only knows what went wrong.
There is nothing so cruel than
to bury that jewel
when it was mine all along.
I'm gonna find it...”
There is glass in the carpet. There is an angel on my canvas. There is a warm stillness in the apartment that doesn’t fit my current mood. Woke up this morning with heat in my cheeks, in the pit of my belly, in thoughts of Cherry Coke. I couldn’t shake the idea that you were right around the corner of my room... you were leaning against my door frame. “Awake at last, Angel? ’Bout time.”
Awake at last.
And my earbuds turn this warm silent softness into a world that reflects my interior space. Echo on. Rolling in. Play it twice. Once again. Slower... now. Dance with me.
“Don’t take it. You make the rules. Don't let him twist up your world. I will talk with you about this every night if you need me too. I will hold you and laugh with you. Don't dream yourself there with him. Dream yourself here with me. I won't hurt you. I won't lie to you or insult you. I won't crush you except in my arms. Dream yourself laughing with any of us who love you. Dream yourself plotting and scheming and fighting and *living.* Dream yourself raving with me. Hiking. Drawing. Singing. Dream anything with anyone but not him. No. Not him.”
Alone you are so strong. I see you. I hear your words. I know you. Let me know you? We only need them when they tell us we do. In those magical moments when the alchemist turns our gold to stone and then fills our pockets and pushes us under. You think I haven’t sunk beneath that current, baby? You remember, right?
“Can’t imagine a woman being so stupid...”
“You’d be beautiful if you gained a little weight...”
“Is there anything you’re actually good at...”
“Took you long enough...”
“I love you sometimes...”
“EJ. I’m not actually listening.”
Jo says to me that anything that hurts us, that makes us miserable, is not by the hand of God. Christ doesn’t hurt us *here,* at our core. I bleed for Him, yeah. I fight. I struggle. But He doesn’t hurt me here *tapping my heart* Satan does not manifest like a horned beast with a leery glare. He struts and charms and seduces. He peer pressures and murmurs and twists the cultural dictates. He weaves magic so shiny it blinds us to the snakes that are biting us. He wraps us up in his arms of smoke so that we can’t see ourselves and our own pain... so that we’re hidden from the ones who truly love us.
But I can see you. I see you.
“You're shining. I can see you.
You're smiling. That's enough.
I'm holding on to you
like a diamond in the rough...”
He knocks. Our door is almost always open. But he can’t cross that threshold. We have to invite him in. He might be obvious. He might be less so. He might come as the stranger on my porch (why did I open the door?). He might come as a lost child. He might be brother, grandmother, lover, mother, friend. He might come as denomination, holy and structured. It is hard to realize that sometimes the people we have known the longest and love the deepest can have moments of weakness when they allow that possession to take them. When they become conduits for him. When Satan manifests in our lives (as lover, mother, friend) we have to be brave enough to turn away. No. More. We have to say, “Go. Leave me be.” We have to see past the vessel to him. We have to make the decision not to let him in.
Wings? Don't let him in.
“I'm not here for your entertainment.You don't really want to mess with me tonight.Just stop and take a second.I was fine before you walked into my life.”
This is my Sunday sermon. This cold winter air that cuts to my bones and makes my eyes bright. Here, alone, alive, my muscles taut and my breath misty with desire, I feel in control of everything I see and everything I feel. My world is here, somehow held between Rapture and Earth. Beneath this sky, I find it. That jewel, that stone that authority buried, that woman that you tried to break. I reclaim me, take back my night (which has never been silent), rediscover my truth, here, beneath my angel.
Beneath this sky of my Lord’s. I am smiling. And that’s enough.
“Thank you, terror.
Thank you, disillusionment.
Thank you, frailty.
Thank you, consequence.
Thank you, thank you, silence!”
We are born so ready. So pure. And we are broken again and again as our parents try to form us. Their hands sometimes move with love but we are impossibly fragile. Like dandelion tuffs, a million seeds on the wind, scattered just as easily to stones as to fertile ground. We are rarely witnessed, more often molded. We are hemmed in, fenced in, taken down, taken out. Even those of us who buck the system fall pray to the whispering commands of culture. We love, hate, take, give, live, die, as we are told is right, moral, expected.
Christ was rebel among the rebels. Christ was warrior-brother. Gentle man. Furious and brave. Articulate in the voice of the people. The working man’s Christ. The Christ of whores and children. The Christ of nonbelievers. A real man. A real changer. My Christ.
I am whispering to you on canvas. Fingers in feathers. My breath passes your lips, gives you life. I am praying. I am alone in the darkness. I am every where under the sky. I stand on the edge. I close my eyes. I jump.
“How about how good it feels to finally forgive you.
How about no longer being masochistic.
How about remembering your divinity.
How about unabashedly bawling your eyes out.
How about not equating death with stopping.”
End Time Angels, carry me home. I am as bold as I need to be. I am stronger than I ever thought I could become. Let me walk with these apostles I love. Let us change the world. Together.
I am tired of waiting.
“Snakes in the grass
gotta step on the gas.”
EJ
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Trinity: Three Trains of Thought
...or...
Daddy Always Told Me, Women Weren’t Simple
Daddy Always Told Me, Women Weren’t Simple
Train 001: My Country
"I'm going to go home and listen to country music....
The music of pain."
--Xander, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
A few weeks back I made a generalized comment about the American South and this week, I’d like to make another. Having grown up in Boston, come of age in New York City, fallen in love for the first time in Seattle, and finally found myself in LA, I owe the South for my unshakable sense of patriotism. Or... more specifically... I owe it to country music. Country music, after all, isn’t named after rural regions, the bread basket and rolling fields o’cotton. It’s Country (read: My Country, America) Music.
“I thank God for my life.
And for the stars and stripes.
May freedom forever fly, let it ring.
Salute the ones who died.
The ones that give their lives
so we don’t have to sacrifice
all the things we love.”
In America, freedom is an extreme sport. Even with terrorists, planes and death scarring our memories, we whine about the long lines at airports. We like our freedom wild, dangerous and... free. “Live Free or Die,” reads the license plate tag in New Hampshire. No where near the South but it might as well be.
As a brown grrl, it was considered acceptable in school for me to beat the drum of common knowledge and claim that the South is all full up of ex-slave-owning, white, red-necked bigots. I could beat my chest and shout about burning their dang Confederate flag. But you know what? The Civil War was more about economics and State freedom than about skin color. The freedom to create the culture that speaks to us. To protect our way of life. To keep near and dear that which means the most to us.
“A cold Coke on a Friday night.
A pair of jeans that fit just right.
And the radio up.
I’ve seen the sunrise.
Seen the love in my woman’s eyes.
Felt the touch of a precious child.
And known a mother’s love.”
Country music reminds us of the simple, indelible, undeniable truths that should (and in so very many ways *do*) rest at the center of this system that is our country. The basic freedoms that were laid down in that thing that isn’t just a character attribute in an rpg. Roll the d20 to set the limits on your constitution? I don’t think so.
When I hear people complain about the corrupt American government and the evil Electoral College and the lying politicos... I want to grab them by their collar and shake some geography into them. We are a sweet little cakewalk into corruption compared to the rest of the world where you whine about a leader and your family disappears. We are a game of dress-up-make-believe evil when other countries have white-washed words for contemporary day genocide. And those lying politicos? The Latin root for “politician” is “lying scum bag” so, yeah, we’ve *all* got those. But you know what, friends? We have the singular pleasure of saying we voted in our scum bags so let’s show our short-term leaders some respect. Think you could speak eloquently to a country when airplanes are falling out of the sky? I think not. I know I couldn’t.
“It's funny how it’s the little things in life
that mean the most.
Not where you live or the car you drive
or the price tag on your clothes.
There’s no dollar sign on peace of mind
this I’ve come to know...”
Part of this extreme sport is perhaps our most heated right. Freedom of religion. Stop with the snorts and guffaws. They truly drive me nuts. Because no one – not our white-wigged founding papas or our current grim-mugged ringmasters – ever said freedom *from* religion. Freedom *of* religion is the ability to stand in a country, to worship in a country, and not be gunned down or exiled or imprisoned because your god isn’t Their god. It may really bite (and remember, I’m a Christian here... and not a casual one!) when our law-makers argue for or against based on scripture (which, I’m sorry, but is *wrong*) but we’re still not sticking “Free America” bumper stickers on our SUVs. It’s “Free Tibet” (Google it). Church should *not* dictate State... but we *are* a Christian country (look at a penny for proof) so let’s all deal, okay?
And even that (church dictating State) isn’t as insane as elsewhere. Other governments dictate... we kinda... poke along with a dull stick. And still, if we turn out in enough numbers at the polls, we do get our way. Maybe it just so happens that some of us like those scripture-based dictates :)
We have crazy rights. Mad rights. More rights (literally) than we know what to do with. And guess what else? We’re still fighting for more! We’re still bringing all our peoples up to date. We’re making progress (and equal rights *are* progress) and equalizing. We’re finding a balance in a country that is less homogenized than any other in the world.
Southern Pride? Patriotism? Of course! The South is all about *America.* It’s all about the cars, the dreams, the star-crossed lovers, the rebellious teens, the hard-working, dying-young daddies, the soldiers, the ranchers, the belles. America is all about:
“Cause I was thinkin’ bout a little white tank top
Sittin’ right there in the middle by me.
I was thinkin’ bout a long kiss
man, just gotta get
goin’ where the night might lead.
I know what I was feelin’
but what was I thinkin’?”
The election is quickly approaching. Some of my friends and I are getting together at the local biker bar with the great big, big-screen to watch the results. America has voted in white men since our get-go but this term our white boy is backed by a chick and our little-Democrat-who-could is a brown man. Oh yeah. There’s no freedom here. We’re all just dreaming the impossible dream *snort* What have we got? We’ve got *choices.* Make ’em. Be decisive. B E Decisive!
And please, not this week, don’t get me all stoked on the sweet courtin’ (after all, Froggy done did it with a banjo... or a shotgun dependin’) that lives in country music. I won’t lie. I will walk out of a club that starts twanging country when I want to dance (Angel don’t line up for no one, baby) but I’d rather stay home in my little white tank top than dance to hiphop’s courting sounds of simulated sex acts, bitches, hos, and butts so big only snakes can love ’em. Hand me over to a grin on my face and aw-shucks boys painting my name in John Deere green while crooning:
“So won't you lay back down beside me.
Just like I know you want to do.
Yes, it's gonna take forever, darlin'.
Girl, I just got started lovin' you.”
Mm-hm. That’s the freedom I’m talking about.
Train 002: My Battle
--Xander, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
A few weeks back I made a generalized comment about the American South and this week, I’d like to make another. Having grown up in Boston, come of age in New York City, fallen in love for the first time in Seattle, and finally found myself in LA, I owe the South for my unshakable sense of patriotism. Or... more specifically... I owe it to country music. Country music, after all, isn’t named after rural regions, the bread basket and rolling fields o’cotton. It’s Country (read: My Country, America) Music.
“I thank God for my life.
And for the stars and stripes.
May freedom forever fly, let it ring.
Salute the ones who died.
The ones that give their lives
so we don’t have to sacrifice
all the things we love.”
In America, freedom is an extreme sport. Even with terrorists, planes and death scarring our memories, we whine about the long lines at airports. We like our freedom wild, dangerous and... free. “Live Free or Die,” reads the license plate tag in New Hampshire. No where near the South but it might as well be.
As a brown grrl, it was considered acceptable in school for me to beat the drum of common knowledge and claim that the South is all full up of ex-slave-owning, white, red-necked bigots. I could beat my chest and shout about burning their dang Confederate flag. But you know what? The Civil War was more about economics and State freedom than about skin color. The freedom to create the culture that speaks to us. To protect our way of life. To keep near and dear that which means the most to us.
“A cold Coke on a Friday night.
A pair of jeans that fit just right.
And the radio up.
I’ve seen the sunrise.
Seen the love in my woman’s eyes.
Felt the touch of a precious child.
And known a mother’s love.”
Country music reminds us of the simple, indelible, undeniable truths that should (and in so very many ways *do*) rest at the center of this system that is our country. The basic freedoms that were laid down in that thing that isn’t just a character attribute in an rpg. Roll the d20 to set the limits on your constitution? I don’t think so.
When I hear people complain about the corrupt American government and the evil Electoral College and the lying politicos... I want to grab them by their collar and shake some geography into them. We are a sweet little cakewalk into corruption compared to the rest of the world where you whine about a leader and your family disappears. We are a game of dress-up-make-believe evil when other countries have white-washed words for contemporary day genocide. And those lying politicos? The Latin root for “politician” is “lying scum bag” so, yeah, we’ve *all* got those. But you know what, friends? We have the singular pleasure of saying we voted in our scum bags so let’s show our short-term leaders some respect. Think you could speak eloquently to a country when airplanes are falling out of the sky? I think not. I know I couldn’t.
“It's funny how it’s the little things in life
that mean the most.
Not where you live or the car you drive
or the price tag on your clothes.
There’s no dollar sign on peace of mind
this I’ve come to know...”
Part of this extreme sport is perhaps our most heated right. Freedom of religion. Stop with the snorts and guffaws. They truly drive me nuts. Because no one – not our white-wigged founding papas or our current grim-mugged ringmasters – ever said freedom *from* religion. Freedom *of* religion is the ability to stand in a country, to worship in a country, and not be gunned down or exiled or imprisoned because your god isn’t Their god. It may really bite (and remember, I’m a Christian here... and not a casual one!) when our law-makers argue for or against based on scripture (which, I’m sorry, but is *wrong*) but we’re still not sticking “Free America” bumper stickers on our SUVs. It’s “Free Tibet” (Google it). Church should *not* dictate State... but we *are* a Christian country (look at a penny for proof) so let’s all deal, okay?
And even that (church dictating State) isn’t as insane as elsewhere. Other governments dictate... we kinda... poke along with a dull stick. And still, if we turn out in enough numbers at the polls, we do get our way. Maybe it just so happens that some of us like those scripture-based dictates :)
We have crazy rights. Mad rights. More rights (literally) than we know what to do with. And guess what else? We’re still fighting for more! We’re still bringing all our peoples up to date. We’re making progress (and equal rights *are* progress) and equalizing. We’re finding a balance in a country that is less homogenized than any other in the world.
Southern Pride? Patriotism? Of course! The South is all about *America.* It’s all about the cars, the dreams, the star-crossed lovers, the rebellious teens, the hard-working, dying-young daddies, the soldiers, the ranchers, the belles. America is all about:
“Cause I was thinkin’ bout a little white tank top
Sittin’ right there in the middle by me.
I was thinkin’ bout a long kiss
man, just gotta get
goin’ where the night might lead.
I know what I was feelin’
but what was I thinkin’?”
The election is quickly approaching. Some of my friends and I are getting together at the local biker bar with the great big, big-screen to watch the results. America has voted in white men since our get-go but this term our white boy is backed by a chick and our little-Democrat-who-could is a brown man. Oh yeah. There’s no freedom here. We’re all just dreaming the impossible dream *snort* What have we got? We’ve got *choices.* Make ’em. Be decisive. B E Decisive!
And please, not this week, don’t get me all stoked on the sweet courtin’ (after all, Froggy done did it with a banjo... or a shotgun dependin’) that lives in country music. I won’t lie. I will walk out of a club that starts twanging country when I want to dance (Angel don’t line up for no one, baby) but I’d rather stay home in my little white tank top than dance to hiphop’s courting sounds of simulated sex acts, bitches, hos, and butts so big only snakes can love ’em. Hand me over to a grin on my face and aw-shucks boys painting my name in John Deere green while crooning:
“So won't you lay back down beside me.
Just like I know you want to do.
Yes, it's gonna take forever, darlin'.
Girl, I just got started lovin' you.”
Mm-hm. That’s the freedom I’m talking about.
Train 002: My Battle
“I love rock 'n roll, put another dime in the jukebox, baby.”
--Joan Jett
The doves are looking at me strange. Up here on the roof top, under the quickening sky, they think I’ve lost my mind in my tank top and leather pants in the 50 degree weather. But Christ’s sky is so dang open to me, so unencumbered with clouds, so bright and sharp like His own steel blade scythe. The chaff falls away beneath this sky. I’m bowing down, on my knees seems my natural resting state. Sweet Lord, I wish it were for another reason.
“It's not fair
to deny me
of the cross I bare
that you gave to me.”
I stood here, on the raised edge for so long. Five storeys beneath my feet. People and lives I never knew. And I’m staring out over a city that bustles 24/7, spinning its wheels, chrome and steel. And Christ stands right beside me. As tangible and real as any brother. As solid and strong as any lover. And He waits for me to speak but I don’t. He knows everything all ready, but I won’t. I refuse to acknowledge this living presence... because right now I need to feel alone.
“My shadow is the only thing
that walks beside me
My heart is the only thing
that's beating.”
The music bleeding out of my cheap ear buds. The player in my back pocket seems like an extension of me. A pod of my emotional state, upgraded as needed with a buck-a-tune or Google hack. Never deleted, just augmented. If I had wings right now, I’d jump. If I had wings, you’d already be holding me in your arms.
Will you be gentle with me?
So gentle, lover.
I'm scared... butterflies.
Feel me, baby? See, so gentle.
Hm.
Just the tips of my fingers.
Oh.
Just slow...
Yes.
...over all these feathers.
*nodding*
I love your wings.
...
I love you.
“Every whisper,
every waking hour,
I'm losing my religion.
Trying to keep an eye on you.
And I don’t know if I can do it.
Oh no, I've said too much.
No, I haven't said enough....”
The doves are staring at me... or not staring at me. Hard to tell with doves. Their heads are cocked away. Their deep black eyes are fading into the darkling that takes my sky. Their house is full. Their little cathedral. I added the bench from the Catholic church on Fifth that was remodeling. Got it for a day’s work lifting and hauling. The new window is from Amel’s temple. It’s double-paned and the frame has beautiful scroll work, knobs and turns in the wood. It was out by their dumpster when we met for lunch on the day he finally asked me if I was yours.
I told him yes, btw. I blushed when I said it. I had been yours since long before baptism. Since long before waking up again in those bright white lights. We spent an hour discussing the death that occurs before rebirth. The growth that happens before we split our chrysalis and stretch our wings. We spent another hour looking at each other in some wonderment. I don’t think I ever stopped blushing. Somehow, it was like looking at you.
Fugees’ voice like warm honey and chai:
“Killing me softly
with His song.
Telling my whole life
with His words...
killing me... softly.”
The doves don’t know what to do with me. So still and silent... just hands on keys, itty bitty laptop on knees. At least, they think, she’s sitting now. Away from the vertigo. Away from the edge. But I’m more on edge here, my back to their House of the Lord, than I ever was far above the street. Muscles jump. Breath not misty but cold over my hands. Eyes dark like doves at night. Anger... where does that come from? Where is it taking me?
We're dancing. I’m dreaming. Nickelback. I’m not. It’s real. It’s now. It must be. Lord... let it be. Your hips fit perfectly in my palms. Your fingers play softly in my hair. You make jinglebells of my d6 earrings. You whisper, “Tell me where you want me.”
“There's broken glass
on the freeway.
I've fallen apart.
I'm barely breathing.
But in every pain
there is healing.
And I'm holding on.
I'm still holding on to you.”
This city has a history with me and within me. It’s not my darkest place. It’s not all bite and chew. But it has this way of finding a grrl on a roof top like this, under her Christ’s own bright-dark, dark-bright sky... confusing stars for satellites, singing amens beneath my breath... and somehow, everything turns inside out and I start to consider that everything is not as it seems. I start to puzzle together the riddle of this even before your messenger arrives on transgenic wings.
“But if the bright lights don’t receive you
you should turn yourself around and come on home.
Let that city take you in (Come on home).
Let that city spit you out (Come on home).
Let that city take you down.
For God sakes, turn around!”
The doves are wondering why I’m board casting music into their domain. They want to know why my head is buzzing like a hive. They are curious enough to lift a strand of my hair off my goose-bumped shoulders. They escape with a few threads but still they wonder.
Christ is standing on the edge of the roof top. He has stepped into a beautiful body to greet me. I wouldn’t acknowledge Him and so He made Himself flesh. He is standing here now, hands on narrow latina hips, head cocked. You might think He had attitude but He’s just mimicking the doves. He’s the last soldier in the long line that it took to reach me. He’s not amused to have been ignored.
“You knew it was a lie. If you had looked into your heart, if you had stopped and heard me, you would have known. I was whispering the truth to you all along. But it was easier to be afraid. It was easier to accept failure and crumble. It was easier to give her the out you wanted her to take. To liberate your shoulders of your own doubt.... But I won’t let you. Carry your cross, Eliza Jean. Walk your path even if you bleed for me.”
And I realize that tonight, beneath this now nighttime sky, beneath the treasure horde of heaven’s stars, I realize that tonight Christ sounds a lot like Jessica Alba.
“My stomach's filled
with the butterflies
and it's alright.
If I said I didn't like it
then you know I lied.”
Sometimes the fighter wants to lay it down. Sometimes the soldier wants to close his eyes. Sometimes the natural state of kneeling beneath the weight of the world and worry and wonderment is enough to make even Atlas cry. Sometimes... we want to believe the lies because they are easier than the truth. They are less complicated. Sometimes fact is so much stranger than fiction that we pray for the fictionalized novelization where everyone is played by archetypes and, if we’re lucky, Eliza Dushku plays the lead.
Sometimes we need saving from ourselves.
“The little things
you do me.
I want to show you
this beating heart
crazy beats
stuck here
in this place.”
The danger of that edge draws me back, moth to streetlamp. I look out over the city. Somewhere out there lies my enemy. Somewhere inside my heart is his sanctuary. Take off my armor of Christ for one day, one hour, and this hell-bent herald creeps in and takes root. He reads weaknesses and worries in my eyes wide with exhaustion and hope and trust. He calls himself friend and tries to make amends with bashful murmurings. His sweet-talking, turn of phrase is legendary, prime time.
I gave him the benefit of a doubt. My doubts.
He took them to an alchemist and poisoned my latte.
“This is so surreal,” I wrote to you. Even more so now.
“Every time I look
you're never there.
Every time I sleep
you're always there.
When I close my eyes
it's you I see...”
You’re everything to me.
Now Angel is going out to do some hunting.
Train 003: My Love
Wings: You rock.
Me: Because?
Wings: You write her a story *every* night!
Me: No... just on Mondays and Fridays.
Wings: And you do it *live!*
Me: Well, I’m certainly not dead, baby ;)
You: Tell me a story? To help me sleep.
GamerAngel: Just make one up?
You: Yes.
GamerAngel: Just right now?
You: Can you?
GamerAngel: For you? Anything.
You: Tuck me in :)
GamerAngel: In the winter is the best time to travel to Moscow because no one can get there in winter. Only locals.
You: Oh, winter in Russia? I must have a *big* coat or I'm going to be a whiny baby. :)
GamerAngel: And many of the smaller churches close their doors because there isn't enough to keep them running. I dress you in a full length, soft, fur-lined coat because there's no freaking PETA in Russia and you'll freeze in fake fur.
You: You're dressing me? LOL
GamerAngel: Actually... We've been together ten years at this point... so yes, I often *dress* you.
You: LOL :)
GamerAngel: :) There is a hat vendor braving the elements to sell his last two hats and I buy them. The one I buy for you is brown and white and covers your head and ears. You look like a puff ball and you're warm. Your hands are protected by my favorite pair of leather gloves that I bought in
You: :) My cocoon! The portable form!
GamerAngel: France when I was eighteen. They cost me almost $600 USD but they're as soft as satin. I like these on you because you have a habit of reaching out and touching my face,
You: Wow. That's an amazing pair of gloves.
GamerAngel: stroking my cheek, and if I can't feel your bare skin against mine, then I want something almost as soft.
You: Really? I didn't notice that I like to stroke your face :)
GamerAngel: We walk together, stealing smiles at each other. We hold hands because... well, because it reminds us that we're together now, no longer apart.
You: :) I like that.
GamerAngel: We come to a small blue-stone church called St Michaels (which really exists) but it's closed. You look up at the high windows. The stain glass is rose and crimson and gold. There are hints of purple and deepest green.
You: That sounds amazing.
GamerAngel: "What denomination is this?" you ask. "I never knew," I say. "It closed the summer I visited here with Grandma." You blink at me. "It's abandoned?" It is very late, the sky is dark above us, the last of the people seem to have fled from the descending cold. I gaze at you for so long that you wonder if I've frozen in place.
You: Oh no! Don't freeze, EJ!
GamerAngel: I am wondering... I am waiting for a sign. You take off one glove and touch my face. I reach into my pocket and take out a key. I press it carefully into your hand.
You: Where did you get that, you magical creature, you?
GamerAngel: "This was my grandmother's," I whisper to you. Your lips part and I have visions of kissing you, slowly, on the other side of the world, that place we call home. But I also know that home is wherever I am with you.
You: :)
GamerAngel: You have carried home in your words and in your trust since the day we promised ourselves to one another. You squeeze my hand and lead us up the old stone stairs. The door is massive and the key is small but you don't pause. The lock is most likely frozen shut... no... the key turns in your hands like my life turned in your hands, from lost to found, so long ago. The door is soundless as you push it open. We step inside.
You: Oh, you are so sweet. Amazingly so.
GamerAngel: I close the door behind us to keep out the chill. There are pews, worn smooth by the faithful long, long ago. They are olive wood, golden and streaked with russet. Without cloth you know them as Puritan (as well as New Testament Christian) style. There is no pulpit but there is a raised dais (sp?)
You: Spelling is fine.
GamerAngel: "Eliza?" you are looking up at the small domed ceiling. "Do you hear...?" And, of course, I do. The silence of the night does not fill this place. It is alive with something not silence. Not harp or keys, not flute or strings... it is music, a sound, a celestial tune that drifts through the open space and vibrates in our chests.
You: Oh wow.
GamerAngel: "This is... beautiful..." you murmur, turning slowing in a circle to take it all in. I catch your hand again. "Hold me?" And you do.
You: Of course I would.
GamerAngel: Your glove still off and your bare hand against my cheek. Your other hand on my shoulder. I wrap my arms around you, bow my forehead to your shoulder, surrender myself to your arms, to you, as I have never with any other.
You: :) Thank you.
GamerAngel: "I think that heaven may be like this," I admit quietly. "I think it is heaven," you say and I can hear your amazement and a smile. We stand like that for what seems like just a few moments... maybe half an hour at the most. Then we walk the space and touch the stain glass and the pews. You put your glove back on. I retie your hat.
You: Gorgeous.
GamerAngel: We open the big heavy door... and find that night is gone. Completely spent. Dawn has come and past.
You: :)
GamerAngel: The new sky is full of fast moving silver clouds mixed with white. And peaking through now, catching the stain glass like jewels, is the first sun we have seen all season. Our light. His light. Always perfect and complete.
Amen
EJ
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Christianos
bioslexis = the living word
zoiaudien = the living voice
christos = christ
christolexis = word of Christ
christakousis = actively hearing Christ
christakouian = one who actively hears Christ
(Greek)
“And the radio up...”
I love rain. When I lived in the Pacific Northwest, hiking the Olympic National Forest every weekend, I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven. I can guarantee that my life behind the Pearly Gates will include redwoods and fat, warm raindrops drenching my hair and skin and making my leather jacket shine like armor.
... What? Of *course* there are leather jackets in heaven! Don’t be ridiculous ;)
It is always raining when I write my blog. If not from the skies than from my mp3 player. Either ambient harp with storm sounds laid not-so-gentle beneath warm strings played by a lover’s hands, or the steady tapping of rock ‘n’ roll, pure and full of itself, thrumming against my ear drums. That sound of digital, virtual, lyrical rain carries me forward, allows me to lose and find myself like when you whisper, “Touch me...”
It is in those moments that the curtains fall away and the wizard, my sweet Lord, is revealed.
Let’s go there now... shall we, Trolley?
Everywhere, everyone was talking about Madonna and Mariah Carey. Their new albums dropped in April. It was a “show down”! It was a “return to form”! It was a maelstrom of press releases, baby. It was *news.*
Actually, it was a joke. Because for all the media coverage and hype, for all the buzz and awareness, Kid Rock’s “Rock n Roll Jesus” out stripped them a gazillion units with no rumble in the aisles controversy (other than for the music itself). Maybe it’s because he’s actually not so coifed and air-brushed that he’s interesting to look at on YouTube music videos? Or perhaps because he’s actually saying something.
“Simplify, testify, identify, rectify...”
Over on the Mardi Gras 3000 forum, a member posts: “I am not a denomination. I am not a joiner. I have a system of beliefs that are very strict and very strong. I believe in them and not in what a church says. If the church I attend right now were to change it’s stand on the fundamental issues – on any of the issues! – that I believe in, I would leave. I follow God. Not man.”
I have had people ask me: “You have very conservative members on your forum. And very liberal members. How do you balance that?”
I always smile. Simplify, testify, identify. I am far more conservative than most people think I am. I am startlingly set in my ways. Unbelievably rigid in matters of the heart and body and soul. Somehow, perhaps because God speaks to them above the banter of man, the conservative members on the forum read these truths about me, finding them between the lines of diplomatic chatter and poetic license.
But I am also very aware of my limitations. I am mortal. I am not divine. I am not God. This makes me a liberal. Not following? Let me explain: I do not believe that a direct translation of ancient Hebrew texts, written by the hands of man, studied by men’s minds, and (most especially) preached from men’s pulpits, can tell me the word of God. The word – the Word – is either Living Word or man’s word. The historical context and survivalist reasoning behind much of man’s scripture is understandable. But you know what? I still wear mixed fabrics. I don’t think women shouldn’t be touched during their cycle. And I don’t believe that God only wants us to have sex to make babies. However... I do believe that sex should only occur between someone you would raise children with ;) Aren’t I complicated? *smooch*
I turn questions over to God like people turn pages in a book. I make my decisions from the voice of my Christ in my heart (which is not always what I want to hear) and not the blinders-on murmurings of undereducated, sheltered, cloistered, ignorers of science, nature and the biology of the universe.
There is a dichotomy here, of course. I was just talking with a friend about the importance of knowing when to *stop* looking for answers. When to accept on *faith* (faith being something never proven beyond a shadow of a doubt) that which we embrace in our hearts. I have to know when to close the book or the browser window, nod my head and say: I don’t need to “know” that... I already *know.*
I was raised to learn. Not for drama or proof or to satisfy my human curiosity, to deconstruct or feed my doubt, but rather to grow as a child of Christ, to find Him. Only and always, first and foremost, Him. To educate my mind. To read. To research. To take that step further. It was a natural impulse for me. Whether I was processing the connection between desire and rebirth by reading Calder, or exploring the nature of time and dimension with Pickover, it explained my world. It made it so very clear that this universe – beyond our solar system and within our own bodies – is so much more complex and mysterious than any straight-forward evolutionary track alone can ever explain. The more science I knew... the more my Lord was shown to me.
“Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain...” But that’s the only attention I want to pay.
Faith: Where did humans come from?
Me: From single-celled itty bitties.
Faith: Where did the itty bitties come from?
Me: A great big bang in the universe.
Faith: Where did the great big bang come from?
Me: God.
Faith: Who made God?
Me: God.
Faith: He’s always been here?
Me: Yep.
Faith: And He goes on and on again?
Me: Uh-huh.
Faith: Like numbers.
Me: Yes. Forever.
What is the glue that holds our diverse forum together? God.
The more complicated answer: The human desire, across any and all walks of life, to explore the nature of morality, mortality and the face of God.
The more subtle answer: We are drawn together and stay together because we are dedicated to a singular vision that has room for us all. We are dedicated to this country of vision. The sweetest patriotism.
Now I could sit here (okay, actually, right now, I’m standing with a FlipStart, thumb typing but whatev) and say: If you believe in acceptance, in embracing all human beings – regardless of race, gender, sexuality, nationality or economics – as equal peers, than guess what? You’re a Christian. Because Christ said we are *all* His children. I could say it, but I’m really quite obsessively not interested in labels (see last week’s blog). Like, to the extreme. For instance:
I’ve always considered myself a New Testament Christian. I happened to Google it one day. It led me to an interesting place. You see (prepare for an insightful aside), Google is a wonderful tool... but also a very misleading and dangerous one because everything and anything can be made to look legitimate. I have found personal photos of myself, taken by a friend, uploaded to a Photobucket account, and then right-clicked and PhotoShop’ed by strangers to place me in Maui when I was standing in Alaska. I have read quotes I (kinda) said two years ago at a festival, printed as things I reportedly said yesterday. I have accepted awards on days I was home in bed with a cold... that I picked up at the awards ceremony two weeks prior.
Back to the label...
I found a nice community of twenty- and thirty-something NTC folks from all over the U.S. and I was lightly chatting with them about the election and some general politics. My blog URL was listed in my profile and my signature block and someone asked me about it. I drifted away from that forum (time just didn’t allow) but then, this last Thursday I got an email.
Did you know that “New Testament Christian” is a “legally recognized denomination based in Graham, Washington” and I guess they (or someone posing as representing them) are not entirely down with my blog. So... I dug more. Turns out, the trademarked, copyrighted, patent pending phrase I’ve used *all my freaking life* to describe my approach to faith, has nothing to do with me. As a matter of fact, the pastor-as-prophet methodology that I so *adamantly* stand against is rampant in NTC(C of A).
So... I’ve got my Cease & Desist from the church of man. Gee. Why am I not surprised?
But now, what am I? At our forum (the MG3K forum, I mean) we have Catholics, Baptists, Mormons, Rapturists, atheists, religious cosmologists and angelogists, ... the list goes on. It seemed so easy to just use a label. But guess what? In the end, the label was as one dimensional as the word of man. And I – what I am... what *all* of us are – am as far from one dimensional as divinity can take us. Christ did not mean for us to condense ourselves into MySpace Q&As or even eHarmony personality profiles.
The meaning of the word Christian is “belonging to Christ.” It comes from the Greek word, christianos, from, of course, χριστός -- Christos. It means nothing else. And right now, for me, that seems enough. I want fewer labels and more faith. I want to be defined by my actions and my beliefs. I want to be hard to compartmentalize. I want to play hard to get.
My little island, in our country of vision, just lost all her road signs. The “You Are Here” display? Was just swallowed by the rainforest. And you know what? I like it much better here now.
Wings: I don’t want to be a label.
Me: You only have to be one.
Wings: Hm?
Me: You. You just have to be Wings.
“Open up your mind and start to live...
Give a little bit more than you got to give.”
EJ
zoiaudien = the living voice
christos = christ
christolexis = word of Christ
christakousis = actively hearing Christ
christakouian = one who actively hears Christ
(Greek)
“And the radio up...”
I love rain. When I lived in the Pacific Northwest, hiking the Olympic National Forest every weekend, I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven. I can guarantee that my life behind the Pearly Gates will include redwoods and fat, warm raindrops drenching my hair and skin and making my leather jacket shine like armor.
... What? Of *course* there are leather jackets in heaven! Don’t be ridiculous ;)
It is always raining when I write my blog. If not from the skies than from my mp3 player. Either ambient harp with storm sounds laid not-so-gentle beneath warm strings played by a lover’s hands, or the steady tapping of rock ‘n’ roll, pure and full of itself, thrumming against my ear drums. That sound of digital, virtual, lyrical rain carries me forward, allows me to lose and find myself like when you whisper, “Touch me...”
It is in those moments that the curtains fall away and the wizard, my sweet Lord, is revealed.
Let’s go there now... shall we, Trolley?
Everywhere, everyone was talking about Madonna and Mariah Carey. Their new albums dropped in April. It was a “show down”! It was a “return to form”! It was a maelstrom of press releases, baby. It was *news.*
Actually, it was a joke. Because for all the media coverage and hype, for all the buzz and awareness, Kid Rock’s “Rock n Roll Jesus” out stripped them a gazillion units with no rumble in the aisles controversy (other than for the music itself). Maybe it’s because he’s actually not so coifed and air-brushed that he’s interesting to look at on YouTube music videos? Or perhaps because he’s actually saying something.
“Simplify, testify, identify, rectify...”
Over on the Mardi Gras 3000 forum, a member posts: “I am not a denomination. I am not a joiner. I have a system of beliefs that are very strict and very strong. I believe in them and not in what a church says. If the church I attend right now were to change it’s stand on the fundamental issues – on any of the issues! – that I believe in, I would leave. I follow God. Not man.”
I have had people ask me: “You have very conservative members on your forum. And very liberal members. How do you balance that?”
I always smile. Simplify, testify, identify. I am far more conservative than most people think I am. I am startlingly set in my ways. Unbelievably rigid in matters of the heart and body and soul. Somehow, perhaps because God speaks to them above the banter of man, the conservative members on the forum read these truths about me, finding them between the lines of diplomatic chatter and poetic license.
But I am also very aware of my limitations. I am mortal. I am not divine. I am not God. This makes me a liberal. Not following? Let me explain: I do not believe that a direct translation of ancient Hebrew texts, written by the hands of man, studied by men’s minds, and (most especially) preached from men’s pulpits, can tell me the word of God. The word – the Word – is either Living Word or man’s word. The historical context and survivalist reasoning behind much of man’s scripture is understandable. But you know what? I still wear mixed fabrics. I don’t think women shouldn’t be touched during their cycle. And I don’t believe that God only wants us to have sex to make babies. However... I do believe that sex should only occur between someone you would raise children with ;) Aren’t I complicated? *smooch*
I turn questions over to God like people turn pages in a book. I make my decisions from the voice of my Christ in my heart (which is not always what I want to hear) and not the blinders-on murmurings of undereducated, sheltered, cloistered, ignorers of science, nature and the biology of the universe.
There is a dichotomy here, of course. I was just talking with a friend about the importance of knowing when to *stop* looking for answers. When to accept on *faith* (faith being something never proven beyond a shadow of a doubt) that which we embrace in our hearts. I have to know when to close the book or the browser window, nod my head and say: I don’t need to “know” that... I already *know.*
I was raised to learn. Not for drama or proof or to satisfy my human curiosity, to deconstruct or feed my doubt, but rather to grow as a child of Christ, to find Him. Only and always, first and foremost, Him. To educate my mind. To read. To research. To take that step further. It was a natural impulse for me. Whether I was processing the connection between desire and rebirth by reading Calder, or exploring the nature of time and dimension with Pickover, it explained my world. It made it so very clear that this universe – beyond our solar system and within our own bodies – is so much more complex and mysterious than any straight-forward evolutionary track alone can ever explain. The more science I knew... the more my Lord was shown to me.
“Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain...” But that’s the only attention I want to pay.
Faith: Where did humans come from?
Me: From single-celled itty bitties.
Faith: Where did the itty bitties come from?
Me: A great big bang in the universe.
Faith: Where did the great big bang come from?
Me: God.
Faith: Who made God?
Me: God.
Faith: He’s always been here?
Me: Yep.
Faith: And He goes on and on again?
Me: Uh-huh.
Faith: Like numbers.
Me: Yes. Forever.
What is the glue that holds our diverse forum together? God.
The more complicated answer: The human desire, across any and all walks of life, to explore the nature of morality, mortality and the face of God.
The more subtle answer: We are drawn together and stay together because we are dedicated to a singular vision that has room for us all. We are dedicated to this country of vision. The sweetest patriotism.
Now I could sit here (okay, actually, right now, I’m standing with a FlipStart, thumb typing but whatev) and say: If you believe in acceptance, in embracing all human beings – regardless of race, gender, sexuality, nationality or economics – as equal peers, than guess what? You’re a Christian. Because Christ said we are *all* His children. I could say it, but I’m really quite obsessively not interested in labels (see last week’s blog). Like, to the extreme. For instance:
I’ve always considered myself a New Testament Christian. I happened to Google it one day. It led me to an interesting place. You see (prepare for an insightful aside), Google is a wonderful tool... but also a very misleading and dangerous one because everything and anything can be made to look legitimate. I have found personal photos of myself, taken by a friend, uploaded to a Photobucket account, and then right-clicked and PhotoShop’ed by strangers to place me in Maui when I was standing in Alaska. I have read quotes I (kinda) said two years ago at a festival, printed as things I reportedly said yesterday. I have accepted awards on days I was home in bed with a cold... that I picked up at the awards ceremony two weeks prior.
Back to the label...
I found a nice community of twenty- and thirty-something NTC folks from all over the U.S. and I was lightly chatting with them about the election and some general politics. My blog URL was listed in my profile and my signature block and someone asked me about it. I drifted away from that forum (time just didn’t allow) but then, this last Thursday I got an email.
Did you know that “New Testament Christian” is a “legally recognized denomination based in Graham, Washington” and I guess they (or someone posing as representing them) are not entirely down with my blog. So... I dug more. Turns out, the trademarked, copyrighted, patent pending phrase I’ve used *all my freaking life* to describe my approach to faith, has nothing to do with me. As a matter of fact, the pastor-as-prophet methodology that I so *adamantly* stand against is rampant in NTC(C of A).
So... I’ve got my Cease & Desist from the church of man. Gee. Why am I not surprised?
But now, what am I? At our forum (the MG3K forum, I mean) we have Catholics, Baptists, Mormons, Rapturists, atheists, religious cosmologists and angelogists, ... the list goes on. It seemed so easy to just use a label. But guess what? In the end, the label was as one dimensional as the word of man. And I – what I am... what *all* of us are – am as far from one dimensional as divinity can take us. Christ did not mean for us to condense ourselves into MySpace Q&As or even eHarmony personality profiles.
The meaning of the word Christian is “belonging to Christ.” It comes from the Greek word, christianos, from, of course, χριστός -- Christos. It means nothing else. And right now, for me, that seems enough. I want fewer labels and more faith. I want to be defined by my actions and my beliefs. I want to be hard to compartmentalize. I want to play hard to get.
My little island, in our country of vision, just lost all her road signs. The “You Are Here” display? Was just swallowed by the rainforest. And you know what? I like it much better here now.
Wings: I don’t want to be a label.
Me: You only have to be one.
Wings: Hm?
Me: You. You just have to be Wings.
“Open up your mind and start to live...
Give a little bit more than you got to give.”
EJ
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Dot.Line.Square.Cube.Christ
...or...
Why Life is Multidimensional and Labels Aren’t
There’s something about... being alive. Something about that realization that you’ve woken up to a new day that just isn’t the same as the old day no matter how sweet the old day was. Just when you think it can’t get any better, your fingertips turn stones into chocolates and roses into pre-dawn whispers.
An interviewer said, “Give me a fun fact.”
I shrugged: “I have four tattoos.”
“Okay.” He jots that down. He’s not impressed. Not fun enough, I guess.
I sip my Coke Zero with Cherry. “Wings, a cross, fish skeleton and a strawberry,” I add.
He says, “Cool.” but doesn’t look up. He’s twenty-two. Gamer boy with long hair and thick eyebrows over ice-blue eyes. He’s wearing a shirt that reads, “The Bronze” It makes me smile.
I squint my eyes. I lean back in my chair. “I’m a New Testament Christian. Fight-clubber. Raver. Non-smoking, non-drinking, non-swearing gamer chick. Eight piercings.”
He looks up with a snap that’s almost audible. He squints *his* eyes. Gaze darts. “Seven.” He has counted the studs and d6 earrings in my ears.
“Hm...” I grin... unbuttoning my collar, smoothing out the cotton. My hand falls to rest on my Kawasaki belt buckle. “Eight.”
And he writes a *very* good review. Starts with “There’s something about Eliza Jean...”
Yeah, *something*... who knows what it is, but there’s somethin’ ;)
I am sitting in a Starbucks in Los Angeles thinking about a nightclub in Kosovo, then wondering about the back-room deals manufactured in another club in Moscow shaped by the needs of the working man and paid for with the make-believe of five nineteen year old “dancers” who I have come to care about.
“Because the Night” shakes my eardrums, earbuds in. I rewrite some of the lyrics, as I’m apt to do, and I smirk. Christ has cast me in a shape and made me with a voice that speaks primarily to the generation just after mine (or so reviewers claim). The New Boomers, more plentiful than the first Boomers, and not so much the same as the old day, or the old boss. And yet here I am, bobbing my head to the music of their parents. Born in the late ‘80s and ‘90s, they are more eclectic than I often give them credit for but I never underestimate their influence – “prime demographic” isn’t just about marketing dollars. Prime, if one looks at the Latin root, means: Mind-blowing
“On my knees, baby, tell me what can I do?
I had a dream, for a moment I believed it was true.
I’d have given anything
just to be there with you.”
I’m studying my pumpkin scone and steaming hot cup’a when I realize that any industry that makes it smexy for adults to drink hot beverages out of cups with sippy lids is destined to succeed. There is no stopping the caffeine trade; The delivery devices are just way too back-to-the-womb, abdicate RL, might as well roll nude in mash potatoes, mac ‘n’ meatloaf, comfort-food welcoming. Every adult in this Starbucks looks stoned and really, really happy. Several look so severely buzzed that they might explode into dark roasted beans.
I have an insane desire to stand on the table and kiss you. (Don’t worry. The cup’a is decaf ;) Though my hearty laugh is absolutely infectious.)
I finish my drink, snarf my scone and grab my helmet from under the table. There’s a moment when my cheeks burn (people watching) then helmet is on and I’m out into the anonymous night.
“I think of flying down into a sea of pens and feathers
and all other instruments of faith and sex and God.
Lay me down in a field of flame and heather.
Render up my body into the burning heart of God.”
We’re talking about the rest of the world. Outside of our friendship -- which is comprised of stolen grins spread across twelve hundred miles and – shh! – secrets that only us and Christ share – the rest of the world seems slightly less satisfying than we learned about in health class. What is *with* the rest of the world? *smirk* Are they... out of synch? Bad dub? How come everything makes sense to us? Politics, love, death, faith, music, sex, resistance, revolution, sickness... and yet everyone else swallows intolerance and homogeny poppers with chasers of lazy ignorance. What is *up* wit’ that, Wings?! I mean... *geez* ... *wicked grin* ;)
“It got better,” you tell me. “It evened out.”
I raise one eyebrow. Yeah, often hell does ease up occasionally. Easy to get better when it was the worst it could be. “At least it didn’t rain toads or locust,” I laugh.
“There may have been locust...” you admit.
I chuckle but I hope you’re claiming poetic license... goodness knows, I certainly do.
I’ve come to think of reality as layers of strata. They build over time, sometimes laying down for me, allowing me easy access to run my palms over open planes, other times, folding and twisting like temptress curves, escaping easy study. I live here (You Are Here <--) and it is just one strata in the stripes of this time. My strata has everything laid bare on her surface. She’s tattooed and pierced and delightfully, wickedly donned in leather and silk or sometimes buck naked. She wears expensive wild rose perfume and calls everyone “babe” but only “baby” for one... or two ;) From this strata, I can see Christ as a ripped, handsome warrior. His handprint is here over my heart. His signature is all over the fine science of this only green world. If I open my own eyes (instead of man’s book... or Book) He shows me everything I need.
My strata is, magically, four dimensions of sparkly fun. Oh look! A liopleurodon.
“I dream of rain. I dream of God.
I dream of love as time runs through my hand.
I dream of fire. I wake in vein.
I realize that nothing is as it seems.”
You may know exactly what I’m talking about. (Or you may have moved on to Paris Hilton’s blog.) It’s the idea that what makes perfect sense to you and me, seems completely out of reach from the general smarmy masses. Why is it that logic escapes your parents? Why is it that Mr. Suit-and-Tie stares at your Star Trek shirt and scoffs? Why is it that “geek” and “nerd” and “grrl” are distasteful words in the bottom-half of our country? How come “Christian” is synonymous with “bigot”? Where is the big, juicy manifesto of preconceptions (prejudice = to pre-judge like an idiot) that got handed out but you and I didn’t get it and wouldn’t have read it even if had?
I crack open a paperback of...
Jeannette Winterson
Richard Calder
Joanna Russ
Charles Stross
Camille Paglia
Neal Stephenson
...and I wonder if I put them all into my backpack at once if they’d tear each other apart like opposing-type Digimon or perhaps spontaneously combust like when you murmured, “Guide my hands, baby,” and I fell off my motorcycle and almost hit a mailbox.
This dimension, this layer of strata that we exist on, where it’s intelligent to discuss game theory and to play games, to be a parent, to lose yourself to music, to pray on your knees, to exchange vows in private, to cruise the school librarian, to drink chai and blush... this is a dimension where divinity is living poetry and all men are not just created equally but treated equally. This is a dimension where math is sexy:
Me: See, here's the deal... math is naturally very sexy. Because math is one of the ways that God gave us to celebrate our bodies and our minds. Everything I ever needed to know about making love I learned from math: Always balance a complex, delicate equation equally on both sides before continuing; Take your time and always show your work; If things get tricky, talk yourself through it; Every theorem can be tested with enough attention to detail and gentle persistence; Time is relative to the action and reaction of forces. I think you and I may be able to skip addition and subtraction... maybe even skip multiplication and division... and jump right into algebra and geometry and physics. Something about testing equal forces, balancing equations and measuring open planes just really appeals to me.
You: If I’d had you as my math teacher I would have taken AP.
Me: If you’d had me as your math teacher this would be illegal.
And I can’t help but wonder if math is this cool on any other strata or if everyone else is just humming to “Whiskey for My Men, Beer for My Horses” and making “Yay Yay for McCain” banners from rolls of paper towels.
“This circus is falling down on its knees...”
On my strata, scripture is: "And behold, my love, my now and forever, that when I step into your embrace beneath the new dawn sky, that I am stepping into the arms of our Christ, for together our two bodies celebrate His life, His death, His resurrection and eternity. For not in creation but in passion did Christ walk this Earth and bide His time. Bide time with me, my love. Now and forever."
“May angels lead you in...”
On my strata, scripture is: "As the sun sets and rises, as the rose opens and closes by His unseen hand, so is the power of His presence in our lives. Unseen but always visible. As believers we must always remember that proof is the opposite of faith and faith is the eyes open as much as the heart open. For as in nature, so in Christ. For as moves the universe, so moves the soul. Mirrors of fractal base elements. The foundations of space, time, life, divinity. And there is nothing more natural than my love for you.”
“Poor is the man
whose pleasure depends
on the permission of another.”
And on my strata it all boils down to: Life is multidimensional, shades of fiduciary colors, and easy classification, rout definitions and simple black-and-white labels are not.
You say to me, “Am I corrupted?”
I look aghast and brush your hair off your barcode tattoo. “Corruption is the manipulation of God's desires to fit man's limited mind. Passion and defiance are pages out of Christ’s book, not man's.”
You are not a label. You are Christ’s own. Period. He doesn’t need to shove us into cubby holes because He is all knowing and all seeing and pretty much freaking awesome in every possible way and so He can grasp the big stuff and the tiny stuff. And the unknown or “nonstandard” stuff doesn’t phase Him because, you know, He’s *Christ.* But sometimes society and sometimes parents get scared and they like labels because then they can Google how to treat the label (like dry clean only) and be loving and supportive or tough lovey or just tough or whatever. They try very hard but, in the end, they are clueless. A little less clueless than their parents before them but still eons more clueless than our heavenly father. Christ knows that you, of course, are you. Just you. Specifically, contextually, you. A brilliant creature. A startling mind. A person who has claimed their sexuality as their own not to be controlled or dictated by tradition which is, by definition, a dying thing. You desire who you desire in life, from a lover, whatever. You do not say, “Oh no, no. *She* has breasts!” or “Not *him,* his butt is just too small.” You do not say, “I can’t read *that*!” or “I can’t think about *this!*” What matters to you is the honest truth that lies in your genes, the paths that time and Christ have laid for you. He made our bodies and hearts and minds very delicately. Very complex. He didn’t say: “I have made you this way... now put yourself in check!” *snap* Your only label: You. All other labels are politics.
And all those other strata? The one and two dimensional ones? The strata populated by masses of mob mentality revelers who swarm to single-minded preachers or politicos? Those strata may be out of synch with ours, but they are valid to the overall presentation of our era. Our time period, our snapshot of universal history, is made from all of these layers of contrasting, comparing, opposing stripes. And amen, PTL for that!
Winterson writes that the strata of time is like the pages of a book. The pages of all our books, written and bound and touched and read. All together they tell a story of our place in space and time. They whisper our existence.
That being the case, we must admit that even blind ignorance adds to the grander picture. Our immortal record, as captured in these layers, would not be complete without a strata or two of one dimensional idiots wearing wide ties.
Hey, isn’t diversity great?
;)
EJ
Why Life is Multidimensional and Labels Aren’t
There’s something about... being alive. Something about that realization that you’ve woken up to a new day that just isn’t the same as the old day no matter how sweet the old day was. Just when you think it can’t get any better, your fingertips turn stones into chocolates and roses into pre-dawn whispers.
An interviewer said, “Give me a fun fact.”
I shrugged: “I have four tattoos.”
“Okay.” He jots that down. He’s not impressed. Not fun enough, I guess.
I sip my Coke Zero with Cherry. “Wings, a cross, fish skeleton and a strawberry,” I add.
He says, “Cool.” but doesn’t look up. He’s twenty-two. Gamer boy with long hair and thick eyebrows over ice-blue eyes. He’s wearing a shirt that reads, “The Bronze” It makes me smile.
I squint my eyes. I lean back in my chair. “I’m a New Testament Christian. Fight-clubber. Raver. Non-smoking, non-drinking, non-swearing gamer chick. Eight piercings.”
He looks up with a snap that’s almost audible. He squints *his* eyes. Gaze darts. “Seven.” He has counted the studs and d6 earrings in my ears.
“Hm...” I grin... unbuttoning my collar, smoothing out the cotton. My hand falls to rest on my Kawasaki belt buckle. “Eight.”
And he writes a *very* good review. Starts with “There’s something about Eliza Jean...”
Yeah, *something*... who knows what it is, but there’s somethin’ ;)
I am sitting in a Starbucks in Los Angeles thinking about a nightclub in Kosovo, then wondering about the back-room deals manufactured in another club in Moscow shaped by the needs of the working man and paid for with the make-believe of five nineteen year old “dancers” who I have come to care about.
“Because the Night” shakes my eardrums, earbuds in. I rewrite some of the lyrics, as I’m apt to do, and I smirk. Christ has cast me in a shape and made me with a voice that speaks primarily to the generation just after mine (or so reviewers claim). The New Boomers, more plentiful than the first Boomers, and not so much the same as the old day, or the old boss. And yet here I am, bobbing my head to the music of their parents. Born in the late ‘80s and ‘90s, they are more eclectic than I often give them credit for but I never underestimate their influence – “prime demographic” isn’t just about marketing dollars. Prime, if one looks at the Latin root, means: Mind-blowing
“On my knees, baby, tell me what can I do?
I had a dream, for a moment I believed it was true.
I’d have given anything
just to be there with you.”
I’m studying my pumpkin scone and steaming hot cup’a when I realize that any industry that makes it smexy for adults to drink hot beverages out of cups with sippy lids is destined to succeed. There is no stopping the caffeine trade; The delivery devices are just way too back-to-the-womb, abdicate RL, might as well roll nude in mash potatoes, mac ‘n’ meatloaf, comfort-food welcoming. Every adult in this Starbucks looks stoned and really, really happy. Several look so severely buzzed that they might explode into dark roasted beans.
I have an insane desire to stand on the table and kiss you. (Don’t worry. The cup’a is decaf ;) Though my hearty laugh is absolutely infectious.)
I finish my drink, snarf my scone and grab my helmet from under the table. There’s a moment when my cheeks burn (people watching) then helmet is on and I’m out into the anonymous night.
“I think of flying down into a sea of pens and feathers
and all other instruments of faith and sex and God.
Lay me down in a field of flame and heather.
Render up my body into the burning heart of God.”
We’re talking about the rest of the world. Outside of our friendship -- which is comprised of stolen grins spread across twelve hundred miles and – shh! – secrets that only us and Christ share – the rest of the world seems slightly less satisfying than we learned about in health class. What is *with* the rest of the world? *smirk* Are they... out of synch? Bad dub? How come everything makes sense to us? Politics, love, death, faith, music, sex, resistance, revolution, sickness... and yet everyone else swallows intolerance and homogeny poppers with chasers of lazy ignorance. What is *up* wit’ that, Wings?! I mean... *geez* ... *wicked grin* ;)
“It got better,” you tell me. “It evened out.”
I raise one eyebrow. Yeah, often hell does ease up occasionally. Easy to get better when it was the worst it could be. “At least it didn’t rain toads or locust,” I laugh.
“There may have been locust...” you admit.
I chuckle but I hope you’re claiming poetic license... goodness knows, I certainly do.
I’ve come to think of reality as layers of strata. They build over time, sometimes laying down for me, allowing me easy access to run my palms over open planes, other times, folding and twisting like temptress curves, escaping easy study. I live here (You Are Here <--) and it is just one strata in the stripes of this time. My strata has everything laid bare on her surface. She’s tattooed and pierced and delightfully, wickedly donned in leather and silk or sometimes buck naked. She wears expensive wild rose perfume and calls everyone “babe” but only “baby” for one... or two ;) From this strata, I can see Christ as a ripped, handsome warrior. His handprint is here over my heart. His signature is all over the fine science of this only green world. If I open my own eyes (instead of man’s book... or Book) He shows me everything I need.
My strata is, magically, four dimensions of sparkly fun. Oh look! A liopleurodon.
“I dream of rain. I dream of God.
I dream of love as time runs through my hand.
I dream of fire. I wake in vein.
I realize that nothing is as it seems.”
You may know exactly what I’m talking about. (Or you may have moved on to Paris Hilton’s blog.) It’s the idea that what makes perfect sense to you and me, seems completely out of reach from the general smarmy masses. Why is it that logic escapes your parents? Why is it that Mr. Suit-and-Tie stares at your Star Trek shirt and scoffs? Why is it that “geek” and “nerd” and “grrl” are distasteful words in the bottom-half of our country? How come “Christian” is synonymous with “bigot”? Where is the big, juicy manifesto of preconceptions (prejudice = to pre-judge like an idiot) that got handed out but you and I didn’t get it and wouldn’t have read it even if had?
I crack open a paperback of...
Jeannette Winterson
Richard Calder
Joanna Russ
Charles Stross
Camille Paglia
Neal Stephenson
...and I wonder if I put them all into my backpack at once if they’d tear each other apart like opposing-type Digimon or perhaps spontaneously combust like when you murmured, “Guide my hands, baby,” and I fell off my motorcycle and almost hit a mailbox.
This dimension, this layer of strata that we exist on, where it’s intelligent to discuss game theory and to play games, to be a parent, to lose yourself to music, to pray on your knees, to exchange vows in private, to cruise the school librarian, to drink chai and blush... this is a dimension where divinity is living poetry and all men are not just created equally but treated equally. This is a dimension where math is sexy:
Me: See, here's the deal... math is naturally very sexy. Because math is one of the ways that God gave us to celebrate our bodies and our minds. Everything I ever needed to know about making love I learned from math: Always balance a complex, delicate equation equally on both sides before continuing; Take your time and always show your work; If things get tricky, talk yourself through it; Every theorem can be tested with enough attention to detail and gentle persistence; Time is relative to the action and reaction of forces. I think you and I may be able to skip addition and subtraction... maybe even skip multiplication and division... and jump right into algebra and geometry and physics. Something about testing equal forces, balancing equations and measuring open planes just really appeals to me.
You: If I’d had you as my math teacher I would have taken AP.
Me: If you’d had me as your math teacher this would be illegal.
And I can’t help but wonder if math is this cool on any other strata or if everyone else is just humming to “Whiskey for My Men, Beer for My Horses” and making “Yay Yay for McCain” banners from rolls of paper towels.
“This circus is falling down on its knees...”
On my strata, scripture is: "And behold, my love, my now and forever, that when I step into your embrace beneath the new dawn sky, that I am stepping into the arms of our Christ, for together our two bodies celebrate His life, His death, His resurrection and eternity. For not in creation but in passion did Christ walk this Earth and bide His time. Bide time with me, my love. Now and forever."
“May angels lead you in...”
On my strata, scripture is: "As the sun sets and rises, as the rose opens and closes by His unseen hand, so is the power of His presence in our lives. Unseen but always visible. As believers we must always remember that proof is the opposite of faith and faith is the eyes open as much as the heart open. For as in nature, so in Christ. For as moves the universe, so moves the soul. Mirrors of fractal base elements. The foundations of space, time, life, divinity. And there is nothing more natural than my love for you.”
“Poor is the man
whose pleasure depends
on the permission of another.”
And on my strata it all boils down to: Life is multidimensional, shades of fiduciary colors, and easy classification, rout definitions and simple black-and-white labels are not.
You say to me, “Am I corrupted?”
I look aghast and brush your hair off your barcode tattoo. “Corruption is the manipulation of God's desires to fit man's limited mind. Passion and defiance are pages out of Christ’s book, not man's.”
You are not a label. You are Christ’s own. Period. He doesn’t need to shove us into cubby holes because He is all knowing and all seeing and pretty much freaking awesome in every possible way and so He can grasp the big stuff and the tiny stuff. And the unknown or “nonstandard” stuff doesn’t phase Him because, you know, He’s *Christ.* But sometimes society and sometimes parents get scared and they like labels because then they can Google how to treat the label (like dry clean only) and be loving and supportive or tough lovey or just tough or whatever. They try very hard but, in the end, they are clueless. A little less clueless than their parents before them but still eons more clueless than our heavenly father. Christ knows that you, of course, are you. Just you. Specifically, contextually, you. A brilliant creature. A startling mind. A person who has claimed their sexuality as their own not to be controlled or dictated by tradition which is, by definition, a dying thing. You desire who you desire in life, from a lover, whatever. You do not say, “Oh no, no. *She* has breasts!” or “Not *him,* his butt is just too small.” You do not say, “I can’t read *that*!” or “I can’t think about *this!*” What matters to you is the honest truth that lies in your genes, the paths that time and Christ have laid for you. He made our bodies and hearts and minds very delicately. Very complex. He didn’t say: “I have made you this way... now put yourself in check!” *snap* Your only label: You. All other labels are politics.
And all those other strata? The one and two dimensional ones? The strata populated by masses of mob mentality revelers who swarm to single-minded preachers or politicos? Those strata may be out of synch with ours, but they are valid to the overall presentation of our era. Our time period, our snapshot of universal history, is made from all of these layers of contrasting, comparing, opposing stripes. And amen, PTL for that!
Winterson writes that the strata of time is like the pages of a book. The pages of all our books, written and bound and touched and read. All together they tell a story of our place in space and time. They whisper our existence.
That being the case, we must admit that even blind ignorance adds to the grander picture. Our immortal record, as captured in these layers, would not be complete without a strata or two of one dimensional idiots wearing wide ties.
Hey, isn’t diversity great?
;)
EJ
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Clubbing, Carl and Binary
The sky is velvet and dark as your eyes, pupils dilated with desire. I stop at the light, red like blood, like the “no, stop” you won’t make me hear tonight, and I stare at the expanse of my Christ above me. My helmet comes off before I can think. The night is cold. Hair tumbles out; I feel it hit the back of my jacket. I can already hear the music. Bass line. Guitar riff taking me there. Baby... take me there.
Green light.
Hm. The last few streets, one more left (always seems to be a left to reach you, lover) and I’m rocking her into her stand, checking my helmet and jacket at the door.
“Hey, Ron...”
“Hey, Angel.”
“Crowd?”
“Sweet.”
Past the tables. I’m watching the new velvet of darkness. No stars here. Oh wait. Maybe there are, but shh, baby, that’s our little secret, isn’t it? Strobes are red purple blue green, slow and languid, then spastic with synch. I think of college and NYC and the clubs where I first really danced. I think of Boston, fake IDs, wanting to move like Amalia Ramos, the older sister of my boxing buddy, with her two kids and no husband, and two jobs and no car. Watching her lose everything except the beat-beat-thump of the music shaking the speakers, vibrating through my bones. The time she caught me watching, said, “Come here, Angel...” back before it was my name, and, fingertips on the small of my back, our hips locked together like two Lego bricks (hers women’s hips, mine narrower than her Bantamweight brother’s), I was unable to look at anything other than the hollow between her collar bones where the little gold cross hung. Until the third song when I closed my eyes.
I am thinking of you now. It’s raining where you are. The sky is heavy and low. I imagine driving those backroads, laying my bike low on slick roads. Enjoying the shake of risk. That tremble of the machine I love. Or it is the trembling in my body?
Ten years later. Ten years after dancing with Amalia, watching her turn on every boy in the club and knowing she was doing it. Hey, look, two chicks... it was unexpected a decade ago in a straight club in Boston. No trouble. Not with Amalia. She’d pick one lucky, brown-eyed stallion to take her home. I’d be the one left dancing, content with my new abandon.
“That’s a good girl, Angel...” she whispered, but her eyes were on someone else which is why mine were closed.
A decade after learning to dance, to move among strangers like water, like something warm, molten. To feel muscle and bone and blood and worries and life and culture, become simple beats, no more than verses in a continuing song, unable to wear me down, unable to bend or break me. Because, baby, I can dance all night then blink up at dawn, drive home still humming with this frequency of desire.
“Hiya, Angel.”
*eyes closed*
“Can I get you a Coke’n?”
“Dancing now, Carl.”
“Right. Yeah. So—”
“Dancing, Carl. Not listening.”
And this is my Neutral Hour, ’cept I’ve scored myself some Celestial contraband biotech and slipped the timestream to stretch this hour into four, five... six and eight. Carl smells like nutmeg and coconut because his mama makes these awesome cookies that he consumes in great quantities to keep up his 6’2” ultra whipcord frame. His favorites have raisins, too. His mama is proud to have a son whose a programmer. Carl is proud that he taught himself to dance. I’m proud to call Carl my friend.
The song changes, blends into another. Hard back bone, loud drums, incoherent vocals with reverbing techno bouncing off the walls back at me. I think about binary. I think about jokes about binary. I laugh out loud to myself and then grab Carl’s arm. He leans down, his dreads falling forward as he offers me his ear. I shout to be heard, “There are only 1 0 types of people in the world: Those who understand binary, and those who don't.”
Carl laughs. Carl always laughs at my jokes. “I have that shirt. It’s green.”
And we dance.
I don’t think Carl would understand how I think about you. I don’t think Carl has ever thought about a woman the way I think about you. To Carl, his mama is the only woman he’ll ever need. I consider, while raising my arms, rolling my hips, that if I could break you down into binary, Carl would nod sagely and we’d understand one another perfectly. If I broke it down, took you down, along graph paper lines, outlined the politics of desire, the theorems of chaos that carried me to this place... if I showed my work... if I made a pie chart or a bar graph or did an indepth contrast/compare of the sound of you losing your voice to my suggestion of hands on hips, on fly of jeans, to the whisper of prayers in the midnight hour that enfolds and embraces every heartbeat until dawn breaks over us like the rapture... then Carl might get it.
Carl said once: “I read your blog, Angel. I liked the one about God Particles. But I don’t really get the religion ones.” And beneath his Caribbean complexion, Carl blushed deep then sipped his Coke’n’Cream, confused by his own reaction.
We dance. When some *** snaps a picture, Carl growls and snatches the camera even before Ron grabs the noob by the collar and throws him out onto the street. The crunch of a $200 camera beneath Carl’s black engineer boot with the silver binary scrawl is so satisfying. Parts go skittering off the dance floor. I’d kiss him but he wouldn’t get it. Instead I laugh, free and clean and alive, and grab his hands, guiding us deeper into the mix. We dance – and Carl is a great dancer, always 1.7 inches away from every part of my body – my fingers hooked into his belt loops. Our smiles are identical. We might be twins.
A familiar song comes on, remixed on the fly with a harder bottom line. Carl cocks his head, “Blog song.” He says, perfect memory for facts and figures and what cookies taste best. I nod. “Yeah, blog song.” Because all my friends – across three continents – call them that.
We sip our Coke’ns. I sit, my Converse propped on the rung of the table, my rings clicking out rhythms on the table top. Carl stands. His head bobs. He looks at me, not quite directly. Which is cool and familiar to me.
“You chart out your blogs? Like an outline.”
I shake my head no.
“You just have a blank screen, page?”
I nod yes.
Carl makes a sound of interest, like your “hmm” but a little bit different. He looks at me, suddenly startled with his own thought. “You could just write something right now?”
I look at the table top. I think of Bri so far away. Her writing me a message just to tell me I rocked. I asked her why. She tapped out, “Cuz you write her a story every night!” I trace a circle on the condensation of my Coke’n. The deep brown mixing with the white cream isn’t the best visual for platonic thoughts. I grin.
“There is this black velvet night, buttoned up with stars. Every time I blink, I see you there. A constellation legend, a map of my journey home. The geography of moonlight casting your body like stardust and benedictions across my skin. There is a warm weight in the palm of my hands and I can’t stop shaking. I taste you sweet like wild strawberries. Salty with happy tears. Warm like new sunshine in the pit of my stomach. Hot summer blush across my chest. Your spring rain falls gentle, G-rated admissions, casual submissions to my desire, your compromise a shrug, standing on a foundation of prayer.”
I look up from my glass. Carl is smiling.
“You’re so random, Angel.”
And, laughing, we move back to the dance floor.
EJ
Green light.
Hm. The last few streets, one more left (always seems to be a left to reach you, lover) and I’m rocking her into her stand, checking my helmet and jacket at the door.
“Hey, Ron...”
“Hey, Angel.”
“Crowd?”
“Sweet.”
Past the tables. I’m watching the new velvet of darkness. No stars here. Oh wait. Maybe there are, but shh, baby, that’s our little secret, isn’t it? Strobes are red purple blue green, slow and languid, then spastic with synch. I think of college and NYC and the clubs where I first really danced. I think of Boston, fake IDs, wanting to move like Amalia Ramos, the older sister of my boxing buddy, with her two kids and no husband, and two jobs and no car. Watching her lose everything except the beat-beat-thump of the music shaking the speakers, vibrating through my bones. The time she caught me watching, said, “Come here, Angel...” back before it was my name, and, fingertips on the small of my back, our hips locked together like two Lego bricks (hers women’s hips, mine narrower than her Bantamweight brother’s), I was unable to look at anything other than the hollow between her collar bones where the little gold cross hung. Until the third song when I closed my eyes.
I am thinking of you now. It’s raining where you are. The sky is heavy and low. I imagine driving those backroads, laying my bike low on slick roads. Enjoying the shake of risk. That tremble of the machine I love. Or it is the trembling in my body?
Ten years later. Ten years after dancing with Amalia, watching her turn on every boy in the club and knowing she was doing it. Hey, look, two chicks... it was unexpected a decade ago in a straight club in Boston. No trouble. Not with Amalia. She’d pick one lucky, brown-eyed stallion to take her home. I’d be the one left dancing, content with my new abandon.
“That’s a good girl, Angel...” she whispered, but her eyes were on someone else which is why mine were closed.
A decade after learning to dance, to move among strangers like water, like something warm, molten. To feel muscle and bone and blood and worries and life and culture, become simple beats, no more than verses in a continuing song, unable to wear me down, unable to bend or break me. Because, baby, I can dance all night then blink up at dawn, drive home still humming with this frequency of desire.
“Hiya, Angel.”
*eyes closed*
“Can I get you a Coke’n?”
“Dancing now, Carl.”
“Right. Yeah. So—”
“Dancing, Carl. Not listening.”
And this is my Neutral Hour, ’cept I’ve scored myself some Celestial contraband biotech and slipped the timestream to stretch this hour into four, five... six and eight. Carl smells like nutmeg and coconut because his mama makes these awesome cookies that he consumes in great quantities to keep up his 6’2” ultra whipcord frame. His favorites have raisins, too. His mama is proud to have a son whose a programmer. Carl is proud that he taught himself to dance. I’m proud to call Carl my friend.
The song changes, blends into another. Hard back bone, loud drums, incoherent vocals with reverbing techno bouncing off the walls back at me. I think about binary. I think about jokes about binary. I laugh out loud to myself and then grab Carl’s arm. He leans down, his dreads falling forward as he offers me his ear. I shout to be heard, “There are only 1 0 types of people in the world: Those who understand binary, and those who don't.”
Carl laughs. Carl always laughs at my jokes. “I have that shirt. It’s green.”
And we dance.
I don’t think Carl would understand how I think about you. I don’t think Carl has ever thought about a woman the way I think about you. To Carl, his mama is the only woman he’ll ever need. I consider, while raising my arms, rolling my hips, that if I could break you down into binary, Carl would nod sagely and we’d understand one another perfectly. If I broke it down, took you down, along graph paper lines, outlined the politics of desire, the theorems of chaos that carried me to this place... if I showed my work... if I made a pie chart or a bar graph or did an indepth contrast/compare of the sound of you losing your voice to my suggestion of hands on hips, on fly of jeans, to the whisper of prayers in the midnight hour that enfolds and embraces every heartbeat until dawn breaks over us like the rapture... then Carl might get it.
Carl said once: “I read your blog, Angel. I liked the one about God Particles. But I don’t really get the religion ones.” And beneath his Caribbean complexion, Carl blushed deep then sipped his Coke’n’Cream, confused by his own reaction.
We dance. When some *** snaps a picture, Carl growls and snatches the camera even before Ron grabs the noob by the collar and throws him out onto the street. The crunch of a $200 camera beneath Carl’s black engineer boot with the silver binary scrawl is so satisfying. Parts go skittering off the dance floor. I’d kiss him but he wouldn’t get it. Instead I laugh, free and clean and alive, and grab his hands, guiding us deeper into the mix. We dance – and Carl is a great dancer, always 1.7 inches away from every part of my body – my fingers hooked into his belt loops. Our smiles are identical. We might be twins.
A familiar song comes on, remixed on the fly with a harder bottom line. Carl cocks his head, “Blog song.” He says, perfect memory for facts and figures and what cookies taste best. I nod. “Yeah, blog song.” Because all my friends – across three continents – call them that.
We sip our Coke’ns. I sit, my Converse propped on the rung of the table, my rings clicking out rhythms on the table top. Carl stands. His head bobs. He looks at me, not quite directly. Which is cool and familiar to me.
“You chart out your blogs? Like an outline.”
I shake my head no.
“You just have a blank screen, page?”
I nod yes.
Carl makes a sound of interest, like your “hmm” but a little bit different. He looks at me, suddenly startled with his own thought. “You could just write something right now?”
I look at the table top. I think of Bri so far away. Her writing me a message just to tell me I rocked. I asked her why. She tapped out, “Cuz you write her a story every night!” I trace a circle on the condensation of my Coke’n. The deep brown mixing with the white cream isn’t the best visual for platonic thoughts. I grin.
“There is this black velvet night, buttoned up with stars. Every time I blink, I see you there. A constellation legend, a map of my journey home. The geography of moonlight casting your body like stardust and benedictions across my skin. There is a warm weight in the palm of my hands and I can’t stop shaking. I taste you sweet like wild strawberries. Salty with happy tears. Warm like new sunshine in the pit of my stomach. Hot summer blush across my chest. Your spring rain falls gentle, G-rated admissions, casual submissions to my desire, your compromise a shrug, standing on a foundation of prayer.”
I look up from my glass. Carl is smiling.
“You’re so random, Angel.”
And, laughing, we move back to the dance floor.
EJ
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Civilizing Force
It seems that typographical errors are very popular among my readership. They show I'm "flawed and human" even "refreshing real." I'm pleased to oblige; I haven't met a spell-check yet that I can't stump.
Today was somewhat surreal. Traveling for work, shooting new pages on location, I feel unexpectedly uprooted. This may be because last week was difficult. I learned I don't do well without my lover which is new for me. (And new for most of you as well since my hp says relationship status "single" LOL) It's new for me because I'm one of those calm, cool and collected chicks who usually can kinda take 'em or leave 'em and who understands that life is full of time apart, alone and chill with it all. I came to realize that I was never actually in love before. That the things I missed were things that have become part of who I am -- like praying, like math, like breathing -- things I can't live without. And five days? Yeah. That was four days too long.
So now I'm on the road. And I grabbed my fold up easel and a small canvas and kit on my way to the airport. I'm doing a piece for a friend, a dear friend. For her aunt actually. And I brought it with me. I'm painting in the hotel room. I have my smock. Covered in paint. Knock on the door. My director.
Him: What are you wearing?
Me: What do you want?
Him: Call at 5.
Me: Yeah.
Him: You need to look fresh.
Me: ...
Him: Not like today.
Me: *shutting door in his face*
Him: *grabbing my shirt tail* I'm talking to you.
And the event unfolds in that way that surreal events unfold. And it ends with me sitting on the foot of my hotel bed, stitching an eight inch long tear in my smock. My hands are shaking so hard. And I'm not sure if it's from anger or fear or just from the drug called surrealism that appears to be pumping through my veins.
Me: I feel like the rest is a dream.
You: I know what you mean.
Me: That this, here, now... with you... is real.
You: Hmm.
Me: The only thing that's real.
And the song plays on my mp3 player but my headphones aren't in:
now that I know what I'm without
you can't just leave me
breathe into me and make me real
bring me to life
And I watch the equalizer image on the face of the gadget rise and fall and rise again and again, and I think to myself, as I shake and prick my thigh with the hotel needle, "How freaking pathetic."
But I suppose typos aren't the only thing that keep me human. And, dear Lord, I do want to be human.
One put it on a pedestal...
and left it there.
A crew member on set handed me a calling card. It's fashioned after black leather with white bold letters. He smiled. He shrugged. He muttered, "I printed 5000." He walks away. I look down.
Gamer Grrl in Small Doses
http://ejangel.blogspot.com/
...the pastor you always wanted...
I don't even know his name. I think it's Paul. I'm not sure. How do I take this?
I realize that I can't mend the shirt. I pull the thread taut and the fabric rips. I always tell you I'll be gentle. Tonight I don't seem to be able to pull it off. I'm bleeding on my black and white Batz Maru boxers. Did I answer the door in my boxers? I must have. But I don't remember.
I'm eating dinner in the hotel restaurant. I email a friend. I miss her. I tell her so. I carefully share life details. I tell her truths about praying for her and thinking of her. I type slowly. I don't want to... I'm not sure. Be too honest. Be too much. I want her to like me. I want her to anchor me. To be a constant like the North star. Then, abruptly, I pm another friend. I don't understand what I'm doing until I click "Send":
I'm so lost. Come be with me?
See what happens when I try so hard to be careful? "Life is R-rated," this same friend argued recently. Then I donned a "Guest" avi (male) and went and saw her dance at a club, talking up the patrons with a R-rated wit, no touching allowed... it's VR after all. I stayed across the room. Three paid "exotic dancers." Guaranteed of age. Smart. Mature. They are the only women in the room. Verified and quantified. I feel... nothing. I feel a void. I close my screen. I stare into the dark hotel room. This is a person I was once in love with. I know that now because of that same sense of missing that I feel now for you. This is a person that I see now as a... what? Older sister? Mother? Ex-lover (though we didn't)? And I feel... still.
Bits and pieces of conversations, shared and first-hand, drift to me:
"There, in that quiet, with the children, before the fire, we sat at the center of a tempest and there was stillness."
"The hugs were weird. I think she misses them."
"...I miss her hugs."
"Who can I turn to? Who can I talk to?"
"Why? Of all people why is this happening to her?"
"When I tell you I want you. I mean it. In so many ways, Angel."
"Do you think they'd miss me if I were gone? Do you think they'd be okay?"
"Go thy way. For he is a chosen vessel unto me, to bear my name..."
Voices (some I have never heard) haunt me. I imagine images on cards of how I am seen by my world. I want to be the punk Christian version of Bradley Trevor Greive that startlingly so many blog subscribers tell me I am. I want to be th desexualized, gender-neutral, happy-go-lucky grrl that rolls with life like a Big O or a rounded off missing piece.
I want to go see "Religulous" and marvel at Larry Charles' seamless direction of delightfully scathing Bill Maher's deconstruction of everything that I hold sacred... because he's not. He's skewering the heinous corruption that man does in the name of *their* God who is nothing like my God at all. Bill is tearing down the facade of denomination...
Oh my gosh. And there it is. The control. The forcing into a box. The marginalization of the human soul, of the passion (not of Christ) but of our lives.
The heart of why I sat today not knowing what to write... knowing that Christ would just take me there.
Me: I can't believe I just told you that.
You: I liked it. Very much.
Me: *blush*
You: I hate it when you self-edit.
We try so hard to compartmentalize and control and reign in everything around us. We want our children to be quiet and calm and clean. We want our hearts to be focused and pure. Our lives to be routine. We want our Sunday blogs on Sunday (man's time). We want our pastors unemotional and steady as the rocks they can pretend to be.
We want our game designers on pedestals where we can leave them when we have real life to attend to.
I want to go see "Religulous" with strangers. I want to walk out into the lobby afterwards and laugh my skinny butt off about the ineptitude of the religious convention and not have to worry whose feelings I'm going to hurt or whose sensitivities I'll offend. I want to publish cartoon strips featuring the Robo Pope with the shiny red shoes. I want to blow off work and fly to Washington just long enough to take you in my arms and kiss you like I have thirty thousand times in my head, to hear you gasp my name into my hair... then take your roommate raving with the fake ID Tommy in Tacoma can whip up in fifteen minutes flat.
I don't want to be Bradley Trevor Greive. I want to be the Big Bad. I want--
Someone is knocking on the hotel room door. I look through the peep hole. It's Bobbi. I unchain and unlock and open the door. Bobbi looks at me. A moment passes. "Angel?" she holds something black and silky out toward me. "Why was Joseph's tie stuck in your door?"
I blink. I blink again. I shrug and I love... *love*... the feeling of the smirk that spreads across my face like the Grinch when his heart was still two sizes too small. "God's will be done," I whisper. And I take the tie from her hand and invite her in for a Coke.
I'll drop the tie in the mail, baby. Share, okay?
EJ
Today was somewhat surreal. Traveling for work, shooting new pages on location, I feel unexpectedly uprooted. This may be because last week was difficult. I learned I don't do well without my lover which is new for me. (And new for most of you as well since my hp says relationship status "single" LOL) It's new for me because I'm one of those calm, cool and collected chicks who usually can kinda take 'em or leave 'em and who understands that life is full of time apart, alone and chill with it all. I came to realize that I was never actually in love before. That the things I missed were things that have become part of who I am -- like praying, like math, like breathing -- things I can't live without. And five days? Yeah. That was four days too long.
So now I'm on the road. And I grabbed my fold up easel and a small canvas and kit on my way to the airport. I'm doing a piece for a friend, a dear friend. For her aunt actually. And I brought it with me. I'm painting in the hotel room. I have my smock. Covered in paint. Knock on the door. My director.
Him: What are you wearing?
Me: What do you want?
Him: Call at 5.
Me: Yeah.
Him: You need to look fresh.
Me: ...
Him: Not like today.
Me: *shutting door in his face*
Him: *grabbing my shirt tail* I'm talking to you.
And the event unfolds in that way that surreal events unfold. And it ends with me sitting on the foot of my hotel bed, stitching an eight inch long tear in my smock. My hands are shaking so hard. And I'm not sure if it's from anger or fear or just from the drug called surrealism that appears to be pumping through my veins.
Me: I feel like the rest is a dream.
You: I know what you mean.
Me: That this, here, now... with you... is real.
You: Hmm.
Me: The only thing that's real.
And the song plays on my mp3 player but my headphones aren't in:
now that I know what I'm without
you can't just leave me
breathe into me and make me real
bring me to life
And I watch the equalizer image on the face of the gadget rise and fall and rise again and again, and I think to myself, as I shake and prick my thigh with the hotel needle, "How freaking pathetic."
But I suppose typos aren't the only thing that keep me human. And, dear Lord, I do want to be human.
One put it on a pedestal...
and left it there.
A crew member on set handed me a calling card. It's fashioned after black leather with white bold letters. He smiled. He shrugged. He muttered, "I printed 5000." He walks away. I look down.
Gamer Grrl in Small Doses
http://ejangel.blogspot.com/
...the pastor you always wanted...
I don't even know his name. I think it's Paul. I'm not sure. How do I take this?
I realize that I can't mend the shirt. I pull the thread taut and the fabric rips. I always tell you I'll be gentle. Tonight I don't seem to be able to pull it off. I'm bleeding on my black and white Batz Maru boxers. Did I answer the door in my boxers? I must have. But I don't remember.
I'm eating dinner in the hotel restaurant. I email a friend. I miss her. I tell her so. I carefully share life details. I tell her truths about praying for her and thinking of her. I type slowly. I don't want to... I'm not sure. Be too honest. Be too much. I want her to like me. I want her to anchor me. To be a constant like the North star. Then, abruptly, I pm another friend. I don't understand what I'm doing until I click "Send":
I'm so lost. Come be with me?
See what happens when I try so hard to be careful? "Life is R-rated," this same friend argued recently. Then I donned a "Guest" avi (male) and went and saw her dance at a club, talking up the patrons with a R-rated wit, no touching allowed... it's VR after all. I stayed across the room. Three paid "exotic dancers." Guaranteed of age. Smart. Mature. They are the only women in the room. Verified and quantified. I feel... nothing. I feel a void. I close my screen. I stare into the dark hotel room. This is a person I was once in love with. I know that now because of that same sense of missing that I feel now for you. This is a person that I see now as a... what? Older sister? Mother? Ex-lover (though we didn't)? And I feel... still.
Bits and pieces of conversations, shared and first-hand, drift to me:
"There, in that quiet, with the children, before the fire, we sat at the center of a tempest and there was stillness."
"The hugs were weird. I think she misses them."
"...I miss her hugs."
"Who can I turn to? Who can I talk to?"
"Why? Of all people why is this happening to her?"
"When I tell you I want you. I mean it. In so many ways, Angel."
"Do you think they'd miss me if I were gone? Do you think they'd be okay?"
"Go thy way. For he is a chosen vessel unto me, to bear my name..."
Voices (some I have never heard) haunt me. I imagine images on cards of how I am seen by my world. I want to be the punk Christian version of Bradley Trevor Greive that startlingly so many blog subscribers tell me I am. I want to be th desexualized, gender-neutral, happy-go-lucky grrl that rolls with life like a Big O or a rounded off missing piece.
I want to go see "Religulous" and marvel at Larry Charles' seamless direction of delightfully scathing Bill Maher's deconstruction of everything that I hold sacred... because he's not. He's skewering the heinous corruption that man does in the name of *their* God who is nothing like my God at all. Bill is tearing down the facade of denomination...
Oh my gosh. And there it is. The control. The forcing into a box. The marginalization of the human soul, of the passion (not of Christ) but of our lives.
The heart of why I sat today not knowing what to write... knowing that Christ would just take me there.
Me: I can't believe I just told you that.
You: I liked it. Very much.
Me: *blush*
You: I hate it when you self-edit.
We try so hard to compartmentalize and control and reign in everything around us. We want our children to be quiet and calm and clean. We want our hearts to be focused and pure. Our lives to be routine. We want our Sunday blogs on Sunday (man's time). We want our pastors unemotional and steady as the rocks they can pretend to be.
We want our game designers on pedestals where we can leave them when we have real life to attend to.
I want to go see "Religulous" with strangers. I want to walk out into the lobby afterwards and laugh my skinny butt off about the ineptitude of the religious convention and not have to worry whose feelings I'm going to hurt or whose sensitivities I'll offend. I want to publish cartoon strips featuring the Robo Pope with the shiny red shoes. I want to blow off work and fly to Washington just long enough to take you in my arms and kiss you like I have thirty thousand times in my head, to hear you gasp my name into my hair... then take your roommate raving with the fake ID Tommy in Tacoma can whip up in fifteen minutes flat.
I don't want to be Bradley Trevor Greive. I want to be the Big Bad. I want--
Someone is knocking on the hotel room door. I look through the peep hole. It's Bobbi. I unchain and unlock and open the door. Bobbi looks at me. A moment passes. "Angel?" she holds something black and silky out toward me. "Why was Joseph's tie stuck in your door?"
I blink. I blink again. I shrug and I love... *love*... the feeling of the smirk that spreads across my face like the Grinch when his heart was still two sizes too small. "God's will be done," I whisper. And I take the tie from her hand and invite her in for a Coke.
I'll drop the tie in the mail, baby. Share, okay?
EJ
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