Remind Me Remember You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hm. Baby? I don’t think so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lord...

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

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

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

This force.

Lord?

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

EJ

Diligent

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

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

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

Wow. Aren't bloggers full of themselves?

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

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

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

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

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

"But if my lady

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

were ever to find herself
satisfied and satiated
by my touch

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

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

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

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

Baptize me, indeed.

EJ

Untempered

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I have you.

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

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

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

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

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

And then it was just gone.

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

But now I know...

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

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

EJ

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

Working on the Sabbath

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1) Leave me.

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

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

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

Zero to seventy-five.

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

Today is the Sabbath. I close my eyes.

Eighty. Eighty-five.

2) I have forgotten his voice.

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

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

Sixty. Fifty-five.

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

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

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

Want your lips on mine. Silencing my no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ten hours I celebrate this body that Christ made me.

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

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

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

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

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

I am steady.

EJ

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

Scattered

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

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

Two months ago:

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

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

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

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

I am praying:

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

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

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

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

Two months ago:

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

close

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

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

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

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

The radio plays:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three months ago:

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

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

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

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

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

EJ

Unwrap Me

The sun rises and I wake on the bench that wraps around the floor to ceiling windows of my new studio... where I have never painted. The world wakes with the dawn and I slide down off the bench pillow, patterned with little roses, and kneel and pray. I think of fractal snowflakes. I think of origami hamsters. I wish for change but I pray for solace.

*aside begins* Today I have been asked by my friend Amel to speak at his church. It is a Mormon church. He tells me there will be forty-two young women in attendance. The gist of the talk will be a play on the idea that "Life Happens While We're Making Other Plans." The twist, of course is, "While You're Waiting to Find Your Impassioned Path, You're Standing On It Not Doing Anything." Amel offered me an honorarium. I stared at him until he looked away from me. In a horrible moment, he was not my friend. He was a cog in a machine that is as corrupt and fallible as any of man's machines. I found my voice. I told him, gently, that his money would be put to better use elsewhere. There was a moment. And then he held me. I did not cry. But even closer than we have ever stood, his body so near mine and so familiar to me because Amel is built like my father was... even standing in his arms, I felt a distance between us that was new and unrepairable. His understanding and defense of an organized action I consider heinous has placed us in separate realities. This tightens my heart in my chest. I enjoyed having Amel in my reality while it lasted. *aside ends*

The concept of presents is pretty universal. Many of us got a refresher course a few days ago. The idea of bright or elegant paper (mystery) wrapped around an unknown gift (pleasure) is ageless and exciting. Even virtual reality environments like IMVU (the Mardi Gras 3000 official chat client) offer gifting between members, going so far as supplying a large variety of wrapping paper. In person or in pixels, unwrapping a mystery and making a discovery speaks to a primal part of us that is delighted and untamed. Our inner child... more like our inner Wild Thing.

Just this last week, I thought two friends were punking me. They said the exact same things to me about each other and about themselves at the exact same time (one was in live-chat with me, the other was in my forum inbox). I blinked at the words -- black on white and white on black. I blushed, which annoyed me. I thought about how I had crafted this beautiful metaphor about oceans and sail boats and cresting waves to explain just a few days ago how they were very different and that was just darn okay.

And now here they were saying... the exact... same... things.

*sigh*

Women.

But this moment got me thinking. It got me thinking about how you can know someone for years, formative years even, but truly not see what is inside their shiny wrapping. Sometimes? You don't even have a glimpse or have a clue. It just isn't... what? You want to know what my two friends were saying? You want me to live up to my kiss-and-tell, little-gamer-over-share reputation? Well, duh. Yeah, I'll tell you, but I'll get there in my time, so deal ;)

*aside begins* I am talking to a spicy gal pal of mine who thinks about sex about as much as a seventeen year old boy, which, statistics show, is an impressive amount. She is not seventeen (add ten years) but she is gorgeous and, statistic show, that gorgeous women do actually tend to have brains and so my buddy has something to say about her favorite subject every day. Sometimes twice a day. Today she is bent about Alabama, Colorado, Georgia, Kansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Texas and Virginia. Her cousin is having a boring time with her new husband. She's starting to get frustrated with her lack of... err... fun. So my friend decides to send her an itty bitty, adorable personal and private, small and sculpted fingertip massager from the most trusted name in bedroom items, Trojan. Their website is very professional with articles about sexual health and the importance of release for both mental clarity, energy and just general happy happy joy joy. Unfortunately, the itty bitty helper is illegal to ship into AL, CO, GA, KS, LA, MS, TX or VA. Because, my pal can only assume, women are not allow to come in a Red State. Yes, I went there. *aside ends*

And I am certain they are punking me and I'm searching for the humor in the situation. They are both coddling the other one. They are both avoiding all labels (identity is so confining). They are both protecting each other from the truths of life which are 1) not PG-13, 2) not always easy, 3) usually sexually charged, 4) all full up of power dynamics that aren't easily defined, and, most importantly, 5) are truths which are identical for both of them.

Because the awesome thing about life is that people can be in very different places and living very different lives, but be feeling many of the exact same things. This is all universal issues. Often, novels and films and good tv shows tackles these undeniable elements of life. Other times, we deal with them by saying aloud, to our dearest friend, in the middle of the night:

"I don't want you to judge me. But I can't talk to anyone else. I want you back. I need you back. I miss you. But you won't find me the same grrl you did before. I have changed... or I have discovered the woman, person, lover that has been inside me all along. I want you to meet her and like her but she doesn't like the assumption that she is anything like I used to be. And, by the way, I have *got* to tell you about what happened two nights ago on the hood of his car!"

Sometimes we unwrap ourselves like an onion or a pomegranate. Other times, we are discovered by another. Send almost always, we want our closet friend to be there when that final layer of glossimer paper is pulled away.

Because a wrapped gift is beautiful... but it is never as interesting as the intricate puzzle art that awaits inside.

*aside begins* I play the Secret Word Game with some friends at Christmas. There are four of us (three are mothers). We each have four pieces of paper. We describe each other and ourselves with ten words each. Then we get all four lists about us. We get to see how many of the words are the same. There is no losing. It is an interesting way to pass the time while the coffee is brewing and the donuts are cooling from the fryer and the XBox is cooling down after an epic frag match. We are laughing and blushing and snorting and chuckling. My friend Gille describes herself with ten words that none of us see her as. She loves this and so do I. Her partner says, "I guess I have another gift to unwrap for Christmas." I don't think I've ever heard a sexier statement. *aside ends*

Wrapping paper is sometimes not so pretty -- or, at least, the pretty parts are all covered up. Sometimes all there is to see are those ugly things called labels (as opposed to that truths called identity). The labels are stuck there by us and by the world and they cover even the outer wrapping that hides our heart away.

Oh... I'm thinking about caterpillars again. They spin as a wooly guy. They *dissolve* into goo and cells and biomatter. And from that primordial ooze emerges the mothy buttery new guy. The new creature, not so much the same as the old creature. If you liked the caterpillar, you may miss all that fur. But you may also find the mothra just as much fun. Give change a chance. Transformation can be family fun for everyone!

It seems easy to say that we should always show our true colors. It is actually as easy to say this as it is to laugh it off and say we must be prudent and protective. After all, we could change again. Why reveal who we are *now* if we may very well change, transform, tomorrow? Why live honestly if your opinions are always shifting? Because living in another way -- in a way that does not show who we are, that stifles our voice and unique thoughts and ideas -- is not living. It's acting. And acting never pays as well as they say it does.

EJ

Everything to Me

A photo of blue icicle lights nestled among the low angles of a honey-oak attic room. It's tucked in my wallet. The photo, not the room... though... I have opened my black leather billfold so often now to glimpse the soft focus of those lights and the romantic coaxing of those artistic angles like a personal cathedral... so often now that I have wished, so hard, that, that photo was a portal, a gateway I could step through and be *there.* Right... there... oh.

I think I need to go dancing.

And so...

The fourth club is the charm. I've driven more than a hundred miles. I've never danced here before. The music is haunting and dark, something between alt-techno and goth. I'd be laughing if the DJ weren't live and laying down beats unique and raw, danceable, entrancing. And my eyes close and my body moves, arms up, hands open, hips rolling, and you slide into place behind me.

Imagine it. Deep breath. Let go. Imagine if everything you knew was suddenly different. Not just everything you'd been taught. Not just everything you'd been told. What if everything you knew as certainty in your heart was suspect?

Wait. The music changes. You lean tight against me. I don't know you. But I saw you across the tables when I first walked in. You are wearing perfume, light, that smells like oranges and cloves. Your hair is long and straight. Your skin is moonlight beneath the pearl shimmer of a button up. You are here alone.

What if only half of what you knew changed? But the changes were random and unexpected and followed no pattern, rhyme or reason. What if you discovered lies? What if you discovered flaws? What if you discovered jewels that were connected to your ability to breathe, that you could not live without? What if you grew up, slow and easy, all along beneath a brilliant blue sky... and then you woke up one morning, and the city streets were gone, the bustle had vanished, and the sky was black. Jet black... scattered with five million stars.

You are very careful not to lay hands on me. Your hands stay above your head, which is a head and a half above mine. My shoulders to your ribs and chest, my hips against your thighs, you toss your hair and I feel strands like ribbons of satin, neither blonde nor brunette but somewhere in-between, fall between my fingers and then slide away. My palms tingle. You are wearing a bracelet of small bells and I catch my breath.

Raised within the safety of convention and tradition and denomination and culture. It is easier to live and wake without the fruit from the tree of knowledge. The snake's strange whispering is rarely black and white, good and evil, but rather mixed messages like, “I knew this would be a trial for you.” and “We've always known.” The snake murmurs dissent and false discovery. But in the end, he knows nothing and no one. He is not Christ. When we reach past the snake, not to pluck the fruit, but to pull ourselves into the Godtree, it is then that we understand. We need not eat for Christ is our fruit.

The lights are blue. They arrived in my inbox via PhotoBucket and were accompanied by snow and machines and gentle things that make a young woman a woman like armor-clad fairies hanging among solar system models and family portraits of smiling parents. The blue lights hang in slender strands from the ceiling which is only six feet at its highest point and three feet at its lowest. They glow with an aura both warm and cool, suspended somewhere between temperatures when sensation wipes away the need for yes or no, day or night, hot or cold. The portal to my blue room is in my wallet. My wallet is tucked into the outside pocket of my soft, loose leather pants. A chain, silver with charms (a key, a lock, a motorcycle, a heart, a dove), snakes up out of the deep pocket and latches onto the belt loop on my right hip. The chain and charms make urban jiggle bells. I like the sound mixed with your bracelet brass.

We are raised with what works for our parents for we are part of their world. We are not yet making our own world. The reality we see, no matter how much we accept and embrace it, is their reality. It is not our own. If we attend public school we start to glimpse foreshadowing of our own reality, we start to witness the overlapping realities of others. But still, we belong to the path of our parents. When finally we come through the fabric of their universe and cross over into our own (sometimes violently, sometimes without barely noticing) it can be easy or hard but it is always intrinsically different. Even if the surface and patterns are the same, at the core, our reality is different. This is because we are not our parents. It is only when we stop craving their approval, dreading their disappointment, and living for their eyes, that our reality will at long last be revealed.

I turn to face you. I tip my head back to look in your eyes. Your features are bird-like, chiseled, elegant. Your eyes are brown, gold and green. Just beneath my focused vision I make out a small cross hanging between your collar bones. It is gold. Two more of the tiny brass bells hang on either side it. I don't look down directly. Your shirt is unbuttoned three of six. You wear nothing under it. The music pulses now in time with the lights in time with my body in time with the chorus of miniature brass bells. You are wearing jet black CK jeans. I decide you are a herald of the End Times... one of the riders perhaps... and I wonder where you left your horse.

Of course, when everything is suspect we doubt even ourselves and what our own senses tell us. The comfortable certainty that comes from living in someone else's reality is like hard candy or chocolate – sweet and soothing and addictive. Nice when someone else carries the burdens. Nice when someone else makes the rules and takes the blame and builds the truth. Safer that way. But one reality does not fit all. Reality is not wash and wear. It is customized and tailored and fit to our bodies and our hearts and our souls in a way that will feel so right and so perfect – like armor and evening gown/tux with tails all in one – that we'll realize we're knowing and feeling and living for the first time, for never before were we fully alive.

I am aware in these moments lost in music that everything about my reality falls away except for passion. Desire is my companion when I dance. She stomps, rocks, sways, slides, rolls her way between lights and strobes and backbeat rhythms until she fills my body. She is light and heat and clarity of thought and balance of action. She is ache and burning, taut and pulsing, muscle, bone, heartbeat. She carries over. She fuels me. She never leaves me. She is my celebration of being alive.

Christ carries over. Christ moves with us between realities. Not Christ as we are told He is, but the voice of Christ that speaks, privately, to each of us. The whispers of divinity. This is the only truth. Rules, dictates, man's guidelines... these alter and adapt between realities. Even morals can change. Even your favorite food, color, pass-time. But that internal voice of Christ – that voice from outside yourself that lights that place in your heart... that voice from within yourself that sends a beacon into the heavens with every prayer – will remain your own. Once you discover Him, you can never leave Him behind.

I am straddling my Kawa in the parking lot. I am looking at the photo again, illuminated by the single distant street lamp... illuminated by the aura of small blue lights. An engine kick starts. I want to fall into that portal of blue and wake up looking up at those strands of stars. I look up. You ride a black and white steel stallion that makes my T1000 look like a sleek toy. I watch you pull out of the parking lot. Your hair streams like a short cloak beneath your helmet. I look up. The sky is black. It is scattered with thirteen million stars. I was taught the names of the constellations.

Tonight I rename all of them.

EJ

With This Ring

“We’re not a vendor. We're not your partner. We’re your gateway to this industry. If you think you run the show, you’re wrong. We’re the only game in town, kiddo. Everybody plays by our rules and so will you.”

And, for the first time in a long time, I am speechless not with delighted surprise or wonderment or laughter, but rather with cold, drowning shock.

I almost drop the phone.

* * *

Dictionary.com boasts thirty-three definitions of "ring." Some are nouns. Some are verbs. Two are idioms. If you a New Testament Christian, however, a ring is a noun and means only one thing: Now then and forever.

So you best be careful when you grant one.

In the lexicon of my faith there are English words that are commonly used in America (and elsewhere) that have slightly different meanings. “Offer” and “grant” leap immediately to mind, as do “pray” and “worship.” If I’m making a promise from the depths of my soul, I’m granting myself to another. If I’m bowing my head in prayer, I may as well be murmuring in conversation to Christ as I may be making love. But as a symbol, a ring, I think, is one of the most misused and misunderstood elements.

A NTC would rarely buy herself a fine ring. Street jewelry, sure, but rarely a quality piece of jewelry. A ring is a tangible symbol of a pledge or promise offered to you. Someone else has made a grant of themselves, in some way, by placing a ring in your palm. If you place it on your finger, you accept this grant for the duration never only intended but always specified at offering.

A traditional NTC wedding set is three rings which fit together or not, but which will always be worn. Though it is perhaps simpler in contemporary society to say these rings symbolize commitment, engagement and marriage, most correct would be to say that they are all rings offered and granted between two people who intend to spend the rest of their lives together. The first marks their time as lovers, private intimate partners without children, their focus on each other. The second ring marks a public acknowledgement of the relationship, a time of reaching out to friends and family and usually includes cohabitation and commitment ceremony beneath Christ’s own sky. The third ring celebrates the creation of a family, the adoption or birth of children.

And though wedding sets and love are often the first things people think of when rings are discussed, tonight my mind and heart keeps taking me to a different kind. A promise ring. A grant made and accepted. A simple silver ring with small block letters: MIND BODY SPIRIT. A ring whose twin has never left my finger outside of work in all these years. A promise that says: We will make the impossible possible.

* * *

“This friend of yours? The one with the *independent* CCG?” *scoff*

There is no friend but that’s not why with the scoffing. The scoffing is about the abject failure of every collectible card game launched by an independent company in the history of world since WoC invented the genre.

“They’ve chosen the hardest possible path and we’re not going to make it any easier for them.”

No duh.

“We’ll make sure their failure effects us as little as possible but refusing to list any product until we have stock in holding and proof of stock in their warehouse. We want their marketing plan, we want their exit plan, we want the insurance policy that pays for us to ship back stock when they go bankrupt.”

The sun is rising into my LA sky, burning away late morning clouds. On the East Coast, it is already noon and I feel like I’m playing catch up.

* * *

Cecil Adams over at www.straightdope.com answers questions, debunks myths and otherwise does witty, smarty stuff for people all over the world. He is research god of the universe and has a way of sharing information that is accessible and intelligent at once.

I had always thought it an urban myth that the Chinese word for “crisis” is made up of two characters signifying “opportunity” and “danger,” thus forming a kind of zen metaphor for life and business. And it is bunk, on the surface, seriously over simplified, but Cecil makes a bright and shiny argument for the connection between the three words that would entertain any linguist and intrigued this gamer grrl.

“We have to catch up!” one friend said to another.
“We’re *always* catching up!” snapped the response.

We’re always in crisis.

Well... yes. The Big Boys have been doing this – publishing books and games – since before our grandparents came to this country. They have massive revolving lines of credit and subsidiary sales that fuel small countries, let alone allow them to publish flops for four or five years without much more than a changing of the scapegoated guard.

As independent voices with independent presses – like Woolfe and Whitman – we should pray for a constant state of crisis. Because only in crisis are we driven to our best. Only in crisis do we find the chance for brilliant opportunities.

If it were easy... everyone would be doing it.

If it were easy... everyone would succeed.

I choose to do this, not because it is easy, but rather, specifically, because it is hard ;) I choose to do this because the struggle is sharp and painful and real and alive. I choose to do this for the same reason that women wake up in poverty and labor in factories and embrace their children.

If we waited until it were easy... if we waited until we were ready... no one important would ever be born and nothing worth doing would ever be done.

* * *

My cat has three legs and one eye, half a tail and one-point-five ears. I tried to PhotoShop him a second eye and a fourth leg and half-again more ear etc. I thought, “He’s a handsome beast. I could sell snaps of him at Dreamstime.” I tweaked and digital botoxed. I uploaded. He’s sold not a copy. And now he likes to bite me.

I learned my lesson.

“They’d have to have crazy store support.” The stranger, the corporate suit with the salaried position and the fat Christmas bonus, is still talking. I can tell he likes words like verbiage and lexicon and mind-share. I’d like to smack him up side the head with a piece of my mind-share. “Standing displays to be filled with their product right from our catalog. Banners. Posters. In-store experts. Decks in employee’s hands *months* before launch... and that’s just the beginning.”

“Just...?”

“I’d want to see care packages with gadgets and gizmos and crowd pleasers and tourney packs and a trophy. Incentive to learn the OS. Sex appeal, geek appeal, lock in the prime demo. This is the kind of finer details that independent companies have no idea how to lay down. Their idea of buzz is working the cons.”

My head is spinning. I wish you... I wish all of you... were with me.

* * *

Remember when I talked about my cup? My personal grail? Not half empty. Not half full. All full, all the time... just not all full of air. This is not a Polly Anna life approach. Because when a grail is all full up, all the time, you have to dance pretty dang well not to spill any of it.

And, baby, I am always dancing someone’s line. Sometimes man’s. Sometimes Christ’s. Almost never my own. But I’d rather be dancing than standing still.

Crisis averted = missed opportunity.

Don’t breath a sigh of relief that we have more time. Push harder now and then celebrate in the new quiet you earned at the end. Bring crisis. Bring it on, pour it down on me. Christ said, “How can you miss me when you hear my voice in your mind, in your heart, throughout your body like breath? My whisper is eternal and my body is only momentary, so why then would you desire my body rather than my word written or heard in your soul?”

How can I turn away from crisis? How can I rest and walk away? It is impossible for me to miss divinity.

“Later you said, ‘I cannot miss you when you're right here with me.’ I blink at you. I ache for you, miss you constantly. I miss you with every breath and every heartbeat and every impossible moment of time that I don't hear your voice. That, your voice, is my reality. Not your touch. Your voice. If you are speaking I can truly know you. I can taste the nuances of you, your emotional state of being. Your words are spoken with economy. You are not flashy. I have to stop myself, gregarious as I am, from talking over you because I come alive and awake when you speak with me. I overflow with joy, with living, when you express your inner thoughts, your interior process. We could be kissing, dancing, making love, and I would miss you if you were not speaking..."

Christ said, “You will hear me always for I will speak to you directly.”

I cannot miss this. This right now, right here. This moment. Seize the day? Seize the words we share. Claim the path. Know it better every day because it is hard to find the time.

Every day.

* * *

“Is there any way you would take on an independent line?” I finally ask. I cannot stop my voice from wavering. I’ve already pulled so many strings just to get this thirty minute conversation. This one question seems too much to ask. I don’t feel worthy. I am not in this league.

“No. The liability is too high.”

And I am about to hang up, to mutter thank you and good day and all the other things that spill from our slack mouths when our world has been crushed, dismantled and destroyed and we can’t let anyone know. And then:

“Except a brand like the Mardi Gras 3000 line. You know them? They have the elements. Built like a corporate property. But they have someone else handling them, maybe InCracker, because a brand that massive, that complex? You’d need a year of setup with us to really guarantee bank.”

And the niceties that spill from my lips are still all platitudes and my mind is still racing elsewhere and I still can’t let this stranger know how I am truly feeling... but Christ has whispered:

“He who makes a grant of himself to his fellow, in my light, in my name, and with faith, shall know that I walk now, then and forever, at his side to ensure the promise of that offering.”

Christ has, once again, broken my heart only to remake it. Crushed my world, only to rebuild it.

* * *

INTERNAL MEMO

The official launch of the Mardi Gras 3000 brand, collectible card game, novels, comics and role-playing game, has been moved to February 16, 2010.

Rejoice. Come walk the impassioned path with me.

Rally the troops.

EJ

The Secret Identity of Jackalopes

"For someone who fights labels so hard, you sure do care about what they say."

My friend Jess is teasing me. We're snooping around a leather and oddities boutique she likes and I'm checking brands. I laugh but I still won't buy Harley Davidson chaps. They never wear right and I hate the way they pinch my rear without even knowing my name.

As we drive home, I start to think hard about how some labels actually are important. They actually mean something. They tell the world something. Hm. And you know what, baby? I sure do hate feeling like a hypocrite.

"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 what I am, what *all* of us are is 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. 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.”

I am talking with Jess again but on another day, at Thanksgiving dinner with a house full of friends who either love us or hate us. What a day in H-E-Double Lizards. That day, I was thankful for a great many things but I was most thankful that it finally ended.

We are talking about a mutual friend we've known for years and known about (as a public figure) for far longer. He's dating someone fifteen years his junior. Dating for the first time in thirteen years after being a bit of a renowned playa. I mean, boy had fangrrl websites dedicated to him. The one with the pic of a red Corvette and a little hand-drawn arrow pointing to the slightly dented hood was my favorite. They used to line up (word of mouth, you know *snort*) and he was just alpha enough to oblige. Until he woke up one day and realized he was bored. So he up and became a happy daddy.

Jess says, "They're gonna hit a rocky place when they start to sleep together." (Jess is kinda blunt, btw.) "Because Gen Y grrls have this aversion to roles and, you know, labels. She'll expect him to be all top all the time." Jess took another bite of stuffing. She weighs 115 pounds and has the metabolism of a hummingbird. Jess builds mythological jackalopes in CAD for fun and has a career that some think is summed up by her body. (And did I already mention Jess is blunt?)

I thought about this statement of Jess'. I thought about it quite a bit. Maybe this because I once had a killer crush on this certain alpha wolf with wild hair, piercing eyes and a real-man, rock-my-world physique. *clearing throat* Yeah... maybe. But also possible is that I was thinking about this because I felt horribly *responsible.*

I know this young woman he is dating. I know she even reads my blog occasionally. By spouting off about labels and their inherit evils, did I just make my older friend's life kinda... well... awkward? Does this younger grrl expect him to be one way all the time? To be the label he wears most publically and nothing else? Will she be flexible? *crooked grin*

I mulled. I mused. I even kicked myself. They were swift kicks. Then my friend Cris wrote to me out of the blue:

"Hey, EJ. I've been reading your blog, of course, and something stuck out. Just wanted to share my thoughts.

"There is a difference between a label and an identity. A label is what others put on you; an identity is what you claim for yourself. There can be many labels and many parts to an identity. Labels and identities can change. They may have overlapping elements. As I watch the young women and the young men in my life struggle against labels, I wonder: Do they understand that an identity is something there for the taking? That they can take those labels that apply and claim them as their own? That claiming an identity, growing an identity, is empowering?"

This was the key I was looking for. This was a beautiful inspiration. And suddenly everything, all the little pieces, came together. Because labels can be claimed... and they can also be redefined. What it means for me to be a Christian... a grrl... a gamer... a biker... a lover... a raver... I have rewritten these labels to fit me. And more and more, as I feel life try to strip me of my strength and rob me of choices, I find myself proudly claiming these labels (and others) as something like armor and sword and shield. Something others might just call identity.

La-bel (ley buh l) noun, meaning 3: A short word or phrase descriptive of or defining the properties of a person or group, to indicate nature, ownership, etc.

I-den-ti-ty (ahy den ti tee) noun, meaning 2: The condition of being oneself or itself, and not another; a condition or character as to who a person is; the state or fact of being.

I-den-ti-ty (ahy den ti tee) noun, meaning 9: In mathematics, an equation that is valid for all values of its variables.

There is another reason to claim your own identity. A reason that not only helps us clarify who we are in the world and in our hearts, but that makes sure we live an examined life. Sometimes we have to add weaknesses to our armor... or, if not weaknesses, than cautions. What are the negative labels that you have assigned yourself or that the world has assigned you? Liar? Drama Queen? Quitter? Ask yourself: Is there any part of these labels that are valid? If you claim these labels as your own, you can (not so) jokingly warn others... and by claiming them, by accepting responsibility for them, you can begin to change them. Because possession is nine tenths of the law, baby, and if you own it, you have the control.

And with great control comes great responsibility. We may denounce the world and all the labels that it tries to paste on us. But we still have to find our identity. Yes, in the end, we are us. I am EJ. You are you. But who *am* I? Who *are* you? Just a name doesn't help us live in the world. With Christ, we need nothing but a name. In prayer, Christ needs no labels or even an identity plastered to us. But that is because we must come naked as new babies when we kneel before our Lord. We do not come dressed in armor and sword and shield.

But would Christ send us into the fray as babies? Does He intend us to fight without weapon, defense or protection? You know the answer. Our faith makes our identity glow in the dark. Soldiers of divinity.

There is yet another avenue to explore in this discussion of how we survive in this, the world of man. There is yet another reason to build our identity, that armor where every custom-made iridescent scale is carved from a redefined and tailored label.

When we claim a label, make it part of our identity, we claim a past. A history. A community. A heritage that often crosses race and gender and nationality. It is a past that can be good and bad, dark and light, but it connects us to the world and to the events of this world in a way that allows us to become educated and fully-realized citizens. We, in effect, grow up.

"When our supper plates
brim full of nightingales
and the gentle wren lays
dead but singing
it is then we stop, beloved.
Do not weep but rather realize
that those who have marched before
who have beaten back the thorns
that you do not see
back behind the thorns that remain
realize that because of them
you need not weep
for they have wept enough for you."

EJ

Cobblestone Symbology

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.

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.