Did I Lose My Head With John the Baptist?

I love my "personal space".  Mine is not even that big, maybe a buffer of about a foot.  I have been known to create a wall on my bed with my laptop, purse, and a pillow to create my own Tara, my own plot of the sheets that I swear are all mine!

 Usually the wall breaks down by the paws of one gigantic orange kitty.  Or I take the wall down once my love is in bed with me.

There are times in life when we have no choice about our personal space.  One of them is flying.
Smaller seats. Narrow aisle. Which arm rest belongs to who?
(If you are a first class flyer please stick with me on this, I promise it is not a rant about bad airline food.)

Whenever I fly I prepare myself with a space protecting armor.  I try to get a window seat, if that fails, I go for the aisle.

I prepare to sleep the entire flight, if that fails I download a movie and bring headphones.

On a recent flight I made it down the aisle to my seat.  Not the window.  My other two rowmates were already seated and buckled.

Once I was situated the strangest thing happened.  The man next to me turned to me and introduced himself, hand held out to shake and everything.

Who does that?

I knew immediately that any personal space was not going to happen on this fight.

He told me his name; John. Cheerfully he added "I am a Pastor".

Oy.

This particular flight was taking me to my aunt's funeral.  Not a traditional kind of funeral, my family rarely does that.  A celebration of her life.  I did not make up my mind to go until that morning.  I was fearing it would be too emotional for me. At last minute I decided to take the chance and go.

 My mind was already coming up with bible verses to use in defense of my life as John and I began to talk.  I was unapologetic when I told him I am very happily in love with a woman.

I waited for Leviticus to be tossed my way.  Instead John just smiled and said nothing.

As we talked I found myself opening up to him, telling him about my life, my struggles.  I was rather shocked.  I talked about myself more freely with Pastor John, than I have been able to with my therapist, and I pay him!

I am interested in religions.  As a whole I believe they all pretty much suck.  But I remain interested.  Yes I talk to the Mormons when they come knocking (naturally singing songs from the Broadway show in my head the entire time).

I have a sweet lady who drops off the Watchtower for me to read every week.  I will never be a Witness, but I like to read about it.

I was once very good friends with a Catholic priest. I even wrote a homily for him.

John the Pastor, turned out to be Baptist.

I was sitting next to John the Baptist at 39,000 feet.

I did wonder why he chose me to chat with and not the person on his other side.  I looked over and she had claimed her personal space and was sleeping with headphones.

I waited for the question.  I knew it was coming and when asked I gave my usual reply.  Once I have fine tuned over the years that usually placates the person asking.

"What do you believe in Amy?"

"I believe in love and energy."

It is an honest answer.

At some point I told him something I do not usually share with people.  I am haunted by the number 3:16.  I have started to collect photos of whenever I see it.  The mileage in my car when I happened to glance at it. 316 miles.  The time on my phone.  Even the moment my daughter walked across the stage graduating from college, it was exactly 3:16.

It has become a little secret joke.  As if Jesus himself were taking the time away from his busy schedule to send me little hints that I might need something in my life, something higher, dare I say, I might need God?

John the Baptist told me how he was not supposed to be on that flight, he had taken a trip that was planned for him and not by him.  How he talked with his wife about not going, but at last minute decided to go.  He naturally turned to God and told Him "I don't know why you are sending me, but I am in your hands."

I have prayed with strangers in public before when they have asked.  Mainly because I am polite and I respect other people's beliefs and well meaning efforts.

John asked me if I wanted to accept Jesus into my heart.

To my own shock I said yes.

We prayed.

I cried.

I have no idea why I cried.  Was it because this stranger took the time to actually listen to me?  Was it because I had reached my limit of emotional overload and it had to come out? Was it because I was lacking sleep?

I made a joke about him not asking for water when the attendants came around because I did not want to be Baptized by Ozarka.

John showed me the verse following 3:16 and said, "I bet you stop seeing that now."

Maybe.

The descent began and we exchanged numbers and promised to keep in touch.

I am not sure if I lost my head, or he, like his namesake had, but I knew if nothing else I made a friend.

The weekend had some rough spots for me, but I used those times to escape to my room for a few minutes.

John sent me a few text messages that he was praying for me.

I was surrounded by my family who all expressed their love for me.  I made a new family member, part of our tribe.  I laughed.  I cried only once.  I was able to give a small respectful speech that I do not call a eulogy.

I looked around and realized how lucky I am.  How precious is life and love and I felt good.  Deeply warm.

My last night there I woke up in the middle of the night and looked at the clock.

It was 3:17.  I smiled and fell back into a dreamless sleep.








(Feel free to look up John 3:16 and 3:17, also Pastor John Klink at solidrockibc.org)

toes

I sit awake in bed, thinking of all the dead.
Not just my own, but those other people I  have known

senseless
time lost
winter frost
has not yet even hit.

What do I do with this pile of shit
running through my brain?
I wish it would rain
and wash away the hate
I cant escape

dancing brought no relief
to 50 people seeking
50 people speaking
50 People loving
50 people dead

I thought I did not care
Just another tragedy
in life that isn't fair.

My mom wrote once in her diary
before God took her mind away
that I look at life blind
not seeing what is so easy to find.

And maybe it was true
maybe me you
saw things another way
in a time and in different day,

Now there is so much hate
daughters, brothers, lovers
pick up the phone and call your mothers

If you can.

Want to be mad?
Shake a fist at the sky?
Cut a wrist and see blood cry?

Hate the oppression
obsession with immigration
put down the gun
pick up our nation

we are one world
and one people
trapped together
under this steeple

Love does not always win
when so many see sin
put on your blinders
and then see me
right behind ya

I will give you a hug
if you reach out your arms
We can sleep in late and ignore the alarms

But the sirens need to stop
sirens and cops
rushing to never ending scenes
of spilled blood to be cleaned

Put down the guns
throw away the ammo
This aint no game yo

Now if you will excuse me
time to write another
eulogy.

Baby! I Know Your're Asking Me to Stay

Anyone who knows me closely enough knows that I struggle with things besides depression, weight loss, and holding on to jobs.  I struggle with God.  The Big G.

Is there one?
Is it Aliens?

I have no freaking clue.  Because of the fact that most people who do believe in God have faith, this makes conversations a little bit harder.  Usually ending in, "You just have to believe."

Huh.

I know my bible fairly well, reading mostly out of a research frame of mind, and also it is useful when you are gay to have the multitude of things the bible says you shall not do on hand as a retort to one line in Leviticus.

Me and my polyblend clothing are happy together.  I am also just as happy wearing only cotton.

For some personal reasons I decided yesterday to pray.
It went something like this:

"Uh, hey God, it's me.  Okay wow that was a Judy Blume start. Sorry.  Not that I don't like Judy Blume, I do.  Good work with that one God.
Okay ummm, I guess you are kind of busy (thinking IF he is even there).
So, yeah, uh, a lot of bad shit has been happening around me lately.  My dear friend was killed, my mother died, my aunt died, my friend has breast cancer (and I am sorry but REALLY? She is a school teacher!)
yeah God, forget this, I just want to tell you to fuck off.
I am sincerely pissed at you.
Why not give me breast cancer? Kill me and bring back all these other people.  I am nothing special.
I think people will eventually figure out how to do their own damn hair.
Instead YOU chose for a sweet farmer, an amazing mother, a fantastic brilliant aunt, and let us not forget a father or two in there.
Wow, okay  I am angry.
I do not want to do this.
Uhh, Amen."

Hmmmm

That did not go well.

Oh but people will tell me it did!  That all I did was reach out! That God can handle me yelling at him! Rejoice! Amy has found God!

Uhhh, no.  I didn't.

I found anger and more unresolved issues.

This morning I woke up extra early due to dogs that are one more pile of poop away from being put up for adoption.

I got my headphones out and set off to conquer Mount Dishmore.

What did I choose to listen to?  Godspell.

I sang, I soaped, I danced, and was wholly (not holy) in the moment of just being there.  Being with the warm water, the music in my ears and head, each dish, cup, looking at it, feeling it.  I was there!

I may not have been at Woodstock but damn was I THERE doing dishes! No acid needed.
I felt euphoric.

Naturally I can attribute this to endorphins from the dancing.  Nothing at all relating to God. Unless God gave me the endorphins.

Please note that I did not bring up religion.  That is enough to make me even more angry.  I am of the "Whatever works for you" gang.

I do not know if I am going to pray today.

  I do not know if I will ever have, find ,and hold on to the slippery elusive thing called faith.

 Even if George Michaels says I have to have it.

Challenge Accepted

Dear Ms. Evers,

I have received your latest chapters and, as your editor, I must say that I find them lacking.  It seems of late your writing has had a bit of fanfaronade to it, as though your voice is not authentic.  People want your typical voice, the run of the mill whining and complaining they usually read.  Turn on the TV!  Look at the schadenfreude that surrounds us all!  That is what the masses want now.  They will read any kind of blatherskite as long as it makes them feel better about their own lives as compared to yours.

Have you recently become, dare I ask, happy?  If so, again as your editor, I suggest you quit whatever shenanigans in which you have been partaking and go back to being depressed.  Not suicidal, of course.  We do want a three-book deal with you.

Go off your medication for a while and I am sure all this discombobulation will cease.

Best of wishes,

Wesley Wyndam-Price

Editor-in-Chief
Wolfram and Hart




My Dearest Wesley,

It is very magnanimous of you to take the time away from your very busy schedule. I would hate to bother you unprovoked with all the goings on of my usual days filled with flibbertigibbets and details.  If I am to understand correctly, you are not pleased with my recent writings and feel they lack a certain despondent ennui that the masses crave so that they might feel better about themselves.

You will be pleased to know that I have still been frittering my days away as I murmur obscure ideas out loud. For instance, I found myself acting  like a pure rube in the market the other day staring at the fruit that had a slight anaranjado hue. My mind immediately took me (and the fuzzy slippers I had donned) to the flower section where I stood among the forsythias (much preferring their bright yellow to the more ambiguous orange) and nearly dropped into a yoga pose right there because the smell was so powerful.  Or maybe it was the hyacinths.

All fuckery aside, I have not stopped my medication; in fact I am now seeing a therapist once a week who is trying desperately to make sense of the ginormous spaghettification of my mind. Having been through that black hole, he will doubtlessly have an easier time untangling the Christmas lights that have been rotting in a moist mess under his house.

I imagine my poor, poor therapist was wishing he had a funicular to descend to the recesses of my issues; at least the path would start with a better view.

I have to admit, Mr. Price, that I find myself recalcitrant to the idea of you wanting me to be unhappy for the sake of sales.  On the other hand I do need a new car.  Are you suggesting I am a better writer when I am not filled with splendor and light?

Must I continue on the path that leaves my body and brain in a such a condition of monstrosity -- that state which one coming from my home town would only have ever before seen in the bordering town of Parsippany?  I am almost so appalled at your blatant disregard for my own life that, were you standing here, I would throw a biscuit at you and probably resort to immature language as well.  You may be an editor but you are certainly a fucktard as well. Perhaps they are the same thing.

I am fully aware that in these political times people are looking for something else to read about other than the supposedly impolitically correct blathering of Mister Drumpf.  Must it be up to me to put the kibosh on the world's distressing obsession with sociopolitical entertainment?

I long for sultry summer nights, a debonair man reaching out to hand me an aperitif.  Yet, you want me to write about the hullabaloo that exacerbates my every thought, my debonair man replaced by a spooky squirrel.  Is my last name Plath? Dickinson? While it is true that my various mental maladies would scarcely fit into the ginormous Balenciaga bag I own, I see no reason to dredge them out time and time again for the mere sake of others' amusement.  What possible misconduct could I possibly write about that would cause such a hullabaloo in the minds of my readers?

Shall I rob banks? Kick puppies? Shall I commit murder? Write of the guilt that would certainly exacerbate the torment of my being, my very soul? Seriously?

Mr. Price, has it occurred to you that all of this does not even exist?  That my angst, my writing, my sorrows all belong only to me and you are made up?  A fictional character in my solipsistic world?

If so, then all is moot.

Good day,

Amy Evers

You Are Like Nobody Since I Love You.

How do you convince someone you love them?  Actions.  Most people might think words, and for some it would be words.
I believe in actions.

So why all the poetry in life? The sonnets, the psalms.  Keats, Neruda, Cummings,Barrett Browning, they would all fight me pen and ink to the death over love.

They would win.

Today is, in my opinion the lamest holiday ever created by man and Capitalism.  Couples rushing about to buy flowers or chocolates to prove their love.  Engagements will take place on bended knees, babies will take their first birth in 10 months hence.

My partner has a long history of bad birthdays.  Being caught cheated on, broken up with, ankle sprains, etc.  Because of this she is  not the fondest of her day of birth.  I have tried over the last 4 years to make it special, but one something is ruined, it always feels stained or contrite.

For me that is Valentine's day.  In high school roses were given out, white for friend, red for love, pink for...I have no idea.  Or maybe it was yellow.  Every year I sat in homeroom with the popular girl alphabetically before.  Every year I watched as her desk filled up with roses.  Every year I wished I had a different last name.  Something with a Z that would have seated me in the very back row and corner.

I recall one Valentine's Day where my husband I argued, in front of the children.  The argument was about me spending too much money.

One year flowers were delivered to my work, only I did not want them.  For starters I hate roses (my middle name be damned).

One year I broke up with my boyfriend in the parking lot of a video store.

Why?

He couldn't decide what movie he wanted to rent and his lack of power gathered up into a ball of weakness I could no longer take.

I see a common theme when I look back.  It was always me.  I spent too much money.  I did not have a lot of friends in high school. I did not tell the woman I did not want flowers (or anything) from her.

I was the cause of my argument today, on this Valentine's Day.  It was my taking my words to betray her.

Words.  I am fully capable of using words to hurt.  Anyone is.  Most people do; not every fight takes place in a bar.

But that fight in a bar is followed up by actions.  Physical pain, a possible arrest, court fees, time off from work maybe.  All actions.

This is where I lack.  I am not saying I should be given a ticket for being a shit partner on Valentine's Day.  I am saying I need to use my actions to show my love.  I should do something, anything after an argument to show my sorrow at making someone hurt.

Is picking up dog shit and cleaning the table enough to undo what I said?  No, but I will do it anyway.

Is writing a blog about it enough to erase the words from her head?  No.  But I will do it anyway.

A day of forced love and I have no feelings for it that I would surround with the most passionate of soliloquy's.  I am a writer and I could create a tome full of adjectives for love and forgiveness.  I could write a love note worthy of being tucked away in a special place to be discovered by some not yet born grandchildren.

They would gaze upon the words and sigh wishing for a love as wonderful as ours.  These future relatives would elaborate in their minds the missing pieces.  They would never know that it was not enough.  It was written out of sadness.  They would never know the actions that took place prior to the tome.

But I do.  And she does.  And now, you know.  I betrayed my love with words, and am desperately looking for actions to make it all better.

I will hold the guilt longer than she will hold the pain.  I have, as I write, already been forgiven.  Tears shed by us both, apologies uttered through a snot filled nose.  There is always a probationary time after forgiveness.  Just because a bandage has been applied it does not mean the cut has stopped hurting.

If I kiss the cut will the pain go away?  Or will it just sting and bring all the pain to the surface?

If I stay close to you will you move away?

Can I make you laugh again?

I have to find the actions.  Find the actions of proof that I love her, actions to prove to my children I am here and I love them.

Words are so easy, so complacent.

Words are what I am good at.

I once used words so venomous to get someone out of my life.

It is Valentine's Day.  My only sanction is that she too feels no fondness for this day.

So it was just an argument that happened on this auspicious day where we must use words and actions to show our love for one another.

My thoughts have been so self centered I could put Ayn Rand to shame.  I drove myself inward to a dark place where I did not want anyone there with me.

My actions have been robotic and cruel and completely void of emotion.

It took this argument today to wake me up, to make me see what my self reflection has done to those I do truly love.

It took my actions to look in her eyes and feel her pain, and not my own.  To see what I have caused.

Wont it take action to see her eyes light up again?

It is not often I am living outside my head, today I have.

Scary place.

Then again so is the grey matter I shuffle around to find the words to berate myself or others.

I will not use my own words to write a love letter worth keeping for the ages.

I will steal what someone else has said, and only hope I can live up to it with ations.

"So I wait for you like a lonely house
til you will see me again and live in me.
Til then my windows ache."
 - Pablo Neruda

But...Oh...

Do you have a moment in your childhood that you recall so vividly you could direct a scene of it in a movie? Hopefully all of us have many of those.

One of mine is when my mom came home with a surprise for me.  Standing in the dining room she handed me the DOUBLE album of Grease!  It was not my birthday or any holiday, she just gave it to me. Memory being what it is I had probably nagged her for weeks to get it for me; conveniently I do not recall doing this. Just my mom walking in with something behind her back and handing it to me.

Immediately we put it on.  my kitchen chairs became bleachers, the carpet in the living room became the beach, the sofa of course was a car.

I sang my heart out to learn every single song.  I pined and sighed looking at the album (the inside was full of pictures like a yearbook).

In my head I was there.  I hand jived, I was left at the drive in, there were worse things I could do.  I loved them all.  Well, especially Rizzo.  Much like Danny being the "bad boy" Rizzo was the "bad girl".

Recently I had the pleasure of watching a new rendition of Grease with a few of my kids.  They had seen the movie as young children, and now we replicated that moment adding wine and cheese.  I was dubious, but it was great.

About a year ago I entered into a discussion about the movie with a friend.  She hated it.  Said it was sexist. Pointed out how Sandy had to change for him, pointed out lyrics ("Did she put up a fight"), pointed out how Danny was an asshole until he saw Sandy with teased hair and sewn on pants, and numerous other atrocities of the film that make it bad for young girls to see.

Huh.

Fortunately, I had a backup that still remains my favorite movie. Gone With the Wind. Again, in some debate over movies my friend could not believe I would say this.  Scarlett is a manipulative bitch, and Rhett offers nothing for her.

WHAT?!

I could use the argument (and did) that Scarlett and Rhett were identical in their actions, with the exception of Rhett being more polite to all ladies.

Danny was conflicted the entire movie and went out of his way to change as well (he did letter in track).

I reminded my friend it was a certain era for both movies, set in a different time.  I may not have been consciously aware of this when I was a child watching Scarlett flirt with the Tarleton twins, or steal two husbands.

I may not have (yet) known a pregnancy scare like Riz.  Even Kenickie tried lamely to do "the right thing". Did Riz accept?  No.  She said she would handle it.

Why didn't Rhett notice how happy Scarlett was after he carried her up those stairs? Some would call that rape. Others would find it a Fifty Shades of Grey moment.

We did not argue about the portrayal of slavery, that is just accepted in a period movie.  But my friend argued that Scarlett is was and will forever be reprehensible.

And so would Sandy.

Huh.

To me these were beautiful strong women I wanted to BE (Riz not Sandy -- I was never one to be like her in the first place.)

Does this mean I am not a feminist?  A word that over the years draws the brain to men hating, bra burning, hard women.

My kitchen chairs may have become bleachers and I may have a time or two taken on southern drawl or pouted like Scarlet to get my way, but I still believe in equal rights for women.

Should I have not shown these movies to my children?  Do they now think rape scenes in movies are okay?

(No one was raped in Grease [Rizzo gave full consent], and Scarlet may have been drunk but being swept up and carried up those hellish stairs was romantic.)

Because of Gone With the Wind I was happy to tell people I was born below just below the Mason Dixon Line, thus making me a Southern Belle, should I have chosen to be one.  Growing up in New Jersey gave me the option to be brass and brazen, again if I so chose.

If I am not a feminist because I will always swoon over these two movies, then so be it.  But to me every woman has a right to choose their own character.  It was Sandy who asked for help, it was Scarlett who made things happen.

I will always long for those summer nights; either holding a radish to the sky with determination, or holding my school books, with my head held high.