“God please bring the rain
May my Judas become the angel of your dreams
May my tears be your liquid fire
May my crippled heart find your face…
to grasp you…
to hold you…
to fall at your feet
And weep
While my hair washes my affair away
And soils my darkness back into light”
I find myself standing in the middle of a room. There are people all around me. Some of them are laughing, while others walk past with blank faces. Most of them are playing with each other in some way. One girl runs past with her hand holding her yellow hat as her boyfriend peeks around the corner with a mischievous grin. A boy sits with his back to the fireplace, no sparks flying past his face, but a melody playing in his mind and raining through his fingertips down onto his guitar.….
What’s wrong?
My eyes blink and blink again. There is only a deep darkness in the pit of my spirit as I observe those around me. Melancholy? A jolt of lethargia?... I am not too sure. How many months has it been since my darkness has been lifted? Why should I feel it again? Because I don’t remember I wonder if I should slap my face for myself. And then I remember that it is a good thing that I am not hammered to my calendar of loss any longer. It has been a long time, a very long time, since I have cried. In fact, I did not even cry when the walls went up again, nor when they fell down. Nor did I cry days after that, and then more nights after that. I lay awake, wide eyed as a desert. Dry and gritty. Like my heart. God has dared me to dream... to forget about the tempter’s hands and thoughts that covered my spirit in the mask of created deceptions. My supermen have always left me stranded in the phone booth waiting for them all frozen and cold.
… nothing
At church last Sunday there was a message on dating. I was tired of listening to it before I even walked through the door… tired and hungry. Hungry to hear something new, something different. Anything to appease my heart that for so long has sat in the misery of a cry that has no sound but silence. Because there is nothing new, there is nothing old, there is nothing that has not been said or experienced. My attraction to Adam makes me cursed. My love for him makes me blessed. The two go hand in hand but are so obviously distant. But apparently my 'God'says that it is not to be. Unification comes through an “I do” and a pilgrimage of dating for one year and two months with an approximate five month engagement to make sure the two poor beings are able to spend the rest of their lonely lives sharing with one another.
… everything?
I forgave myself on an old auditorium seat six days ago. I forgave myself for always throwing my body to the side of the road while the rain sliced daggers into my face and I threw up in the gutter. That is what I have felt like for too many years, years wasted like a drunk in the gutter waiting for his next wayward foot to fall. I was only able to forgive myself by casting the blame onto the puddle at my feet. The puddle that God loves, the puddle of shit that I have rolled in like a moronic animal at the zoo who is either rolling or pacing his life away. I forgave myself for forgiving. I forgave myself for not believing that I am beautiful. For not believing that I am worth just as much as the woman who can talk on the phone, or has brown eyes, or who has it altogether. In my discovery I am now able to walk away from continually sitting by the television flicking channels with only my own propaganda keeping me company.
… it wasn’t my fault
Was it?
The nights have always been a playground for me. A playground not in the memories many of us share about the childish play of sliding down the red tube slide and being shocked at the bottom, but rather a playground where the games were really being played. The games of boy chases girl or girl chases boy and they put each other in jail. Or perhaps the game where the ground is lava and destroys you, or you fall off the monkey bars because you thought you could walk across the entire row and suddenly you have no front teeth. The game where kids throw rocks at each others heads from across the vast expanse of the pebbled no man's land and put dents into each others skulls that will last a lifetime. These are the moments of the playground that leave me wide-eyed and unable to sleep at three in the morning.
I am a novice in the Olympics, and yet running at it with all I have. I have tried. And I have failed. In failure I have learnt the most about myself, about my sickness and my disfigurement, my sin and the taste that is left in my mouth afterwards. But no matter what, I am still standing here, waiting for God to take me in his arms and love me, while my red hat looks at me through the reflection in the window. I am still standing there while life plays on, I realize that I am not alone.
And so...
The wonderful man has just walked past, and my memory is jolted to what he told me a few days ago, about his broken engagement, said with a sad smile and a shrug of the shoulders. I remind myself of the similarities between all of us, and I turn towards him.…. And I smile. The fireplace is still not sparking, and the boy and girl are still playing... and I too am still standing in the middle of the room. My eyes are teary. My heart is alive.
Saturday 27 December 2008
The Happy Mirror
I enter the dimly lit space. My room, a sanctuary of ethnicity, a life I would love but have yet to receive. I walk forward toward my new purchase. A reflection of the oil lamp in the corner burns the image of my face on the intricate mirror I have bought from the second hand store down the road for fifty cents. What is this mystery that made me buy this old ugliness in the first place? As I look at it, I am taken back to a time when candles burned, their wax dripping down their sides, displaying time not with a tick, but a trickle.... the calling of a life not so follied... a time when the heart would think rather than be rushed by reason. I look toward the edges of the mirror, vaguely realizing that I am not the focal. The work that is beyond my face, the frame, designed by human hands, stands out more than my two eyes, nose and mouth. This mirror seems to call for justice in the depth of its beautiful creation, to be noticed and to be touched. Looking at it more closely, I move my fingers beneath the edges. Worn, dustfilled, and made of formica, it resembles an aged wood, knarled and beaten. My fingers find a hidden clasp, and I open the mirror without hesitation, as though my hand knows what creation and image lies underneath.
And so the mirror opens.
"Hello" speaks the image from behind the silver shine, 'how worthy of you to drop by." I stare at the voice whispering to me. It smiles, and I do not smile back. "I am Happiness." I am driven into the recesses of my mind, the words twirl about and come to their own, hurried conclusion. This is nothing to me but happiness masquerading as 'God is dead.' Her orange dress reveals nothing but the expression of a crescent sun on the boundaries of the earth, flowing into the ocean as the day says goodnight to its people.
"Why have you come here?" The words coarse through me, angry, as though Happiness does not have a place behind my mirror, beyond the reflection of myself. I am startled by my own willingness to talk in such an odd situation. Happiness speaking to me from behind an ugly mirror.
"Do you really want to know?" Her voice smoothes over me..."because I will only tell you the truth." I wrap my mind around the word that has so often caused me trouble, suffering, heartache. Truth? This happy voice was going to offer me truth?
I reply with a stubbling okay. Not something profound, nor heartwrenching, just the language of my time.
She is pale, like a fresh ivory soap my grandmother would give to me when I came to visit, the smell reminding me of a fresh air all to forgotten by my self. I have not visited Grandma for over a month.
I return my mind toward that which is in front of me. Happiness looks to be havoced by a wind more twisted than that of my soul when it has loved. Her hair is white, shining. I can only compare it to that of the sun when it breaks through the clouds and you realize, once again, that there is a God. But as it shines, it is uncontrollable. I am reminded of my family, who sits in the next room, quiet, withdrawn, people so unlike me but masked in their own beauty, something so not of this world. Something I have tried so hard to change. Something so out of my control....
She reaches her hands to me. Crackling rings, guided by silver and gold, diamonds and gems, beautiful in their richness. "I am telling you the truth..." she takes my hands and removes my rings. I am dumbfounded. These are a part of me. She takes a ring I wear as a symbol and speaks to me, her voice more audible than before. "This," she stops in mid sentence, lifting my face to peer into her neverending eyes "is nothing." She takes the ring and releases it behind me, the deep clip and clang of it dropping into nothingness resounds in my ears, like the roar of the ocean in my ears when I have brokendown and not talked for two days.
She continues to look at me, or through me I should say, into the presence of my soul that is shadowed and outlined by the masks of my making, the charcoal that smudges me and makes me unclean. "I am Happiness" she repeats, and without me having to tell her impatiently that I already know this, she continues. "I am the Happiness without the laughter, the joy without the I, and the reflection of a people all too long forgotten."
What she says frightens me. I close the mirror, wishng to see my familiar self, but images of people swirling in my mind, memories of those who I have loved have replaced it.
It was a week and half ago when I cleaned an elderly womans room. Why should I think of this now? Why remember her among those I have longed to forget? I resist the resistance, and let my memories guide me. She had spoken to me quietly, from beneath the expanse of her burdensome afghan blanket, cloaked by age but renewed by the spirit of the Word sitting on her dresser. I had stood before her, in all of my glorious youth, my latex gloves on and my cleaner in one hand, already squelching away my years in a job I hated.
I found myself removed from my being and willed myself to look into her cataract eyes, eyes that had seen so much and yet still seemed to seek out more. She looked at me and reached her shaky hand. I smiled at her and asked her the question of normalacy. "How are you today?" She responded quietly, but with an authority that threw me.
"I am so lonesome." She had gazed at me, with blind eyes, wishing for the housekeeper to sit with her and talk for a few brief moments, to relieve her from the mundane, to give her the right of humanity again. And suddenly I was hit with the roundabout knowledge that she was not room 203. She is not, was not, and shall not be just room 203.
I am scared at my own feelings, and I back away, telling her I am sorry, forcing myself to be cheery, to clean her room and get out because I am too uncomfortable. This is far too honest.
Startling me back to the reality of the present, an unleashed Happiness pokes her head out from behind the frame of the formica mirror I have bought for fifty cents at the second hand store down the road. She smiles and tugs at a tendril of brown hair that falls off in her fingers. "You found me," she whispers through a breezy smile.
I ask no more questions. I do not ask Happiness why she has come for I understand her now.... at last, I have been forgotten.
And so the mirror opens.
"Hello" speaks the image from behind the silver shine, 'how worthy of you to drop by." I stare at the voice whispering to me. It smiles, and I do not smile back. "I am Happiness." I am driven into the recesses of my mind, the words twirl about and come to their own, hurried conclusion. This is nothing to me but happiness masquerading as 'God is dead.' Her orange dress reveals nothing but the expression of a crescent sun on the boundaries of the earth, flowing into the ocean as the day says goodnight to its people.
"Why have you come here?" The words coarse through me, angry, as though Happiness does not have a place behind my mirror, beyond the reflection of myself. I am startled by my own willingness to talk in such an odd situation. Happiness speaking to me from behind an ugly mirror.
"Do you really want to know?" Her voice smoothes over me..."because I will only tell you the truth." I wrap my mind around the word that has so often caused me trouble, suffering, heartache. Truth? This happy voice was going to offer me truth?
I reply with a stubbling okay. Not something profound, nor heartwrenching, just the language of my time.
She is pale, like a fresh ivory soap my grandmother would give to me when I came to visit, the smell reminding me of a fresh air all to forgotten by my self. I have not visited Grandma for over a month.
I return my mind toward that which is in front of me. Happiness looks to be havoced by a wind more twisted than that of my soul when it has loved. Her hair is white, shining. I can only compare it to that of the sun when it breaks through the clouds and you realize, once again, that there is a God. But as it shines, it is uncontrollable. I am reminded of my family, who sits in the next room, quiet, withdrawn, people so unlike me but masked in their own beauty, something so not of this world. Something I have tried so hard to change. Something so out of my control....
She reaches her hands to me. Crackling rings, guided by silver and gold, diamonds and gems, beautiful in their richness. "I am telling you the truth..." she takes my hands and removes my rings. I am dumbfounded. These are a part of me. She takes a ring I wear as a symbol and speaks to me, her voice more audible than before. "This," she stops in mid sentence, lifting my face to peer into her neverending eyes "is nothing." She takes the ring and releases it behind me, the deep clip and clang of it dropping into nothingness resounds in my ears, like the roar of the ocean in my ears when I have brokendown and not talked for two days.
She continues to look at me, or through me I should say, into the presence of my soul that is shadowed and outlined by the masks of my making, the charcoal that smudges me and makes me unclean. "I am Happiness" she repeats, and without me having to tell her impatiently that I already know this, she continues. "I am the Happiness without the laughter, the joy without the I, and the reflection of a people all too long forgotten."
What she says frightens me. I close the mirror, wishng to see my familiar self, but images of people swirling in my mind, memories of those who I have loved have replaced it.
It was a week and half ago when I cleaned an elderly womans room. Why should I think of this now? Why remember her among those I have longed to forget? I resist the resistance, and let my memories guide me. She had spoken to me quietly, from beneath the expanse of her burdensome afghan blanket, cloaked by age but renewed by the spirit of the Word sitting on her dresser. I had stood before her, in all of my glorious youth, my latex gloves on and my cleaner in one hand, already squelching away my years in a job I hated.
I found myself removed from my being and willed myself to look into her cataract eyes, eyes that had seen so much and yet still seemed to seek out more. She looked at me and reached her shaky hand. I smiled at her and asked her the question of normalacy. "How are you today?" She responded quietly, but with an authority that threw me.
"I am so lonesome." She had gazed at me, with blind eyes, wishing for the housekeeper to sit with her and talk for a few brief moments, to relieve her from the mundane, to give her the right of humanity again. And suddenly I was hit with the roundabout knowledge that she was not room 203. She is not, was not, and shall not be just room 203.
I am scared at my own feelings, and I back away, telling her I am sorry, forcing myself to be cheery, to clean her room and get out because I am too uncomfortable. This is far too honest.
Startling me back to the reality of the present, an unleashed Happiness pokes her head out from behind the frame of the formica mirror I have bought for fifty cents at the second hand store down the road. She smiles and tugs at a tendril of brown hair that falls off in her fingers. "You found me," she whispers through a breezy smile.
I ask no more questions. I do not ask Happiness why she has come for I understand her now.... at last, I have been forgotten.
Clowns
I wrote this a few years ago. I would like to say that I have changed since, that I have realized I am not alone in this world, or that my restless soul has found a place to lay its head... but more often than not I am still at this place. My condition is that of humanity. I love my God, I know that he relishes in me... and yet my spirit is that of something fallen. It lies in mud much of the time, wishing for the newness of the sun to cover its dry and barren ground... I have tasted this love, this warmth... I have tasted it enough to believe. But I do not deny that I am human. That I doubt. That I lie on the hard earth and cry because I don't understand. To pretend that I am not this is to deny the spirit I have been given... and so, although I wrote this some time ago, it still tugs at the deepness of my heart and says "share"...
I am awake and it is dark in the room.
It’s not as though I had ever planned to lay in the middle of a withered field with my arms spread out and my eyes coursing with tears. One never plans for these things to happen. I have been thrown to the ground because of my emotional pain for the first time. Many times I can recall being flung to the ground in fits of laughter. This has happened because during those moments in time I loved my life, loved myself, and loved the attention born unto me. But never have I fallen as hard as this, or so my memory is tricking me into thinking. When one is filled with laughter, more often than not, they are surrounded by those that love them, unless they are crazy and the straight jacket has already been put on and people keep asking “why do you laugh so much? Are you crazy?” And one begins to wonder what makes us crazy or not, especially because I would never ask a straight jacketed person whether they are crazy or not. Would you? Nevertheless, at moments like this, when I seem to fall the hardest, I realize I am alone, looking into the grey sky, and the clowns have stopped laughing at me. My mind is a terrible place. I pick at the grass poking into the back of my neck and wonder if the clowns had been there, would I have even come to the conclusion that has wrenched my soul? I would have probably been distracted by their big feet and red noses. But they would also have their own tears painted on, and then I would have at least felt like I wasn’t alone, even though my tears were real and theirs, for realistic purposes, truly are painted on. But at least we would have the odd superficiality with each other that makes the world go round. And I would be able to not think about being alone. They would try and make me laugh.
A man walks his dog beside me and I mentally will him, the dog that is, to not come and sniff me. I realize that I probably look dead. But then I remember that I’m not, because I hear the sounds of my tears, a symphony created for me, by me, to free me. And the big sky is still grey, although quite blurry and it seems to be closing in. I had the same feeling four nights ago when I was taking a bath and felt like I was going to go down the drain. I felt rather small and wondered what it would be like to be an elf that could actually travel through the pipes anytime he wanted. A read a book when I was eight about an entire world made simply for elves, by elves. They had a Ferris wheel and lanterns. Imagine? But wait, the man simply walks by me as if he always sees a girl lying in a field with her arms outstretched and her tears smearing her own clown paint. Maybe he has lain here before and thinks nothing of it. He knows I will eventually get up because I have to. And of course, because just as the world is full of loss and suffering and love, something that will never change, so too does the dog feel his need to sniff a complete stranger.
I am lost. The winter storms have arrived.
I am awake and it is dark in the room.
It’s not as though I had ever planned to lay in the middle of a withered field with my arms spread out and my eyes coursing with tears. One never plans for these things to happen. I have been thrown to the ground because of my emotional pain for the first time. Many times I can recall being flung to the ground in fits of laughter. This has happened because during those moments in time I loved my life, loved myself, and loved the attention born unto me. But never have I fallen as hard as this, or so my memory is tricking me into thinking. When one is filled with laughter, more often than not, they are surrounded by those that love them, unless they are crazy and the straight jacket has already been put on and people keep asking “why do you laugh so much? Are you crazy?” And one begins to wonder what makes us crazy or not, especially because I would never ask a straight jacketed person whether they are crazy or not. Would you? Nevertheless, at moments like this, when I seem to fall the hardest, I realize I am alone, looking into the grey sky, and the clowns have stopped laughing at me. My mind is a terrible place. I pick at the grass poking into the back of my neck and wonder if the clowns had been there, would I have even come to the conclusion that has wrenched my soul? I would have probably been distracted by their big feet and red noses. But they would also have their own tears painted on, and then I would have at least felt like I wasn’t alone, even though my tears were real and theirs, for realistic purposes, truly are painted on. But at least we would have the odd superficiality with each other that makes the world go round. And I would be able to not think about being alone. They would try and make me laugh.
A man walks his dog beside me and I mentally will him, the dog that is, to not come and sniff me. I realize that I probably look dead. But then I remember that I’m not, because I hear the sounds of my tears, a symphony created for me, by me, to free me. And the big sky is still grey, although quite blurry and it seems to be closing in. I had the same feeling four nights ago when I was taking a bath and felt like I was going to go down the drain. I felt rather small and wondered what it would be like to be an elf that could actually travel through the pipes anytime he wanted. A read a book when I was eight about an entire world made simply for elves, by elves. They had a Ferris wheel and lanterns. Imagine? But wait, the man simply walks by me as if he always sees a girl lying in a field with her arms outstretched and her tears smearing her own clown paint. Maybe he has lain here before and thinks nothing of it. He knows I will eventually get up because I have to. And of course, because just as the world is full of loss and suffering and love, something that will never change, so too does the dog feel his need to sniff a complete stranger.
I am lost. The winter storms have arrived.
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