JOSHUA. THIS IS NOT FOR YOU.
CLOSE THIS JOURNAL, NOW!!!
Seriously, this is personal, not meant
for you or ANYone else, okay?
Thank you.
***
I'm doing this by hand in a notebook because I don't want Josh finding this on the computer, I'd rather not share this with anyone right now. Not that it's a secret, I think both of us are going through a testing period, but I think to say it out loud would just mess both of us up.
I don't think I'm really doubting my faith, per se, but it is so difficult to keep my eyes off the people. I don't mean Baptists, but just Christians in general. They are so petty. So cruel. So focused on surface things instead of the deeper things of God. It's like they don't care. I don't feel any love in church, not in any church. Okay, I know I'm not supposed to be focusing on the people, or even my "feelings," but what can I say, I am a human being and I have feelings, and I notice the people around me.
Maybe I'm just hard up. I even get embarassed writing this down. I try to keep my mind off sex, but it is always there. You can't suppress sexuality. It comes out in weird ways, just like those poor priests. I can't help feel sorry for them, because I think in many ways it is not their fault; not that it excusable, not for anyone to touch a child the way they do, but I think if they were allowed to marry they wouldn't erupt in such filthy ways.
I think in the same way I could stand people more if I was married. If I had some nice woman I could come home to, talk to, hold. And, um, you know, all the other stuff. That would help with the stress. Of course, like those twisted priests, there isn't much hope of me ever getting married, not with this body. I wish I was either a midget, or not, but being caught between the two just confuses everyone. Could a woman ever love me? With my disease. With the way my body looks?
I guess I shouldn't be keeping this journal. It will only depress me.
***
I should throw away that first part, but when you write it down in a notebook it's hard to throw it away. Probably a good reason I should be writing this on the computer, but if I do I know Joshua will find it.
I don't really worry too much about the way my body looks. I realize the first part makes it look like I'm obsessed with my stunted body. I don't ever really think about it. Probably the only time I DO think about it is when I'm feeling sorry for myself that I've never had a girlfriend.
Today Joshua and I were watching tapes of Bobby Cilantor. He scares me. For someone like that to be talking about Jesus, I don't know, it's enough to keep me out of any Christian church; but then I know that what Bobby Cilantor teaches isn't really what Christ talked. It makes sense, like what Jesus prophesied, about Christians coming in His Name, claiming to be anointed. Have you noticed that's what they are all saying now? They are always talking about "the anointing."
That's scary too.
***
Joshua and I are drinking too much coffee. We go to the Coffee Dump sometimes three times in one day, and I do the worst and drink too much Cafe Mocha. TOo much sugar. And I don't want to drink the stuff with the fake sugar, it just feels wrong. I know that can't be good. Like radioactive fake sugar. The coffee doesn't seem to be affecting Joshua too much, but then again when you're twenty feet tall there isn't much chance that even 5 pots of coffee a day would affect him.
***
Someone is watching us. I can feel it. Joshua thinks I'm crazy. But I've seen a black van sometimes, it'll be outside the Coffee Dump, or it will be at the office. Joshua thinks it's just a whole bunch of black vans, but that idea even scares me more. Maybe it's a conspiracy. But then I'm probably being paranoid. Still, you know, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that guys in black vans aren't following you!
***
What am I doing? I started this two weeks ago, and I meant this to be a spiritual journal, bouncing around ideas about God, but instead this is becoming a dear diary type of nonsense and that's it, this is my last entry....
***
Well I'll try a few more. I've been feeling guilty the last two days since I gave up this journal. Maybe I didn't give it enough time. I had a weird dream last night. I dreamed that Joshua and I were about to die, and then this big angel came swooping out of the dark and saved us. But he didn't look like an angel, not the usual kind. He didn't have wings, and he had a big moustache, and gray hair, but he wasn't old, I guess it was just gray at the temples. Maybe it wasn't an angel. But why am I dreaming about some big handsome man saving me? I hope this isn't the first sign that my repressed sexuality is twisting into something embarassing, but it wasn't. It wasn't anything that kind of weird.
I mean, I've had that kind of weird dream, because of what happened to me when I was a baby, and when I was little after I got out of the hospital. So, like, yes, I've had the weird, you know, SEXUAL type dreams, and this wasn't sexual, not even symbolically sexual, if you know what I mean?
But I think this was symbolic of something. Maybe that Joshua and I spend too much time together. What am I talking about? Joshua is my whole life. I don't do anything without him. He even has to help me to the bathroom when my spine has its rough days, which can be twice a week sometimes.
If I ever did meet a good woman who could deal with my body, and all my pain, she'd have to be strong too, to help me on those days. But I don't think I would want a woman to help me, not that way, because she'd be more like my nurse than my wife.
I talked to Rachel today. Not really. But when I ordered for me and Joshua she leaned across the counter and asked me if she could get me anything special. Which is funny, because I always order Cafe Mocha, with cinammon, and Joshua always gets the Dumpster Espresso (that's what they call the extra large at the Coffee Dump). I made sure I maintained eye contact with Rachel, and I said, "Yes, the Special Cafe Mocha, with your special cinnamon."
I feel sick. Why do I try to be cool? I feel like I can never go back to the Coffee Dump. But Rachel sure did smile nice, like she always does.
Oops, guess I got sidetracked. I was talking about that dream. Well, not talking, but jotting down my thoughts, and I've had quite a few thoughts about the dream. I felt safe, even though me and Josh were about to die. I felt safe like the father I never had came and was protecting me, finally, that he was making up for all the things he missed in my life, by saving my life, and Joshua's life, too. Only he couldn't be my father, he was too young, too close to my own age, at least it seemed so. But he was distinctly a father figure.
I don't know, could this be a dream from God? It seems so, though not the symbolic kind. I guess I've already hashed this, and rehashed it, haven't I? Maybe not. I don't know what it means. Where's a Joesph when you need him?
***
I've hardly been able to pray lately. Sometimes it feels like religion just doesn't work. I've been studying the Bible an hour every day, like always, but I can't seem to do more than one or two verses a day. Here's today:
As he sat alone on the Mount of Olives his talmidim came and asked, confidentially: “Tell us, when are these things going to happen, and what will be the sign that You are coming back, and that the world is ending?”
And Yahshua told them, “Be very careful, don’t let anyone deceive you. For Christians will claim they are anointed, and deceive many people. And wars and the threat of war will erupt everywhere.
“Don’t worry, because these things must happen, but still, it won’t be the end.
“Countries will attack each other, and rulers will fight each other, and many will starve, and disease will spread everywhere, and earthquakes will happen in surprising places. All these terrible things are the beginning of the earth’s birth pangs.
“Then they will arrest you, torture you, and even kill you, and everyone will hate you, but it will be for the sake of My name. Many of you will surrender to hopelessness, and begin to betray each other, and hatred will grow in your heart for each other.
“Many false prophets will proclaim themselves, and they will deceive many. And because the law will mean nothing to the world, the love in hearts around the world will snuff out like candles.
“But if you do not give up, you will be saved. And this Good News of the Kingdom will be told around the entire world, a witness to every nation, and only then will the end come.”
Matthew’s Gospel Chapter 24, Verses 3-14, from Michael’s Spiritual Notebook
***
I've been listening to the Scripture Scholar and it is bugging me how he is constantly asking for money. His entire show has become an infomercial. He used to be one of the better Bible teachers, but now he's about as bad as those fakers on the bizarre religious channels.
***
Today on the Internet I saw that people are doing these journals, like crazy, ONLINE. They are called BLOGs, though I don't know why.
And I don't know why ANYone would want to write their journal online, I mean their BLOG, because how can it be personal, I mean private, if it is on the Internet for -- like, the whole WORLD to see?
It's kind of like leaving your diary in the Public Library with a note on it that says:
READ ME!
***
I read what I wrote yesterday, about people reading your BLOG. I don't know. I guess I understand. You don't feel so alone if someone reads your private thoughts. I guess it feels like maybe you matter.
I've never felt what that feels like, you know? To feel like you matter?
***
I've been keeping this journal for a month now, and I don't write in it so much, mainly when we go to the Coffee Dump (it's always bothered me, that name, it sounds nasty -- I know they don't mean it that way, like, I can hardly say it, "the bathroom," but sometimes that image pops into my head and I can't finish my cafe mocha -- that's stupid, cuz their logo is a dumpster, for goodness sake, with coffee beans pouring out of it!) (sorry, that was a stupidly long parenthetical aside, I promise not to do that again) (yeah, right, like I'll keep that promise, I mean I just broke it twice!) (I forget what I was discoursing on, let me go back and look) (there, I'm back, I was talking about writing in this journal) . . . we are at the Coffee Dump (still hate that name) right now, and Joshua is in the bathroom (he goes there for hours at a time, reading another one of his science fiction books, the reading room, he calls it).
I'm not gay, if you were wondering. I just had to say that. Not that I think anyone is reading this, because I won't let them, nobody, not even Joshua. Okay, maybe someday I'll let Joshua read this, except I know he'll get mad, I don't always think of him as nicely as I should. I love him. Like he's my big brother. That's funny. My GIANT brother. He's probably going to top off at seven feet or so, except he'll never admit to an inch over six foot nine, but everyone knows he's taller than that. But I swear that I'm not gay, I've never been attracted to a male before.
And sometimes it's painful, seeing women. If I look over to the counter, I can see Rachel. But I won't look, she's wearing those white jeans again, and I don't want to think about that. She is so beautiful. I think she's Japanese. Is "Miyamoto" a Japanese name? I think so. I won't look at her. Okay, so I just did, but I could only see her hair -- her hair is as long as down to her knees . . . did I say that right?
I admit it, I'm not a writer. This is my first attempt to keep any kind of coherent record of my thoughts, not that I think any of this is in any way coherent. When I go back and read it, I get so embarassed. It sounds like the ramblings of a little girl.
I guess I should bring that up, that people don't really see me as a man. I'm in my twenties, and people still call me a boy. So I'm not five feet tall, that doesn't change how old I am inside. Inside of here, in the dark, I'm probably fifty years old. Way too old for someone as young and alive as Rachel.
I've heard people call me "Joshua's boy," as if he's my dad. Well, in a way, he is. Joshua has been very good to me. He takes care of me. I don't know if I mentioned it, but sometimes he actually has to help me get to the bathroom. He always wants to pick me up and carry me to the . . . (I don't want to use the word, it makes me feel sick, well just this once I'll use it, but from now on I'll call it the "stationary chair") . . . the "toilet" (remember, I'm not going to use that word, ever again, not even here in this journal). I don't like him to carry me, because it proves what a cripple I am (I don't mind that word, like so many "physically challenged" people do, I think it's insulting to call me "physically challenged," they think my head it "mentally challenged" to slap such ridiculous "politically correct" terms on everything, like we're big bleeding sores that don't like to be talked about, I'm a cripple, but I didn't CHOOSE to be one, don't expect me to like it, but don't expect me to lie about it either).
Then again, I hate to admit it, but I love it when Joshua carries me. STop thinking about the gay thing, I know nowadays that's all people can think about. Everything is gay, gay, gay, like that rotten TV show (okay, so I've watched it and I like it) about the guy named "Will True Man" -- yeah, that's right, I caught their little "gay agenda" name. Everything is gay, and everyone wants us to accept that it isn't aberrant, like being cripple -- why don't they refer to it as "sexually challenged?" That's what it is. That's what it must be for them, you know?
I feel terrible for homosexuals. It's not fair that everybody hates them, when I think for the most part they none of them chose to be "sexually challenged." I think, like me, that when they were very young, someone hurt them. Like the "man with no pants" (that's the way I always think of him, that filthy creature) -- I told everyone that he was going to hurt my baby sister Kimmy, but I never told anyone what he had done to me.
And I'm not going to talk about that. Not now. Not ever.
But I wanted to say that I didn't choose that. What happened when I was two years old, and three years old, and then four years old and up to when I was eight. Even when I was crippled, they wouldn't leave me alone. Not Kimmy, either.
Why didn't the angel help? I don't understand that. I have never thought of the angel as my "invisible angel pal." He was real. He gave me real comfort. But why didn't he ever stop what was happening to me? He pushed the hair off my forehead, sometimes he blew cool air on me when I was sweating and sick, and sometimes, he made the bad smells go away.
BUT WHY DIDN'T YOU EVER HELP ME?
I didn't have to be thrown against a wall, the angel was there, he could have stopped the "man with no pants." But nobody ever stopped him. And he's still alive and active, that filthy creature, alive forever inside my head. The nightmares I have of him...
...great, here comes Joshua, looking like a ten-foot tall dork. People just get out of his way, and he's oblivious, to how people look at him. I watch people, I see their faces -- for some reason, people instinctively hate Joshua. He's just too big to be human, they must think.
Joshua just spilled his coffee when he sat down. It didn't bother him. It never does. He spills probably twice a week. Very reliable, that way, my protector, Joshua.
I feel faint. Rachel just came and mopped up Joshua's mess. I wish she wouldn't wear white jeans. Not that they are grossly tight, or anything (tight, yes, but not grossly -- nothing about her could be gross), but I can hardly breathe when I see her, when she's close, and her body is so compact, and she seems like she is my height, exactly (I wonder how tall she actually is? I'm afraid to inquire), and to see that perfect body, while mine is so twisted . . . I can hardly breathe.
"Joshua," Rachel said, with her dazzling smile (I know everyone always writes "dazzling smile," but with Rachel it isn't a cliche, not at all, her smile is like a light shining in a . . . well, in a dark coffee house!) "You are my giant mess on two legs. Why can't you be perfect, like my Michael?"
And she reached over and squeezed my hand. I think I almost went over backward. I thought I might (I hate to use the word "vomit," but that's what I almost did).
Poor Rachel, she got such a funny look on her face. Like she thought there was something weird about me. Then she just left, and I felt terrible. She actually TOUCHED MY HAND, and I must have made a stupid face. But I couldn't help it. My heart actually HURT, it was beating so fast and so hard, it hasn't slowed down yet, even thought it's been about 5 minutes since she left me, she left me and I feel so cold, and every time I feel the sensation of her soft hand touching my hand, I feel like I'm going to have a heart attack! What IS WRONG WITH ME!?!
Please Lord, help me to survive this! It's the first time I've ever held hands with a girl, and I think I blew it. She probably hates me now. HOw could I be so stupid. I wanted to grab her hand and not let it go -- I wanted to KISS her hand (I feel sick for admitting that, how could I turn my pure Rachel into a "sexual object" like that, but I wanted to kiss her hand, and maybe even lick her fingertips -- am I sick? What's wrong with me, Lord?).
Joshua is clueless. He keeps trying to grab my journal away. "Dear Diary!" he keeps saying.
***
I had a night last night. Not a "spine night." But my blues. I got so depressed. It hasn't happpened in a luong time. I think the last time was a year ago. Maybe lss.
I coudn't stop crying. I was lucky. I was alone. Josh was out doing an interview. Maybe a Bible study. I don't no.
But fur about fourt hours I criee, just like a baby. Except babiyes aren't miserable, I think they usually cry because they want something.
I didn't want annotthing. I think I couldn't feel anythingk. I'ma hardly a purson.
***
Wow, that was a lot of typos. Nasty, the Blues, messes up everything. Surprised I could even type, let alone hit ANY right letters. I even typed a couple a curse words, but I edited them out. Sorry about that.
Yeah, you notice I'm doing part of this journal on the computer now -- using a pen really tires my whole arm. I just don't have the strength for it, so I've switched to using the computer, at least at night, my laptop sometimes too, so this journal is spread out everywhere.
It's been a week since my blues. Better now. Had a spine night. Joshua was very good to me. He made me hot coacoa, but I couldn't drink it of course. BUt knowing it was there by my bed made me feel a little better.
Josh sat up with me until I fell asleep around three in the morning. He was reading to me from the Bible Stories books. I realize those are for little kids. But they help me feel better on a spine night.
When I finally fell asleep I dreamed that Joshua was Goliath (I think Joshua read me the one about David and Goliath), and I guess I was David. And Joshua as Goliath was the nice version (of course with Joshua, he couldn't be anything but nice, even as an evil Philistine), and Joshua was smiling at me, and I had a real person's body, and it felt so good to be running that I ran at him and threw a rock into his face, and he got such a look of surprise, and I watched blood trickling down his face, and then he fell down, facedown, and I couldn't believe I killed the only person who'd ever been good to me, in my entire life.
I think the only person that has ever loved me. YOu know, in a good way -- agape love. Love like a brother, love like a friend, love that can only come from God -- yeah, even though he irritates me so much, the way he burps and farts, I can hardly stand it, sometimes I think I might die . . . but Josh doesn't get it. He thinks that farting and burping is, you know, FUNNY.
The look on his face was betrayal, the last guy in the world that should ever hurt him, had hurt him the worst way. I'd killed him.
I sat with him, holding his giant head in my arms, and I wept like it was the blues.
I woke up weeping, and there was Joshua, asleep on the floor next to my bed. He was smiling in his sleep, as per usual. That's Joshua. I don't think he's ever been without a smile, even when people are so mean to him.
I don't know what that dream means. Maybe I'm killing Joshua. Maybe I'm a burden to him. I know I'm not always nice, I lose my temper with him, because he seems like a Lenny sometimes, which I guess makes me a George.
Or maybe it wasn't me as David. Maybe that was another small person, except this small person had a perfect body, a perfect killing machine. And blond hair, yeah, I'm sure of that, close-cropped blond hair.
Maybe it wasn't me?
***
I'm worried about this huge cult, this "Jehovah's Army." I mean it plays itself like it's a unified Christianity, but there's talk that they're stockpiling guns, and that they are joining all the militias together. Joshua thinks they're a big joke, but Bobby Cilantor is not joke. Millions of people want him to be president, despite his stupid "sermons."
***
Talk about creeping out, this Bobby Cilantor, I've never heard someone called a "pastor" to spout such utter nonsense. I've heard him rant for twenty minutes straight, without saying a single, logical, scriptural phrase or sentence. He literally babbles. He gives a whole new shine on the concept of gibberish.
***
Perfect church? That's a laugh. I can't mention this to Josh, but I'm about done with it all. A playground for hypocrites. They make me sick.
***
I just read what I wrote three days ago. That was a bit harsh. I have to remember to focus on Jesus, that's the only way to even belong to a church. Because if you look at the people, you might vomit. I hate that word. Still felt it was the best word to use.
***
I have to stop being so depressed. Shouldn't let that be the only thing I write down here in my journal. Putting it down, writing it down, babbling, just writing, just jotting. Annotation. Scribulation. Blah blah blah.
I'm really a happy person. Yes, I wish I was a normal person's height. That my spine wasn't tweaked. That I had guts to talk to people, especially, well you know.
Joshua asked tonight, how tall are you Rachel? She's five feet tall. Yes, I know, that doesn't sound like such a very much, but to me it might as well be a mile. If she was four foot eleven, I might be able to accept that.
I fudge a little, I'll admit that. I'm probably not exactly four foot eleven (why don't I write 4'11" like a normal person would? I know I'm anal retentive, oh yuck I can't believe some idiotic psychiatrist came up with a such a replusive term -- but I know I'm uptight, I can't help it, it's how I hold myself together, you know? rituals, in talking, rituals in eating and thinking, oh God, I am walking in a land of torture). What was I talking about?
Height. I'm a midget. Period.
Rachel, though small, is a normal person.
No. Not a midget by birth. I can't even call myself a dwarf. Okay, I'll spell it out. Someone threw me against the wall. When I was a baby. He swung me by the feet and threw me against the wall.
That was just the first. The first of many sorrows. Probably my degenerative bone disease would have come about anyway. I can't blame that on the "man with no pants." The filthy filthy __________ -- I did write it out, I really did type a curse word, but then I'm such a wimp I deleted it. At least writing in the journal, freehand, kept me honest. Now I don't even have the guts to call that thing what he really was.
I found his name on the Internet. I really did. I actually found about four guys with the same name. But I took a taxi out to this one guys house, and I saw him, it was him. He's still alive. He looked pretty much like a normal human being.
Why hasn't he withered like the fig tree? WHy hasn't he died of AIDS?
***
Sorry about that, I was up late last night and feeling maudlin. I try not to give in to those feelings of utter hopelessness. They do get me, though. I'll try to stay more positive.
***
What am I thinking? That I'm going to die, and someone that loves me will do some search and dig up all this journal writing stuff? What if they did? Would any of this mean anything?
What kind of world is this, anyway?
I can't stop thinking about when they starved Terri Schindler to death. Most everyone was nodding their heads and saying it was okay, it was okay to starve her to death, it was okay to make her die of dehydration, because she wasn't an active participant in society, because she wasn't a consumer of products -- if you don't spend money, you don't deserve to live. If you don't contribute to society, then you cannot eat, you cannot drink.
What kind of world is this, anyway?
I sound like that guy on the radio, what's his name? Something "Dirty." He's a creep, that guy, always talking about grotesque things, but sometimes he makes sense, too. I don't listen to him, of course. But Josh often tunes in, and I overhear -- you can't blame me for THAT, can you? I try not to hear, but sometimes I do, and what can I say? Sometimes that Buzzbee Dirty, or something like that, sometimes he makes more sense than the judges of the land...
...think about that, judges, who are supposed to uphold the laws, who are supposed to protect people -- instead they starve a poor, helpless woman to death.
I still can't stop thinking about it.
Because what about me? Do I contribute anything? I'm disabled. I'm not even as tall as an average twelve-year old child. I don't even know if I could actually consumate my wedding night, if I ever so found myself in that position.
Shouldn't someone deprive me of food and water? Wouldn't that be the most humane thing?
Oh!
***
Can't write much, but last night, as I was writing? When I ended with "Oh!" It was because someone broke the living room window! Someone threw a brick through the window.
Thank God that Joshua was home. I might have had a heart attack. But he called the police and calmed me down.
The police say it was a drive-by bricking.
***
This is going to sound weird. You'll think that I've finally cracked. Remember that dream I wrote about, a few weeks ago? Where Joshua was a giant, like Goliath, and I was this blond David?
I think I saw him today.
That sound crazy?
With the brick through our window two days ago, and all the talking with police, I just feel terrified all day long.
Last night at the Coffee Dump (I still hate that name, it just isn't a savory name) a guy took a picture of Joshua. He looked like a big bodybuilder, one of those guys that has a waist where there should be a neck, and a flat head.
Joshua thinks I'm getting weird, but I can tell that shook him up. He saw the camera flash. He asked Rachel about it and she told him that she'd never seen the guy before.
And then there is our webserver. We've got Norton firewall on it, plus some things I've designed -- and someone got into our system!
They didn't really do anything. None of those obvious graffitti things. But they put typos in places where there weren't before (a backup from last week fixed everything).They obviously were just showing us that they have the know-how to mess with us.
What does it all add up to?
I don't have any idea.
The police say to just shut up and be good.
Joshua thinks it's nothing.
The stuff we write on our website? I think it is really angering people. It's just simple stuff, just stuff from the Bible? And yet it makes people so angry!
I don't mean people in cults, or atheists.
It's people who call themselves CHRISTIAN.
They send us e-mails, with such terrible things in them. Death threats. Curses. They talk as if they had some power, and that they can cast spells on us, and they are doing in the NAME OF JESUS.
That's the scariest part.
I won't even check the website e-mail any more. I let Joshua check that. He's such a nice guy, he doesn't let anything get to him.
At least he doesn't act like he does.
***
I try not to let any of these things get me down. But they do. I'd be lying if I said that everything wasn't affecting me.
Do I even want to be a Christian if I have to go through this stuff.
I tried to talk to Joshua about this, but he just pats my hand in that condescening way, and tells me to pray about it.
I'm getting more and more afraid.
I can't stop thinking about it.
I dreamed that a black van was parked out on the sidewalk, and I got up out of bed, the clock said it was 3:00 a.m., and I looked out the window, and I KNOW I saw it out there, the black van (well, the truth is, it could have been any color, at night, but it sure looked black).
Maybe I dreamed that I got out of bed and looked at the clock and then looked out the window and saw the van. It's possible. I didn't even mention it to Joshua, because I know that's how he would describe it.
Joshua told me, trust in the Lord.
Joshua told me, the Lord is a strong tower. He's a shield. Our rock.
The thing of it is, do I believe it?
Really, do I believe it?
***
I did something today that was outrageously crazy. I still can't believe I did it, and it must have been an angel that saved me from total humiliation.
But at the Coffee Dump (I should start referring to it as "our coffee hangout") I just had the idea to write a little poem, and I jotted it down on a napkin, and when I went up to get a refill on my mocha I kind of left the note at the counter, about two feet away from where Rachel works on her little step-up platform (have I mentioned how almost perfect her size is? she's like porcelain doll, delicate, intricate, artfully devised).
My heart beat so fast that I was sure I was going to faint. It was like I was walking in some altered state, I'm not sure if I was even breathing or not.
But somehow I found myself back in my seat and Joshua was back from his soujourn to the "facilities," and I couldn't stop watching that note on the counter with my peripheral vision. My heart beat in my temples and throat and wrists, and Joshua kept asking me if I was blushing, or maybe had a fever.
I snapped at him. I don't remember what I said . . . I think I was pretty rude. I wish I didn't do that, but Joshua never seems to get it, he's not fazed.
Then that hippo-sized blonde came along, wiping all the counters, and she tossed my poem into her dirty bucket of filthy water, and Rachel was working there like a dream.
I'm so relieved. I'm not sure what I was thinking. I'm fairly sure I was not thinking.
What kind of a man am I?
Am I a man?
I know I have most of the complimentary male parts, but do they function in the correct manner? I don't think I'm very much like a girl, but I'm not sure I'm what you might term a manly man, a man's man, a lumberjack, a randy sailor, the big bad wolf.
Okay, it was stupid, dumb, obscenely repulsive, but here's what I jotted on the napkin (I'm so stupid I actually wrote her name on it, my Rachel, fair Rachel):
ethereal whisper
i watch the wind of your hair
blowing fresh blowing pure
the reach of a cup away
you are the sun
i am the moon
one is present
one obscured
i am almost alive
near you
I know it's not poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it down, it was like my heart reached out of my chest, and scribbled it on the paper, and I wrote her name on it, but that hippo blonde threw it away. I am so relieved.
But I see the sun rising in the west, behind the counter, defying all logic or miraculous normality.
Why do I even try to write.
***
Sunday morning. The organist in church today is that frail girl, the one that looks anorexic -- I can't remember her name, but she is very beautiful, well, in a gypsy kind of way. I'm not sure what she IS, but her eyes are pretty much too big for her face, and they are about as dark as eyes can be, I mean, what is it with her? Hasn't she ever heard of irises?
She's not the best organist, at least her feet aren't that great. But two weeks ago she played the violin for special music, and I couldn't help it, I broke into tears. Fool. I kept my head down so nobody would laugh at me, and I did my best to hold back any kind of sobbing sound, and then what do I hear?
Joshua starts blubbering, right there in church! I think my tears evaporated in my anger, what's he thinking? What does he think everyone else will think?
It messed up the whole beautiful praise in worship time, my big dumb friend sitting there sobbing and burping and hiccupping like an imbecile. I almost got up and left, but then I knew everyone would watch me working my canes up the aisle, the whole church watching me, and so I sat there, simmering, so very angry because I couldn't cry like Joshua was crying -- what is it with him? How come he doesn't care what other people think?
How come he can express himself, his emotions, IN PUBLIC!?! I don't understand.
It's something I'd desperately like to do, to let loose, but instead I pull myself into a tight ball, I curl up like a sow bug, encased in my hard shell, pretending that the world will go away and leave me alone.
I'd like to talk to her though. I'd love to hear her again (and don't worry, I'm not having THOSE thoughts, this girl is practically a giant, she must be about 5'7", you know, too tall for me and too short for Joshua), but I wish I could protect her.
Me, protect ANYthing? That's almost a laugh (I mean a bitter laugh) (maybe not a laugh, just a chuckle) (a titter) (I give up).
But she looks so vulnerable. A little girl. Of course she must be in her twenties, at least.
When she played her music, it was like I went to another place, another plane of reality, and for a few seconds, I was a different person, a more whole person. Like I was a creature that lives on music, on a music world, in a musical universe.
Dumb. Sorry about that.
Betty? No, something more unique. Like Monty, only a girl's name. I'd ask Joshua, except he'd bug out his eyes and go: "Ooooooh! Michael's got a girlfriend!"
***
Weird. After what I wrote last night about the church organist, Joshua said to me: "We should invite her over."
I said: "Who?" I almost had a heart attack, I thought he meant RACHEL.
"Bronte," he said -- he pronounced it: "Brawn-tay."
I didn't know who he was talking about.
"The girl who made us cry," he said, munching on his egg salad sandwich.
It's enough to make you faint, sitting near Joshua when he eats. He chews with his mouth open, his teeth caked with egg and mayonaise, and he makes loud smacking noises with his lips.
I shouldn't even write it down, because I'm having a head rush just remember it.
But that's her name, "Brawn-tay." I thought it was something like "Monty" or "Betty," kind of a combination of the two.
Bronte, like the writers, you know, Emily Bronte and Charlotte, and Anne. I've read all the books, too dark (though I like the movie versions of "Jane Eyre," except for the crazy woman, that's enough to give me nightmares, thinking of those crazy eyes, the insanely strong talon hands -- women should be the protected, not the attackers, the abusers, the killers, criminals, mentally ill, wounded, crippled). "Wuthering Heights" was way too over the top for me, even if I only read it my sophomore year in high school, but just the thought of a Heathcliff make me feel ill, it's too real, that description, if I was ever in the same room with him I know he'd sense my terror, and he'd kill me. Abusive men are the worst, the very worst.
I probably won't be able to sleep tonight, they'll be all around me, the abusive men, in the dark, and the insane women, and I won't be able to sleep with them whispering, and silently shouting, threatening, cursing, shaking their fists, coming closer, and closer, the spit stringing between their teeth, their wormy tongues, their throats.
I don't think I'll go into the office tomorrow. I don't feel good. No the blues. Not a spine night.
I just feel hopeless.
I can't move.
***
Stayed home. Joshua called. Didn't answer. Trying magnets for arthritis. Not sure if it works.
I wish I had a picture of her.
***
I will not mention females again in this journal. Some are born eunichs (?) and some are made eunichs by men (that'd be me).
Yes, a part of me would desperately love to love and be loved, but that's not in the cards. And the Apostle Paul said it is best to be single, so that you can work for God.
I understand that. I accept that.
The only thing is, I don't know if I'm working for God. Why is He silent?
This "Sheep in Wolf's Clothing" thing I'm doing with Joshua, it gets me so down, all the hate pouring at us, when we're only telling the truth. Worshippers of Bobby Cilantor have to be the worse, because the man spouts absolute gibberish, I mean he's speaking English for goodness' sake, but there is absolutely no meaning in his words.
What kind of world is this?
Thinking about Terri today, what they did to her. I know I should be over it already, I should just get past it and move on, but how can you "get over" something like that?
I couldn't protect her (that's a laugh, I couldn't protect a hamster if someone wanted to step on it).
But WHY did God put this desire in my heart? WHY do I want to protect women? Like Bronte, the church organist? Just hearing her music (even when Joshua messed up the whole experience), I just wanted to put my body in front of hers and be a human shield, protect her from the "Judge Greens" of the world, the evil judges.
Jesus told his parable about the mother and the evil judge, and everything turned out well in the end of that one, the evil judge finally got sick of the persistent mom and caved. But in real life, the evil judges just pull their utter crap, even to the point of starving an innocent woman to death, making her thirst to death, and the eviljudge greens sit back and laugh, they think Jesus' parable is stupid, because they will never be moved, they love money more than truth, more than compassion, and that evil husband gets away with murder, and who knows how much money he paid that evil judge? Money that was meant for Terri?
Me, marry? That would probably be a sin. A crime. Because it is a husband's job to protect his wife, and the world has flopped that around in a John Kerry kind of way, the world applauds it when a husband kills his wife, or in the freaking O.J. debacle, even when a celebrity husband kills his ex-wife.
If I can't protect a woman (like Bronte, like Terri) I cannot marry a woman.
I have no strength.
I will set aside my stupid romantic dreams of marriage. Kissing. Touching. Holding.
Why does my head echo?
I don't no why someone like Joshua puts up with me. I'm just a burden. I hardly contribute to the world, let alone society, let alone God's kingdom. And I snap at Joshua, constantly, there's this part of me that just wants to control him.
If I could just cork his flatulence, gag his belches, and keep him from weeping in public, or laughing so loud it sounds like someone took the muffler off a VW Bug -- if I could only make him behave, so that he shaved his beard and sat still, I might be happy.
That's dumb. Joshua would be a giant statue. A marble Joshua.
***
The blues.
***
Spine.
***
I feel great today, everything is beautiful outside, I can smell Fall approaching, and it reminds me of pumpkins, and the moon rising over the lip of the horizon like a great orange nightlight. I know everyone hates Halloween, but I can't help but love this time of year...
...when I was little and Mrs. Cosby took me trick-or-treating, I loved it, that I could be covered by a sheet, or a big Frankenstein head, and people thought that my canes per part of the costume, they thought my funny walking was scary, like I was a powerful monster.
Whenever I see paper pumpkins pasted or taped to windows, it reminds me of that feeling, when I was a kid, and things didn't seem so hopeless -- I mean, I never had a good childhood, but there were the times when we traced our hands to make turkeys for Thanksgiving, and we tried t make paper skeletons, monster faces, I remember eating pumpkin pie, I had a foster home where the "mom" always made homemade pumpkin pie, every night, I don't remember the family's name, I must have only been six or seven, but I looked forward to eating pumpkin pie.
Yeah, so maybe Halloween isn't the most positive of holidays, but I've always felt it to be a trifle more honest than Christmas or Easter, which are every bit as pagan as Halloween, but Christians everywhere pretend that they are holy, that the days are holy, and they're kowtowing to pagan traditions, God bless us everyone. Bah humbug. Some of that stuff is pretty bad.
So secretly, I love Halloween. I love the kids who come to the door, they are so innocent. I love candy. I love spiced cider. I love hot chocolate, and how the weather is turning cooler -- I love Colorado in the Fall (maybe not the winter, my hands dry up and crack and bleed), but the Indian Summer and the cooling Autumn are beautiful here, with aspens shuddering gold, whispering, we have two aspens in the back yard and I love to stand on the deck and listen to them whisper.
Life is beautiful. Even in steel halls of gloom, beauty yet survives.
I dreamed about that. A blackened corridor of steel, barbed wire, smoking ruins, and I came across a wild rosebush growing up against a chainlink fence, it was slithering gracefully through twisted spirals of barbed wire, razor sharp, and the petals almost glowed like Christmas lights, that perfect wild rose. Beauty yet survives...
...even in steel halls of gloom.
***
I can't say that I haven't considered suicide. Perhaps not seriously. But sure, I've thought about it. There has never seemed like a lot of hope.
But then that's just when I focus on the here and now. I have always really believed that this is just a shadow of reality. That this life isn't even real, it's more like a computer program.
Think about it, molecules, atoms, electrons, protons and neurons, quarks, everything whirling, everything in motion. Vast spaces between what we consider impossibly small particles. A solid bar of iron has a very real consistency to it, almost that it has a soul, a bar of iron stuck into the dirt. In a hundred years, the consistency of that bar of iron will still be there. It will be worn down, but day after day, month after month, year after year after year, decade after decade, the bar of iron remains the same, despite rust, erosion, yet there is a sameness.
Time, if God created time, and we are in that continuum, and God exists apart and outside of that space/time continuum, then perhaps when we die we also step outside of time, all at the precise moment, people who died thousands of years ago, and people who die tomorrow, when their breath leaves their body they exit this thing called time, this whirring of atoms, constant movement, and they emerge on the other side, like a wormhole, at precisely the same moment (a negative moment, anti-time) they leave behind their atoms and molecules like people losing their clothes in the "Rapture," and they emerge simultaneously INTO reality.
We call it the Resurrection, the Biblical Word, maybe that's what death is, joining with our Creator in Reality, that we pass through in the twinkling of an eye, changed into incorruption, and that is why God is the God of the living, not the God of the dead.
The Bible talks about the sky rolling up like a scroll. What if that is the space-time continuum, this shadow world that we know and love so dearly, fearing death, and when Christ comes again, that is it, the Resurrection, the meeting place of the dead and the living, becoming one in God?
No, I don't pretend to know or understand the mechanics of God and the REAL reality, but it's how I imagine it, and that's why I have hope. That my twisted body is only a shadow of the perfect body God will give me at that meeting moment.
I've got hope, because my spine nights won't mean anything when I meet Reality, a place where THe Blues will just be a silly flicker of memory.
***
I read something in the paper today about the oldest man in the world, his name is Wisdom Messenger. Isn't that a great name?
To be around that long, through all the pain and suffering.
I'd love to meet him. He lives here in Colorado. Maybe I'll try and look him up, Joshua probably would love to interview him for our website.
To ask him about what it feels like to make it from what seems like a fairly innocent time, I mean the end of the wild west, way up until now, long after we thought the world could make it, this far past the Year 2000.
One hundred and 16 years old. That is unbelievable. And I read that there are two guys one hundred and fifteen years of age, and a woman that is one hundred and fourteen!
***
