communion

We talk about being happy, about being loved, about being in love, about being "fully alive" because we currently are none of those things. When we are, we can't explain; words become worthless next to the experience.

To remember your body, to remember your blood, to partake of both with a sinner's mind is to rewind and relive what I once fiercely protected. I protected you within the cage of my chest. You knocked on my ribs, but you can't really expect me to welcome in unexpected visitors.

So maybe I don't have the best manners. So maybe I still say out loud at the table that the sundaes are crying caramel tears. At least I think it's funny. Maybe I crossed the line when I commented that it had strawberry syrup stigmata? You can't laugh with your mouth full because you might choke.

Being happily lovely happy and loved eludes me. You'll miss the point if you think I am merely miserable. In between the web of words lies a life about to be resurrected. Does it have eight legs or nine lives? I can't remember. There's something pleasant about the number seven, but which five apostles do I abandon in order to please? Or maybe I'm thinking of sins, not saints. The numbers float around like sprinkles in the soupy mess my sundae has become.

To be fully alive requires a death of sorts first. One doesn't seem to exist without the other.

Your blood is a salvation, a sacrament. Your sacredness lies in what has yet to be risen inside my ribs.

light

I long for a god, even if it's of my own creation.

It's always of our own creation; god creates us and in turn we create god. There is fluidity in infinity; hell is red-light-green-light... But then again, red lights might be the best reminder to look around, to escape the fantasies we memorize. Here we are. At this light. We aren't moving, finally finally.

So I want to offer a few prayers to myself. I want to treat my feet to a scrubbing. I want to partake of my wine to remind myself that I am nothing if not begging for mercies. I want to say thank you thank you thank you.

We can be our own saving grace. We can place our hands upon our head and bless. You have temples by your eyes, you have hallowed ground beneath your soles. Wake up to the dream that you are.

seven

PRETTY damn weird that I wrote this seven years ago today, especially when you read my previous post:

dripping down the side of my saddle

i really should have taken the opportunity last night to write in diaryland. i would have come up with some pretty heavy, emo, joe castor's political song type of stuff.

instead i let the fluids run out of me.

i wonder why i ache and nash and burn and cough and swear i'll get every last drop of fluid out of my body.

shall i just be a skeleton? will we ever recognize our friends by their bones? or will we just flash our teeth and gasp a collective "ah!" i know who you are now, friend. let me crawl inside your skin. (but the sad fact is that you can't because it's now a lampshade with freckles.)

12:07 a.m. - 2006-09-28

dry body

I used to fear the skeleton.

As a child I'd wander into my sister's bedroom and browse her books. Everything about my sister intrigued me and I believed what she believed to be truth. Her shelves contained numerous dream dictionaries. I devoured each one. She had a dream dictionary from the 1930s that was perfectly creepy -- dusty and mildewy and full of illustrations that bordered on the perverse.

The interpretation for "skeleton" stood out to me more than any other.

To dream of a skeleton is to dream of a future death.

But aren't we all future deaths? Isn't that what life's path leads to? My 8-year-old mind couldn't create or comprehend such philosophical musings quite yet.

And so I turned to fear.

I turned to fear and aversion and little obsessive compulsive acts that would protect me from what I really really really didn't want. Each night I'd pray to my god that I would have skeleton-free dreams. Each night I'd delicately dot my eyelids with purifying water. Each night I'd stumble into a skittish slumber.

Every morning I would awaken relieved. Nobody was going to die today. I had dreams of fences and ferris wheels and birds. But not skeletons. I was safe. I was protected.

Then it got to be too much. Then I got to be 22 and still felt compelled to purify my eyelids with water, to wash away thoughts of the dried (and eventual) body. Simply put, it was tiring to try to run away. A moving train will keep on moving, but the legs must give out at some point.

I decided to give it up. In fact, I decided to embrace the bones. I decided to come to understand and appreciate and maybe even worship the temporal. What is beneath is not below; what is beneath might be my beloved, my treasure.

The valley of dry bones is where I'll reside until I can figure out a way to attach the tendons and create the flesh.

Bones support and protect. I will embrace what I may become. I will embrace who I currently am. I will find my muscles and give them breath.

pure

The problem has always been purity.

It has contributed to my eating disorder, definitely. Being empty of food, whether through abstinence or purging, leaves a large place inside which feels clean because it is empty. An empty room can't be a cluttered room.

But why emptiness? What is the appeal?

Again, empty leads to pure and pure offers protection. The protection may be fictional, but there is protection in the belief of protection. Placebos are real, placebos work.

And fiction. Fiction will always seduce me.

Maybe the problem isn't purity. In fact, maybe purity can be my savior. Maybe the way I view purity is the "problem." I am beginning to think that purity is not a synonym for perfection. Purity can be full. Purity can contain clutter, just high quality clutter.

By letting go of my control to be pure in the narrow definition I've written for myself will be my doorway out of this empty room.

By handing over my low quality clutter to whomever I believe to be my higher power will introduce me to new rooms that contain no walls.

Or at least that's my belief.

It's a pill I'm willing -- perhaps even eager -- to swallow.

sight

Sometimes I wonder if I need to cut off my own ear.

Let me explain.

Never mind. I don't even know what I mean, so how can I explain the unknown?

Exactly.

Sometimes I need to have faith in what I can't see. Is faith okay or is it weak? I have bad enough eyesight as it is. I say give me faith or give me prescription glasses! Give whatever you choose to me soon, though, because while I think I am walking on stable ground I may just end up falling over an unseen cliff.

I suppose it's up to me. You can't choose for me. I have to choose. I have to choose whether I want to squander my limited days being gloom gloom Meg or if I want to believe in something (someone?) that may very well be absolutely fictional, but lifesaving. There is strength in fiction. I'm a goddamn (pun?) writer for heaven's (pun?) sake. I worship fiction.

I worship fiction.

And so it shall be. I want to see with whatever eyes I choose to place inside my skull. I choose to be obedient to whatever voice speaks the loudest in my heart. The soul may simply be a map to a treasure that is too buried to be unearthed. If that is the case, I shall whisper loudly to each blade of grass.

Grace. We just want grace.

awaken

Being a writer is a convenient (and sometimes valid) excuse for all sorts of lazy, half-assed, self-indulgent, and self-destructive behavior. "I can't have a job right now because I am working on my novel. My novel is my job. I'll worry about bills once I get published!" "Hemingway drank, too, right?" "Hemingway also shot himself in the head..." "Hemingway? Yeah, I don't care too much for him." "I'm depressed because I am a genius and I can't take medication because I am a genius and medication will totally screw with my genius mind. But yeah, alcohol is totally okay."

Enough.

My life, my spirituality, my general well-being is now going to take that metaphorical front seat. That's the phrase, right? "Take the front seat"? It's gonna be a crowded front seat. Hopefully there will be seat belts for all. I'll make sure to drive the speed limit, both hands on the wheel. But I'm gonna close my eyes! I joke. I'm not Helen Keller in this life, just in a past life (according to my manic pal, many summers ago).

Truthful question: Is my sudden interest in religion, specifically Christian religions, a sign that I might be having a meltdown? Are "awakenings" and "meltdowns" kinda sorta the same thing? Both are super emotional. Both make one shave their heads. Both see Jesus.

Meghan Meghan Meghan: You late bloomer, you. You are figuring out so much all at once, things that -- according to some textbook on human development -- you should have figured out about a decade ago. Maybe you'll never quite "figure it out," and maybe that will be a blessing. At the risk of sending your readers into a collective eye roll, you are blessed, Meghan. You are loved.

feast

For approximately 730 days I have been living in what might be called a dream-like state. It's not the same as dreamy, where one is almost giddy, surrounded by extravagance, eating perfect globe grapes off of a sensuous vine. No, it hasn't been dreamy. It has been foggy. It has been an out-of-body experience interrupted by the surreal and misplaced puzzle pieces, aching to be interpreted. The more I explain these hazy 730 days, the less it matters or makes sense. Is it fear or is it desire? I don't think they are two separate things. I fear what I desire and I desire what I fear. I believe this to be a universal truth.

The winds shift; a storm is approaching. I anxiously await storms because I find them fascinating. Storms simply find me. We can be chasers of storms or chasers of dreams. We can chase what we desire or let our fear chase us into a stupor. Whichever route we take, we'll end up meeting somewhere in between what is real and what is merely waiting for confirmation. The cusp of the real is where I have resided. To confirm my experience would be the equivalent of putting out a welcome mat.

I keep searching for a home. Do I know yet that the search is my home? Where can I place these dirty shoes?

It has been two years of tests and IVs and worried looks. It has been two years of chewing gum in order to trick my brain into thinking it's food. It's been two years of just making it through. And through this passage of time comes a feast. It has been marinating, bathing, immersing. It is now patiently waiting on the table underneath napkins and plates. Is there a place for me? Will I sit down?

whole

You are my rite of initiation. You will lay your hands upon me and offer a prayer upon my skin. There is the spirit and there is the flesh; who's to say the holy is devoid of meat and muscle? What is the weight of the sacred? Your purpose is a gift.

That night the space between your ear and shoulder smelled like campfire. Your connection to the elements was not lost on me. I want to get lost in the woods of your limbs. Revelations happen in woods where density is protection. The sky is an overlap of God's dream, seen through the trees.

Your campfire neck is a sign of grace. Lacing my fingers behind your back I have confronted what may never return. Each cloud above is a river in heaven, a river that can't be stepped in twice. There is a shore along your collarbone, deserted. What washes up will be seen by no one. Who must be baptized in these waters but everyone? Our spirit sinks only to rise.

I can't say whether my god has been found. I can't pick up the sticks of a salvation that may have never been lost. There is a path around your cells that will lock me in for an eternity. Can we be whole? Can we be whole?

portal

You are a doorway and I stand guard.

Let me leave my post. Let me wander through your vacant halls.

morrow

Imbalance creates static. The imbalance will remain until it is able to move away. I see you as an island. You see me as a bookshelf full of words you will never read. At least we have eternity. At least we have a god that wants us to read everthing ever. At least our god rewrites our history. Are you free tonight? We should catch up.

Morning allows me a moment to breathe. Morning steps away and offers me solitary existence. Morning sinks quietly into afternoon. Your sun hangs high above my head. I can't catch up with you. I will walk across a plain of plain sand only to sink into your sunset. It's not mine. It's not my storyline. Your fabrications make up the quilt of my timeline. You repeat what I never had the chance to produce. You are my trough. I drink from you.

Two surfaces will contact and separate. There is resistance. There is an effect. You neutralize my extremes. You are familiar. You are a home. There is a path that leads to you that will become overgrown. I've grown up and need to withdraw. I've grown up and have drowned what is no longer around. I've grown up and am searching for a trail back to the unpaved way that is your shoulders, your torso, your skin. You remind me of what I've lost. You remind me of what I have yet to find.

Give me your morning. Give me your time spent under the rising sun. You rise, you are my prize. You deplete when you complete. Give me your morrow. Give it today.

restless

Between six and seven thousand languages are spoken throughout the world. With you, I speak none. Our communication lies beneath the words that clutter up our day. Our communication is breath on a window, braiding of hair, pulse. Our words only hide what we are trying to say.

I wish I had said more to you when we were 12. I could feel you in my muscles. This was not a growth spurt. This was pain. I didn't know how to grow yet. We grew apart.

I remember you scratched my arm on the playground when we were nine. You broke my skin, I cried. Was that on purpose? I remember giving you a black eye on accident right before Christmas break. Really, it was on accident. I threw a plastic lizard in the air and you looked up when it was coming down. The teacher told the class what happened; my arm was full of silent scars.

Is it okay to still love you? At my late age of 29, I still have yet to define love for myself. It's more than breath on a window, it's more than braided hair. It could be a pulse, I won't rule that out. But maybe it's a secret. Maybe it's shapeless. Maybe it's as empty and as open as our days were when we had nothing to do but grow, expand.

I have learned new languages, this time with scattered words such as lizard, vascular perfusion disorder, acetaminophen, broken. But I won't know how to ever let you go. I don't plan on trying.

try

I can't push myself to write, but at the same time that is exactly what I need: a push. I need something or someone to propel me into some kind of action. I have been static for about three years now. I do whatever I can to get through a day, just to fall exhausted into an interrupted sleep. I imagine readers rolling their eyes and telling me to "get over it" or to "just be happy." I desperately wish it were that simple. I try.

Maybe I don't need something or someone. Maybe I need to return to myself. Maybe I need to give myself a chance.

Still. I need a different kind of stillness.

The eye and the horizon are both circles. It's an eternal process just to be seen.

ambiguity

I am tired of being ambiguous. My flowery writing is starting to bother me. Is it time for me to go all Bukowski on your ass?

I could make this post about toxins, displacement, fractures, impact. I would be writing about a love I don't really feel anymore, attempting to make it sound genuine and with a heartbeat. But I would be lying. Or else I would be indulging in nostalgia. Either way, I don't think it's the best way. I want to write with a pulse. I want to write something with a pulse. I want authenticity. Being a creator comes with a set of ethics and I am dedicated to what is true. That is the goofiest thing I have written in maybe a long time. Is the truth goofy? Is Goofy really a dog even though he wears pants and drives a car? And what's the deal with cars? They just get you tickets. :( (More on that later/never.)

I feel a shift happening. I feel myself cutting a lot of things out and embracing an entirely new style. I CANNOT EXPLAIN. It's a feeling. Feel, don't tell. Wait. Show, don't tell. Wait. Show and tell! Or better yet, truth or dare. Who do you dare to be? How can you be who you are right now? Let's get real and smoke a cig on a stairwell. Coffee stains our teeth! Uh... Women! Ham on rye!

Ambiguity is pretty rad, though. So is androgyny. So is Tilda Swinton. Lord, she is rad.

cañon

A grand canyon was recently discovered under the ice in Greenland. It is estimated to be 4 million years old. Can you even visualize a million? It is a tedious task. Times that task by four and you've got a canyon before you.

Is there enough time to tell you that I no longer have time for you? I'll inevitably drag it out and continue to let you hug me, so desperately, while you refuse to look me in the eye. I know we combine simply to erode. We cut away less resistant materials, such as talking and touching.

You seep into the cracks I don't know that I have. I freeze. We push apart. We break off.

What will you form underwater? What will form at the mouth of your river?

The width of your finger is 2.2225 cm. A million of your fingers lined up would cover a distance of approximately 22 km. If I walked at a speed of 4 km/h, it would take me approximately five and a half hours to reach the end of your fingers. The finger is an organ of manipulation. I will walk until I collapse.

There were inhabitants within these canyons. They are forgotten, they are extinct. Their bones lie before us.