But only if we’re into beating me over the head with a runner from Rosebud’s sled.
Which we’re not.
We’re not into that.
Instead, we’re into supporting my whims, my desires and my peculiarities as the secret treasure map through an exalted life that they give all indication of being.
Despite the pitfalls, I’ve come this far with a certain amount of grace.
And one time, in hospital, when I was told I was flirting with death, I saw very clearly that my life was, above all else, one of insurmountable beauty.
Don’t argue with me about this.
It’s not that you will lose. It’s just that I have no intention of listening to you.
The things I thought I wanted—some of them with all of my heart—were not always the same as the things I needed. And often their being violently ripped from my grasp left me with a surprise feeling of lightness bordering on levity.
So, no, we will not call my infatuation with the ayahuascanized Christian man a repeat performance of a previous mistake, despite it all seeming oddly familiar.
Instead we’ll refer to it as a sexy déjà vu.
(Although, behind the veil, we know of whom it reminds me, don’t we?)
This time, I won’t try to convert.
This time, I won’t be struck by loneliness, won’t clutch a barnyard cross made from rusty nails to my chest, wondering what’s taking Jesus so long.
This time, I won’t need to.
Perhaps it was last year, or perhaps it was longer ago, that I had a dream I forgot, of a man walking through the cathedral of my soul.
In the dream, I wanted to be bothered. How did this stranger get past the high vaulted doors? He was clearly trespassing. And who was he to be losing himself to the shadows of my most mysterious chambers, anyway?
But his footsteps were so light. And I felt so mercifully at ease in his presence.
I had a great love of this dream until I realized that the stranger had probably been Jesus. And then I felt more than a little inconvenienced.
Which might not sound befitting of a religious experience. But I’ve never claimed to welcome visitors on anyone’s schedule but my own.
And his timing was just not good, as he made his appearance right when I was in the middle of a nasty break-up with another persuasion.
Nonetheless, it was poetry. His being in my soul.
So if the reason the wild man with the southern drawl has shown up now is to remind me how it felt, I don’t intend to let the sensation pass me by.
* * *