I feel sweet
Do you feel sweet? It’s amazing
I have no skin - and I feel everything
Now there is no sin, in anything. It’s amazing
I love life. I hope you do, too. Cuz I love everything
It’s all amazing.
Dear Sweet Readers,
If you’ve read The Rapture, then you know something has been shifting for me this year. Something impossible. Something amazing. And all I want to do is tell the story of this unexpected spring, this blessing. For months now, the story has been a Siren song of promise and temptation. It sings out at the top of its lungs as I speed along the highway to the cash job that keeps me both from bankruptcy - again - and from writing. All the way to work and all the way home, I hear my story telling itself. But when the car stops, the voice stops. Crap.
I began steering with one hand and taking notes with the other. I’ve gotten good at it, too. Steer, drink coffee, eat breakfast, change lanes, work the volume on the stereo; one hand is all you ever need. And who needs more than one eye to watch the road and the speed traps, right? Well, no matter, because even when I have faithfully typed every amazing word, every flash of inspiration caught on the fly, this story continues to wink in and out of existence. Kinda like the Oregon sun; I know it exists, but I can’t prove it.
So until the story has more form and substance to it, I offer you my
Imagine yourself here in Oregon. In the wet Willamette Valley. Here where we’ve just spent six or seven months in the coma of our damp, dark northern latitude. Something the rest of the world calls winter; hah! Right now we crave the sun like a lover. We crave the whisper, the promise, the tingle on the skin. The blessing. And the sin.
What we get is a strip tease on PMS.
The first physical rush of sunshine on our skin - like the teasing dip of panties, skimming but not showing - comes for an afternoon in February. Maybe two. When our collective sigh rises like a businessman’s lunch time trousers, prissy Miss Spring slaps on a Mackintosh. And it’s rain in the morning, rain in the afternoon, and rain on the telephone at night. Rain swearing like a jealous boyfriend. Rain ranting like a possessive wife.
Come March, Spring slips and slinks.. a peek, a cheek.. the heat of cherry pink lips; we can almost taste her. For a day. Maybe two and a half. Her bosom blooming like a flowering plum - titty flash! Oh the tassels and fringe fly like, you got it, rain. More rain. And the chorus sings ♫ rain, rain go away ♫ - and don’t fucking ever come back if you want another dollar in that thong. Spring? She turns on her pretty kitten heel and tosses her flowered bra over her shoulder in a final flourish of fuck you as she leaves the stage without showing a thing.
Intermission. The Ark does a half time dance with some plastic animals from a Farrell’s Zoo Sundae during which we Oregonians slump over our Starbucks cups and dream of blizzards, tornadoes, and other sexy winter storms. Anything but rain. (Oh don’t flame me. It’s comedic hyperbole. Jeez.)
In Portland, where I live, we love our coffee, our books, and our wine and beer - some of the best made anywhere. Why? Because in the winter here, it’s dark. It’s dark when we drive home from work and it hasn’t quit being dark by the time we turn around and drive back. Dark and wet. During the day, all eight hours of it, it’s gray and wet. Add titty bars and you’ve pretty much summed us up. And churches. For some goddamned reason, we have just as many churches per capita as strip joints. At least that's the rumor: more strip clubs and churches (and breweries), per capita, than anywhere else in U.S. Go figure.
The tease of flowered panties flying one day and the cold shoulder of hail - or hell fire and damnation - the next, oh, the humanity of it! And, oh, the promise it holds, our almost-there time of year, the temptation...
It’s glorious. It’s life changing.Our almost-there time of year holds all the coiled yearning, all the panting breathlessness of...almost...oh yeah...Oh YEAH! Who’s your daddy?!?
Fornication. It’s a sin. Look it up.
Hey, over here. Focus. We’re talking about me, remember? And that certain something that’s been shifting.
It’s here. It’s happening. It’s life changing.
It’s in the stars, in the sun.
It’s everywhere in everyone and it will be
From now on...
But the writing of it? Just shoot me now!
I’ve been writing for months about this experience, this blessing of an unexpected spring and for weeks and weeks and WEEKS the writing has kicked my ass. I mean up one side of the freeway and down the other. Seriously, Jacob was able to wrestle the angel, an actual angel, to the ground and demand a blessing and yet here I am with the blessing already in hand and, for the fucking life of me, I have not been able to pin it down. Not in words anyway.
My only solace at such times as these: music. If it weren’t for music, there are some things that I’d just never figure out. Music speaks when I have no words, which is essential, for without words my life is a tangle and my thoughts literally knot up around my throat like a noose. It’s music that loosens the ropes. Music that supplies the sound track to the torrent of thoughts. Music that grants a clarity I would otherwise have no access to. In fact, what is to follow, all the many posts after this one, might be considered the sound track to my life. For that’s how the telling of this story has unfolded.
Music is my shelter, my Siren, my Sin; my God and my Demon lover; the hymn of my transformation.
It’s here. It’s happening. This transformation. It’s amazing.
Oh, don’t worry! When I say transformation I’m not talking about a religious conversion. I have not been born again in Christ. Or Buddha. Or Mohammed. I have been born again in sin.
You heard me.
Sin is one of the most amazing, transformative things I know. And sin is what’s coming up next, just as soon as I get this blog post - and the writer’s block it represents - out of the way. So you’re going to have to come back if you want to know what sin I’m committing. But this much I can tell you now. Over the past weeks I have realized that the story I struggle to write is unwieldy because it is, most likely, the next book.
I know! I’m pinching myself. I haven’t even finished posting the first book. Regardless, starting with this post, you’ll be finding yourself in The Rapture. It’s gonna be amazing.
And, by the way, if you listen to this One Eskimo song on a loop, as I have while writing this, that word AMAZING doesn’t get old. It grows sweeter and truer and more beautiful with each repetition.
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If you love Amazing, by One Eskimo, then you must listen to this amazing DJ on Blip: @ladypn. She has sent me some of the most beautiful songs on the airwaves. I know you’ll love her, too.