The Man in the Moon’s Mama

If you REALLY wanted to know EVERYTHING (aka~ the secrets of the universe), all you’d have to do is LOOK at the faces of our fellow humans. I believe that our faces are the maps of this vast, galactic territory. I was setting up camp in the front window of Hudson Bay this morning, and I saw a bus whizzing down college avenue. It was sparsely populated, but I did recognize the woman who works as a cashier at Cactus Taqueria. She’s probably Mexican. She has a round face. But not fat, round. She just looks like she’s related to the man in the moon.

(I just have to say that I have been debating getting a chocolate biscotti since I parked here, and I’d say it’s been on the argumentative side of debate.) I want to write a book about bus drivers. I will dedicate my life to riding busses for like six months, and have conversations with all my drivers, and turn them into REAL human beings. God, that sounds fucking awesome!!! I could do that with all kinds of “ordinary” people~ librarians and gas station attendants. NO, Athena, just stick to busses. It’s just that from my vantage point inside this fish bowl, I have seen like three busses drive by, and each of the drivers looked so real and soulful and intriguing. But lemme herd the yowling, emaciated stray cats of my mind back to their hitching post so I can tell you that I caved in and got myself the fucking biscotti, because it was consuming WAY too much of my thought space.  Territory that I needed for writing. Sometimes the REWARD game works for me. You know, telling myself that when I hit a thousand words, THEN I can have my cursed biscotti. That really works for less obsessive, impulsive people- like Eric, for example. But for me, I am relentless and consumed by my desire until I fulfill it. I raped and pillaged my crunchy little stick of sophisticated cookie until it was no more, and now, thank Heavens, I am temporarily satiated, and can pour this passionate stream of self into words and visions and quirky, abstract ideas…)

So yeah, the mujer from Cactus looks like the man in the moon’s mama. Usually she’s the one who takes my order, and every time, my heart breaks because I can feel the unsettling strength of her soul.I can see on her face a star-lit map of frightening and unjust labryth scapes she has wandered to find herself behind the cash register at Cactus Taqueria in Rockridge, serving moderate quality “Mexican food” to privileged mostly white families with posies of adorable, spoiled, snot nosed small people.It is obvious that in other dimensions, she is a priestess, a shaman, a seer.Her soul is ancient and tough, and I wonder if she trusts her voice. I see a genuine roar, reverberating deep within her large, weather-beaten, bovine eyes.Any way, I saw her on the bus.She was slumped down in a crumpled pile~ the kind of pile one inevitably slouches into when life weighs a cruel and merciless amount.Seeing/feeling her, in addition to feeling my way thru the abandoned, wounded, grief stricken territory of my own inner three year old was on the brinkish cusp of TOO MUCH.Why is that woman vivid in my sight?She’s weighty, like her life is at least a few lives packed into one human shell.God, please bless her.

I say that, “God, please bless her,” and then immediately I think, what an absolutely ignorant FOOL I am to assume that God HASN’T blessed her.Of course God has blessed her.I just have a very straight-laced idea of what God’s blessings look like, so I immediately and unconsciously lump her into the category of those whom God has overlooked, either accidentally, or worse yet, out of some ancient, spiteful vendetta.I suspect God might actually have one of those with ME.I wouldn’t have admitted it until yesterday.Last night, Brad picked me up from work, and we sat outside my house in his borrowed biodiesel Mercedes.Upon opening my mouth, I realized I was full up with negativity!Oh surprise of surprises!So I asked him if I could have one to two minutes to just go off and complain.He said he already knew it all.I told him I just needed space to vent.He said sure.I WENT OFFF!But I couldn’t stop after two minutes, because what was under the hardened complaints was a goopey lake of grief.Like one of those pimples that you squeeze, and at first you think it’s just gonna be hard, white gunk, but after a stubborn steam of that is expressed, THEN comes the wet, stewy stuff.Out of ONE wretched little pore.One fucking wretched little pore.That’s me.I cried and cried, and suddenly, I was calling God a mother fucker, and let me just tell you, I felt FREE.I did.Because this “God” character has let me suffer for a long-assed time.

This God character conceived me so fresh and new and tender, and while I had no skin, I was passed thru the hands of unfamiliar, careless and highly checked-out people. (while I am writing, there is a baby crying to my left. She’s in one of those little carriers. She is tender, like a bread loaf that has not baked long enough to form a sincere crust. She’s all doughy insides. Her older brother (he must be somewhere between three and four) is rocking her, attending to her devotionally, attempting to pacify her cries. Mom must be powdering her nose. It is the most fundamentally heart-melting scene.) Listen, I don’t want to get over dramatic here. My aim is to tell you that it felt so good to name and own my grievances with God. What a fucking relief to finally get off the exhausting hamster wheel of muscling my way thru my relationship with the divine. Sure, fine, let communion with the One take self-effort and discipline… but its gotta be the labor of LOVE! Not just your average, run of the mill warring struggle. “Oh, if I say a Bazillion more mantras, then I might get to nibble on a moldy, stale crumb of God’s infinite bliss…” What the FUCK is that? Love should be a little more bloody generous, don’t you think?

I recognize that I am flailing around, thirsting in the sweetest Ocean. Profound faith is implicit in me.Entirely.I find it impossible to doubt that God is real and inside of everything, and outside as well, and undoubtedly an esteemed ambassador of my success and soul-fulfillment… But there has been a quintessential disconnect, and it drives me CRAZY.It drives God crazy too.And we are both committed to getting to the bottom of it… But in the mean time, last night, I threw a mild and long overdue tantrum out of sheer exhaustion and quintessential betrayal.Why if I am swimming in Grace, do I feel like I am perpetually drowning and suffocating?What the fuck is Grace anyway?I have adopted the stinkin word as my blessed las name, you’d think I’d have a better handle on the matter.

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