the first evening crickets

I’ve been blessed in my life many times over. I’ve been flown around the world. I’ve been handed pots of money so I could quit my 9-5 job. I’ve been saved from psychos. I’ve had beautiful women. I’ve been visited by spirits that were quite friendly, and I’ve even been allowed to glimpse the future.

And yet, I’ve never duplicated the joy I found with you in the hayloft of that rickety barn.

I didn’t realize God had leaned out of the sky and kissed me fully on the lips when he led me to that farm.

I can still smell the trees outside, feel the straw, hear the first of the evening crickets, see the pretty horses. You’re there with your camera, your untamed blonde hair and that smile of yours that was dreamed up in God’s mind a trillion years ago.

My Midwestern country girl.

There is no more sacred place in my heart than the one you occupy: The first girl I loved.

Tell me, what sort of diamond-burst energy do we share when twenty years later we’re still falling into each other’s eyes?

our final act

Like snow, lava embers fluttered to the earth everywhere. In the distance, meteors were crashing into the sand. The entire world was colored in crimson and flame.

Do you remember running? I remember the ground pulsing from legions of soldiers hurrying after us as if the fate of the entire planet were at stake.

(Because it was)

Even that time the gods deposited us in that little river village where livelihoods depended on those barrels floating with the current, and the diseased miser on top of the hill, that lifetime, our “smallest” job, was such a gift. All the time we had between us. All those years, all those afternoons lying in the fields, among the dandelions and cattails, under those big blue skies.

Not like that bloody sky in the desert. That was you and me on top of the pyramid as the king’s armies stormed the steps. It was me who stabbed you through the heart, and then on the sword I fell. That was the only way they could have us.

When our energies mingle, woman, it’s the same story over and over throughout history: Revolution.

Want to know a secret? (This next one is the last)

storm goddess

Let it rain. Storm goddess, you bend the sky like a big top tent so the rain intended for half the planet hits me in this field. You unleash that red dragon circling overhead with killer intentions. But I hear your enchanting voice behind those dark clouds.

And I like my women a little bitchy.

Because the flowers bloom with those magic rain pellets you command. And the grass and trees in your golden meadow come alive and sing for your company. There’s a ying to every yang, and the fiercer the storm, the more beautiful the garden. The more worthwhile the stay.

As for that dragon, like all beasts, it has one weakness: it feeds on fear. After you spoke to me, I had none.

Now here’s the deal: I’ll only push as hard as you push into me, and yes, now we’re trading tastes, sipping from our mouths, sucking on tongues. Never kissed like this, never traced the shape of lips for hours, never studied the terrain so well. I’ve forgotten that my hand is feeling the small of this back, this perfect slope. And now I realize my other hand is behind your head smashing you into me.

Well, okay, it’s true that I’m pushing much harder than what I promised. But hey, I slayed the dragon. Girl, tonight you are mine.

the shape changer is not taking any more requests

You don’t see what I see.

I see you walking down the street and thugs giving money away to homeless men as they watch you pass. I see you drinking from that public fountain while a policeman takes the handcuffs off someone because both of them are suddenly thirsty.

I see the sun burn hotter when you show off more skin. I see the clouds swoop overhead whenever you shade your eyes. I see the light of stars from millions of miles away race toward earth for the chance to dive into your eyes.

I see birds circling overhead, signaling God that our Queen is active. I see lions negotiating with the Shape Changer to become birds so that they, too, can see you and signal God.

I see rainbows bending like rubber to try and touch your heels.

I see criminals guarding your front door at night while you sleep.

I see you now have an hour free on your afternoon schedule. I see smiles on both our faces in oooooooooh, about an hour’s time.

birfday

Turning 38 is a big deal, largely because that means 37-year-old Ed dies, or rather, retires. We will miss 37-year-old Ed.

We are fans of 37-year-old Ed. He continued our internal work and passed through the five-year junction of our spiritual journey, which was a large-type assignment. He entered and exited (well) the first truly happy and healthy relationship of our life, which was great. He published our first book, which was also great. He got off drugs and battled depression, which was tough. He unloaded on God several times, but not quite as disrespectfully as previously Eds did. And 37-year-old Ed was rewarded for unloading on God in this manner. We got to feel God holding us, loving us, despite our being a brat.

It was 37-year-old who came to terms with getting older and, despite enormous pressure from the little Eddies inside us, decided, at the last moment, not to get hair restoration. Living in Southern California puts weird pressure on you, ya know.

We will continue to listen to the call as we have at other points on our spiritual journey.

Like when Arnal Kennedy suggested we go celibate for a while, and we did. Like when Tamara Yates told us to write about sex and relationships and we did, but only after another close friend (thinkingtoohard) told us the same thing 8 months later. Like when Katie Morris told us to consider quitting journalism. Like when Katie Sharar predicted that the best year of our life will be when we’re 38.
Yes, we listen to the call.

So we salute our homeboy, 37-year-old Ed. You are the man. And now we turn things over to the new guy, 38-year-old Ed. Good luck, buckaroo!