“Make me an apprentice to your body parts.”

At times the shape and flow of the human body catches me completely off guard, forcing all air out of my lungs. Only to breathe in so deeply, surrendering the entirety of me to the sight I just witnessed.

A leg, fully extended, stretched as long as it’ll go forming a line that precedes the infinite.
The wrist, perfectly turned out, pushing the fingers into delicate directions.
A spine, cloaked in muscle and skin, forming the arrows that Amor shot down from the heavens.
The hips, doing only what lovers can do between the sheets, birthing some sort of truth to the sordid parts of our lives.

When I see these things that beg to be miracles of our wretched bodies, I can’t help but rewind and replay. To see it in my mind’s eye over and over until I just can’t take it anymore.

There’s a sort of sadness locked inside that space. Something that almost beckons that we are not human. All of us deities, skin puppets to those more perfect around us. Above us. Below us.

This is what happens when viewing anything ethereal.
We are left in front of mirrors with our own imperfections.

The wrinkles that are forming around the eyes and mouth.
The peculiar placements of beauty marks and freckles.
The dimples, the ripples, the callouses and poorly pigmented skins.

But,
should you play your reflection backwards,
rhythm will be unlocked.

Gluttonous faith.

The part of me that remains a little girl wants to believe.

I’m still sitting with her in the back yard, stealthily stealing daisies from Mama’s back garden to weave into garlands. Smashing juicy blackberries from the thistle into my mouth. Cracking eggs onto sidewalks during the hot August heat. Torching innocent ants with a heavy magnifying glass…

Yes, that part of me still wants to believe.

… And really, it is all insane. Over and over and over again. It’s a carousel, never altering course. But, the little girl says we’re going to spin off to the moon.

So I, I hang on tight. I lean my head back and laugh while watching the world twirl upside down.

Even though I know it’s insane, she’s insane, it is always a wonderful ride.

The honest ink.

Eight years ago I read something about a man named Grace. It moved me so, and I found myself searching for him without realizing.

Grace was my fictitious emotional cherry popper. Prior to him, I had never fallen in love with a fictional character. I was raised to believe that you love the art, not the artist. The music, not the musician. The word, not the writer. You can appreciate them as a vessel, but it goes no further. But Grace, though a product of the printed word, became real in my mind. He wasn’t a character, he was a real person that was out there that this printed word was based upon.

A few years after the first reading, I realized what was happening and I made it stop.

The process that followed was like losing a loved one to death. I suppose the timing was appropriate because that was a period of time in my life when my family, friends, and lovers were dropping like flies.

So, to aid in this process of loss, I started developing ridiculously honest relationships with strangers. Single serving people as Palahniuk put it.

And through time it became something much more than bumping into someone and starting a conversation… I had started writing strangers. I’d pick a random address. (Be it in the local white pages or an online phone book.) I’d write to them about myself, about what was plaguing me that I couldn’t shake, or random thoughts and ideas I couldn’t get out of my head. (Coincidentally, not long ago, I offered this bit to a fellow blogger that I’m rather fond of.)

Through the years I’ve received a lot of responses back. I have a box under my bed with all of these saved letters. Some of the most personal and intimate things a person could ever hear… All because it was completely safe. It was letting go without forgetting. It was the best part about being a human. And that’s all it ever was. So completely perfect. Neatly packaged in white envelopes. Black and blue inks bruising the pages.

Three weeks ago, I sent a letter out to the middle of nowhere Montana.

Saturday, I received a response…

To date, it’s the most moving, the most needed. She was immaculate, gorgeous, and I loved her as any child would love its mother.

Last night, I painted her… The image of what she is in my mind.

I haven’t painted, really painted, in quite some time. Too wrapped up in other arts and endeavors.

But last night, I painted her. Upon it’s completion, I stood there and sobbed. I sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed.

It was my best work, in my opinion… It was the most honest thing I’ve ever done. There were no walls, no constraints. There was no one pushing my pace, forcing reaction, creation. It simply flowed out in a matter of hours that passed like minutes.

Her maiden name was Grace, bringing everything in my mind full circle.

And had I never gotten lost that day I found my favorite bookstore,
Had I not craned my neck to see the captivating title,
Had I not lost my family, my friends, my lovers,
Had I not developed a loving relationship with strangers,
Had I not craved to write secrets on blank papers,
I never would have found her.

This thing that ties it all back to Grace.

A word that surely from now on, will always come with a capital G.