Ash Wednesday Alive

I've always secretly wished to be Catholic. Always, wanting a different religion -- one to make more sense to me, than just, "You can't go to Heaven until you're saved, you say it out loud, stand in a tank of tepid water, and we dunk you asunder."

Makes sense.

I had no warning of my own baptism. I was wearing a t-shirt, torn shorts, green nail polish on my fingers. This is the way I have to face the congregation?? The preacher lead me to the church library, and told me to undress. Me and another girl: we had no idea what we were doing...at Church Camp, I felt a pain in my heart (guilt, most likely), and said a few words in my head, tears came to my eyes, and that was it. I'm saved forever?! I won't have to burn in Hell...sounded like a good, fair deal to me. Despite the fact that I was a good, fair girl, and had no business burning in Hell for all the sins I never committed, but oh well. Whores can be saved. And good girls can be saved. And me, and this tall girl named Jenny threw our clothes onto the library floor.

I wore a white choir robe. Barefoot. Green nail polish on my fingers. I walked to the baptismal, and this preacher, who'd been molesting older women in our church's congregation, put his hand over my mouth, and cut off my breathing. Dipped me underwater.

-- It just occurred to me, I've told this story before, in a blog piece entitled 'Penance Envy'.

Ha. How clever I used to be. The former me.

Now I'm just morbid, and repetitive.

So it's Ash Wednesday, is it?

And I've always secretly wished to be Catholic.

A few years ago, I asked my lover if I could go to confession.

"No," he said. He'd be ashamed of me; quit speaking to me.

-- He never let me have any fun.

I was already dressed up, too; I just wanted to drive South, to a bigger town and walk through the doors, and down the aisle of a Catholic church. South, 'cause they're ain't no Catholic churches in my town, or are they called 'Cathedrals'?? No Synagogues either.

He wouldn't let me. And all I wanted was the mark on my forehead. Ashes, instead of a lack of breathing, and a choir robe in water. A spectacle. Eyes watching as this fake-preacher pulls me up, and I'm dripping wet, and everyone clapped, and what for? Because I'm going to Heaven??

I just wanted Ashes on my forehead. Something I could know, and be close to. A quiet box -- darkness -- and a man to ask me to confess all my sins. I'd whisper 'em, happily, and then what?? I'd pay for 'em!

Good deal. What a good honest deal. No silly dipping me in water, to wash away my sins. Let me admit 'em. Let me pay for 'em!

I wish I were Catholic. Or at least had lovers who let me daydream, and go out on limbs while in my euphoric headspace.

I wish I were in New Orleans.

Isn't it Mardi Gras yet?? Or does that fall at the end of Lent??

I'm not from Louisiana. I'm not Catholic. I'm French, sure. Of French descent (there's the answer to your question of my ethnicity, Mr. You-Who's-Hopefully-Smiling).

So it's Ash Wednesday. Maybe I'll have my own celebration! Maybe I'll dress up, and burn a candle. Admit my sins to the Dead End Kids, and Billy Halop will stick his finger to the flame, and press it lightly against my forehead.

I'll tell my sins to Bobby Jordan:

Forgive me, Bobby, for I have sinned...I've never been to confession. Will you go easy on me? Can I finger my own rosaries?

I can't sleep tonight. I went to bed at ten o'clock (now last night) because I didn't feel well. And I fell asleep, only to be woke up by a million things, including a whining, whimpering kid.

If she gets sick again -- and if I'm getting sick -- then who will take care of the both of us?

My imagination? My daydreams? The ghosts of actors past??

I'm losing it.

Whatever I had, I'm losing it, and I wish I could run away.

I'd go to Mardi Gras dressed as a bird. A sexy bird, with a white sparkling swimsuit, white high heels, and pair of white feather wings. Diamond jewelry. Fake diamonds, 'cause that's all I can afford; all ex-lovers ever bought me. How practical. Or maybe...maybe I do have some real diamonds. Maybe I've just forget 'em...lost 'em.

If nothing else, I could go dig for more in the mud. Probably diamonds all lining the backfield, and I don't know well enough to go and look for 'em. Diamonds beneath the mud, and dirtroads, and good thing my ground isn't covered in concrete like those big city jungles; they may be hiding the world's treasure trove of precious stone, and gold, and silver. And here I am, on a mountain of mud and diamonds!

I'm tired.

A happy Ash Wednesday to the non-sleep deprived. To the Catholics. To the non-baptised.

To those people lucky enough to have sleeping children, grown children, healthy children, or no children at all.

I'M TIRED.

I wish I could write about movies instead, but when I found out less than an hour ago, that it's Ash Wednesday today, an alarm went off in my head, and this is what came to me.

A happy Ash Wednesday to everyone I didn't already mention -- or is Ash Wednesday not supposed to be happy?

Perhaps it's a good day for depression. For people like me, to sit around and write bad poetry, and stare at the sky, and wish it were blue, not gray; to wish you were Catholic, not ex-Baptist; to wonder why you ever listened to ex-lovers in the first place; if you wanted to drive South, and go the Chapel (is that what it is??) then you should have done it! God damn it. You should have drove, and confessed your sins, and got it off your chest, or head, or heart -- or wherever the hell it sits! -- and then maybe you wouldn't be here. Unable to sleep. Rehashing old stories, year after year.

...

Happy 'Forgiveness' Day.

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