"I think I should've been born a drag queen. I identify with them so much.." Salsalita was bringing a soda to her lips, but stopped abruptly when I said that. Her green eyes large, her lips motionless. I don't think she knew what to think.
We were watching Too Wong Foo with Patrick Swayze and Wesley Snipes. I think what I was trying to say was, I identify with the inherent need for glamour and ladylike decorum at all times. Yet I struggle too with recent drama and fatigue. I can't be a diva all the time but I want to. Really. I mean, I gave my daughter a hot pink feather boa last year at Christmas, and I considered borrowing it back. However, I settled for both of us taking pictures in it. Sigh.
I miss fashion, glamour, pizzazz. Instead, I settle for jeans, t-shirts, Judge Judy (where's the queer lez for the straight lady?) and horror of horrors, only an occasional night out at a redneck bar.
I should shudder to think that all my potential glamour will never be fulfilled. I should shudder to think my daughter may grow up to someday wear white shoes after labor day and (gasp)tie-dye tubetops. Oh, I'm so sad. Why not teach her to be a classical and sophisticated beauty who doesn't mind getting dirty gracefully (it can be done). Instead, I have a little girl who loves to announce that she has farted and has no trouble pointing out how TACKY, while pointing, absolutely tacky that somebody else's clothes are.
There still may be time.
Salsalita, I am not crazy. I just love drag queens, all gay men, and any other person that's just as confused as me and reveling in it. Who wants to be normal anyway?
My life, is BORING. Please, all my gay friends, please come forward and save me from this colorless drudgery that is my life.
Salsalita came by. She knows I am broke because my exhusband is the Anti-Christ and has decided that since he and his children-of-the-corn wife (do I have to like her?)copulated and reproduced that he no longer has to be on time with child support for his first child.
Buttwipe. I may have to kick his ass, somehow. Any ideas?
Anyhoo: on to my other musings. I happen to love movies with any sort of religious or spiritual meanings. Laugh while you can. I think our God happens to be not only a fashion icon but also a generous, loving, tolerant creator who loves all of his children, not just his perfect lily-white straight ones.
I finally get Mr. Sweatpants over to watch "Stigmata". This movie happens to be the only one ever to cause the small tiny hairs on my neck and arms to stand up continuously, during the entire course of the movie.
I loved it. I know that the Catholic church, among others, hated it.
I do not care because the message itself is: Jesus is inside you. He is not in a building of brick and stone. Split of piece of wood and I'm here. Turn over a rock and you will find me." Basically, you must have your own relationship with him, not a church. Church's are nice. They look pretty. They can be used for weddings, funerals, bake sales. Oh, and they help people. Vampires can't come in. Pretty handy. However, in the end, it all comes down to you and him, the big guy upstairs.
"He is in you. He is everywhere and in everything good." I find that so powerful, especially since it's a message that's never really gotten out.
I cried at the end. What could be more beautiful than the last scene. St. Francis and the doves. She and the doves. The beautiful Gabriel Byrne (meowww). Rene' said he found it to be profound that the phenomena of stigmata is possible outside of the church's definitions of those who get it. Interesting isn't it. I guess what I take away from it and movies like "Bless the Child" is that we don't have a patent on God, his instructions, his judgements, his intentions. All we can do is try to be what we believe from him, not a church, to be what he wants.
Why would anyone dare set down all these crazy rules and stipulations and tell you how to live your life? Ever went to Sunday school? Yeah, why, I was tortured with it too (my apostolic family), but everything I need to know I learned there, or from my Grandma.
I truly believe, when it comes down to it, that it's the person you are, the intentions you have, the life you live, that will make a difference at the end of your life.
I believe Mychal Judge went straight to the arm of the creator when he was killed when the World Trade Center collapsed. And yet, people want to tripe about his struggle with his sexuality. He makes an ultimate sacrifice, for the good of another firefighter, as a priest, and people want to condemn him for his struggles. Well, the hell with them. I found Father Judge's legacy to be something beautiful, touching and exemplary. I'd rather be like him than Gordon B. Hinkley anyday. A life of service, or a life of lies. Oh, a life of service, thank you so much Father Judge.
We all have our struggles. They are awful to us, hard to deal with, because it's happening to us. So, no one should be telling us how to deal with it. But they will try, because they think that they can. Love, tolerance, kindness. Whatever happened to just being a human being? Stop pointing your finger at other people, turn it around, and take a look at your own dirty laundry.
Anyway, I'm off my soapbox now. I wish I could sleep. Did I tell any of you I have insomnia again? Real bad. I talked to the lady that works for victims services, and she says nothing has come in yet. I'm tired of this.
1:14 p.m. - 2003-09-04
Recent entries:
What you missed - January 16, 2012
%%older_entries%%From hell - October 19, 2010
%%older_entries%%a rant from a few weeks ago - August 17, 2010
%%older_entries%%Tired - June 20, 2010
%%older_entries%%A beautiful lie - March 11, 2010
%%older_entries%%
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