Better Than Sex

It’s all that matters.

It’s better than sex.

It’s who I am.  Why I’m alive.

It’s music; it’s dance; it’s dross transmuting not just to gold, but more:  through time and beyond, constantly sculpting it.  No kidding.

[This post is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Wednesdays now, and Saturdays, I stand on a stage at the Y or another community center, and on Tuesdays and Sundays, I hold court at the shop.  For the moment, I have this incredible gift.  It’s not something I expected or worked for.  It just happened.  I bend, whisper, sing, shout—and a radiant light surrounds and then emanates from people, glimmering and glimmering.  Outside the wind blows; waves crash upon the shore (and presumptuous as it sounds, I can tell), trees tremble and leaves and dust swirl about the streets.  While inside, hearts and minds spring wide open.  Pure and perfect souls burst from hardened husks.

You have to try it.  Stand on a stage and spin what’s uniquely inside you with what’s truly OUT there.  You can’t go wrong.  The giddy beauty and awful power come on their own.  It’s me and not me:  You and not you:  it is marvelous, unending flux.

(Click here to read the next episode.)

Comments

[Creechman]

First two lines set up something enormous.

Then again, walking out on stage takes more guts sometimes, but close call.

[Rufus]

Nice picture! It looks better than sex.

[Dan Leo]

Ah, rapture or madness, the age old question...

[Creechman]

I think I'll go with simple sex. One can always get literary when the Lark heralds the morn, and one must jump over balconies in drawers.