joan of bellevue

i could never be a saint, prophet, zealot, or any other sort of spiritual visionary. it goes way beyond my penchant for cock picks and leading priests wayward.

anne tugged on the little medallion around my neck. "a st. christopher medal. the patron saint of travel."

this medal is a gift from my sweet, sweet grandfather. the man who still sings me 'i love you, a bushel and a peck', years after an unfortunate misunderstanding between himself, a car, a locked garage, and copious amounts of carbon monoxide left most of his brain cells inert. i didn't even know st. christopher had anything to do with the travel industry.

anne said "one day, christopher was sailing on choppy seas, when he suddenly saw the baby jesus on his shoulder. baby yahwe guided chris to safety."

history is peopled with and often forged by 'visionaries'. those who flout the persistence of logic and their peers, in the larger belief that god speaks to them, guides them, appears in bushes, and on their shoulders. but i lack the belief in my brain as a steel trap incapable of sending me down the crazy river.

if the day comes when i'm driving down santa monica, relaxing, thinking about cheese. and i look in the rearview to see baby jesus resting gently on my shoulder... i will affirm

"yep. i've finally snapped. too bad for me."

then i will turn on the right turn signal and calmly make my way to a place where conversion involves massive doses of shock therapy.