"In the beginning was the Word. And the Word was with God. And the Word was God. And all was created by the Word. And thank God few humans understood this. And to we few humans who understood this, God grant guidance, so when we take to fleshing out our words, our words don't flesh into foot and kick us in the ass."
Though profoundly journal-worthy, I decided not to enter these powerful words. Though ringing with truth, these words were dangerous taken in by the wrong eyes, sent vibrating across the land by the wrong tongues. No, that was a responsibility we old souls understood: Some truths were best left unsaid, and more importantly, unrecorded.
I tore the words out of my pad, shredded them.
I sat back, thought of Apolena. A good way to stop thinking of the girl you lost--on account of your word--is to reach out for more words. I grabbed a journal from my stack, opened it at random.
"Sometimes I want a woman. I examine that want and find I don't want a woman. It's my body that wants a woman. That dumb body of mine. What a tool of Mother Nature it is. Well, screw you Mother Nature. Screw your tease to procreate. I'll show you who's is charge of this body. I'll show you how I'm down here for more than chasing women. How I'm down here for one thing and one thing alone: Inspiring individuals, wherever they are, to take the next higher step."
Reading this journal entry gave me the same feeling of finality as the day I'd entered it ten years ago. This perspective on sex was a clear truth, and it seemed so simple--sitting in my sanctuary--to live by this clear truth.
Seeking further finality, I read the next journal entry: "Sure, what old soul wouldn't prefer the limelight, serving the masses like Mark Twain, Martin Luther King, Joan of Arc, Oprah. But, no, most of us old souls are but foot soldiers, working the trenches, kicking fellow soldiers' sorry asses up makeshift ladders that they might take the butt load of lead necessary to come back round in their next lifetimes with less load in their pants."
Well, that was a bit much. Yes, put that on your bucket list: Shovel shit out of journals.
To get a feel for how much shit there was to shovel, I opened a later journal, came across a brief entry I'd made shortly after turning forty: "Mark my words: No more twenty-somethings." This vow was in reference to women. Since making the vow I'd gotten involved with three different twenty-something women.
I got up, stuck my face in my mirror, said, "Why can't you live by the words you choose to live by?"
I sat back down. A good way to live by the words you choose to live by, is to find some easier words to live by. I picked up yet another journal. Perusing through it, I found no easier words to live by, but I did find some timely words:
"I was unaware of her in her time, but if you want to look into a pair of powerful eyes, look into Gia's. Love was hard to come by in Gia's time. Gia looked so hard for love, a storm blew out of her eyes. For good or ill, that brief but powerful storm was caught on film. Then Gia died."
Poor Gia.
My first encounter with Gia was at Owls Books. Taken aback by what New York saw fit to publish, I was backing out of the new fiction section, into the new non-fiction section, when I felt some eyes following me. Before checking out the eyes, I harked back to the last time a pair of book-jacket eyes had followed me in a bookstore. I was in college.
Of course, the supermodel on the cover was beautiful. But her beauty didn't concern me. What concerned me was her eyes. Like Yogananda, power was pouring out of her eyes. I picked up the book, curious to learn how a model--this living mannequin--might serve humanity.
I didn't read enough to learn how Gia might serve humanity, but I read enough to learn how she might serve me. What I had here was the perfect muse; inaccessible because she was a super model, larger than life because she was dead.
Driving home from Owls that day, I looked longingly and afar at Gia riding shotgun. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I felt fortunate to live in these modern times. Though everything else in society sucked, the age-old hobby of muse-shopping had markedly improved. Because of photography a guy could select a muse having never seen her in the flesh. Because of the biography a guy could select a muse from a pool that included the dead.
At a stop light I picked up Gia, took a feed on the photo section. Take this youthful photo of her; for raw innocence and vulnerability, I'd never seen a face so muse-perfect. Or, take this more mature photo of her. No, you know a girl is full up with substance when you can't take your eyes off her eyes to check out her perfect tits.
Of course, it wasn't until I'd read the book that I was able to discern the true nature of Gia's eye power. Where the yogi's eyes were exuding truth, Gia's eyes were exuding dare.
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