At Fred Meyer this morning I bought what I thought was a glass-encased Jesus candle. But it turned out to be St. Jude. Just as well though, because it turns out he is the patron saint of “lost causes.” I am going to light his candle right now actually - and burn some incense in his name and in the names of all my lost causes.

They call it the Lost Coast for a reason. It’s not just because there aren’t any highways or roads that go into the outer reaches of it. I mean, that works metaphorically and all. But it is a place where people go to get Lost, or to stay Lost. The Lost Boys. It’s not actually that fun to be a vampire though, unlike what the movie poster states.

The first time we went to the ocean I didn’t think she was going to come back out of it. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe that’s what happened.

I keep wondering how many times I am going to have to do this. I was going to write a dialogue about this between Jesus and Mary Magdalene for the musical. I might still do it. It might go something like this if I were to write it:

JESUS: Dammit, how many times do I have to die for you before you get it?

MARY: I didn’t ask you to die for me.

JESUS: Of course not. If you had, we wouldn’t be in this situation. We would have transcended it.

MARY: …

JESUS: Okay, see the part with your name on it? When we get to the parts in the script with your name on it, you’re supposed to say something. Got it?

MARY: What am I supposed to say?

JESUS: Anything. Something. I don’t know. I can’t tell you what it is. I can’t write that part for you.

MARY: …

JESUS: Okay, see? You’re doing it again.

MARY: …

But see the problem with this scene is that I don’t know how to write Mary’s part. I mean, I totally get Jesus’ part. He’s not really mad at her. He loves her. He would do anything for her. Die for her over and over again. But what is it that Mary wants? Patience? Comfort? Security? Love? She won’t say. She says she doesn’t know.

Aleister Crowley wrote about the Queen of Wands:

There is great capacity for lucid conception and steady prosecution of work; but this is only at the bidding, and under the guidance, of some creative mind. There is a tendency to be fickle, even disloyal; the ideas which she obeys make no deep or permanent impression. She will “cleave to the little boy and let go the man of age and experience” or the reverse (lines 2 and 3) without realizing what she is doing. There is liability of fits of melancholy, which she seeks to cure by bouts of intoxication, or by panic-stricken outbursts of ill-considered fury.

St. Jude help me by hyperlinking our hearts together.

The night before I left, the Devil took my hands and told me I had a rabbi’s smile. His hands were very cold. I asked him what he meant by that, as it’s an odd thing to say. He smiled and said something about me being wise and intuitive and not saying anything unless it needs to be said.

I think he just knows I don’t much like talking to him. Mainly because he is always trying to trick me, always trying to do something.

A family of skunks took up residence outside of our bedroom window. As I wrote that I could taste mango. She took one with her to work. It looked plenty ripe. We had one the other day that wasn’t ripe at all. Go figure.

The night before I left too she said something about how the scene was forming in her mind, the part where Mary Magdalene “gets it” finally. About how Mary Magdalene is the first one to get it and because she gets it, other people are able to get it as well. She would say a lot of things with deeply ironic and intuitive timing. Her soul mystifies and fascinates me. Everyone I have talked to said I am doing the right thing. Last night back again on my porch was the first time I relaxed in a whole month, I realized. Always trying to protect and prove something takes its toll. Background noise builds up into a din until your brain cancels out the pain it is really causing you. Then you suddenly one day stop feeling like you are existing. Not just living, but simply existing. All of a sudden you are on the brink of evaporation. That is why they call it the Lost Coast.

My room looks like a prison cell, but I bought some sheets which just so happen to have all the right things on them: elk, bears, fish, fire, trees, leaves and a canoe. Maybe that’s what I was missing: the canoe. Some voyageur, eh? In my closet I found an empty water bottle (vessel), one upside down sandal, a bunch of bolts that I don’t know what they go to and a scratch off ticket from when I was frantically trying to raise money. It’s entitled “Be My Valentine,” and I won two dollars on it by matching together two 22’s. I’m not sure if that means I should have known I didn’t win the big jackpot, or if that means that’s all you can really hope for: bringing two people together and doing with it what you can. Maybe I should go cash it in finally…

Not all who wander are Lost, I realize. But for all those who truly are Lost, may I offer this prayer that they find their way back Home - even if it’s not to me. I thank thee, O God, for granting me the privilege of suffering. In pain may you find exquisite beauty and gentleness, but just don’t linger there too long, God. You may not find your way back. And I can’t Find anybody who doesn’t want to be Found. But we will have our canoes waiting just in case. Only say the Word, Lord - and I shall be healed.

seattle welcomes me like a mother back into her arms and i am transformed made into a man through turmoil have i found the pearl