The Moony Mile

July 19, 2005. I've been in kind of an exalted, subdued state of mind today. I've been reading Stephen King's The Green Mile, and I know it's not the deepest drink of literature out there, but something in it, so mundane and human as death and stars, kind of breaks your heart down a little. To think of the sprawling night sky we never see anymore because we're in big cities watching TVs, to think of the joy it gives to a simple man sprung from death row for the night...

I want more than anything on earth to go to that Bedouin camp on the Sinai with Patrick in September when there's a new moon, I want to show him the galaxy over the Gulf. I want to show him the starfields in the water and those mountains changing color and God himself hanging back in awe of his own creation, of the life it's taken on so dazzling and exquisite and intense and vast even he can't really believe it. For us... All we can do is be knocked back on our butts and worship in drunken awe and gratitude. We're wholly unworthy... And yet we're every bit as much a part of it, every bit as gorgeous and intricate as the clear crescent moon itself. How empty the sky is over the Sinai! There's nothing between you and heaven when you're there. It's a terrifying, humbling, awesome place. So naked and raw and unspeakable.

Of course there are always Percys and Brads to stomp on every sacred thing and make you feel foolish for your starry-eyed worship of simple, everyday things. I even chide myself sometimes, but I don't care. Jesus said to be like the little children, and so did Khalil Gibran, and I think they had the right idea.

I called Patrick after I finished the book at 11:15. I couldn't bear to go to sleep utterly alone after that. He was sweet and smart and insightful as usual. He's living in the Old City of Nablus now, seems to like it. I just want him to go to the Sinai with me, that's all I want. I promise I won't steal him from his girl back home. I'm just tired of worshiping alone.

So cheap and mundane the exalted thrills of the human heart. We mock ourselves out of self-defense. We're terrified of being helpless children on death row. But that's exactly what we are. Hoping some kind of grace comes our way. Doing our pathetic, valiant best.

Pat said it was good to hear from me. I waited a week to call. He's got his own life, and I'm sure he thinks about his girl. I wonder if he thinks of me. It doesn't matter. Love is an absolute good, and we spoil it worrying all the time about whether it comes out even. When love becomes obsessive and possessive, it becomes a kind of madness, a kind of evil. I'm just glad I got to love Patrick for a bit. He's not my first or last or best or only love, but I do love him and love the times we shared together. And that's also as sacred as the clear crescent moon.