Some Dark November


Why did you have to break the vow that I made?

Born again they say.

“You must be born again”.

I was.


The first for childlike faith.

The second for naïve visions of hands holding hands.

There was a day when I was baptized in the usual way…

With water on a Sunday.

The day I remember most though,

Is some dark November.

In a strange light, and covered in bedbug bites.

Some dark November,

I was born again. Twice.

I sold my soul to the quivers of my body.

To the way I heard someone screaming,

Far away, but embodied in choking chest.

I sold my soul to feverish ache.

To insomniatic rage.

To how carpet tastes like nothing but coarsens the cheeks.

I was baptized in that unusual way.

Wonderment crucified beneath the scathing hot rivers I cried that night.

Raised to walk in newness of life…

And it’s still the newest life, I don’t know how to live.

The newest life I never wanted.

Spitting image of this unfamiliar family…

Singing for the outside our dearest song-

“Never be born again twice”…

“No, never be born again twice”.



Rush like August comes and goes.
Leaves on trees never stood a chance.
The inherent flaw, he dances with it.
Like, the way one such Pan triumphs with every swing of arrogant dagger.
Like, he knows it makes me want him more.
Hush now August, stay.
Or else, I should call shotgun.
If only the incorporeal could lift the heavy burden of a body…
Then I should know him truly.
I hope that when I die,
I become the essence of Summer’s breath.
To be taken in by the ground.
Giving life to the stolen moments of little flowers.
To be breathed and released again and again by the newborn creatures of steady spring.
By children laughing.
I will be the music of their lungs.
I want to be exhaled by youthful, pounding chests…
Wrapped around the bodies of solstice lovers,
Dancing in the warmth between.
All the while being intertwined with that one spirit of creation,
from which my own body kept me prisoner all the years of my life.
That one whose leaving rushes, and I mind it.
But, he knows I’m one for tragedy.
He knows I’m one for romance.
The tale will spin, until that day I take my last breath of him and my first within him.

CATS The Musical: Journey to a Dream


With the undying passion that I have for CATS The Musical, many presume me to be a theater junkie. I do love musicals, but I am not knowledgeable about the vast majority of them.

I appreciate the wide variety of talent and human ingenuity that goes into musical theater, but there’s something about CATS that has always pulled at me with more depth.

To the true-blue theater people out there, this probably seems ironic given that CATS has a bad wrap (according to those less cultured) for possessing little to no real plot line.

Every person I’ve ever shown it to says something along the lines of -“What did I just watch?” As if I’ve just wasted two hours of their lives with nonsense. Haha!

But, my personal history with the show began at a time when nonsense was simply reality.

I was probably 6 years old when I watched CATS on VHS for the first time.

Every kid has that movie that they watch over, and over, and over again. For me, it was CATS.

I don’t have many solid childhood memories that early on, but I distinctly remember popping in that tape and being whisked away into that world I believed was real somewhere.

It was a world I was sure I could be a part of if I tried hard enough. In the world of CATS, nothing was impossible. Not flying, not magic, not even stepping into the stars was off the table.

It was love at first watch.

In middle school, I planned with my friends to go see it live as soon as it came out on tour. Which, it never came.

In high school, I was sure it would be back on Broadway just in time for my senior trip. Which, it wasn’t. Plus, I was broke.

It was one of my favorite talking points with my new best friend earlier in my twenties.

On hard days, when learning to be a grown-up was too much, I just fired up our Blu-ray player and sang along with my CATS until the day faded.

Once, I even watched it twice in one day.

It’s one of those things in my life that just makes me feel like me.

And Saturday, after years of waiting, I got to see it LIVE!

There was not one empty seat in the towering palace of the Aronoff Center that day.

I squeezed past many knees and clear cups of alcohol to reach that long awaited chair of my dreams.

And then, there it was – the junkyard, and the Jellicle moon in its seemingly nonsensical glory.

It looked so out of place in the midst of the towering ceiling, private boxes, and crowd of people dressed in their Sunday best.

How much more impractical can you get than to have a junkyard sitting in the middle of high society?

When the lights dimmed for the first time, I stopped my breath dead in its tracks.

I sat on the edge of my seat, not knowing what was going to happen next…

Suddenly, I was in that world I had dreamed of. Where people who aren’t people could fly, create magic, and step into the stars.

And every scene, every move, every flash of light inflated my lungs with thrill.

Gasping was a way of life.

The characters I’d watched in two dimensions my entire life, came and danced in the realm of three with me.

I was in the same room as Munkustrap, Victoria, Grizabella, Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer, Bumbulurina, and even McCavity!

And they hadn’t aged a day.

I was a child again, glued to the fantasy and magic. I became rapt in awe of what the human form is capable of.

I laughed wildly at each audacity and grinned from soul’s lips at every playful air and grace.

Perhaps, my imagination leapt as far above the ground as the cats, who defied gravity.

My heart pressed into its cage of bones when Grizabella released her anguish at the climax of “Memory” and fell to the ground in total humility and surrender.

And I saw myself there, in my room, lamenting just as she.

The woman to my left wept, and the heaviness hung in hundreds of breaths simultaneously.

The finale came, and with the last pounding of orchestral drums, my heart rang in my chest.

I stood and cheered so passionately, but felt so small in the crowd.

It felt so small a thanks to the cast and crew for the experience they had just gifted me.

For a moment, a little girl lived again-the one bouncing in her chair, not caring of the onlookers.

There are moments such as these, that are eternal.

Maybe not in the land of the physical.

Maybe not even in the land of the spiritual.

But there are moments that live on forever.

Impressed for eternity upon the hearts of those who were there. What great value in creating such moments.

Let the memory live over, and over, and over again.

Ghost Girl



Here it comes again.

An emptiness, a heaviness, all at the same time.

My fingers are bloody from the knowing – what’s beneath the surface.

I hold my breath.

I hold it for as long as I can.

Maybe I just won’t take another one… and this won’t have to come.

But it comes, gasping.

And that’s when I know I’ve lost again, that’s when it takes me.

There’s no saving in that moment.

For hours (who knows how many this time), the screams thunder in my throat and echo in my ringing ears.

Somehow, I’m the only one who ever hears.

Who could hear the cries of the dead?

Not one hears the Ghost Girl.

It doesn’t matter how it happened now.

The trigger was just a trigger;

it’s the bullets that tear through flesh.

Here I remember her-

Alive Girl.

And my nails dig deeper into my heaving sides.

She had a life…

Dreams even.


Friends even.


Ghosts have a death.

Ghosts have a haunting.

Ghosts are souls without a home.

And all of the Alives,

Live on in apathy towards things dead.

Now begins the shaking, and I choke on aching lungs.

Maybe, I’ll just stop breathing now…

But I remember this story I heard once,

Of a King.

Everyone knows the story.

Of the King they crucified dead.

And laying here, clenched in tomb of sorrows,

I don’t know if I believe it, but I know that it is true-

He didn’t stay dead.


He didn’t stay dead.

Not His body, not His Ghost.

A Ghost who makes More Alive.

A Ghost with an Awakening.

A Ghost with bountiful dwellings.

How can this be?

I press my fingertips deep into the pulsating of my wrist.
And I feel her-

More Alive Girl.

Because Ghost speaks to ghost.

Ghost breathes for ghost.

And More Alive sounds so much better than Alive ever could.

It’s this moment.

When there’s something about the Resurrection that speaks to the death in me.



John 11: 25-26- Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?