've got this uncontrollable thing inside. I don't understand it or know
how to really explain it. But it gets me into a whole lot of trouble with
what my mother would call the "wrong sorts of people." Life ought to be
straight. It ought to be clean cut. It is all mapped out for me, really.
I got this house in a nice neighborhood, I got kids, I got a husband who
could be better, but could be a lot worse. He's got a job, I don't. I
don't have to work. I don't have to worry, don't have to think much.
Maybe you'd call it ecstasy. Or that's what I feel when I'm there. It's
what I don't feel when I'm at home in my life. I don't think I could in my
neighborhood- there's no room for it. Too many people wouldn't understand;
they'd be frightened. Maybe it's hormones and not God at all, I'm that age
when things start to change, after all. I don't really know; I just know
I need it, like a drunk with a bottle. That's why I'm here where no one I
know would recognize me, in this field with all of these folks swaying and
singing and full of the spirit, and that man up there, arms spread wide,
just glowing against the corroded metal.
I close my eyes, let it all fill me up, and then I'm there, where no one
can touch me.
First published: February 14, 1999