The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show - Ariel Gore [54]
I sit at the lake’s edge, no audience but the stars, and I try to remember Teresa of Avila’s vision of the interior life. A seven-roomed castle cut from a single diamond. A doorway made of meditation and prayer.
“Many souls remain in the outer court of the castle, which is the place occupied by the guards,” Teresa cautioned. “They are not interested in entering it, and have no idea what there is in that wonderful place, or who dwells in it, or even how many rooms it has.”
I close my eyes, steady my breath. The castle is vast, glistening. How long has it been since I’ve entered this place? From the doorway, I can already see some of the rooms. In the center of it all lives the Divine Essence—union with the creator. In that inner room, the most secret things can pass between soul and God, between God and soul. But what are the other rooms a girl has to go through to get there? Humility, yes. Quiet and illumination. Self-knowledge. The Dark Night of shame and doubt and emptiness.
“The important thing is not to think much,” Teresa said, “but to love much; do, then, whatever most arouses you to love.”
Chapter 21
WHO WOULDN’T DIE?
Sunrise at a newsstand in Stockton. I pay a dollar for the L.A. Times, scan the news and lifestyle sections for any word of my hysterical hypochondria, but it’s all plane crashes and celebrity divorces, hurricanes and body counts. Thirteen soldiers killed in a faraway desert. The Dow Jones Industrial Average slipping. Maybe it’s just like the old minister said: They’ll be on to somethin’ else by next week—ferget all aboutcha. A single smiling face glows in black and white from below the fold, a brief story about Clowns Without Borders sending performers and doctors to a refugee camp at the edge of the war zone. I tear the story out carefully, slip the newsprint smile into my back pocket. The events section of the paper carries the only mention of The Death & Resurrection Show: One night only, 7 P.M., Hermosa Beach Playhouse. I’ve never heard of the venue, but I pour nickels into a pay phone, call the listed number. For a calendar of events, press 1; for tickets, press 2; to book a show, press 3. I want a human, so I try 0, am surprised when it works.
“Sold out, dude,” the human tells me.
“But the show’s going on?”
“Sure. It’s not, like, canceled. Got moved down here ’cause the café in Santa Monica couldn’t handle it, but if you’re looking for that bleeding chick, she’s the no-show. Got freaked out about all the buzz. Pretty trippy. I mean, who wouldn’t die to get their picture on the front page of the L.A. Times?”
“People are weird,” I tell him.
“Yeah. Pretty weird. Anyway, dude. Like I said, sold out.”
The 9:35 A.M. Greyhound to L.A. isn’t sold out. Costs $44, so I peel a few twenties from the wad Barbaro left me, still not sure if I’m doing the right thing. Every day I ask for signs, but every day God hangs silent.
Maybe it’s like the kids at UC Santa Cruz used to tell me—that we shouldn’t look for a supreme being in the clouds but trust that God lives in us all. Should I be worshiping myself because I’m a part of it? Anytime you want to, let me know, God.
The bus smells like fast food grease and that’s not a sign of anything but America. A half dozen lonely teenagers stare out windows, and I imagine they’re following Highway 5 south like it’s some yellow brick road to Hollywood stardom. Who knows, maybe it is. Maybe they’ll get their pictures on the front page of the L.A. Times without dying. But I always worry about kids who haven’t lost their beauty yet—worry about who