The Fire

I don’t like to write about things until I am safely in the Post-Revelation Zone.


It has well-fluffed chairs and just the right amount of breeze rolling through. There’s no such thing as lost keys or stubbed toes or long lines at the grocery store. Everything just makes sense. And everyone gives each other easy smiles, because they’ve all been through the fire and the pain, the crying into open hands, and the yelling at the sky (because that’s where they always told you that God was). They’ve closed the door on all of it with scorched fingers and, in those scorched fingers, they now hold one glowing, pulsing Truth.

I mean, sure, you can weirdly twirl your glowing balls of Truth if you want to. Live your life. (Photo credit:

The Truth is passed around and murmured over like a new baby. It is both cherished and feared. The warmth of the fire that made it presses into each hand it touches, and, sometimes, its very being sends others through the door into fire and the pain and the under-fluffed chairs and, eventually, back into the Post-Revelation Zone with their own glowing balls of Truth.

It is undeniably and unbelievably NICE to hold one of those balls of Truth in your hands and to know that it is yours and that the fire that made it touched your skin and left you whole.

But, let me tell you: I AM NOT THERE RIGHT NOW. I am not currently in possession of one of those little balls. I am in the fire.  And the fire is shaped exactly like the most luscious, sweet-glazed get-this-in-a-motherfucking commerical-because-food-never-looked-this-good bowl of udon noodles you’ve ever goddamn seen and that’s because I am hungry.


And the reason I am hungry is that I’m currently on a Liquid Motherfucking Diet.

(It’s not officially called a Liquid Motherfucking Diet, but we may as well go ahead and make it so. There’s no other way to describe having to drink 10 little bottles of something that people in lab coats call “feed” and you’re supposed to call “food” each day for 4-6 weeks until maybe (MAYBE) your butthole stops threatening to blow through the back of your toilet bowl in one final act of blazing defiance against your belligerent large intestine).

My butthole (Photo credit:

There are two things you should know about the fire: 1) It makes it hard to see other people as people and not just as shadows in the flames; 2) It is just the word “why” whispered over and over again until it smokes and flickers.


a) Why do I have an incurable BUTT DISEASE?

b) Why do I always get AWFUL SIDE EFFECTS when I take drugs?

c) Why do I live in FREAKING SCOTLAND where 1) I don’t know how the medical system works, and 2) I STILL DON’T KNOW WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING 98% OF THE TIME BECAUSE I AM AWFUL AND SO WHEN SOMEONE ASKS ME WHAT MY POO LOOKED LIKE THAT MORNING THEY HAVE TO ASK ME THREE TIMES BECAUSE I’LL JUST KEEP NODDING (I don’t know why I think nodding is the right answer to everything)?

d) Why do other sick people have perfectly-shaped bald heads or 15th-Century-Painting-of-a-Soon-to-be-Martyred-Saint eyes and I have a weird intestine that makes confused whale sounds every time there is a prolonged silence? And why are they, like, so much better at being inspirational sick people than I am? Like how do they have the 1) time, 2) energy, and 3) patience to raise money for charity and volunteer at walk-a-thons and weep perfect, golden tears onto the brows of not-sick people, who then use those gold sick-person tears to climb Mount Everest or at least do Tough Mudder because they need to Stop Wasting Time and Start Living their Beautiful, Wonderful Not-Sick Lives?

e) Why am I such a big, old hangry bitch?

All I can think about (other than udon noodles) is getting out of the fire and into the Post-Revelation Zone. And all I want to do is sit in a well-fluffed chair and feel the just-right breeze on my face and hold that nice little glowing ball of Truth in my hands. I want to understand the Whys. I want my fingers to stop smoking.

But, I’m in the flames. And I don’t know how to write about it or talk about it, because people don’t know how to hold flames. They do know how to hold warm, glowing balls of pre-packaged Truth; but, flames get tricky. Flames sting.

So, what am I supposed to do?

Burn burn burn. And when the Truth falls, warm and soft as a new baby, into my scorched, open hands, I’ll share it with you. I’ll let you hold it.




6 thoughts on “The Fire

  1. Wow RG. You said you don’t know how to write about the flames but you did! You did RG! This blog is bursting with emotion, anger, rage and the heat of your frustration. Your writing is powerful RG and it is clear you aren’t a quitter. You are a fighter and I am cheering for you RG!. We are all cheering for you.

    Liked by 1 person

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