Last night I decided to go see Almost Famous alone, because I have been dying to see it and the idea of sitting in a dark theatre with no one to my left or my right that I knew sounded like Utopia.

But I got to the theatre and I stood in line and halfway up the ticket counter I looked at the exit to the theatre and I split. I just couldn't deal with the people around me and the laughing and the smiles and the pointless chatter enveloping me.

I think everyone in the line was annoyed when I turned around and inched my way out of those stupid ropes that I couldn't unhook and that reinforced my feeling that I had made the right desicion.

I got out on the street and I didn't know where to go. I wasn't far from home, but I haven't really wanted to be there too much lately. I could have stopped over at a friend's place but I wasn't in the mood for idle chatter.

So I started walking. Aimlessly walking the streets of New York, and there is nothing that relaxes me more, or makes me feel safer.

When people are looking for you, the best place to hide is in a city where you can easily get lost.

I found myself in my hiding spot.

Ever since I was a child, and no matter where I move to, I alsways have a hiding spot. A space that no one, or maybe just one person, knows...where I can go and be alone.

Is this strange? I don't know. But I think about it when I start to panic in relationships and I always find myself grabbing my coat and hitting the hiding spot.

Because I am a panicker. Yep, I freak out. And then I take off. Yesterday's hide out was not boy-related though, as it often is, rather it as overwhelmed-related.

I am overwhelmed. At work and at home. Clearly this explains the TMJ, the nightmares and the anxiety attacks.

The hiding spot I went to last night is an old church. Very few people know of this church, which is a crime because it is truly extraordinary. Baroque Bavarian is how I would describe it: it's walls are contructed of heavy, dark, ornately carved wood. The ceilings are supported by buttressed beams that weave through each other and meet in the center. The stained glass windows are the old school kind: rich, dark colors in thick, hand blown glass and inset in this heavy dark wood.

If you've traveled in Europe, it truly appears like one of those bombed out churches in the Black Forest. Ancient, reverent, built by those with FAITH. And soaking in their craftsmanship makes you Believe, as if their faith in a divine being trancends time and permeates your being.

On each side of the altar, stretching up to the ceiling are enormous copper organ pipes that look like they could shake the foundation of this gothic building when tested.

The front doors to the church are locked at night, so, I usually sneak in through a door to the rectory or school, where there's always some AA or NA meeting, and I walk quietly through the dark hallways until I reach the back entrance of the church.

And last night I sat there, for about a half hour. Listening to the silence.

Have you ever heard silence? I mean, have you sat somewhere, as still as possible, and listened? Sometimes you hear the buzzing of the lighting fixtures, or the wind, sneaking in through a crack in the wood. Sometimes when I sit in silence, I think I am hallucinating because it's so quiet and my mind is whizzing around from one thing to another.

Last night I sat there and I thought about how if I were homeless I would sneak in and sleep there because it's warm and quiet and would protect me from the rain.

I also thought about how funny it is that many of my hiding spots are churches, but that I rarely go to mass anymore.

And then I thought, maybe I should be a nun. Join a convent and pray for salvation because I'm pretty sure I'm going to purgatory if not hell for the life I lead. And really, if you think about it, being a nun wouldn't be so bad - I would be taken care of and wouldn't have to worry about rent or money or boys and I could spend my time giving back to my community and to the world. I could maybe do some good. I could advise people when they reached rock bottom and I could help them lead a moral life and help others. I could educate children and give them home and give them love.

But I quickly snapped out of this Mother Theresa fantasy when I pictured myself in that penguin outfit. Saying the rosary. Going to mass every day. Oh, good LORD. Catholic mass is such a bore for a rockstar like me.

You know, it's statements like that are sealing my fate in Hell.

Allow me to rephrase. I prefer the Baptists. I'd really like to convert to Southern Baptist but a)my Irish and German parents would have a coronary and b)I'm not interested in religion enough to actually go through a conversion.

But DAMN - those baptists are F-U-N. They sing and clap and shout and yell and everyone in the church talks back and stands up and yells and it's AWESOME. I went to a Baptist Funeral last year and you better believe that when they screamed "WE WILL NOT CRRRRRRYYYYYY FOR SISTER X FOR SHE HAS JOIIIINNNNNNNNEDDDD OUR BROTHA'S AND SISTA'S IN HEAVEN!!!" ....you better believe I stood up as one of two white people in that church and with my fist in the air, I exclaimed, "AMEN, BROTHA!"

Yes, if I were Baptist I would go to church more and maybe I would be a nun.

That memory made me laugh and after I stared at the ceiling for about a half an hour, I devised a plan to start changing my life.

And with that in my head, I picked up my bags and quietly left my hiding place just as I had entered it:

Ready for the next lost soul.

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