I love moods.
Assortments of me
and moment makers.
Decisions made based
on unformed feelings.
My mother now sleeps on the couch in this blurred unkempt section of my life. The wrists are still not respected. They are held as ransom for attention. The Pastor of our church is called and is on his way to the house. I’m sitting outside after another carving. I am staring at the patterns on my wrist kind of high as my arm lifts the cigarette to my mouth. I know my parents won’t call the hospital or the police again for fear of losing me. The issue with the wrists have almost become a routine for all of us. I understand my parents turn to the church. I am excited by this attention, the more the merrier. Its so dark and I can only see from the light off the kitchen. The road wraps around the house from the left side of the house to our driveway. I can hear in the distance the squeal and hum of the engine. From around the corner I can see the silhouette of the pastor speed to the front of the house. He’s on a crotch rock and it’s odd. His large figure knocks down the kick stand and his feet hit the pavement. He doesn’t even look normal outside of church, with his long beard, glasses, and pipe. Is he’s looking for the santa clause stereotype?
I am excited with the sit downs. Our pastor has been called on several occasions to speak with me. I find a passion within myself that lies dormant the majority of the time. When he enters the dialog, I am lit on fire, so to speak.
He walks down the steep drive towards me. I sit and kind of smirk pulling the cigarette to my face. He gets to the steel table I am sitting at in front of the house and pulls out one of the chairs. He plops down in it groaning and sighing. I blow smoke towards him. "You know, I puff on a pipe in the office once in a while" he blurts out, try not to act offended by the deliberate smoke I have blown his way.
Sometimes I believe I wasn’t given the ability to see things as they are. How instant, formal, acceptable in definition and value some things seem to be for others. When I began to think for myself not to long ago it was similar to a flood. Piles and piles of notebooks analyzing anything I could think of would pile under my bed. I would look deep for an explanation, an acceptable truth. Why did anything have to be the way it is? I felt at times I was tired of living underneath. I didn’t know what I was living under, but all these questions were appearing in my head and given answers had no justice to me anymore. It was a spiral of abstract thought. It just seemed to be a yearning for knowledge at first, but then it quickly turned to fear. Everything was tied down, dulled down to a definition. Everything known had a place. It fit snug in every facet of the world. It made sense. It all made sense and had an end. Where was the change? Where was my place? What could I accomplish in a full world? I am starting to see now that I was, in a way, scared of my own perspective. I still am. I didn’t want to place myself in front of it. I did not want to fail. My eager questioning of ideas and conceptions devoured me. It was too much for a young man to embrace. Anything but the front of the train was where I wanted to be. I needed out of this drastic channel of thought. This turn to nothingness. This transcendental agony of ego and fear. This Nothingness everything seemed to be drawn too.
My view of the church was obviously not spared. It took a huge, obvious beating. To fill my theological abuse craving the pastor was welcomed with opened arms. He shared a set belief system that to me had stopped in motion. I was ever progressing. I was gaining momentum. I was young, fresh and open to the ideas of this tumultuous society. I was beginning to understand that you can only go so far with the majority of the pastors in a religions establishment. Every question had an answer. He seemed obligated in his answers. Nothing was unknown. I was given the ability to question and so was he. The pastor had chose to be a pastor. For some reason in his life he had accepted Christianity and all that comes along with it to be the way.
Acceptance is a virtue. It’s a great one we all must come to realize. It is society, it is structure, it is reality as we know it. It is surviving in a world. Some Acceptance though, needs to be shoved out of the way. My pastor couldn’t answer half the questions mulling around in my head because he was obligated by the structure of the church. It works for him and there is nothing wrong with his acceptance. I will not accept and we always stop from further discussion on why It has to be through Christ, why Christianity and why not any other section of religious beliefs. It works for many. It felt as if I was moving in someone else’s circles. I had a basis of understanding on how a large group of people had come to understanding and acceptance. Christianity was a culture shift just like anything else. Branches upon branches of understanding and then acceptance.
I can not move on because I can not at this point accept. I have every reason to deny and this denial feeds my depravity. I don’t even have a full understanding of what depravity means at this point. It mixes in with the good. It swirls in and settles in me. A thoroughly confused state that physically appears through unchallenged action. I feel as if I am the only questioning person alive and I have every right to unchallenged action because I can not find meaning, true meaning in anything but self abuse. It gets attention and that is all that I know, its all that I want. I continue asking questions and view our conversation as a winning or a losing dialog. I believe I have already won because I am feeding my ego when I ask him questions he can not answer to my satisfaction. I ask him about Christ and all those who don’t know about Christ and will never know him in this world. "Do they go to hell?" I ask. "We can not judge, only god" he answers. "We do know him so we must believe" he continues. He explains somewhat like this, but more was said. More was always said, but I really didn’t listen.
The pastor had won before he even sat down. He has accepted and I have not. He was satisfied and I was not. He found himself in a belief structure that I had every right to question, but did so in the wrong way. I was looking for something more, maybe for my ego, maybe for truth, who knows.
"The questioning and the lose of God is natural" he said. I am not sure if this is exactly what he said. The essence of how I perceived what he said is all that matters in my story for now. It’s how my cycle began and continues, with a perception of what may or may not be how it is. I will twist and manipulate structure and dialog to fit my vision and show you my life’s beginning battle.
Evil though, is real. Evil is a compilation, a word that narrows down an essence of what really is. The essence of Evil, or since I am using words to describe evil, I am really narrowing it down anyway. To get across to anyone who reads, I have to narrow the essence down in some way. There is no way around it. Evil is something in and of itself. Whether learned, whether you just are. It is chosen. There is a lot of gray area to determine when evil exists, where it does and the act of, but it can also be ignored. The essence of Evil may be what my pastor is seeing, it is the narrowing of the opposite of his god. And at a young age, like I am now and was when I conversed with him, I may have been evil in his definition. It may also just be my perception.
A temporary turn, I have finally let the layers shed. They kind of evaporate into air and create a humid, unbearable ora around me. It is my defense against the whips of my past. The blows I allowed myself to take and take and take. Now the whips will continue, but I will create vents to let the stem out. They may be Evil but I am not. I am using pain against pain. I feel my eyes roll back and feel folded inside out. I let something in to let something out and evil my be what others see, such as the pastor. Its interpretation and it may be right or it may be wrong.
I briefly think of sober times. Sober decisions, sober results. I think of a young God. The kind of god that sits in a child’s perception. An innocent being adults always talk about and strive to retain once again. Its an easy uncomplicated god. Where there was no question and nothing beyond simple acceptance. A child’s trust for what must be the pin point of all understanding, all answered. No question and a happy run around the yard and out across the street to play. Nothing else mattered because everything had sense. No analyzing.
Then came other questions. Then more questions. A few more years. No answers for new perplexing wonders. Something became constant, Compulsive prayer, Seeking answers, frantic prayer. Something growing in confusion, fear and a fading of bond. Something was lost along a fairly typical path of upbringing. Everything was just becoming one big giant question. And I did not care. I was losing more than faith. I was losing connection with myself. There was a time when I did have a connection with me. It may not seem like a wiring that I once had, but I did contain my own self, once.
I ran out of everything. It all just seemed without flavor. I had given too much and now had all too little for myself. I was trying to take back by wringing out the rag that contained my own blood onto there new floors I polished daily. There god was a tradition to me, along with everything else known. I couldn’t find comfort in the known. I wasn’t progressing in my own nature. All I have ever known up to this throbbing time was giving, gave, given. Helping your sake, regardless of mine. And I was happy with that. I was feeding my ego, but wanted your split second shock of thanks in my system. I needed you to feel agreement with the situation I was in with you. I need a smile and a sense of self gratification contained in your appreciation.
Everything was you and then me. It didn’t take much for me to attach myself to your wants and needs. Who ever came along, it became them. It was easier to see through someone else’s eyes to help manufacture my perception.
The pastor would leave and I had hoped he had felt satisfaction with me. I sure did. I felt the grains of ego filling the brim. I received what I needed and that was a debate, however it progressed. I would take it as I had always taken things I grew passion for my way. Whether that way was right or wrong. Whether words of truth vibrated anywhere around the narrowed setting of the moment.
Words are running out and feelings, abstract thoughts are filling the smoked filled porch area. I listen to the fade of the pastors motor bike as my head continues spinning. Frames are all that do justice after playing catch with words for hours. The mind will continue discussing with itself. What wasn’t said? What points did I not get across? Ego this, ego that and it magnifies so little in reality. Its fun to play in the nature of yourself. Everything is dulled down with words. Everything described. It’s fun to let the real thoughts that can not be described verbally swell your head. Maybe that is what I am running from. Maybe that chaos of the surface inside, the real truth of the self swirling insides, scary, intense, real, constantly being dulled and narrowed for interpretation maybe be driving me and my sickness. The unaware blurted into one plain, knowing it truly belongs to another. Words running out and your acceptance running out. Confinement in agony. Watching it all blow away in a cloud of smoke.