This is a true story, not fiction...
When I was about four years old, my (late) father, recently moved from Baltimore, Maryland (my birthplace) to Silver Spring, Maryland to be closer to his capitol of the United States employment. Just another returning vet with new wife and child, he was an electrical engineer for the Federal Government. He met my birth mother after being released from the Army Air Force in Fort Worth, Texas. They were not as well paid right after WWII as some years later, so we lived in a one-bedroom apartment. Therefore, I had to sleep on a studio couch in the living room. I used to sneak and watch in awe old black and white movies on the TV that was right there handy to my bed. I'd see freaky stuff like Dante's Inferno from 1935, be fascinated by naked people (...have to interject some Beavis and Butthead here, "heh heh" --- forgive me) slipping into Hell, and 1940's One Million B.C. . Replete with cavemen dealing with giant monstrous dinosaurs. The latter of which I had plastic replicas.... humans fascinated by them. (Or is it the little Darwin us excusing us from Divine expectations of morality?) I was from early on not called by my first name, but my middle, because as I asked my father (who like southerners, called him Daddy) why wasn't I the third? "That would be pretentious", he replied.
Not Casper the Friendly Ghost, But a Feindly One
As scary as those dated movies were, they was nil effect compared to the time during the wee hours of the night, I became awake; and saw floating toward me from my parents' bedroom, two semi-transparent hooded strangers, face totally black, gliding through furniture. They are now known as hooded shadow figures, or faceless persons, or ghosts similar to the Japanese, Noppera-bō, and as one reddit user, 'JesusGreen' explained: "The dark robed figures are astral entities that tend to be drawn to us for energy." Entities is the word from the Latin entitas, and defined by "the Free Dictionary" is as follows:
n. pl. en·ti·ties
1. Something that exists as a particular and discrete unit: Persons and corporations are equivalent entities under the law.
2. The fact of existence; being.
3. The existence of something considered apart from its properties.
Call them what you will -- these Yokai caused me to scream in absolute terror as loud as my little young preschool voice could go. Well, I heard my mother from the bedroom (who a few times came in late extremely drunk taking it out on me.... that was a true extremely apprehensive time too) yelling back at me to "...be quiet, what are you doing!"... kind of thing. Well, my poor father, flashlight in hand, came out of the bedroom and proceeded to walk through them, and fortunately for me, that caused them to dissipate into nothingness. My infantile prayer at the time was, please, never let me see that kind of thing again!
Funny, but my memory is sketchy about so much in my early years, what am I talking about, now, I don't remember why I walked into the kitchen. I strangely remember me as an infant teething on the edge of the crib, scraping varnish off the wood, and knowing 'they' were talking about me. Needless to say, in that same apartment complex, I went to the tiny, fenced yard next door and 'borrowed' some toys, stashing them away under the skirted chair in the living room. Somehow, I was caught, and learned the sin of theft at that time, not really sure what was what. When I was about six, I actually went to what was known in the beginning as the Barrie School then the Peter Pan School, named for James Matthew Barrie --of course the author of the children's pirate's tale. Amusingly today, I still remember from preschool the exchange of presidential pictures of the before and after of Truman to Eisenhower. (Ironically, I now live across the mountain from his farm). How does the latter's "Farewell Address" segue, you dear reader might ask, well he warned of the Military Industrial Complex, that Bob Dylan prophesized in "Masters of War" and cost John F. Kennedy his life.
Great Balls of Fire
I went through the real scare that could have been World War III with the Cuban Missile Crisis. (Fifty years later we learned from de-classification, only the inaction of one Soviet submariner kept them from shooting a nuclear torpedo into who knows what harbor.) And if this potential conflagration had been a person, this future war would have sounded like Arnold Schwarzenegger as The Terminator, "Ahhll Be Bachhk!"
That real life horror of assassination I remember while in 11th grade Richard Montgomery H.S. art class when the announcement of the most beloved president had been cut down. I still have a campaign handout from JFK which I had drawn artistic additions to. (We were taught 'duck and cover' in elementary school, so real, very real fear hung over us like the proverbial Sword of Damocles, not ending until 1989. I think we began to take it all for granted, or we knew that the M.A.D. (Mutually Assured Destruction) theory worked. We are still here, aren't we? (Radioactive doom returned with the possibility of suicidal terrorists not appreciating that M.A.D. like the Soviets or Chicoms did. We can be wary again today the way global conflagrations are escalating, as of this testament. Are there James Bond type villains risking WWIII to get unlimited power over all? Terrifying is too small a word. Interestingly about this scimitar (not the syndrome, partial anomalous pulmonary venous return) dangling precariously over us proverb, in 45 B.C. Cicero got the real story from Syracuse c. 300 B.C. ... (not NY). By some odd coincidence, Cicero wrote an epic also, his poem, de Consulatu suo, like mine. Obviously I digress (Will not be the last time, you might need the patience of Job .... not Steve Jobs.)
There are places I'll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life, I've loved them all --the Beatles, "In My Life"
We moved again to apartments in Langley Park, Maryland (In the 60s I would live in this same multi building complex, built in fortress-like brick, while a twenty-something University of Maryland undergrad.) Here, where I walked this worn path to elementary school to my second-grade class, evidently father not able to afford that private school. Sometime in early school days I was rebuked for writing with left hand, a cause of my illegible handwriting. Another moment of unadulterated terror awaited me there, while outside on that common yard, green speckled with happy yellow circles of Dandelions, an informal pack of dogs came out of nowhere and proceeded to jump me. Though they were playing and could hear the adults out their windows or wherever laughing, I once again yelled like bloody murder was upon me. I presume I was rescued as I don't remember, but I do recall the pretty second grade teacher, and the grinding headaches I had in that class. When they patted the chalky erasers, it got worse. We moved again, however, back to Silver Spring, Maryland, but right on the District of Columbia line.
Super Nurture or Supernature
As a very young person I was shuttled back and forth between grandparents: mother's folks in Fort Worth, TX, while the other wintered in Riverdale (now Bronxville) New York City when she did not go to her father's house built in Ogunquit, Maine. I actually took the subway by myself to go to the movies south in Manhattan and got lost coming back, nothing looks right (Twilight Zone upon me) -- learned there were two areas called the Bronx. Had to go back down to the juncture in Manhattan from the East Bronx then back up to the West. Directions given by no one except one lady who showed my my error, and the fix. This African American was kind like the one who came to our apartment, the last one in Silver Spring, to help out. (And, yes, I'm proud that I, as a H.S. student went to the March on Washington and saw and heard Martin Luther King.) My father's mother, while in NY would call the dark grey tainted snow, snog, a combo of smog and snow. Out the window I could see the Spuyten Duyvil bell tower or the Fieldston school where my father went before saving up money for a sailboat, only to use the funds for Harvard.
When things were stable, we would go there for Thanksgiving, where the city was a wonder to my youthful soul, lights strewn across the broad, busy avenues, caverns in a human endeavor by skyscrapers and how the sunset looked on the mountains of what man had wrought. I loved that there were seemingly a zillion radio stations in the city. Once, one of my Dole uncles we visited, (yes, parallel relations to the Hawaii infamous Governor), stood before the waiting bird carcass and stated in falutin' New England accent, "We'll now cahv the tuhkey." Don't think I saw him again, just like Grandmother's ex-husband's mother, somewhere under the overheads (the ones Stan hit while I was his moving helper, with his trailer, during my first job after getting a B.A.). Parents, and Grandmother didn't want me to see her so I wouldn't get 'spoiled'.... please, indulge me. I had to use a hand push mower and buy my own one gear bicycle for cryin' out loud.
Texas was another world as was Ogunquit, Maine, the latter being where I enjoyed the faded glory company of an educated but health-failing pedantic woman; the former was a ranch style house built from the profits of being a home builder, with his small acreage planted with peaches, watermelon, and ugh, slimy okra. Fried only slightly better. Slimy reminds me of Limey, which my father derided me when I ate with left hand, knife in right. I loved staying along the fresh, salty aired beachfront, nightmares would either me returning to school, or somebody plowed the ocean and sand up into piles of dirty tire tracked ugliness.
Yes, my guard stood hard when abstract threats
Too noble to neglect
Deceived me into thinking
I had something to protect
Good and bad, I define these terms
Quite clear, no doubt, somehow
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now --Bob Dylan, "My Back Pages"
When I was 10, we moved again, this time to an apartment complex in Silver Spring, where I could walk to the Acorn-shaped gazebo covering the area, according to Montgomery County history, it became a summer home so named: "In 1840, Francis Preston Blair, along with his daughter Elizabeth, discovered a "mica-flecked "spring near Washington D.C.
There was a store on the state line that sold Chinchillas. And I also could walk to the jungle, woods down the street, vines so big you could swing on them, on what was left of the Blair Estate. Of course, now it is all built up in as an affluent DC bedroom community.
While my mother was extremely ill; migraines became exponentially excruciating for her to the point of her loudly yelling in pain. I still remember the doctor who made the house call and administrated pain killers via injection, those sites over time became infected. I was shuttled between grandparents (several times); and it was in Texas that I experienced Baptists, the ones who made my mother's brother cry when attending with him and go forward. Hellfire and Brimstone was preached from the profusely sweating minister (who later ran off with some woman, disgraced.) Meanwhile back at the Fort Worth porch, Grandpa would spit chewing tobacco ...missing, hitting concrete, whereby Grandma would come with a broom and do the rebuke swat with it. I had to hoe weeds between rows of black-eyed peas (those I liked as well as home grown peaches). One day, while weeding along the edge of his brick house I caused a riot amongst the creepy crawly residents, and ran whining away, while with the gruffest voice this side of Hades fussed at me to get back to work, not sure if hoeing rows was not better.
In that very, very hot place, (where I could catch horny toads), I do remember Sunday School and painting on banged out pieces of metal and learning the apostolic journeys of Saint Paul. Albeit Baptists were too scary for my grandparents as I was a witness to the Methodists visiting their new parishioners. I had a cage where I had some rabbits, unfortunately, to my horror, (fitting here, huh?) I found the door open, and a bloody mess of fur remained. While in a disrupted fourth grade (where I learned to spin tops with wound string... a fad that returned some years later elsewhere...you'll see), I had to choose repeating 4th or go on to 5th. Too fearful of not being academically ready, I picked retention. Back to Silver Spring for the rest of the school year, I became accustomed to flying finally, but for a time, I could always be with some trepidation that the DC 6 plane's prop would stutter out just like John Wayne's in The High and Mighty. The whisper jets were so much better, combat takeoffs, but landing always daunting.
When I'm on the phone, I thank God
My voice sounds smooth and clear without a trace of tear
When I'm at work, I thank God
I still have that smile Ma used to say lit her day
But something inside me, something inside me died that day --Yoko Ono
Truth is More Dreadful than Fiction
It was here that my father had to wake me from that studio couch, located in the supposed to be dining area, (one bedroom only, again) that to quietly inform me ..."Your Ma's not coming home from the hospital." It is not good for an eleven-year-old to feel that this was a better thing than to watch the daily suffering; and after her funeral and seeing what looked like a wax figure in a coffin, it meant that I would not attend my NY grandmother's when I was a freshman in college. I was flown to Fort Worth again, I'm a bit confused about flying here or there, since I flew several times, and was sick on one, and a stranger, a kind elderly woman comforted me in neighboring seat. w
Another joyful respite, breaking up dismal internal and external surroundings was sneaking rock and roll on my father's stereo; where I had to learn (by pencil marks) to return it to the jazz or classical setting, and to mine, the WWDC rock/pop station and bought my first 45, Great Balls of Fire, (RIP Jerry Lee Lewis. My father was the familial version of "Don't touch that dial!"
I attended of my father and stepmother's wedding, of whom I had seen in a picture mailed to me in Texas, was from Berkeley, California. (And an old school liberal, not radical like later.) (New family flew there in 1960, saw Carmel, Monterey, etc.) When crazy Aunt Missouri waw the photo...who did play the Coaster's "I'm Searchin".... said, "...she looks Hispanic, betcha she has a bad temper!" (Horror side note: if I grew my hair long, I'd now look like her with missing tooth like the emaciated zombie host of Creepshow) Ironically, my aunt was the one with angry tantrums. Additionally, I didn't find out until later that Susan (the soon to be stepmother) did have Chilean ancestry... along with the Welsh she talked about. From them she learned how to make pasties (get your mind of of the gutter) like the original ones tin miners had for lunch, pastry covering meat and potatoes staying hot.
My gal is red hot
(Your gal ain't doodly-squat)
Yeah, my gal is red hot
(Your gal ain't doodly-squat)
Well, she ain't got no money
But, man, she's really got a lot --Bill Lee Riley
It was now 1958, I have (packed away, like old newspapers of historic events, etc.) pictures of bobby socked, skirted girls dancing with each other in the parking lot of that Silver Spring apartment. These teens were framed in front of a 1958 Chevy Impala SS.
I used to be an avid amateur photographer, at home, or vacations, one of the few things I could share with my father. For example, I brought home some math homework (my nemesis), for help, he'd just say, "You don't understand that?" Rocket scientists make bad teachers. Months later, my father bought a house in Rockville, Maryland with his new wife. I finished fifth grade there, going on until only living there during the summertime. Oh, I remember the first time the fire siren went off, I thought the Big One was coming for sure. Lived in this same town, featured in the movie, Lillith, until the time I was arduously surviving, certainly not thriving, at the U of MD.
Why did I switch to Art my last semesters? Psychology of all types, no problemo, but statistics of Psychology, most horrific, (pardon the hyperbole here, in regard to other revelations) difficult task of my career...well besides summer jobs like pulling trash. Sickening horror is dumping leftover shellfish and grease in a burlap bag and throwing it on your back to take to the waiting truck...in the summer! But I'm getting ahead of myself...or behind myself as in the Buffalo Springfield song, "Hung upside down." (Not to be confused with Dusty Springfield, or Rick). In sixth grade I was confronted by a big fellow, large because he had to repeat several grades, Jimmy McKinney (can't remember squat usually, but do with some arcane minutiae stored in surviving synapses.)
Sadly, in the early 80s I left my 1969 Painting II large oils, on hand made and stretched canvas frames in an apartment storage area in 1981. A 30 by 50-inch figure study mixes of psychedelic, Impressionist, Post-Impressionist, and expressionist genres, swirling colors around the subject. She was a student, just trying to earn a few extra bucks freezing in the University's studio, and I, did not even feel lust, but intended to channel Gustav Klimt. I showed her pale skin and red hair in a way to try to exude the angst.
Early Middle Youth
For we wrestle not against flesh and blood,
but against principalities, against powers,
against the rulers of the darkness of this world,
against spiritual wickedness in high places. --Apostle Paul, "Ephesians 6:12
Alright, going to the Unitarian Church, where parents married, had me embrace reason as truth instead of a supreme being. No ghosts, spooks, devils made reality more understandable I suppose. In high school I met some other LRY'ers (liberal religious youth) that were from the church in, Northern Virginia, (McClean or Fairfax) that were (found out later in comparison) so beat, so hip, unlike the more middle-class peers I was used to. I actually embraced the Hawkish Democrat line like my parents and JFK, believing the USSR, and any Communist needed to be opposed. Survival against intimidating greasers, a more intimate pressing social need, I had to develop a neutral, but humorous demeanor, because the meaner you get the meaner they get. That's evident in my nodes, or writeups, contributions in writing, have you. Only fellow macho types had to worry of challenging those who bragged their team, the Rockets (and Roy Lester developed a player like the late Mike Curtis, Colts then Redskins) might lose the game, but win the post-game fight. The late Coach Roy Lester won County Championships here, but later -- at others, nearby won a few state trophies, he used to call me out and ask was I related to someone with same last name. (Of which nomenclature I keep under wraps ...why? you ask. To quote my late Mother-in-Law, "Well, ... you'll just have to feel." Which my present wife uses on me a lot.)
The non-supernatural living now was refreshing, I could be proud of all the past Founding Fathers, presidents, as being of like mind, though my stepmother reminded me that the Unitarians of the 18th Century were a lot more theologically conservative. They appreciated the moral teachings of the Scriptures, unlike Progressives today. (Congregationalist churches actually voted out reformed pastors for these more liberal ones. A slippery slope that, in my opinion we find ourselves at the bottom.) Where before I love Halloween, used to party hearty, wear various outfits, now I personally do not participate, keep my house dark. But I do see its purpose in in past and present cultures to prepare kids for life's real horrors, maybe by emphasizing potential worse ones. But will try to use this terror/horror/supernatural Halloween entreaty to help folks understand the other dimensions around us. There is a good video showing all cultures have this kind of thing, for example Mexico and its Día de los Muertos (and there was a brouhaha about its sometimes merging with Halloween especially in Mexico).
I gave as good as I got in the terror department. We used to play army, cosplay before it was fashionable, we'd take sides, Germans versus GIs, and we had a deep stairwell, that became a convenient prison. The first escape attempt was met by the garden hose at the top, yelling like some uber NAZI S.S. Kommandant, in my tiny Berlitz travel book learned German. "Vo ist der papiers? Machsnell, alt!" One neighborhood compatriot, Donny, used his father's trophy Japanese rifle for our re-enactments (he would later be part of the group of 'heads' that met for parties). But this cruel streak was not as bad as my homemade blowgun used later when I was home alone, and the aluminum narrow pipe (father would bring metallic doodads home from his DARPA tech research, and give them to me) and a needle with cotton affixed to end, shot straight. Hit one neighbor kid in the knee, sticking in it, who didn't heed my warning to get away.
See him in the garden, Amen
Talkin' with the Father, Amen
In deepest sorrow
Amen, Amen, Amen
Led before Pilate, Amen
Then they crucified him, Amen
But he rose on Easter
Amen, Amen, Amen --Lilies of the Field, Harry Belefonte
There Go I But For the Grace of God
In other words, Freddie Mercury had some issues, but so did King David, Jonah, Demas, and I.
And then I saw him in the crowd
A lot of people had gathered round him
The beggars shouted, the lepers called him
The old man said nothing, he just stared about him
All going down to see the lord Jesus
All going down to see the lord Jesus
All going down --Freddie Mercury
Looking back, I think some pop music planted seeds, as well as those from the varied sources through life, remember Harry Belafonte's "Amen," Curtis Mayfield's "People Get Ready", and Ocean's "Put Your Hand in the Hand." Elvis saw her crying in the chapel and sang "Precious Lord". Even Janis Joplin sang "Work me Lord," and don't forget the Doobie Brothers, "Jesus is Just Alright." Though the writer admitted he embraced a liberal view actually. Even Queen had on their 1973 album, "Jesus." Interestingly, I didn't know certain moral issues of the lead vocalist then, it was one that was spared the fiery end like so many records in 1976. I, like many new believers being a naive Christian, went legalistically overboard. I replaced a lot of this music on CDs (now MP3s) later. Though I flipped Hendrix's Axis Bold as Love album art over because of the Hindu deities, and additionally, I do avoid the stuff that proselytizes Evil, or malicious hurtful ideas like Death Metal. Doesn't oxymoronically, Ozzie Osborne have a bad group name but a good message in Black Sabbath War Pigs?
Know it All, But Curious
Aw, you've gone to the finest school all right, Miss Lonely
But ya know ya only used to get juiced in it
Nobody's ever taught ya how to live out on the street
And now you’re gonna have to get used to it
You say you never compromise
With the mystery tramp, but now you realize
He's not selling any alibis
As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes
And say, “Do you want to make a deal?"
How does it feel?
How does it feel?
To be on your own
With no direction home
A complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
You used to be so amused
At Napoleon in rags and the language that he used
Go to him now, he calls ya, ya can't refuse
When ya ain't got nothin', you got nothin' to lose
You're invisible now, ya got no secrets to conceal --Bob Dylan, "Like a Rolling Stone"
So, does this mean I am not to be conscious of invisible beings still out there somewhere. Stay tuned, boys and girls, because, as you know --young adults' job is to question authority. I pushed back fears of being alone a long time ago, due to various events, most documented in this virtual confessional. At this stage I was fully on board against Crusaders and Bible Thumpers, not until later realizing that this is a totally fallen world, and even the supposed good things, like the Church, get hijacked. When I passed the ACTs (SATs, the more difficult alternative assessment to be admitted to higher institutions of learning), I was admitted to the University of Maryland. That school, because I was a Maryland resident provided my parental benefactors some financial relief, as they did pay tuition, faithfully each semester, about 300 USD. So I lived in Binky's Palace as far away to me as the moon without good transportation, Rockville was deemed too close to live on campus so here I was.
As a Frosh, I met a girl, Sharon, from Short Hills, NJ. where her father owned a furniture store. She turned me on to Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha, and Steppenwolf. Yes, there is in everyone an inner wolf, a beast, thus he was right, my theological learning calls it the flesh, the "Old Man", the sin nature, question is what we do about it. Many Eastern religions want you to get rid of that self by meditations etc., but we are woefully inadequate to accomplish this. Look how civilizations have come and gone, destroyed from within and without, so it doesn't work.
Sharon and I had a mostly Platonic relationship, I was still virginal, naive, a little shy, and was stressed with matriculation in a step up of studies. I actually caught Mononucleosis twice. My family doctor was aghast that the infirmary gave me steroids as treatment. I had all four wisdom teeth pulled, I could have convinced anyone that my black and blue face was from being in the UFC....oh wait, there wasn't any such thing then.
I almost went insane spending a summer in Ogunquit after my freshman year, trying to Mister Independent, and was living in a room, staying and working with nefarious alcoholic characters. So was not at Grandmother's, until, when folks came up, I thankfully went back to the 'Moorings,' the ancestral, cottage by the sea. As a student at Maryland, I also attended the chapel's event called "Celebration" (and we did sing "Kumbayah") and now in hindsight, it catered to what makes kids or anyone feel good, but does not change their mindsets for the long term. It's the itching ears syndrome, (2 Timothy 4:3-4 --- 3 For the time will come when they will not endure sound doctrine; but after their own lusts shall they heap to themselves teachers, having itching ears; 4 And they shall turn away their ears from the truth, and shall be turned unto fables.") But I'm a bit off track again, a train wreck even--you think?
There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship smoke on the horizon
You are only coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying
When I was a child
I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye
I turned to look but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now
The child is grown
The dream is gone
I have become comfortably numb ---George Roger Waters, Pink Floyd
To know more about my change from combed-back hair, Rat Pack style, to Hippy, see Hippie. And the drug culture I found myself drawn into, was as frightening as much of the incidents in this testimonial. I used to read all of John Steinbeck's works, and Science Fiction; now I was reading Eastern Religious and other esoteric books like Lobsang Rampa, and R.D. Laing. I was a big fan of the Outer Limits, the Twilight Zone, , Way Out and Alfred Hitchcock Presents. I loved horror movies; but why would I induce live action parasomnias? Especially the time when a guy with dark sunglasses, a Jim Morrison wannabe, sat with sinister look on his visage while on my bed in my Hyattsville room when we were all participating in an MK Ultra Osley mind poisoning. I don't know the answer --- that's not true, I was stupid.
Before I left the rooms in Takoma Park, tripping out of my gourd, using my inks from Drawing class, I painted what I thought were profundities all over the walls. It's where I met George, from Altoona, where I met more working-class freaks, and a batch of supposed Vietnamese Green almost did my fragile mind in.
Worse than partying with old neighbor chums, was doing the Ouija board with best friend, Richard across the street. A spirit spelled a name of some old Roman Empire soldier, Xomemes, yes, spooked us bigly. T My father, who was cool as the New England winters, did show an interest in tweaking an old small toy playable electric keyboard by putting dials and switches on it that would create either a super high or super low effect, and a tremolo so powerful it made you almost nauseous plugged into a guitar or stereo amplifier.
The event that was always remembered by my old neighborhood friends became the day Kerry freaked out. Not like Suzy Creamcheese in Zappa's Freakout album, but real, running out of the little room made from some ancient porch. It was in that old Takoma Park house, turned into apartments where my father contributed to my decadence. A veritable psychedelic Hell was formed by an intense strobe light he fashioned to accompany my black light, (ultraviolet) both illuminating Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix posters. The coup de grace was when all that was combined with an electronic music piece by Steve Reich, "Come out to Show Them." The recording used sample loops of that phrase and then it sped up overlapped wwin a psychotic manner. (The phrase of which I just learned was used by Captain Beefheart in "Moonlight on Vermont").
Be Patient: Ursus with me, The Antagonist and Protagonist is moi.
Laughing and a-running, hey, hey
Skipping and a-jumping
In the misty morning fog with
Our, ...our hearts a-thumping
And you, ...my brown-eyed girl
You, my brown-eyed girl --Van Morrison, "Brown Eyed Girl"
Everywhere I went, to buy clothes, schools, I had to compete with the other Baby Boomers, and now the rivals are elderly, I used to make fun of, now I are one. Nevertheless, to make a developing into too long story shorter, I will skip to the terror of taking Math 10, "Introduction to Mathematics" three times, e the first two were in crowed auditorium, where Doctor Good, black glasses matching his black hair and black marker on flip chart, did not help me pass. For me, 3's a charm and had a smaller venue with grad assistant. Then there was the time I was last semester senior and U.S. Route One (Baltimore Road) had the National Guard restoring order against all the anti-Vietnam War protesters, of which I was one. My (bloody) eagle commissioned by the dining hall, sans sanguine additions, had me let go of that project. Before that some other workers had a little sponsored newsletter, upon which I posted a picture of me with white plastic spoons, round part broken off, on my eyes. We would just get high in our little office, anyway. When visiting home, my stash was discovered, where my liberal stepmom declared: "We may be liberals, but we're not libertine!" Oh, I was supposed to be getting to the 'very next phase', (apologies to Donovan), I met some co-ed, Debrah was her name, but she (just like the tall blonde, Caroline Steele, --love unrequited -- who helped me get an A in World History) was taken, so I dated her friend, destined to become an ex-wife more than half a decade later. All I can relate that to, is Buddy Knox's "...come along and be mah party doll ..." It took me five years, but I finally graduated, with an almost worthless B.A. in studio art, (propitiously sufficient in my old age to be a substitute teacher, and for another retirement) but moreover had an Anthropology minor. After we dated, got married, eventually we bought the rented house in College Park, happily ever after? A bit later the friend that lived across the street, rented the apartment made in the attic. I had an artistic meltdown when I muddied up an oil, was last attempt, I knew I didn't want to fake it 'til I make it. Be a Master or nothing. As it is, I am too much of the latter, but I am content with that downturned condition.
I'll tell you what I'll do
What will you do?
I'd like to go there now with you
You can miss out school (Won't that be cool?)
Why go to learn the words of fools?
(What will we do there?) We'll get high
(What will we touch there?) We'll touch the sky
(But why the tears there?) I'll tell you why
It's all too beautiful (Beautiful)
It's all too beautiful (Beautiful) --Steve Marriott, Ronnie Lane
Well, we now get to the climax of this, (probably way too...) personal tale of the macabre mixed with adventure, and an added dash of ennui and insanity. Terror struck again, circa 1968 I with my curly 'long hair' walked one spring afternoon to Prince George's Plaza. There I was harassed, and knocked to the ground, bumping into an older lady, whereby they exclaimed, "Hey that could be my Momma!". The were the long leather coated, baggy work pants, black Ban Lon shirts, replete with the obligatory Chuck Taylor Converse sneakers, ---greasers! They were not like Henry Winkler in "Happy Days", but malevolent to their core. A lady came out of a store and rebuked them and I escaped, only to see, almost home, a black '57 unload some more of same. (I thought, surely it's a coincidence); They walked up quickly behind me, and I could hear them ask each other, "Hey, anybody got a knife? he needs a haircut." Concerned for my life, Providence smiled on me as I approached my Hyattsville house, I had a room in, and saw the large mellow fellow, who in his grey coveralls would do elephant impressions by bending over waving his big arm, thus I cried out, "Hey!" They left. Whew. Had a gig with my little group at a youth dance at a church, they fussed about, "...we can't dance to that!"
Dance to Da Music
We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the Garden
By the time we got to Woodstock
We were half a million strong
And everywhere, there was song and celebration --Joni Mitchell
1969 went to Woodstock with old comrades, Steve, Donnie, and Richard and slept in car after the long drive arriving at night, while other two went on. Woke up in late morning, and since we were parked, I don't know how many miles from the Bethel, NY site, I did the hike by myself to it. Only word to use is surreal for the sight of 300,000 concert goers sitting in the humid heat, but feeling nothing but bliss together, strangers sharing blankets and joints. Even saw someone I knew from college, burnt to a crisp, she admitted she had sun poisoning. Another guy I stumbled upon, and he shared his Chianti and weed, and settled in for the next upcoming act, since i was in between performances. Dynamite it was to hear Joe Cocker kickin' into "Feeling Alright" followed by a "Little Help from my Friends" --so fitting. Uh Oh storm clouds developed out of nowhere, and they were warning music lovers to get off the tall speaker stands. Then the deluge came down, and i became an additional sojourner turned wanderer wallowing in mud, trying to get back to vehicle. Later, I asked my companions about that historical place and time, "How did we get home?"
They replied incredulously, "You drove!"
The Devil Came Down from Georgia
The Devil went down to Georgia
He was lookin' for a soul to steal
He was in a bind 'cause he was way behind
And he was willin' to make a deal --Charlie Daniels
Fast forward to 1976, been working for the United States Postal Service five years, been married six. The Sectional Center Facility or SCF was almost in College Park, but was Riverdale, MD. Side note: I had my drums in the basement of this old house. These English-made Premiers were bought in 1965, had used them to practice in the Isabella Park Garden Apartments shared by Heidi (gf), Debbie, Jed, and myself while in last semesters of college. Jed and I would play Stratego, (just like an old neighborhood buddy and I earlier), the real irony again, is the board game entailed memory, and we'd get high at same time. I used to be in two small pickup bands, the one in college years, can't remember it had a name; and one in the PO, the Earth Dogs. Well guys would come on weekends to jam, and Tommy Lepson, still playing, I think, had his group practice down there. (Hearing the chorus to their cover of The Doobie Brothers', "Listen to the Music" over and over and over...you get the picture.) Around this time, after reading Chariots of the Gods , by Erich von Daniken (seen on History Channel today, and the rebuttal was Some Trust in Chariots) by Barry Thiering, and Edgar W. Castle. (Who made the alien life seeders I ask). I was hooked on paranormal studies. Now, I know now, and even in my early conversion days of the 70s, especially from a book, UFOs, What on Earth is HappeningI loved this kind of thing and at the local bookstore, picked up a book I thought interesting, Satan is Alive and Well on Planet Earth, however, it was set aside.
Well, one day, or night, can't recall, while very sick, I had an occultic book open to the Eliphas Lévi drawing of Baphomet, in some kind of stupor, I heard a groaning, raspy growl come out of my mouth. I could tell it was not totally me. After becoming aware now of invisible beings, whether they be other planetary aliens, devils, angels, ghosts, spirits, I was deathly afraid one was trying, or was in me! in my mind I thought:...if these personages are real, coming from other dimensions, and malevolent, who can save us from this? And clearly, I heard a sonorous voice, though in my mind, from some abyss below "Jesus Christ". I then read Hal Lindsey's books, started my long journey to real Truth, which I experientially knew was (is) the gentle man from Nazareth, who died a horrible, tortuous death for all. Eventually, my first wife, who was a non-practicing Jew, (the new one of 42 years is a believer), joined me and we went to some full gospel Baptist church (an oxymoron) and let them pray over us.
It wasn't until later I learned everything about denominations, the multifarious history of Christianity, or the Church, fundamentalism, or Christendom. I still hate the acts of the Templars as I did then. Funny, because in Jansen's History of Art, mandatory reading for that course, I was enthralled by the photographs of various European cathedrals. An African American guy at Binky's Palace, Linwood Strong, I think was his name, would be reading his Bible so quietly, and I would come to his room, and my arguments never caused him to get dismayed, he'd just smile back and with mellow personality answer me. But me cherry picking, read the bit that we are all sons of God, and took that the way I wanted. Like so many, we create a God or Jesus that makes us MORE comfortable, either with our carnal flesh or our intellectual pride. Even my grandmother was more of a New Thought practitioner, not unlike Norman Vincent Peale's variety, forerunners to New Age theology, and even the Word of Faith heresies, (Blab it and Grab it, Name it and Claim it) Shared by the NAR (New Apostolic Reformation) proponents, a reason why some think there will be a political solution to this East of Eden world, but conversely, a nuclear annihilation of the world is not in the cards, in my theological opinion. These new Christian offerings are but a Gnostic revival, just using some kind of internal power to be projected onto one's personal or public environment. The old beware of wolves in sheep's clothing kind of thing, (fitting for a costume party, however.) (Matt 7:15)
Unfortunately More Horror to Come
That's me in the corner
That's me in the spotlight
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don't know if I can do it
Oh no I've said too much
I haven't said enough
I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try
Every whisper, of every waking hour
I'm choosing my confessions
Trying to keep an eye on you
Like a hurt, lost and blinded fool, fool
Oh no I've said too much
I set it up--REM
The denouement to this convoluted biographical essay of horror is like that song, "nobody else can go there for you, you got to walk it by yourself". I knew a guy, about my age, who was a young believer like me in the Post Office. He had long hair and a long beard, and was not the most literate fellow, but he was a zealot. Preaching hard core, well, we became friends, and one day he decided to leave his job, go back to Michigan, and confront his either Mormon or Jehovah Witness parents, I helped him pack up his small motorcycle with things for the trip. Later, I received the news, (from the P.O. or church, don't remember) that George had pulled a gun in front of his parents, holding them in disbelief, until he shot himself dead. My backsliding started now, as I swore not to be that over the top fundamentalist again. No more burning records, like I did with him in my fireplace, now I had a seed of faith, but the weeds were growing thick (pun intended.) Being born again is a beginning, that like Pilgrim's Progress, evolves.
One of my biggest fears was superseding all others during young adult and later years, and that of this Baby Boomer losing his mind. Had glimpses of it, nightmares while alive, worse than death, almost. The psychology major, infamously at Binky's Palace, after telling him of my childhood ghosts, pronounced a verdict, a determination, that I had been hallucinating, therefore having a psychotic episode. Another nail in the coffin of holding onto blind faith. (In a case of more irony, I would also be studying the B.F. Skinner behaviorism).
Am I Still Too Young
I've been first and last
Look at how the time goes past
But I'm all alone at last
Rolling home to you
Old man, take a look at my life, I'm a lot like you
I need someone to love me the whole day through
Ah, one look in my eyes and you can tell that's true --Neil Young
And now, dear reader, though this diatribe was not for pity, you can understand why some kids self-medicate. My advice after all this, take it from an experienced elder (77 at this writing), DON'T. It is no accident that our word pharmaceuticals are derived from the Greek, pharmakeia not drugs for cure, but for sorcery, spells and magic. Forget Heart's song "Magic Man" or even John Kay's suggestion to stay with 'soft' imbibements. There was the movie, The Omen, whose only vice is the preposterous idea one can stop the Antichrist, kind of like now, we can vote in folks that can stop the planet's evil, though we must try. I am estranged, "...do not fellowship wit darkness," from my very aged stepmom in Rockville, over extreme variances in our worldviews. It didn't help that I saw the movie, based on William Blattey's book, and William Friedkin directed, The Exorcist around this time, and a guy in the PO knew the real location. I was getting seriously creeped out, and smoking pot sometimes would have me hearing mocking, otherworldly whispering voices. And yet, in that basement, I'd smoke MaryJane (not the candy) with a Christian co-worker, who later became a higher echelon staff at L'Enfant Plaza, PO HQ.
Some of my favorite anthems were by (the late) David Bowie. I was going to Suffragette City, I was the Young American, (I didn't have to worry about Fame, however.) And: It's a five ah clock that waits for me, sha na na live for today, I'm a "Dream Weaver" (RIP Gary Wright), need "Help", Strawberry Fields, and back in Hyattsville, I knew "I want to tell you" on the Revolver album was talking to me. Just like Johnny Rivers, we played Sergeant Pepper's over and over, and even over and over again. Passed being 64, and 1984, and the Y2K crisis, what'a next? Rhetorical or sincere, all or none of the above. Fortunately cough syrup doesn't give me a contact high like once it did. Did you know you can smoke Damiana, and get a kind of buzz like grass? But, as a tea, safer for the old pipes. I'm into eating healthy but fall off the wagon sometimes.
Come home, come home, it's suppertime
The shadows lengthen fast
Come home, come home, it's suppertime
We're going home at last --Alabama
Fast Forward, again; Habakkuk and Paul were right: the just shall live by faith. Too bad Martin Luther had no patience with the resistant Jewish population and kept some things that should have been abandoned. But Sola Scriptura, Sola Fida not bad. Interestingly, Muhammed thought initially that the Jews would join him, and the frustration grew into the powder keg arena we see today. After being hard rocker and Disco Dan, and was worse than the Prodigal Son, I returned to the vomit. I was still looking for a party and a main squeeze, I've been married to a very straight lady for 42 years, otherwise I might be dead, but worse, suffer the second death. She is a Christian, too, and we are growing stronger together. We have found it difficult to find a church that has not compromised in some way or another. Not to say some modern things are bad (Amish and Mennonites in my area are oblivious to that the fact of wearing long skirts (reminding me of hippy style) , bonnets, horse carriages, etc. makes them stand out. Reformed type congregations are too Calvinistic, and Pentecostals can go off the rails. (I'm not a cessationist, I subscribe to Moriel Ministries, and Jacob Prasch.) What's the point? It is written, "...Poltergeists still visit, my wife and I, on different occasions did experience the phenomenon of things disappearing and reappearing. I now embrace the scriptures as a firm foundation in spite of all life's turmoil, especially, '...do not return evil for evil.' I was so pleased when I had heard Bob Dylan had been baptized in Pat Boone's swimming pool, of course he used the Bible for inspiration before becoming a Christian. His first three albums reflected it, though he started swaying back with Empire Burlesque, in my opinion. Later, I wasn't surprised he won the Nobel Peace Prize for literature. Disappointed that he bragged, maybe he was joking, about being Illuminati. I still like to listen to 'classic' or alternative rock, oldies, blues, and folk, in addition to some Gospel, and Classical music. I was taken aback when Pat Boone, father of one hit wonder, "You Light Up My Life," Debbie Boone, released that leather rocker album, covering Led Zeppelin and others.
Please Mister Postman
Don't talk about yourself so much. We'll do that when you leave --Rodney Dangerfield
The thirty years (maybe not as traumatic as the Thirty Years War, but was for me, I have never been to Europe) I worked for the U.S.P.S. has its own tale, or Dragon's Tail, if you will. In 1981, a dozen years behind me with the Post Office, and due to a disappointment with the Jimmy Carter administration, I joined the US Army. It had to be as an enlisted and only in that component, since I would be 35, and that was the cutoff. I had been starting to read Soldier of Fortune magazine, passed the tests (even admitting I had smoked Marijuana) was accepted, picked a position, Chaplain's Assistant. I actually began drilling with the US Special Forces (Green Berets) the specialty I wanted. They tricked me into thinking I could be on the manifest to go on a jump (out of perfectly good airplanes) with them. I learned the PLF's (parachute landing fall) on an old mattress in the ancient barracks used for this 11th SP Grp, abn. More scares to come at Basic Training, as the drill sergeant, a Vietnam vet, and a drunk, and nastier than even the role they play, let us know if we wanted to get out, we could TDP, "I'll TDP your ass, he'd say". That was the Trainee Discharge Program. And as tempting as anything because of PT (physical training). Exercises sometimes on asphalt, sometimes near the dumpster with broken glass mixed with snow nearby, in cold February. Worse, he yelled at us, "Ground yer cap, ground yer coat, and get down, get down." "Starting position, move!" we'd better not hesitate, or 'we can stay like this all day!' This meant legal torture of the enlisted in the form of squat thrusters, push and pull ups. But he warned us if we TDP'd, you might never get a US Government job. (Oh no I thought! USPS, though I was in quasi -government .... maybe I can't return to my relatively lucrative Postal position.) So, even though I ran in front of the pop-up target, during live fire, and made it to the trench, it was the close call to death, worse than the multiple car wrecks had in my life. Anyway, I made to AIT (Advanced Instructional Training), Chaplain's and Assistants School to Fort Monmouth, NJ, not that far from Fort Dix I was before. Did you know that marching on sand feels like your legs are on fire? And that Longjohns would be totally soaked at the end of a cool then warm March Day?
Automobile near fatal mishaps: a bad one happened in an Ocean City bound crowded interstate in 2007 on Maryland's Eastern Shore. The cars were bumper to bumper, then it seemed like there was regular movement, wrong! I had no time to go left into median (others there), cars to the right, no place to go but brake hard ultimately causing my Taurus station wagon smack hard into the back of a Cadillac Escalade. It sent my wife and I to the hospital, two different ones, hers Shock Trauma, Baltimore, me to Easton, Md, where the EMTs were worried about my 212 over whatever blood pressure (instead of my airbag flayed bleeding hurts like Hell arm). Might be dead if not for the Lord because I still get those numbers today, even less is over the recommendations.
I had to add this, though parts were and are mentioned elsewhere, and it fills in some blanks (along with the electronic blank stares I'm getting with this treatise.) Near the end of my tenure, prevailing to it, initially to get my pension, then to follow through with Max Weber's Protestant Work Ethic, I moved to Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. It took an hour and almost a half hour to commute each way, over two, mountains (definitely not as bad as the Rockies, or even some other Allegheny heights), I bought a 1995 Lincoln Continental to pull myself up them, (inspired by the Pike's Peak Run --front wheel Olds Tornado won it.) Tension, fatigue, boredom mixed with white knuckle syndrome ruled, as I broke the law each day flying (not literally, but fairly synonymously) home from the Suburban MD General Mail Facility, in Gaithersburg, and the window service, box section. My schedule gave me the good news and then the bad. I missed traditional rush hour working three A.M. to 11:30, but had to get up at 1 something A.M., almost similar to Moby Grape's "Never":
Working from eleven
To seven every night
Ought to make life a drag
Now I know that ain't right.
Thinking 'bout those bad times) --Grape Jam
I used to get pretty upset, emotionally, and vocally at injustices at the job, but, because of some of the relatively recent news events of postal workers getting violent, they would say, "He's goin' off, remember, the guys with the ties!" (An allusion to management, as opposed to the grunts.) Maintenance employees would not vacuum the continually omnipresent dust, but use a air hose and blow it out of the sortation machines; while I was working on nearby ones, the ominous cloud threatening my eyes, nose, mouth and lungs! In 2000, two window service co-workers, Dave and Charley, actually showed up at my father's funeral, (no casket, cremation had been chosen) so he became the second to not come back from the hospital. His eulogy I wrote and read. Basically, I thanked him for sacrificial service staying with government service instead of going to some lucrative private tech corporation. It was a Unitarian Reverend (no one should have these pretentious titles, even 'Father' is prohibited) providing the services, and my two friends, both were Christians; but Charley was fooled by him, because he read Psalm 23. My wife was angry at me later, as I sauntered off with that old Rockville neighborhood pal, Richard (his parents attended same Unitarian Church), talking up old times. My current spouse keeps me from fellowshipping with previous mates. "Happy wife, happy life" a comedian once said. She doesn't like me on everything2, nor the Battlefield 4 first person shooter game to which I became addicted, so furtive is my middle name.
Tempting to go into our detailed stories but will spare us. (I kind of failed here, oops.) I was at work when other staff called out: "Hey, come and look at this!" So, I went around the corner from the retail counter, and on the wall mounted television in a conference room, was a surreal scene of a tall building with smoke pouring out its side. I do not recall whether I was still in that room, but saw, either in real time, or a replay, the second plane hit -- identified as the other on of what were the Twin Towers in New York City. Mind racing, the conclusion arriving that they weren't air traffic accidents, but deliberate. Fact: it became an excuse to curtail citizen's freedoms, maybe to divide them as well. Isn't it bizarre that the movie, the Lord of the Rings - The Twin Towers made beforehand had to be pulled from release?
Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid
Life is very short
And there's no time
For fussing and fighting, my friend
I have always thought that it's a crime
So I will ask you once again
Try to see it my way
Only time will tell If I am right, or I am wrong --The Beatles
Let me jump ahead with this: Anthrax powder came through the DC Brentwood Station, and I met a worker, transferred to our facility (where mass sortation takes place). He had survived contracting that deadly disease, Cipro an anti-viral helping, he confessed, he didn't want to go back to that District location. I now was approaching December of 2001, giving me 30 years and had also reached the mandatory 55 years of age for retirement. This was as early as you can do it, and receive a annuity, albeit at a 54% reduction! I had bought a new house in 1999, went through the 2K scare, a new State, and now I had to make an almost thousand-dollar mortgage payment every month, light and heat the place, and eat. Phantoms were not on my mind anymore. But my faith, being tested once more, had me try some wisdom, the Coasters' song, and maybe Captain Beefheart's, rang out in my being: "Get a job, get a job!"
The only high note, (not the Bee Gees....stayin aliiiiiive ah) is discovering by way of Slashdot, Everything2.com. Lying at night after submitting this, and again, ad infinitum, I thought, don't forget joining this in 2001. Reading, writing, and researching helped my aging mental faculties, and am forever thankful. I have a daylog telling of more horror and synchronicity of convergences of coworkers, E2 noders and real life. Okay, here it is: Dave rented a townhouse (I remember the day he said he bought one as an investment) to someone, and he had tell us at work of his personal horror of the guy leaving a mess, committing suicide. They were someone well known here 20 years ago, and it was extremely, to the max, uncomfortable writing about it. I removed that daylog, as I have all of them. Writing this whole novelette, the divulgence of which has actually upset me somewhat the week I wrote this.
The End? It Depends, (Not Wearing them Yet)
Oh thou who dwell on many waters,
rich in treasure wide in fame.
Bow unto a God of gold,
thy Pride of might shall be thy shame.
Oh, God the Pride of man, broken in the dust again
And only God can lead the people
back into the earth again.
Thy holy mountain be restored
Thy mercy on thy people, Lord. --Hamilton Camp, Quicksilver Messenger Service
My near death came in 2007, where after making team member for JLG Lifts manufacturing, I woke up in the middle of the night with abdominal pain that felt like my belly was hit hard by a two by four. I self-medicated with something for gut nerves, but as I looked it up online, it describes my symptoms exactly, 'pain that then goes from the stomach to the lower right of one's groin. Oh dear, appendicitis! I drove myself (turns out that was crazy) to doctor. He thumped my stiffening gut, and declared, "I'm sending you to the hospital for surgery now." Drove myself there, where waiting on a gurney, felt the peace, even if death was knock, knock, knockin' at Heaven's Door. (Dylan never left my life, I guess.) Rolled into surgery, seeing several blue gowned staff, then knocked out, woke up in recovery, wife at side. My roommate in room, had the same thing, except he lost part of his colon, so he'd hit the pain button, for self-administration of whatever. I was glad they removed IV, because I had to urinate so bad. Wife told me later, they said my appendix ruptured, after removal, that other guys did that inside him. Fate had smiled on me in another way, this job paid disability, or I would have been financially ruined, Blue Cross helped too, (don't forget Mercy from Above, either.) Bob Dylan, too, had two run-ins with the Grim Reaper, motorcycle wreck, and then a heart infection.
Corinna Corrina, er Corona Corona
Must be because I had a flu for Christmas
And I'm not feeling up to par
It increases my paranoia
Like looking at my mirror and seeing a police car
But I'm not giving in an inch to fear
'Cause I promised myself this year
I feel like I owe it to someone --David Crosby
Covid did scare me a bit, but fortunately I was more afraid of the shots, and avoided them, and it is beyond the scope of this writeup to argue about all of that. I don't want to be the purveyor of a conspiracy theory. The first time I went to the store in 2020 I had plastic bags on my head, change clothes returning, wiped everything down like it was the plague. I think my wife and I did contract the dreaded virus last year, not really the flu, but a cold from the River Styx itself, the cough, the cough, cough, cough. Like hitting oneself on the head with mallet, feels so good when it stops. I still believe, and follow the Doctor Zelenko (even though he died) protocol. (Did you notice how folks saw the crown, (Corona) as some portent, Four Horsemen and all that. (I had Vangelis' 666 album once.)
Harrowing is the difficulty in discerning truth from fiction from other people, whether they be governmental, or talking heads from all sides of the philosophical, political, or religious spectrum. My wife had a 'word' come to her: "You won't know truth from the lies." TV, the internet, social media, know this: "God is not the author of confusion." (--1Cor 14:33). Reverse engineer that, and you will understand better. I have learned that homo sapiens like to make idols, they like rituals to make themselves feel better. Maybe they will want money (called Mammon) or power, or even their narcissism will suffice.... only for short time.
I must conclude this somehow, lying in bed at night, I think of things I didn't include here, and now the fear is that I've written too much, and don't know what to cut. Real life today, in spite of the escapist offerings society has to offer, is gruesome, and dismaying. I confess, I failed as an editor, and I'm no Woodward and Bernstein bears either. Now that almost 7 billion people have access to media, the words penned by the prophet Daniel, that "...many shall run to and fro, and knowledge shall be increased." (Dan 12:4.) However, sincerely, I wish, and I bet you too, in your deepest heart, hope that poorer, flawed human beings followed the same Golden Rule that the Buddha taught, 'Do unto others as you would have them do to you.' What is truly scary for mankind, in my opinion, is not global climate change, Yellowstone's giant calderaa blowing up half the USA, or populist movements, pestilence, maybe not even crime, terrorism, or nuclear war. (And as of this piece, *not peace*, we are closer, like seconds even to that Midnight Hour of WWIII than ever); But be awake, aware, and wary of that entity who is the god of this world. He knows his time is short, but loses, at the End of End of Days, because I read the end of the book. How does one endure to the end, when Testing and Judgement come: Love of the truth in one's heart.
The only son of the God Almighty
The holy one called Jesus Christ
He healed the sick and he fed the hungry
And for his love they took his life away
On the road to glory, where the story never ends
Just the holy son of man I'll never understand
My God, they killed him --Bob Dylan, 1986
However, here, in this oeuvre, though important, I feel and think this is not the right time to go into great detail of how to do this spiritual preparation. Not to leave anyone hanging, (figuratively) it is simple in the beginning, (only believe) and then grows complicated like one is engaging in a war ("Put on the whole armor of God" --Eph 6:11 ). "Your adversary roars, looking for someone to devour" (1 Pet. 5:8) and wants to lure one out of the hedge of protection (Job 1:10) that is only held up by faith in the finished work already done for us. There has always been a counterfeit, a most Enlightened of all entities, because of the root of all disobedience of authentic verity, is pride, thought he should have it all, now like a disgruntled employee, wants to ruin the Good Plan, steal, destroy and kill. Our current events, upsettling, dividing us, and truly disturbing (Wars in Ukraine, Israel etc.) are a sure sign that things are shaking between these Heavenly and heavenly sides, it is all going on for a test, as it has been since the beginning. Bob Dylan once wrote, "You got to serve somebody," It is sometimes hard for me to say, "Seriously folks." If curious, or furious, message me.
I have finally found a way to live, just like I never could before
And I know I don't have much to give, but I can open any door
Everybody knows the secret, I said everybody knows the score
I have finally found a way to live in the colour of the Lord
In the colour of the Lord --Eric Patrick Clapton
Partial Sources:
My addled memory
A Guide to The Different Classes Of Shadow People Haunting You in The Dark (ranker.com)
Barrie School - History
Entity - definition of entity by The Free Dictionary
Dark hooded/robed/cloaked entities? What exactly are these things?! : r/occult (reddit.com)
True Stories of Encounters with Hooded Beings (liveabout.com)
Sword of Damocles various search results 'impending doom'
Bing search
P.S. I wasn't intending this to be preachy, but it's not appropriate to apologize, (except for the length of this essay) but it's the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth ---as in a court of law, if not of public, or semi-public opinion.
This written over many days, has different modes to it, I know. Perhaps you are savvy enough to realize, my facts are wilder than the fiction that was Forrest Gump. And as Dylan sang in a 2009 recent contribution, "Anyway, it's all good."
Optional Postlog
What is really frightening is this could be longer! Me/ cackles pathologically. Also terrifying is editing this narcissistic treatise. I could just be writing about my cat or cats and that alone would add more. Or Rockville horror, like the time Richard and I bicycled far away from home and had to use the bathroom. Stopped into a decrepit gas station, In the restroom was black sludge all around the floor, the sink, and gunk in the toilet. I am not sure if we used it or not.
Also there was the time I found an animal skull, and turning it over for examination, grey stinking goo poured onto my hand, It smelled like rotten lamb (which is why, to this day, never eat it. We used to jump off the roof of the barn, which later I have photo evidence of it burning down, onto the soft grass. That feeling of flight for a couple of seconds gave cheap thrills, (apologies to Big Brother....no not that one, the group). Horror many different nights of many varieties in the form of dreams, yes, we are trying to work things out.
Oh, in the stoned hippie era, there was an Italian student who lived upstairs in Hyattsville, he had mob connections, and would need money from time to time, and would sell part of his exclusive stash. Well, from him, I had taken some white capsules of speed (Meth), and heart pounded so hard, sort of knew I was gonna die. So, having some red caps Seconal, probably acquired from same Mafioso, popped those until my heart felt like it was going to stop. Thankfully, maybe just because not my time, adrenaline kicked in and saved me, or perhaps angels, who knows, I'm here to tell the tale.
For the Libera te Tutemet ex Inferis: The 2023 Halloween Horrorquest