FEATURED POST: MAKE AMERICA GREAT
Friday, May 19, 2017
A hot, humid July morning it was. I'm in the water at Pells with two others when a car drives into the dirt path and stops at The Tree. The driver is in his early twenties and we watch as he steps to the front of the car, unties his sneakers placing them on the hood of the car, then steps to the tree. I watch for a minute or so as he begins the maneuvers necessary enabling him to climb the sixty feet of tree length up to the two two-by-fours that are nailed onto a fork in a branch that extends over the water of Pells. The three of us wade over to shallow water and away from the middle of the water of Pells. He steps upon the branch to those two platform boards readying himself for the plunge. Branches sway, the entire top of The Tree may bend and sway from any mild gust of wind that passes by. Adjusting his feet on the wooden boards and for a brief moment to shake his hands and arms loose from tension he lifts and extends his arms out from his sides before leaning forward and with a spring from his legs to push himself forward and into a headfirst free-fall, … crashing into the water with a soft splash. A moment of time and the guy surfaces to begin a few short strokes and paddles towards the bank and the stump of The Tree, stepping up the roots protruding out from the dirt bank he leans against the car while placing his sneakers on he feet, then gets back into the car and drives off. I'm impressed.
Kevin has climbed the tree up to those boards and then jumped feet first. I don't want to climb any tree to such heights much less fall into the water from that high up. The rope swing is good enough for me.
I'll occasionally take my brothers 250 Kawasaki out for a spin any early morning for an hour or so. Just buzz around the area, not too far any which way. Turn on a full moon to light up the roads and inside passing forests and fields and the moments are cool.
I cross the bridge at Pells and roll along the straightaway towards the first left-hand turn.
I know the roads in this area well, so I accelerate the Kaw up to a good speed knowing the angle of the left hand turn that's approaching. A full moon black-light will brighten the open field of dried golden brush on my left and right sides but the turn I'm approaching is inside a collection of pine trees on both sides of the road which causes the turn to display only the Kaw's spotlight of light piercing into a dark tunnel of blackness as I approach. The thought in mind as I ready myself and the Kaw for the lean into this turn is to approach from the far right side of the road and then hug the left side of the road as I round the turn exiting over at the far right side of the road. I know what I'm doing … , like I'm racing motocross.
That voice. This time the words conjured are less important then the sense of a challenge that has been inflected into the words.
Take the outside … all the way around the turn, and sure, like I'm racing motocross and as if passing two, three, or five motocrossers who have just crashed or are stranded with some jockeying to disentangle on the track during a race. I'll just zoom past them on the other side of the debacle. And so I veer over to the right side of the road as I speed towards the turn, then begin leaning the bike over and as I maintain both wheels of the Kaw skimming securely two or three feet from the curving edge of the far right side of the road the double hi-beams of car headlights suddenly appear and brighten the Kaw and the entire left side view of everything in front of me. The jolt of adrenaline is quick but I don't have time for thought as I watch those bright hi-beamed headlights swerve lower and then out of sight as I continue to round the curvature of the right side of the road and eventually to right the Kaw level. As fast as the snap of the fingers the moment came and went, … and that voice I'm recognizing is …?
Later I'm to wonder why I didn't see the reflection of those headlights on the trees along the far right side of the road as I was approaching the turn.
Headlights were turned on after the car began to accelerate from standstill.
That voice. It is me. I'm learning to recognize and soon to better appreciate exactly what it is; what that voice means: The Creator is with me.
BCI Detective Appolonario was known at the B's residence for other affairs, and while watching Appolonario stepping up the driveway while he worked on his van, Kevin took the plastic bag of assorted barbiturates he carried with him and threw them … somewhere, he said. Kevin later told me that that somewhere happened to be the hood of his mother's car parked a distance down the driveway.
I told Kevin on the bus home from school that yes, I'll be there, to help him with the van, but after supper Moms said if I leave for the evening they'll lock the doors later. They'd never said something such as this to me before, after I would tell them I'm going somewhere after supper, and the next day at school I'll learn Kevin got arrested at his house, and still a couple days later I'll see Kevin in school and events and circumstances before and after his arrest being what they were, the thought comes to Kevin that I had something to do with or I knew that he was to be arrested that evening. Kevin was my partner in crime, so neither he nor I want to take these suspicions and thoughts too far and eventually our relationship resolves to circumstances beyond our control.
My parents will hang the phone up on Kevin if they know it's him; he has to have one of his sisters call and to have a female voice greet my parents on the telephone and then to ask for me. Kevin has told me each time when either of my parents had seen him hitchhiking back to his house from Hopewell that they'd just drive by. Why the animosity? Kevin's older brother Joe once told Eric that my father is a puss, or some such term, doing so for reasons I was never privy to. Joe beat up Eric after Eric became belligerent, and at the dinner table Dad is all proud of Eric as Eric relates the story to everyone. Joe would later attend Rensselaer Polytech in Troy and, …? long story short I can only surmise my brother Eric had one day informed Joe of me and my faggot nature as an attempt to bond with certain of his other, better smarter classmates. Eric may be "smart," but he lacked social etiquette if what I'm describing actually did happen and was the cause for the fight. I imagine after my brother Eric confided with Joe about me being a faggot, Joe began to question Eric how he knew I was a faggot in which he got the response, "He was playing in the woods with some boys and – blah, blah, blah, …, it's a congenital thing. My sister has Down's syndrome, too," my brother will add with the air of an exceptionally smart person who is able to tie together genetic mutations with social behavior. I knew Joe to be a critical-thinker and further presume now he would then ask why Eric is saying such things about his own brother to strangers. Again I can only presume my brother answers Joe with a sense for the honor, courage, and the love of family in his mind, Eric to retort, "My father wants everyone to know about Kurt, and if you see him doing something strange to report it to me or someone in our family." Joe would then ask, incredulous, "Your father wants you to tell everyone your brother is a fag and then to ask everyone if they see your brother doing something weird to tell you about it?" And Eric the Noble will say, "Yes." to this Joe will say, "Your father is a jerk," causing my brother to want to fight, get beat up and later that evening to have the fodder for a story at the dinner table, thus causing Dad to beam with pride for the honor that the oldest son in his family has upheld.
If one can understand the environment wrought from the mentality of my parents and brothers because of … because I'm on a mission of God and events in my life had to follow a deviant path and course in order for my life to accomplish whatever the Creator has in mind, …
"I have got to get out of the house first chance I get, and stay out."
Kevin was living with his father in Seattle as a condition of probation. He wasn't to set foot in New Yawk for I don't know how long they banned him. I'm expelled from school and so begin working for a paycheck at Taconic Fabricators. Moms drives me there but I could walk to the place within an hour's time. Each day Taconic Fabricators will produce fifty to sixty of those blue metal US Postal mailboxes bolted to the cement of street corners for shipment by truck to who knows where. Most of my time there and I'm riveting any section of metal(s) together to then have it be passed further down the assembly line, but I can be placed at some other task such as unloading trucks that have arrived or I'm with others cleaning sections of factory floor spaces that are disordered for some reason. A couple months at Taconic Fabricators and one day the supervisor says someone is downstairs to see me. Ten minutes I have to go outside and to see whomever. It's Kevin, with his van, and he's not supposed to be in New Yawk? Perhaps his probation is over? I furgetz … , and it's great to see him again. Been over a year since I last seen him.
Angela Sandig. Nice girl. Both parents of German stock. Her Moms is separated and works as a waitress at a German restaurant off Route 9. With her Moms at work evenings the apartment is a place to hang out after school, for awhile, if one has previously gained her confidence. Sometimes she has her other girl friends over at the apartment and she'll tell you at the door you can't come in. You just can't, she says. Other times, sure, come on in. Just ask her if she wants to get high, and if she does she'll let you come in …, for awhile.
Angela has two sisters, Judy is twelve or thirteen when I first meet them and Monica is like six or seven. But all I or anyone does in their apartment is to eventually go into their upstairs bathroom and smoke a couple bones, and then eventually leave. I told Angela I don't think it's good for Monica to be in the bathroom with us when we smoke, but Angela says she's not letting her out of her sight. After we smoke we return to the living room, sit around with no music, no kind of chit-chat or games like spades, … Angela may leave for somewhere else leaving Judy and Monica on the couch and the both of them just watch television or read or begin picking their noses …, go upstairs and Angela is filing her nails or brushing her hair in front of a mirror …, I have little money in my pockets and no plans of a future to talk about with her …, if I had a large sum of money I'd think of thoughts that would tickle her fancy but at this time what is happening in the family is just too weird to understand and wrap my head around, then put into words to have it make sense in a conversation with someone like what Angela could become.
Eighteen years old and I'll introduce Angela and Judy to my parents one afternoon. Thirteen year old budding Judy came out onto the patio deck first, and I could see Moms skin turn pale and the blood run from her face. When Angela then stepped into view my mother breaks out into a self-conscious chuckle, and after introducing the two of them by name my mother is still with an occasional chuckle, nodding her head as my father begins to light a pipe of tobacco, then to fold a newspaper on the patio table and begin staring down and reading. No hello or howdy words from either of my parents to Judy or Angela. I look at Judy and Angela and want to say something but the notion that they staged a presentation to my parents, having Judy stroll into view first, … I ask them if they want something to eat or drink, a sandwich? is no, so let's just get out of here.
Another time I'll bring Angela and Judy to the house in the evening. Maybe the both of them will be in bed or ready to do so and I can show them around the house for awhile. It is a nice house, with a few things of interest in it. But alas, my father is a jerk. He really is.
Only my father is in the house. Where everyone else is I don't know.
"You were supposed to bring the car back at nine," he says as I stand at the kitchen table with Angela and Judy. It's maybe ten, ten-thirty, eleven o'clock, who knows, who cares; not like it was a necessity and if it matters whether the car is in the garage for the rest of the night or it's being driven at the time. By this time, clockwork determines Dad has downed at least five Manhattans since 5 PM when the first one is consumed. Seven days a week starting at five o'clock and he's drunk by nine o'clock. The way he is now talking to me in front of the girls is only to deliberately humiliate me in front of them. The guy is a complete toad.
"Alright, alright," I say and then try to usher the two outside and back into the car. But Dad says no, I'm not driving them home, he is driving them home. Years later I'm to recall this incident, and I simply wish I had thought to call the police that night on Dad.
"Yes, officer. My father is driving with two female passengers. A brown Chevy Impala traveling west from Hopewell Junction to Fishkill on Route 82. They just left a minute ago so they may be entering Hopewell Junction any minute, otherwise they'll be traveling west towards Fishkill. My father has had at least four or five Manhattans and I'm concerned for the safety of the two passengers while he drives under the influence of that many drinks, officer."
Were I to have caused my father to be arrested for DUI would be the single most rewarding event and memory of my life! As long as I lived in that house I would never let him forget I was the one that caused him to have handcuffs and a slap on his wrists. The girls were not in danger is probably why I didn't think to call the police. Dad goes slow and pays attention to what he's doing while under the influence, I know, but just to slap him back for the humiliation that night by causing his arrest for driving them back would only be another factor for why my father really isn't too swift in the social skills department.
The Sandig clan moved from Fishkill to Peekskill, and I drive down to visit their apartment late one afternoon. Judy answers the door and she tells me Angela isn't there and she doesn't know when she'll be back. Fourteen year old Judy greets me at the door and remains in her underwear as we talk about this and that and that and this. I watch her reach up for a box of cereal and …? she's definitely coming of age. Young, healthy, fertile, …? what's not to like? I'm almost if not twenty, and she's putting on a show for me now. The flirt. I ask her to tell Angela I was there, and then leave. Duh.
Kevin and I did another ds soon after he arrives back from Seattle. He tells me he hitchhiked back from Seattle. He met this guy Lance who he then began sharing rides with until Lance got arrested for shoplifting in some town and Kevin is hitchhiking on his own again. Pure luck gave him one ride starting from just outside the city of Denver all the way to the Taconic State Parkway; some guys going back to college at Boston. They exchange addresses and if Kevin is ever in the Boston area the next few years to give them a call. He does call and we'll be there this weekend.
I call Angela and she says she'll go with me to Boston with Kevin and Donna. A couple days after this phone call and a couple short days before we'll leave I'm having bad thoughts. Angela will taste amphetamine? and then the barbiturates I'll clue her to so that she doesn't have to go bonkers? Cannabis is one thing but these pharmaceuticals are another. Angela, her sisters and her girlfriends I suppose are alright but they're not cool. I met Mrs. Sandig once at their apartment in Fishkill. And I have thoughts of her mother years from now finding out that it was I who gave Angela her first taste of these quality euphorics, after I imagine that I've returned to this area ten years from now and to then learn Angela has overdosed with some silly nigger types she had recently found and was hanging out with for any dope to get high with and, … Mrs. Sandig now hates my guts?
Believe it: I am cool. I'm a cool dude now and I was back then. My conscience is clear. No regrets, no remorse, I am a product of my environment.
No mind, no human brain can not enjoy the way these euphorics make you feel. My Moms would even tell me those type of drugs cause euphoria, and you're supposed to like them. You have to. I'm to imagine Angela would share them, tell others she knows where to get them, and she just doesn't give me the impression she could be made to understand what she is getting into by indulging with these quality drugs I have. She doesn't yet have the mind of a soldier, where the power of life and death are in your hands, and with these drugs it is easy to die if you're not cool. Cool like some soldiers are cool. I could've pulled Angela, and I probably would have done so at this time had I the resources enabling me to control future events in my life better. As it is Angela isn't cool, and I soon call her back to tell her I've changed my mind, the trip is off, and I'm never to see or talk to her again.
Donna invites her friend Kathy and the four of us travel to Boston.
This guy Kevin knows is somewhere, in class maybe when we arrive at the Victorian house he shares with other students. With a couple hours to roam around the town of Salem, we stroll the streets and parks. Bronze plaques will tell us this is an area where they burned those accused of witchcraft. Kathy and I stroll under an open window of a three-story residential structure, and we stop to listen to this man and woman talking.
"You're a witch. I know you are," a male voice intones.
"Stop it. Stop. You know I'm not. Why are you saying that?" a female voice pleads.
"Damn you, woman. What do you take me for, a fool?" replies the male.
Kathy and I stand and look at each other incredulously, and then step away.
"Maybe they're rehearsing a play or something," Kathy says later. I just give a chuckle at the thought, whatever was going on that afternoon.
The pork slices inside the egg buns are delicious. We eat these instead of anything fishy or lobsterly because of price. Frugal rules for the time being.
…, to be continued.
Friday, May 12, 2017
Yes, there is good reason why Federal law prohibits dispensing without prescription. Narcotics like Demerol, Dilaudid, Morphine sulfate are quickly consumed within a week, ten days. Most of the dudes I associate with then begin using the barbiturates, but my drug of choice from my portion of the drug store stash are the amphetamines, and most any good reason is a reason to leave the campus of John Jay Senior High for an hour or two or three during my junior and first half my senior year. Many times only to stroll over to a nearby comfortable secluded wooded area and, while on a nice speed run of dexedrine or benzedrine smoke some of the better Columbian or Jamaican, Sinsemilla or hashish that's making the circuit. Ask me in the hallway between classes if I and two others want to travel in a van for a week, ten days …, maybe to Boston, or Montreal, or just travel the roads and Interstates south until we run out of the little money we have at the time and then turn around and head on back to the ranch. None of us are looking for mischief now. It's a time when three people can do some quality methamphetamine for three or four days before resting up, knocking ourselves asleep dosing Seconal for twenty-four, thirty-six hours in some parking lot in Anytown, USA before resuming another three, four day speed run, traveling the roads, taking in the scenes, jerking off with our time in life now. No liquor, maybe a beer or two; only quality smokes when the want is there. I've won many an eight-ball with the locals at the taverns and bars found miles off an Interstate. Sure, let's go.
Places to go. People to see. Things to do. Kind of boring, too. I want to make a million dollars, put some real money in my pocket before I'm thirty, and then to think and see and feel what is important in life. Amphetamines are the best. A nice demeanor, a nice head to walk the day with to marvel at the wonders of life that are presenting themselves to me each day.
Military pilots before battle are prescribed amphetamine to keep their senses sharp. I could imagine upon return they're given a sedative to counteract any amphetamine residue still in the body preventing the pilot from the want to sleep on his regular schedule. Emergency room doctors will prescribe a sedative like Seconal if someone came in for amphetamine overdose symptoms. What it is that makes amphetamines dangerous is the lack of sleep after five, ten days of use. You can't perform at an employable job like driving interstate trucks if you haven't slept the last forty-eight, seventy-two hours because you've been taking amphetamines. Kidneys don't wash out all the amphetamine until maybe a week after ingestion. And you simply lay there in bed for all those wee-morning hours but never kick into sleep mode, and when six AM rolls around and haven't slept but you got to get up and go to work, well, … this spells trouble on the job. But a doctor would simply prescribe a sedative for the night to knock you out, you'll get the sleep you need, and then you'll be more than less able to get up and perform on the job the following day. For many, many consecutive months I prescribe my own sedative, having a drug store stash to do it with, and don't become wired after each two/three day speed run. Speed my brains out for two or three days, then knock myself out and get some sleep, on and off for thirty-six hours. On and off like this I am, for months until the stash runs out.
I don't advertise and rarely sell any of my drug store stash. When I do it's only to cool people I know I don't have to worry about them overdosing. This isn't candy, or alcohol.
I'm suspended from school …? three separate times for not attending classes, and finally expelled after an arrest at the school. This day home alone I am with my sister and her friend from the school she attends. It was one of those quiet and uneventful morning into afternoons where I can't recall exactly what I was doing at the time when from the living room I hear my sister laughing in peculiar fashion. I then hear her friend saying something and then to hear the both of them burst out laughing again. The television is off. I don't hear anything from it so they must be doing something unusual. I take myself to stand behind the wall adjoining to the television room and now closer and out of their sight I hear my sister talking pure gibberish for several moments and then both my sister and her friend break into another odd, hysterical type of laughter.
My sister talks like she has marbles in her mouth. A stranger listening to my sister only hear and misunderstand the vocalizations of sound she is creating. But I or family member have lived with her long enough to understand those vocalizations convey Captain Crunch or Fruit Loops is what she wants someone to take down from the shelf in the morning. What my sister and her friend are vocalizing now in the other room are pure gibberish to me and to each other. And I have to turn my head around the wall to see what they're doing to make them laugh like they are.
I've thought of what it would be like if I took a drug and for the next eight/twenty-four hours experience what my sister is going through being under the affect/effect of Down's syndrome. Imagine her having the thought is clear but my mind, my brain simply cannot bring the muscles in my mouth to turn the sounds out in the same way as I hear everyone else sounding out the words. As hard as I try I make sounds that sound like I got marbles in my mouth. But when the drug affect/effect wears off I now realize the disconnect, the short circuit my brain has when I concentrate on the muscles in my mouth.
…, and the psychologist Timothy Leary is dead, too.
I see that the television is off, and my sister and her friend are sitting Indian directly in front of each other; their knees almost touch. And my sister is now making these vocal sounds again but her face is theatric as she mouths the gibberish sets of sounds. She's imitating adults when they become passionate during conversation: Beth's voice is soft spoken and then suddenly determined and forceful; eyes move up and down, hands moving this way and that, and then the both of them begin that laugh that almost makes me laugh, too. Beth looks away from her friend while laughing to see me standing at the end of the wall, and she turns red with embarrassment. Self-consciously she turns her head down and without a smile now looks at her friend who turns to look at me. I step away and out of their space.
Two Down's syndrome people are mimicking to mock adults. To this day I don't know what to make of it.
Amphetamines are nice, especially if you know what you're doing. Just read about Kitty Dukakis on what not! to do. The professional community may end up cutting off your arm or leg to fix things. I'll simply sprinkle some quality herb into the mix, and with the head good just Keep on Truckin'.
Later on in the days of my life, not much to do in the house while suspended from school except enjoy these extended moments of euphoria each and every day. No one in the family talks to me, has anything to do with me. I'm going through some stage in life to them.
For the last hour or so I'm watching whatever my sister is watching on the television. I've already told her I don't have anything I want to watch, and so turn it to whatever station you want. And I'm to watch now as my youngest brother enters the room, immediately change the station and then plop down on the couch. My sister starts crying and my brother throws a pillow at her, saying, "Shut up or I won't change it back."
There might, there might not be a good movie coming on in a minute. Christopher Paul is now checking out the situation … ,
… and I've got to get out of this house first chance I get; stay out.
Sunday, April 30, 2017
Moms chose and gave us our names. Thinking ahead alphabetically-retardedly, she'll consider them repetitive invocations to God whenever our names are spoken, I presume.
Hair -ick was what Moms thought of holding the newborn in her arms. Eric has a penis, and Moms wants a daughter. Later I will have a notion Mom and Dad had a bet of some kind going, whether the first born would be a boy or a girl. Just a notion that never went anywhere, till now.
Grrr… egg hurry! was what Roman Catholic reared Moms thought of after her second child. I'm sure Mom and Dad would've quit with Gregory had he been a gurl (sic).
Kh– hurt!! is what Moms thought of after birthing her third male, and realizing a fourth will be necessary to bring her the daughter she wants. The anguish … .
Woe is me! is the sense within Moms when she brings a fourth male into the world. Ch–wrist-offer herp-all is really a mouthful, and I can only imagine something to do with her sister, one of my aunts having somehow lost one of her two hands. I'm in my late twenties and driving a taxi in New York, wondering what causes all this graffiti I see sprinkled on buildings and what not, and the first time I will spell and sound it out in my mind, K you are T, …, and now I know.
What a bunch of nonsense to be thinking about and including within the moments of the sixteen hours of your waking life, I thunk. But there are millions who thunk like this I realize.
Five, six years of age and Moms is still using rectal thermometers with me. It hurts. Really uncomfortable, so much so one day I just have to know what she's doing down there. I'll play War with the next door neighbors. I devise the notion that when you're dead you have to pull down your pants and stick your butt in the air. One of the boys I'm with has been shot, is now play-dead, and I pull down his pants like the rules say, and now I can see "it" on someone else – and I see what Moms is doing down there with me, and with my curiosity satisfied, that's it.
Decades later I'm to realize this day of War play in the woods must've not gone unnoticed, and like my sister with Down's syndrome, from this time forward to any and all who I will ever have the pleasure of their presence, family will make sure this person and everyone will know Kurt is a faggot who doesn't know he's a faggot, yet. I'm a congenital faggot, there'll be no escaping it if family is pressed to explain further this description of me.
Fourteen, fifteen years old and one Sunday morning my second oldest brother wants me to practice wrestling moves in the living room. Next thing I know he's sitting on top of me slapping his penis in my face. After a minute of this I free myself and first thing I do is kick him in the balls, hard. He goes limping off into the kitchen and I hear him talking with Dad for a moment. Moments later I listen as Dad says, raising his voice, "Oh, come on. It couldn't've hurt that much." Then waiting I am for Dad to come into the living room and ask why I kicked my brother in the balls, and after several minutes pass and no Dad, I call up the first kooky notions to mind that family is colluding to? trying to turn me into a faggot?
Weird. But no one is the worse for knowing, or not knowing. Especially I. Later probation reports to judges for pre-sentencing will undoubtedly state idiotic deviant psychology terms such as "latent repressed, regressed homosexual," congenital, schizoidal, sociopathic, schizophrenia of unknown origins. A judge did say to me I was an incorrigible drug offender, but given sixty years of academia without knowing the hallucinogenic quality of those molecules trickling into the bloodstream of everyone at puberty, what else could he say to me? Perhaps one of the many judges in County court could've called me in camera and simply told me like a man, "In case you didn't know, they're trying to turn you into a faggot, so knock it off with the criminal behavior, dude. Once they got you locked up in a clinical environment, they'll dose you with those girly chemicals every day you're in there." But a talking to like this would've only blown their cover, so it was never to happen.
Sure, I sent myself out on reconnaissance missions with my sister and during an evening while babysitting to try to make sense of what those feelings and thoughts are that are appearing out of nowhere. Each time there are no exasperation of sexual thought or feelings to augment and impel me to further what I am doing. What to do? I'll never become a practicing faggot.
With the clinical environment of home and with those hallucinogenic molecules the university crowd discovered trickling into the young females bloodstream at puberty and now being synthesized and given to me in foodstuffs at home, what was a young man to do? Succumb? Swallow my pride? Not I. Instead I'll conjure notions of putting baseball bat slaps to the heads of my brothers while they sleep, and let Moms find them dead in bed one morning.
I didn't realize in my youth as much as I know today but at fifteen, sixteen to my nineteenth year of age the notion is generated: I have to get out of the house first chance I get. At nineteen I am out, and frequent the County jails too much.
One weekend morning I go into the kitchen and grab a box of cereal. Listening to my older brothers talking to Moms as I pour the milk into the cereal bowl, I hear Moms has that voice, and she's been crying, again. Many mornings Moms is up early reading at the kitchen table or doing something and one look tells you she's been crying …, for some reason. This early morning my brothers are trying to convince her there is no God.
"Just look at the trees," Moms is saying to them. I watch her standing at the picture window looking out into the backyard. "How did they get like that?" Years later I'm to realize my father has been making her do or he's doing "nasty" things to her in the bedroom, and this just doesn't sit well with her Roman Catholicism. I would've told her to leave the house were I asked, but no one has any solution. My niece Natalie told me my martial art brother Chris started pummeling my seventy-plus year old father when he first heard about it, this like years after my mother had died. She said it took both my brothers to pull Chris off Dad. No one has a solution to the problems in our family. Hundreds of thousands, millions of psychology students being churned out of Western universities the past five decades of my life and no one yet realizes the hallucinogenic quality of those molecules trickling into the bloodstream at puberty, only decades of word-salad from pathetic professors like Dan Dennett and Patricia Churchland.
On vacation with family and we're visiting the family of my Moms youngest sister Evelyn and uncle Art in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Just arrived at their house and not more than fifteen, twenty minutes of chewing the fat with my uncle, Dad, my three cousins, my brothers all hunkering at the kitchen table after the hour drive from Kalamazoo. Suddenly I listen to Aunt Evelyn's loud voice saying, "You're disgusting," and I turn from whomever to watch my aunt stepping up right beside and then past my father, looking at him while intoning in a louder voice for all to hear, "You're disgusting!" and she quickly steps out of the room. First thing my Moms did when we arrived was to inform her sister all the nasty my father has been doing to her, and the typical Roman Catholic response from my aunt was to heap public humiliation upon my father. My aunts response of Christian love only made matters worse. No one has words of wisdom for Moms. Moms is bugging out.
I'm surprised where they assigned me to work at Clinton Correctional Facility. Three and a half hours weekday mornings and afternoons I head on over to the pharmacy with full-time pharmacist Frank, part-time pharmacist and wife of a Clinton county judge Laurie, and secretary Sofia. Weekends, evenings are free time to read and contemplate passages in the Bible. I have no discussions with other fellow inmates with my Bible studies. Pensive silence from some inmates; parroted bible verses are the responses from others. I walk alone.
I have to ignore all these constant, blatant references towards subjects of sin, punishment, justification and righteousness. Paul is neurotic and bugs out on sin as if sin is the single most important aspect of God's nature. I'll gloss over and come back to them later I suppose. Because I did nothing to God. I didn't ask to be created, and simply stating matter-of-factly that I've "sinned" against God is an incredulous statement that one is somehow presuming to know the will, intentions, demeanor and purpose of God towards us, Its human creation. Paul was what he was, and his words and life are only words in a book to me now. But people today talk of the sin of Man to God as if past presumptions based on the thoughts of men written into the words of books almost three thousand years old must be true. Wow.
Passages of sin, justification by faith, blood of Jesus, etc., I gloss over and move on after the initial reading of them. I want to familiarize myself more with the structure of the bible and especially the culture, folkways, and norms of the times of Isaiah or Moses or Jesus as I read, to stoke and fuel my imagination. To engage my imagination with the realism of the times and the passages is what I want to do initially.
I have two categories where I'm placing the more notable biblical passages: events that happened and events that did not actually occur. Genesis and the story of creation did not happen as described, but the first verse of Genesis, "In the beginning God, …" is a very good seed-thought to set the theme for everything else that follows.
Formed maybe three thousand years ago, the book of Genesis is a collection of stories that were initially memorized by sages of the Jewish tribes, and spoken around campfires for generations until these oral traditions were set more or less in written form. These stories served a purpose I'll leave to the reader to imagine, and move on.
The wedding at Cana in the book of John I place in the category of Happened. The main reason it is placed here is the following: not much difficulty for me to place Genesis in the category of Not Happened because I understand the context for how and why this book and the following ones came to be. All the books after Genesis are historical or in some way bolster the legitimacy of future social structures that developed within the Jewish community. I'm not too keen on where Jewish traditions and religious rituals were intended to lead humanity as time rolled forward. My focus and attention while reading the Bible in State's prison is to establish credence or falsehood to passages concerning the person called Jesus.
Miracles for instance. First readings of these passages where Jesus performs miracles are unbelievable. They did not happen. But the wedding at Cana is written almost as if a news reporter of their times had written it. Other passages in the New Testament are written similarly, as if they're just stating the facts, with or without fluff. And I wonder … .
I toy with the notion for why would anyone or group of people concoct what is known as the New Testament. Months pass and the best answer I could bring to myself is to usurp the Jewish religious authorities of the time. The Pharisees and Sadducees administering the Temple had deemed heretical a group of Jews and ostracized them to some caves at Qumran perhaps, and now this group of Jews have cleverly concocted all these letters and tomes … fifty, sixty perhaps ninety years after the important events in the life of Jesus have occurred? Odd. But with this reason I'll be able to tell myself why a verse or passage is too goofy to believe actually happened and to place it in the Not Happened category. If I find enough verses during my readings or if I find the one smoking gun I will eventually come away with my readings of the Bible, for as long as I live, and opine with good reason to anyone who asks that the Bible is a collection of mythological nonsense.
Why would any group of Jews consider plausible that the passages of the wedding at Cana would sway others? The intentions of these hypothetical disgruntled Jews are to delegitimize the Jewish religious authorities of the times by placing belief and faith with this other Jewish guy named Jesus …? by completely bogus thoughts and writings such as this passage where Mary said to Jesus, "They have no more wine" ? Who would seriously believe writing such a thought would be somewhat instrumental with everything else these guys are concocting to bring credence to the grand intention of wrecking the authority of Jewish religious authorities of the time? Because the passages of the wedding at Cana don't fit in the Did Not Happened category, they must've happened. Think about it: all the New Testament passages are simply a concoction, or they actually did happen. One or the other. Black and white, cut and dried; inside one category or not. No if, ands, or buts.
Those miracles of Jesus I read of so often though. I would be quite irrational to believe a guy who is said to have walked upon this earth as I myself has had the capacity to circumvent the laws of nature through his volition simply because so many people say so.
The events as described at the wedding at Cana happened? Jesus' first public miracle at thirty-plus years of age? Before I fall asleep in my prison cell, many evenings for months I want to drift off before full-tilt slumber kicks in and imagine being there with Mary and Jesus and the others at this wedding. I want to mingle around and …? whoa …! I'm a fly on the wall watching Mary and Jesus alone, sitting on the floor they are by the fire inside their clay mud structure called home. Jesus pours something into Mary's wooden cup (where is Joseph? is the fleeting, passing wonder) and Mary swallows from the cup before speaking to Jesus. I can't hear what is said between the two now …, Mary sits up and upon her haunches and placing her cup on the table, hands on her lap she faces Jesus and listens to him speaking passionately about something. Jesus stops talking and they're looking at each other for moments until Jesus smiles– it's more of a smirk, in actuality. I wish I had a mind to hook up and to understand whatever they're saying now.
So it goes.
…, to be continued.