The Great Depression pushed the young men of my home town away; some went to the Civilian Conservation Corps and a great many (including my uncles) retreated to the local river camps.
The people in town called the men who went to water "River Rats" and I guess you could say that their behavior mimicked that furry creature; industriously they worked to gather refuse for shelter, took advantage of the bounty nature provided, and in this way survived until fortune carried them home.
From the woods and farm field dumps they gathered material to construct their small shacks and shanties.
Some built floating barges that carried them through other river towns, looking for work while sustaining themselves on fish, turtle, beaver, and musk rat.
Tin and canvas roofs sheltered them from the rain and snow that fell. Tar paper, battened boards, and rough hewn logs blocked the wind.
Deadfall wood, burning in the oil drum stoves, provided the heat that warmed them and cooked their meals that were gathered from the river and it's banks.
The workday commenced before the sky began to glow through the trees; they waded through the river checking traps and trout lines. As the sun drew the wind to the east, rifles report echoed through the bottoms; squirrels, raccoons, deer, and birds were harvested.
Fishing with poles and traps continued through the day as well as the gathering of spring water, dandelion greens, wild onion, chicory, berries, persimmons, pawpaws, roots, and nuts.
Excess was traded and sometimes sold in the town square for sundries that could not be acquired naturally.
They were looked upon with jest and scorn for their rudimentary ways of living, but they were indebted to nothing except their basic human needs.
Hunger and the need for shelter was satiated by will and the knowledge of what our earth provides, free of charge.
My uncles "Made Do" and survived to thrive. They passed on their knowledge of the creeks and rivers to all that would listen.
I’ll end this by sharing their advice;
"If it’s tough out there, Make Do."
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Ghost in the Machine
A Dream in Winter, 96’
The great northern forest was hushed by dense, falling snow.
The snow, as a fog, seemed to separate me from the innumerable, tall, dark, pines that faded into the white distance.Solitarily, in pairs, and in groups, a great many owls fluttered and glided over me in silence; passing through the fog and into the distance, gradually filling the lower branches of the ghostly pines as far as I could see.
The owls shook the snow from their feathers as they preened, without notice of me.
I knew that one of them was my father. And I knew that he was home, without memory of horror, and without pain.
From the depths, dreams are delivered;
shifting and tumbling through the mire, gaining speed as pressures subside,they make their way to the surface.
Contours flash, surfaces glow, and substance is revealed as their journey nears the light of consciousness.
Images of objects and places, unknowingly stored in the recesses of the mind, are selected, assembled, pieced together, encrypted for the recipient, and jettisoned from fathoms below.
These messages, written in the language of the soul, are communicated and in darkness they take shape in a myriad of forms:
secret, as the whispering breath of a lover to the ear, warm, sweet, and sublime;
horrid, thrown before one, howling, gnashing, and biting like an animal caged;
welcomed, like a nudge to the ribs from a childhood friend.
These flickering moments are artfully crafted to expose the workings of the heart; unveiling condition, reaction, and intent.
The aged majority are from a familiar library and the necessity of their delivery is understood.
But some, a rare few, speak from other volumes and are parcels, not of my own.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
A Well Remembered, George Gadd
My daughter was seven years of age when she wrote to me the following note;
Some things should never be forgotten.
My father, George Gadd, was born into a dirt poor family on October 1st, 1939.
His father was a veteran of The Great War. As a child, his mother had sailed the Atlantic Ocean from Portugal to Hawaii.
His parents courted while on the island, were married, and soon sailed to The States.
They moved into a board and batten shack in "Bucktown" on the south end of town.
Alcohol was my grandfathers remedy for the troubles that ruled that era and his hands channeled frustration upon his family.
George was twelve when he was turned out upon the streets. His mother had fallen to a cancer and his father to another woman with other children.
George delivered groceries throughout the town and for a time lodged with an older brother; the brothers wife would skim the greater part of George’s pay and lock him from the home during weekend revelries.
George began to hide a portion of his weekly pay and eventually purchased an old car that would serve as his home until he graduated high school.
Upon graduating from high school he married and began Tool and Die trade school.
He and his wife began to fill their lives with children, but the full family he had hoped for would slip through his fingers as disease and death stole them away.
He labored with mind, muscle, sweat, and tears. Prayers poured from his soul, and still, life faded.
He held closely to five of his children as they passed from this world and left behind a loving father who groaned in great agony.
He pounded his days away from dark of morning to dark of night to cover his family responsibilities and never failed to extend himself to others, where needed; he paid for the education of employees that wanted to improve themselves, posted bail for their youthful mistakes, and counseled them on the definition of father and husband.
We were grievously insulted when we learned of his imminent death.
My remaining brother and I were at his home helping him with plumbing the bathroom.
He departed for the hardware store, a place he had been to many, many times before.
He returned hours later and secluded himself in the living room, holding his head, swaying in his chair, and weeping.
He had spent the previous hours in confusion trying to find his way home.
A tumor was found in his brain that night and he began the end of his journey with death.
During his final years he would experience every malady his children had experienced; surgery, medication, radiation, chemotherapy, infection, weakness, confusion, dementia, spinal meningitis, and finally death.
He parceled out what remained of his life, day after day; he gave his all, all of the time. He spoke with compassion, helped where he could with weakened hands, and offered a selfless love to all that would accept.
In the Fall of his last year, my wife and I drove to visit him at his home, arriving late, we found a note, "Took George to the hospital."
He had awakened from a nap in great pain, believing he had been shot in the head. He was lost in extreme pain and could not be comforted.
By his screams, I found him in the emergency room of the hospital. " My feet are on fire!! Fix my head!! Help me!! Oh, God help me!!" The doctors would not administer any pain medication for fear of masking symptoms of neurological problems. Their decision was to ship him to a larger medical center.
The ambulance was filled with his screams.
Magnetic images showed fluid on his brain and a spinal tap confirmed spinal meningitis.
Mercifully he fell into unconsciousness and into a coma, never to utter coherent words again.
I spent the following weeks at the hospital. On December 16th my mother called for my support in removing my dad from the machines that were keeping him alive.
I agreed to let him go.
He slipped away quietly one labored breath at a time on December 19th.
For years I removed family memories from thought. After living through their suffering, their absence became a respite from the turmoil.
I am finally able to remember them and choose to do so. Like prospects in a pan, the horror is washing away in waves and the gold in them is shinning through.
My father was an amazing soul. From birth, mountains of chaos were shoveled upon him. He was battered continuously, had futures torn, was physically afflicted, but always, without a single curse on his lips, chose the high ground.
In this state he lives on;
A well remembered, George Gadd
His father was a veteran of The Great War. As a child, his mother had sailed the Atlantic Ocean from Portugal to Hawaii.
His parents courted while on the island, were married, and soon sailed to The States.
They moved into a board and batten shack in "Bucktown" on the south end of town.
Alcohol was my grandfathers remedy for the troubles that ruled that era and his hands channeled frustration upon his family.
George was twelve when he was turned out upon the streets. His mother had fallen to a cancer and his father to another woman with other children.
George delivered groceries throughout the town and for a time lodged with an older brother; the brothers wife would skim the greater part of George’s pay and lock him from the home during weekend revelries.
George began to hide a portion of his weekly pay and eventually purchased an old car that would serve as his home until he graduated high school.
Upon graduating from high school he married and began Tool and Die trade school.
He and his wife began to fill their lives with children, but the full family he had hoped for would slip through his fingers as disease and death stole them away.
He labored with mind, muscle, sweat, and tears. Prayers poured from his soul, and still, life faded.
He held closely to five of his children as they passed from this world and left behind a loving father who groaned in great agony.
He pounded his days away from dark of morning to dark of night to cover his family responsibilities and never failed to extend himself to others, where needed; he paid for the education of employees that wanted to improve themselves, posted bail for their youthful mistakes, and counseled them on the definition of father and husband.
We were grievously insulted when we learned of his imminent death.
My remaining brother and I were at his home helping him with plumbing the bathroom.
He departed for the hardware store, a place he had been to many, many times before.
He returned hours later and secluded himself in the living room, holding his head, swaying in his chair, and weeping.
He had spent the previous hours in confusion trying to find his way home.
A tumor was found in his brain that night and he began the end of his journey with death.
During his final years he would experience every malady his children had experienced; surgery, medication, radiation, chemotherapy, infection, weakness, confusion, dementia, spinal meningitis, and finally death.
He parceled out what remained of his life, day after day; he gave his all, all of the time. He spoke with compassion, helped where he could with weakened hands, and offered a selfless love to all that would accept.
In the Fall of his last year, my wife and I drove to visit him at his home, arriving late, we found a note, "Took George to the hospital."
He had awakened from a nap in great pain, believing he had been shot in the head. He was lost in extreme pain and could not be comforted.
By his screams, I found him in the emergency room of the hospital. " My feet are on fire!! Fix my head!! Help me!! Oh, God help me!!" The doctors would not administer any pain medication for fear of masking symptoms of neurological problems. Their decision was to ship him to a larger medical center.
The ambulance was filled with his screams.
Magnetic images showed fluid on his brain and a spinal tap confirmed spinal meningitis.
Mercifully he fell into unconsciousness and into a coma, never to utter coherent words again.
I spent the following weeks at the hospital. On December 16th my mother called for my support in removing my dad from the machines that were keeping him alive.
I agreed to let him go.
He slipped away quietly one labored breath at a time on December 19th.
For years I removed family memories from thought. After living through their suffering, their absence became a respite from the turmoil.
I am finally able to remember them and choose to do so. Like prospects in a pan, the horror is washing away in waves and the gold in them is shinning through.
My father was an amazing soul. From birth, mountains of chaos were shoveled upon him. He was battered continuously, had futures torn, was physically afflicted, but always, without a single curse on his lips, chose the high ground.
In this state he lives on;
A well remembered, George Gadd
Friday, October 3, 2008
Among the Living
I observe the Canadian geese on the river behind our house.
Some of them are without mates, through predation, age, or disease. The ones without walk among the others, calling while shaking their heads, continually searching the distance for the return of those they are bound to. Their days are without end and their voices are withered by want of those lost.
I have been among the missing.
26 January 98
04:30
I left her standing on the cold wood floor of our living room. Her arms were crossed, trying to hold in the anger, pain, and hopelessness. My daughter was sleeping in her room upstairs. The remains of what I once was had been packed into boxes and slid into the far away corners of the attic.
There was no guarantee of my return.
I slowly closed the door and stepped into the cold dark of morning to bring an end to my path.
We met when I was thirteen and she was fifteen; years later, we bound ourselves, one to the other. Unknowingly she had also bound herself to a heart that was marred from darkness.
Below the surface, of what she had known me to be, was damage that I could not repair myself.
I was saturated with depression; like fresh tar, it had crept from the earth into my shoes, onto my back, around my heart, and into my mind.
With all of the love within her she tried to wash it from me, but it would not go away. With tears and words she called to me, but was answered by echoes.
My experiences with death and dying were treated like obstructions on a path; I dodged them, crawled over them, and put them behind me, out of sight and mind.
I refused to give time or space to these incidents and did everything I could to physically separate myself from the perceived weakness of my family members and the horror that surrounded them.
I had little compassion for my siblings that were ill. Their illness drew attention to my family and validated the fact that we were weak and dying.
Compassion was the channel that could have drained the building waters of grief and darkness, but I was selfish and turned my face from the immediate pain.
I managed, poorly, to contain the darkness for years; the memories pressed and manifested themselves in destructive activities. Desperately I built the retention walls higher and deeper, effectively occluding myself from the love and compassion around me, I prepared no thoughts for the morrow and laughed when friends spoke of planning a future.
I did not expect to live long. Every headache or eye twitch made me question and discern; when will the seizures come, am I harboring the disease, is the sickness growing in my brain, pushing cells and synapses, making it’s nest, setting it’s defenses against chemotherapy, radiation, and scalpels?
I expected, daily, an early end to this life. I believed, I would be reunited with my family long before I reached maturity.
But, there was a quantity that would eventually ruin my wall and allow those deep dark waters to overwhelm me.
In the fabric of my body it was quietly working; from conception it ticked and whirred, suppressing the illness that had surrounded me and taken my loved ones, one by one.
There it sat, functioning properly, culling cells that could grow radically and form cancerous tumors. Permeating my flesh, it was keeping me alive.
After my fathers death I volunteered for genetic testing and a few weeks later held in my hands the business size envelope that would be the ruin of my expected demise.
I tested negative for Li-Fraumeni Syndrome. In my genetic code, Gene P-53 was not mutated.
Gene P-53 is important in multicellular organisms where it regulates the cell cycle and thus functions as a tumor suppresser that is involved in preventing cancer. As such, P-53 has been described as "the guardian of the genome," "the guardian angel gene," and the "master watchman," referring to its role in conserving stability by preventing genome mutation.
Elvis left the building.
The train I had packed so dearly for passage on, departed with all aboard but me.
I was suddenly separated from my birth family. I was not marked as they were and therefor not accepted.
A chasm formed between us because I was found unworthy.
The waters I had contained breached my wall and carried me towards the chasm. My baggage was strewn and there was hell to pay.
I could no longer hold the deafening memories as they bore down upon me.
The memories perforated may days, interrupting my work, and raged at night through the quiet.
I could not suppress them with alcohol or counselors. The promises of the good in life could not tame them.
The more I attempted to befriend them, the stronger they became.
I could not swim their currents.
In despair I succumbed to their tides and drifted further from my wife and daughter.
I dove for the deep in search of silence and peace.
I sought my physical destruction.
If death would not come for me, I would search for him. On my terms.
When I walked out on my wife and daughter I engaged death through the military and life as a soldier. I volunteered, trained, and prayed for war, but death was elusive.
Through the daily challenges of preparing for war I eventually found the surface of my life; after distancing myself from the physical haunts and connections of my history I was afforded the opportunity to heal.
In a way I was born again, and as a castaway coming to rest on a pebble strewn shore that is washed with clear water and bright sunshine, I was able to stand with a clear mind.
Some of them are without mates, through predation, age, or disease. The ones without walk among the others, calling while shaking their heads, continually searching the distance for the return of those they are bound to. Their days are without end and their voices are withered by want of those lost.
I have been among the missing.
26 January 98
04:30
I left her standing on the cold wood floor of our living room. Her arms were crossed, trying to hold in the anger, pain, and hopelessness. My daughter was sleeping in her room upstairs. The remains of what I once was had been packed into boxes and slid into the far away corners of the attic.
There was no guarantee of my return.
I slowly closed the door and stepped into the cold dark of morning to bring an end to my path.
We met when I was thirteen and she was fifteen; years later, we bound ourselves, one to the other. Unknowingly she had also bound herself to a heart that was marred from darkness.
Below the surface, of what she had known me to be, was damage that I could not repair myself.
I was saturated with depression; like fresh tar, it had crept from the earth into my shoes, onto my back, around my heart, and into my mind.
With all of the love within her she tried to wash it from me, but it would not go away. With tears and words she called to me, but was answered by echoes.
My experiences with death and dying were treated like obstructions on a path; I dodged them, crawled over them, and put them behind me, out of sight and mind.
I refused to give time or space to these incidents and did everything I could to physically separate myself from the perceived weakness of my family members and the horror that surrounded them.
I had little compassion for my siblings that were ill. Their illness drew attention to my family and validated the fact that we were weak and dying.
Compassion was the channel that could have drained the building waters of grief and darkness, but I was selfish and turned my face from the immediate pain.
I managed, poorly, to contain the darkness for years; the memories pressed and manifested themselves in destructive activities. Desperately I built the retention walls higher and deeper, effectively occluding myself from the love and compassion around me, I prepared no thoughts for the morrow and laughed when friends spoke of planning a future.
I did not expect to live long. Every headache or eye twitch made me question and discern; when will the seizures come, am I harboring the disease, is the sickness growing in my brain, pushing cells and synapses, making it’s nest, setting it’s defenses against chemotherapy, radiation, and scalpels?
I expected, daily, an early end to this life. I believed, I would be reunited with my family long before I reached maturity.
But, there was a quantity that would eventually ruin my wall and allow those deep dark waters to overwhelm me.
In the fabric of my body it was quietly working; from conception it ticked and whirred, suppressing the illness that had surrounded me and taken my loved ones, one by one.
There it sat, functioning properly, culling cells that could grow radically and form cancerous tumors. Permeating my flesh, it was keeping me alive.
After my fathers death I volunteered for genetic testing and a few weeks later held in my hands the business size envelope that would be the ruin of my expected demise.
I tested negative for Li-Fraumeni Syndrome. In my genetic code, Gene P-53 was not mutated.
Gene P-53 is important in multicellular organisms where it regulates the cell cycle and thus functions as a tumor suppresser that is involved in preventing cancer. As such, P-53 has been described as "the guardian of the genome," "the guardian angel gene," and the "master watchman," referring to its role in conserving stability by preventing genome mutation.
Elvis left the building.
The train I had packed so dearly for passage on, departed with all aboard but me.
I was suddenly separated from my birth family. I was not marked as they were and therefor not accepted.
A chasm formed between us because I was found unworthy.
The waters I had contained breached my wall and carried me towards the chasm. My baggage was strewn and there was hell to pay.
I could no longer hold the deafening memories as they bore down upon me.
The memories perforated may days, interrupting my work, and raged at night through the quiet.
I could not suppress them with alcohol or counselors. The promises of the good in life could not tame them.
The more I attempted to befriend them, the stronger they became.
I could not swim their currents.
In despair I succumbed to their tides and drifted further from my wife and daughter.
I dove for the deep in search of silence and peace.
I sought my physical destruction.
If death would not come for me, I would search for him. On my terms.
When I walked out on my wife and daughter I engaged death through the military and life as a soldier. I volunteered, trained, and prayed for war, but death was elusive.
Through the daily challenges of preparing for war I eventually found the surface of my life; after distancing myself from the physical haunts and connections of my history I was afforded the opportunity to heal.
In a way I was born again, and as a castaway coming to rest on a pebble strewn shore that is washed with clear water and bright sunshine, I was able to stand with a clear mind.
Through it all the love of my life followed me and continually held my daughter to me; as the din of the pain slowly subsided I heard her impassioned calls and began my return.
Being alive has been difficult to accept, but I have come to terms with my history and I am now enjoying my life and all that it holds. I owe a great debt to my wife and daughter for holding tightly to me through the darkness. I continue to miss my siblings and my father very much and hopefully, in some way, I can honor them for the strength that I gained from walking next to them.
Maybe the best way to thank them is to span the void between us by living a long life filled with the fortunes they were not afforded.
I am fortunate, thankful, and once again, among the living.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Earn your keep
I have spent too many days scraping to acquire.
Out of a sense of loss and privation I have scrounged and coveted.
I have requested quarter, but given none.
I have reaped the harvests of others only to transport them to strangers.
My actions of hoarding and heaping have been perpetuated when I have looked to my stores and found them empty.
My life has been a market; I have lacked value and sold myself short, day after day.
My hands are my most valuable tools, but unfortunately they have been as sieves and whatever monetary gain I have attempted to grasp has blistered my hands and covered my feet like grime.
I am worn from want. I can no longer live negatively.
I have never experienced monetary excess, but my years of clawing for it have racked me with experience, character, talent, love, and blessings; I don’t have room for these intangible items anymore. My bank is full of this form of wealth and it is time to pay out.
I will divulge.
I will bless.
I will pardon.
I will accept.
I will value.
I will rest.
And maybe, in this manner, earn my keep.
Out of a sense of loss and privation I have scrounged and coveted.
I have requested quarter, but given none.
I have reaped the harvests of others only to transport them to strangers.
My actions of hoarding and heaping have been perpetuated when I have looked to my stores and found them empty.
My life has been a market; I have lacked value and sold myself short, day after day.
My hands are my most valuable tools, but unfortunately they have been as sieves and whatever monetary gain I have attempted to grasp has blistered my hands and covered my feet like grime.
I am worn from want. I can no longer live negatively.
I have never experienced monetary excess, but my years of clawing for it have racked me with experience, character, talent, love, and blessings; I don’t have room for these intangible items anymore. My bank is full of this form of wealth and it is time to pay out.
I will divulge.
I will bless.
I will pardon.
I will accept.
I will value.
I will rest.
And maybe, in this manner, earn my keep.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Into Night
The sun set ablaze the fog and dust that settled above the brown cornfields as it mingled with the crisp air in the autumn sky.
We were bathed in the odors of wood smoke and harvest and surrounded by the golden light of September.
The cool winds of the day buffeted us as we were bounced around in the back of the old green truck, rambling and grumbling down the tar coated gravel roads.
Earlier we had fought for ownership of the trucks wheel well housings; we all knew that they afforded the best view and offered the bed rail to hold on to. The smaller of us normally found ourselves sitting with our backs to the cab where the fine particles of dirt, churned by the wind, would sting our faces.
The feeling of defeat was not lasting.
As the glowing colors of evening turned to a dark starry night, the temperature dropped and bastions of fog silently assembled from field to road in efforts to reclaim their taken ground.
Danny and Carrie held positions of windswept sentry and we younger and smaller huddled for warmth behind them, covering our cold, aching ears.
Hurtling into the night.
You don’t always have the opportunity to choose the souls that journey with you through this life.
There is no guarantee of the person’s quality, or that all of you will endure and arrive at the same end.
We are all fragments of the same stone; separated, sorted, and faceted. Each, ground and polished over time to different degrees. Tumbling like gems on dark velvet, turning and resting, for a time, as light and color are captured and reflected.
Each one of us is comprised of what the other is missing; possessing for the other a memory of what we once were and the knowledge of what we can be; searching for purchase and acceptance, like so many keys for so many locks.
Where are you?
What do you need from me?
I will reach for you,
as we pass in the night.
We were bathed in the odors of wood smoke and harvest and surrounded by the golden light of September.
The cool winds of the day buffeted us as we were bounced around in the back of the old green truck, rambling and grumbling down the tar coated gravel roads.
Earlier we had fought for ownership of the trucks wheel well housings; we all knew that they afforded the best view and offered the bed rail to hold on to. The smaller of us normally found ourselves sitting with our backs to the cab where the fine particles of dirt, churned by the wind, would sting our faces.
The feeling of defeat was not lasting.
As the glowing colors of evening turned to a dark starry night, the temperature dropped and bastions of fog silently assembled from field to road in efforts to reclaim their taken ground.
Danny and Carrie held positions of windswept sentry and we younger and smaller huddled for warmth behind them, covering our cold, aching ears.
Hurtling into the night.
You don’t always have the opportunity to choose the souls that journey with you through this life.
There is no guarantee of the person’s quality, or that all of you will endure and arrive at the same end.
We are all fragments of the same stone; separated, sorted, and faceted. Each, ground and polished over time to different degrees. Tumbling like gems on dark velvet, turning and resting, for a time, as light and color are captured and reflected.
Each one of us is comprised of what the other is missing; possessing for the other a memory of what we once were and the knowledge of what we can be; searching for purchase and acceptance, like so many keys for so many locks.
Where are you?
What do you need from me?
I will reach for you,
as we pass in the night.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Coyote
10 April 2008, 21:32
The team of coyotes padded South off of the blacktop road and down into the wet grass of the ditch bottom.
Pausing, they glanced over their shoulders, through the drizzle and into the dark of where they came.
The wet shadows of the night covered them as they continued on their fog entrenched path. Leaving only silence and an image seared upon the mind and soul.
Every one has a path to tread through this life; mine was marked before I was born.
My father had a dream years before my birth. The dream was filled with dark and dread. From the dark, an image of a boy formed and was given the name Lamech. A second boy appeared from the gloom and was named Amalek. I am the second boy born to may father after that dream and am named Amalek
"The Lord will have war with Amalek from generation to generation."
At an early age I found this scripture while sitting on a pew in the local Pentecostal cult that we were members of.
I knew about the dream and had the name so I took what was written to heart and wished I hadn't been born.
Amalek: Warlike; Dweller in the valley.
I was immersed in that religion for eighteen years. Spiritually I tried to reconcile my dark birth by repenting, speaking in tongues, praying, memorizing my bible, and separating myself from the things of this world. I tried to be "In the world, but not of the world." as the pastor said I should be.
But, I still never measured up to all of the 'saints' around me. I knew I could never be as close to God as all of the white haired elders who spoke in the tongues of angels.
After all, I was born to be rubbed out and never brought to mind again by the chosen people of God.
During these years my brothers and sisters fell around me. But, I survived, waiting for God to fall upon me with 'all, consuming fire.'
When my father was dying he recounted the dream and the dread that it was filled with. He was impressed with the accuracy of the dream; out of the dark, dread, and death that had stalked his family he had been given two sons that would continue. Two healthy sons who don't carry the mutated gene that killed his other children.
My father left this world and with him went many of the difficult life situations that had kept my heart and mind alive. The era of emergency, critical decisions, camaraderie, and adrenalin was over. My soul was empty; I was a cavernous well-shaft that had been propped and braced with rotting timbers and fissured stone. My heart was a vacuum and as it strained to pull the ceiling down I began to follow a dark trail of self destruction. I sought the occupation of a warrior. I chose to meet God on my terms.
It is insanity, but so often necessary to close the doors on so many memories; good and bad are sickly laced with an ache that radiates out of my skin. It is a fragmented life, a partial being, an incomplete person that needs to clip out, tear off, and utterly remove portions of his life to take further steps to continue a path in life.
I have robbed other people in my life by being so incomplete….
Who reached into my soul and hollowed me, who scraped the insides of me and left the cavernous well of empty…….
Did a God do this? "Ask anything of Me, I will give it….." What you want, I will give, I will make it so…..Ask anything of me, I will grant it….." "….. Guide my feet, take me, Guide my feet……"
I chose the hard ways, the tough and the bitter. I volunteered for the arduous, the dark, the wet, and the dirty. I pressed the veil that separates this world from the next.
I pressured that old God to meet me, but he pushed back and obscured my fields of fire.
I cursed him and sharpened my knives.
I authored my operation order and he let me run my reconnaissance behind enemy lines.
I prepared the field of battle and he sowed it with poppy's.
I was born again, hard. Hardened by my enemy.
I chose a path that in my mind was far different from the one I had been taught to walk, far removed from the way that I was raised.
I searched for destruction, but found healing.
My years as a soldier repaired my heart and mind. I educated and strengthened myself, I buried the parts of me that were dead, and I gained innumerable brothers in arms.
I have met my God and have accepted my name.
I have accepted who I am and what I was formed to be.
Looking over the years, I can see where I have been and I can see how seamlessly my path had been directed.
I have become what I was born to be; I am a living promise to a father, a human article of war, and I have walked in the valley, in the shadows of death.
My path continues. The waters are sweet, the grass is plentiful, and I fear no evil.
The team of coyotes padded South off of the blacktop road and down into the wet grass of the ditch bottom.
Pausing, they glanced over their shoulders, through the drizzle and into the dark of where they came.
The wet shadows of the night covered them as they continued on their fog entrenched path. Leaving only silence and an image seared upon the mind and soul.
Every one has a path to tread through this life; mine was marked before I was born.
My father had a dream years before my birth. The dream was filled with dark and dread. From the dark, an image of a boy formed and was given the name Lamech. A second boy appeared from the gloom and was named Amalek. I am the second boy born to may father after that dream and am named Amalek
"The Lord will have war with Amalek from generation to generation."
At an early age I found this scripture while sitting on a pew in the local Pentecostal cult that we were members of.
I knew about the dream and had the name so I took what was written to heart and wished I hadn't been born.
Amalek: Warlike; Dweller in the valley.
I was immersed in that religion for eighteen years. Spiritually I tried to reconcile my dark birth by repenting, speaking in tongues, praying, memorizing my bible, and separating myself from the things of this world. I tried to be "In the world, but not of the world." as the pastor said I should be.
But, I still never measured up to all of the 'saints' around me. I knew I could never be as close to God as all of the white haired elders who spoke in the tongues of angels.
After all, I was born to be rubbed out and never brought to mind again by the chosen people of God.
During these years my brothers and sisters fell around me. But, I survived, waiting for God to fall upon me with 'all, consuming fire.'
When my father was dying he recounted the dream and the dread that it was filled with. He was impressed with the accuracy of the dream; out of the dark, dread, and death that had stalked his family he had been given two sons that would continue. Two healthy sons who don't carry the mutated gene that killed his other children.
My father left this world and with him went many of the difficult life situations that had kept my heart and mind alive. The era of emergency, critical decisions, camaraderie, and adrenalin was over. My soul was empty; I was a cavernous well-shaft that had been propped and braced with rotting timbers and fissured stone. My heart was a vacuum and as it strained to pull the ceiling down I began to follow a dark trail of self destruction. I sought the occupation of a warrior. I chose to meet God on my terms.
It is insanity, but so often necessary to close the doors on so many memories; good and bad are sickly laced with an ache that radiates out of my skin. It is a fragmented life, a partial being, an incomplete person that needs to clip out, tear off, and utterly remove portions of his life to take further steps to continue a path in life.
I have robbed other people in my life by being so incomplete….
Who reached into my soul and hollowed me, who scraped the insides of me and left the cavernous well of empty…….
Did a God do this? "Ask anything of Me, I will give it….." What you want, I will give, I will make it so…..Ask anything of me, I will grant it….." "….. Guide my feet, take me, Guide my feet……"
I chose the hard ways, the tough and the bitter. I volunteered for the arduous, the dark, the wet, and the dirty. I pressed the veil that separates this world from the next.
I pressured that old God to meet me, but he pushed back and obscured my fields of fire.
I cursed him and sharpened my knives.
I authored my operation order and he let me run my reconnaissance behind enemy lines.
I prepared the field of battle and he sowed it with poppy's.
I was born again, hard. Hardened by my enemy.
I chose a path that in my mind was far different from the one I had been taught to walk, far removed from the way that I was raised.
I searched for destruction, but found healing.
My years as a soldier repaired my heart and mind. I educated and strengthened myself, I buried the parts of me that were dead, and I gained innumerable brothers in arms.
I have met my God and have accepted my name.
I have accepted who I am and what I was formed to be.
Looking over the years, I can see where I have been and I can see how seamlessly my path had been directed.
I have become what I was born to be; I am a living promise to a father, a human article of war, and I have walked in the valley, in the shadows of death.
My path continues. The waters are sweet, the grass is plentiful, and I fear no evil.
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