What to do when forty-two? When beaten, bent, and broken. Well... my friends sit round and smoke their weed... but me I'm not into toking. So what to do I'm asking you? Do I start again with nothing? Do I take up pen and scrawl of then and swear that I'm not bluffing? Should I plant a seed and suffer need at least until it grows? What bloom of plume could fill my gut when there's nought in the pot but prose?
Okay... now that I've described for you some of the physical events that I have experienced over the years it is time for the really hard part. It's time to attempt to explain extraphysical phenomenon which I have encountered. Things which by their very nature defy explanation.
I have some things to say, but before I do, I would like to make a disclaimer of sorts.
I fully realize how utterly and completely insane the following grandiloquence is going to sound. Furthermore I am aware that to say such things is to unequivocally invite the harshest types of criticism. However I can no more deny these things that have happened to me than I can deny the fact that I draw breath.
All right, here goes. About eight years ago I started experimenting with prayer out of sheer desperation. Having lots of questions in my head, I needed answers in a big way. Recently released from jail for the completely unprovoked stabbing of a friend. I was drug free for the first time in a long time and I was trying to make sense out of my life.
I prayed for love. I prayed for a family. I prayed for the chance to help make the world a better place. I prayed that I would be able to get a couple of alternative energy devices, that I invented, to market. I prayed for money and I prayed for answers.
Having only recently returned from a temporary drug induced psychosis, with which I was stricken in early 2002, I was obviously concerned when things started to get weird again. But it was a different sort of weird this time. A harmless and benevolent weird.
Somewhere along the line I started to notice that I seemed to be getting answers, in real-time, to questions that I would ask myself in my head. This wasn't like hallucinations... this was different. It's kinda tricky to explain.
Sometimes it's like someone else's thought's in my head. Other times I'll ask a question and immediately my attention will be drawn to a partially obscured sign, printed piece of paper, or other type of writing, so that the visible parts answer the respective query. Either that or from the voice of someone in close proximity, radio, or TV.
I know, I know, I told you it was crazy, but bare with me for just a second. The first few hundred times this happened I shook my head and dismissed it as purely coincidental. however this phenomenon eventually reached a point where the instances became so frequent that it became a statistical improbability for it to be either random or anomalous.
At this point I became rather concerned that I was either in the process of losing , or had already lost, my mind. I would remain in question of my sanity for a couple of years to come. Then one day it struck me.
My mother is a psychologist and, although I myself am not, I think I have some inkling as to what constitutes insanity. I seemed to be operating, pretty much, within the established parameters for normalcy.
I wasn't suffering from any hallucinations. The aberration would exhibit itself exclusively when sought. Ultimately there were no delusions, paranoia, or clandestine proclivities. A completely banal neurosis at most.
Although it existed exclusively within a microcosm, bordering the strange side of reality, my newfound, ambiguous, oracle didn't interfere with my ability to interact with the public. Nor was it the object of ceaseless fixation. It simply was.
Nevertheless, to my way of thinking, this was just plain old nuts. In spite of my obvious discomfort with this enigmatic prognostication I decided that some level of scientificish exploration was mandated. Sort of like a litmus test for the intangible.
Even using the most stringent possible controls, under ideal conditions, any results extracted from the rigamarole would be subjective at best. All I could do was look for some semblance of order amidst the chaos. I would just have to hope that serendipity might subdue the surreptitious and evanescent nature of this particular jaberwocky long enough for me to photograph it's shadow.
What I came up with was sketchy at best. I would devise a few questions and then ask them a predetermined number of times at random intervals over the course of a few days and record the results if any. The resulting data could then be appraised for abnormal symmetry.
I figured that the baseline for what should be considered as normal would be a complete lack of consistency. It seemed to me that anything else would be indicative of unusual phenomena. I realize that this is really pretty far removed from what you could justly label as scientific but it was all I could come up with.
Furthermore it seemed logical that questions that made sense should return the same results as questions that didn't. I would require a series of queries that were logical and a series that were illogical. If this was...
ya know what? Go ahead and just forget everything you just read. I'm not going to take the time to erase it but... just forget it... okay? Also you might wanna plug your ears if you're bothered by cursing because ya know what... fuck this shit. I'm tired of candy coating this crap. So I'm gonna just come out and say it... I have conversations with the big guy. Thats right I converse with god. I initiate the exchange and he answers my questions. Well for the most part anyway... that's how it works.
You know what I'm doing here right? I'm writing. You know why I'm writing? I'm writing because a few months ago I was sitting in my mom's garage ( that's where I've been dwelling ) with snot and tears running down my face. I was sobbing because I was penniless broke and I missed my family.
Between sobs I was saying "what the fuck am I supposed to do?" "HUH?" "what am I supposed to do?" to which God responded by saying "write." I didn't understand the response so I said "what?" and again I was told "write a book." I said "let me get this straight... you want me to write a book?" he answered "yes."
My sobs now combined with a kind of sick sarcastic laughter. So I asked "what should I say?" "should I write about that I talk to god?" "hmmm?" "do you want me to write about how I was a junkie?" "or about how I laughed when I saw a couple of emaciated rottweilers eating a human leg on the side of a house where I used to go to score drugs?" He said "yes."
I said "I can't say stuff like that or people will think I'm crazy." God answered "you're right, some will." I said "if I write about the things that you tell me I'm going to piss people off."
God answered and said "just tell your story... leave nothing out." He said "some people will think you're crazy, some will be pissed off and some will hate you." "but" he said "also people will believe you." "some will be thrilled and some will love you."
He said "you will be called a heretic, a blasphemer, a prophet, a liar, a sage, a comedian, a fool, and many other things both good and bad." Then he says "don't be afraid." "quit smoking, quit drinking, and write." "Oh yes" he says "and you might take a bullet."
I continued my argument by saying that no one will ever read the stupid book even if I do write it. I am an ex-junkie with an eighth grade education. I'm not a writer and I will never get published. And furthermore what does this have to do with being able to provide for my family?
Take a bullet? What you mean like getting shot? "Yes..." he answered "maybe..." "don't worry about it... don't be afraid." "and start exercising." "get into shape, stay healthy, and you will probably live a long life."
God continued on by telling me not to worry about publishing. He said just write it, post it on the internet. Then he said just keep the cursing to a minimum and write. In time your book will be published world wide and become one of the best selling books of all time.
After this discourse with the almighty was finished I cried for a few more minutes. Obviously I was completely bonkers but I figured I might as well try it. I was a forty one year old loser, unemployed for almost three years, living in my mothers garage... I had nothing to loose. So I started writing.
That was a few months ago. Not to be cynical or anything but it doesn't seem to be working. I'm eleven chapters deep now and basically no one seems to be reading it. Whats more I'm basically out of time. I was notified that at the end of June I have to move out of my mothers garage. No more laptop... no more writing.
I cant do homeless again. I've been saving cans and plastic bottles so that at the end of the month I can afford to buy two, six inch long pieces of externally threaded ½ schedule 40 metal pipe and a box of twenty-gauge shotgun shells. If something doesn't work out I'm planning to rig up a crude but effective homemade shotgun and blow my head off.
God says shame on me for thinking like that. He says that I'm not allowed to kill myself because I have a job to do. He says not to worry.
Well... thats all fine and good but the reality of the situation is that God's not the one whose faced with living under a freeway overpass... I am. Gods not the one who's been crying every day for the last three years because he can't take care of his family... I am. God's not the one with the shotgun.