Fear @ MindSay

I can barely speak, breath

For the fear of rejection

I hardly whisper a thought

 

Walking through my front door

Starts the cycle for the day

The worries, the preoccupation

Few are the seconds that can pass

With my fears filling them

 

Irrational and rational

The reality and imagined

All are worth my time and anxiousness

All of them receive them each in equal parts

 

Laying down at nights

Does not end the torrent

The night has its monsters

My sheets are not sanctuary

Nor an asylum

Back home in Lenawee County, Michigan while in "... pursuit of [my] happiness" after due thought and consideration being given to what such, my happiness, was for me I have been reported to law enforcement authorities, followed, watched, pulled over, detained and advised by city police and county sheriff deputies that "you have every constitutional right to be doing what you are doing but we have complaints about you doing what you are doing."

 

What I had been doing was lawfully picketing a fascist enterprise which I kinda did not like too much.

 

The question arose:  Why was not the complainant told of my constitutional right to do what I was doing and told to "shut ta fuck up and get used to it 'cause he will be back"?

 

However, maybe I will not be back. Maybe I will fore go my vow to not back down. My resolve has greatly dimmed in my three years of self-imposed exile from intolerable tyranny in AUSPONA.

 

Here, now on the coast of China I live with angst, great doubt and even fear around the prospect of returning home. I find that just the idea of, let alone the plans and efforts needed to return home so daunting that thoughts of suicide begin to reoccur in my mind.

 

Such feelings are compounded by the realization that there is no place to run to now that the ultimate sanctuary from where "...government OF THE PEOPLE, BY THE PEOPLE, and FOR THE PEOPLE" was sancrosant is now the place where such political philosophy is demeaned, discarded, discredited and disenfranchised by George W. Bush as being foolishly codified on "that Goddamn piece of paper".       Namaste, David

After work on Wednesday drove out to the church to pick up the music for this Sunday's service. The worship leader didn't have the music ready on CD but she had the sheet music printed out for me. I play mostly by ear, I can't read worth a lick. She told me I could find the songs on ITunes or Amazon, which I did, but wasn't sure if they were in the right key. I practiced them anyway, there were 6 songs to learn, and I didn't have the chance to work on them until Friday night because of my busy work week. I got frustrated and concerned I wasn't learning the songs in the right key, but I didn't worry about it much because I knew Sunday I was only practicing with the Worship Team, not playing for the service. I figured the bugs could be worked out in the coming weeks and I'd be ready when I was called upon to play.

 

Practice started at 8am this morning, so I was up at 6 so I wouldn't be rushed and would arrive in plenty of time. I felt nervous, scared.....wondering aloud to God.....would I get involved in another church again, be part of a Worship Team only to sabotage it later like I've done over and over in the past? What would really be different this time?

 

Is this all for real or was I playing Mr. Christian again?

 

I proceeded to get ready and loaded my equipment and headed out for the 25 minute drive. I felt the anxiety melt away as I drove, listening to Mat Kearney on CD. I knew in my mind all the questions that plagued me were valid questions, yet I also knew the enemy was using those questions to try and force me into a corner of doubt.

 

But in the midst of the past few months, something the enemy forgot to remember, something I had come to rely on.....was faith. REAL faith. Not make believe-i feel good-psyche myself up kinda faith, because I have had plenty of down times where I've felt faithless, yet I've never let go or stopped believing or praying.

 

And this IS the difference between today and the past. I know it without a doubt in my heart. Faith.

 

I arrived at church, the sound man Brian helped me lug my stuff to the platform. I started setting things up as other members of the WT began to arrive, and saw the usual bass player, Jerry, walk in without his bass. I asked him howcome he didn't have it and he says..."Because you're playing today."

 

WHAT?!?!?!?!?

 

I was stunned into disbelief. I wasn't ready. I wasn't prepared. I didn't even know if I knew the songs in the right key or not. I can't read music I told myself over and over. I'm going to make a fool of myself. I'm going to look like an idiot.

 

Then God said to me....."It's not about you, this is for MY glory."

 

With this in mind, we began to practice. Wow, did it feel good to be playing with a live band again after years of playing along with CDs! To my surprise, every song I had practiced was in the same key, and practice went off without a hitch.

 

But we'd only went through the songs once, and the nervousness returned.

 

We met for prayer at 1015. Just the WT. We had to be on the platform and ready by 1040, service starts at 1045. It seemed like the longest 25 minutes of my life.

 

I made my way to the platform with the others and strapped on my bass and off we went. Jamming. Praising. Singing. Playing.

 

My fingers were not my own. I didn't have to look at the sheet music once. The bass lines flowed from within like an underground river that never sees the sun, cool and smooth, refreshing and deep. I was playing notes and filling in spaces, closing my eyes and mouthing the words, sometimes singing. I felt the frets beneath my fingers but felt little need to unceasingly watch to make sure I hit the right notes. But I did hit the right notes and then some.

 

It just happened. And I can't describe how I felt or how I still feel this moment.

 

But I do KNOW this:

 

There is nothing, and I mean NOTHING this world has to offer, be it fame fortune drugs women sex booze....name anything. I wouldn't trade a millisecond of today and I won't trade a millisecond of tomorrow for these moments today.

 

All the rhetoric in the world couldn't convince me God is not real.

 

After service the band members were coming up and telling me how great things sounded with the jamming bass playing. I gave and I give all the glory to God. Without Him I am nothing.

 

So, at the end of the service I asked when they would like me to play again, where they could fit me into the rotation. I was told rotation wasn't necessary.

 

I am the new bass player for the WT at Kettering Church. Period.

 

I still can't believe it.

The following was written in June of 2000.

 

It's been many days since I've attempted to write anything. You have been with me the past couple days....it's my weekend....yet I have been in a stupor. I am not sure why....or maybe I do.

 

I am so afraid you will grow up somehow comfortable in a world of negativity and silence, because I am negative and find silence a boon. It's hard for me to watch you grow up because it's just more time I've missed watching your life pass me by. Don't get me wrong....I love our time together whether I am able to show it or not....but there is so much I know is already lost. I know my own life has been at a standstill for quite some time....I cannot seem to face my fears or acknowledge them.

 

I suppose ignorance may be the eighth deadly sin. I've survived the first seven numerous times like a cat with nine lives....this one may bring me down.

 

How can one change such innate and ingrained and learned behaviour? Where does one apply to become someone else? Instinct so far has gotten me nowhere. What I do what I am compelled to do is act on the feeling inside. I think of my own father compulsive in reaction to outside stimuli, slave to the mind inside proven in outward behaviour. I am one in the same, but do not want to be. I am uncomfortable in my own shell. I get tense when you're around and I don't know why....like I am sitting in a four legged chair perpetually leaning back on two legs without any way to break my fall should I topple. I watch your every move....at the ready if you step out of line? What the hell is this??

 

Unintentional instinctual control.

 

Part of my fear is wondering who will become as you grow up and my role as a parent (if that's what you wanna call it). I have so long denied any kind of love as real I am just now learning to believe with you it is alive, and I wish it to be an outward expression of who I am, especially with you. So you can know love. I've got to know you will grow into adulthood and love yourself and not need....in an unhealthy way....validation from another. If only I knew what living inside this principle meant, I know I could teach you better. If only.....

 

You are such a beautiful person. My daughter. Wow. I can't believe I had anything to do with your conception, but it's undeniable. I like watching you when you sleep....when you're talking to your friends and you don't know I'm listening....your facial expressions when you tell me a story....how my heart breaks when you cry for any reason....how sometimes I wish I would have stayed with your mother just so I could be with you everyday....when you break into laughter it is one of the rare times a genuine smile cracks the exterior of my hardened face....at the pool during summer in your swimsuit I wonder how I will cope with the boys and someday men, looking at you with their lust-filled eyes, wanting what they see....dear god....when that time finally comes....will I have shown you right so the someone you choose will be nothing but a source of joy, happiness, kindness, gentleness, respect, true and undeniable love?

 

My life will be worthwhile if I know your life is fulfilled.

 

I love you Kaitlyn. Someday you will read this.

 

Dad

Late one night in early August 2001, I was driving around the ebon streets, headlights shining off the damp pavement from a light summer drizzle. I'd always drive when I couldn't sleep, listening to music, watching nomads of the night peering from behind darkened doorways, slinking between alleyways, hiding in the shadows of abandoned buildings, hawking their nocturnal wares.

 

One particular street, known for its depravity, often in the news for prostituion, drugs, and random violence, drew me in that fateful night. After a few passes I noticed a female form through the grey dimmed streetlights, a familiar face so I thought. I pulled over, called out the name and it was her. A girl I used to wait tables with at a local restaurant years earlier. She approached with caution until she saw my face, called out my name, climbed in the car and we hugged. She looked gaunt and pale, quite a change from the vibrant vivacious girl I once knew. We drove around for awhile, chatting about life, laughing and smoking cigarettes like they were being outlawed the next day.

 

After some time she asked if I'd drop her at a friends place, I obliged, glad to help an old friend. She asked if I'd like to come in, I hesitated, but climbed out and followed her into the house. It was a debris dump, sidewalk furniture, unkept floors, dirty carpet, kitchen empty of anything save a table where three other girls sat talking. I stood, listening to them conversate. My friend pulled a glass pipe from her purse, took a piece of what looked like a small white chunk of soap, put it to the end of the pipe, lit it. I heard the crackling of the substance as she slowly inhaled, watched as her head tilted back in ecstasy as she let the white smoke creep from her nostrils as if she were afraid to let it out. I knew it was crack, and though I'd never tried it or seen it, I had street smarts. Street smarts enough to be afraid of the stuff. I'd heard stories. I'd seen the damage. I'd witnessed death.

 

All the girls were sharing the pipe, eventually they offered me a hit, I declined. But the more I watched them, the less afraid I became. They didn't seem freaked out, they seemed calm, laughing, talking, enjoying themselves. No one was falling out, nodding off, or running around the room in a frenzy, the scene was laid back. My fear dissipated and I accepted a hit. They showed me how to do it, and I lit it up. To this day I can't describe the feeling, and to this day I wish I'd never felt it. But there I was, in a dump on the seedy side of town, with one friend and three obvious prostitutes, smoking crack.

 

I stayed at the house for over 12 hours, smoking all night and into the day, calling off work with some lame excuse, driving the girls around to cop again and again in the dark of night, with no thought to my own peril. I sat downstairs while one by one guys came and went, I could hear the sounds of sex for money through the thin walls, but I didn't care anymore, I wanted the rock just as bad as they did. I was hooked. And they were glad to share.

 

Over the next couple months as I quickly slid into addiction, I sold everything I could sell, stole from family and friends, never ate, hardly showered, everything I did was about copping the rock. The streets of night became my home, the daytime for schemes of fancy, all in the name of crack. My mind is haunted with every single memory of that period of my life.

 

Crack became my god.

 

After selling all I could sell, after ripping off and scheming everyone I could, I was down to my last hit with nowhere to go, no one to turn to, no one I could think of to give me money for more more more. I was at the end of my rope. I drove up into Woodlawn Cemetery, one of the largest in the city, high upon a hill overlooking the valley, a beautiful view. Here, I decided, I would end it. I would suck down the last big hit in one shot, hoping my heart would burst and I'd go on to the next life and away from the hell I was living in.

 

I got out of the car at the peak of the highest point in the cemetery and sat on a stone bench near a gravestone and finished off what I had. It didn't have the result I'd hoped, and all the despair, regret, shame, guilt, and sorrow crashed in on me at once and head in my hands I sobbed like a newborn.

 

From behind my tears I glanced straight ahead at the gravestone in front me and this is what I read:

 

And I, too, sing the song of all creation

A brave sky and a glad wind blowing by

A clear trail and an hour for meditation

A long day and the joy to make it fly

A hard task and the muscle to achieve it

A fierce noon and a well-contented gloam

A good strife and no great regret to leave it

A still night and the far red lights of home.

 

In my cracked out stupor I stumbled to the car, grabbed a piece of paper, probably trash of some sort, found something to write with, and word for word copied down the above.

 

I drove straight from the cemetery to the ARC, the Salvation Army Adult Rehab Center and checked myself in. I spent three months getting clean.

 

Just one of the hundreds of stories I could tell about my life.

 

Joseph (BDS)