When A Novel Come’s a-Gnawing

It’s been gnawing at me, this novel, especially over the past few months.  I’m gonna have to get off my ass or on my ass and in front of this keyboard and start knocking it out – without really knowing where it is going.

This has been aggravating me for two years, this book.  No, it has nothing to do with “The Boy”, part two, which I am supposed to be writing.  (Finishing up, actually, changing a few plot line details.)  It’s about a post-apocalyptic child, a little boy who doesn’t know what’s happening, has been sheltered against the world; Matthew, our teen alter as himself in this type of ‘situation’ – and who we know has been plotting the storyline as well as a few “others”.   “13″ is going to be there, presenting himself as the result of a government experiment . . . because in a way ‘he’ was . . .

Reading over what we wrote in the Nanowrite competition, we saw where it’s a descent into madness.  Just like “The Boy”, it opens up the door . . . and drops you in.  In a pit of insanity or a mind going insane.  Into the mind of a child.  And child abuse.  Love’s betrayals.  Hard settings and soft.  “The Boy” is “richly written” (in terms of detail, a reader wrote) and so is this one, apparently.  Though I’m trying to ‘cut’ the descriptions . . .

“Write what you know,” they said, “write what you’ve done in life . . .”

In a way I guess I’ve kinda lived several lives, some of them at one time.  It also explains ‘my’ style in fiction: dark (or light); psychological & physical horror, abuse, and worse.

In both “The Boy” and this new novel we have bad things happening to good folks and good things to bad ones; good folks doing bad; or the evil ones in their hearts wanting to do good – or something like that.  I had some say they sympathize with Harold Thompson, the main protagonist in the boy.  A child molester, sadist and liar.  And a racist, too.  A few said they could understand “his descent into madness” and Jeff’s confusion about sex and love . . . how he could come to want it, the physical aspects thereof.

I can understand it, too.  In a way you could say I “lived it” in an alternate world, over the years, here and there.

I suppose this novel, with this ‘pressing’ pressure building up inside – it’s gonna be one of those, too.  It’s like a play and I’m involved, whether I want to be there or not.  I’m gonna have to ‘see’ it and  . . .

Let’s put it this way.  In my lifetime I’ve written four full-fledged novels (of which only 1 was published).  3 of them dealt with . . . ‘us’ in a way.  Years after writing them I could “see”: they described my life (or the life of one of my alters) in some way.  In one of the big 1sts (during high school) it was about the loss of emotion.  This one has the same “feel”, as if it (or someone) is trying to tell us something, “feel” us something, give us something . . . special.

And I haven’t a clue what it is.

LOL!  Oh well, needless to say this ‘new novel’ has been gnawing like rats between my  ears.

I wish I had a good plot line laid down, one that I could follow.  “This happens, then this, then this here – “, but so far it’s just a string of scenes, a novel partially written.  We know how each one ties in in some way – but we don’t.  Each will have to be written – then as I’m writing things, “it” comes to me: the connection, and it’s written in – by the alter who is doing the scene.  After all, ‘he’ is the one who thought of it.  And there’s various ones of them ‘plotting’ this thing out in my head – it’s like a conference room door closed, and I can barely listen.  And ‘they’ only ‘come out’ in a gang together to work on this thing – and then I’ll get some idea of where it’s going – and then: lights out.  I’m left to wondering.  Like a mushroom in the dark and all that kind of thing.

Then I go back and try to polish what they’ve written.  Some long-winded bastards in there, LOL’ing!  But on the other hand they are trying to make a point – and “I” as the adult alter with the help of ‘Elvis’, an impersonator of our creative “artist” (who’s heart we know lies within the heart of “Little Mikie” – yeah, we’ve spent some time tracking this shit down) . . . sighing . . .

A snail in the back pocket couldn’t be more aggravating.

A pencil head that keeps breaking off . . . that screeching sound a blackboard can give off . . .

rats in the brain gnawing on the wiring, ghosts in the attic whispering down the chimney, bats in the belfry beating themselves about senseless against the bell.  Cuckoos in the corners softly cooing amongst themselves, a few cards cut from the deck . . . it’s a gnawing feeling on my concentration

Pulling teeth.

That’s what it’s like sometimes, writing. :/

 

Teaching Daughter How to Handle Bullying

Teaching Daughter

I came home one day to find my first grade daughter stomping back and forth in the juice of peer induced frustrations like a jilted woman stomping grapes. Her mother stood folding clothes on the dining room table. Catching my gaze, she rolled her eyes up, indicating the grapes of wrath were being thoroughly trodden, undoubtedly accompanied by a bitter whine.

“What’s the matter, hon?” I asked, setting my briefcase down. Leaning against the counter, I tried not to smile. If there is one thing that will spark my daughter’s anger into a fire, it’s the sight of a condescending smile.

“There’s this boy at school . . .,” my daughter griped, voice sour. She stopped to glare up at me, her brow furrowed beneath long blond locks. “He won’t stop beating up on me and my friends . . .”

“Have you told the teacher?” I asked, knowing this to be the proper response.

“Yeah. But she won’t do anything,” daughter replied, her frustrated tone reflecting her sour opinion. “He beats us up when the teacher isn’t looking!” She resumed her stomping those grapes of wrath as if attempting to pulp some seeds. “She doesn’t see anything,” she continued, muttering.

I bit my lips trying not to laugh as she stalked back and forth in front of the dining room table, muttering.  Her hands were drawn into fists.  Fists of fury against someone. Her chin barely came up to the top of the table.

“Well,” I encouraged, “Why don’t you beat him up? You’re tough – “

She stopped, her blue eyes flashing. “He’s bigger than me! He’s one of the biggest kids in class! He’s too big to beat up!”

Okay, I could see her point. Outclassed, outweighed. Despite being a little fireball, I didn’t want my daughter getting smacked around. But daddies can’t always fight their children’s battles. Not only does it keep a child from developing their sense of confidence and pride, it keeps them dependent on you for all their solutions.  And there’s life ahead.  I thoroughly believe in giving them the tools, and then letting them try to handle it.  Even if they do take some blows now and again.  That’s part of life.  Plus, I was thoroughly intent on raising an independent child.

So, envisioning the situation, a plan began to sprout, based upon my military past and experience – something I as a parent knew I shouldn’t consider.  Get him alone – all those friends . . .,” a part of me was considering – gleefully.

“Well,” I said slowly and carefully, hoping I wouldn’t get her in trouble, “Why don’t you and your little friends just jump him.  Certainly all of you could do it and beat him up, tell him to leave you alone – .”

“No!” she protested. “Then we’d all get in trouble! The teacher would see us!”

The point wasn’t valid, I thought.  If the bully could get them around the corner of the building – then why not them lure him instead?  I mused, eyeing my daughter. I had always told her: you don’t fight at school. You never throw the first punch – ever.  Even about words. You don’t fight over words, only action. I could feel her frustration. But the situation was all too clear: a playground bully, little kids, and a teacher trying to stand watch.  Ambush, a part reminded me. Call it sneaky, call it tactical planning, I could see a path clear.  One that the old guerrilla soldier in me liked.

“Well,” I said, picking my words. I knew it was breaking all the rules – as the concept of fair play. But life isn’t fair, and sometimes rules need to be broken. I should know. I’ve been there.  But if the teacher was to hear of it – I sighed.

“Why don’t you and your little friends wait until you are on the playground. You all go around the corner where the teacher can’t see you. Then you call him. When he comes around the corner – all of you jump on him and beat him up. That oughta teach him not to mess with you.”

Daughter looked at me. I could see her forming rejections – then discarding them. Slowly her anger began to clear. Suddenly her clear blue eyes brightened with the light of understanding.

“Okay, daddy!” she said, her voice resuming it’s usual piping tone. “I’ll try!”

Well, I didn’t think much about it for the next few days, though it was there in the back of my mind. I had given my daughter a devious plan – one that I had put her up to. But isn’t that the daddy’s job? Help out their little daughters with the truly thorny problems – even if it means circumnavigating the system once and awhile? I knew better than complain to the teacher – that’s like tacking a note saying “Kick Me” on the back of your kid’s shirt. Kids need to take care of kid’s problems – that’s the unwritten rule of children, by children, for children. Complaining to parents – or any grownup – is cheating, calling on the powers-that-be for resolution. And most kids resent another kid doing that. They’ll ostracize the kid, separate them from the group. After all, the kid who cries “I’m telling!” and goes running to the grownups is a traitor. I knew that from my own childhood. Sometimes kid’s problems are best solved by the kids themselves.

Towards the end of the week I come back home. Daughter is sitting at the table. Her hair is somewhat ruffled, and she’s staring at the table. My wife is drifting around the kitchen getting supper ready.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, glancing from my wife to my daughter and back.

My daughter sits in sullen silence. My wife looks at me, then at my daughter.

“Your daughter got into a fight at school.”

Uh-oh, I think, wondering if it’s time for me to don my daddy boots and kick some kiddy butt.

“What happened?” I ask. My daughter continues to stare at the table.

“You tell him,” my wife orders with that voice – you know the one. The one mothers use when they want you to tell something – and you don’t dare say anything else.

“I did it, daddy,” she says as I lean against the counter, bracing myself. I slowly lower my briefcase to the floor. “I did what you told me to do.”

Uh-oh, I think, wondering what kind of trouble I’d gotten myself into, and if I’m going to have to apply those daddy boots to my own butt.

“And – ah – what’s that?” I ask.

“That boy at school,” daughter slowly says. “I did what you told me.”

“And how’d that go?” I cautiously ask, remembering the advice I’d given her.

“Well – I got my friends to wait around the corner, just like you told me, and then I called him over . . .” She trails off, staring at the table with a twisted frown.

“And then what happened?” I ask.

“They wouldn’t help me!” She pouts at the table. “None of them did!”

I’m surprised – but not surprised. You know the feeling – the one when a plan goes awry in a perfectly predictable way. I eyeball my daughter, but there’s no black eye, no swollen lip.

“Did you win?” I ask.

At this a smile crosses my daughter’s lips.

“I beat him up,” she says, looking up at me with a proud, somewhat defiant glare in her eyes. “And then I beat up my boyfriend for not helping me!”

I smile.

“I knew you could do it,” I said, picking up my briefcase.

That’s my girl.

---

( later on – not much! – she went on to earn her Black Belt and more.  She’s also highly proficient with a number of weapons, including a gun.  She was shooting a .357 by 8 – and nailing all the courses.  Little girl’s all grown up now – you boys had better watch out!  . . . But as I used to lament to my friend:  “All the martial arts training in the world won’t prevent a broken heart.” )

Things I’ve Been or Done in My Life

(because my wife and daughter have been asking for a list . . . for years) 

(Updated 5/5/13 – more jobs, descriptions added, clean up formatting).

 

Army Animal Lab Technician:  (1-1/2 yrs, volunteer.)  Animal care & euthanasia, lab techniques, learning about animal experimentation, operation & surgery technique, and more.  The doctors took me under their wing – in the end I was helping in the operating room . . . and more.  Lots of animal care and animal psychology (since I had to take care of them) as well as veterinarian’s assistant care.

University Lab Vivarium Tech. (6 mon.) – basic animal care and handling; even more diverse animal care, including highly contagious mice and other deadly things.  Observing experiments.  It was very interesting.

Janitor at a Cotton Mill:  It was a sham. I carried around my broom – it was impossible to clean the place – my ‘wages’ were his rent, which he charged his company for, and whether I ‘worked’ or not was by choice, though there were instances when I did.  Otherwise I spent my time exploring this huge old rambling 1800′s Cotton Mill (Kings Mill) – finding secret rooms, ringing the bell on the bell tower, seeing old equipment – it was cool.  Lasted about six months.

Food Service Industry:  Worked “in the back” mostly.  Based on a hint from my more experienced peers, I worked only the finest restaurants in town.  “You’ll eat better that way,” they said.  They were right.  I’m still sick of prime rib, snow crab and lobster.  I never order them.  Working in those kinds of places, I learned a lot about good cooking techniques, and came up with a few of my own.  -

Years Volunteer at the VA (Community Service, Boy Scouts – 1 yr.)  Think “pin stripper”.  I was 15.  This is where I learned to study old men and see what the differences were between the happy ones and the grouchy ones – what was it about their attitude?  I took it upon me to take the chance: I wanted to attain the age and maturity of mind of the older, happy ones by the time I was 24.

Boy Scout. Order of the Arrow and all that.  I had to submit my application for Eagle as I was leaving the country – and I was almost 18.  I don’t know if I got the award.  I suppose I did.  I never came back for the pin.

A Marine.  A rifle Marksman.  And a lot more.  (6 yr ‘tour’ of duty, mostly Reserve.  But I got injured bad enough that it disabled me 24 years later . . .)

Automotive Mechanic, Certified: 6 years training, 8 years experience, 2-cycle, 4-cycle, gas, diesel and multifuel, including component repair and replacement.
CASE Equipment Heavy Equipment Mechanic for about a year.
Contracted by the Army as a Mechanic; ended up running a parts store as well.

Parts Clerk, Inventory Specialist (and more): 8 years, working for the Army.  Can’t tell you everything.  Lets just say I had an unlimited budget and ran a uniquely equipped parts store . . . my capacity for retaining all things mechanical and technical in my head made me uniquely capable for the job.  (I could read a parts manual, and memorize every part’s location, configuration, how it was assembled, and more.)

Machine Shop Class: I can make my own nuts and bolts, if need be.

Metalurgy: 1 quarter

Creative Writing:
Author, both short stories and novels, fiction.

Nanowrimo Winners Badge, 2011

Had a poem published in “Fragments”, a Time published magazine when I in 7th grade.
Wrote for the high school newspaper.  Even won an award for my writing.  (Fiction)
Technical Writing (2 Classes)
My technical term paper (How to Justify and Install A CAD System in Industry) won an unofficial ‘award’ as ‘Best Technical Document’ of the year, and the teacher said they were going to use it as a shining example to classes later on . . .
I’ve written enough dry technical ‘manuals’ to hate those dry stale things.

Technical Design Graphics (emphasis on mechanical).  Dean’s List Graduate, top of the class (4 years, Augusta Tech College) only one of 2 (out of 90) students to graduate.  Started out ‘on the boards’ learning how to do hand drawn blueprints.  Then the school switched to CAD.  So we learned how to set up and install CAD systems.  Learned engineering, design, CAD, worked the various fields, a quarter at a time.  Was one of the two teacher’s assistants during the last few quarters, during last quarter I was one of the only two teachers available for CAD and design help.

Engineering Designer: Civil, Mechanical, Architectural, EPA liaison and more.

Pneumatics, Hydraulics, Mechanical control systems theory & applications.

Interior Design:  2 yrs studying under my mom while she took courses in college.

I know how to sew, including with a machine. I used to make my own stuffed animals as a child.

6 yrs. Studying under my dad while he got his major / minor: Psychology & Sociology

24 yrs. (off and on) of survival training – desert, arctic, swamp – you name it.  Including survival, evasion, escape, NBC training, basic training, and more.

Graphics Artist: Visual & Computer Graphics

Professionally:  Computer art, 3D AutoCAD, Blueprints and design; presentations using CorelDraw & AutoCAD, imported into Powerpoint and more.
3D animations
Desktop Publishing, including large format posters.
Creative Graphics Art: Industry, Sign work, logos, T-Shirt designs, promotional items, and more.

Created blueprints, both by hand and computer.

Technical illustration: (hand and computer graphics) for engineering manuals and designs.

3D rendering and photorealistic representations of ideas / blueprints and designs to look for interferences and improvements, for presentations and in blueprint design to aid in construction crews understanding.

Managed engineering libraries. 45,000 blueprints at one firm, over 38,000 blueprints, drawings, and documents at another. Responsible for keeping them up, including updating and creating searchable databases for the information

Art Awards.
Won AOL Weekly “Artist’s Pick” during Halloween week with an animated GIF . . .

for “The Pumpkin King”, a short animation.

Voted one of the top 3 artists in my high school, and 2^nd most creative out of 280 during a plant’s psychological survey of it’s employees.
Won an award for my art in first grade.

Pre-med Education:

Started college with the intent of getting a veterinary degree – wanted to be a veterinarian. Had to start with college. Started college in the spring quarter of my Senior year in High School. Went for approximately 7 quarters, ran out of money, and joined the Marine Corps – though I had considered joining as a Corpmans in the Navy as first choice. But they couldn’t guarantee me a school seat, so on a whim more or less, I joined the Marine Corps a week later – something my brother had been working hard to get out of.

And that started my military education with them.  They gave me a lot of tests. That’s all I’ll say about that.

Self-Employed:

Custom Work Work:  including cabinet work – all pine, country style, Habersham style stuff.  Anything custom.  Sign making as well (routered signs)

Computer Support, both software and hardware.  I can build my own computer, or generally repair someone else’s, though my skills have gotten rather old.

Computer Tutoring: I have thank you notes from people, including corporations. AutoCAD gave me my own copy of their software in thanks for some work I did.
Microsoft Office Certified at one time.  I have no problem using advanced features of Word, Excel, Powerpoint, or several other packages.  I’ve used so much software that it’s all become alike by me, starting with general BASIC back in the ’70′s, and working my way through DOS.

I saved an IT department by ridding them of a ‘prank macro’ which was threatening every document they had, and in a FDA regulated environment, among other things.  They made medicines.  It was rewriting all their recipes and invalidating their validation files.  I gave them a disk which identified every infected file, which they then could then isolate and clean up.

I used to be pretty good at tech support, putting together computers like mad. I still have the very first one I owned, and it runs, last I saw.

I’ve learned computer programming and more. I used to write some mean code in DOS, along with LISP routines and more . . . I’ve done a LOT of computer operator interfaces, including animated PLC screen routines for machine control (engineering).

Web Pages:  I’ve done Web pages before, both for myself and others.  I know some HTML.  I know what an iframe is, LOL.  But my knowledge has gotten rather old on this. (Not into Pearl or Oracle, tho’ the fact that I know the names means something!)

Online Auctioning:  I sold on eBay for several years before the fees and charges became too much.  I did very good.  I turned .25 cents into $350 five times; in another instance $8.75 into $3,500.00  Then the fees started, and they changed the structure.  You could no longer complain about a bad buyer.  So I helped lead the Ebay Boycott after they changed everything.  I sold an online document comparing all the other online auction sites on eBay.  Ebay got mad.  I knew we’d lose before I started, but to me it was an experiment in online social engineering.  But I quit after a few months. I had a lot of ‘followers’ by then . . . but it was a hopeless cause. Corporations will do what they do best: keep on eye on the bottom line, and if they can, skim to improve it.

I was a professional retailer, self-employed, for awhile – me and the wife started fleamarketing, where is where I learned you could get things cheaper if you were willing to work with them – and sell them as well.

My wife continued in the business for years while I moved on back into engineering . . .

I’ve designed factories and such. I’ve designed machines – professionally. I’ve worked with artists and contractors. I’ve met with CEO’s and presidents. I’ve sat in on more than my share of meetings. I was known for my common sense, outrageous and sometimes uniquely objective thoughts and ideas – I became known as the “common sense check” that engineers had to submit their plans to for a ‘common sense’ check on things – like machine clearances, fitting machines in buildings, making sure you could work on them and stuff, and more . . .

Life:

I have helped in some way raise 9 kids at various points in my life.

I’ve been a meth addict before.

I’ve been a drug addict and a drug dealer.

I grew my own pot for awhile. And I was good at it.

A friend and I used to go for miles – through the woods and swamps, backpacks on our backs, making predawn excursions into the woods, planting dope. “Go into the worst looking spot around!” was our motto – “Go where nobody in their right mind would go!” And it worked sometimes. Though we found that outside, unprotected and pretty much untended during the growing season, for every 100 plants you would plant you might get ten – or even less than that. And half of them – maybe more – would be male, useless to your profits and/or your lungs; no use to smoke. And then there’d be the hauling them out and cleaning them up. If you were lucky you got a few ounces for your efforts. We had a lot of adventures there.

I used to run an underground factory. I kept that thing going for a number of years, then I met my wife. For that reason and for the love of my life I gave it up; no sense in risking that much, no reason. Especially when you’ve got three kids all of a sudden. I went from bachelor to a family of 4 within a year, age 1, 4, 8 and 12 – the dream of my life.

When I was a meth addict, I lived with some friends. They had two kids. We were heavy into drugs, intravenous injection – that kind of stuff. Their kids were 4 and 7. We got rather poor during that lifestyle, and it suddenly erupted and ended with an automobile accident, a bankruptcy to evade the law which changed the regulations (albeit just a little bit) here in Georgia (because it seems my fate to do and be everything strange).

I’ve been trained in war and war crafts, both modern and primitive, including weapons, since I was born.

My mom taught a Spirituality based religion, though she professed to be Christian as well, believing everything had a life and a soul within it, and claimed she could see auras around trees, while my dad believed in everything Christian, having been “Born Again” into religion during his tour in Thailand. As a result of his studies and books I learned a lot of things. But I have my own opinion about religions in the world.

IOOF:  One of my friends begged me to join a father and he belonged to: the Independent Order of Odd Fellows.  Hey, what can I say: it fit.  I joined when I was 17 and stayed with them until 2007 – about forty years.  I stayed and buried them – over 50 men and friends, some like grandparents to me – and then due to lack of membership, the Lodge finally closed, after 150 years of its establishment.  I “inherited” a lot of the gear and whatnot – what the Grand Lodge refused to take.  I still keep it down in my barn: records going back over 120 years, back before the Civil War . . . old stuff, tightly stored, and protected in a metal container.

I’ve been a professional writer, blogger and more; been on the internet off and on since 1984. (I first started on it in 1976, when all they were using was UNIX and little green screens for displays.)

By 17 I’d read every science fiction book I could get my hands on, and then I gave it up when I could find nothing ‘new’ to read (except on the new release shelf).

I’ve got a National Geographic collection that goes back to 1964. I’ve read every one of them. I tend to retain what I saw. Not that I can remember every one of them. But most of them. And some pictures I saw as a kid.

I’ve also read all the Popular Science and Smithsonian’s for the past 25 years or so, along with a few other magazine subscriptions, most of them science or technical based. I like learning how to do new things, about new things, and new discoveries and new projections, theories and the like.

I’ve done murals, with 2 quarters of continuing education classes with professional artists on how it’s done.

I do photography. I had about two quarters of dark room photography and professional photography training by an Army hired Austrian who was a famous photographer of sorts. I learned a lot about composing, and that was in the day of the 35mm SLR. I earned mine working as a KP for .75 cents an hour besides Turkish women who earned $14 an hour or more. And they got onto me for working too hard – I put them to shame, and shamed them in front of their boss. All they wanted to do was sit around and drink coffee, doing the very minimum amount of work possible. Plus I was bored. What else is there to do in a kitchen but wash it? And what else in an Army cafeteria but get the food ready for the next meal? There was a lot of work but I got my camera. It was a good one.

I’ve sat and listened in the midnight desert while cannons thundered in the distance . . . and the shells softly swished like tumbling trashcans through the air overhead . . . and exploded in the distance of the desert, lighting up the whole Corridor.

I’ve felt the anguish of falling on my face and more. I’ve been knocked out a few times, once by a sparring partner . . .

I’ve had my share of martial training. I’m a dirty fighter. I don’t waste time. I don’t want to. I’m an old man. I’m just gonna take you down, that’s all.

I’ve lived on the islands of Clark Hill (lake Strom Thurmond), using a canoe sometimes. I lived on the lake for a week once, with the Boy Scouts. We started at what we called “Thunder Island” at the head of the dam and went to the head waters of Little River and more.

I learned about gold mining and how to prospect for gold in the canyons of Arizona with an old man who knew about this stuff, living there for about a week during two trips during various summers. He had a claim there, up near Copper Canyon . . . we had to sort of rappel down a slope to his claim. It was a long adventure – and a hard and a fun one.

I used to build models as a small child – the military 1:32 type plastic stuff, and paint them. I was very good at the thing, and had about 50 of them by the time I was a teen.

I’ve been in more than 18 car wrecks in my life.  At 18 of them I stopped counting.  It’s not that I’m a bad driver.  I just pick bad drivers to ride with.

I know a lot about DID and child abuse because I’ve been there.  I’ve helped and been helped by others survivors and people in kind.

There’s more, of course – but that’s enough for now. I am tired of writing.

(*added May 5, 2013)
(and yes – some of the things were done concurrently, e.g. some of the Army Contracting overlapped with my Marine Corps career while in the reserves.  Many a time I worked more than one job, sometimes two full time – and went to school at night.  No wonder I became a meth head!  Sometimes I went months at a time, only getting four or five hours sleep a night.)

The 4 Stages of Acquisition.

Life can be broken up into quarters, such as infancy, youth, maturity & old age.  But there’s also another four other stages in life:  The 4 Stages of Acquisition.

1) First you learn to acquire things, including family and friends.
2) Then you start acquiring, searching for happiness.
3) Then you spend your time protecting what you acquired through labor and love.
4) Then  you let it go.

In my opinion, the toughest, hardest is the last.  It includes family and friends.  It includes the death or loss of a loved one.  It can be a human child.  It can be a pet of yours.  By the time I was 16 or so my brother and I used to say: “They always go in the end”.  But I knew this at 13, forming ‘the Machine’ to protect my inner child, my teenager in the bud.  It was part of a military career child’s perspective, one that many learn.  And it’s one of the hardest lessons to learn.  That nothing is permanent, nothing guaranteed.

“We are like dust in the wind, my friend,” my friend patiently explained to me.  We were high, smoking dope, and I couldn’t help but agree.  This was about the time that song came out . . .

Over time I’ve learned that’s more than true.  And according to the decision I made back when I decided “I’m going to pursue happiness through changes in my perceptions,” I have to learn to be fine with that.  Learning to let things go – including people in my life.

I’ve already had a heavy enough taste in that during my long years.  In one situation I lost over 76 of my friends – old Lodge Fellows, over a number of years.  Plus the friends in life.  We moved around so much I couldn’t hang onto them – but I’ve got a few.  Friends I could count on in the old times; today? Not so much, truth to tell.

But in the end you go about facing your own life, facing the end.  I know I saw plenty of that among the men in the VA.  I’ve seen guys in their seventies, bitchin’ and griping about their shortness of life.  Then I’ve met others who’ve seen it all, and are done with it.  They are happy to move on.

I’ve come close to dying a time or two or three.  One time I remember laying there – underwater – thinking about all the things I’d done and left undone.  It was the undone ones that hurt me the most.  I thought about that book I wrote – because it was in it’s birthing stages.  It was the one I began to write when I was 17, 24, and on.  There, that last emotion before the peace sets in.

Learning to let go of it is not hard, not there at the end.  It comes naturally.  But before that peace sets in – well, you don’t want to feel regrets.

Laying there underwater, deciding whether to go on or give in, I decided – and made a final thrashing effort to find my life – water rose above my head, I managed to snatch a breath and slog it to the shore, crawling . . . crawling along because I was a Marine . . .

 

And I knew I wanted to complete that thing, and I did.

But the thing was . . .

I never forgot that feeling, that sadness, that . . . regret – and how it spurred me on.

Acquiring.

One thing I’ve learned is that it’s good if you can get some kind of religion.  As that same patient person once again explained:  “It doesn’t matter what you believe as long as you believe something . . .”

It helps there, at the end, and it helps when you lose loved ones and friends.

Personally I subscribe a bit to the philosophy that as long as you keep a version of them alive in your heart . . .

that perhaps you can keep a portion of that person alive inside you by doing that; perhaps breeding a new soul in you.  (After all, I’m DID, and it makes sense.)

That maybe they are never dead and have just moved on . . .

and that all those friends you’ve never heard from in all those long years are still alive and kicking somewhere . . . under the same moon as you, or a different one somewhere . . .

Those kinds of things.

Death and loss are a hard thing to face, but that’s the rule and law of the 4 Stages of Acquisition.  Sooner or later you are going to have to face it.  Either by moving into a nursing home and losing all of your stuff, or moving into one of your children’s and giving up most your stuff . . .

Sooner or later you’re gonna be laying there dying, and you’re gonna have to think about it – letting go of your life.

I hope you can have a fun time doing it.

Live your life well, and to the fullest that you can.  Make sure you go to your grave with no regrets, no one whom you’ve loved that you’ve left it unsaid.  Give those hugs out while you can; gather the people around you.  And make sure your do your stuff – pursue your dreams and all that.  Make that extra effort to find happiness in and around you.

And take it from me – chances are, if you’ve lived a good life, you will find peace there at the end.

The Human Guinea Pigs

My dad used us as guinea pigs, my brother and I.  He used a laboratory technique, maintaining one child as a control, and the other to experiment on.  But the fact is, he experimented on us both.

I remember my dad attempting to hypnotize us.  He sat my brother and I down at the kitchen table, spun a shiny object, and put my brother under.  Then he burnt him to prove (to himself, anyway) that he’d put the boy ‘under’ – holding a match he’d just put out against the tender skin below my brother’s elbow – and then he turned to me.

I think we were about 9 and 11, though I may be wrong.  It could have been 13 or 14.  That’s the way it is with traumatic memories – you forget a some details while others stand out.  I do remember (vaguely) what the room looked like, and it looked like the one we had at Fort Bragg.

On the other hand I could be wrong.  It may have been later, after we came home from  a long tour in Europe where I learned a lot of things.

But the thing is when I turned 14 my dad, courtesy of the G.I. Bill, started going to college.  He was studying for a Major in Psychology with a Minor in Sociology – not an uncommon combination.  And as part of his studies, he decided to involve me and my older brother.

The thing was, he was using us as guinea pigs; lab rats in an experiment.  He had me learn while my brother got no education at all.

I had to read the books, go over his notes, pay attention to the highlighted items.  And boy!  Would he highlight things!  Sometimes I would open a heavy psychology book to find page after page painted in yellow.  And I had to read every word.

The thing is: I didn’t mind, didn’t mind at all.  I knew my only defense against him was to use the knowledge he was teaching me against him – knowledge he inadvertently provided by making me the trained rat.

My brother, on the other hand, was left in ignorance.

For instance, during my reading I discovered a person couldn’t be hypnotized if they resisted – so I always resisted, or at least I think I did.  I did engage in experiments in self-hypnosis – early, at a young age (about 15) – teaching myself not to give into his experiments.

“Don’t let anyone mess with your mind!”, I remember him (or someone else) instructing me over and over again.  Perhaps this was part of my training while I was overseas; perhaps later.  Needless to say I was determined not to let him mess with my head.

The fact is – if he hypnotized me, I would never know.  I remember the feeling of despair I felt, reading about it in those manuals – how a hypnotic suggestion could be buried, unseen and unknown by the victim, set in there by the user – and a user he was.

He used us a lot of times; otherwise he generally ignored us, his two lab rats.  My brother grew increasingly violent, and I?  I became rebellious.

My brother was good for showing me how not to do things.  When he would get caught I would analyze his mistakes – and do the same thing, only sneakier, more covert.

As time went on and training progressed, I learned a lot.  Abnormal psychology rolled under my belt, along with childhood rearing.  Anthropology, human biology, characteristics of the mind.

As a result I became more rebellious – not openly, of course!  But in my mind I was determined: whatever the psych books said was the ‘right answer’ – I would give the opposite thing.  In my behavior, of course.  Just enough to fool him.

By the time I was 16, he was convinced I was insane.  Frustrated, he took it out on my brother, driving him to drink.

By the time my brother was 18, he was alcoholic.  I was into drugs.  Much easier to hide than some things, a bit more difficult than most.

I had started drinking, too, early on.  I remember sneaking Irish Mist into my coffee in my thermos, and drinking it at the bus stop while I waited for the bus to appear.  I was 15.

By the time I was 15, I was smoking joints.  That, I found, was much better – no hangover, and much easier to hide.

In the end my dad’s experiments ran out on him – quite literally!  He got his degree in college, and I got mine in life.  But that knowledge has always proved fruitful, those long hours spent poring over all those yellow painted pages, reading all those notes . . .

I won’t go into it much, but when I was 21 or so, I hit a pit of depression so deep, so large and wide that I thought I would never escape.  My DID system imploded, leaving ‘me’ – or the teenage version of me – high and dry.  It was a miserable time; so much so that my friends began to fear for my life.

And yet I went on – instinctively picking up pen and paper . . . and began journaling.  Some part of me knew enough to know: this was a form of therapy, one that could help me analyze my feelings and where they came from . . .

and that’s when I discovered: I had more than one in me.  That there was a little child, a teenager, a Soldier, and a Marine.  And more.  There was “The Beast” – an opened jawed vicious horror.  There were the landscapes in my mind – the Teen crawled across a desert and almost died . . .

and then a family found me.

I don’t know if all that psychology knowledge helped, but I feel it does.  It guided me for a long time.  It kept me on my toes against my dad.  And comparing my brother and I, I see . . . well, a lot.

Poor kid.  I wish he’d gotten the education.  His life would be happier I think.  He would not (as he does now) avoid his past.  He and I don’t speak about it, not much.  He’s been through 3 marriages and has no children.  He refused, convinced he would kill them.  He still has anger issues so bad . . . but has learned to handle them.  Poor boy: he’s got a good heart, but he, like me – well, his heart and mind got hurt a lot.

A lot of wrong done there.

Where to lay the blame?

Our life – without a doubt.

Stop Saving the Stupid People

I think it’s time we started letting them get rid of themselves – clean up the gene pool a lot.  I think it’s time we started letting stupid people do the things that get them killed, and stop rewarding them for their own stupid behaviors.

As an engineer I spent a LOT of time (and company money and resources) protecting the stupid.  Machine safety guards, rules to follow (not that the truly stupid ever follow them) – it was everywhere: “What is the most stupid thing a person will do with this machine or item?”

Take those little silica packets they put in everything.  It would be ‘stupid’ to try to eat one – but there they are, marked: “Not for Consumption”.  Ditto the instructions on TV: “Don’t try this at home”, or “Do not attempt” something which is obviously (at least to the more intelligent of us) something you should not do.

We’re a society that rewards the stupid – paying them huge sums when they do something that hurts them, providing them medical care, awarding them humongous lawsuits (e.g. a certain woman who spilled coffee in her lap – and got rewarded millions of dollars for her own stupidity).

The fact is it is our intelligence which separates us from the animals in nature.  It is our intelligence which allows us to survive.  Why should we reward and give the more stupid of us awards for their own destructive actions when their actions threaten themselves?

I watched a woman wander into the street, her face buried in her cell phone.  She wasn’t paying any attention to anything around her – she just angled off the grass shoulder into my way.

I should have hit her instead of slowing down, dodging traffic to protect her from her own stupidity.  It might have done the gene pool some good.

Facing facts these people breed MORE stupid people – even more stupid than they are, lacking reason or even common sense.  They need put down – quick! – before they do something even more stupid, like spawning another generation like them.

The fact is us humans require a certain level of knowledge to get around.  Then there’s that barrier between what you know and common sense things, like not texting while driving, or watching videos behind the wheel.  I about fell out of my seat when I saw they were putting TV’s into cars.  What’s a driver to do?  Ignore them, of course, but some don’t.  I watched one woman driving, her head cocked back so she could get a good look at the screen, with several children behind her.

In my opinion they should die.

Stupidity used to be something which would get you killed.  Not any more – our society goes out of its way to protect them.  I used to see operators bypassing safeguards – some got injured – and then they would attempt to sue the company they worked for.  How stupid is that?  And as an engineer I would have to “do something” to try to protect them, make sure it didn’t happen again.  Usually that meant more ‘safeguards’, most of which didn’t work when the operators, stupid human beings, kept trying to bypass them.

So I think the next time someone does something stupid (I wish I drove a big ugly truck) – I’m just going to go ahead and run them over, let them do that thing.  When somebody wanders into my lane because they are looking at a cell phone – I’m gonna hit them.  When someone reaches into a machine while it’s running, I’m gonna just stand back and think: Go ahead.

We need to do something about this, this gradual dumbing down of human beings.  For all too long we have coddled them and coached them, trying to break the cycle, pointing out the error of their ways.  (“Hey buddy, that sign is there for a reason!”)  I think we need to stop stepping in and start stepping out of their way.  Wanna do something stupid?  Just go ahead.

And don’t expect us to save you.

The Crazies

The Crazies.

I don’t know if there are more per capita or more overall due to a still growing population . . .

I don’t know if there are more (per capita) in a so-called (and self-perceived) ‘civilized society’ than there are in what is arrogantly perceived as a lesser countries (aka civilizations).  Nor can I document whether the number of crazies has grown per capita worldwide, or if it is, again, the result of a growing population.

They say when you cram too many rats in a cage, more of the rats become crazy – chewing off their limbs and/or attacking others.

But when it comes to craziness it seems there’s more of it, especially if you watch the news.  Bombers, stabbers, shooters, killers of small children . . . (sigh).  Sometimes I wonder about the crazies, and a “part” of me understands them – but I’d rather not.

We were always taught as a child being prepared for ‘war’ that you don’t take on a serious opponent without resorting to ‘dirty’ fighting.  Sure it seems “not fair”.  But there were no rules on infighting, especially if you were outnumbered or outweighed.  (Except no eye gouges, though those occurred.)

I remember one kid (this was the fight that went on for two days) – shoving sticks up my nose and ears as I lay exhausted, outclassed and outweighed . . .

But I’ve never understood going after someone who is innocent and ignorant of the whole thing.  I can’t see deliberately targeting an area you understand is going to be filled with innocents because it doesn’t change a single thing, except get the population mad at you and looking for revenge – engaging in another type of craziness as they attempt to prevent it from happening again.

It’s too bad people can’t “behave” themselves, learn to tolerate what is not hurting them – and quit seeing “hurt” in everything that’s different than what they’ve learned – or want – to live by.  Some people may desire one kind of lifestyle, another another.  One may want to worship by one religion; another by nothing at all.

I can’t see any harm in that, as long as they keep it to themselves and don’t try to force it down my throat.  I have no objection to what you do, as long as you aren’t hurting anyone.  I’m willing to play by the rules, do what I’m told, obey the laws.  After all, there’s sense in these things (though not all of them) that we call ‘the rules of civilized behavior’.

Speaking with bombs and weapons of violence, suppression, or oppression – they are the sign of a weaker mind, one intolerant of thinking anything anything besides them are right – and unable to make sense of – or live with – something different.  They are minds that don’t know tolerance, and usually are filled with fright.  They are the ones who are trying to change us to become more like them – not recognizing that ‘right’ is usually a fuzzy object when it comes to human behaviors, feelings, and beliefs.  Usually these crazies are affected by everything else; I’ve seen some of that amongst my own alters.

When I was young I was taught a lot of “wrong things”.  Some of them would give you horrors.  Some would give the FBI pause.  Fortunately my training was all about what to do when things went wrong – if “the balloon went up” or an apocalyptic happening, such as nuclear war, a Russian or Chinese invasion.  After the Vietnam war, the possibility of shooting children was one.  After all, what are you going to do if a child, or a gang of armed children, start running towards you and your men?  You’re going to defend yourself.  You have to.  After all, you must survive to accomplish your mission . . .

And when I was a teenager overseas it was assumed you might have to shoot someone like you.  But never “in anger” and never for revenge.  It was simply a job: defend yourself, your land, your country.  That’s all.  There was never any targeting ‘normal folks’, noncombatants.   There was only shooting the enemy, and if possible, taking out the officers and ones in command.  Never any of this business of targeting innocent populations or a public crowd.  That was understood as being useless.  If anything, it just made future jobs that much harder as they responded by cracking down on things, taking a closer look . . .

What I learned in psychology and sociology later on was that it takes generations to enact a social demand.  Thirty years or more of a constant pushing by the society that wants them, these changes.  Poking at them with a knife or the end of a gun doesn’t change them.  Only time – and a whole lot of ‘social education’ can do that.  I’ve noticed an accelerating trend, given the spread of media and reporting of events, towards an ‘educated society’, at least when it comes to local and major happenings.

Perhaps that is what this world needs.  Some relaxing of the rules would be nice, but face it: there’s a lot of moral and social ground to cover before we can begin to do that.  Until then we are going somewhere – elsewhere – and where I don’t know what will be happening in this so-called free society in which we are living.

I wish it could be more free, but that’s only going to be when there’s a whole lot less hate and intolerance of things which don’t hurt or harm anyone.  When someone can believe what they want and everyone else goes about their own lives, believing what they want – and blending into society.  If you’ve got something to say, go ahead and say it – but be aware that others may want (or wish) to ignore your actions and beliefs.  And that should be all right with both them and you.  Don’t let it drive you crazy.  Don’t become “one of them”.  You go on believing what you want, but do no harm in your actions to society, your children, or otherwise.  Don’t rely on others to make your beliefs feel right.  If you need someone else to believe what you believe – then you don’t have any faith.

Only you can know in your heart if you’re making a difference – for the good of mankind in the long run – or doing more damage in the end.

To both them and you.