Walking on wet concrete.

A quick note:

I have been trying to keep with my serial fiction. Not happening. But I've still been writing. I write shorts. More like descriptive fiction. If I think of anything to write in a continuous stream, I'm going to seriously have to plan it out a lot more. Instead of there being a proposed "once a week" setting, I'm setting up an entirely different blog for my short fiction. It's name? "Anecdotes and Adages". The url is www.anecdotesandadages.blogspot.com Speaking of Names, I've also changed the name of this blog to "Dear Abba..." It'll mostly serve the purpose of the letters and conversations to God. The intent of this blog more suits that now, anyways. Sorry for the changes folks, but they are needed.

"The message that sustained me as a child-- that the cruelty we take for granted is not natural-- sustains me to this day. For I know that beneath the fear and the hatred, beneath the urge to kill and destroy, far beneath the scarred shells that protect and define us, people are good. Deep down our needs are simple: apart from food, shelter, and clothing there are the needs to love and be loved, for community, to be open with the world at large and have it be open with us, to affect and to be affected, to understand and to be understood, to hear and be heard, to accept and to be accepted. It is only when we fear that these needs won't be met that we grasp at them, and in grasping, lose any chance we have o...f satisfying them. Love controlled is not love; just as sex demanded is rape and acceptance expected is subservience. Bet if we fear, then demand we must, for to fear these needs will not be met is to fear for our lives as surely as if our lack of love and acceptance were instead the absence of food and water. With these deep needs unsatisfied, we waste away, shrivel, and die from hunger and thirst. We die, but we go on surviving. The search for that which should have been there all along continues, but we can no longer receive it, or even recognize it."

-Derrick Jensen, "A Language Older Than Words"

I have to say that this quote should be one of the few that I memorize, because I find myself referring back to quite frequently. Sometimes, I see bits and pieces of my once-thought-conquered insecurities creep back into my personality. The exhuming of desperation in my actions dealing with people I would like to be friends with, my falling onto a twisted intellectual caste-system with others, and the incessant turning everything on myself. I thought i had spent a significant time unraveling that profile.

I cannot say that I haven't changed at all, however. Nowadays, I'm more forgiving of myself. I keep more things to myself, simply because I don't feel the need to broadcast with my coworkers [the reason, then, that I write this blog is because I still wish to be honest with the world at large and have it be honest with me. Those of you who stumble onto this site can learn about me, but it is of your own volition.] If anything, I try harder to befriend those of higher intellect in my classes than to outdo them. When i feel like I can't do something, I do something physical. It jolts me out of my depressive state, and I didn't fully understand it until now-- When my legs are moving, and my heart is working, and my lungs are breathing, it reminds me of my own power. When I'm diving or running, my body can fully submit to my mind, and it takes my problems, and sizes them up for what they are: much smaller than they appear.

Now I have to state that this sudden reflection has been brought about in light of recent events. I am considering joining the school paper. Nothing definite yet, but I'm working on an article for them, and when I was survey some on site work, I ran into this guy. We hit it off. Turns out tat he was gay, and very interested in me, and to be fair, I had an inkling that he was no ordinary fellow [we had become the center of attention when he asked the pastor a controversial question and I provided evidence] and afterward, he asked me if I would be interested in going out. I said yes.

And in the days that followed, he has more or less recanted. He's told me that he had just gotten out of a relationship and wasn't ready for another, but still wanted to be friends, and then he just stopped returning my calls. In that time, I felt my consciousness constantly battering against myself, suggesting all sorts of things to get in touch with him. I was unhappy, and when I knew better than to feel so.

I know what a lot of people are saying; yes, it was only a day that we met, and only a few hours when we actually a few hours when we hung out. I suppose that the reason I am so torn up about this was the chance at a real relationship. Being a black, gay man isn't the most attractive feature in our society. Most of my meeting people who are actually interested in me are online, and they either don't take care of themselves, are very shallow, or are just not available. The possibility of meeting someone who was legitimately interested in me, asks me out, and isn't just concerned about the next party, or the next bed bounce, or the what they wore, or other superficialities seemed like a fairytale come true.

And so I grasped and grasped and grasped, and probably pushed him away.

I know what I felt wasn't love, not of him, anyway. If anything, I'm in love with intimacy. I'm in love with whispers and sunrises and tea in the morning while reading the paper. I'm in love with the stability of strong arms and the power of a strong chest, but the openness of a straight stare. I'm in love with falling asleep with someone to cling to, and hair to twist and fondle. I'm in love with silence being comfortable, with breathing in sync, with hours going by and the only things we do are for each other.

I don't fear death. I fear loss, loneliness, rejection, deception, humiliation, and the pain these things cause, but I don't fear death. God, help me lay these fears to rest.

That is what I am afraid

Stark Honesty with God about myself.

"Lord, open our eyes to all the things that make your heart cry, to be the church that you would desire, a light to be seen. Break down our pride, and all the walls we've built up inside. Our earthly crowns and all our desires we lay at your feet."--Hillsong

Dear God,

How do I begin?

I suppose I should thank you. I remember what Life was like before you. I remember how much it hurt. Everything hurt it seemed; getting up in the morning, going to school, breathing. I was a mess. I was so alone, and I couldn't stand it. I would fall into depression for weeks at a time, and it seemed like no one cared. None of my friends at school, no one at home, no one at church. I was alone, not in the literal sense that there was no one around, but in its stark, most prevalent form; the awareness of the hero's character flaw in a reality that constantly proved to be his undoing. For a long time, I thought--no, I was convinced that you were out to get me. I knew it with every bone in my body. The God of the Universe, creator of Heaven and Earth, sought my destruction. I knew this.

In return, I hated you. You wanted to damn me to Hell? Well, fuck you, then. I knew myself to be the exception in all promises for salvation, the reason for every legalistic asterisk after anything dealing with you loving or caring. Maybe this was just a projection on my part due to my parents' reaction to my coming out of the closet, but then, the thought never occurred in my head, only the constant reminder of the verses that stabbed me in the stomach, and twisted relentlessly. I need not repeat them--we both know which ones they are.

And then you brought him into my life. It seemed like such a cruel thing to do, but then, I had come to expect nothing but the most ruthless, underhanded things from you. There were six of them; some christian, some not. I didn't learn which was which until much later, but him-- from the moment I saw him, something inside me, jaded and betrayed, forgot it's wounds, and instead began to seek him out.

In retrospect, I was at my most neurotic about that time. I hounded him. I trusted only him. I lived only when I was with him. It was like he had the gift of color and clarity, one that only a perfect life could give, one without burden, but understood burden in its truest form, could have. I was incapable without him. Phone calls that lasted hours, daily at one point, only to be left so much hungrier for what it was he had when he peeled himself away from me to be with the rest of the world. I idolized him. I loved him. Still do, in someways. But it seems like he's only a distant memory, now.

Time passed, and he left for college. I took it really hard. It felt like you had won again. You dangled hope in front of me, and, even when I should've known better, I went for it. I thought, "Maybe this time, it's real. Maybe things will change. Maybe I can find love." And when I lunged, you pulled him away. 3,000 frickin' miles away. I was alone again.

But something about this was different. This departure, though final physically, didn't end with a stage exit. I wrote him something. An epic poem. It was spur of the moment: I started it half an hour before I was went to his going away party, and completed it about an hour and a half into it. I slipped it into the yearbook he was passing around--I was the last one to sign it.

That night, I called him. Asked him about it. "I loved it." He said meekly. "I bawled when I read it." We talked for a while. Mostly my trying to get out everything he did for me, and how I didn't know what I was going to do without him. Without him, all I had was you, my Tormentor.

He suggested that I give you an honest chance. He suggested that I do something different from the insane methods that I had tried ever since I learned what I had learned about you: That I would give you a real chance to prove to your love for me. I had no means of denying him. I loved him. 

As we both know, Life wasn't roses and peaches afterward. I was up one minute, down the next. I was still so convinced that you hated me, and with him gone, I had no other community to fall back on. I kept searching for the thing that would fill the void, and eventually, I found another candidate. Another "christian" friend, who's faith was simply choked by thorns, and a new pastor at the time.

I fell back into my pattern over again. The phone calls, the emotional dependency, I did it all, but this time, it blew up in my face. Before it that happened, however, something happened. There was this all-guy retreat that they were offering, where they were going to talk about God, Manhood, and Sexuality. I lied my way out of it. I was terrified of going.

That same weekend, more specifically, the day they came back, there was supposed to be this magic show in the pew. I went, though I made sure to avoid the guys. The magic show itself was alright, but there was this part at the end of the show that struck me with a blunt form of purity, that I simply watched.

There was video clip that included a student who attended Virginia Tech. The same Virginia Tech that had dealt with the shootings on campus earlier. It turned out that she was a victim. I suppose the eeriest part was her recounting of when she had gone to choir practice at church camp, and she had been feeling down, and couldn't shake it for some reason, and called to you, asking to see your face, knowing full well that the bible said that those who have seen your face would die. She wanted to see it anyway, and she did.

That night, I went home. Back to my situation. Back to the isolation. That night, I had looked into the mirror intently, asking you to help me, to show me a sign, to show me that there was hope for me. Then I went to bed.

I remember my dream vividly. It was a Sunday morning. I was sitting in the wool-like synthetic-stitched seats that composed the pew. People to my left and right, the senior pastor preaching. The first thought to my mind was where the object of my dependency was.

"Where is he?" I asked aloud. The woman next to me spoke.

"He had a stroke." She said casually.

An implosion in my chest. "What?"

"Someone hit him on the back of his head, and it triggered a stroke." She said, almost candidly. A stark panic set in, and I ran towards the exit. Looking back, in a situation like that, I probably couldn't even get into his hospital room, but I didn't care. One thought was on my mind--that I had to be where he was. I understand now, that it was much like loyalty.

I burst into the lobby and stopped. I was face to face with him, tethered to an IV pole, a nurse in his left arm. Relief washed over me, and I wanted to run into his arms. I called out his name.

"Who are you? I don't know you."

How does one describe how I felt? It wasn't simply shock. It wasn't simply betrayal. It wasn't simply pain. It was as if he had indeed died. No--it was worse. I had this sense of loss that stole the air from lungs, no matter how deeply I gasped.

"It's me, Maynard!" I cried, my voice cracking and shuddering. "Don't you recognize me?"

"I don't know you. Stay away from me." His voice was even, unaffected by my deteriorating composure. He and the nurse passed me, leaving me alone in the lobby. I didn't feel humiliated. I didn't feel insulted. I only felt loss, and...I wanted to die.

Before I knew it, I was somewhere else. There was sun, and there was water. It was a pool, and we were at a retreat. Arizona. Everyone was splashing around, enjoying themselves. That man I couldn't forget was even enjoying himself, now free of the IV pole, but not entirely independent.  He was so much like a child at that moment: innocent, pure, free. His eyes were were the perfect blend of blue and green, so that they shown with the reflection off the water. He had begun to remember everyone else, but not me. He still didn't know me. Why doesn't he remember me? I asked myself. Loss had accelerated to the depression that turned into the filter that made everything stale. I watched from the pool edge, unmoving, watching him be happy with everyone.

Then, the ground stumbled. Shuddered. Trembled. Everyone scattered, including that nurse. Looking back, I never liked her. It was just me and him, and he looked more frightened than I could bear. I rushed to his aid, but he pushed me away and ran into a forest [I don't even know if there are forests in Arizona, but this is what I saw.] I chased after him, calling his name over him.

The shaking had stopped, but I was worried about aftershocks. I caught him by the arm, but then, he started hitting me. Over and over and over. He kept screaming "I don't know you! I don't know you! I don't know you!" Even asleep, I could feel it. I could physically feel every punch connecting to my chest and stomach. It killed me to see him like that. Every bone in my body sought nothing more than his safety, I couldn't get through to him.

His footing slipped. He fell, rolled down the leaf-laden decline. I chased after him, flipflops and all. I scooped him up into my arms, skidding to a stop. My big toe slid between the bottom nettles of a wire fence, and as I looked up, I saw the sign reading "Danger, High Voltage."

He started hitting me again. "I don't know you! I don't know you!" I couldn't bear it anymore, God. The pain threatened to break me. But I still wanted him to be okay. I still wanted to save him. I grabbed at his arms, the punches hitting my face and chest and stomach, and I embraced him. "I know you don't!" I cried."But please, please, please. I need you to trust me!"

Silence. I waited. Then, calmly, he said, "Okay."

I woke up in tears. I had been crying in my sleep. I bawled. I went to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and through fresh tears, I prayed. "Please, God, help me."

You did, didn't you? The time that followed was the best ride I had. When I moved, You moved. And yes, every breath we drew was "Hallelujah." It was the simplest time of my life. Throughout all of my trials, no matter what had happened, or how I felt, there was always peace, that rang like a drone.

But that question never went away. That decision I had to make never even made it to the back of my mind. I still had mood swings. I still became uncontrollably depressed. I sometimes contemplated suicide. I couldn't break it, it seemed, and my neuroticism festered, and I began to over-analyze things. Matters of faith were no matter left up to faith, but dissected every chance I got, the decision that I had to make the insolvable riddle:

You come to two doors, each with a guardian. One, leads to happiness and salvation. The other, your destruction. One guardian will tell you the truth, the other will lie to you. You can ask them only one question. What do you ask them?

My frustration over this seemingly eternal riddle fed my neurotic nature.  We grew apart as I began to obsess over it. The task of faith became more and more insurmountable. Eventually, the two friendships that I had held onto, the ones that I couldn't bear to end poorly and have them join the sea of passersby, began to crumble in front of me. That was a serious wake-up call.

The summer after I graduated, I took time to face the core problem: I still hated myself. I still hated myself for my mistakes. You know who helped me do it? Maya Angelou and Derrick Jensen. One spelled out exactly how I felt. The other, what I needed to do to fix it. I take it as what you had been trying to tell me. I took a few days to contemplate the words of the atheist and Harvard professor duo, and I finally, finally, absolved myself of my past. All the things that my parents blamed me for, I forgave myself for. All the socially embarrassing things I did that people either did or didn't make fun of me for, I forgave myself. All the crimes that I am guilty of that the good book was so kind to point out for me, along with a few Christians had constantly taken potshots at me because of it, I forgave myself.

So here we are, now. I've traveled the path of a gay christian for a few months, as contradictory as it sounds. I'm not giving up on you, but I have noticed a distance between us. I've prayed for us to bridge that distance, but I'm going to ask you: are you finished with me? Is my new found stability really desensitization? Should I elect to return to my persecutors who bear your name? What am to do, spiritually?

With an open heart and Ears,

Atticus

On the Aspects of a Life Fulfilled

Perhaps I'm taking this a little far, but I was combing my favorited videos on youtube, and I came upon this remix of "Do Tok", a IB parody of Ke$ha's "Tik Tok". As I click play and listen to the auto-tuned, heavily edited lyrics by Hatenko, I thought back to the adventures I experienced as part of the first International Baccalaureate class in my high school. Past the eventual moping over what I saw as a general disappointment in terms of not receiving my IB Diploma, I have to say that I look back with fond memories of those two years.

I didn't waste those years. Not getting the diploma is just a road block that I have to deal with. The schools that I wanted to go to were the best in the country, but, before I can go there, before I even think about applying to the same people who rejected me the year before, changes need to happen in my life. I have to find balance. I have to teach myself discipline. I have to move past the small, individualized sphere that society started to construct, but I completed on my own. I need to move into a community that is focused, not on small-minded, lazy pursuits like catching the latest episode of Jersey Shore, but that is connected by an activity or endeavor that appeals to what I have found to be the three essential aspects of humanity. They aren't exactly hidden from the general public. No doubt you, my readers, have heard of the trinity of Mind, Body, and Soul. They are simply the three aspects of every individual: The physical, intellectual, and the spiritual. Should we neglect any of these aspects, we suffer.

Each of these aspects must be attended to regularly, and given great and serious care, because they each contribute to the core of our character, and at the same time, define the world around us. One cannot exist without the other two, and no one is exclusive from the others. One who manages to complete the task of attending to and delving himself wholeheartedly into each of these endeavors and their combined variances conquers the task of living and enjoying a life fill with good memories, informative experiences, and few regrets.

The Mind is intellectual, but the brain is a muscle as well. The mind is fostered best when it encounters puzzles and gathers facts and evidence. The mind, in a biological sense, is the literal command center for the rest of the body. It is more complex than any smart phone or super computer, and more capable. Understanding and postulating scenarios is healthy for an active mind, from which anything can occur. To neglect this would be a disservice to the individual in an incalculable number of ways, making him liable to any sort of sham the slightly-more intelligent con man or blind him to the necessity of nutrients to his body in order to survive.  However, the singling out of mind for intellectual pursuits can cause heightened paranoia or the skewing of the value of the pursuits of the soul and the body.

The Soul is spiritual, and benefits from the meditation and evaluation of a faith or moral construct. While one may ask whether or not there is a "correct" faith, or inquire one's right to choose no faith, the purpose of the soul is the ability to garner wisdom. A tome of a faith with a major following, aside from questionable mythology/truth, will consist of an acceptable to relate to others and with oneself. A healthy soul is reflective and insipidly evaluating the beliefs of said individual. From this aspect, there is the understanding, and eventual celebration of the seemingly unsavory parts of life, such as the construction of patience and the learned appreciation for discipline. A Soul neglected has no voice, and there is no grounding of the individual, and thus, no happiness or fulfillment.

The Body, the physical, provides for a  refuge for all things, including the intellectual and the spiritual. In the world outside of one's mind comes the fruition of one's theories and the applications of the philosophies inquired. It is also interesting to note that it is from the outside world that these intellectual and spiritual pursuits are birthed, attesting to the initial claim of Hume's Treatise of Human Nature:

"Nothing is ever really present to the mind but perceptions and ideas, and that external objects become known to us only by those perceptions they cause in us."

The physical aspect of an individual, then, must also serve a personal role. Besides being the application to both the highly internal aspects aforementioned, it also serves as their rescuer. A body in use temporarily diverts ones attention to the task at hand, and the pursuits of the mind and soul are checked. A mind without diversion can delve to deeply in a intellectual dilemma, causing frustration with one's self or others. A soul under too much surveillance will distance itself from influences that deem it hazardous to one's health, becoming a purely judgmental figure unable to relate in the necessary avenues to connect with any sense of community altogether. In both of these cases, the individual is torn from society, and they may either cease to understand society, and, unable to relate, fall into depression, or come to resent society for their vices and ignorance as labeled by their understandings. A healthy body eases the soul and enlightens the mind. It enables working philosophies to garner success, and informs one of the nature of reality and the world around them.

The combination these three parts create essentially incorporates all areas of knowledge and understanding in our society today. Any combination of these elements foster theories and validate them for the goals and pursuits of any individual. A life partnered with felicity is one that is maintained and examined. A life fulfilled has received the fruits of these labors.

IT'S ALIVE!!!!!!

That's right, readers! I haven't forgotten about you at all! Those of you who are still with me, I thank you. You're loyalty is greatly appreciated. That will not be forgotten.

The reason for my absence is not a sign of neglect to a self-made responsibility. Instead, I had suffered technical difficulties, as in my computer was precisely four clicks away from the outside of my second story window. Gateway is to computers what AT&T is to cell phone coverage: in need of being woken up from its comatose-like state before someone in the family wises up and pulls the plug.

Love you, too, Gateway =}

But before I decided to end the life of my computer, I contacted my dad and had him work on it. The man fixed what had been a crippling problem for me for about a week or so in a matter of hours. I walked out of that house with a functioning computer, and my files didn't have to be deleted before anything happened to it.

One thing that I've definitely noticed over the past year is the relationship with my father taking a huge turn for the better. We talk, I ask for advice, and I've even started confiding certain things to him. Not that my usual confidants have been neglected in any way.... other than my prayer journal. Actually, I would like to start that back up. I know where it is.... why not?

Anyway, in the interest of the reader/blogger relationship, I, the blogger, want to hear some stories from you, the reader. Give feedback on the posts and chapters you read, share your thoughts on the characters or prompts, plots or opinions expressed by the characters or myself. It helps me to learn about the audience I'm writing to and the things they want.

For instance, this week's prompt is: "What is a positive memory that you have of your parents and you bonding?" It can be of you and your mother, father, stepfather/mother, ex-stepfather/mother, legal guardian or all of the above. Leave a comment below!

Also, there is a follow button on right side of the page, where you can follow publicly, anonymously, semi-anonymously, and with or without a glorious alias.

Until next time, which I promise will be soon, I am signing off, so live strong, love boldly, and farewell!

With Love,
A.A.Montax