metal insects (part 3)

   I don't sleep well anymore. Sitting in the dark at 4 am, pouring steaming coffee down my throat while a kalideoscope of images, sounds, and memories swirl in my head like a carnival has become a daily ritual.

   Will writing about all this serve any purpose? Will it rinse out the poison?

   I know the answer to neither of those questions.

   The only things I do know is that it won't bury the lost (and there are so many), and that those who have urged me to open up and let people get to know me better may just get more than they bargained for.

   How each individual judges me will be solely up to them...

   At first it seemed that things would be better there. That opinion took a 180-degree-turn in record time.

   The kids in our new neighborhood approached and befriended us the first day. One developed a crush on me, and before I knew it I had a girlfriend. Nice start for a new town? Nope. She tired of me rather quickly - maybe I was too much of a bookworm. Within weeks we were the butt of childish pranks. This, I'm afraid, turned out to be the least of my worries.

   My previous school was filled to the rafters with the seed of upper class familes. They tended to look down upon the less fortunate - but I didn't see that at the time.

   Port Sulphur High was predominantly black and incredibly violent - a little at first, then escalating as one moved on to junior and senior high. Most students seemed to be of the opinion that every White person was a former slaveowner. I couldn't wrap my mind around it. I'd never had a bit of hate or discrimination programmed into me. Those sort of  influences were definitely there, but I'd written them off as unnecessary and counterproductive from the first.

   Telling them that your family couldn't possibly have been involved in the slave trade due to your Indian and immigrant roots would only get you into a fight.

   Sure, I'd been in a few fights in primary school, but they were little scuffles about nothing. The next day you'd be friends again.

   In Port Sulphur it was fight back, and I do mean every day, or walk around with permanent bootprints all over your back. I was even expelled once.

   That semester, our Physical Education regimen consisted of daily treks to the baseball diamond for some good old-fashioned kickball. My turn to kick came and I stepped to the plate. The pitcher went into motion and sent the ball spinning my way.

   I took a few steps forward, swung, and connected squarely with that magic place that sent it out of the park. I breakdanced around the bases, then had the honor of being carried off the field on the shoulders of my triumphant teammates.

   Say sorry, but none of those things happened.

   As the ball rolled toward me, the catcher walked up beside me and punched me in the face - for no apparent reason. We'd never had an unkind word with each other. The world descended into a red haze.

   I turned to him and hit him back very hard. Now we were both angry. A crowd of spectators, made up almost entirely of his friends, encircled us. Within seconds I was peppered with kicks and punches on the head, neck, back and legs.By the time the hand descended on my shoulder, I'd had enough. I turned, swung, and landed one squarely on the jaw of the Phys Ed instructor.

   Silence descended.

   My parents were presented with the option of summer school to ensure my advancement. So I went, served a few weeks, and earned the credits.

   I'd done it! Now I could get on the bus, go home and enjoy the rest of the summer. Not quite yet, kemosabe. Before I could get on the bus I was in another fight.

   That's how I got expelled from summer school. I still happened to scrape by, though. In the fall, I began my 2nd trip through seventh grade, but within two weeks was given a placement test and advanced to 8th.

   All this because I'd partipated to avoid an F. I'd never particularly cared for sports anyway.

   I could cover the next 2 years of this: the gay rumours, the weapons, etc.,  but I think you can sense the volatile atmosphere that permeated our existence there. Let's move on.

   I'm now at one of the events that I've been dreadfully afraid to recount, but I'm going to go ahead and cut the vein so it can bleed out. My readership will probably fall off drastically from this point on (and even more will avoid talking to me altogether - too nauseating of a subject, which I understand) , but it's of little consequence to me. Given the choice, I'll pick closure over companionship anytime. I've been alone in my own head long enough to be familiar with it.

   I was raised in a small Baptist church. When I was 9, my cousin spent a summer at our house. One day, in Sunday School, she got Jesus big time.

   Being fairly close to my age, she was one of the cousins I was closest to. When I saw her leaving with the Sunday School teacher I felt left out. I told them to "wait for me!" I was coming, too.

   On the way to an adjacent room that was used for counseling and one-on-one prayer sessions, she asked me if I knew where we were going. I responded in the negative.

   "We're going to be saved."

   We came in, prayed quietly, and accepted Jesus Christ and his gift of salvation. The following week we were baptized in a dual "ceremony."

   I would realize after lots of studying and reflection that I hadn't done anything but go along because I didn't want to be excluded. It didn't stop me from trying to better myself. I keep searching.

   In 8th grade, I was invited to youth night at a local church. After a few Saturday nights that turned out to be fun-filled and uplifting, I began attending weekly services and group bible sudies.

   I was finally able to admit that my "salvation" in '86 had been a facade. During Sunday service, I got up and  gave a testimonial about my enlightenment, joy, and renewed faith, then asked that my letter of membership be moved. Soon I was attending seminars, concerts, and camps with our youth group. Our witnessing, intense study sessions and fine-tuned choir won many souls to the Lord.

   I sang well. Cigarettes had yet to begin the job of rusting my throat. Our youth minister had another job - music minister/pianist. I urged him to begin instructing me. He heartily agreed and gave me a few lessons.

   One Friday, I was sitting at home watching the Graffiti Bridge premiere party on MTV (back when they were still a music channel) and lamenting the fact that I wasn't at the cinema watching it on opening night. What kind of Prince fan was I?

   My reverie was broken by the jangling of the telephone. It was the youth minister.

   "My wife is hosting a sleepover for the girls from the youth group. I needed to get out for the night, so I'm taking a couple of the guys to catch a movie. You interested?"

   I agreed to come immediately. My lucky night, right?

   The rest of the guys agreed  on Graveyard Shift. I stood my ground and went into Graffiti Bridge alone. My admiration for Stephen King's works hadn't become an obsession yet.

   We had a great time and vowed we'd have our own sleepover soon.

    It became a weekly pattern. They'd rent and watch 3 or 4 movies while I read inspirational books and studied history. My insomnia was just beginning. Bleary-eyed dawn would find me dressed for Sunday school and studying my bible when the others awakened.

   What happened next drove me out of church for several years. My questioning of God and the church happened gradually between then and my second failed church experience - this one half a lifetime later as a member of the ministry. My distrust of authority figures and questioning of their motives had no period of gestation. It was there in an instant.

   One night the youth minister came into the spare bedroom where I was sleeping. He talked about faith and his plans for the ministry. Then, faster than a travelling snake-oil salesman, he switched to keeping the body pure by remaining abstinent until marriage.

   "I don't think I understand what point you're trying to make h-"

   Not to be deterred, he quickly cut me off and moved on to sex, masturbation, and the development of the male sex organ. I made up my mind that it was time to go home.

   Before I had a chance to move, this reptile in sheperd's robes exposed and gratified himself - standing right there in front of me! Ego deflated, his face crumpled and he began to pray for forgiveness for "our" weakness. Eternity in the inferno averted once again, he returned to bed.

   I don't want anyone to think I'm leading towards an altar boy story. He never laid a finger on me, but I realize today that it was still rape - of the joy and contentment that my spiritual journey had given me. It put up another wall as far as communication and trust were concerned. Who could I tell about such an experience? There was certainly no one that would understand or sympathize. I don't think it gave me any sexual hang-ups. I have yet to stumble across a wormhole in my psyche.

   I wouldn't spend another night at their house, only the occasional lunch on Sunday afternoons. I stopped thinking about how I could lead others to God and started trying to figure out how to get out without rocking the boat. I didn't want to ruin my life or those of others by speaking up about it.

   Two things that gradually slowed my attendance were my first job - working for the Parish Recreational Dept. over the summer, and my first serious relationship. Whichever reason, I'd feel peace when I had to miss a service.

   Most of the girls I had previously dated would drop me pretty quickly. My desires for true love and a life partner were too intense, as most were wont to have short-lived schoolgirl crushes before moving on to the next big thing. You all remember those instances of puppy love , don't you?

   I agonized over every single one, mostly because I was too shy to ever let them know I was interested.

   Walking home from church one day, I crossed paths with two sisters that were out for a spin on their bicycles. They had recently moved into a house on the next street. To my amazement, the younger was already dating Michael. Within a few days, they decided to play matchmaker with her older sister and I.

   We agreed to see one another, then spent the next few months getting acquainted

   You all know how it is when you're young and your passion burns the hottest. You look at the world through rose-colored glasses. Every embrace is a gift from the heavens. Your mainsprings are tightly wound, and time has yet to begin the cruel subtraction of your enthusiasm and your right hook.

   We dated off and on throughout high school. Everything was perfect during the first year, but when I began to search for the person I would become, she was not too happy with some of the changes in me... But don't think that I'm implying anything negative at this point. I have engaged in lots of self-destructive behavior on my journey. Most of her objections had merit.

    Over the course of time, we had 2 children, both beautiful and intelligent beyond their years. She kept a clean ship, was great at managing money, an animal lover, and enjoyed cooking. I have a deep respect that remains today, but sadly, our relationship (and later marriage) would have the most destructive consequences I'd ever known.

   This, over a decade's worth of calendar pages later, was when I learned the true meaning of pain...

   The youth leader and his wife moved to Iowa.

   The night they left, nearly a dozen from the youth group stood huddled around the rental truck saying their goodbyes.

   As they drove away, the guy next to me said, "I can't believe they're gone."

   "I told them everything!" said one of the girls.

   I looked back and forth at their solemn faces, and two things went through my mind.

   The first, which had never occured to me before, was to wonder how many others he'd done this (or worse) to. Sure, it gave me a whole spectrum of issues, but had I been more fortunate?

   The other thing was a feeling of gratitude that they were gone. I quietly vowed that I'd never set foot in a church again.

    It was a promise I didn't keep.


   I had grown weary of the hate and violence in the world around me. I'd been studying positivity, and had decided I wanted to spread kindness and love to every person that happened to cross my path.

   There was only one thing to do. I had to get out of Port Sulphur.

metal insects (part 2)

   I hope it doesn't put any of you off to know that no one was shot that day. Just bear with me for a little while. The inhumanity and death will come all too soon.

   In the beginning I had serious problems in school. I was always dancing on the edge of failing.

   By the commencement of my kindergarten year, the administration informed my parents that they were not convinced I was emotionally ready for advancement. What ensued was a closed-door meeting which resulted in my enrollment in Ms. Short's 1st Grade class and weekly meetings with a counsellor.

   My counsellor - I wanna say his name was Tim Rice - was baffled. He'd take me to the library and watch me pour over books like a madman. Why wasn't I learning?

   Over the course of the year, between our interviews and my gradual advancement to the adult stacks, he came to a startling conclusion:

   Having learned to read at such a young age, I never felt the necessity to ask questions. There was no need. I could find the answers myself. I developed my own inner comprehension skills, and by the time I began grammar school they were sharpened to a knife-point.

   Lesson plans are designed to flow at a pace conducive to teaching a full classroom. My absurdly high comprehension level made it nearly impossible to follow a lecturer, and as I've mentioned before, you were called out for not playing the game if you ventured off the trail and did your own thing.

   The jury was out. The school faculty was convinced I belonged in Special Education.  My counsellor was down to 2 options. I was either:

   a) a genius

       or

   b) some sort of idiot savant

   Before I knew it, I was sitting alone in Mr. Tim's office taking lots of tests. I was determined an 8th grade level and suggested for enrollment in Gifted & Talented classes, but Mom refused, saying that the tests shouldn't be the yardstick that measures their expectations of me. Maybe she figured I would come around sooner or later.

   Eventually the teachers decided to leave me alone, maybe because I didn't cause a disturbance. At least not yet. Each year thereafter, I would get my new textbooks and read them all in the first couple of weeks. That taken care of, I had time to read and write (some of the writing got me in BIG trouble). I'd complete all my assignments and pass every test without ever studying.

   I'd sail through the year, but it was harmful. It was cutting me off from learning one-on-one communication skills - a void which would lead to much suffering in the future.

   During my childhood I was quite accident prone. I've had my nose sliced nearly in half: stitches in every nook and cranny you could possibly imagine; broken my wrist, foot, collarbone and nose; been shot and stabbed. I had a hernia at 9, but that was cool. My dad and I got to meet one of the Saints in the recovery room.

   During the fall that resulted in my left wrist being encased in plaster, I suffered the first of two head injuries. I'm told I had amnesia for 2 or 3 days. I sometimes wonder how much permanent damage was done.

   One of my accidents was a bit traumatic.

   I began to walk home from school in the 4th grade. Eventually I stopped using the crosswalk. It was so much faster to go out the side door (next to the counsellor's office, no less) and cut through the student parking lot.

   One day it got the better of me. I guess I didn't look both ways before crossing and was struck by a car.

   The next thing I remember is that I felt hands touching me. I began protesting that "I'm getting up, I swear. I know it's time for school."

   Then I opened my eyes.

   I was on a stretcher and the ambulance was surrounded by people. One of the  EMT's took out a pair of surgical shears and proceeded to cut off all of my clothing.

   "Don't do that! That's my favorite shirt!"

   (Favorite shirt? Jeez, at this point Mom was still dressing me like the 40-year-old Virgin!)

   My protests fell upon deaf ears.

   So here I lay, in my underwear and babbling like a madman, in front of the entire student body. I couldn't get up or move to cover myself, being strapped to the gurney by this point.

   I became the talk of the school.

   "Did you hear?"

   "I heard he was crossing the street with his nose in a book and never saw the car coming!"

   "I saw it! His shoes flew right off of his feet!"

   I mean, come on. Weren't the Abraham Lincoln jokes bad enough?

   At the hospital I learned 2 things.

   One was that road tar is very painful to remove when embedded in the skin.

   The other was that one of Dad's friends was the driver of the car that struck me. He was quite distraught and begged that we let him pay my medical bills.

   Maybe two years later we were informed that he had passed away. I hope I didn't jinx him.

   Mom says she began to be embarrassed when she'd have to bring me to the emergency room. It was quite obvious the entire staff believed we were being abused.

   Once I reached adulthood all that changed, but that's a story for another day.

   During my 7th year I began to take an interest in music, particularly Prince, who was becoming a household name that year with Purple Rain.

   I know that's a far cry from where I stand personally as a musician these days (depends on the day, of course. I do have to be funky sometimes.), but it was very important. The first artist I ever took notice of had a proclivity to play every instrument and genre of music known to man - and recorded albums alone, sometimes in a basement.

   The possibilities seemed endless to me. I began to beg my mother for piano lessons, but there wasn't enough money for it.

   This initial interest led to others - James Brown, Sly and the Family Stone, Hendrix, Santana.

   Beginning in '87, I spent a few summers with my aunt, a confessed "wild child."

    I discovered 2 amazing things there: her record collection (massive) and Stephen King.

    I got well acquainted with so much history. The Rolling Stones. T-Rex. Jethro Tull. Queen. The Cars. I could go on for millenia.

   But I will say this much:

   If you have a turntable, you must hear the White Album before you die. There is almost nothing greater. It will change your life.

   Punk came later.

   She had some wonderful books on her shelves. One, the Bachman Books, was a paperback collection by King's alias, Richard Bachman. I've read 3 copies to tatters.

   Charlie Decker, the hero(?) of Rage, has stayed with me for a lifetime. But to be honest, they all have.

   Our lives were about to enter a new phase.

   My father had sustained a back injury in '86 that led to two operations for slipped and hemorrhaging  discs. 3 years later the insurance company finally settled with him - not for an incredible figure, but it was enough for a brand new Mitsubishi Galant and a nice down payment on a house.

   We packed our possessions, grabbed our loyal collie, Crockett (Dad was a Miami Vice fan), and hightailed it 15 miles north to Port Sulphur, Louisiana.

   It was there that I entered my teens, got religion - which turned out to be a bittersweet elixer, began making money while most were playing Nintendo, began my musical instruction, and picked up a few habits that maybe weren't so good.

   It was also in this town that I first experienced the rollercoaster emotions of love, loss, and doubt.

   The '90's were almost upon us.

   All of this and more you will hear soon.

   "As for me? I've lain down my scrivener's pen. These days I prefer not to."

         - Michael Noonan (paraphrased)