Religion? What it means to me, or thereof?

Religion

               The subject I don’t speak of, for fear of getting into fights.  We are all born into this world, and most of us are ingrained that something made us.  There are a few I’ve met, some lonely dark souls whose parents told them there was nothing, there was no God, no Allah, no higher-power, and these friends of mine were so lost.  This particular friend had no idea, no grasp why I believed in a God that would never appear to me.  But one Christmas, as he spent the holidays with me and my family, he expressed that he want to go witness a mass, a eservice to see what made religious people so stronger. I didn’t want to bring him along, because I thought he was only making fun of my family, but he confessed that he found it intriguing, that I could believe in something, have faith in something I’ve never seen.  He told me he wished his mom had raised him differently, because he felt so alone in the world.

               I myself grew up a Christian, but I saw from an early age, that many Christians hated each other.  We had Catholics hating Baptists hating Presbyterians hating Jehovah’s witnesses hating Mormons hating Lutherans hating episcolepians hating Methodists hating so forth.  The sad thing was we were all Christians who believed in Christ, but each faction had the “right way to heaven,” so all others were going to hell.  But is it not Jesus, peace be unto him, who said, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind’ This is the first and great commandment.  And the second is like it, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’”  Matthew 22:37-39

               To love your neighbor was what Jesus Christ taught, but all these Christians did not know how to love each other nor their neighbor.

               So I studied other religions.

               There was Buddhism, which I greatly admired, for the teachings were the same, to love others as you love yourself.  To give, because that I all there is to life.  I don’t know much about Buddhism, but I’ve seen many books arguing over Buddha like the Christians argue over Christ.

               And Al Islam, I have nothing but respect for.  Muhammad brings the same qualities as Jesus or Buddha, but Muslims get a bad rap because they have been viewed as a violent religion as a people who will kill you if you don’t follow their faith.  But this is not true; it is the humans, those that practice these religions with their upbringings, with their values and beliefs that make religions bad.

               One evening I came from studying Islam with my Muslim brothers, and one of them being black sat at the table with me as were talking.  He trusted m, for having a good soul to understand him.  Shortly thereafter, another black man, a Christina, came and sat down with us.  He told me of an instance of what was troubling him and I helped him. (The Christian man with his matter.)  Once the Christian left, the Muslim took ahold of my arm and told me “I don’t trust that man, hush up around him because I don’t trust him.”  I heard what he told me and I was befuddled in my brain.  We had just come from a spiritual teaching where we were taught that Muhammad, peace be unto him, spoke that we must love our fellow man, no matter what.  What we had just heard and listened to, not even 30 minutes before, was out of this man’s head for he had his prejudices on again.

               This is the problem I have with religions.  They all want to be right and they all want to go to heaven, and it is okay to damn those with different beliefs because they are all heathens.  No, this is not okay, because I believe to love your fellow man, no matter what.

               It doesn’t matter what color you are, what sun you pray to, it doesn’t matter what animals you sacrifice or what animals you don’t eat.  It doesn’t matter what God you praise, what Allah you revere, or what Buddha you want to be like, the only thing, the only action that religion should teach, for it doesn’t matter what religion is and what it means or conveys, the best thing us humans, the only action us humans should partake in, is loving each other.

               Religions only breed hate among us humans.  Rituals and practice are good because it helps the man remember what we are praying for, but mainly religion tears us humans apart when we should love each other fully and completely.

               Now you should practice and have faith in your religion, because it is good to be live in something, to believe in this higher power, because without the higher power, we humans would be so lonely.  But don’t go hating others for having different beliefs. 

               We are all stuck on this ship of life and the best thing, the best action we can take is care and love each other, because we all live on this planet.  Forget about religion, but take the core beliefs and love one another.

woman

Women

               Oh woman, how I love her so.  I love her lips.  I love her hair, which wraps around my throat, her lips I feel against my neck, her slender frail hands, holding on to my soul, her tongue teasing me with honey to my ears, her feet, walking over the earth, leaving footprints on my spiritual being, her legs, recently shaven, smooth against my chin, I love her thighs as they flex with muscle, with raw power, and her pubis, her life, making me like a kid waking up in the morning wanting my Saturday cartoons, wanting my cereal.

               Her lips, I always though I needed to satisfy.  I’d sit under trees, amongst downpours of tears, fixating on her lips which I thought I was so unworthy of feeling against my plump lips.

Her hair, long or short, I was afraid to touch, afraid that I would damage that beautiful hair which had stories in each ink of life.  Afraid to reach out, I always let woman and hair go through my grasp.

               Her lips again, I ran away from because I thought she would only bring me heartache and grief.  I’d rather not have these bad emotions in my heart, so I ran away, shunning beautiful women, and pushing wonderful women away from me.

               Her slender frail hands, I’d push away, when they wanted to hold me, when they wanted to care for me, but I was too “into” myself, that I believed I was evil and not worthy of any woman’s touch, even when all they wanted to do was help and love me.

               Her tongue, chastising me with words, for actions I’ve done.  I’ve used my tongue in return, only to hurt her more than she ever hurt me.  When woman had positive things to say to me of love, I only showered them with words of hurt, words of shame, words that strike at her heart, making her cry.

               Her feet, walking over me, I let her step on me and degrade me.  She wiped her sins all over my face, and I took it, because I thought that was my duty, to take what women threw at, me, to please them was my only desire.

               Her legs, I desired as she came towards me or walked away.  I yearned for those legs, wanting to do the stupidest things, like steal for those legs, like kill for those long legs because late at night I dreamt those legs pushing, stepping all over me and I liked being trampled underfoot.

               Her thighs, I savored with each drop of sweat, rubbing for warmth, wanting them to suffocate me, to sedate me, to trap me into becoming a man worthy of having thighs like these wrapped around my hips, morphing into one.

               Her pubis, I desired.  Writing poems for glances, for touches, because I was never good enough to satisfy her.  I wanted her pubis to make me happy, but I thought I could never make this pubis happy, because I wasn’t worthy enough, I wasn’t big enough, I wasn’t enough.

               This was how I treated women, why sometimes I hated them, because I was searching for happiness in a woman, and no woman, no body, nobody but myself can give me happiness.

               And those women I didn’t care for treated me the same way I treated these “highly” women of my dreams.  I didn’t care for their love, so I got their love in return, because we were both equals and worthless.  While those women I loved, why they are still statues behind walls of glass that are impossible for me to ever reach and touch.

               But I had to realize that no woman will ever bring me happiness.  Yes they can satisfy my pleasures, but only I would make myself happy when I realized that the power was in me.

               That was the secret I found for my troubles with women.  Women don’t care if I can’t satisfy them, or put them up and dress them like a princess or queen.  Women want love, want you to love them, want me to love them, for they in return can love you back, can love me back.

               There is nothing mysterious about women, like I once thought.  I know now, that to love women, to love all women, of all ages, of all sizes, of all colors, women of the plains, women of the south, women with fiery tongues, with open hearts, women with large breasts, with small breasts, women with no breasts, because women give us all that one thing we start with.  For without women we wouldn’t be here, for without women, I would have no life.  Then I would not have learned what love is from a mother; and I want to live, for to live is to love.

precis for The Narcissist

The Narcissist

 

 

3.  The Client has the right to voice opinions, recommendations, and grievances in relations to policies, services, and treatment offered by the facility in accordance with the guidelines established by the Texas Department of Corrections (TDC) and/or Gateway without fear of restraint, interference, coercion, discrimination or retaliation.  The client has the right to complain directly to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice.

 

“It takes two people to make you, and one people to die.  That’s how the world is going to end.”  As I Lay Dying, Faulkner 38.

 

“Why is light given to him who is in misery, And life to the bitter of soul, who long for death, but it does not come, And search for it more than hidden treasures; Who rejoice exceedingly, and are glad when they can find the grave? Why is light given to a man whose way is hidden, And whom God has hedged in?  For my sighing comes before I eat, and my groaning’s pour out like water.  For the thing I greatly feared has come upon me, and what I dreaded has happened to me.  I am not at ease, nor am I quiet; I have no rest, for trouble comes”   Job 3: 20 – 26

 

“So, Shoot it up, shoot it up, it just don’t matter, when you’re resisting anyway.”  The Ballad of Johnny Butt, Sublime, Bradley Nowell.

introduction to the Narcissist

Introduction

 

While millions of people sleep their dreams of reason, while many wake up and go to work around the city, the county, the state, the country, the world, commuting back and forth, putting their kids in daycare or dropping them off at school, hustling and bustling;  plenty of responsible people doing their part every day to keep this machine of society rolling day in and day out, getting paid minimum wage for hard meaningless jobs to getting paid top dollar to work in places where lies are repeated to keep most people at bay, I find myself, at the glorious age of thirty-three in the lowest of places any person can find themselves in: in solitary confinement.

               This was not the life I intended for myself in my innocent youth.  I had dreams of being an astronaut, dreams of racing between the faraway stars, further dreams of being a ground-breaking scientist, but never did I have dreams of being a lowly criminal, locked up because of his own bad habits that had been garnered over the years of living on the lowly scraps of life, thrown around here and there because there is no respect to be given to people who live with no respect for themselves.

               I have no one to blame but myself for being in this predicament.  I have followed my own bad way of life, and it has led me to this dark corner of the universe.  Here in this spot, I am alone.  I have no one to talk to, no one to tell my secrets to, no one to hear my story, this very story that I am writing.

               For too long, I have led a life in which I never existed.  I never believed my true self was out in this world, so I went along with whatever life had to offer me.  I never took life by its reigns and chose what I wanted to live.  Rather life lived it for me.  What life threw at me, I rode like a plastic horse on a carousel where someone else was paying my fare.

               When was I going to come off of this fake horse and touch the ground on my own?  When was the ride and funny music going to end so I could open my eyes and see that I was on the carousel all by myself?

               It is like Descartes, when he is in solitude in his little house for the winter and he is not content. He felt that he did not exist in this world until he latched on the notion that he was able to think for himself.  Once he was able to think for himself, once he was able to just think, he knew that he existed, because his mind was working on its own. (Cogito, Ergo Sum)

               This is what has transpired to me.  I thought deadly for so many years that when I was actually thinking for the first time, I was so close to my own death and madness.  I had taken off the pornographic film of life around my eyes and was able to see life for the first time, but the sad thing was that now, in solitary confinement for who knows how long, I was never going to taste life for what it really was.  For what I saw life was now, was so far from my grasp, my dreams were o no comparison to what I was missing in real life.

               What was different for me this time was how I was going to live my life, if ever I got out of this solitary confinement?  I have read many books on many subjects, but I never felt any wiser for having read them.  I’ve lived many lives in my thirty-three years, but I had on so many masks in all the facets of life, that now with my real face on, I did not know how to truly live in this mad and sane world.

               I was to be a new born babe in an old body coming to terms with life, trying to survive in a world with all the gunshots of life littering my dull and senseless body.

               I have walked to hell, been there a while and made it back to the rocky ground.  I have found out that I prefer the broken path to the path that has always been paved in gold.

               But the greatest gift I found out when I came back to the rocky path was that this whole time, this whole life I thought I was dead, in reality, I was breathing because I was alive and I was happy to be alive.  What I thought was lifelessness, was actually experience behind my ears.  You see, wisdom isn’t gained from reading a book, but rather wisdom is earned from living a story full of mistakes and how to live on with the mistakes committed in life.

               The whole time I spent searching for myself, through poems and words and music, it took me being by myself to understand that I love my fellow man, that I need my fellow woman, because without humanity, then I can never be a complete human being.  None of us could ever be complete by remaining by themselves, but with friends, family, compatriots, even enemies, we can tell each other of our life’s journeys and feel complete with living.

               I may not have lived long as some have lived, but what I have seen is through my experience, my life through my eye, I see how this world turns and this is how I perceive of that world.  We all have different opinions and ideals; there are just a few of what I have seen so far in my young life.

essay on writing

Writing

I’ve spent a good deal of my time writing and what has it got me?  Arrested and persecuted for writing out what I have swimming fast all over my raging brain.

Ever since I was young, I spent days writing of the summer months. I spent nights writing of the darker months.  I wrote everything I had in my heart, from the darkest, evilest desire, to the positive sunshine that helps souls grow into responsible men and competent women.

               At a young age, I discovered writing as a talent that God had given me.  I understood that I was to live the life of a writer, a poet, a philosopher and endure loneliness on a level most normal people never know about.  I wanted to be a mystic, someone with great words to read, someone to be remembered by many.

               There were many authors I emulated, too many for me to write in this place, but a sampling of Nietzsche, Camus, Kierkegaard, Saurraute, Eco, and so forth populated the shelves in my head.  These were the men and women who taught me everything about life and in turn about writing, which was my life.  If I had to make up my own synonyms, life and writing would go hand in hand.

               I saw the horrors some of these writers went through just to get published.  Some of them never even got any recognition when they were alive; a discovery of their genius sometimes came years after their own measly deaths.  So I told myself that I would witness those same horrors on a personal level.  Be careful what you wish for, because when it becomes actuality, those horrors are really quite horrendous.

               I came from a school of writing, which was a realism, that if I am to write something, I feel I have to experience those thoughts first hand so I would be able to write them for posterity.  Now there are lots of writers who can write without experiencing the life that they had wrote and made sound so real, and I am not saying that these writers are any less, but when I came to my own writing, if I was to write of being in solitary confinement, well I had to be in solitary confinement so I would be able to know the horrors of being locked up in solitary so I would know what I was writing about.  There was a writer who said that a day in solitary confinement was like a thousand years because one never knows the time, nor can one follow the daylight, for there were no windows to see outside to see it the sun was out punishing the workers with heat or if the moon was out lying and enticing the poets that were left to be fooled.  I always thought of that saying, but when I experienced the sad solitary confinement for my stupid self, I felt how slow time moved everywhere.  It was just like Einstein’s theory of relativity, time moved so slow for me, it did seem like each second was one hour in comparison.  It was like the hourglass of time was moving so slowly, where I could hear each granule of sand fall into the bottom part of the hourglass, which chimes so loud, my ear drums hurt with each fall of microscopic sand falling.

               Writing to me is a realism that I have to get to the bottom of.  Sort of like my own mystery novel and I am the detective with the task of solving the timeless crime.  I treated writing as my child, and everything I wrote, from pieces of poetry to never quite finished novels, I treated all my writing as if it, this materialistic paper was my own flesh and blood child.  They were not real fruit as God would have me to bloom, but I treated these words that came out of me as something special, as something that was childlike, or something of that sort.  Contrary to what most people think about me, I truly love everything that comes out of me.  Like you love your children, from the beginning spermazoa and egg fertilization, I love my children from the moment I set ink to paper.  They are my form of love and expression.  Where mothers speak well of their children even when they do nothing but harm other humans, for a mothers love, a true mother’s love runs so so deep.  My children have a freedom of speech and an even further deeper freedom of expression.  Just like you let your children grow and yet you still love them no matter what, even if they grow up to become murderers or mass hysteria terrorists, I too love all my children, even if they are born of blue or black ink.

               Be they good or bad, I still love my children, nevertheless.  Even the bad ones, which get me into trouble, I love with all my true heart.  They come from my body, they erupt from my brain, they are set loose from my fiery loins, and even from my own frail and battered heart.  Even in prison, I stand behind my terrible, but lovable words.  I , who have been sent to prison for writing bad poetry, for being a damn poetaster, I still love writing so much because it is the gift that God has given to me.

               Back to the question that was first asked.  What has writing got me?  Besides the worldly view of being imprisoned for writing what made me content, my writing has brought me a freedom so huge that I have no idea how to express this sentiment.  A great freedom.  Freedom of the soul, of the mind, of my heart.  What nothing in the world have ever brought me, writing had brought me understanding.  It has helped me to love those around me and it had helped me to comfort many around me.  Writing has brought me a means of expressing myself that no one can understand.  Still this does not deter me from writing, because writing helps me write down all my loose cannon thoughts, ready to blow up anywhere they are written or read.  Writing has helped me become more human because it is in writing that I can express myself and it is in writing that I can write down my thoughts and I can be compared to other writers that have had the same sentiment as me.  You see I am not really as lonely as I though, for I have become part of a family of writers in which we are all treated equally.  A true democratic Platonic state.

               Writing has brought me peace.  Peace to my turbulent soul, which never knew which way to row until I sat with all my pens and reams of paper and felt at ease at the overflowing of my sins I, could set to countless pages of writing.

               Writing has brought me creativity in a life that I thought was as dead as Edgar Allen Poe.  I am now able to sit and create new worlds of imaginations with the mere swish of my ball-point pen.

               But the greatest gift that writing has brought me is simply life.  Writing has helped me realize that I am a living and breathing person.  Writing has shown me that I am a human with an original mind of my own, and if it wasn’t for writing, I don’t know who I would be.  Writing have given me a purpose in my life, for writing has given me exactly that what I have been looking for; life.

From the depths of my heart

From the tips of my fingers

Strings playing your praise

A love unrehearsed

A love in force in the

Edges of this beautiful town

With beaches & suns

Cooking my tongues

A forgiving thumb of

My lonely soul, my lonely soul

Crying to you this wonderful night

--

Away from the moon, wondering

What makes the world turn

Away from the sun, pondering on these

Words read so early

Away from the trees, thinking of the

Psalms living in my body

Away from the water, free-flowing, my

Freedom locked

Away from my family, bringing myself

Back to your forgiving arms

Away from a way

--

Don’t just hear, but listen,

Don’t just listen, but do,

Don’t just do, but confess,

Don’t just confess, but receive,

Don’t just receive, but believe!

--

My beliefs bring me back to

Your lasting longing love

My unfaultering forever faith fulfills

This holy hunger humbling

--

What am I, Lord, if you are not in my life

Am I able to survive, am I able to write

Am I able to breathe, am I able to receive

Without you Lord, what do I become

Without you Lord, do I know what is love?

Am I able to forgive, am I able to live

Am I able to see, am I able to be

What am I Lord, if you are not in my life