I long for heaven with no dreams

It's really starting to annoy me that I repeatedly have anxious dreams about the same people. They rotate, but they're always the same, always old acquaintances with whom I no longer associate. "Why?" I ask myself. Why do certain people haunt me? I have no ill feelings toward them. Is it because the expectations were higher when I ran in their crowd? Is it because they expected more of me? Or is it that I expected more of myself? Or maybe that I felt inferior to them, and still do?

These things trouble me, and cripple me. I dread sleeping because I know my dreams will torture me. I want nothing more in life than to escape my past, to be free of its disappointments. But freedom cannot be attained in this life. We are bound by flesh to our mistakes, wrapped up in them like a corpse in a coffin with no chance of escape. It could well be that hell is being forever bound to our memories and heaven is being released from them. I long for heaven with no dreams.

My Road to Ruin

The first sin I remember committing was in church. I was barely old enough to walk, but I could certainly crawl. The fact that my first awareness of sin came about during a church service has always made me suspicious that the church itself was somewhat responsible for my seditious behavior. Had I not been exposed to such a rigid environment that demanded unnatural conformity from a toddler, the said event might well have never happened. So it has always made me wonder if religion itself is not responsible for sin; a thought that has been speculated on by many I am sure, and one I continue to entertain.

But getting back to my original sin. It occurred at a small, backwoods church by the name of Pleasant View Baptist, which to this day sits upon a hill overlooking rich Kentucky bottomland. My dad grew up on farm not far from that sacred spot that put me on the road to ruin. It was considered to be his family’s church, although he was certainly not a churchgoer by anyone’s account. His interests in spirituality were limited to spirits in liquid form. Nor was my mother a fan of churches. Her family had a small construction business, and she was left unimpressed by the fact that the faithful often tried to renegotiate their bill after the work was done. One of her favorite sayings was, “I wouldn’t trust a deacon or a preacher any further than I could throw ‘em.”

I don’t know why my mother and my dad attended church on the day I officially became a sinner. I assume they were hoping a little religion would miraculously save their doomed marriage. She later informed me that they were separated at the time, and divorced not long afterwards. That knowledge often led me to believe, though I know it’s not true, that my ill conduct could well have been the catalyst that caused their demise. Because of my infant state, my mother always found it hard to believe that I could so vividly recall the event at all. But it is as clear to me today as it was that fateful night that I sat on the floor, beneath a wooden pew, near the back of Pleasant View Baptist Church. I nestled in, as children do, and hid directly under the seat, my mother’s feet in front of me, making a cave of sorts to protect me from the strange surroundings. The constant chatter of conversation gave way to the roar of what I now know was the preacher blasting out a sermon. This foreign world quickly became very boring, so I amused myself by exploring the surroundings.

There wasn’t much to see in my immediate vicinity, so I peered off into the distance, toward the front of the church. That’s when I saw my first object of lust: a brown fedora hat. It was sitting on the floor next to the feet of its owner. I don’t know why, but I had to have that hat. There was nothing special about it at all, especially in that day and age. It was typical attire for men in the late 1950s. But once I set my eyes upon it, I could think of nothing else.

Between my objective and me was a jagged path filled with dangling legs hanging from under the pews, several purses, and a few sweaters and jackets strewn about. I waited and listened to the roar of the speaker and the echoing shouts from the congregation. When they grew to a volume I perceived to be their loudest, I glanced up at my mother to see if she was looking down at me. To my liking, her eyes were fixed straight ahead. I shot out from under the pew, crawling quickly, weaving and bobbing between people’s feet and purses and garments. It took me only a few seconds to reach my goal. Without the slightest bit of hesitation, I snatched the hat and made my way back.

I curled quietly once again beneath the pew, and snuggled safely behind my mother’s nylon covered legs. I held the hat before me, admiring it as if it was the only thing I’d ever need in this life. I put it on my head; it fell over my eyes. Its velvet like material felt warm and closed off the world around me. Everything became quiet, dark, still and serene. I could’ve stayed there forever, comforted in the bosom of my sin. But sin is only fun for a season, and then the harvest.

Without warning, my mother jerked the hat from my head. There was rustling of whispers. I leaned out and looked up. Everyone seated in the pew in front of us was turned, their faces staring down at me. I slowly sunk back beneath the seat, but my mother halted my retreat; she grabbed me up and sat me beside her.

I have no recollection of my dad's reaction at all; although, my mother always said he got quite the chuckle out of the entire event. When the church service finally ended, I vaguely recall my mother giving the hat back to the man to whom it belonged. He grinned at first, but than a snarl came across his face when he realized his hat was bent out of shape.

Hunger

Highway lines escape me. Hot chrome mufflers burn. Faces blur, jump out of no where. Crowds coming from the field, laughing. They are us, but we lost them. Sailing down the slops of slow death. Tasting the dagger of delight. Flesh feeds off flesh, tirelessly hunting. Hair hidden revealed brings madness. It never sleeps. Devours. Hunger.

A Natural High

I’d almost walked to the end of our road today when the snow starting falling. I had to back track about a mile to get home. I was bundled up good, wearing insulated long johns, two shirts, a jacket, coat, and a toboggan, so the snow didn’t bother me. The wind wasn’t blowing and the soft flakes drifted slowly like feathers floating to the ground. I felt as if I were in a dream and was glad it didn’t start snowing before I left the house, else I might’ve missed this trip.

Used to, when I smoked pot, I always lit up when the snow started falling. Nowadays, whenever I watch the snowfall, I feel like I’m getting high. Obviously, I trained my mind to let the endorphins flow down into my body as the flakes fall to the ground. I feel sorry for those stringent, anti-drug obsessed people who never knew what it was like to get stoned and watch the snow. I’m sure they’d chide me for my past, but that’s only because they don’t know what they’re missing. If they had indulged as much as I did, then they too might enjoy a free contact buzz when the snowfalls. But more than likely, they’re worried about how fast they can get back home, or how much it’s going to snow, or if they need to stock up at the grocery store for the coming inclement weather. Me, on the other hand, I’m just enjoying walking home in the snow: nothing much better than a natural high.

Freedom

I think about the years in my family business ... no entanglements, no connections ... someone called us to do a job, we did it, got paid, then moved on ... and I remember how much I loved it.

Resign yourself to love

This blog has been nothing but a lie. I state in my profile that the changes in my life have enriched me and I hope yours do, also. That's really a crock of crap. To be truthful about it, I've allowed the changes in my life make me bitter and mean. A friend recently told me that I'm, "mad and full of rage." How dare him? I thought. But it's true.

I'm mad that I didn't plan better for the future, which is here and now. I should've been saving money like a miser since I was 14. By that age, I was already drumming most every weekend , worked in my family's ornamental iron shop, pumped gas at Red Ace Service Station at nights after school and full time during the summer. I had very little leisure time as a teenager. And I'm mad that I did not whole heartedly pursue my dream, which was to be a drummer. At age 18, I got my first wife pregnant and went to work in my family's business instead of going to college and studying music. At the time, I thought I was doing the right thing, but now I'm not so sure. A lot of young couples have had children and they still go to college. But I didn't.

The doors to the music world were flung wide open to me in mid-twenties. My rock band was signed to a management company in Nashville. We were touring occasionally, opening up for Black Oak Arkansas, Wet Willie and Brownsville Station. It all sounds glamorous, and it was, but it also sounds prosperous, but it wasn't. Most of the band's funds were being reinvested in the band's marketing and recording, so that meant no immediate money. And all the time invested practicing, recording and performing took time away from working in my family business,so I took an disgruntle attitude toward my fellow band mates, none of whom were married or had children. But in truth, the band was a business, too. We had investors and backers. At the time, I was too blind to see it; I needed money; so, I shot my mouth off and got kicked out of the band. But what good did that do me? None.

My first wife and I immediately started going to church. I walked away from a career in music and surrendered completely to the fundamentalist teachings of the Southern Baptist Church.

I could go on with the mistakes. But they all boil down to not having the good sense to invest in the future. I always grabbed whatever was right before, held on, and generally survived fairly well. And because I survived, I expected a certain amount of respect. I lulled myself into thinking that I had "high standards," and that I had "moral expectations." I expected the Christian to act like a Christian; I expected the Redneck to be as open minded as a tree-hugging hippie; I expected those who held a different worldview to consider mine. But what I expected from others was what was lacking in me! My "high standards" were a delusion and a lie. And that in and of itself was and is the problem. One cannot be respected by others if they have no respect for themselves. One cannot love others if they have no love for themselves.

This blog is still a lie, but I'm trying to find the truth, and the truth is Love.

My mantra for today is, "resign yourself to love." Love always loves. Love loves what disagrees with Love. Love loves mistakes.

Flip a coin

What's the difference between government owning big business and big business owning government? Capitalism and Communism might be two sides of the same coin.