Deadly Combination [Life]
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| The cover to a Horror flick I've planned... |
Often times I live my life through the lens of the Grim Reaper looking straight at me. With him looking me down, I am faced with the whole truth about my mortality, that it is imminent I will die. Not this day, not this time, this will not be my final hour.
The threat I face is with no one stranger than my own affairs. I live in a normal state part of the time, and a psychotic haze deluded by false realities and subtle crazed bouts of manic comedy. Death is looking at me, and he has left the Angel of Death to converse, mimic, direct and confuse me. He points out the obvious and I struggle to unravel the riddle for days. A riddle so simple that it binds my very soul to this Earth. The “zen koan” of kinetic reason is that though one path may befall a man, the days with which he has walked nearer to Death, he is closer to God and therefore more closely played to by the pied piper that serves Satan.
May God have mercy on the souls of the departed who leave their lives never having withstood their own shadow playing as the scents and subtle sounds of their death most of their day.
Forgive them for clinging to the shadow they know, identifying it within reason as the shadow which will not betray. There lies the deepest mirage of all, and within it’s jaws, the darkest night of the soul.
The darkness of the soul is right after the right to reason for one’s self. In deep meditation I was shown “Fear not the darkness for you cannot see your self”, and relevant to this moment couldn’t have been wiser.
There is no way around the dry arid tundra of the San Diego ghetto. The night screams from the salty green stench where waste water stagnates and fresh cannot renew. The raw power of the odor is nauseating in the thought that this is the very stench of death. Death with shit, raw and rotten meat, bleach and ammonia and the gurgling rot of rats and fowl trapped in its jaws just beneath the street. One lonesome night I happened to bite into some raw rotted chicken left “pranked” on a fresh spring mix garden salad with cherry tomatoes and a neat and tightly sealed container of bleu cheese dressing. The taste of it embodies the fresh misery of the rot gut puke on the sidewalk, the months layered dried urine fog, the human feces lying where some sodden sorry decrepit shat it out.
Due to these things I walked the streets all night, every night and into the morning. The state this experiential hell creates in your mind’s eye is that of a horror film. Strung out and psychotic victims listlessly passing, eye sockets bare to the skull and eyes dead ahead as that of zombies fill your very core with a deathly chill as they pass. You never know what one is going to do, or when and any sudden move could trigger anything at all. Drunken alcoholics built like muscle heads seeking to thrash everyone in sight for want of the next hot woman or even girl to walk by heckle, threaten and will manhandle you at will for no rationale.
Dealers filled with schizophrenic fits of deluded satisfaction fuck street whores on the corners in plain sight. All in sight of the ballpark and convention center, the bay a stone’s throw away.
This wears on you, creates a sense of creeping dread, mixed with nostalgic nausea, emphatic urges to run with nowhere to go.
Those unfortunate enough to remain at this level and fearing for their survival turn to the top chemists and run meth to and fro, mixing it up with the revolvers of jail and the bankers condo’s, creating an array of tin men, all carrying some old shriveling dame to protect and fuck under the blankets of the resident shopping carts.
This is where it all began for me. This is where I realized that no amount of pain could ever make me stop, abuse, tie myself to sloth and envy, rage and jealousy and the pits of that pendulum.
Yet these things must have seeped into my pores and permeated my skin digging deep into my tendons and joints, ligaments and muscles and then bearing false witness embedded right next to my soul.
To tell the story as it exactly happened with all of the details bringing the whole picture together is my goal. That being said I will not lead you further down the path that you may liken me to be sane. That is not something that anyone in good standing with their own reputation, or current status should do. I am quite sure of that, and will expound on that over the course of this story, and this story is a true one. This story is about a man who came to see things that, in due course drove him from everything he loved, or believed in. No one could tell him that he was right. The voices of those who loved and knew him did not chime in and rectify things. In the world which he was forced to live, things were sometimes rich and vibrant and passionately experienced and other times as if Satan himself was chasing him in some sort of mortal hell. The only constant in life, he had heard someone say, was change.
I do not fear Death anymore. That is one good thing that came of all of this. In fact, Death has been quite a good counselor for me. The shadowy glowing eyed vision I see in the recesses of my mind, the dark robed character with a skull like face has been there. He tells of me of things coming my way, though not in words.
He reminds me that my time will come, and that he will be there to take me to that light at the end of the tunnel. He is not evil or bad in such a way that his reputation among mortals has come to light, he is simply the escort through the between to the other side where heaven awaits.
At least that is what I have been told by him.
Though his appearance at hard times for me has been difficult to understand, but instead of ignoring him, I causally recognized that he too, is one of God’s creatures and I treated him as such. He seemed to find that amusing, and often laughed hilariously and indicated that he thought I was pleasant company. There was one night he followed me around Ann Arbor Michigan as I walked destitute and crazy about town looking for a cigarette butt to smoke. It was like a fire within me to stay at this search the entire cold, crisp fall night in that fair town. Everywhere I turned, every time I picked up a butt, his face would appear in my mind’s eye, and he was repeating the same thing over and over again as if he had left me a taped message for the night.
“You’ve got boxes of Death on your feet!”
In a somewhat sardonic show of irony and his style of jest, he was saying that those fucking things were going to kill me. After this he would show me that it made him sad, crying that he was going to lose me as company when my time came, and to stop immediately.
Something I have yet to completely stop doing to this day as I write this. The message has been reiterated over and over by a great many spirits in my life. The point is that I have dealt with seeing ghosts and apparitions, angels and demons, and some of the physical phenomena that comes with the most defined appearances as such. These things are typically messages from the in between, though for obvious reasons. I have seen visions of spirits in Hell who show their torment and suffering as a testament they must communicate for their own sake and the sake of us on the physical plane in sharing where they went wrong.
Death does not choose where you go to on the other side of life. Good thing to be reminded of when in bad positions that may arise, the best defense is no defense. But enough about Death and such, I don’t want to get ahead of myself, for real.
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