Chapter 3 Book 3

Let me explain something here. Welcome back and for those of you just joining us please read the first two notes of this 'A' train ride. I write erratically as well as thinking in erratic turn. Today is a day that just goes on and on. Kinda like that song, “This is the song that never end, yes it goes on and on my friend…” You know the one. It is now running through you head, welcome to my song of the day. ( http://www.imeem.com/catzboulevard/music/XidCzGWb/lamb-chop-and-frens-this-is-the-song-that-never-ends/ )

I have not spilled my blood on a page for a very long time. True writers will know what I am talking about. You will write till your heart bleeds and then you know you have achieved the true spirit of being a valid writer. It is a weird part of being a writer. I had a very important teacher whom I would love to meet again just to say thank you in person. She helped me become who I am as well as many others; dead or alive. My Grammar teacher; Mrs. Jackson. The first teacher ever to give me an F because she knew I was slacking. I went to school in a small town called Lamar Colorado. Small towns, they are just as hard, if not harder than a large town. At least in a large town you are just a face unless everyone knows you because you are everywhere in the world. Even then you can get lost in NYC. Ask any celebrity.

A nameless face that just is. I walk the streets and look at the people, the nameless, faceless people. I feel so often I am in this world that speeds around me. Leaving me behind in a careless, cruel joke of a life. I promise to hide nothing from you my dear readers. Those who choose to subscribe to my melancholy on life. I watch as if I have a view from the outside. I bang against the bubble screaming let me in. Hear me please. That broken child again. That neglected child. With much time on my hands to think of my past, I remember more than I care to admit.

My Sister called. She is a spiritual sister. Such a gift to me. She feels me in the sense that she understands my rage and hate moments. There is a great deal to me you see. I am not some mechanical Turk in this society of the world today. I am a living, breathing, thinking creature, whose nature is to question everything. How did men learn to fly if they did not question? Why have people died for basic rights of the mass population? Do you ever question these things? Do you ever wonder?

My life was no cake walk, I promise you that. I have survived an insurmountable amount of things. As a child, due to no fault of my own, as an adult, self inflicted. It is a weird thing some of us go through. We become paralyzed in thought as the thought consumes us and devours us alive. See I want to reach you, pull myself into you, smell you, allow you to see my thought process. It is so scattered, like dust in the wind. I know, cliché. Get over it. What in today’s society is a true, pure, unique thought? None I tell you none. Not a single thought we have today is something that came from an original thought. Look at the movies, music, and art in general. Something is always copied. The new and improved. What was wrong with the old? Did it work? If it works, why break it to make a new machine. Why must we chase the rainbow of destruction? Oh yes, shiny things. I forgot.

I am a cynic you see. I am so cynical you don’t need your cynicism around me. I will provide it for you. I am an angry youth of Generation X watching my country fall apart around me in the blink of an eye. What made me this way? I don’t know? Any feelings I have come from with in of the matrix I grew up in.

This hidden world of a kaleidoscope of corrects and incorrect. No wonder I am so screwed up in the head. See my problem is I question. I scratch my head as I hear we are bombing the place we helped get out of poverty. I am confused when the Constitution has become nothing more than toilet paper, convenient for when we need it, bastardizing it as our Fore Fathers cry out from the grave. I am a harsh, angry, revolutionary believer of Generation X. I am a frightening example as to why you should not have children.

As I pull from my memories in this Psycho ward I now call Belleview, my mind screams when do I come out? When do I speak? Terrified of the ramifications of our own Government as I cry freedom. Freedom NOW!!!

It pains me because I have been bound, and now am bound again by a King on the hill as all of his constituents clap and smile as the world around them become skeletons hidden in a closet; as if it is a dirty little secret on the scar of our nation. I know my words will raise anger. I know my heart will be crushed by those little words written. After all, aren’t words the sharpest dagger in life’s factors? See scars heal, always though, words and ink, they will always remind us. Why do you think people get tats? Memory, design, it is supposed to be a symbol. A Tat remains on your body, as a part of your skin, your nature, your death. A tattoo is that that defines you as a person. Or a piercing, it matters not the decoration upon your body, they have stories. If they are listened to. I care not of the protest I will create. I care about the scar I am placing in my very being, to be placed upon my body.

I am also enacting my First Amendment rights and if you don’t like it MOVE. There are other countries who will subscribe to your fascist beliefs and your socialistic reform.

Today I am angry as you see, an angry child watching the news from Russia and listening to the Free radio where our artist are censored for what they say. I wonder when I will be censored? Told I am too much for the air waves, in which I cause to many to think, not just in the United States but the world.

Generation X listen to me, we were lied to. We were mislead, we continue the cycle of abuse of our trespassers. We have handed Generation Y a reason to say Y bother. We are the new Generation. X , we are an exponent of an equation. Rise and shout. We have had this night terror of dreams since we were able to feel ways about things. We now have a Generation X in the house that represents us. Don’t we count? Don’t you feel that our American dream has been stolen from us? Aren’t you angry?

I remember High School. I have a face book now that has put me in contact with a lot of old friends…Hello out there Class of 1990 from Lamar…My face book, yes I finally moved to the 22nd or 21st century and got on Face book. Here is my profile if you do not believe me. http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1020343444&ref=name



Ok another shameless promotion. Horrid I know, but isn’t that the American way?
I listen to the lyrics of people like Immortal Technique (http://www.immortal-technique.com/ ) and Disturbed ( http://www.mtv.com/music/artist/disturbed/artist.jhtml ) . Revolutionaries like Malcolm X (http://www.cmgww.com/historic/malcolm/ ) and Dr. Martin Luther King (http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/peace/laureates/1964/king-bio.html ) and Abbie Hoffman (http://theaction.com/Abbie/ ). Bad people I know, but just so you know I am inspired by the likes of John F Kennedy ( http://www.whitehouse.gov/about/presidents/JohnFKennedy/ ) as well, or Jimmy Carter (http://www.whitehouse.gov/about/presidents/jimmycarter/ ) , Lee Iacocca (http://www.leeiacocca.com/ ), and the late, great, George Carlin (http://www.georgecarlin.com/ ).

The people who I find important in my life are varied and wide. From all walks of life. They questioned the current status of our society, why shouldn’t I? I am no different than those men. I have hopes and dreams too. I see what can be not what is. This makes me a dreamer you see.

Everyday is a new beginning for me. A new day to change something in my life you see. To move forward and become alive. Lately I have been paralyzed in my own fear and loathing situation. As I sit back knowing right now, I know, I am a no body destined to be some body. Yes I went there. What can you possibly say to that, you are reading my work if you reacted to that, what does that say about you? What world do you live in that you are an untouchable species? That you can not feel what is going on around us as the Government cuts jobs promising a better tomorrow. On what? Beans and rice.

Generation X, I am talking to you. Yes, you. We are the generation of a new world; I did not say the New World Order. I said the new world, there is a difference.
When are we going to stand up and say “No More?” We are the new leaders of this world that is coming into existence. You can not tell me you want dinosaurs running our country when they can’t even understand the music we listen to and it has to be banned because it might upset their delicate stomachs on Wall Street and the Hill. Please half of our Generation is in Wall Street. As much as you may not want to hear it.

Generation X, we are the problem that exist in today’s world. We taught Generation Y how to behave. Aren’t teenagers supposed to break the binds that parents put on them, what society expects of them?

Why does Generation X get off the hook? We don’t, we are not immune.
On a daily basis we are slammed with what big media wants us to see. Showing us what is wrong with us, why we are not fit to survive. Why don’t we question this? Why don’t we ask why, instead of asking for a dry bud dry? Are we so comfortably numb in a society or are we just so tired of digging through the dirt only to have it fall back on us in the hole we are digging? Where did the spirit of the times of our Fore Fathers go even when we are watching our world around us crumble? What made us so we could not feel this? Why do we feel we are powerless? Who took that right from you? Shouldn’t you be mad about the current situation that happens around us as we sit in our homes that are being taken from us?

I write for freedom of the mind. I will be shut up at some point and time. I sit on the edge of a revolution forming and in my head I can’t figure out if I am going to survive its wake or these are just insane thoughts that run my mind. What’s worse? What if my words reach the next revolutionary that may spark the next tea party for the world? That is not a light burden for anyone. I come from a world of the underground. I was raised in the underground you see. A child of poverty. Ever see a kid on the street with sandals for shoes in the middle of winter and say, “oh how sad”. I have one of those photos too, the problem, that child is a photo of me. I lived that “oh poor child” stage. No, no more. This world can not ignore the children of the future. If I ruffle a few feathers, so be it. Put me in the insane asylum. I have achieved something before being silenced.

I told you I am an angry child. I want people to wake from the silent dream of ecstasy, (The drug not the feeling.) to wake to reality of what is going on around them. Is that such a big goal? You know it is. I don’t just want to wake people up, I want to empower them. Tell them it is ok to feel ways about things. I am one of the lucky ones. When Morpheus came to me I chose to wake up. I think one of the most eye opening experiences for me was my mothers’ death. This is when I realized a lot of things.
Story time; grab your popcorn, go potty, and what ever else you would like before we go on this ride.

I went to a very small school in Lamar, Colorado. The class of 1990. We were the future you see. I was very active in my school, cheerleading was a large part of my life, and studies were important to keep up. That is a big deal for some. It was for me. I survived High School. We had cliques, we had fights, but looking back on it. The high school years are what make or break you in your life. There were the normal jealousies and anger, joy and passion. Just like any school but for some reason, LHS was a very unique experience in my life and with 5 years of my life being stationary in Lamar, the school had a great influence on my walk of healing from PTSD and my life believe it or not.

I remember typical days of High School that just kind of fade into the background, what remains is what has helped you through some tough times. These connections are some that you hold on to for the rest of your life when you think about it. We spend close to 12 to 13 years of our lives in school itself. We also spend a great deal of time there. How can that not affect your life into your adult hood? Yet while we are in the moment, we don’t realize this. We don’t know who we affect or how in High School, we are acting our age. Who questions? It is when you reflect you see how important these years were in how you are molded as adults that you realize the affects.

Out of all my years at LHS, the horrible thing is I don’t really remember the year my mom died; I remember her dieing, other little things in my life. I remember standing in her room as I held her hand and I heard what you hear on ER. The tone of that flat line. There is no eraser in the world that allows you to remove that from your memory.
I was active in school you could say. Cheerleading was a big deal to me. Perhaps more so than most realized. That activity shaped me as well. When I started in Cheerleading it was because I wanted to prove I could do it. This outsider from Colorado Springs was trying to fit into small town Lamar. It is a massive difference more so than most think.
Back to my mom, she was my step mom you see. Her name was Carol; she was married to my sperm donor. I don’t get along with the man who shared his seed to make me if you can read this. I do not subscribe to his issues of racism and hatred. That being said, I learned most of my compassion from this woman who inherited me you could say.

Some of my classmates knew of what I was going through. I was the outcast, or at least I remember it that way. It is my writer’s freedom to remember things as I remember them. I may be wrong. I saw many sides of these people in my class of 1990 and even when I did not get along with some, when I look back, I look fondly of the times spent in those halls. Not because of what was said or done, but the support I had during my final years of high school and the adversities presented as well. It shaped me into a stronger person. See you can always see the good in a bad situation if you look at it hard enough.

I remember the halls of my high school fondly and with despise as well. Those are normal teenage hormones. When my mom died I was there at LHS. I was lucky to be surrounded by such classmates. See coming from the life I had lived before, of 3 foster homes and several beatings, I finally lived with my step-mom, or mom as I call her, and the sperm donor. It is a messed up situation. I honestly at this moment and time could not tell you who knew what of my life at that time. Well they know now. Anyway, the year my mom died, was a whirl wind. So much happened and my life crumbled before me at that moment and time. My activity in school was to get away from home life.

A lot did not know what went on in my home. I kept my private life private. I think. I have always been outspoken, I am not sure. Perhaps I remember that wrong as well. I am sure that my friends that I have reconnected with will add their two cents. Please do, it would be a great add.

Anyway, I look back and with all the time on my hands now. My life plays in slow motion at the important times in my life. Pivotal moments of life that some can never understand because they did not make that walk, they have not had to experience it. That is not their fault, we are all handed what we can handle.

The day of my mother’s death at Penrose hospital in Colorado Springs happened in February I believe. I am still unclear to this day. As I said, my life has hazy parts. I am used to it. The days blend into the months and months into years until I forget sometimes where I have been and during what year. I usually have to recall the presidential elections that have been stolen under our very own noses. That is a completely different topic at this time.

I also want to make it perfectly clear this is the year God and I agreed that he is a son of a bitch. Christians, please hold your comments to a minimum, remember I am protected by freedom of speech and well, please hear me out, there is a reason for this conclusion in my mind.

In my life there were two constant people. My Grandmother and my mom. They are the only ones who truly believed in me. Well till high school, but at this point in my life, teachers, though they count, they had help before I got to their classrooms. These people, they allowed me to dream.

I was a candy striper, you know, the lil girl in the pink pin stripped outfit that works in the hospital. I wanted to study medicine. Childhood Psychotherapy to be exact. I wanted to know what made Dahmer tick because I wanted to know why I did not do the things that he did. Little twisted I know.

My mom was a devout Christian and one of the most beautiful women in the world to me. She also weighed over 400 pounds. As teenagers we are the cruelest people sometimes when you think about it. So fresh and words just come out of our mouths uncensored. As adults we are supposed to control that. Well guess what, I still am a teenager trapped in an adult body. Also now, I just have some New York education behind it.

At the time my mother died, I lived in my own world. It was crashing in on me like a thousand waves. It was my Jr. year because we were doing Jr/Sr prom and well I was on a committee at the time my mom died. I don’t know what happened to me after she died; I was on auto pilot, trying to hold it together even when the very fabric of my life was being ripped apart. In all fairness to my classmates, they honestly did not know my home life. I told you I am not a whiner. My life is no better or worse than anyone. I make that statement now. The year my mom died was a pivotal year. It was my Jr. year and my sperm donor checked out after she died. He could not hack being a parent and became an over the road truck driver.

I am still very angry at the father figure in my life if you can not tell. I know he did that to get away, but this left me in the hands of family that decided to move my Senior year to the Rival School. For a small town that is a big deal. Your identity is tied up in your school. I was a traitor for leaving, and I was a misfit to the rival team because I spoke highly of my school not 60 miles away. A square peg trying to fit into a round hole. It sucked.

My Junior year sits logged into my brain like this history piece that will never go away. As I was saying, my mom died at a very pivotal point in my life. I was angry at god for a long time. I still am in a way, but for different reasons. Cheerleading tryouts were not far off, prom, finals, there was a spring play going on, oh and lets not forget the candy striping at the hospital.

My mother’s death just did not fit into my busy social life at that moment and time. If there was a God, how could he be so cruel to a child, one of his own? I am one of many, some younger, some older than I, who have survived this. This is about me in this case, my history. I just wish to share it.

I remember sitting right outside her window in the ICU room. Let me tell you, there is nothing like seeing someone hooked up to life support. It is one of the most eye opening experiences of life you will ever have. I think if you ever get used to that eerie site, you need a new job.

A respirator supporting her breathing with tubes and IV’s connected to her. She was just laying there, no movement. My mom went into a coma after an operation. I never really dealt with the feelings. I just pushed them down like everything else in my life. I became numb to the situation around me. It is a weird thing when you experience death first hand. I mean seriously, death, that last breath. The tone of a flat line buzzing in your ear. Your whole world stops and it becomes this slow motion movie picture in your mind. As if you are in a space where everything is speeding up around you and you can not move.

I woke that day from the Governments matrix to find out that a lot of what I was told was a lie. I knew God was real you see. I am a very faithful person. I will tell you this now. I know there is a God.

He has answered some of my most outrageous request. When my mom was at her worst, I knew 6 months prior that she was going to die. I went through a stage of mourning before it happened. I thought I was ready for it. I thought I could handle it, now I revisit it and open the wounds again only to expose the nerves to salt and pain.
My mom died from complications of a stomach stapling, other wise known as Gastric Bypass Surgery. Modern medicine killed my mother as well as God allowed her peace to come home. The day she died, it snowed. It was a Friday I think. The funny thing is I remember the couches being that orange color with metal arm rest and a TV. that was supposed to put the loved ones sitting in ICU at some comfort level. The walls were so white in contrast to the sofas. The sofas sat on a blue cobalt carpet. I spoke with a priest as my sperm donor walked my Grandmother downstairs to a cab to send her home. The Priest was real I tell you, the priest was. Physical, like you and me, we hugged. My mom was dieing, I think the Priest was a benefit here for me. Guidance, direction, making sure you are not going to jump off the roof.

As he and I talked during this surreal moment in my life, he explained to me that only those who had the strongest Faith were called forth and followed their path. He comforted me in that room of sterility as my mother was surviving on a machine that breathed for her. He asked me what I had asked of God for this transition. I told him I asked that my mother go peacefully, with out pain, quickly as not to suffer, and I wanted to be the last to see her alive.

A very weird request indeed. I can tell you all three of those request were answered. My mother went in on a Monday for her surgery and died a week later. She was only in a coma for 2 days. She felt no pain that any of us are aware of. I held her hand as she flat lined. My prayers answered in a weird way you could say. I say, do not ever doubt there is a God.

As the Priest and I talked, we talked of what happened the night before as I was Candy Striping at the hospital. It was that night, I knew for certain, my mother was going to die you see. I felt it.

See as I was working at the hospital as a candy striper the night before, we had a homicide and suicide that was headed into the hospital that night. I was at the desk when the ambulance came in, when the panicked call came in over the radio. There were two children that I knew of that not only saw this horrible incident, but they were my age. I knew at that moment my mother would die with in 48 hours.

I got the phone call at the hospital with in 2 hours after this chaos in the hospital started, I needed to come home; my mom had taken a turn for the worse. My heart dropped to my feet as my words became real before my eyes. When I made it to where I was staying while my mother was in the hospital, her parents home. I called all my teachers to get my homework. I knew I was not going to be in school for a bit and I did not want to fall behind. As I stated it was an inconvenient time for me to have a death in my life.

The priest told me God had prepared me for something great. Of course all leaders of the faithful say that you know. It is part of their world; it is a part of their faith. As the priest and I prayed, with in minutes the nurse came out and looked at me, her exact words were, “It’s time.”

I gathered myself up because I was the only one there. When I went into the room my mother was just laying there like a bowl of jelly. There was a shell of a person. I held her hand as her heartbeat slowed down and told her it was ok to go. I felt her hand squeeze mine and the flat line sound echoed through out the room.

Time stops at that moment. As if someone put your life on the pause and you can’t move. After the initial set in of death on the air I split out of the room like a fire ball. Everything became a blur as I found my family to tell them she was gone.

When I went back to school in Lamar it was the only constant in my life. My classmates were my support system in a way. As many differences as we had, we all had suffered a great deal together as some of our own classmates had died during high school during our times together in those halls. We were no strangers to death. We were a unique class as I look back on it. Kind of like a very large extended, dysfunctional family.

How does this fit into my issues with the Government you may ask. The Government tells us a lot of things, gives us drugs to keep us quiet, outlaws’ drugs that are helpful, and monitor our lives in a very strategic way. It is those who buck the system and question things that change the system. Since the day my mother died, probably before, I questioned what I was being spoon fed in a bowl of the cotton candy world of the USA. We are all told by certain individuals that a space beyond this realm is not possible by every person we come in contract with, yet that realm it is blasted from the TVs and the billboards, and churches preach to us to believe in an invisible God to worship.

I will tell you God is real, but so is the other realm that only some see. I am one of those people. I am what is called a hyper sensitive.

( http://healing.about.com/od/empathic/a/hsp.htm ) there is also a psychiatric explanation’s for someone like me too. ( http://www.wrongdiagnosis.com/sym/hypersensitive.htm )

Now, let’s see how well you were paying attention to my rambling, remember I told you the priest was real. It is up there I promise, anyway a few years later I went back to help at the hospital, Penrose, and I asked to speak to this priest. The nun, who I asked this of, had me show her a photo of the Priest after I described him. Her face went white when I stopped at his photo.

He had been dead for 50 years at least. She told me he was the Priest of that ward. As a last rights Priest, she had heard that there were people who had met him but never encountered one. It was that day I knew there is more than meets the eye.
This concludes our blog/book cast day. Join me tomorrow wont you?