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Old 05-21-2021, 06:44 PM   #1
Run To Me
Minion of Satan
 
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Location: Th Word o th Lord 2 His Church stablished n deez th latter days as spake by mouths o His Prophets even Mt Zion who shall b th city o New Jeruslem + shall b built again @ th temple lot appointed by Fingr o th Lord in western boundaries of the State of
Posts: 6,528
Default 12 july 2012 "float trip"

SUN:
Woke late, probably Noon or later. Saturday night I was up playing video games: I finally accomplished this vacation dream of mine, and I turned on the Legend of Zelda, whereupon I accomplished precisely nothing but running around with a sword for a bit. Waking Sunday, I took a look around. The apartment was a shithole. My girl clothes were everywhere, incense ash, half bags of bugler roll-em-ups. The tits were there on the floor where i had to take em out in the middle of the nite since they were hurting my back. Headached to fuck, i took a deep (senescent) breath, stretched, hit the bong, then got to work lifting weights.

Lifting I probably listened to Hypermagic Mountain, or maybe it was Liquid Swords with the bass up. Who the fuck cares? Move on.

Then I put on Koyaanisqatsi, an excellent record for cleaning an apartment. After cleaning, I sat down to write, and I probably had a really nice observation about the sound of that record. “Classical, daunting, precise, yet playfully psychedelic?” Is that what I said? Who knows: I wrote a lot of insufferable shit that Sunday, in the red spiral journal now burnt to ashes in the trash can out back.

I probably said something about how I thought my head would be okay. I probably thought about Ancient Delicious and talked about how good it would be to get back and get that project finally going. Probably whined how you have to get a drummer. How I've always had a drummer friend. How I feel that lack now. I decided that I think I am over the idea of doing bands for the immediate future but that I am not opposed to some accidental magic happening once in awhile, like jamming acoustics with [redacted].

Probably the rest of the shit I wrote was mostly to pump myself up and feel okay about stopping smoking a few hours before the Mom and Nelly pick-up. I got texts from them all morning announcing their ETA: 515p. They ultimately got there at 545p while I was helping Megan the new upstairs person move in. Mom and Nelly were ready to keep driving and didn't want to wait so I said later Megan, and I went back to my apartment and grabbed a towel, then did my weed-head triple check of the lock to the apartment door, then piled finally into Moms car.

I felt at peace, I felt loved, I felt with my family. I adopted a more intimate sound to my voice, probably. Less self-conscious, more immediately accessible. Not a tone I would adopt if Dad was on the trip.

Sitting in the car, I am wishing Dad was on the trip. I think about Dad and feel the emotions I feel when I think about Dad. Vaguely I am beginning to realize what it will feel like to go down to that storied river of our familys past, without Dad. With all the thinking I've been doing about what Dad's been doing. With how late it's grown in the hour. . . .

We go up to the room and I get out the guitar and do a little strumming. I was playing the riff I learned riding bikes with [redacted] Saturday—I came up with a good riff out there then learned how to play it when I got home. Also something with a sort of painful-sounding Em with ...suspended 2nd? frets on E and B strings, switch it over to C5 plus the strings below played open, with a little G to A riff between these two.

On TV, it's some True Survival tale about a rock climber falling by the sea. He breaks his pelvis, then has to crawl across a hellish sandstone moonscape dotted with salt pools. The True Survivor relates the gory details: “I looked and just saw nothing but blood and I could feel that the sandstone had actually taken off the skin and was now shredding my muscles, bones.” He dished rather casually about the stinging salt pools. We all felt simultaneously bad inside. Change it, says Mom.

MON:
Morning at motel. I have Fruit Loops for the first time in years. Back up in the room, it's a Bernie Mac episode about Not Being A Quitter. Waiting for Mom and Nelly to pack, I get out the guitar and sing a let's get on the road song, I do a weird Dylany nasal voice that cracks Mom up. She films it and sends it to someone.

Driving, I put Weezer on when we're good and out on the highway. Turning up the Weezer, Nelly and I bond a bit over some singing along to Buddy Holly. We pass the Sweater Song, it's too weird. We listen to Say It Ain't So and sing along. I mention how I think the song is about having an alcoholic dad or something. She listens to the words and says, I think you're right.

Weezer is over and then Mom's Toby Mac CD comes on, and after a couple of tracks I have to suggest that we turn on the radio instead. So we flip around. But then they find a Christian music station, and they want to settle on that.

You can't escape the Christian music.

So I start to rebel, I start to make fun of it, singing: “You make me into a mindless drone/erase my personality/and replace it with your own.” Nelly angrily changes the channel. I say why did you do that? I say, "Sorry I'm bitching, I just can't hear anybody say anything about God without feeling the weight of the past." She says, "Well I just changed the channel so you would stop bitching!"

I shut down: “I just won't say fucking thing then. I'm poison. I'm toxic.”

Nelly yells back at me, painfully but accurately identifying my behavior as an exact emulation of that trait of dad's we'd talked about just the night before: going to extremes. Fn 1.

It's then that I realized how psychotic my reaction to the music was. Trying to explain myself, to justify my extreme behavior to them, I began to tremble hard. I told them that while I can't listen to Christian music, I do remain in constant ambient terror that I'm going to hell because I don't read the Book of Mormon every night anymore. . . .because I was a priesthood member and I lost that with the intellectual choices I've made, the places I've been in my head.

I don't know what else I actually said but basically I was telling them that I don't believe in the goodness of myself—I told them this with my actions, not with the words—the way I tell everyone with my actions who I really am, the way I delude myself about who I really am with my words.

Oh yes, and then I said, At least, hopefully, maybe it's true, isn't there a scripture that says you guys will be able to look down into hell and see me and I can wave at you from there—

THAT's the image that made me start to tear up, and as I blabbered and seethed at them about the swinging-humongous-dicked GOD OF CHRISTIANITY, who segregates us according to arbitrary code words, who forces HIS INFINITE (AND DON'T FORGET HIS DEFINITELY MALE) GENITALIA in between us, who cares more about our allegiance to HIS BRUTAL LOVEthan to one another, I felt nearly justified, I imagined there was something noble about—

Then I said it: That God is no better than Hitler splitting families and sending them to separate concentration camps!

I twisted my face. They said nothing to me. I tried to weep a few noble tears but nothing came out.

That moment passed though. I was able to quickly back down and recognize my reaction as something unfruitful I'd learned from Dad: going to extremes when upset. I apologized profusely, they looked out the windows. I shut up and wiped my wet face. The moment passed.

We got down there and started seeing the gorgeous hills. We stopped at Alley Spring. We took pictures and videos; Mom and Nelly sent them to people. We saw two ladies on tour: fannypacks and ball caps. One talked the other's ear off. I commented, “Wouldn't it be rough being on vacation with somebody like that? Just talking at you the whole time?” After that, I talked at Mom and Nelly until they dropped me off Wed. I honestly did not appreciate the irony in this, at the time.

The water of Alley Spring was very blue and we saw fish down in there. Then, it began to start inside. . . .I started to see a kid running by in a lifejacket. Skinny, gawky, nervous, moody, talky kid. Fn 2. Sucking/crunching a green Blowpop. On his way to see a big awful crawdaddy somebody's found. It was me from the float trips back in the days with Dad, and Myron and Myron's rowdy son Manoah. The days that came just before I got into the Book of Mormon.

How did I get into it?

I wanted the approval of Dad. It all started on that night. I'd bathed, was on my way to bed in my tight lil whities, had Fellowship of the Ring tucked under my pit, and I was oh so excited to go read some fantasy, as it was my first time thru LOTR. I passed Dad and said nigh night dad i love u, then it happened.

He looked up dreamily from his work. He had been sat there in front of the family computer, with his card stock, charting time vs eternity with graphic templates and pens and geometric rulers. As his gaze focused, he saw me. Then he saw the book under my arm. He twisted his nose in disgust. I braced for his voice. His blue eyes blazed hotly into mine. “Is that your scriptures?” he said, in his voice of teaching.

That's when I first started to think about the mystery of freetime. That's when I first started to know what happens when you make Him your hobby. And friend. And lover. And job. And purpose. And everything everything.

That pre-Jesus kid was running around the parking lot at Alley Spring, in a lifejacket. I saw him in my mind, he went right past me, then disappeared around a parked car, but I didn't say anything to Mom or Nelly; their faces remained stiff/closed, after what had happened in the car.

We walked silent. The sky was white in its humidity; we heard the lusty croaks of the gigantic river crows, as we took our flip-flopped parking lot walk back to the car again.

Then we checked into Cabin 11 where we learnt about the flies. A big rowdy gang of them, apparently from the horse pasture next door. Everywhere we went they took off from the surfaces and swarmed our faces. So, rolled up the red spiral notebook and began to kill them with it, while the Spice Girls movie plays: “I'm giving you everything, all that joy can bring, this I swear! All that I want from you is a promise you will be there! SAY YOU WILL BE THERE!” Baby Spice strikes me as a precursor of the trend in porno to render the women performers as young as possible, even going so far as to stick teddy bears on the beds and set up the rooms with colors like those of kids' rooms. I realize this is not a thought i can ever share, since it reveals my sick/saddest of hobbies, and then shame floods me as I see the naked legs of my bathing-suited Mom and sister.

Then Nelly and I leave to go book the tubes at Windy's and inside Windy's i get a glimpse of the boxes for swim gear featuring a bunch of bikini-clad ladies; couple longlooks at these babes plus u add in Baby Spice and you can bet that, shame be damned, my loins began nevertheless to tingle/thrill with how long I'll have to wait for that jack—and just how good that 1st jack back will be!

Then we all try to go swimming but there is thunder from a gigantic storm front blocking the western sky with dark blue. Rumors of lightning vie with summer sunlight thru the cloudbreaks. Mom and Nelly get in the water but I do not because it's too cold. I want the full sun to come back out. Above, the front is motionless in the sky. We can't tell where it's going. I pull some grass and throw it up in the air but it just falls down ineffectually.

We go to the indoor pool. Mom and Nelly swim. I do not. The water strikes me as chilly and gross. There are dead bugs in it. Mom and Nelly have fun. Lightning flashes. I walk around the pool once. I go and sign us in by the door. I look at the other names there: two cursive signatures with a neatly printed address, then under that a bunch of kid handwriting, first names only. I peer out the window. The sky is very dark. I get close to the glass.

Suddenly I hear the wind roaring and the glass sucks in and out a bit; I turn to see the door open and a dad and his boy come in. I don't want to swim with anyone else. I am not gregarious. I want to spend this time talking to my family about things only we can talk about; I am my dad.

We go back to Cabin 11 to check the weather. The front is going away from us: we've got two hours of sunlight: run!

Go swim with Nelly. Get in the cold water for first time. Float on my back on the comfy blue floater in the water, i can feel the almighty sun reaching thru the bright red curtains of my closed eyelids. Hear birds: see a green heron. Then we hear booming music and voices. Slowly a group of tubes appears around the corner ahead. We hear “Doctor Feel Good,” by Motley Crue. I really think about the lyrics, I think about how sad they really are (“He's the one that makes you feel—all right”); for not the first time on the trip, I calculate the time it will have been since my last THC, I eagerly speculate how high I'll get when I get back on it.

The people listening to the music are downing ethanol. There is a raggedy-looking like probably five-year-old girl with them. Another song booms in the home of the Green Heron, an impressive riff married to an underwhelming, sort of embarrassingly aggro vocal, singing the most banal (self-?) recriminations imaginable; the hook: “You're such a fucking hypocrite!”

The party dicks float noisily on with their dirty children, carried by the languid sparkle, and then we swim again, but then there are two guys fishing on either side of us. We don't want to have to worry about their lines or hooks, so we get out and move our chairs up to the bend. We have a lot of fun going up and down. We discuss whether we are going to pee in the river; we both do.

We get back to Cabin 11. Pizza is delivered by grandfatherly man in a gigantic red truck. Eating the delicious Hideaway Pizza (pepperoni, Canadian bacon, and onion), they steadfastly ignored my attempts to turn the subject back round to my hangups about Christianity. I was working my way toward an apology but I wanted to talk more about it first. I needed to just apologize. But I found a way to get back into it.

They both looked away from the table into the distance, squinting slightly in thought with almost identical facial expressions: ha, Nelly learned it off Mom! I said to Mom and Nelly, “You all are master subject changers.” This at least gets a laugh.

It gets dark. A truck with a horse trailer arrives. It parks next to the picnic table. We hear a jackass sound: there are two mules in the trailer. The driver gets out, takes the mules out. Other people come. There is a lady holding a dead asleep baby. The babies little arms and legs just hang limply from hers.

I think about family. The boon that the thought of having children can provide against the horror of mortality. The corresponding pain that having children implies: you must hand over the controls. Thus the great danger in the quest for human salvation, because love, if it goes right, can provide that boon, but if it goes wrong, it can sting worse than anything.

Inside, I kill more flies and then we all three sit on the couch and watch most of the fantastic Top Gun. During a scene where some kissing starts, I give Mom some shit: “Uh oh Mom, should I turn the channel or just close my eyes!” Mom seems hurt: “Don't pick on me!” I feel bad. I say, Sorry, I was just being dumb, I know how you hate that stuff. I do a dump and read some Derrick Jensen stuff on the internet.

I return to the bliss of hanging as myself with my family, with the only two people other than Dad that at least know who I was then, if not who I am now, and can sort of understand, and I gush: “This is just like summer vacation as a kid. Man you made those fun for us, Mom. Remember the scavenger hunts you did for us?” I am so thankful to my Mom for that memory, and not saddened by how far away it is.

Something else then is on TV. Mom and Nelly go to bed. I go to bed. In my room, I look out the blinds and across the grassy pasture at the haunted farmhouse: when Nelly stayed there last year with her girlfriends for their Senior Year Trip, while unpacking they heard the sound of children singing and bangs and footsteps above their heads. Nelly got the courage to pull down the attic stairs to go look, but no one was up there, not even a raccoon.

Now the farmhouse sleeps over there with a restless magnetic energy. I want to go over there, but for the mosquitos. Gazing thru the blinds I see that there is an attic window, filled with curtain folds. I hone in, focus on that floral curtain, will it move for me?

Of course, because of who Dad is, i am certain that all the demons plus baddest ghosts already know who I am, and that I am here. Then I begin to think it's bigger than that: I sense that the whole town of Eminence seems to be trying to talk to me, that the whole haunted world is trying to contact me, specifically, to say—what?

I don't know yet. I read about peak oil then fall asleep.

TUE:
Three blue butterflies are circling in the spot where the guy puts our tubes. We get in. The water's cold but I'm expecting it from the day before, so it's not so bad. Immediately the sun begins to feel incredibly hot on my face. The sun and the reflection of the sun. We get the quiet of the trees and the water for moment. I begin to get excited: I am full of the Derrick Jensen premises and I am eager for some wild nature.

Then there is an echoing roar, getting louder. We turn and look to the sky. It is an F-16.

The booming, zooming Top Gun foreshadows the racket that follows us down the water. Who knew: there's butt tons drunks already rioting upon this sleepy morn at the Ozark National Scenic Riverways!

In between the gaudy gangs of them, though, the floating there at the beginning was indeed that wonderful hushed suspension, where you feel the River pick you up and carry you along; during this time you have no responsibility but to sit back while you are whisked, sometimes busily, down a reddish lane bounded by green walls, under a very hot, very blue sky.

Then something happened. It got very quiet and I was looking up at the sky and the sun was the biggest and brightest one I believed I'd ever seen. Its invincible light stretched stingingly across the entire blue expanse, making the black rubber under my elbows skillet-like, painful, while the bottom half of my body hung suspended in bracingly cold weightlessness.

There, in nature, feeling a sort of abandon and calm and bliss, I heard these words inside: “Just say it. Just decide it, [redacted]. Just say it and decide that there is no God.” I waited. I realized that I could not say it. I looked back up at the sky. The sun melted the words and I heard the birds and I knew, then. There would be no escaping Him. I would be haunted by God until the day I died. The dream of the Kingdom would always, always be there. This realization brought its own calm and bliss.

It is what it is: “I am that I am.”

The float took us a long time. The River was low so we walked a lot, hauling the big ass tubes. Even when we could float, it was too shallow for comfort: bumped my ass on plenty rocks. Finally, to avoid this, I took to riding sexily on all fours, cooking up perfect conditions for the sunburn: the tube against my shins is like a gigantic squeegee pushing the sunscreen off my skin.

We stop a lot to put on sunscreen, but it’s not enough. By the time we get to the end, where people are swimming and drinking and fishing and jumping from a cliff, we are all three thoroughly roasted. We get out and leave the tubes on the gravel. We hike up to the road. The heat of the very air makes my shins blaze. I rush into the shade, where it's slightly better. During the walk and back at Cabin 11, where Superman is on, I do probably more moaning than the two of them put together. We put on the blue aloe vera shit, a big bottle of which Nelly's thankgodfully packed. We order pizza. The Pizza comes. The place fills up with flies but I am in no mood to go fly hunting. I can't watch Superman because I want to lay on my bed and moan instead. I go in and try to nap. Somebody yells at me to stop groaning. Begin to nap, but before the ghost can even make it thru the wall, Nelly wakes me: we are going to get ice cream

At the Tasty Freeze, it's a baseball team. I’m strafed on the neck by a pterodactylic insect. From the road, we hear a loud truck and someone bellowing, “Woooooyeah!!! I love baseball!” Turning, we see it's a shirtless man driving a black Ford Bronco with a smashed windshield.

Above the window where we ordered, there was plastered a bumper sticker depicting an image I saw numerous times during the trip: a cowboy, off his horse, holding his hat to his breast, kneeling in front of a cross. I feel the quick suspicion then wonder if the quick suspicion comes from College's secular humanism, or my actual heart, or both and in what portions? I feel also the bitterness about spending all those young years chasing my dad’s God instead of feeling the fun it would have been my right, in those days, to enjoy with my peers at the ice cream place after the game. I begin to hate these merry fucking kids. I want to punch the faces of the cocksure boyfriends and steal the hearts of their flirty girlfriends. Then i remember Baby Spice and the teddy bears on beds, and the shame floods me again. “Fuck God,” I think. “I’m sorry,” I say. Nelly and Mom are talking about their ice creams.

Back at Cabin 11, it's Ghostbusters on TV, yay! A beloved fantasy from earliest childhood, come suddenly back to distract from the pain of the burn (and the knowledge that the next night, I would have to return home, to that empty hollow apartment, to contend alone with the emotions stirred up by this tour).

Inevitably, Nelly and Mom go to bed. I don't want the night to end. So I watch Airheads all the way through for the first time. This is that movie about a band called the Lone Rangers, and they just want to be heard, man. So they fake machine guns and go and hold up a radio studio. What do they get? A following. In jail, though.

After that, I catch an episode of King of the Hill where Hank takes Bobby camping to teach him self-reliance. They are thwarted by an encampment of evil/smelly hippies who “share” first Hank's fishing reels and then his truck. A scene depicts Bill, who has joined the hippies, caked in mud and sitting cross-legged in a circle with them. A grizzled hippie raises his arms to the sun and says, “Oh Sun we give thanks for your loving rays. . . .” Bill nudges the hippie beside him: “So. . . .the sun is God, right?” The hippie, arms raised to the sun, frowns impatiently, hisses, “Yes!”

I go in my room and lie down, dreading whether the burn will be the kind that's 10x worse in the morning. All I can think is I won't get to shave my legs as soon as I get back to the apartment, as I'd planned. I look out the window at the dark farmhouse and again imagine a parade of ghosts climbing out the attic window, crossing the moonlit pasture, and passing soundlessly through the wall into my room. I imagine them in the air around my bed. I fall asleep to the desolate electrical singing of a solitary cricket below my window.

WED:
Wake to flies. Surprised to find my sunburn ain't as bad as I feared. Turn on the news, then Sesame Street. Mom and Nelly sleep in. I kill the shit out of more flies. On Sesame Street, it's the big bad wolf keeps blowing the worm into Snuffaluffagus's spaghetti. But the worm doesn’t give up and keeps dodging the fork to crawl out and onward. Then it's Mark Ruffalo explaining empathy to a muppet: “If I stub my toe, and you tell me you know how it feels! That's empathy!” The muppet doesn't get it, though, so Mark has to give it like two more examples.

Mom gets up. Nelly is pissed I'm killing flies so loud. An Ozark morning show is on while we pack up the place. Channeling dad, I smugly note that my packing is easy, while these women take forever. Stalking nervously around, I rip the bloody back cover off the notepad: it's streaked with red and black from killing flies. We close the place up, go over to the office, where Mom goes in and signs out. I wait in the car. I'm driving.

Halfway home we get caught were there is fresh oil and gravel on the road. They are resurfacing the road. I groan about the speed demons lining up behind us, but I cannot go faster, or we will die. I

On the radio, just when we needed it, there it was: “Shout shout let it all out, these are the things I can do without.” I took it to heart. Once again. I flirted with internalizing an external stimuli as a communication from a Higher Power. Right then, for that moment when he says: “I'm talking to you!” the entire external world flickers briefly into view as a maze of signs and symbols, all of them intended for me: this is disturbingly a lot like the manic whispers from the Cymbalta days, and this sensation would return frequently throughout the next three days. Especially in regard to the radio. But anything, really, an image, a name, a thought, the connections flickered briefly then faded away. It was okay, maybe even good to see them. Probably. I didn't need to run and tell anyone that I was probably the Messiah, though. It was much safer to wait until I was home, and just write about it.

We lost Jack FM. A magical song came on 88.9 instead. It was like breezy beach jazz, and for once we all loved it. I said to Mom and Nelly, I want to make music that's good like this, that's really music, but I don't know if I ever will. I said I don't know why I'm even doing this project. I invoked the image of polishing turds, which made them both laugh. Then I confessed to the realization that the only people that will hear it are family and friends who will listen to it once and go, “Huh! that was weird.”

Mom and Nelly said but it's fun, right, and if you like it, who cares what other people think? I said because if you're going to do art but people aren't going to get anything out of it, what's the point? It's ultimately selfish: you take all this time away from the world when you could be with others, serving others. Doing something to make other peoples' lives better. And instead look at me, look at this self absorbed asshole agonizing over a few seconds of muddy sound on a piece of shit song on a piece of shit record that will just be a piece of shit and will only serve to make deeply uncomfortable anyone who is long-suffering or unlucky enough to listen.

And so I cried, “ I just don't know what to do—because I have to do something great with this life!”

Then the tears came. “I would give anything to be back, in that room, giving a sermon!” Mom says there, there. Don't you think you will give sermons again? I don't know, I mutter. I think maybe I lost that, because of what I've become. . . .

Fn 1. We had been talking about Dad's getting rid of his phone and moving out of the house and into the camper, so he could focus wholly on mapping out the best escape route for getting away with the golden plates, since there could be a lot of heat coming down, when u do an excavation like that on private land, plus, obviously, the Devil would know and would be ready to strike back. (O that very special pasture, completely nondescript yet world shattering, sleeping emptily there, for now, in the remote rural desolation of Oklahoma. How the red dirt and rocks and shrub grass tower over my life, given that Myron and Dad both saw that same location, years before they'd even met, in a dream or vision that came to them with different landmarks, Dad's dream leading him past the burnt out church, Myron's vision leading him the back way past the school house. How could it not be true, then?

Fn 2. I remember standing in a bathroom at Tri City (the Christian school i attended for two weeks until i told the teacher I'd seen Jesus in a dream, she called the principal, and the principal called my mom, and then they threw me out) but anyway I was looking in the mirror in the bathroom at that fucken school, and i was telling myself: “You're ugly. I hate you. I hate myself.” I was like 9 or 10 when I did that! I don't think it means I am super disturbed or anything. I'm sure I'm not the only little kid to ever have done that. Probably I was just indulging the little emotional thrill I got from it?
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Last edited by Run To Me : 05-21-2021 at 09:40 PM. Reason: Topic: All Things Revealed (Nothing Secret) Cite: Mark 4: 19 II N 11:130-132 II N 12: 96-98 (Jer: a God at hand, not far off)

 
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Old 05-22-2021, 03:00 PM   #2
reprise85
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i really enjoy reading these

 
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Old 05-24-2021, 04:16 AM   #3
Run To Me
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Location: Th Word o th Lord 2 His Church stablished n deez th latter days as spake by mouths o His Prophets even Mt Zion who shall b th city o New Jeruslem + shall b built again @ th temple lot appointed by Fingr o th Lord in western boundaries of the State of
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I really enjoy if u read them

This is my sewer of a diary, everyone

If it makes u feel gross, skip

If u feel any of these feelings feel free to disarm me with a frown or like a fucken, uh

Cut me? On my butthole probably. Thanks

 
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Old 05-25-2021, 12:25 AM   #4
wHATcOLOR
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wait, you were a priest? am i reading this correctly?

 
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Old 05-25-2021, 01:08 AM   #5
Joey Goldberg
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you fucking read all that???

 
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Old 05-25-2021, 08:20 AM   #6
ovary
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after staring at that shit for three days i fuckin' read it. it could be a good short story if you cut some stuff and expanded on other stuff. your narrator is compelling and the plot is tight, and you could build up to a climactic revelation about the dad.

here's the TLDR best bit according to ovary:

Something else then is on TV. Mom and Nelly go to bed. I go to bed. In my room, I look out the blinds and across the grassy pasture at the haunted farmhouse: when Nelly stayed there last year with her girlfriends for their Senior Year Trip, while unpacking they heard the sound of children singing and bangs and footsteps above their heads. Nelly got the courage to pull down the attic stairs to go look, but no one was up there, not even a raccoon.

Now the farmhouse sleeps over there with a restless magnetic energy. I want to go over there, but for the mosquitos. Gazing thru the blinds I see that there is an attic window, filled with curtain folds. I hone in, focus on that floral curtain, will it move for me?

Of course, because of who Dad is, i am certain that all the demons plus baddest ghosts already know who I am, and that I am here. Then I begin to think it's bigger than that: I sense that the whole town of Eminence seems to be trying to talk to me, that the whole haunted world is trying to contact me, specifically, to say—what?

I don't know yet. I read about peak oil then fall asleep.

 
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Old 05-25-2021, 08:36 AM   #7
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The town of Eminence, interesting you should mention it was a lot of my colleagues the Guardian

 
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Old 05-25-2021, 08:38 AM   #8
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Exactly because of that, het is een hele dag op de bank Noah is het daar ook wel eens met een vriend afgesproken die op de bank geslapen vannacht nog even een biertje te doen zijn als het goed heb ik een heel veel van jou ook vaker in het nieuws

 
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Old 05-25-2021, 09:12 AM   #9
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hahaha

 
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Old 05-25-2021, 09:12 AM   #10
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ok then

 
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Old 05-25-2021, 12:54 PM   #11
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Location: Th Word o th Lord 2 His Church stablished n deez th latter days as spake by mouths o His Prophets even Mt Zion who shall b th city o New Jeruslem + shall b built again @ th temple lot appointed by Fingr o th Lord in western boundaries of the State of
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after staring at that shit for three days i fuckin' read it. it could be a good short story if you cut some stuff and expanded on other stuff. your narrator is compelling and the plot is tight, and you could build up to a climactic revelation about the dad.
Thanks for reading and for the feedback, it’s really helpful. My hope is to someday take all this trash and turn it into a story collection that will at least be somewhat interesting/entertaining to a certain type of audience

 
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Old 05-25-2021, 01:30 PM   #12
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You were able to create a totally immersive experience for me, which is hard because I am easily distracted. I could definitely feel the conflict, too. Religion always ends like this.

 
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Old 05-25-2021, 04:56 PM   #13
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Location: Th Word o th Lord 2 His Church stablished n deez th latter days as spake by mouths o His Prophets even Mt Zion who shall b th city o New Jeruslem + shall b built again @ th temple lot appointed by Fingr o th Lord in western boundaries of the State of
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wait, you were a priest? am i reading this correctly?
Yes, in an apocalypse cult that split from an ultra-fundamentalist group (the Restorationists) that split from the RLDS/Community of Christ, which is the Mormons that didn't go West

Specifically, deacon @ 12 y/o, priest @ 14 y/o, elder @ 16 y/o; those crusty bible-humping fucks couldn't get enough, just loved to see my lithe teenage frame up there in the pulpit every third Sunday

 
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Old 05-25-2021, 05:48 PM   #14
Run To Me
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Location: Th Word o th Lord 2 His Church stablished n deez th latter days as spake by mouths o His Prophets even Mt Zion who shall b th city o New Jeruslem + shall b built again @ th temple lot appointed by Fingr o th Lord in western boundaries of the State of
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You were able to create a totally immersive experience for me, which is hard because I am easily distracted. I could definitely feel the conflict, too. Religion always ends like this.
Thanks for reading, and thank u so very much for the comment, it's validating and helpful. Did u also have bad experience of religion? Sorry if we chatted about if before but i can't remember b/c my mind is fucked

And don't forget if u want more harrowing details concerning drugs, alcohol, mental illness, the Best Family in the World and Probably of All Time, ritual masturbation, child abuse, and the end of the world:

2 Feb 2000 - "On Female Companionship"

http://forums.netphoria.org/showthread.php?t=188187

7 Feb 2000 - "From the Mouth of the Lord"

http://forums.netphoria.org/showthread.php?t=188169

13 April 2008 - "Doctrine and Covenants Section 38 Verse 9"

http://forums.netphoria.org/showthre...ght=april+2008

15 September 2009 - "Tight Purple Sweatpants"


http://forums.netphoria.org/showthread.php?t=188419

13 July 2009 - "Monday"

http://forums.netphoria.org/showthread.php?t=188231

4 Oct 2009 - "The Outer Darkness" vs "I'm Sorry God"

http://forums.netphoria.org/showthread.php?t=188182

3 Jan 2010 - "That's the Loss"

http://forums.netphoria.org/showthread.php?t=188164

10 June 2013 - "Yellow Crust"

http://forums.netphoria.org/showthread.php?t=188518

 
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Old 05-25-2021, 05:49 PM   #15
Run To Me
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Location: Th Word o th Lord 2 His Church stablished n deez th latter days as spake by mouths o His Prophets even Mt Zion who shall b th city o New Jeruslem + shall b built again @ th temple lot appointed by Fingr o th Lord in western boundaries of the State of
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you fucking read all that???

 
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Old 05-25-2021, 06:37 PM   #16
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Thanks for reading, and thank u so very much for the comment, it's validating and helpful. Did u also have bad experience of religion? Sorry if we chatted about if before but i can't remember b/c my mind is fucked

And don't forget if u want more harrowing details concerning drugs, alcohol, mental illness, the Best Family in the World and Probably of All Time, ritual masturbation, child abuse, and the end of the world:
I don't think we ever had a conversation about religion. My immediate family is not very religious, just strongly culturally Jewish. My youth was more defined by harrowing details concerning drugs, alcohol, mental illness, hyper sexuality, and codependent relationships.

My extended family is fully immersed in Jewish Orthodxy, of which I was educated in for several years, but it didn't have a profound negative effect on me. I simply didn't (and don't) believe in bible literalism and find many traditional and cultural behaviors to be intolerant, racist, short sighted, and hypocritical. I said as much at the time and switched back and forth between religious and public school. To this day I'm a secular-spiritual person with no guilt about it.

 
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Old 05-26-2021, 12:15 AM   #17
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Originally Posted by Run To Me View Post
Yes, in an apocalypse cult that split from an ultra-fundamentalist group (the Restorationists) that split from the RLDS/Community of Christ, which is the Mormons that didn't go West

Specifically, deacon @ 12 y/o, priest @ 14 y/o, elder @ 16 y/o; those crusty bible-humping fucks couldn't get enough, just loved to see my lithe teenage frame up there in the pulpit every third Sunday
damn man, i hope you post about how you started realizing you were in a cult or got out of it or whatever the process was. thanks for sharing.

 
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Old 05-26-2021, 03:27 AM   #18
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I'm interested as well, and maybe a little terrified

 
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Old 06-01-2021, 02:00 AM   #19
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THIS IS AWESOME!!!!!!!!!!
 
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Run To Me View Post
Yes, in an apocalypse cult that split from an ultra-fundamentalist group (the Restorationists) that split from the RLDS/Community of Christ, which is the Mormons that didn't go West

Specifically, deacon @ 12 y/o, priest @ 14 y/o, elder @ 16 y/o; those crusty bible-humping fucks couldn't get enough, just loved to see my lithe teenage frame up there in the pulpit every third Sunday

i don't even know where to start, nearly everything you said is making my head spin, but what the hell kind of place has 14 year old priests? "elder" at 16?

i'm sorry you were subjected to this

 
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Old 06-01-2021, 02:54 AM   #20
Run To Me
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Location: Th Word o th Lord 2 His Church stablished n deez th latter days as spake by mouths o His Prophets even Mt Zion who shall b th city o New Jeruslem + shall b built again @ th temple lot appointed by Fingr o th Lord in western boundaries of the State of
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i don't even know where to start, nearly everything you said is making my head spin, but what the hell kind of place has 14 year old priests? "elder" at 16?

i'm sorry you were subjected to this
You know what it’s cool, i have a new family, am in therapy, and medicated. Can’t complain: i survived

Mostly just posting b/c it feels therapeutic to share our abuse stories. There’s so many different kinds. If mine is interesting to anyone, i just wanna be open on here and sorta like do whatever to bring like

Awareness or whoever

 
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