Tag Archives: life

The Eggshell People

The Eggshell People live in an Eggshell World
with an eggshell mind in an eggshell house.
They teach their children to be kind,
they wouldn’t hurt a mouse.
But they would be horrified to find one
living in their eggshell house.
They’d buy a sticky board to bind him
or a trap to let him out.

The Eggshell people don’t teach their children about war
or the horrors in the world.
They protect themselves and children
by censoring every word.

TV shows are banned, violence not allowed.
Guns as toys discouraged,
they cling to religious vows
they inspire and they encourage,
their children are terrors to be around.

“Be yourself!”, they say, “Be free in what you do!”
But not too different, and they’ll enforce their rules on you.
To protect their Eggshell World and their eggshell ways,
they will do anything that they can,
shutting out the outside world.
Demanding you be like them.

“Don’t conform!” they say.  But don’t act different from them.
“We treasure individuality!”
As long as it’s indistinguishable from them.

But perhaps you were brought up different,
not in an eggshell world.
Where guns were allowed and horrors abounded
and by five you’d heard every cuss word.
Where the struggle for survival was a struggle to survive
beyond your eggshell world.

The Eggshell people.
Children so unprepared.
Live in ruin around them.
Blind to what they see,
denying all that is around them.
Protecting their culture from reality
in order to build a reality around them.
Like an eggshell world,
their dreams if it comes crumbling down on them.
When reality pokes through,
raising its ugly head,
when faced with pain and horror,
they shrink away in dread.

The Eggshell People.
I have spent my life defending them,
hiding them from the horrors,
telling them “all is all right”
while I died and cried along their borders,
patrolling the world, patrolling the night,
in distant far-off lands,
committing atrocities and horrors
they condemn and can’t understand.

The Eggshell people!
How I envy them,
their minor squabbles and their grace,
not knowing that I died fighting for them,
giving up happiness and my place
peace and contentment
to protect the world they see.
The Eggshell people might condemn me
but without me where would they be?

(the lament of a young soldier . . . a long time ago.)
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Filed under Marine, Matthew

Training

“Animals are trained.  Children are taught.” – E.T., July 2011

That is something that he (E.T.) taught me, along with a few other things.  (“We eat people food.  People food comes from the grocery stores.  Why don’t you STOP asking me if this plant is edible or that is good to eat.”  This from my friend who was also abusing me (verbally and mentally that is).  He is an ex-Intelligence agent (really and truly, he is!).  Worked for the CIA (or MK if you want to put it in other words).  Had me confused with someone else.  But we ‘stopped him’ (albeit a bit) . . . by doing the things that we had been trained to do; taught to do, even as a small child.

And then I came across a post by Faith Allen, called “Child Abuse as Traumatizing as War“.  It immediately set off some issues for me.  And then I realized: it’s because as a small child, I’ve always been preparing for war – a war of some kind against somebody – whether that be my own brother (who, in his turn, was waging war against me – in his own time and his own way, including methods of extreme violence.)  We covered some of this in “The Armageddon Child”, but . . .

We were learning and knew how to make puji stake traps at the age of eight years old.  We knew to cover them with feces to make them enemy die.

We knew how to make basic deadfalls and sh** by the time we were 13.  These were for killing a man.

We knew how to set up a claymore mine by the time we were 8.  The important thing is to always make sure it stays outwards.  There’s a side printed with words like that.  “This Side Towards Enemy” I think it says.  And then you connect the two little wires and run like rats down into your little ‘foxholes’ and wait.

We were practicing firing RPG type weapons – not loaded, but disposables with telescoping tubes and fold down sights – when we were 9 and 10.  We rode in tanks (and learned you’d better be tied down to something – or hanging on tight – as they bounced around).  We did the same “ground jumps” from stationary towers . . . but this was being in the military.  This was part of being “a brat”.  So it was the ‘usual’ thing.

I’m betting a lot of the children ‘in there’ (meaning “The Fortress*”) were trained like me.  Trained in the arts of war.  How to deploy your forces.  How to build a trap.  Smearing puji sticks with feces and stuff.  Playing games of war.  Riding in tanks and traveling with the troops; squatting inside APC’s listening to their commanders give out orders and take reports in . . . cruising the countryside “looking for them” – meaning the enemy soldiers and commanders and things . . . learning how to ‘observe’ them, noting their movements – then going in and ‘taking command’ by misdirecting them and things . . . stuff like that.  Sneaky kinda stuff.  The kind of stuff you do on your time off – for ‘shits and giggles and things’.  That’s the way we were.

I remember being trained on a bow when I was 7 years old.  It was a light kind of bow, and we shot it often until we were very good at that thing.

We were all given BB guns when we were eight years old.  You would get into trouble for shooting someone with them, but we had wars anyway.  BB Gun wars and stuff.  Taking pain – that’s what it was all about: our ability to withstand pain.

We were set on by our first dog by the time we were six or seven.  He was a big one and he was a German shepperd.  He was chained to a tree so he could only stand up (on his hind legs of course) – we thought he was muzzled, but no, I guess not (seeing him quite clearly right now: chained to a big ol’ pine tree set in the neighbor’s back yard – he’s rearing up and we’re approaching him – fearful at times – he’s barking loud and waving his front end all around . . .

and somebody shoves us in; shoves us to him, and he starts clawing on my chest; ripping me down from stem to stern, hurting me kinda bad.  The adults don’t step in (it was one of them – I think my mom, or the other mom – I don’t kinda know) – and I’m left there to fend this dog (he stands way taller than me; I can only reach his chest) – and I’m pushing away and crying and things and the dog is ripping me apart – and then I step back (it’s clear right now) blood running down my chest.  I’ve been ripped from shoulders to bladder and on down – I didn’t have my shirt on, no one wore them (they were too precious a thing; they had to be kept with our pants in the drawers and things, along with our other good clothes)

and he’s hurt me kinda bad I’m dripping blood and things and the adults take me to the back of the brick sided single story ranch house (with white framed windows; there are six panels in each window, each three panes wide, and there are six windows in this house – at this side only; chck chk chk

yes we have seeen the front of this house before and we can describe it to a T but that just goes to show . . .

our training and all

is incomplete.

* – you should read “Military Brats: Legacies of Childhood Inside the Fortress” by Mary Edwards Wertsch if you were (or are) a military dependent of ANY kind – or want to find and know (albeit only somewhat – nobody can truly know or understand anything about it until they’ve been there – and I was “with” the military in one way or another during my first 26 years . . .)

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Filed under child abuse survivor, Matthew, Memories

That Old Time Religion

That Old Time Religion

That old time religion
they beat into my head
made me tiptoe into church
filled full of dread.

The choir would start singing
about the angels and the Lord
while I’d be staring at Michael
with his dripping sword.

The choir would be singing how
God would accompany me to my grave,
but the the question they kept asking was
“Have you been saved?”.
Let us count his crimes;
his sins he will tell,
because we will beat them out him
so he won’t go to hell.
My dad said I was Satan when I was seventeen,
that I was possessed with demons inside.
So I told him to prove I was not God . . .
and though he tried and tried,
my arguments were bulletproof
when I laughed and told him
it wouldn’t matter if I died.

An Army brat inside who had sex when he was five,
I knew what it was like to run, dodge and hide,
but where was I to hide when I would have to abide
the punishment for what was done to me?

So I would look up into the gold laced air
where the Saints stood staring with a cold stone glare
politely ignoring me.
And I would listen as the hymns grew real loud
and the white frocked choir sang.

The priests walking solemn as the angels sang loud
and I would feel a nauseous shame
burning deep inside of me
while my father stood nearby
and my mother held my hand
sternly.

Forcing me to sit up
be still
and stand when required
and kneel when required
and cross myself when required
by church law and ritual
until I became conformed
like the rest of them
thinking I’m going to go to hell until the day I die
when I finally will.

But I don’t believe in that nonsense anymore.
I believe in a special god.
And he’s a bit like you and a bit like me
and a bit like the rest of all mankind.
Seems more ‘real’ to me
than any god presented by mankind
because mankind did not make god
and god is just like man
only different –
like you and me.

 

 

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Filed under God, Religion

Time

Time.

Time is what we are giving,
time is what we take.
Times when we should be living
we often waste and forsake.

Time is bought and sold,
traded for tomorrow,
given until we’re too old
it becomes a source of sorrow.

Time.

With its burdens and its sorrows,
happiness, joys and ways
time dissolves all those tomorrows
into our yesterdays.

Time.

A beat without a season,
a string we walk in life,
wondering if there is a reason
til Death cuts it like a knife.

Time.

Time we sell, time we trade,
we give it to all our things,
and sometimes when we sell it
we wonder at the worth of the things it brings.

Time.

What is the worth of it.
Intangible to the fingers,
invisible to the eye
time is constantly flowing.
Have you learned to fly?

Time.

Have you had enough? Can you get too much?
Is it easy going or has life been tough?
Is all your time spent making time
so you can run to someone’s touch?
Or have you traded time for possessions
that really don’t mean that much?

Time.

Slows down when you have too much weighing on your hands.
(Thought there is no such thing as too much, I hope you understand.)
Time speeds up when you face too many of life’s demands.
Time is what you steal,
time is what you spend.
The question is will you keep missing the point
until your bitter end?
Or will you take the time to make some time
to enjoy the time right now
and realize with time, your most valuable asset,
its not if you spend it, but how.

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The Blue Horizon

The Blue Horizon

The blue horizon stacked like sheets of glass.
Clouds, too, flatten out as they pass.
The empty desert lies before me, slowly shifting sand,
erasing tracks behind me, presence from the land.

The horizon, across an endless plain,
calls with a mournful whisper
promising happiness and or pain.

I listen.

The horizon, blue,
whispers and gibbers to me
pulling me ever onward
towards eternity.
I take one step, two more – its as distant as it could be.
That forever horizon that I reach for eternally.

The horizon, blue meets blue again,
like time frozen, with no beginning nor an end.
Always retreating before you,
never quite in your lonesome grasp,
that blue horizon may be what you see
when you breath your last . . .

The blue horizon.

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To Dream or Not to Dream

To Dream

Sept. 9, 2008

To sleep, perhaps to dream.
To dream, perhaps to scream
in some distant nightmare.

Whether or not I wake to heaven,
or have ghostly meetings in my mind;
to dream or not to dream,
to wander through chance and time.

Our dreams can bring love and strife
on an unknown and distant day.
Living a different life,
living a different way
our dreams while they are living,
send us along our way.

Living some other life
living some other way.
My dreams come sneaking in at night
and here is what they say:

Speak to me at night
of lives unlived,
and places unseen,
emotions unknown to me.

My dreams transport me to somewhere,
nowhere,
everywhere
places I don’t want to be.

So to dream tonight?
To live a life unseen?
To see a nightmare coming true?

To wake with a scream?
Or will they be of loss
of happiness;
of gaining a life
that once was
or has been?

Of loves?
Of cares?
At least they are in a different place,
perhaps a different time, a different age.
Perhaps what I once was
or what I could have been.
I hate my dreams, the innocence of sins,
and what I was before.
A little child soldier,
a little child whore . . .

To dream or not to dream
that is the question I ask
because I can’t dream anymore.
Dreams are hard and painful,
it’s time to shut that door.

 

(I’ve heard of something called “fullfillment dreams” and dreams where “it’s all good” – but I’ve never had one.  I had nightmares for the first 48 years of my life – so much and so many that I thought they were normal, and they became not ‘nightmares’ . . . just dreams; experiences.  And I have loved and lost in those dreams so many times . . . and our search for ‘home’ – which tells me a lot of things about my selves within.  They had love ripped from them; torn, shattered, desired – so many times as a small child that yes: I ‘lost’ my mind, broke (and buried) my heart, and cursed love for all time.  That has since changed.  But it – and ‘our’ search for a home where they were loved ones we had loved all our lives – that’s gone.  We won’t have it anymore.
We’ve given up on dreams . . . forever more – and that’s the way it’s been . . .)

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Hangman

I’ve been hanging around, you see.  The days are hot and the nights are cold, and I’ve gotten to know a few of the odd birds that come around.

Comes from hanging around, you see.
I watch the clouds drifting over, a brittle blue sky beyond,
and the ground below me looks inviting and warm
and I’m so tired of hanging from this tree
bones ensnared in the branches.
Hanging from this tree
my bones grow weary.
Why won’t the rope break
dropping me to the grave
that I slaved to dig?

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