Part IV:
“Walking the night to get through”
One night, when I was 13 and living in Cyprus, after the oral amputation, I was walking around the city with my friend. Some drunken teen agers in a car chased me for a while, just trying to scare us I hope. I lost them by hiding in an empty soccer stadium after jumping the wall. My friends and I always seemed to have run ins with the Cypriot version of gangs, mostly a group of guys who liked to go out and pick fights. My friend had a big mouth, but we had both learned martial arts, which gave confidence but we soon learned that it means absolutely nothing when it comes to a real fight.
Tonight, I was reminded of that night, one of my memorable journeys I’d otherwise forget. I walked under a bridge in Austin , half expecting to encounter a homeless person. Somehow I was always able to convince them that I was also homeless, probably because it’s true and we would usually talk and I would tell them that Jesus loves them. Some didn’t like that, so at that point I would leave. But tonight there was no one under the bridge and I slowly crossed Austin’s Mopac highway and hopped the fence of the cemetery. Fence hopping is more difficult with 4 Ambien… The graves reminded me of that night.
We got back to my house in Cyprus at six that morning; the sky was a grayish hue of blue. There were brown mounds all over the front porch. They were dead dogs. Over a dozen dogs from the neighborhood that my neighbor (who didn’t care for dogs) had poisoned, and put on our door step. It turns out that they hated us for being Christians and were hoping that the police would arrest us. We learned this because there later was a rumor that Christians sacrifice dogs in their religion. None of its true. The police thought we did it, we were the only white people in our village so I guess it was a smart move framing us (we lived in Kolossi, a small village near Limassol, it was known because Richard the Lionhart had a fortress there, which was the site of one of my sister’s birthday parties one year). My dog, my best friend, Deira, was still breathing. She was vomiting foam. I cried and I held her in my arms, and forbid my sisters to come outside. After Deira finally passed, my dad and I dug graves for all of the dogs in the farm land next to our house, while the police watched and cursed us. We covered the graves with rocks after the police left.
There was a fresh mound in the cemetery tonight. Someone lost some one. For some reason I have always shed more tears for animals that have died than I have for people. I stayed out all night, even though I had class in the morning. For whatever reason, I’m writing this, instead of doing my home work. It’s 6:49 and I need to get home work done by 8. When Deira was still alive, she would lay on my feet when I would sit at the table and write. I have a small sculpture of a boarder terrier dog on my desk, as well as a picture of her. Why can’t I move on from the past like other people? Every one lost a dog when they were a kid. Being there for it was unfortunate. Sometimes I wonder how my memories could possibly be true, did they break my mind?… But every time I talk to my parents about these memories, they confirm them… I’m not sure if that’s comforting because it means I’m not crazy, or shitty because it means I’m not crazy.
The last time I stayed out all night was earlier this summer, before school started, I was in east Texas. My friend had recently been released from jail for cooking meth. It was my first time seeing him since he got out. I could tell he had already relapsed. He saw shadow people in the trees by the trailer. I remembered life here when my family went overseas. I was no doubt going to be different when I returned to America, but I wasn’t prepared for how different, but it did save me from the monster that consumed my friends back home, meth. He would twitch and mutter jibberish, he spoke in the language of some angels, he may have been over dosing. The rest of us were drunk, though I think some of them were also high. But I was asked to pray. It’s strange to pray, while shitfaced, in a meth den, death bin, with dead men, who thought I was a freak, and the type who often called me a faggot… But I knew they couldn’t understand. A- sexuality is hard to understand unless you’re like me, people will always assume you’re gay. I began to pray. I could tell there were demons. I guess it was something like an exorcism. I wasn’t sure if I believed in them until that night. But I did when I saw my friend stop jerking about uncontrollably and stop speaking in tongues as soon as I finished praying. The demons didn’t like it, and clearly attacked him harder while I prayed, but in Jesus’ name there is no loss, we shall overcome. But I couldn’t sleep that night either. So I walked around the pines all night. Much like tonight.
I used to go to a youth group in Cyprus with my friends lead by a woman with an Irish name. I always thought she was a lesbian, which made me like her more, except that she was hurtful to one of my best friends who was also a lesbian. This is the stuff about the church that made me so sick for so long, how harshly we judge those who share our sins. So many gay Christians hurt the gay community. Anyway, this lady called us out for being too goofy and distracting at youth group. We were asked to leave her group. But there was clearly more going on around it than just our happiness bothering her. I think she was jealous that a lesbian girl and an A little gay boy were able to be happy and filled with joy during church, church is a party, not a sanctimonious rule session, that’s how Jesus did it anyway. She made my friend cry, and that was all I needed to know to know that it I needed to go. We left together, and walked. That’s when I walked away from the church, I still haven’t gone back really, I’ve visited some churches though. It was this experience that turned me against God, not the sexual abuse, which I suppose is queer.
But leaving was okay, there was a boy who would sometimes go there too, one time he had me over for a sleep over. He liked to wrestle. This made me uncomfortable, but I went along with it so no one would think I was strange. But one night he pinned me down and began to thrust his pelvis onto my ass. I wasn’t sure what was happening, and froze. But when I felt his penis begin to harden I freaked out and broke free from his hold and ran. I walked to my friend’s house on the other side of Limassol. But returning to my point, I guess I just want to realize how much we’re supposed to love. Love people because they’re just people, the same as me and you and we and us. I do miss church though, every time I go I feel so healed, up to the point of interaction with the people. Praise music is magical in its healing power, but the critical and nosey “accountability” of western Christianity carve out more new wounds which eventually ruin the worship experience. It’s such a shame people try to manipulate something so healing. The energies flying around in the room from person to person when we’re all singing the same thing, it’s magical, it’s like an orgy of the spirit. You can feel it flowing through you, connecting you to everyone else, indescribable unity that I haven’t found anywhere else, a glimpse of the future, healing your wounds, getting your mind off of yourself and onto the Healer. I wish church hadn’t been ruined by Christians. I need it so badly. But I feel so judged and condemned when I’m there. I’m starting to learn to not judge those who judge me, which has freed me to participate. But sometimes someone says something and I’m back where I started. But I think some day when Jesus comes back, we’ll have forgotten how to judge. It’s kind of like the racists people up north that think all southerners are racist. I judge the church so harshly from the outside- labeling them judgmental, but in reality there are a lot of people there who aren’t judgmental at all in church, I’m just judging those who share my sin of judgment. We all do this, I think, it’s something I need to think about when I get angry at church, I’m judging them just as they judge me and Jesus said to turn the other cheek and love those who persecute you, I think He was literally talking about anti-christs in the church- you know those pious people who sit all high and mighty and condemn us queers. I think some people go there simply to hurt people that they’re jealous of, and that’s why so many people get hurt at church; churches let anyone and everyone in. Open doors are a beautiful idea, but one with a poisonous side effect. It’s seems to be common sense now that I’m writing about it, anything completely non-exclusive is going to have mean, hateful and hurtful people in it. But they’re the ones who need love the most. If I’m really to follow Jesus, I have to love the people in the church that disgust me, and forgive them with all my heart and find ways to serve them. The church is a call to service, which I think is at the heart of love… I need to go back to church, hopefully soon. I need to forgive the church, just like Jesus has forgiven me, and everyone inside the church, and every one outside the church.
What
it is that wants to come out Seeps
through fog as light“Walking the night to get through”
One night, when I was 13 and living in Cyprus, after the oral amputation, I was walking around the city with my friend. Some drunken teen agers in a car chased me for a while, just trying to scare us I hope. I lost them by hiding in an empty soccer stadium after jumping the wall. My friends and I always seemed to have run ins with the Cypriot version of gangs, mostly a group of guys who liked to go out and pick fights. My friend had a big mouth, but we had both learned martial arts, which gave confidence but we soon learned that it means absolutely nothing when it comes to a real fight.
Tonight, I was reminded of that night, one of my memorable journeys I’d otherwise forget. I walked under a bridge in Austin , half expecting to encounter a homeless person. Somehow I was always able to convince them that I was also homeless, probably because it’s true and we would usually talk and I would tell them that Jesus loves them. Some didn’t like that, so at that point I would leave. But tonight there was no one under the bridge and I slowly crossed Austin’s Mopac highway and hopped the fence of the cemetery. Fence hopping is more difficult with 4 Ambien… The graves reminded me of that night.
We got back to my house in Cyprus at six that morning; the sky was a grayish hue of blue. There were brown mounds all over the front porch. They were dead dogs. Over a dozen dogs from the neighborhood that my neighbor (who didn’t care for dogs) had poisoned, and put on our door step. It turns out that they hated us for being Christians and were hoping that the police would arrest us. We learned this because there later was a rumor that Christians sacrifice dogs in their religion. None of its true. The police thought we did it, we were the only white people in our village so I guess it was a smart move framing us (we lived in Kolossi, a small village near Limassol, it was known because Richard the Lionhart had a fortress there, which was the site of one of my sister’s birthday parties one year). My dog, my best friend, Deira, was still breathing. She was vomiting foam. I cried and I held her in my arms, and forbid my sisters to come outside. After Deira finally passed, my dad and I dug graves for all of the dogs in the farm land next to our house, while the police watched and cursed us. We covered the graves with rocks after the police left.
There was a fresh mound in the cemetery tonight. Someone lost some one. For some reason I have always shed more tears for animals that have died than I have for people. I stayed out all night, even though I had class in the morning. For whatever reason, I’m writing this, instead of doing my home work. It’s 6:49 and I need to get home work done by 8. When Deira was still alive, she would lay on my feet when I would sit at the table and write. I have a small sculpture of a boarder terrier dog on my desk, as well as a picture of her. Why can’t I move on from the past like other people? Every one lost a dog when they were a kid. Being there for it was unfortunate. Sometimes I wonder how my memories could possibly be true, did they break my mind?… But every time I talk to my parents about these memories, they confirm them… I’m not sure if that’s comforting because it means I’m not crazy, or shitty because it means I’m not crazy.
The last time I stayed out all night was earlier this summer, before school started, I was in east Texas. My friend had recently been released from jail for cooking meth. It was my first time seeing him since he got out. I could tell he had already relapsed. He saw shadow people in the trees by the trailer. I remembered life here when my family went overseas. I was no doubt going to be different when I returned to America, but I wasn’t prepared for how different, but it did save me from the monster that consumed my friends back home, meth. He would twitch and mutter jibberish, he spoke in the language of some angels, he may have been over dosing. The rest of us were drunk, though I think some of them were also high. But I was asked to pray. It’s strange to pray, while shitfaced, in a meth den, death bin, with dead men, who thought I was a freak, and the type who often called me a faggot… But I knew they couldn’t understand. A- sexuality is hard to understand unless you’re like me, people will always assume you’re gay. I began to pray. I could tell there were demons. I guess it was something like an exorcism. I wasn’t sure if I believed in them until that night. But I did when I saw my friend stop jerking about uncontrollably and stop speaking in tongues as soon as I finished praying. The demons didn’t like it, and clearly attacked him harder while I prayed, but in Jesus’ name there is no loss, we shall overcome. But I couldn’t sleep that night either. So I walked around the pines all night. Much like tonight.
I used to go to a youth group in Cyprus with my friends lead by a woman with an Irish name. I always thought she was a lesbian, which made me like her more, except that she was hurtful to one of my best friends who was also a lesbian. This is the stuff about the church that made me so sick for so long, how harshly we judge those who share our sins. So many gay Christians hurt the gay community. Anyway, this lady called us out for being too goofy and distracting at youth group. We were asked to leave her group. But there was clearly more going on around it than just our happiness bothering her. I think she was jealous that a lesbian girl and an A little gay boy were able to be happy and filled with joy during church, church is a party, not a sanctimonious rule session, that’s how Jesus did it anyway. She made my friend cry, and that was all I needed to know to know that it I needed to go. We left together, and walked. That’s when I walked away from the church, I still haven’t gone back really, I’ve visited some churches though. It was this experience that turned me against God, not the sexual abuse, which I suppose is queer.
But leaving was okay, there was a boy who would sometimes go there too, one time he had me over for a sleep over. He liked to wrestle. This made me uncomfortable, but I went along with it so no one would think I was strange. But one night he pinned me down and began to thrust his pelvis onto my ass. I wasn’t sure what was happening, and froze. But when I felt his penis begin to harden I freaked out and broke free from his hold and ran. I walked to my friend’s house on the other side of Limassol. But returning to my point, I guess I just want to realize how much we’re supposed to love. Love people because they’re just people, the same as me and you and we and us. I do miss church though, every time I go I feel so healed, up to the point of interaction with the people. Praise music is magical in its healing power, but the critical and nosey “accountability” of western Christianity carve out more new wounds which eventually ruin the worship experience. It’s such a shame people try to manipulate something so healing. The energies flying around in the room from person to person when we’re all singing the same thing, it’s magical, it’s like an orgy of the spirit. You can feel it flowing through you, connecting you to everyone else, indescribable unity that I haven’t found anywhere else, a glimpse of the future, healing your wounds, getting your mind off of yourself and onto the Healer. I wish church hadn’t been ruined by Christians. I need it so badly. But I feel so judged and condemned when I’m there. I’m starting to learn to not judge those who judge me, which has freed me to participate. But sometimes someone says something and I’m back where I started. But I think some day when Jesus comes back, we’ll have forgotten how to judge. It’s kind of like the racists people up north that think all southerners are racist. I judge the church so harshly from the outside- labeling them judgmental, but in reality there are a lot of people there who aren’t judgmental at all in church, I’m just judging those who share my sin of judgment. We all do this, I think, it’s something I need to think about when I get angry at church, I’m judging them just as they judge me and Jesus said to turn the other cheek and love those who persecute you, I think He was literally talking about anti-christs in the church- you know those pious people who sit all high and mighty and condemn us queers. I think some people go there simply to hurt people that they’re jealous of, and that’s why so many people get hurt at church; churches let anyone and everyone in. Open doors are a beautiful idea, but one with a poisonous side effect. It’s seems to be common sense now that I’m writing about it, anything completely non-exclusive is going to have mean, hateful and hurtful people in it. But they’re the ones who need love the most. If I’m really to follow Jesus, I have to love the people in the church that disgust me, and forgive them with all my heart and find ways to serve them. The church is a call to service, which I think is at the heart of love… I need to go back to church, hopefully soon. I need to forgive the church, just like Jesus has forgiven me, and everyone inside the church, and every one outside the church.
A crawling under skin waits to be found Moving beneath veiled sight
Blood is yellow and eyes are red Finger nails wail, tear, itch
Piss burns as molten lead Cock, shit, son of a bitch
Shh, sweet now, pain has passed Wash hands, flush, smile at me
“Weep for sleep” says monster behind glass Claw my face, shake violently
Three headed beast jerks to and fro It’s only real if you make it real
“Give in, give in, never had control” Part lips, tongue becomes demon eel
Shadow people dance in the corners of My eye which is a moon’s half
The room is my mind is a dead dove And in the dark the Lucifer Me laughs
That churns between my teeth All three, laugh, needing to feed
Brown and pink, one fell in the sink From gnashing of teeth, they’re eating me
So I pull all them out, one by one They won’t be quiet, these mouth people
I only had six and a half, now none I’m glad they’re gone, teeth are evil
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