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© 1996-2014 by the author

click on author's photo to read the blog tags relating to the creative nonfiction breakaway; The Pattern Of Diagnosis.


AmazingCounters.com

2014122001543644145
2014122001543644145 - Steeplecase

I had this from in part, my composition book back in September 16, 2011, as then it would been ten years ago since I wrote of this. As I am due for giving a free read as parts were from a nightmare as others were a waking nightmare. This was written in part based off my composition book then decided to take more aspects from the memory of my now defunct Diary-X.com journal and defunct Diaryland.com accounts – you got the most in depth works that got me eventually published. Is everything meaningless to those who have intelligence?
      That's something you will think about when you read this – if you're a Christian who had been programmed to not even question what you were told? When you were told what comes from the heart comes out the mouth – the heart doesn't think; but the brain does though and the realizations of this would be rather frightening of a revelation of those raised on young earth creationism. We were given a mind – and in the era where the Ken Hams and Kent Hovinds to discourage us to think; to discourage higher learning. What is that world like when higher learning is outlawed – and all the short stories had been scratched out of the books? Well you will see that nightmare within this particular entry as it was transcribed from back then.

Steeplecase
In memory of Andrew Ian Dodge
(December 18, 1967 – August 1, 2014)
Word count: 4,945 Words (© 2011-2014)

"For the time will come when people will not put up with sound doctrine. Instead, to suit their own desires, they will gather around them a great number of teachers to say what their itching ears want to hear."
-- 2 Timothy 4:3
(New International Version)

Ten years ago I have never imagined or thought people I have never met would want my blood – or plagiarize my work for one reason or another. When I had attended a convention the weekend of October 12-14, 2001, I never imagined that crazed fan fiction writers like Jim Smith or Brucha Myers would go out of their way. Stop at nothing to ruin someone's life because what; they have an original thought in their head? This as much as a Wal-Mart Cashier who had gone to high school with my step-cousin in St. Charles, Illinois, would go out of his way to encourage the masses to steal from me.
      It is clear to me – quite clear to me; I never thought in my blackest of nightmares I had to deal with such cowards. Even some of my classmates lowered themselves to this as the one I encountered on the Metra Rail going back and forth while everyone else was getting wasted as I was trying to shake off a bug. I had nightmares about cowards like this showing up at a place I would go unwind and pass out fliers saying I was some kind of outcast from one of Chris Hanson's TV series he did. I wonder if that classmate was having a bad LSD trip with my thoughts in his head; looking in the mirror with my anger on his lips – the thing we had in common was an incarcerated classmate. I sometimes wonder when he sees the reflection in the mirror of him at 16 asking him, “How did you throw it away on addiction while a classmate of yours deals with anger on his lips because of a youth pastor that induced nightmares from when he was twenty-two?”
      “What do you mean – I threw my life away?”
      “Agony in your thoughts when you take that chemical addiction you drop under your tongue for recreation while your classmate – tormented for years because another had done.” As I may have imagined these fan fiction writers during this era because it would been a good chance they could have gone to something like this in Chicago – as one of them was from Skokie, Illinois.
      It was like the nightmare I had the next day as I thought about that one from Skokie as she would say, “You are not a writer. You're just a troll with a journal; as a few of us looked on a site that passed facts off as lies. I will see to it you will never be published along with a man name Lokust – who had a copy of your anthology that you didn't edit yet and put the printed copies through the paper shredder and hosted them on a video site. We have your classmates turning against you – so you might as well get a job working minimum wage.” I seen many of these hate-filled comments over the years; I was waiting for the one I met a year later to turn around saying something similar. The horrific realization came to mind as the community that embrace me in 2002 turn around then treated me like persona non grata; though I have to ask what their journals was like in 2001 – were they like that soccer mom who made like a 16 year old sock puppet.
      Each one had their reasons; their agendas for wanting to make my life a living nightmare – a misery when I was awake. The reality was quite sad for them – as one did this were considering themselves to be adults; as it was two years after I was stabbed a year almost since I took the trip to Greater Sudbury. Back in October of 2001; I never thought my family had to change their number five times. At the convention I had thought about what happened when I was just 21 – thinking the nightmare that played out that first day of the weekend. The whole thing about having almost getting arrested because of a dark philosophical conversation I had with a classmate. I never imagined back then I had to deal with a sad fuck two years later; the nightmare I had the day before going on the air played up the one – then other rode the coattails of the industry I was eventually going to enter. I have to ask how have they been sleeping since 2011 especially September 1 of that year. But what comes to mind then – I would never thought in 2000 or 2001 that I would be doing a homecoming in the venue I was kicked from either.
      It must really piss a few off knowing that I made the paper in a good sized city when I wasn't arrested. Reminding them how their life had gone to shit – knowing they are not able to sleep at night when they know they can't control me. As celebrated as they are for stealing J. K. Rowling's characters – yet when someone comes in with ideas they flat out own; the nightmare born as a pariah walks among them. That is the very thing that James Smith and Brucha Myers were both celebrated for. And then in their early 30s doing that – I must ask was their existence that pathetic where illusions they have about being respected were imaginary. Bullied by nerds – as they might as well have the screwdrivers in their head; madness one sears. I get the brunt of it because when I said of Matt Shepard; I didn't think something major – but just another who is my age getting murdered for one reason or another.
      “Give up being a writer – tell me exactly who your step-cousin is and I will leave you alone to your wasted existence,” is what Ben posted on one of his old blogs. He has harassed me since 2003 – never imagined this would go on for this many years; as he was one of the few who'd suggested I was locked into a decade where digital technology was nonexistent. It is a nightmarish thing when you think about – no one you ever met; hate you for years like they were your best friend for 20 years. That was something which really raced in my mind as I went to try and rest my eyes to sleep some that Sunday afternoon – the afternoon of October 14, 2001, and went to stay with a cousin – sleeping for about two to four hours into the noon hour with a torment in my mind. The nightmare that stems of this is they play a sick game known as “Let's corner the disabled . Then put him down like a companion animal by P.E.T.A. We have reasons to become his nightmare.”
      That vast dark parking lot known as cyberspace – as some were without names and faces who did that nightmare for years; as the question you have to ask. Were their screen names part of their birth certificate? I had experienced blood in the streets at twenty-two years of age; my own was spilled as the nightmares started a year later when I was up in Greater Sudbury and spending two days in Winthrop Harbor.
      I have to ask; the realization when I woke up ajar from the realization as the 11 o'clock in the morning sunlight blazing on my nocturnal drenched eyes as I was at the cousins – if these were the types that were at that Convention in 2001. Was the madness of the blogosphere they all they knew – a platform for their materialistic shallowness to shine through? That was wandering within my mind when my cousin took me to a treatment known as Polarity; as I wondered greatly about the nightmare that unfolded the last days before moving back to Illinois – what lead me into madness when my son was taken from me. When that all unfolded – I thought about the questions I left without answers.
      The night when I sat behind the door of my place of work holding back moments where I was sobbing wondering what the fuck happened that night on February 9, 1999. As that was still going fresh in my mind when I slept in my tent that weekend and waking thinking I heard children playing outside my tent in Tinley Park, but when opened the tent heard nothing. What dwells within the racing thoughts; realizations within many unwritten nightmares? Questions of those from either someone broken, tormented or realizations the world around them haunted by the things someone who were in the chapels of the sheltered didn't wish nor did they even give a damn to address. A realization there were things not even the church wanted to think of – as I was thinking about them; the era of my heretic years I mean I was burning Gospel tracts being I didn't want to hear about willful ignorance as I was mad at both God and man.
      “Doctor, doctor – someone please take my body apart because this insanity is wearing thin at me!” I could hear myself screaming in my head when I woke up ajar from that as this was the second time that weekend the nightmare played out in my mind. The thoughts within my mind ajar from those who were getting celebrated for something that didn't belong to them and was in print for a work of fan fiction created by a modern era famous writer – while the working class one gets shunned.
      The whole thing for getting celebrated for writing stories where they didn't own the character or were not encouraged to do a character they were a shared universe was foreign to me. Though I kept thinking when I was up in Winthrop Harbor about the kindness of those who offered me their leftover turkey when I was asking around for a diner (as I had large amounts of cash on my person.) This was days after the shocking taxi cab conversation that came to be what I wrote in 2002; as I had slept in the PADS shelter waiting on my cousin as I couldn't get a hold of her for two days. This weird surrealism coming in my head as what unfolded those past few days; the realizations that unfolded the prior month. The years within the pews as I was never the damned steeplecase; though I've seen the steeplecases as they forced tracts down my throat. Nightmares born within me thinking if religious leaders found my 1996 era manuscripts when they were stolen from me as they were in a red binder then tossing those in a fire. The other nightmare realization along with what became recently found piece called Mental Graffiti – as the thought being are they really afraid of strangers enough that they'd shoot them too.
      I thought of what happened that evening when I first came into the Convention in Chicago – when I missed the last train; and encountered two of Windy City's Finest. Talking with them casually about September 11, 2001, as I was thinking about what my best friend from high school and I discussed on the phone – the nightmarish image coming to mind picturing Chicago without Sears Tower or to some Willis Tower as it's now known. But I wasn't expecting a white suit class asshole steeplecase to place hands upon me saying I “blasphemed” the Holy Ghost because I made a dark comment – instead the police grabbed my briefcase forced me against the roof of the blue lined white Crown Victoria.
      “Have you ever been arrested before?”
      “What the hell! I am not carrying any weapons,” I protested, “I just missed my last train to get back to my campsite as I am staying on a campground just off 80th Avenue in Tinley.”
      “What do we have here? What the fuck – what is all these composition books; are you some kind of Edgar Allan Poe?” they asked.
      “I am a writer is that what you're asking.”
      “Call the campground to see if he's telling the truth – this one looks suspicious with the longish black hair,” he said to his partner as it was in ear shot of me too – knowing I was low on cash that day too so I couldn't go to a diner and eat. The thing with having a debit card wasn't completely in play until two years later in 2003 as I traveled with minimal cash in New Orleans. The way I traveled changed months after this – as in six months after this collective nightmare my generation realized happened; when I was given this book it was our own generation that did this. As I had nightmares about looking up a name of one of them and finding him in a senior picture next to mine where the knowledge I had when I was 25 years old was in a 17 year old version of me.
      “Yes he's calling this his place of rest for a few days,” is what I heard as garbled over the phone. It just didn't seem real to me as I was hunched over the squad car – I would rather take my chances with a steeplecase. Where it comes down to jealousy and madness that comes from this – the realizations all they do is come up with plots with characters that are not in the public domain; then try to do things perverse with them. Is that world always this weird and eerie; in some ways, there is not always an easy short answer for everything. The things some ask – they will point to God; but sometime He will say there is not a very easy answer and one has to figure out things themselves. The realization we come across the steeplecases here and there; and when you ask the hard questions that leave them walking away because one thinks they are demon possessed down to their toenails (their words not mine.)
      As I wandered around Chicago that weekend I kept thinking that middle aged woman, a church lady in real life claiming, “Christians don't have nightmares, if you do just pray for them go away – don't even write about them.”
      “Do you have nightmares lady – what is it like when you're a fucking steeplecase?” I wanted to ask her – the madness in my mind that evening and when I went to the rotating shelters that were made from the church basement in McHenry County, an area where an eventual friend would have a heavy metal band he formed at. Walking around that area during the week with the gear I packed in – I looked suspicious; similar to the first victim from Friday the 13th when she got in the Jeep when it the driver floors it. That kind of madness comes to mind when I was stopped and all my gear fell out of the pack. I forgot to pack my Welbutrin for that trip and ended up getting stopped by some black and whites in Cary, Illinois, then carted over to the hospital where my racing thoughts of the nightmare I had over the weekend came to mind.
      The realizations what came to be over those last few days – how those friends who were that years later would treated me as persona non grata; when you're dealing with steeplecases – what does dwell within their dreams? Or when you relate your nightmares as sometimes I had attempted to do they go pull out the 1611 on me. They explain the whole thing about the West Nile Virus as during this was the era was the outbreak in the States of this as some dead birds were found attributing to this – so when I was sleeping under the stars that was on my mind as I got ready for the convention. The realization that the madness would unfold caused by the one known as sushispook on LiveJournal.com would had started two years from that moment. The shell and parody of what one was as the shallowness he carried was the guilt upon his hands that agony within one's thoughts as he tormented a sick man.
      “And that's Gothic...how?” I can see the pink haired queer respond.
      “What you never took a humanities class or two; are you a fucking fool? Clearly you must be – otherwise you'd not be using your head for a canvas at how much dye you place in it,” I wanted to scream at him. As he may been one of the groups who the start of the rumors spread of me from 2003 onward – the shadows of a whisper campaign played up in an earshot on message boards and chatrooms..
      One of them – the apathy they've shown; as the cold shoulder is something they'd give when it was to a trusted friend for years. How can one define something like that and I will use the convention's reception where I had this woman who was really quite bubble-headed wanting to write in my composition book when I clearly told her no one writes it in but me. It's kind of like someone handing you a book but all the pages are scribbled over and every book you find is like this. This was in my mind often when I was stranded up north for a few days – how this person wanted me to write a cheerful story for her; I told her that wasn't in my nature to be disgustingly cheerful.
      Itchy ears?
      What does one want to hear – a bunch of sunshine blown up their ass or someone who is willing to discuss the unnerving thoughts within their head. Among the varied nightmares gather from all things from the pearly gates as one stared from the fire-laden abyss where weeping and gashing of teeth remained – as Heaven was never overflowing as the way the King James Only Ministers would proclaim this to be. Or the riddle that Joel Osteen speaks in when he describes the Enemy – either madness or the King James Only Movement and Jesus Movement would claim “Old Splitfoot.”
      The King James Only raised brainswashed types would instill a fear of the dark or will explain away the unexplained – as they think everything is different in the dark than when one had turned the lights on. As I have that mental photo of a father handing his son a flash light in a dark basement with the low batteries from those old movies that members of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes would show. The question within the back of one's mind at 24 was – what kind of macabre ghoul would scare someone into the hands of a loving God? Those who'd find this on the journal who are deeply religious would ask, “Why are you so jaded? As you speak of torment, mental illness, Friedrich Nietzsche, and ideas that one are not supposed to have – why are you questioning things that shouldn't be questioned? Just find a good church and a minister where the only thing you read is the Word of God...”
      That's the usual reaction I end up getting and it appears often in my nightmares enough where the realization that questioning takes one closer – or drives one further away; pending on whom is asked. Madness one sees when they close their eyes at night – the realization the fucked up reality around them and what draws into their imagination where they are left to their own devices. While some had seen too many fucked up thoughts in their head from the sermons they found on the web. The place where it's the world darkest proverbial parking lot of thoughts, images, and videos of those who ever were left to die.
      They either had abortions videotaped as they seen their unborn child cut into pieces or thrown away in the trash – or had related their experience burning in hell. The ideal eyes they watch – the things they've collected from their itching ears; was there time for this as it gathered with these surreal nightmares as I walked into the congregation of silence as one as myself asked them politely to take off their fucking mask.
      Itchy ears they suggest, as the pastor in a tone screamed that there being an angry young man in the room. How I was demon possessed to my toenails because what reason? I have my thoughts, and ideas that I compose and belong to what think of – it's not the heart that comes out the heart pal; but that's where it pumps the arteries as one's mind hardens them.
      “As the Lord hath said – He knows your thoughts before you even conceive them as he brought this world together in just six days,” he refuted.
      “Who told you that 6000 year old age of the earth fairy tale?” I sarcastically replied.
      “Who are you – this angry young man wandering in the chapel and trudging through God's garden,” the pastor replied.
      “Itchy ears – who has the itchy ears pal? Who the fuck died and made you God!?!” I rebutted him.
      The congregation looked on behind the painted white smiling masks – designer behaviour when one sees a madness wandering; is it our plaything when are our very nightmares dangle in the depth of one's own collective psyches. They way gawked at me; it's was like they never word “fuck” used with so much authority. As I seen each finger extended – pointing, as they prepared to preach at me as they claim do as I say not as have done. Fucking steeplecases – what have I done to you as you point at me like Brucha does on cyberspace. That vast parking lot of proverbial thoughts – that dark void one sees; that being the abyss that gazed right into our eyes.
      “Itchy ears – if any one who has the itchy ears; it's those pointing their finger within the eyes of those who are the steeplecases,” I grinned.
      “God should not be mocked! Get out – you fucking curmudgeon!” the pastor screamed at the top of his lungs, swearing in the chapel. I raised up the palm of my hand with extended fingers flat on one hand; pointed to the palm – implying that was his mother; then waved over my four fingers saying those were his unknown fathers. I never imagined within my nightmare that I'd hear a pastor using vulgar language at me as he was the one who had the itchy ears as was the ones who were the gossip bloggers of their day.
      “Aren't pastors supposed to not use strong language?” I laughed in half-joking tone.
      “Get out Rod Serling! You're an angry young man – who's crimes against God is heresy,” he protested.
      “My name is not Serling. It's Nickolaus Pacione, as I know what I will become, and that's not a God but one who sees everything from a perspective of the watchmen,” I responded. When you were aware that a classmate who took someone's life – that haunted you for years as it did me; the steeplecase cannot understand something like that. So the question presented who exactly has itching ears or ears developing an itch that originated in 1611 but never went away.
      “Those agonies in one's mind – it's not the heart that conceives ideas; the heart only pumps blood. But what mind begins to conceive – it comes to the pen or word processor if you are behind the word processor,” I added. Someone like this may not understand what the world is like outside that proverbial parking lot where it is 2 in the morning somewhere. As my thoughts are what wander within my mind and in the collective psyche of many as if they were the steeplecase; as they seen the madness gathered in the eyes of the senseless.
      Itchy ears? The one with itchy ears – what stands in the beholder's eye as realization becomes relative over the years as madness is what we reaped from those who are the steeplecase. As they realize what we are – the minds we have were born from a concrete jungle and realization born of this. Sometimes a faith in God is part of a larger reality – when we stand face to face with those who are lonely as a grave.
      As I look right in this ministers eyes; it was like he was seeing the abyss gazing into him – a realization one has as when I was at this Convention would been able to have an effect on the masses like that as I got older? Are we human clones of our thoughts – the ability to clone a sheep; as the question comes to mind in this ministers as he wanted us to be a replica. The whole thing gathers within them – as they say that one is a sin to think or know. The realization that a Good Ole Boy I will never be as that's what my ex-fiancee's father suggested but cussed his ass out. Controversy draws to me – no matter what I will think; write or say – Controversy will follow as nightmarish landscapes are drawn deep within that proverbial labyrinth that's my psyche.
      “Where do you get a sense of logic about our generation – as I don't fit your fucking Good Ol' Boy world; that mind of yours is a proverbial parking lot where dark ideas will wander. As you never overcame your fear of the dark,” I respond. The way he responded was like I just gave the highway salute in a place of worship as he was telling me things I already knew. As I am guessing from the outlines that were hanging on the walls of figures that look like the graphics of what are seen outside of the men and women's restroom stalls – they were both together as one had a Bible in their hand. I am waiting for him to spout that he's a “Little God.”
      “Such violent terminology – what do you have in you in terms of a demon as you sound demon possessed to your toenails,” he retorted as he had on the pulpit a book that overcame fear.
      Only in name he claimed fear was not wandering inside, but the realization what he feared – madness; as became that of the unknown to him. Come to God we believe but in heresy we follow – the itchy ears fall within the pulpit when they call science a complete lie. A realization, born of haunting revelations unnerved where this one brought superstition back to the era when the old stipulations from the New World came to play. The minister was not resurrecting God but resurrecting of the inquisitions that killed innocents in 1692.
      The world one sees within this era – as I am not of this century; the one of the final authors of the 20th Century still consider myself a 20th Century man. The madness we see – as the nightmares born within us; the horror is guilt. Guilt of what we knew and wish we said something – sometimes it comes when no one does anything; that guilt that realization which gather among us as the guilt those bloggers carried upon their hands years later.
      Of those who they had driven to hang themselves or jump off a cliff – but I am the one who still remains yet I seen the dead thrown their crosses on the ground as they took their own hand. The lines we've drawn in black ink within the dust as piss drenched the sand. When they were the ones who became sick before their eyes. As this minister seen within my darkest proverbial thoughts as sickness seared; not sadness had been this but madness given by mainstream cruelty. The faithless had broken the thoughtful; madness had gathered among them when horror by birth had seared – October 12th, 2001, became the reminder of a nightmare born from realizations that I didn't think as them. They related to the sadness that seared; as what they had no realization or cared for the oblivion; from bad neighborhoods one had seen – when you read of Laramie you almost think it's no big deal as it happens everyday.
      Madness we see and the abyss we gazed – from sincere faith it gathered as that abyss gazed back into us. Not in the waking world around us but when we've closed our eyes as we reached placed where they violently move beneath our eyelids. Itchy ears gather – in the congregations they want to hear as they become a collective steeplecase. Inside the chapel they feel the safest but the mind itself is that dark vast parking lot in our sleep as nightmares emerge among the sick. That proverbial parking lot where it's the horror author's playground a this were idle minds linger. As that came to be – it was about 11 AM on my cousin's hide-a-bed I woke to that in 2005 after my book signing in Chicago. As some details of that nightmare fully came to be chronicled it appeared once more just as I returned from the hospital in 2006.

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