Poet’s Note

I finished drafting The Song of the Spirit when I started dating my wife. It was a needed work for me because it gave me a chance to write about what I felt and believed in my journey of self-discovery. Writing “The Message” was very important and helped me open that door.

To clarify, one of the main points in The Song of the Spirit is my use of “The Christ,” and other similar references. I don’t think of my Self as Jesus or divine or having any supernatural powers or abilities. I’m my own person with a character that has flaws. I don’t affiliate my identity to being Jesus. I found many of my beliefs mirror Jesus, while not thinking of myself as Jesus.

There are some fundamental things that I differ with Jesus on. These are ideas concerning forgiveness and lack of inclusiveness that I don’t agree with, which does not allow me to fully consider myself as a Christian. There is also my belief that the Holy Spirit is female in gender.

I do believe that something unusual and profound happened on that first Easter Sunday, otherwise the Jesus movement would have passed before it could start.

Jesus would have been just another revolutionary who died for his cause and nothing else, without Easter Sunday. His followers would have lost heart, as some already had following his crucifixion, and disappeared from history. It’s a certainty that the Apostle Paul would not have gone through the hardships (physical torture and imprisonment) of being an apostle without something extremely profound happening that first Easter Sunday and his Road to Damascus experience. I believe that something happened, but that is a matter of personal faith.

Love and Nothing Else is a book that has helped me close the door on those ideas and move on.

It’s not that I don’t believe in what I’ve written and said about my Self and my experiences. Because I do. My faith and life is grounded in those experiences. But as a poet I don’t want to remain in a corner and keep revisiting subjects that I’ve already written about. I have accepted those past writings and now I’m leaving them behind. I didn’t want my previous books to be the last word on where I am now.

In Love and Nothing Else I have touched on those old subjects here and there, but I wanted to write about being a husband, a father and the love expressed within a family. I have tried to do that to my own satisfaction.

Being a father of two young children and a husband leaves me with less time and so the poems in this book are much simpler. My life now is focused on my own family, and as a result less complicated, concentrated on fulfilling those roles.

Enjoy the Love and Nothing Else!

The Message

for Dr. Janet Thorpe

The sexual abuse had to happen in order to make me the person that I am today. Initially the results of the abuse were detrimental in every part of my life.

I believe in evil in my worldview, because I have seen it. I don’t spend time on where it originated from. I was touched by evil at a young age. But God turned it into purpose. I don’t blame God today for what happened. I believe that God marked my sixth birthday, by having my great-grandmother die that day. Her death set in motion the events of my life. It was the marker that God gave.

I prefer to look at the positive that came out of the abuse. It pushed me inward as a person and I escaped reality by reading books as a youth. This gave me a familiarity with words that eventually turned into poetry; a way of expressing the various traumas of my life.

I began my recovery when I was 16. I was hospitalized for the first time and my wound was finally exposed. I started therapy and my poor self-image temporarily improved. I discovered alcohol at 17 and for the next eight years would use alcohol and marijuana to cope with my self. My sister died at 18. I went to college where I joined a fraternity which participated in hazing. I was hospitalized at 19 as a result. I started going to therapy again and tried to rebuild my life.

I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and alcoholism when I was 23.

I had a very brief conversation when I was 24 with the man that abused me. I told him not to call me or my dad anymore. He said ok and I had a sudden spiritual awakening through this admission. I then began writing, first essay style, then poetry.

This spiritual awakening occurred in the summer 2001. My first writing was “Emancipation of the Soul” followed by “A Letter to the University Christians.” I was a different person when I wrote those, and in a sense, was much healthier. I was a college student without any real experience in the world and became an optimist. I would describe myself now as weathered. I wrote those two writings in August.

I believed I could change the world, and no one was discouraging me. The people closest to me supported my writings. And so I went on writing, objecting to war and sometimes did so self-righteously. I went to work at a golf course when I graduated college, instead of getting a quote unquote real job, because I had been called to do something special for God, though I could not articulate that then. I wrote obsessively and due to increased alcohol and marijuana use had a break down and wrote “Conscience Alone.”

“Conscience Alone” contains the end of the age Prophecy which is “If ever a dawn shall rise into a new horizon under which men and women weep without sorrow, tears reflective in the eyes of all, the sunlight will be provided by the realization of Love.”

I have written about this ad nauseam, so you will have to take my word or investigate for yourself, but The Word of God was formed three times, in two foreign languages that I do not know, by scrambling the first seven letters of the Prophecy. The three words are VERA, VRAI and VRAIE. The E added to VRAIE makes the word feminine. Here is the most important thing about these words and the Prophecy: It gives God the framework to save the entire world, all Humanity, because the Conscience Alone Prophecy says, “tears reflective in the eyes of all.”

In my spiritual life there are things that I can “prove” through the use of logic, which is ultimately limited and things that I know and believe. I have focused more on what I can “prove,” than on what I know or believe. In “Conscience Alone,” for instance, the word VRAI was revealed. This is the French word for truth, which I attributed as the Word of God. Its existence is fact. It’s indisputable and it will never be in question. Yet even as fact, no one believes it has any meaning and they certainly don’t entertain what that Word theologically says about me.

To write this is to know trepidation and rejection, to say this out loud is to be branded as a madman. But I must write it, I must say it, in order to move on with my life, to move past the fear: I am the Christ.

I am making this claim based upon my spiritual lineage: my mother was a nun for seven years and my father’s name is David, thus not only in a symbolic sense, but in a literal sense, I am the son of David. I am basing this claim that God revealed Himself to me as Father; thereby I have become His son. I am basing this claim that I have seen Evil defeated for all time. And I am basing this claim on the countless miracles that I have received even to be breathing today.

I am also basing this claim on my overwhelming desire for peace and justice throughout the world.

What I have to write next is not without hours upon hours of thought, not without my own tortuous internal struggle that has lasted years stacked upon years. I entertain the possibility that I am completely delusional.

I met God when I was hospitalized in 2002, which, was my last hospitalization. He came to me as a nurse. I have written about this in “Beloved.” I will not fight over this or argue about it. If His appearance in my life was a hallucination or even a vision, so be it. He gave me some general instructions on what to do after the hospital. He came at a most critical point in my life, for the sake of a relationship and to form a bridge from my old life into a new life.

The final and most unforgivable part of this message is the fact that the Third Word of God, the Word that I attributed to the Spirit, is uniquely female. My hope is that of my claims, the one that you take most seriously and give the most thought to is this one.

I saw a picture recently on Facebook that said, “If you want to defeat extremist Islam, put a book in a little girl’s hands.” Honor God as Mother or Sister or a precious Child with braids in Her hair because She is all of these things. I can say that I am a feminist, because God Almighty is a feminist and the empowerment of women globally, should be our highest concern. We will never be a free Humanity as long as half of us are oppressed and the other half is either actively or passively systematically oppressing the other half.

It has never been my desire to be in this position, writing words that few believe, that paints me as an outsider, which somehow gives me a uniqueness that I do not wish to have.

My life was set in motion long ago as that child touched by evil, given the opportunity to recover. On this path there have been few choices, only opportunities to increasingly rely on God. The purpose of this path has been to write these words, to make claims about myself that I am very uneasy making, much less being.

Nevertheless, I believe in what I have written and will not only stand by it and my life, but am willing, and have suffered greatly for it. God does not default on Her promises, doesn’t put Her Word into the Universe haphazardly and so I have high hopes for a world based on love and equality.

I am uncertain about my life as always. I hope that in writing this my role in the Kingdom of God is over with. The world is squarely in the hands of God. It is with high confidence that needless and unproductive suffering is coming to a close.

 

Theoretical Violence

 

I constructed a theory years ago that I failed to elaborate on because I believed that

it was self-evident and rather simple to grasp. It explains why violence can never

achieve peace. This theory also helps explain why violence has defeated human

institutions such as governments, churches, mosques, temples and charitable

organizations. I stated this theory, which is a true statement as V+V=2V=2V(t). V

representing violence, and (t) representing time.

The Judeo-Christian tradition would refer to it as, “you reap what you sow.”

Hindus and Buddhists might refer to this theory as the law of karma. Most scientists

and religious experts will agree that there is an underlying intelligence governing

the universe through laws.

Theoretical violence indicates that violence is an energy that cannot be

controlled, predicted or harnessed. This theory indicates that violence grows more

powerful with the passing of time when it is not balanced by its opposite force.

Einstein said, “Energy cannot be created or destroyed, it can only be changed from

one form to another.” This infers that violence has been constant throughout

human history. I however, believe that the energy of violence has increased, has

transformed its opposite energy, thus destroying that opposite energy into more

violence, so it is important to look at the role that time has in creating more

violence.

Time is a stable variable, in its natural state it is neutral. It progresses

constantly without regard to humanity. The reason the energy of violence has

increased is because violence leaves a wake of bitterness, fear, anger and hatred.

These unresolved emotions over time have created more violence which has lead

to the ineffectiveness of human institutions to achieve peace among people and

nations.

Looking at the whole of human history it is possible that violence once

served as a means to correct social problems. Perhaps violence was a viable

solution. We see in various religions when war was ordered because it was

believed to be God’s will. Examples are found in the Bible and it was on the

battlefield that Ajuna conversed with Krishna. However, sometime in human

history the consequences of violence began to outweigh the benefits of using

violence. When this occurred, as it has, V+V=2V=2V(t) began to add other

variables.

The belief that violence solved social problems continued because it once

had. This delusion persisted because many people failed to recognize that violence

multiplies over time. Most failed to realize that the positive results that violence

once brought had changed or were temporary and short lived. When violence

changed from solution to problem is unknown, but it will never change back into

a means for positive social change. This change possibly occurred because society

became more complex, population too great or technology became more

advanced. Violence persisted, time progressed, violence multiplied and social

problems became more difficult to solve.

War eroded social institutions that were meant to balance the energy of

violence as humanity began to invest more time and energy into institutions of

violence then into institutions that promote social progress through non-violent

means. What is troubling at present is that violence has progressed past the point

that human institutions can counterbalance its energy. I acknowledge that nonviolence

has lost; defeat complete. To strengthen my conclusion, the world’s most

recent Nobel Peace Prize winner stated in his acceptance speech that, “We must

begin by acknowledging the hard truth that we will not eradicate violent conflict in

our lifetimes.” Violence and war has expanded its influence into every aspect of

society; in an age of nuclear weapons there is not another lifetime in which to

strengthen our institutions of peace. Peace has not the time left or the institutional

support to counterbalance violence.

The war on terrorism is like no other war, cannot possibly be won by either

side, that holds the surety of destruction of humanity. In previous wars combatants

have always traded lives for land, but there is no land to win. Bitterness and fear

breeds, anger rises and the energy for sustained violence has been achieved. It is by

this means that violence has won, yet by this admission humanity will move

forward, for victory is in surrender.

The energy of love is as sure as the energy of violence. Because our human

institutions have been defeated, it is through the grace of the Creator of all energy

that peace will come. Love will create a window of opportunity to heal our

unresolved emotions that violence has wounded humanity with. Peace will be

sustained by realizing that it is better to give our resources, than let war takes our

resources; it is easier to give bread to the hungry, than to feed an army; it is less

costly to give medicine to the sick, than to care for the maimed; it is greater to

house the homeless, than to destroy communities; it is more sensible to educate

the illiterate, than suffer from minds of ignorance.

We will rebuild our fragmented world mindful that we can only be as

healthy as the sick, as wealthy as the poor, as cared for as the elderly, as loved as

the mentally ill, as consoled as the crying and as peaceful as the restless. We will

build upon our similarities and work for the common dreams we have for

children. There is no separation between us, the borders on maps are only in our

minds. Humanity has one destiny, guided by one spirituality, as the same breath of

Love lives within us all. There is mercy that realizes humanity is overwhelmed by

the power of violence, and can only be saved by the love of God; by loving each

other.

Emancipation of the Soul

— for Robin

 

“The very time I thought I was lost, my dungeon shook and my chains fell off.”

— James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time

 

It shames me to think of how many suns have risen and fallen without making a

token gesture of gratitude to those who have helped shake my dungeon. And you

Robin are one of those people. It was this time last year when a hurricane of

insanity picked me up, held me and violently threw me to the ground. Like a fool I

tried to walk when I could barely stand. At the time I associated with a group of

people I blindly considered my friends. But when the dust settled from that mighty

hurricane, only a few people stayed around to help me find my legs. The people I

am talking about are you, Mark, and Mike M.; I am certain each has helped me in

very different ways. I am equally certain you have helped me the most.

This past summer an extremely unique opportunity presented itself to me. I

use the word “opportunity” loosely here. Robert Frost wrote, “Two roads diverged

in a wood, and I — I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the

difference.”

I hope you recall the time when we went to Buckhead’s to eat and I called

you a bitch. I laugh now at the stupidity of that moment, which was entirely my

fault. More importantly I shared a great sorrow of being molested by a neighbor.

This man called my father at his office this past summer. My Dad’s secretary

took a message and he came home to tell me about this intrusion into our lives. A

new road was beckoning me, but standing in my way was an old haunt. My

options were to nervously stand by and wait for him to call again or call him back.

This was not the first time he had called my Dad since the knowledge of his

actions caged my soul. Years have past since I was sixteen. In those days the chains

of fear were wrapped tightly around my neck. Once I was timid; fear had placed

me in spiritual bondage.

I started to rationalize reasons for not calling, but realized that God was

giving me my chance for redemption. Redemption in some context implies blame,

but it also means an end, which is the meaning I prefer to convey. So I decided to

call this man who introduced fear, rage and violence into my life many years ago.

The number of reasons for calling were great. However the primary reason

for calling was my father’s demeanor. I know that both my parents felt an irrational

guilt over what had happened to me as a child that had eaten away at them just as

fear had eroded my perception of self. There were other reasons for calling, but

the urgency I heard in my father’s voice when he asked me what I was going to do

was reason enough.

I vowed not to fling accusations before I called which would be denied and

lead to circular argument. All I wanted to do was make sure this man would never

call on my family again. I was terrified and would either be freed or mercilessly

crushed depending on what transpired.

My father sat down beside me on our deck outside to listen to the

conversation. When I dialed the number, I focused my mind, ready to play a chess

match that would determine so much.

“Is Herb there?” I asked.

“Yes, hold on. May I ask who’s calling?”

“This is Eric Cecil.” My voice was calm, like I wanted it to be. I did not want

my emotions to betray me.

“Hello, this is Herb.”

“Hi, Herb. This is Eric Cecil, it has —”

“Oh hi, Eric. How have you been?”

The nerve he had to inquire about my well-being shocked me, waking a dull

sleeping rage.

“I’m fine,” I said calmly, “But you and I need to talk. I am speaking on behalf

of my father as well as myself. We do not want to have anything to do with you.

You are not to contact us again. We don’t want you to write or call.”

His reply was as cool as a late October day. “I was trying to call Dave Cecil

today, an old neighbor of mine.”

Listen motherfucker you know exactly who I am, and if you don’t

acknowledge me right now, I’m jumping through this phone to rip your fucking

head off.

I said, “This is his son, Eric.”

“Oh.” He sounded like a doctor had told him that he had cancer. “You all

don’t want anything to do with us.” He referred to himself and his wife.

“That’s right.”

“Okay.”

Silence: I hung up. The call had taken less than a minute.

You maybe wondering why I was troubled for so many years. I was afraid I

was wrong about being molested. Time had caused self-doubt. I still do not know

exactly what happened. I knew something had happened and that that was all that

mattered. When told not to call or contact my family, he said okay rather than ask

why. He knew why, and he knew I knew why.

I needed that okay. It confirmed what I knew. I once believed that the truth I

sought would come only through death, through reconciliation with the spirit of

my great-grandmother. My parents dropped me at Herb’s house because my

great-grandmother had journeyed on to the world after this one. She died that day, my

sixth birthday, April 30, 1983, imprinting the day onto my being, her final gift that

of remembrance.

I found myself walking a new road the morning after my conversation. This

road has always been there, but fear and doubt had formed an impossible

roadblock to get past. The only reason I am now traveling is through the power of

love. My heart breaks when I think of the love you have always given me, but when

we first met I was not ready to give back. I could go into the times when I should

have returned your love. It pains me to think of those instances. But I do

remember.

Greek thinkers pondered the meaning of Love, and they came up with three

different kinds: Eros, Philia, and Agape. Eros is the physical attraction between two

people. I was filled with Eros based on the way you looked when we first met and

upon your moxie. You have a humor that few women have been blessed with.

This blend still leaves me at times at a loss for words. I am amazed by you.

I was chained with fear and doubt which crippled my love based on Eros.

However, time transformed the fleeting love of Eros into the love of Philia which

now allows me to honestly express to you these feelings that have become another

cross to bear. I have placed this cross on my back because I have not had the

courage to tell you how I feel. As I write a feeling of liberation has come over me.

Philia is an open, lasting love. It is the love of brothers and sisters, of

husbands and wives. It is based on honesty and trust. Philia is the love you

showered upon me in my time of need. I have taken more love from you than I

can repay. You might not believe this, but I do. There were days last fall when

depression threatened my existence. A great deal of the love that helped sustain me

during that time came from you. You provided the warmth and light that

eventually led me to a new kind of love.

This new love is what the Greeks call Agape. Agape is a love that gives

without thought of reward. It is a love God bestows upon men and women so they

may overcome great difficulties and endure staggering losses. God gives this love,

but there is always choice. And with this choice one road divides into two. One of

these roads is paved with bitterness, fear and hatred. Materialism, power and

avarice light the desolate night. There is never peace or silence: cries, screams and

the sound of unspeakable horror pierce the stagnant air. At the end of this road is

heartache, sorrow and emptiness. Dishearteningly, there are many people eager to

start upon it.

I have started down the path that is less traveled. And Robin, you should

never underestimate that your love helped place me on this road. You are very

treasured.

I questioned God for so long instead of accepting. I denied and by denying, I

now know my soul would never have the freedom to bask in the sunlight of love

that shines down upon all of us. I now understand that love is not a stagnant pool

of water, but a mighty river that shapes and creates what it touches.

You may be wondering why I choose to express my love and gratitude to

you. I have selfish reasons of course. One is that I know the expression of these

thoughts and feelings are overdue. I also know that time has grown precariously

short. I will graduate in a year and a phone call to you will likely involve a “1” and

an area code. I don’t believe Lexington fits into my future. But the overwhelming

reason I write is to tell you I do love you, which I hope you know by now. I hope

that if your perception of me changes after reading this, it’s for the better.

 

Love always,

Eric

We

 

you

and

i

and

love

is

We.

 

she

is

with

me

in

the

quiet

night.

she

is

here

naked

under

the

covers

to

kiss

me

on

the

ear

to

love

me

to

talk

to

me

as

the

sun

comes

up.

 

you

and

i

and

love

is

We.

 

The Burdens in My Heart

 

I wish for you now, as this song is dying.

You can use me to ease your pain.

But feelings get crossed.

I can’t forever guard my heart.

I know the truth.

I still wish for you now.

Maybe you could take this weight with your touch, with your smile.

I could make a smart joke,

and for a moment your laughter is enough to lessen the burdens in my heart.

 

Snow Storm: February 16, 2015

 

Must we pay the price forever; the sirens waking our sleep, the shaking ground, breaking our uneasy lives and the relentless propaganda, the cack-les coming from the heartless tarnishing tin man mad men?

 

It won’t always be this way, in this life and death world, where there’s more money in the treatment than the cure.

 

There is this Spirit, ready to be seen by the world and She is gently humming a few bars within our hearts, known to all hearts, quietly reminding us that we are all one heart.

 

 

 

Reflections on the Morning of September 11, 2001

 

Oh my God

Oh my God

Oh Jesus

Where’s my clothes

Where’s my clothes

Oh my God

Oh my God

Where’s my clothes

Dream #5:00 A.M.

 

I’ve spent too many days escaping,

a prison of my own making.

In the blink of an eye, I see,

clutching the keys of clarity.

 

Once again, I walk thru the open door,

touched by the dawn ascending,

filling me with hope.

Autumn Leaves

 

We part so slowly, not noticing the drift…

like leaves, dancing,

in the autumn sun

blown and burning

with passion.

 

We waltz for days,

lazily, dance for days,

to please Creation…

 

Be careful that unshed tears

don’t turn into bitterness and fear.

Don’t let dust turn into years.

 

Love again, passionately, madly

and with reckless abandon.

A Billie Holiday Poem

 

Her heart crushed to sand, her hopes sank and all the wishful plans blew

out the window like cremation ashes.

 

At night she dreams of him, runs to him, kisses him, and their lips will

never touch again.

 

She strayed from him, he strayed from trust and she doesn’t know if they

have the pieces to mend the broken bridges between them.

 

They despise what they did, but before the end can’t forget the life and

love they lived.

 

He dreams of her, drunk for her, lies in bed at night paralyzed by the

pain, bleeding tears from his eyes, wondering, hoping they can forgive.

 

They think of nothing but one another, feel cliffs of sorrow, and are

dying to touch each other.

 

The days precede.

 

The nights come and go.

 

The loneliness comes home and he reaches for the phone, calls, to silence and

he knows not to leave a message.

 

It was then that he realized that time and distance doesn’t always heal

everything.

This Spring

i feel the hope of the spring.
this will end, this disease.
this will end, this quarantine.
this will end, this injustice.

set it right, sings the songbird,
set it right, sings creation,
set it right, as we listen…

to our deepest dreams.

this will end as all ends, to begin.
and what is set aside,
who is forgotten, will shine.

it is ending, this ancient cold;
it is ending, this cold blush sunset;
it is ending, this bare winter;

oh! I see it in the spring!
oh! i see it in the summer!
oh! I see it in the fall!
oh! I see it in the winter!

it will end, these harsh words.
it will end, these thoughtless actions.
it will end, this poisoned atmosphere.
it will end…this war on…

humanity.

the howl lessens to breeze,
the bitterness melts in the light,
the hardness softens at

dawn,

lighting love, in bed,
with your head on my shoulder.
you’re all I have she breathes.
hold me with love, I cling.

let us arise,
our soul aflame…

believe in…
(peace)

hope for…
(peace)

live in…
(peace)

this spring

Sketches of Spain

If the apocalypse ever comes
If nuclear bombs ever drop
If love lies dying
And dreams stop…

I hope I’m laying in bed
With you at the time,
Writing a poem about love,
Listening to Miles Davis’
Sketches of Spain.

Coming Home
In the dim light, in bed, we’re castaways, drifting away,
silence upon us, our shore safe, untouched by the world.
Luka and Micah sleep and dream of simple things like love and kings and queens;
may enchantment never leave…
A wife, children, dreams of my youth.
Now, come true, what is left but praise and gratitude?
Oh God! Who am I?
What did I do so outstanding,
when I’ve done so little,
to have received so much?

Daring Greatly (www.cecilpublishing.com )

I had a secret or two.

I started seeing a therapist in January 2015 because, as I mentioned I had some secrets that I wanted to share. I needed someone who I deemed was safe, someone who hopefully would not judge me and I would not have to see in the normal course of my life. I think that when we first met I told her that I was seeking God. This was unusual and she said that no one had come to her for that. I remember that I also brought her my books and a collection of poems titled Divinity.

She was very patient. I didn’t confess right away. She thought that I was wanting to resolve some type of trauma. She used EMDR and afterwards seemed to know that I wasn’t there for that. She asked me to write what she called “My Truth.” I’ve never been fond of the expression, but I knew what she meant.

That writing became “The Message.” I went to her office one night and was extremely nervous. After I read it  there was a silence. The sun was coming in through her windows, I could hear the birds chirping and it was a special moment. And this therapist believed me and she said that she was honored to hear it. She may have been practicing unconditional positive regard, but she seemed sincere. We talked and I told her that I would like to share it with my parents. She asked me why. I responded that this is who I am and that I feel like I’m living a lie by hiding. Ultimately, I wanted to share it with them because I thought that it was necessary for the Kingdom of God. She understood.

So on a Saturday I told my parents that I wanted to meet with them. I met my mom in the morning and with my dad in the afternoon. Their response seemed guarded. But how are they or anyone supposed to act after hearing “The Message?”

I had some poems and eventually put a manuscript together. I read and edited, read and edited. I decided to publish this work, titled The Song of the Spirit. I did not have much input from others into the content or editing of the book. When published I ordered some books and sent them to ministers throughout the country. I sent around 120 packages. I did not give them to family and friends right away. Time passed and I sent copies to close family. Maybe 10, no more than 15 people received The Song of the Spirit.

I’m well aware that the content of The Song of the Spirit paints me as someone who is delusional and in a serious mental health crisis. I knew that going in, that I would be viewed in a negative light when I sent those books. No one responded. The people closest to me said nothing. It was devastating. That period, which lasted about 2 months was the most difficult in my recovery, aside from the first 6 months after getting sober.

I was so vulnerable. I changed some of the 12 step meetings that I was going to; to avoid people. There was one meeting that I went to and someone who I gave the book was there. I left before the meeting ended. I avoided some family functions and withstood awkward moments when I felt shame for writing and believing what I wrote. Beside hiding, which I could only do for so long, I knew that what I was feeling would pass. I also said that I will do whatever it takes to get through fear, even if that means hiding. There is no wrong way exiting hell.

Now I prepare to go through something similar again by inviting a larger audience into my writings.  By doing so I am opening myself up to be called delusional, to be gawked at. There is a very fine line for me to  argue that I am sane, considering that I have bipolar. I’m not free from doubt myself and also concede that there is a chance that I am wrong. This has been in effort in faith, and by definition there are no certainties. I am risking my name and reputation, which by doing so lends credibility to what I am saying.  I’m willing to pay the cost. By sharing openly, by inviting people to my writings, I may lose my job or because of the tension that I would bring at work, will have to quit. I will likely alienate myself from family. I’ll be an outsider and will certainly need some distance for a little while. That’s what’s on the table.

So you have to wonder why I am doing this, with so much to lose and gains are unknown. Please also consider that I have been working for peace for 19 years and there has been little success in terms of book sales or speaking engagements. My primary measurement of success is the fulfillment of the Kingdom of God, which has not happened. So my endeavours have hardly been successful.

I’m doing this because I believe. But more than that, because of my experiences with God, which helps me endure the feelings of fear and uncertainty I experience.  It is really that simple. And I believe that no matter what will come, it will be for the best; for humanity. I believe in the union I’ve made with God and I trust that nothing will touch me unless She allows it.

I might taste failure and alienation, but I will not die from the poison of regret. I will not look back on my life and question how I spent my time or where I gave my energy. I may not get the outcome that I want, but it won’t be because of lack of effort or will. My heart’s desire is peace and I’ll always be restless unless I do what I can to achieve this…

Wishing you the very best,
Your faithful and obedient servant.

Eric Cecil

The Word of God

 

Tu parle francais?

Non? Oui?

Pour Conscience Alone

le mot est VRAI, et il moyens

en anglais : true real genuine right proper

fit downright truly really in truth; truth

 

In the Beginning,

there was truth and

those four semesters

and two dropped French

classes really did pay off

and I think that’s absolutely hilarious,

I really do.

 

In the End,

Love is Amour

and I think that’s beautiful.

The Happiest of Days

 

These are the happiest of days—

The virus.

The fear.

The politics.

The tension.

The pain.

The protests.

The unrest.

The chaos of Love overcoming;

the struggle of humanity

is to see “you,”

as We, different, yet the same.

This goes on outside,

while spending time with you,

homebound.

Watching you and your dance,

seeing your joy.

And now it’s nap time.

Your head is on my shoulder,

as I rock you, your breathing slows,

as I rock you, your eyes are heavy,

as I rock you, we drift,

you to sleep, me into the moment.

Into the Fire

The day’s latest war…

Let’s just be clear: we are not fighting over land and resources or security or ideology or theology.

We’re fighting over pride. I detest idolatry, because of the bloodshed, because history shows that flags born of blood end up in tatters, driving the whole world into darkness. Pride and violence will never achieve justice, as it never has before. But we fight and fight, throwing the lives of infants like sacks of potatoes, into the fire.

No one is wrong. No one wants to take their own responsibility. Instead each side appeals to the world, saying that the other is at fault and meanwhile an elderly man is thrown into the fire.

One man’s sworn vengeance haunts another generation.

Violence is justified, based on a narrow, legalistic conception of “god” which endorses violence instead of abhorring it in all forms. Fundamentalism seeks peace through the destruction of tolerance instead of through the transformation of violence and fear. Now we’re carrying God on a rail. There She goes, tarred, feathered and naked, into the fire. She cries for Her children while the flames engulf Her.

The fire is burning, seemingly without end; day and night the jingoists stoke the flames. And I’ll tell you what else is in the flames: economic security, as we destroy the resources that we have taken from the earth. Smoke rises, flames continue to burn communities, as refugees look for a land to flee to.

Seasons

 

There is only

so much time

I can spend

writing poems

before

I feel desire.

There are only

so many nights

I can spend alone

before

I feel longing.

And only so many

seasons

can pass while

I read books in silence

about love

before I feel lonely.

The Calling

 

I’m writing about the plight of the mentally ill because

my conscience drives me to do so and God encourages me

to seek the freedom and peace He promises, that is tied to His children.

 

Nothing would please me more than to write love poems or poems about Kentucky Octobers.

I would like to pursue my dreams. To go back to college.

To come home to love after a hard day of work.

I would like children of my own; to help them with homework.

To have a lawnmower and grass to cut.

I would like a garden to weed. Simpler worries.

Less stress.

 

I write about a people with a spirit that is never defeated, because God lives within us.

We are a beautiful people.

We win no rewards, go without praise

as we transform our suffering into compassion

and teach those who reach out to us about unconditional love.

And we are oppressed for our own good.  We become slaves to a system of cutbacks.

So because our freedom as a human race is about family,

I have to fight,

my duty calls me to do so.

I have no other choice

and ask for God’s direction and wisdom.

Feeling Blue

today i saw your mother and

i was doing so well.

today i hugged your mother

and i saw in her eyes that are yours

in her face a generation away

in her mannerisms that move you

i still love you.

 

today i spoke to your mother

and i felt underdressed

and i felt like i needed a shave

and i felt like i needed a peppermint

because

i still want you.

Shy Moon — for Charlotte

 

I’ve been lonely,

I might be lonely now.

I’ve been lonely,

I might be lonely now.

I’ve been lonely,

I might be lonely now.

I’ve been alone,

I might be alone now.

I’ve been alone,

I might be alone now.

I’ve been alone,

I might be alone now.

Sometimes I’ve been lost in the woods.

I’ve been lost under a shy moon,

I might be lost now.

Sometimes I’ve been lost in the woods.

I’ve been lost under a shy moon,

I might be lost now.

Sometimes I’ve been lost in the woods.

I’ve been lost under a shy moon,

I might be lost now.

But when I’m lost in the woods under a shy moon,

I’m really trying to find home.

I’ll find home. Under a shy moon?

I’ll find home. Under a shy moon?

I’ll find home, under a shy moon,

because when there is any light there will never be complete darkness.

It Just Seems Lately

It nearly pushed me over a short concrete ledge and perhaps it did. My spirit nearly died again. This time it wasn’t the alcohol or drugs or the evening news. It was the medication. And I must say that those atypical anti-psychotics put a man down with the hangover and weight gain.

I tried to go monotherapy (just lithium) because the atypicals took the life in me. I would drag myself out of bed with burning around tired eyes that developed lines and seemed swollen in the morning. I’ve hated looking in the mirror. The side-effects of the “cure,” not the illness, took my spirit and placed my inner light in a meat grinder, and every day I thought less of myself.

I would shower, dress, go to work like a ghost and zombie through the day. I couldn’t sleep Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday taking lithium alone. I missed work Thursday to rest and crawled into work Friday after I got a little sleep from 25 milligrams of another atypical that gave me the same hangover.

I didn’t sleep Friday night from taking melatonin and valerian so I went back on the unnamed atypical that reportedly causes Type Two diabetes, slept, and awakened hung over. I felt like chaos. I called my doctor. He took me off the atypical and put me on an anti-convulsant. Today, I feel a little better.

I lost what I loved, and that and hopeless pain is a definition of hell.

I lost that I’m a pretty good chess player.

I lost the ability to write.

I lost what it feels like to be healthy.

I lost that I really like listening to the blues.

I lost that I really like jazz.

I lost how to light the candles and burn the incense.

I lost my sense of humor.

I lost how to welcome the day.

It just seems lately I’ve been worried about surviving

Blues in E-minor

— for Robin

 

I saw the golden angels of the sun decreed she should inherit intelligent locks of blond while amber emerald intermingling spirits of hope and compassion danced within her eyes.

 

Shall she care to remember hearing my nervous laughter weaving through the smoke-filled neighborhood bar night after night, perhaps she will see my love was shackled to a long past day of ambiguity.

 

“’Tis absence that makes the heart grow fonder,” wrote the poet. I absently spent last summer on the seventeenth green looking down upon a wild long grass flowering valley where meandering butterflies floated and on easy lazy days when the sun painted the twilight sky, I thought of her.

 

I did possess hidden passions that hoped to find God in the sweaty candlelight of the star-filled swirling night while feeling sensual delight.

 

But how beautiful were those passions when mixed with a barely irrepressible longing to be perched naked on the edge of her bedside watching the early morning sunrise, affectionately caressing her while the rise of sunlight’s tide washes away her midnight lullaby.

 

Now I will leave, but before, I once wrote to her, redemption in some context implies blame, but it also means a new beginning.

 

That gentle-eyed dark-haired bearded President once said, “Think calmly and well upon this whole subject; nothing valuable can be lost by taking time.”

 

I am writing to say that I hope this poem finds her well, that she can forgive me for our friendship’s farewell.

Have Compassion for the Girl in the White Dress Chasing the Wind

 

I stand outside, talking, getting deathly thin, spending my time chasing the wind.

It will come my way and a breeze will set me free.

Something to make me feel good, to ease the pain.

I try not to feel at all.

I walk outside at the Economy Inn looking for nickels and dimes.

My mind talks to me every now and then.

It tells me how to feel good and I get lost in the bottle or syringe, but I keep chasing my wind.

I’m hoping it will take me away, but I am beginning to suspect…that I am running to nothing.

I wish that I could go home now, but I have a few dollars and I walk into the liquor store for a bottle of gin.

I listen to the same story within.

That happiness is right around the corner, in this next bottle, in this next wind.

I take a few drinks, a snort and temporarily feel better.

My problem is where am I going to sleep tonight?

Am I going to eat?

How am I going to get money?

What will I have to do to get my next wind?

Two Memories from the Cove Lake Apartments

I was flunking school, unable to get out of bed before one or two p.m., the phone and electric were occasionally getting shut off, I checked my mail once every two or three weeks and the landlord would put a reminder on my door to let me know that the rent was really due this time, when one day a preacher knocked on my door to tell me the good news.

Pride held my intelligence beyond my intellect and in my infallible opinion, evolution was solely responsible for creation so I declared God didn’t exist and everything could be explained by science. I didn’t just casually mention this but took forty-five minutes out of my day to argue with a preacher who was a radio man in Vietnam and believed God had placed His hand on him and guided him through war.

When I’m on my mountaintop looking down at the world, I come back to earth by remembering I once denied God.

When I was manic, chess was the answer. I didn’t know that it made more sense to kill men, women and children to settle problems between countries, so I figured we could settle disputes on a chess board instead of a battlefield and we could have peace. All would be settled in a world chess tournament and afterwards women could go home to men instead of ghosts— this was right before I was diagnosed.

I couldn’t sleep and got up during the night. A part of me knew something was wrong but didn’t know what. I was sliding. I rolled a cigarette that night, turned out the lights, sat down in the loveseat I had gotten out of the dumpster, and in silence interrupted by the sound of time passing, I begged God for sleep with tears rolling down my face. I went back to bed and tossed and turned. And you know, God answered that prayer, just not that night.

Remember Me

 

pick up your gun

 

feel the weight

 

aim it with your fear

 

pull the trigger with hate

 

your belief

 

explodes from the barrel

 

smoking shades of gray

 

(never question your perception)

 

spill my blood and as I lay dying, pray.

 Papa David’s Farm

 

glorious rustling meadow

golden floating leaves

overhead hanging geese

mild autumn air

natural open spaces

quilted patterned ground

frenzied speeding heart

angelic quickening breath

wobbly shaking knees

closed eyes fluttering

soft parting lips

careless waltzing tongues

bodies hold tight

late day thunderclouds

roaming lightning strikes

rain falls slowly

heavens roar deafening

into the night.

Wes Montgomery

I come home some winter days, fix hot chocolate and let Wes Montgomery spin on the stereo, melt into the couch and say right on, detached from dreams and tabloid prophecies or by the problems of the world and the spiritual health of society.

I turn on the space heater, listen to Wes, and ponder if there is a limit to God’s grace. I have hope for the human race. I close my eyes, breathe, exhausted, coming to the end of the Obama Administration’s first term and it is not the appropriate time for self-pity, saying,

“I wish poetry were easier, not so heart-wrenching and didn’t entail so many Saturday nights spent alone in front of a muted television with football on, the stereo playing forgotten songs.”

I’m not interested in talking about humanity or writing or elaborating on what I’ve written or stepping into the limelight or making pretentious statements about art.  It’s just words on a page. It’s only poetry.

I still write now and then, but not all at once, all the time.

These days,

I’d rather stay home,

listen to jazz

or run the vacuum,

do the dishes,

do laundry,

or clean the bathroom.

Dreams

In the skeptical laughter of my hopes

brothers stroll wearing cotton

birthed from the earth’s fields

plucking long grass

not yet hay

growing in a meadow

held in sway

from a brisk wind

stirring ancient

autumn leaves.

I sigh fulfilled

leaving the darkness behind

as I’m beckoned by God’s children

echoing their footsteps

with sound broken by sparrows

playing poignant jazz

in shedding tree limbs

and by the sound of water

set eons ago around ice age rock.

I find a united world

in the vision of my

dreams

living by the kindness

of our loving Father

where days are spent

in the unending light of a sunrise

never before felt.

     A Letter to the University Christians

The carousel of violence spinning out of control in the Middle East has awakened my sleeping conscience. The dated headline that caused my heart to ache and voice to falter read, “Eight-year-old Palestine girl killed, violence erupts.” The article went on to explain that an Israeli had shot her in the head. This is unacceptable.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. wrote, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies tough in a descending spiral of destruction…. The chain reaction of evil hate begetting hate, wars producing more wars — must be broken, or we shall be plunged into the dark abyss of annihilation.”

The world in which we live has descended into a mineshaft of desolation. The light we need to guide us back to humanity has long been extinguished — or has it? Principles of love, freedom and brotherhood have choked and drowned in the quicksand of hatred, conformity and selfishness. Have they not? The idealistic, utopian dreamer will see the hope in despair. But I must interject that if humanity were a man, he would be lying on a deathbed of hatred, a blanket of isolation would be covering him and the stagnant air of bitterness would be suffocating him. Consider the headline: “Eight-year-old Palestinian girl killed, violence erupts.”

If the human race has a collective soul it is surely burning in hell when we allow a murdered child to become a political pawn by labeling her as Palestinian. Most of us cannot imagine being eight years old again. The sunlight of our childhood changed into the midnight of our adulthood too long ago to recall what the yearnings of an eight-year-old child are. The mother of that child will never forget the sound of her daughter’s laughter. Innocent laughter will rob her sleep, haunt her dreams and mutilate her soul. Her tears of sorrow will turn to tears of bitterness and into blinding hatred, which will consume her every breath. The house that little girl blessed is now cursed. Imagine her father, alone, sitting in her room, trying to find some comfort and sanity. He silently weeps as he looks at a photograph of his daughter; the knowledge that she will never grow older mocks him. He will never hear his daughter call him daddy again. She will never be kissed under the moonlight. She will never be courted and married. His daughter will never bless him with grandchildren. His pain is great and his retribution will be greater. As the rocks on his daughter’s grave crumble under the strain of the elements, the hatred in his heart will solidify.

I must first strengthen and bend my backside for that judgment. My sin lies in my inaction. My transgression originates from my silence. I have spent thousands of dollars toward my college education, yet when asked for nickels and dimes by the homeless I find my pockets empty. Why bother with an education when I continually ignore the plight of children and adults of which ignorance has given birth? How many times have I labeled people because of their political and religious beliefs?

Yes, my guilt is great; my atonement must be greater. Luckily, I have learned to forgive myself for my shortcomings. Humanity must forgive before it can move to a bed of love. The thin tattered blanket of isolation must be removed; a woven quilt stitched with tolerance and understanding will be protection enough from the howling winds of retribution. The air of bitterness must be purified. We can no longer afford to allow the stench of gunpowder to offend Humanity’s delicate nose. We must first find the common ground where we can plant the tree that will provide the wood before we build the bed. Then brave people who will dirty their hands with earth must step forward. The planters will grow old and tired, so we will need our children to nurture the tree into adulthood. Then compassionate souls must cut down the tree and fasten it into a bed. When we build the bed for Humanity, we can start the process of sewing a quilt for it also. Humanity will begin to mend with a good bed and a warm quilt. More generations will pass before Humanity will have the strength to walk out of that room saturated with the smell of gunpowder.

I’m not foolish. Planting trees and sewing quilts is dangerous business. One man, born in Kentucky and raised in Illinois, was killed for planting such a tree. President Lincoln once wrote, “With malice toward none; with charity for all: with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work that we are in; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan — to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace, among ourselves and with all nations.” Six weeks later President Lincoln’s blood was spilled at Ford’s Theater in Washington D.C. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “Well, I don’t know what will happen now. We’ve got some difficult days ahead. But it really doesn’t matter with me now, because I’ve been to the mountain top. And I don’t mind. Like anybody I would like to live a long life — longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will.” Less than twenty-four hours later he was shot at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis. Dr. King’s attempt to sew a blanket of understanding and tolerance for Humanity came to a bloody end. President Kennedy once wrote, “For this is a time for courage and a time for challenge. Neither conformity nor complacency will do. Neither the fanatics nor the faint-hearted are needed.” President Kennedy never spoke that, he was assassinated before he breathed life into those words.

True, planting trees and sewing quilts is dangerous business, but it is far more dangerous to patiently wait for violence to molest us. There is a carousel of hatred slowly spinning right here in Lexington, Kentucky. The theme of a recent campus publication by the University Christian Fellowship was evolution vs. creationism. I was glad that someone was taking advantage of their First Amendment rights. What gave me pause, however, was three short paragraphs in an article entitled “Tailgate Philosophy.” The article was about bumper stickers and what certain bumper stickers meant to the writer of the article. For the bumper sticker that reads Visualize World Peace the writer wrote, “Jesus Christ is the true head over all the universe. World peace will come when every person who has ever lived bows before His authority and declares together Jesus Christ is the boss. All those who hate peace (those who do not follow Jesus) will then be removed from the picture and true peace will reign forever. Ah yes, I can see it now!” For the bumper sticker, Hate Is Not A Family Value, the writer wrote, “This is a great sticker because it seems to pack such a wallop. Right-wingers who claim to hold to family values ‘hate’ everyone who doesn’t agree with them, right? “Actually, hate isn’t a family value per sé, but it is an important facet of justice. In the biblical sense, hate doesn’t mean ‘I think you are icky,’ but ‘I will not allow you to ruin the peace (see above) and happiness of others.’ Society ‘hates’ criminals when it punishes them. God hates those who violate his laws and thus harm others. So according to God, hate, while not a family value, is something that God values as necessary for protecting his family.”

I want to express my admiration for the writer’s honesty about his feelings concerning world peace, God, justice and hatred. I responded only because I saw children handing out the newspaper. Adults know better, or should. But for children, The University Christian is an undated permission slip for violence with the forged signature of Jesus Christ on it. The only line I wish to address is: “Actually, hate isn’t a family value per sé, but it is an important facet of justice.” Men who believed this scar the twentieth century, as well as the history of the world.

The integration of hate and justice caused a group of men to fashion themselves in white hoods and white bed sheets so they could set aflame a fiery cross at the top of Stone Mountain, Georgia in 1915. The cross could be seen for miles around. When hatred and justice becomes intertwined men like Adolph Hitler ascend to power and words like Holocaust are born. When hatred pollutes justice, men such as Timothy McVeigh blow up children, women, men and oh yes even buildings. When hatred desecrates justice, nameless, daughterless fathers pick up weapons of destruction and shatter the hopes and dreams of nameless fathers and mothers. This must stop. The purpose of justice is not to procreate hate, but to cleanse the soul of hate and ready the soul for compassion. It is true in our society that hate and justice have become intermingled. But it is also true that the moonlight of every night illuminates the results of this perverted justice.

Needless to say, I find it deplorable that so-called Christians teach their children that hatred is an important facet of justice. Humanity is sick; a lonely death will ensue if mankind continues to tolerate the malignant growth of hatred. Individual salvation lies with God, but Humanity’s fate rests in the hearts and minds of those who pray to God.

 

Untitled (The Lifting of the Veil, Part II)

 

I.

 

Here she comes, our beautiful one, hair shinning like the sun, eyes that of an ocean, skin that of the earth, and breath that of a cool spring day.

This poem is standing in the halls of History,

Pondering previous theological thought.

This poem is a book on its own, without end.

This poem is my mother, and Aunt Michael and their mother.

This poem is my sister and my father’s sisters and their mother,

Because this poem is strong, and confident.

And this poem has been through what women go through, that which I cannot image.

This poem brings life to the world.

 

II.

 

When I went back to school following my first hospitalization some of my high   school classes changed, including French, which I dropped. What is significant is that if I had continued to take that high school French class, I would not have had to take French in college. That dropped class would have fulfilled my foreign language requirement for my college degree. But I dropped that class and as a result had to take 4 semesters of French in college.

 

III.

 

This poem is for women, sitting in shelters, having been beaten by their partner, thinking about a way out, putting together a plan to leave. This poem is by your side. So call on it. Ask for strength.

This poem is for women, trying to pick up the pieces of a life shattered by addiction, and her children have been taken and she is sitting alone on Christmas without her kids.

And this poem is for single mothers, coming home from work, exhausted, cooking dinner for the kids and it’s the end of the month, bills have to be paid and she wonders how.

This poem is for women, facing any kind of oppression.

And it says that when you oppress women in any way, you are defiling the face of God.

 

IV.

 

So I went to college and my grades in French became progressively worse. I earned a B, C, D, and a D. As the classes became harder my grades went down the tubes. I went to my professor during my last semester of French. She knew that I was struggling and suggested I get a tutor, which was not the answer I was looking for. I really wanted her to say, “It’s ok Eric. I know that you’re struggling and that you are really trying. I think I’ll just pass you.” But she didn’t say that. And I didn’t get a       tutor, but somehow passed.

 

V.

 

This poem is shaking foundations. This poem is changing the consciousness of humanity. And it’s doing it with substance and grace.

 

VI.

 

Something fell into my lap the other day and I realized the French language, as do other languages, has a masculine and a feminine spelling for words.  I don’t know why they do that, but they do.

 

And those special 7 letters are I, F, E, V, E, R, A.

 

VII.

 

The feminine word for Truth in French is VRAIE, which is the Third and final Word of God.

 

VIII.

 

Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice! The veil has lifted! A dawn shall rise into a new horizon, under which men and women weep without sorrow, tears reflective in the eyes of all, the sunlight will be provided by the realization of Love.

 

IX.

 

And so when God moves across the land, and into the hearts of humanity, when the seas swell and rise and mist, when people can finally breathe and are no longer referred to as enemies, when angels rejoice and when we all have a chance to reflect for moment, let us praise and give glory to Him,  but let us also remember, and give thanks and honor to Her.

Untitled (The Lifting of the Veil, Part I)

 

I tried to capture everything that I knew about “Conscience Alone,” which wasn’t much, a year after I got out of the hospital. I wrote a letter and sent it to my friend Beau. He said it was pretty far out, which was really a great description. It was far out, like a little crazy or beyond the norm, on the outside. And it was all of those things.

That letter became “IFEVERA.” I know that it is not the best letter. I wrote it like no one was ever going to read it. So I wrote about Satan and sealed letters. I even mentioned meeting in the Kingdom of God. I really put myself out there when I published A-Train Blues in July of 2006. I thought that no one would believe me, and no one does. But I internally maintained that what had happened was true; that I had seen things with my own eyes, had heard things with my own ears. I just didn’t talk to anyone about it, and no one wanted to talk to me about it. But I still like Beau’s response, it’s pretty far out. Like Thelonious Monk far out.

And so the reason for writing Book II, is to let you know that there is a second Word of God. And this word is VERA, which is Latin for truth. “IFEVERA” (pg. 95, A-Train Blues). I discovered this on September 1st 2006 when the Pope visited Veronica’s Veil. This was after I published A-Train Blues and sent it to 1,100 professors across the country.

I was sitting in my office with some down time on my hands when I read the story on the Internet about the Pope visiting Veronica’s Veil. I read that the name “Veronica” is a combination of the Latin word Vera, meaning truth, and Greek Icon meaning “image.” The Veil was a piece of cloth that some believe Jesus wiped his face on, on the way to crucifixion.  So three English words (If ever a), consisting of 7 letters (I,F,E,V,E,R,A) and two of those letters have documented symbolic meaning, have formed two words, in different languages, that both mean truth. You have to admit, it’s statistically significant. And pretty far out.

The Word of God

 

Tu parle francais?

Non? Oui?

Pour Conscience Alone

le mot est VRAI, et il moyens

en anglais : true real genuine right proper fit downright truly really in truth; truth

 

In the Beginning, there was truth and those four semesters

and two dropped French classes really did pay off

and I think that’s absolutely hilarious,   I  really do.

In  the End,

Love  is Amour

and I think that’s  beautiful.

Conscience Alone

 

Conscience begs forgiveness and Love answers before Conscience asks. Conscience blindfolds skin color and gender. Conscience wears neither patriotism nor shouts nationalism. Conscience stands behind  justice,  writing  laws  governing  all.  Conscience fails to differentiate between ethnicities and  competing  religious  ideologies. Conscience drives reunion down the road of Love and  righteousness  toward wrong.

 

My conscience is the basis for my objections concerning the  war  on  terrorism  because my conscience tells me that violence, “V,” causes a problem:

 

V + V = 2V = 2V(t),

 

“t” = time. The solution for that problem is XLC… “X” representing the constant unknown, “L” representing Love a  constant,  “C”  representing  Conscience,  a variable. Currently, internationally, the problem looks like this:

 

V(T) + V(US)= 2V(T)(US)=2V(T)(US)(t).

 

“T” represents Terrorism; “US” represents the United States.

 

Right now there’s strong talk to adding another “V” to a problem mathematicians already can’t solve, erasing conscience alone into this:

 

V(T) + V(US) + V(I) = 3V(T)(US)(I)prco = 3V(T)(US)(I)prco(t)…

 

“I” represents Iraq; “prco” variables represent politics, regime change, and oil.

 

That’s rocket science even Albert Einstein wouldn’t touch, so right now my conscience has to talk….

 

“p” changes into an unknown = International foreign policy laws.

 

Politics clouds the original wrong. History is viewed at least fifty to one hundred years back and historical visions are viewed fifty to one hundred years forward; dates aren’t important. Lesson on anti-American hate. First regime change in Iran.     The Shah comes  to  power…  extremely  abusive.  Pro-Western  pro-oil  pipelines sprout, but revolution… the Ayatollah Khomeini  comes  to  power  riding  pro-  Western pro-oil hatred. War breaks out between Iran and Iraq and those weapons of mass destruction originally came from politics. Politics speaks  to  the  majority…  politics are corruptible. Is this what we’re fighting for? Remember our Prophets. Remember Abraham. Remember David. Remember Jesus. Remember Muhammad. Remember Arjuna. Remember Siddhartha Gautama.  Remember  Confucius.  Remember Slavery. Remember Egypt. Remember Moses…the Promised Land. Remember South America. Remember Africa. Remember  America.  Remember  Slavery. Remember Douglass. Remember Lincoln.  Remember  Colonialism.  Remember India. Remember Gandhi. Remember Segregation.  Remember  South  Africa. Remember Mandela. Remember Tutu. Remember King: “It is no  longer  a choice between violence and nonviolence in this world. It’s nonviolence or nonexistence; that is where we are today.”

 

America… the post-World War II generation objected to Vietnam based on political beliefs, politics change. The politics of that generation accomplished  nothing concerning legally injecting conscience into governing foreign policy  which  cares  about, among other things, international profits.

 

I inquire about writing a formal amendment to the Charter of the United Nations consisting of business law, international law, constitutional  and  domestic  law governing and allotting a percentage of international oil profits to the environment,      to shelter, to food relief, to the education of citizens around the world. Between .9 tenths of a penny or 1.9 tenths of a penny  or  three  cents  a  gallon.  Between  .9  tenths of a penny or 9.9 tenths of penny or a dime per barrel. Is this what we’re   fighting for, less than pocket change? What have we forgotten that the collective Conscience of Humanity cannot remember…

 

o = H = H2O

 

Oil is a fossil fuel… oil is money and power… oil is not money… oil is not power…       oil is money and power… The byproducts of hydrogen engines is water… variable o has a lease on politics governing foreign policy.

 

rc = reason

Regime change would entail U.S. responsibility  to  establish  a  democracy  in  a  region where a large minority (or slight majority)  of  the  population  is  unable  to read and would be unable to understand its rights. If Rousseau believed the first inequality of man arose from the rate men evolved muscle and instinct to intellect    and reason, then the first inequality for modern woman is the denial to the ability       to read, and if you can’t read, you’re a slave to another mind. You can be told  anything. If you can’t read, a sentence looks like this:

 

EFEVRAI…nwdahsallisreinotawneronizohrednuhchiwenmndawne moweepthiwtourrowsoraestfleecitvreinhteeesyfollatehnusthiglillw eboiprveddybhteeraizlatnoifoLOVE.

 

If you can’t read, you would never know that sentence means this:

 

If ever a dawn shall rise into a new horizon under which men and women weep without sorrow, tears reflective in the eyes of all, the sunlight  will  be  provided  by  the realization of LOVE.

 

     The Message

 

The sexual abuse had to happen in order to make me the person that I am today. Initially the results of the abuse were detrimental in every part of my life. I believe in evil in my worldview, because I have seen it. I don’t spend time on where it originated from. I was touched by evil at a young age. But God turned it into purpose. I don’t blame God today for what happened. I believe that God marked my sixth birthday, by having my great-grandmother die that day. Her death set in motion the events of my life. It was the marker that God gave. I prefer to look at the positive that came out of the abuse. It pushed me inward as a person and I escaped reality by reading books as a youth. This gave me a familiarity with words that eventually turned into poetry; a way of expressing the various traumas of my life.

I began my recovery when I was 16. I was hospitalized for the first time and my wound was finally exposed. I started therapy and my poor self-image temporarily improved. I discovered alcohol at 17 and for the next eight years would use alcohol and marijuana to cope with my self. My sister died at 18. I went to college where I joined a fraternity which participated in hazing. I was hospitalized at 19 as a result. I started going to therapy again and tried to rebuild my life.  I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and alcoholism when I was 23.  I had a very brief conversation when I was 24 with the man that abused me. I told him not to call me or my Dad anymore. He said ok and I had a sudden spiritual awakening through this admission. I then began writing, first essay style, then poetry.   This spiritual awakening occurred in the summer 2001.

My first writing was “Emancipation of the Soul” followed by “A Letter to the University Christians.” I was a different person when I wrote those, and in a sense, was much healthier. I was a college student without any real experience in the world and became an optimist. I would describe myself now as weathered. I wrote those two writings in August. I believed I could change the world and no one was discouraging me. The people closest to me supported my writings. And so I went on writing, objecting to war and sometimes did so self-righteously. I went to work at a golf course when I graduated college, instead of getting a quote unquote real job, because I had been called to do something special for God, though I could not articulate that then. I wrote obsessively and due to increased alcohol and marijuana use had a break down and wrote “Conscience Alone.”  “Conscience Alone” contains the end of the age Prophecy which is “If ever a dawn shall rise into a new horizon under which men and women weep without sorrow, tears reflective in the eyes of all, the sunlight will be provided by the realization of Love.”

I have written about this ad nauseam, so you will have to take my word or investigate for yourself, but The Word of God was formed three times, in two foreign languages that I do not know, by scrambling the first seven letters of the Prophecy. The three words are VERA, VRAI and VRAIE. The E added to VRAIE makes the word feminine. Here is the most important thing about these words and the Prophecy: It gives God the framework to save the entire world, all Humanity, because the Conscience Alone Prophecy says “tears reflective in the eyes of all.”   In my spiritual life there are things that I can “prove” through the use of logic, which is ultimately limited and things that I know and believe. I have focused more on what I can “prove,” than on what I know or believe. In “Conscience Alone,” for instance, the word VRAI was revealed. This is the French word for truth, which I attributed as the Word of God. Its existence is fact. It’s indisputable and it will never be in question. Yet even as fact, no one believes it has any meaning and they certainly don’t entertain what that Word theologically says about me. To write this is to know trepidation and rejection, to say this out loud is to be branded as a madman. But I must write it, I must say it, in order to move on with my life, to move past the fear: I am the Christ.

I am making this claim based upon my spiritual lineage: my mother was a nun for seven years and my father’s name is David, thus not only in a symbolic sense, but in a literal sense, I am the son of David. I am basing this claim that God revealed Himself to me as Father; thereby I have become His son. I am basing this claim that I have seen Evil defeated for all time. And I am basing this claim on the countless miracles that I have received even to be breathing today.  I am also basing this claim on my overwhelming desire for peace and justice throughout the world. What I have to write next is not without hours upon hours of thought, not without my own torturous internal struggle that has lasted years stacked upon years. I entertain the possibility that I am completely delusional.   I met God when I was hospitalized in 2002, which, was my last hospitalization. He came to me as a nurse. I have written about this in “Beloved.” I will not fight over this or argue about it. If His appearance in my life was a hallucination or even a vision, so be it. He gave me some general instructions on what to do after the hospital. He came at a most critical point in my life, for the sake of a relationship and to form a bridge from my old life into a new life.

The final and most unforgivable part of this message is the fact that the Third Word of God, the Word that I attributed to the Spirit, is uniquely female.

My hope is that of my claims, the one that you take most seriously and give the most thought to is this one. I saw a picture recently on Facebook that said, “If you want to defeat extremist Islam, put a book in a little girl’s hands.” Honor God as Mother or Sister or a precious Child with braids in Her hair because It, is all of these things. I can say that I am a feminist, because God Almighty is a feminist and the empowerment of women globally, should be our highest concern. We will never be a free Humanity as long as half of us are oppressed and the other half is either actively or passively systematically oppressing the other half.

It has never been my desire to be in this position, writing words that few believe, that paints me as an outsider, which somehow gives me a uniqueness that I do not wish to have.  My life was set in motion long ago as that child touched by evil, given the opportunity to recover. On this path there have been few choices, only opportunities to increasingly rely on God. The purpose of this path has been to write these words, to make claims about myself that I am very uneasy making, much less being. Nevertheless, I believe in what I have written and will not only stand by it and my life, but am willing, and have suffered greatly for it. God does not default on Her promises, doesn’t put Her Word into the Universe haphazardly and so I have high hopes for a world based on love and equality. I am uncertain about my life as always. I hope that in writing this my role in the Kingdom of God is over with. The world is squarely in the hands of God. It is with high confidence that needless and unproductive suffering is coming to a close.