a harsh light on new territory (part one of three)

part one
breaking out the father

the supermoon arrived nearly two weeks ago, and as the moon’s influence on the waves go, i drove with the vigor of an escaped convict caravan to the bitter end of a week-long boil and swung an ax like a madman cutting himself away from old roots. the tree had grown on me in such a manner that it left fossil imprints of its heart on my palms as i stood underneath its fallen shade to catch dropping leaves. but a fast urgency cooked in my kettle that steamed from the desire for improved marks of personal dignified measurement. and so, in order to go mad and swing the ax, i needed proper motivation, a blazing fire that would burn my trapezoids with the pressing need to hack. in my case, motivation came from several different directions of wind, including some passing winds of death and the wild carry of flame that only occurs during forest fires; a tough task indeed. this tree, i found after examination to not represent the new ideals i have now fully committed myself to, ideals that mirror those of my great father – a man of integrity, honor, romance and bravery. this mood of moon meant cutting myself off from someone that represented a way of living that i sometimes mimiced, and greatly cherished for its carefree and playful style but that i will no longer call my own because i find it simply carries little virtue in the new world. new territory is strange territory, stranger because this territory is actually me.

a starter’s gun went off in the form of an online argument between myself and my dear friend, the self-promotional “baby boy” from beverly hills. it began from his call for help; more like a cry. he had done this before and, as a result, was not kind to my help but as a person who responds to friends in need, i gave him my attention giving the benefit of the doubt to baby boy; perhaps this experience will be different, i said to myself with conviction. it wasn’t. now bear in mind, i have methods of working with my own inner conflict. i don’t mind hitting conflict with a hammer and breaking m y s e lf in order to reconstruct and find new treasures of inner demeanor. it’s not for everyone, and as i put it so bluntly on my facebook page after this argument – you may not like my methods. but come to me again for help, and you better like my methods. i felt, however, that my anger was not boiling from the rejection of help or the conducted rudeness thrown my way as baby boy threatened to throw away something valuable of mine because he didn’t enjoy my way of solving serious personal problems. the real anger that stirred inside was fuzzy; i couldn’t clearly make out the details of what this emotional rage was made of because i had yet to gain the perceptual skills to solve the puzzle. thus, both inner and outer conflict was created and waited for me on hold (made easier because baby boy disregarded the conflict as nothing special worth spending time on) as i, on the cusp of my father’s human-life demise, let the argument go in favor of silent solution – the answers that i looked for, the ones that would clearly describe my ferociousness and why they felt genuinely proper, would eventually reveal themselves and come to serve me at the proper time. several days later, my father was crawling on the floor because he had lost the power to walk.

the condition that my father came to acquire is called “progressive supra nuclear palsy”, and it’s not pretty. essentially, brain cells die and you lose motor skills, including the ability to swallow, the ability to keep your eyes in place which means they roll up into the head like a slot machine, and the ability to walk. in addition, when you lie on your back, you feel as though your head is several feet below from where it actually is so as you try to pick your head up, your brain thinks its lifting itself from deep below the body. and that feeling as though you’re falling off a boat? it hits you over, and over, and over … forever. doctors kindly call this condition “the living hell” disease because the rest of the body perform on queue, leaving you blind to the world, unable to walk or talk, unable to function yet you are fully aware of everything that’s going on. on top of this, my father had rheumatoid arthritis, vertigo, and violent muscles spasms that attacked his legs and arm for up to fifteen minutes, making him experience excruciating pain. his cries for help were genuine. an ex-marathon runner that only six months previous ran three miles on the streets, he was now subject to little movement anywhere.

by the time new years hit, my father needed the assistance of a chair. a man of great pride, he avoided that chair like it was constructed of nails, preferring to crawl around the house in order to get from A to B. this made it tougher when dealing with him when he needed to use the restroom, as his ability to get himself up became strained but he was stubborn man, and would only use the chair as a last resort. a point eventually came when, only three feet from the toilet, it took him several minutes to turn around and take five simple steps backwards in order to be seated. pride is quickly taken away from a man who served his country in both the military and government when you have to hold his penis in a container so he can urinate properly while making sure his fecal matter hits the toilet water and not the floor. in between my argument with baby boy and the end of 2010, i watched the man who sacrificed much of himself for me, who never once questioning what i was doing or how i did it, living in fast deterioration.

new years eve was rough. during the day, my father was hit with a tornado inside his head. when he moved, it wasn’t himself moving his body but the pressure of his condition attacking him without remorse. it took me near twenty minutes just to get him to the bathroom door. i had to lift him out of the wheelchair he was now forced to use, my father’s body lethargic without a real desire to live anymore, and practically carry him to the toilet and while he went, had to hold his body upright. it was like holding up heavy unstructured jello with tired eyes that asked GOD why he, of all people, after giving his life to represent the lord in his name, was deemed a creature to suffer such severe consequences (1). the evening was much worse. normally able to sit in one place on the couch, unable to see the television but at least hear the sounds and be with his wife and son, my father rolled around without control on the floor, ending up in odd positions against furniture and the wall. this was like watching my father wrestle with a ghost who won him over by a hundred pounds. calling to my dad did nothing; he could not determine that i was there by his side. i tell you, picking up a one hundred and sixty pound man off the floor is not easy, which i had to do several times in order to make it look like he was my father once again, at least so my mother wouldn’t have to bear witness to his torment. but he managed to recoup and even made it to midnight with enough energy to smile and say “happy new years”.

the key to understanding my father is that he was a great influence on people. this is a man – a man, who used to go to work at five thirty am, work an eight hour day, come home at six in the evening only to drive straight to the soccer fields and coach my team. players looked up to him as a father figure, and not just because they watched him make me run laps whenever i didn’t listen to an instruction (which was often). for some of these players who had no father or who’s own father was not always present or committed to raising them, my father represented discipline and love, and showed that a man can have these virtues. this influence extended into his other relationships. my father was a stickler of a soccer referee, offering great advice, leadership and from what many referees told me, wisdom. you can watch my father and see his integrity in his dress, his walk, his voice. we had no time as a family to tell people of my father’s passing, but word spread quickly. at his funeral, the pews were near filled. for two weeks, we received stacks of cards from as far as germany. donations were made in his name. promises to hold events in his honor were claimed. my mother had no idea her husband, a man of seemingly small stature, touched the lives of so many. my father exhibited the great values of an honest family man willing to sacrifice himself for not just his family but for others. and i, as his son growing up by his side, saw absolutely none of this growing up.

me, the rebellious boy. me, ignoring integrity (2). i didn’t burn down the helping hands volunteer office or anything like that, i just did not look at my father for inspiration on how to be a man. instead, i saw at how he impressed his values on my older sisters and how they struggled with them through divorce and relationship conflict and instead went an opposite way – a way of floating by, hanging on by a thread without security, and running around town without any real responsibility … like a child. this way of living, influenced by my commitment to learning about tao, brought me great treasures but they were on loan. eventually, there was payback because you can only survive so long on chase bank’s money, and all the yoga practice in the world won’t cover you under the “you’re doing spiritual work, so you’re granted a free worldly pass” clause on your life’s contract. turns out i was doing yoga for sport which means my spiritual work didn’t invoke spirituality in all its glory. the result? a ripped glute, a misfiring right leg, no cash and a one way ticket back home. but as i had always put it years before this moment, los angeles ’til the wheels fall off. and the wheels definitely came off.

i thus arrived home without power; i couldn’t walk away. i had no cash and could not buy my way out of my parents predicament even if i wanted to. home i was, with enough of me to spend on those that raised me. i reflected on this as i watched my father on new years morning. i stood in the doorway of his room and watched as he tried to get his pants off because he was uncomfortable. my father reached for dear life, kicking and kicking and grabbing and kicking, barely able to lift his head off the bed. i thought of that repeated falling feeling, what his world must have felt like for him at that moment. i stood there and watched him in his suffering because even if i took off his sweat pants, he would never be able to relax in peace. this was the same man that runs in his sleep because running was such a joy in his life. he was super energetic, but the cold hands that i felt when i held him during the day told me that his circulation had slowed down, his life lacking momentum. so instead of taking my father’s sweat pants off, i went to my room, got on two knees and spent several minutes asking GOD to end his suffering.

two hours later, i found my father breathless. he had sprinted to the end, and if my father could no longer run, he would no longer live. i came over his silent body and pressed on his lungs to let a last breath out. and for the next two weeks, i slept like a baby. then, my face screamed at me.

i have old avenues of anger alarms laid down by past angst stemming from my first relationship in high school; who knew, my first ever girlfriend would have this type of influence on my life. they lead from my liver and right into my face. its like a boxer punching migraines into my cheeks and eyes, except whenever i get the pain of one punch alleviated, i get hit over and over again usually until the sun comes up. this is my body’s way of telling me something is off. in this case, i discovered later on through my spiritual guide that works with me on sub-personality work (3) that the personality inside me, the one that was essentially my father, was screaming at me – for what reason, i have yet to determine. if there’s one thing that i do when i have rough inner conflict going is that i do whatever i can to get it resolved at any consequence. usually, the end result is deconstruction followed by the gaining of inner perspective which ends in reconstruction. in between, the process is denny’s-kitchen-during-breakfast-hours messy. i needed a spark to begin the deconstruction process and instinctually started an argument with my mother. near midnight, i found her sleepy tired yet working on bills when i quickly reminded her that father, with his type-A personality, did the same thing causing him to hit bedtime hyper. hyper is a lack of sleep which leads to more stress and stress leads to disease. my mother was stubborn and wouldn’t listen to me. i yelled at her and she batted me away thinking she could ignore my advice. only three weeks from the morning of my father’s death and i stay in my room the entire following day. she knocks on the door several times and asks if i need something, am i okay, if i’m hungry … and i say nothing, silent as the dark void that stood before the creation of all things material.

that same night, i approach my mother late at night as she fails to go to sleep. my mother cried as soon as she saw me, telling me that she will never turn a deaf ear to me ever again. in response i cry but i don’t just cry. my lungs are filled with so much confusion and regret and fear and i cannot stop. my mother consoled me, told me we would survive as a family, and said wonderful things. and i just kept crying … for three hours. i sounded like i was like coughing up blood, and carried the sounds of torture throughout the kitchen. my mom thought i broke something inside, because this wasn’t like the time i cried for fifteen minutes straight during my first identity crisis over fifteen years earlier. she told me i had to go out in the world and figure myself out.

as you can see, my methods are not for everyone. but they do bring great clarity to my life and reconstruct me in a manner that molds me into what i think is a better person. in this case, my mom and i bonded in a way that enabled up to be more open and honest with each other, necessary to fulfill my father’s wish to take care of my mother regardless which meant taking care of her emotional needs as well, and in order to do so, i needed for her to break down her wall and open up to me. the result of this opened me up to her, as i recently saw my mother on the recliner watching television and instead of passing her by wondering if she was okay, i asked her if she wanted her robe, or her blanket, or both. my mother grew a big smile when i brought her more than enough to keep her warm while she watched her mexican soaps. obviously, i like stirring the pot. the reason? it makes the tasty stuff at the bottom come up to the top.

before i go any further, let me get another thing clear – if my dad did not pass the morning of new years, i would have had no problem taking a pillow to his face and stuffing it over his mouth and nose in order to end his suffering, a thought that came to me as i looked at my father’s dead body and thanked him. because this was only the beginning, as he was expected to live at least five more years … and the condition was to get worse!? i did not have to resort to such measures, obviously. but i tell you this so that you get a clear as crystal understanding of how i respond to conflict – with a murderous intent. life-altering chaos thinks it can rush at me like a manic maytag washer and dryer monster that eats my clothes and keeps them wet? that’s heavy shit, and makes many run for the borders that make you wanna run for the borders. the best way to survive this monster? learn to live with the scars.

i raced down to ojai, california – home of my spirtual guide in order to do some sub-personality integration. the process: my p.i. coaxes sub-personalities out of my head so that they can speak, so i can listen to them and discover what their intentions are, what they want, why they’re making such a ruckus so i can understand more of who i am in order to determine how to let go of self-imposed blocks that hamper me from my development. i arrived after a five and a half hour drive and immediately began a session, to bring two sides of me at conflict with each other together so that i could move on with my life. i stood with my guide as she brought the irresponsible child who claimed an all or nothing approach that was tailored with a poor knitting quality that could not keep the cold out. this created a hermetic disorder built not just on semi-sound spiritual practices but also on the lazy dependency on half-magic. these actions were supported by yet another sub-personality that simply loved to be entertained regardless of consequence; in my case, it loved car crashes and i had four three wheels. but these methods only got me so far, as far as where i started – home. it was made clear to “mr. hermatic disorder” that his current practices were revealed to be insufficient as they had landed me in turmoil, and that perhaps listening to another sub-personality cold bring unity back within my being so that i could live on with hermetic order. but first, “mr. hermatic disorder” had to listen. my guide brought out the opposing personality, the one that was yelling with such force and demand – it was my father, or at least the part of me that was the essence of him.

when i do this type of work, each sub-personality carries its own way of standing, talking and maneuvering. “mr. hermetic disorder”, for example, immediately stood with a fierce closing of the arms, stubborn and right. but my father … was my father. i stood there with the feeling of a strong posture worn under demands, sorrowful. the tone of my voice, which sounds like my father’s to begin with, adjusted to express his tour-of-life heaviness – this voice was him. he was teary, which meant we were crying. my father expressed disappointed with himself for not being the type of influence on me as he had hoped. he put the blame on his shoulders, saying he had failed me. this is all justified – i didn’t connect through the catholic church like he’d hoped, i don’t have a family of my own; i understood this even before i heard the words. but to hear those remarks from your father with his voice as it dropped out of my own mouth … does something to a person. a deep impression is made, like a fallen leaf on new cement. children and adults collect these types of momentums and place them for show or keep them inside containers. i felt i could do both.

the session ended with a guided meditation where i had trouble getting out of my head – too much thought accompanied by logical practice and visuals that moved me away from what was most important; my ego throwing peep-bombs at me in order to distract me because the further i go, the less my ego has a say in my actions. with my guide pushing me to get into my heart, i made the instinctual move of visualizing my ear dropping down to my heart, repeatedly as if on ketamine. this created a new sensation, a new coating inside my body. several minutes later, a rainbow opens between my eyes – the third eye point. my guide tells me this is where truth is revealed. this is what i’ve been looking for.

what i quickly came to acknowledge, and what confused me previously, is that what exists in me, in my cells and bones, are the core values that my father believed in … am i right? during his sickness, my mother and i were watching television in the back room, my father having gone to bed early because he was tired. but my mother and i both heard his call of “honey?”. we found my father on the floor right outside the hallway. he had crawled all the way from his room to the entrance of the kitchen because he couldn’t bear to not be with his wife, and you’re telling me this romantic gesture of love is somewhere in me and i can’t fucking find it? i carried this thought with me as i dragged my dad’s body down the hallway with a mixture of mad and sad, like dragging a dead body back to its resting place as my father pleaded “son, don’t be mad” because the previous week, i got angry at him for being a danger to himself by repeatedly crawling out of bed and coming into the kitchen with no rational excuse for doing so. i said no rational excuse.

where oh where is my father inside, my father inside that i forced to hide. he speaks in my tongue and tells me of his pain. i need to learn from father passed. i need for me to stay me sane. no wonder i couldn’t find my father inside of me – because i stuffed him in a corner, to pass. but inward work. inward perspective. insane action. i was motivated to go through this inward channel in order to come out of the other end of this conundrum with my father’s virtuous spirit as part of my own, even if it meant breaking up a great friendship that, when looked at with a keen eye, was not as strong as i once thought it was.

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(1) the main contributor to progressive supra nuclear palsy is environmental toxins, which can include stress. my father worked as an auto-mechanic for the f.b.i. and made complaint in the sixties as to the toxic conditions of the space – the fumes, the smell. he also ran an average of 20-25 miles a week including many races at a time where anti-oxidants were not being marketed. it’s possible all that running created a load of extra oxygen cells that attacked him over thirty years. plus, his body seemed to grab at his muscles for nutrients giving him painful spasms. in addition, he was a man that worried like no one’s business, especially his family. he had red eyes of fire that always bothered him. emotionally, he would burn himself out. in other words, many components could have caused his condition.
(2) funny thing. our soccer team, historically named the “dyn-o-mites”, needed a new name as we had all reached the age as players to represent ourselves with something more mature. that year, acura came out with their first integra series of cars. thus, i named the team “integra”.
(3) read earlier posts. it’ll explain this process in greater detail.