Goodbye My Fair Lady

Saturday, April 16, 2016, at 9:15 am, Pacific Standard Time, my grandmother, my mother’s mother, took her last breath in this realm.  While we knew this had been coming for some time, the sting of a final goodbye still hurts.

Her pain and suffering has come to an end.  No matter what your belief, or hers for that matter, I can take some comfort in that fact.  Yes I should be in great pain, yes I should hurt as my family hurts, yes I should break down and cry, and I may yet still do so, but as of right now I am numb.

My grandmother, one of the strongest people I ever met, had a good run.  Actually she had a great run and no one can ever dispute that fact.  To say she left a legacy in the wake of her great wave in this life is an understatement.

It’s amazing how such a small woman has literally touched hundreds of lives.  From her spirit has spawned numerous souls and ways of lives that her spirit will truly live on forever, so long as those of us who loved her pass on what she has taught us.

You only need to look at any of her great grandchildren to know this has come to be.  The passions she possessed are evident in their personalities and will be passed on to the next generation to come.

A love for the written word.  While most in this generation will not read anything that is not on social media, for those of us connected to her, this is not so.  We will always read for fun, for information, for the mere fact that it was written down and needs to be read by someone.  Electronic or physical, we will always read something.

Homemade tortillas.  Just the mention of the words “homemade tortillas” will bring found memories of this little lady standing at the kitchen counter, rolling masa, slapping it from hand to hand before throwing it on hot metal, cooking it.

It became a cat and mouse game, trying to steal one as soon as it came off the stove.  It was a miracle that any tortillas even made it to the dinner table at all.  She always made extra masa because she would allow us one, otherwise we would eat them faster than she could make them.

A love of sports.  While I’m not one to watch sports on television, if I’m there live, you will see a different side of me.  Since we lived in a large city, when I was little my mother use to take my little brother and myself to the major league baseball games.  Not until I turned 12 did I understand why this was such an important thing for her, it was a lesson she learned from her mother.

Coming from a small town in Northern California, our baseball team was a minor league team but they were our team and we needed to support them.  That was a lesson I learned the first time she took me to a baseball game.

It’s a lesson I passed on to my child when we went to minor league hockey games.  While people always told me that they didn’t count, they weren’t major league, I didn’t care as I heard my grandmother’s words in my heart.  I would repeat them before talking trash to the other team.  It was the only time trash talking was accepted and allowed.

The same applied to football and wrestling.  You could not take the trash talk personal and you could only trash talk as long as you could take it in return.  It was a way to cut loose, have fun, and release stress in a healthy way.

While she had fun, and taught us to have fun, she also had her serious side.  You were never too old to get a slap upside the head if nothing else, or a scolding.  She didn’t stand for disrespectfulness and always spoke her mind.  As she got older she slowed down in what discipline she dished out but the last time I seen her, there was still discipline to be dished out.  Taking personal responsibility was something she believed in and made sure we all knew it.

I am glad her suffering is finally over.  I know the past few days have been hard for everyone to see but I like to think her last days of suffering was to spare certain people she loved from further suffering.  While April 16^th will always be a dark day for all of us who loved her, the 13^th, 14^th, and 15^th are dates that should have joy for three of us.

My birthday is on the 13^th, my aunt, her daughter, was born on the 14^th, and my older sister was born on the 15^th.  My personal feelings was that if she was to pass on one of our birthdays we would never really be able to celebrate it the way she use to celebrate it for us.  I was told she is waiting for something, because she was supposed to last only a few hours more and it’s been three days now.  That was her final act of love, her strength wouldn’t allow her to cause us further pain.

I know this may sound selfish but it’s what I believe.  Now she could pass on, in peace, and she did.  I will love her with all my heart for she helped to raise me, even from a far.  She helped shaped me into the man I am.  She gave me many life lessons, some painful, but all were wielded with a gentle hand of love.

To honor her legacy I will pass on what I have learned and I know it will be passed on to my grandchildren.  They will learn great lessons that will span over more generations than they can imagine from a strong powerful woman they will never know.

Happy Birthday To Me

On Wednesday, April 13, 1977, Jose and Clara welcomed their fourth child into the world.  That’s right, today is my birthday.  With that being said, there are a few things I know will happen today.

My mother will call me to tell me the story of my birth.  This is something she does for all of her children.  When we were younger she would call us to her room, pull us into bed with her as she gave us kisses while she whispered the story into our ear.  It’s a memory I will cherish, a jester I will appreciate until I die.

I will put on a smile and say thank you to those who will call, text, or tell me in person warm wishes of a happy birthday.  I am grateful for them, truly I am.  I will have cake with them.  Have to have cake of some kind.

While all of these positives should make me happy, there is and will always be a sadness that haunts this day, no matter how hard I try to overcome it.  For years I have kept this secret buried deep down inside and never told another soul, not even my best friend, who knows more than most.

I have seen death before in my young life, but I was too young to understand what was going on as we stood close to an open grave. I remember to this day thinking, I hope I don’t fall in as we all walked around, dropping a flower on top of the casket, then walking to say our sorrows to the family.  I am not sure who it was that was in the ground but I think I know.

As I got older death touched my soul, awaking the demon inside that I would wrestle with for the remainder of my days.  This was the year I lost the innocence of childhood and learned the world is a cruel evil place.  I was silently spiraling out of control and there was no one who could help.  How could they when I hid it so well.  We didn’t talk about our problems.

I remained the “good son,” smiling, going to church, doing all that things I was suppose to do, all the while, evil was growing in my young heart.

That summer we migrated from Texas to California, something we would do every three years it would seem.  It was always suppose to be just for summer vacation but it always turned into a full year.  So here I was starting a new school, the ever dreaded Jr. High.

Students and teachers alike saw me as an easy target, picking on me, calling me out, smiling as I was being “punished” for being who I was.  I just took it, having to bottle it up inside because it’s a part of growing up.  I learned to endure it, to live with the pain it caused.  I learned how to push forward until one day I didn’t.

I was in band and we had just coming back from our first marching competition.  All the marching bands in three counties were competing and we came in last.  I practiced and practiced as hard as I could leading up to the march.  I memorized the music, I had the notes down flawlessly, I was perfect in the songs we were playing.

My problem is I could not walk and chew bubble gum at the same time, as the expression goes.  My marching was always off by a half second.  I got the snaps, the cues, the looks down, but my footwork was always off.  I have always been a slow pace walker and could not keep up.  I wanted to quit but if I did I would be out of the band I loved music too much to give it up.

Like a drill sergeant in the Army the marching band teacher, different from the band teacher, would treat me like a new recruit.  I ignored the screams in my faces, the shoving me, the spit flying in my face as he called me names with bouts of “you’re worthless” added in for good measure.  The other students started repeating his words and I took it.  Sticks and stones.  Sticks and stones.

As we marched through the streets of my city, I did my best.  The instructors were not allowed to march along side of us so I did the entire march without someone in my face.  This was our first competition and in my head I thought I was doing great.  Heck I was even starting to have fun.  Then one of the other students kicked my off beat foot and tripped me.  As I fell and rolled to the side the band marched on, but not before a few stomped on my leg.  Now you know why we lost.

The bus ride back to the school was long and silent, for me at least.  Threats were made, things were thrown at me, and the instructors did nothing.  As we got off the bus I overheard the drill sergeant tell his assistant that the world would be a better place if I just offed myself.

I had to walk home, since it was a Saturday the city bus did not pick up in front of my school.  It was a long mile and a half.  Alone with my thoughts, the voices of the other students running through my head, and the suggestion of the drill sergeant ringing the loudest in my head.

As I got home I put my happy mask on once again.  Cousins had come in from out of town and everyone was playing outside.  I gave such a good acting performance I could have won an Oscar.  My demon, however, was not going to let me off the hook that easily.

I use to take the city bus to school.  There was another member of the band who rode the same bus.  She was always quite and played the flute.  As I got on the bus, there she was, sitting at the back of the bus, her walkman headphones on as she stared out the window.  I sat at the front.  She was too smart and beautiful to ever be friends with me, besides, after what happened, I doubt she would ever talk to me at all.

The bus dropped us off at the corner of the school but I got off a few blocks early, trying to gather up strength before having to face the band for first period.  As the bus pulled away I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.  When I opened them there she was, standing in front of me.  Without saying a word, she took my hand in hers and started walking toward the school, pulling me to keep up.

The next two weeks were bearable only because she always sat with me.  I didn’t know any better, I was young and stupid and in love or at least what I thought was love.

As March was coming to an end, she asked me what I wanted for my birthday.  I told her my family didn’t celebrate it and that something bad always happened to me at school on my birthday so I was going to skip school.  She talked me out of it, promising to bake me a cake herself.  How could I refuse?

On Friday, April 13, 1990 I was riding the bus to school alone.  She had told me that her aunt would be dropping her off at school and that she would give me my cake in band class.  As we were getting closer to the school we heard sirens passing us by.  I got off early because the police were blocking the street and the bus could not get through.  I thought to myself that there must have been another drive by shooting, since we already had two so far.

I was right.  While no one had even been hit in the past two, someone had this time.  She was standing in the doorway, facing the corner, holding a birthday cake that she had made the night before.  She had wanted to be the first thing I saw as I came around the corner to school.  Instead I saw an ambulance driving off, with her in the back.  She died enroot to the hospital.

So while others are wishing me well wishes, in the back of my mind I think back to what happened and why I hated my birthday for so long.  I know it was only a childhood crush but it felt so much more than that to me.

National Bipolar Disorder Day

Today is National Bipolar Disorder Day. Just because you do not have it does not mean someone else isn't suffering from it. As always, this ebook is free to anyone who wants or needs it. Please share this to let those we love who suffer with bipolar that they are not alone. 

Depression and suicide are subjects that go hand in hand. Those who suffer from these emotions feel that there is no hope, no help for them. I can only say that you are wrong.

The stories and poems inside should prove that you are not alone in what you feel and that there are those who are here to help. Though these feelings may be hard to fight you can survive.

As I look into the darkness
I can feel their pain.
From deep in the abyss
I am going insane.
- Max M. Power

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/278

Author's Note

This book is dedicated to those poor souls who feel lost inside themselves.  Depression is a powerful enemy to overcome.  It is something that attacks without remorse and pounds on our very being until we succumb to its will.  At times we may feel helpless in our fight against depression but I am here to say that our battle is not without victory.

Some bouts with depression are brought on by a sad event in our lives.  The loss of a loved one, a bad break-up, hurtful words thrown our way.  Then there are times when depression attacks without reason.  No matter what the cause, each of us will deal with depression in different ways.

There are those who may be able to brush away depression as easily as brushing away cob webs from their face.  For those select few I say, consider yourselves fortunate.  There are those who suffer greatly.

Their pain is so great that they feel alone in the world.  Inside a large crowd they are the only ones around for miles.  They are saddened by this great void which causes them to become invisible.  While many may feel this way I can say with the utmost certainty that you are not alone.  There are those who have felt your pain.

While this pain, this hurt, this ultimate suffering, continues to grow it needs an outlet of escape.  Some turn to drinking to numb the pain, in hopes it will go away.  Others turn to drugs, attempting to destroy the very vessel that depression inhabits.  There are those who eat, disgusted by the monster they feel consuming them.  Still others cut themselves, hoping the pain will escape through their open wounds.

But there is another avenue of escape that has crossed the minds of millions around the world.  Suicide.  Death is the ultimate escape, promising that you will feel no more pain.  It calls to us, beckoning us to a peaceful being.  It seems like a logical escape but nothing could be further from the truth.

While you may feel alone and that no one cares about you I say again you are wrong.  You have touched lives in ways you may never know but once your flame has burned out there will be those that will mourn your passing.  Depression will have won and started its vicious cycle over again.

By the mere fact that you are reading these words is proof that someone cares.  I care.  I care enough to share my feelings with you.  As you read this book there is no one else in the world but you and I.  As you finish you will begin to see others who care about you also.

If someone has given you this book then there is another person who cares about you.  If you care about someone else please pass this book on to them.  Together we can build a chain of love one person at a time.  Husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, daughters and sons, teachers and students, perfect strangers.  We all have one thing in common: The Human Spirit, which is unbreakable if we allow others to care for us.  Together we can defeat depression.  Together we can survive.

Max M. Power

Sleep Paralysis

Sleep paralysis is defined as a temporary inability to move or speak while falling asleep or upon waking up, most often occurring in people who have narcolepsy or sleep apnea.  This, however, is not the truth.  The truth is you are being examined by a being far more powerful than humans.

There are many beings that come to us.  A ghost, a demon, a guardian spirit, an alien, a shadow being.  Most of the time you do not even know they are there, but as they depart you will know.

People often feel something heavy sitting on their chest, holding them down.  Nothing is sitting on you, but you are being held in an invisible shield to keep you from doing physical harm to yourself.  Your mind, however, is not so lucky.

Without any warning, your body falls asleep deeply and quickly.  Next the being, whomever they may be, comes in and stands over you.  Your body is covered in the shield and the roller coaster in your mind begins.

You run from nightmare to nightmare, never being able to wake up.  Nothing makes sense.  Everything looks as if you are in a fun house, distorted and out of focus.  You try to speak but some language you’ve never heard comes out.  Your heart rate increases with each attempt to escape this horrific state of mind but nothing will work.  You can not move, you are asleep, and your mind is being viewed by this being standing over you.

When it finally ends, you are able to wake.  Sometimes your mind is so exhausted that you remain in a temporary coma, unable to wake for a few hours as your mind and body recover.  Other times you wake up before the shield is completely dissolved, leaving you unable to move as your invader looks into your eyes, smiling, before disappearing, causing your heart to race one last time as your body is freed.

Why do these being do this?  That’s an answer we may never know but that evil smile they always give, that knowing look that they just invaded our mind, violated our sanity, and there is nothing we can do to stop them is all the answer I need.  They are evil!  They wish to torment us!  To show us the power they hold over us.

How do I know?  A being visited me yesterday morning.

As I laid down to watch a movie within seconds I was passed out.  Nightmare after nightmare, I was being chased by monsters, reptilians, and I was totally defenseless.  No matter what I did, no matter what I thought, I could not escape.  My weak heart began beating faster as I went from one nightmare to the next.

I could not move, I could not scream for help, I could not be woken up.  I was a prisoner in my own mind and I was at the mercy of this merciless evil being.  Another part of the torment I received was being allowed to open my eyes while still in my shield, completely aware of my surrounds.  I could see everything around me, including not one but a total of three beings.

They stood next to where I laid.  One was at my head, his long boney fingers hovering over my face, as an invisible force held my eyelids open.  Another was next to my hips, feeding the shield that was keeping me from moving.  The third was at my feet, piercing red eyes burning into my forced open eyes, digging deep into my mind, unable to locate my soul.

Fear began to grow as my heart began beating so hard I could no longer breathe, my chest felt as if it was going to explode.  The being at my feet smiled one last time before waving the other two away.  They turned their backs to me and disappeared into the wall.

The remaining being glided over to come face to face with me.  I could feel its hot foul smelling breath, the shadow of its sharp teeth showing through the evil grin.  A boney talon finger reached out and touched my forehead, projecting a single word into my brain, “Return.”

He faded into nothing, releasing me from my shield.  I sat up quickly, my heart still racing.  I quickly ran to the restroom, turning on the light, looking franticly for the two that disappeared into the wall.  They were all gone and I had a sudden urge to pee.

It was as if I had just flushed out whatever invisible injection I was given to put me to sleep so quickly.  I felt nauseated and even though I did not want to, I found myself laying back in my bed, falling fast asleep once more, my paralysis gone.

I Am a Soul Collector

Time is said to heal all wounds, however, for a soul collector, such as myself, this is simply not true.

I am an Angel, of that there is no doubt, but what kind of Angel, good or evil, has yet to be determined.

Ever since I left the womb that kept me protected, I was born into conflict, and my soul has been a battlefield.

Soft and silent is how most of my life has been spent.  As any true monster lives, so as not to attraction attention to myself, I lived in fear of being destroyed, often times by my own hand.  The evil inside laid dormant, waiting in the shadows for the light to flicker out.

And flicker out it would, allowing the beast within to emerge, even if only for a brief moment before being lit once more.  It was me in my truest purest form, torn.

As I roam this realm, waiting, longing for my light to be extinguished permanently, I am looking for broken tortured souls to collect.  These souls are easy to collect for souls may be ours but they can be given to another.

True, a soul may be stolen but it can be stolen back, often times violently, destroying the soul completely.  In order to collect a soul for all eternity, it must be given freely, willingly.  Those who possess broken souls will often give them away willingly, so that they may be healed.

The truth is that their soul never stops being tormented.  It will suffer until Death releases it.  As an evil Angel, I feed off of their pain, however, they can be taught to live with the pain, reducing the sting daily.

Once the soul has been taught how to live with the pain a decision must be made, to release it or keep it for all eternity.  No longer having a soul of my own, keeping another’s soul holds no appeal for me.  I will freely return the soul to it’s owner.

However, sometimes a soul can not heal properly, and the pain they feel flairs up from time to time, allowing me to feed off of that pain.  For this reason there are only a few selected souls that I choose to keep.

Be mindful of your soul for the battle for your soul continues, deep within my own.

Why I Don't Trust Ted Cruz

I will admit that I voted for Trump.  I can hear all the hate speech coming now, but in all honesty, I don’t care.  I’m not playing nice anymore and neither should you America.

I keep hearing excuses of why he’s bad, and guess what, so is everyone else.  Is he a con man, yeah, he’s a New York business man, they pretty much all are.  Are any of the other candidates con men, you bet your sweet ass they are and if you say they aren’t, you’re lying to yourself.

He’s a racist because he wants to build a wall on the border.  How does that make him a racist?  That card gets thrown around WAY too much and by people who claim not to be racist but deep down really are.  Why do I say that?  Because deep down every person is a little racist, its human nature.

“We gotta stop illegals.”

“Trump hates Mexicans.”

Nowhere did I see MEXICANS in that statement.  Illegals are illegals no matter where they come from, but if you think that shoe fits you, feel free to wear it.

“He doesn’t talk like a president should.”  I’ve personally never understood that statement.  Why do people think a President is supposed to be better than them?  That’s kind of subject/master mentality.  I’m am average American, working hard for my money and to provide a good life for my family.  I help others where I can and I believe what I believe.

The ONLY perfect man to walk the earth was Jesus, so why are people trying to make the president perfect?  I trust someone who admits to their wrong doings rather than try to cover them up and dance around them. “What difference does it make?”  It makes a lot of difference… to me.

So the angry scared voters are flocking to Trump blindly, well if that is true why not ask yourself why?  What has had to happen that the American people have said enough is enough?  No more of your smiling to my face, lying to me, while stabbing me in the back before taking my wallet.  What has made the average American say, “Sorry, the con man scares me less than you do?”

The real reason why people do not like Trump is because if you are truly honest, he’s making America deal with its shit.  Things that are said, “You can’t say that,” or “You can’t talk about that,” or just flat out refuse to face the problem, well now you have to.

Ted Cruz is my representative.  In the end I voted for him as my Senator, even though throughout the entire time he was campaigning I kept thinking to myself, there is something about him I do not trust.  He’s a great guy, he says the right things, he does the right things and I have a great amount of respect for his values and his resolve to do what he says he will do… but I don’t trust him.

Deep down in my gut, I could never put my finger on it, but I don’t trust him.  I never had a good reason as to why, I just don’t trust him.  I will follow him and vote for him again if he is the candidate but I just don’t trust him.  I’m waiting for that other shoe to drop but I just can’t see said shoe.  It bugged me, tore me apart, my gut screaming, not allowing me to trust him… until now.

There are times in your life where you see or hear something and you are slammed with a true moment of clarity and everything surrounding the subject come into focus.  It no longer bugs you and you can move forward with complete convection.  On March 10, 2016 I was listening to Clyde Lewis of Ground Zero and it was said that Reptilians are trying to take over and that it’s rumored that Ted Cruz is a Reptilian.  When I heard that, WHAM, it hit me.  I don’t trust him because he’s a Reptilian.

Books Forward - From The ABC's of My Life

Carpets are a funny thing.  They come in many styles, textures, and color.  Some are so soft that we want to curl our toes up in them, while others are rough, just shy of sandpaper.

They are used to wipe our feet, cover the floors of our homes or vans, and to soak up our stains.  Many things are done on carpet, but in my family, it’s where we traveled the universe while reading our books.

You want to talk about low man on the totem pole, the younger you were the lower on the furniture you were.  Couches were for the older ones.  Us younglings were stuck on the floor.  We didn’t mind much because it was easier to spread out a newspaper on the floor rather than folding it up in a chair.

Often times we would be laying down, on our stomach with our feet up in the air, or on our backs, arms stretched out, reading a book and being so engulfed in the story that we were lost to the world.

My grandmother gave us this thirst for the written word.  It was passed down through her children and we in turn have passed it on to ours.  It’s something we craved and something that our parents made sure we had plenty of.  Certain things could be lived without but grandma always made sure books was not one of them.

Genova Bakery

In Stockton, California there is a little hole in the wall, most places in Stockton are actually hole in the walls, called Genova Bakery.  There is very little parking on the street and the building is old and run down, built in 1918, however, it’s always busy.

As a kid, every time we walked into the bakery we were transported back in time.  The floor boards were old, creaking, and the many miles people have walked over them showed.  The air smelled of Italian sausages, olive oil, and freshly baked bread.

During the summer the smells were even stronger as the heat slowly released the aromas that have soaked into the wood and walls over the years.

Not having a lot of money, we didn’t go to the bakery often but when we did it was a special treat.  Mostly it was on a Saturday morning and someone was visiting from somewhere else.

A couple of links of hard salame were brought, along with a small brick of sharp cheddar cheese.  Both were cut into small pieces and served on the white butcher paper it came wrapped in, in the middle of the table.  The white tight wrapper that needed to be peeled off kept us from devouring it all quickly.

The crunching sound of the paper bag the bread came in was a welcomed sound.  It meant soon we would be holding that hot soft white fluffy French bread in our hands.  No plates were needed as the bag was ripped open and laid flat.

A few loafs had to be spread between at least a dozen people so we never got a big piece but if we were good we would get the softest part, the middle, which to me was always the best part.

When I went home to Stockton for a visit as an adult, I don’t know if absence made the heart grow fonder or if it was strong memories from my childhood but all I did was talk about getting a loaf of bread and a link of salame for myself.  Of course I bought extra for the rest of the family because I didn’t want to get a whoopin, one of those that was claimed I never got as a child.

I visited Stockton twice more since that first trip in 2001.  The first stop I made as I arrived and the last stop I made as I left the city was to Genova bakery.  I had to buy a loaf of French bread and a link of salame, cut up into slices, so I could eat it while driving.

As I write this I am not an adult man sitting at my computer, clicking away at the keys, but an eight year old boy, sitting at the kitchen table, my back against the wall as the window A/C unit worked hard to keep us cool on a hot Saturday morning.

My mom pouring the orange juice in glasses for my siblings, my cousins, and myself.  My aunts Irma and Debbie slicing the salame and cheese as my grandma yells at my uncle Jess to stop tickling the kids because if we pee the carpet she’s going to be very mad.

My cousins Chris and Ron try reaching over and around my aunts to steal a slice or two, only to have the knife blade pointed at them with a firm STOP IT filling the air.

Not a single sound of silence could be found in that house but in my mind all I can see is my grandmother grabbing the bread with her soft firm hands and pulling it apart into smaller pieces, the smells of the hot bread filling my memories forever.