fernando ramos:

Wednesday September 8, 1993

Sometimes evil comes to surface if it knows you well enough. And after all the fires that I’ve started…all the hypotheticals I’ve attempted…perhaps I’ve set myself up for it…perhaps I’ve been leading it on…and it thinks that we’ve been best friends…maybe even lovers. But we’re not. I didn’t mean to give it the wrong idea. And now there’s no undoing it. I can feel its touch upon my skin…digging into me. I think it’s been digging there for a while actually…crawling inside of me like some massive worm whose body stretches out eternally.
   I have closed my eyes so many times and hoped—again and again and again—that it isn’t just me and me alone in here…that there are other things—yes, maybe even worms—anything that is separate from me come to wait its turn…hoping I let go.
   But I’m incredibly patient. I call it my killing grace.
   I’ve trained myself well in the art of waiting…so perhaps we’re a perfect match. But at the end of the day, I’m only human…thus, the err. I know what happens when I let go. I’ve twice experienced the rush of it…the absolute gratification of it speeding through my veins like effortless bliss. Evil has leaked out of me before…I gave into it and allowed it to enter the world through me. I tell myself that it was only me tapping the valve…letting out steam…relieving the pressure…no big deal. But I think of my deeds…
   One had no malice…I knew no better…just a childhood curiosity. But the other…I knew what I was doing…evil had a smile on its face…my face…it was inside me, pushing me forward…willing me to act…and I obeyed…and I cried…for days and for days. It takes a lot of tears to swim your way back out of a hole…and those depths were deep…too deep to endure the aftermath…too deep to go unpunished. I was ten years old and I got as far as drenching myself with charcoal fluid to stop the evil from ever leaking out again.
   But I was too much of a pussy to strike the match.
   Since then, I have sacrificed so much of who I am to conceal myself…or is it really to protect myself? I guess it doesn’t matter. I pretend to know so many things…but never me…myself. I forget who I am…I forget what I look like. I suppose vampires feel pretty much the same way…except I actually cast a reflection.
   Sometimes in front of the mirror I catch a glimpse of it…this dark green thing waving back at me from the glass…void of any good…void of redemption. But then I realize something: wake!…hold the night for me…there is redemption! It’s called guilt. And wake!…bring the torch for me…there is good! It’s called shame. My two most prevalent emotions! My true saviors! My anchors! Without them I’d simply float away…up up and…
   I do admit…I hate how fucking consistent they can be…but I suppose their reliability provides an unusual sense of relief. It sets me apart from them…the psychos…the real-life monsters who kill and pillage and rape and destroy without an ounce of remorse. And it teaches me that guilt and shame is to be embraced…whether I like them or not. It’s so easy to hate them…it’s so easy to push away what keeps us safe.
   But what about that ten year old who held the match in his hands? Did guilt and shame keep him safe?
   I hate words sometimes…they can justify anything, rationalize anything, debate every issue from every perspective…and I always get stuck in these little moments of indecisiveness. Just pick one already! But I agree with so many things. Sometimes it’s better not to think at all. Like right now…I have so much to write about, but is that what I’m doing? No…I’m rambling on about absolutely nothing, just letting my brain steer this pen across the pages because I don’t wanna think about anything at the moment…and I don’t usually condone stream-of-conscience either. The latter = creative cop-out.
   Pause.
   My dad had asked about the charcoal fluid…demanding to know who spilled it. It had seeped into the ground…stinking up the sideyard. I confessed…just an accident…but how can that be an accident?…I don’t know…and thank goodness when you’re that young it’s easier to get away with not making any sense. He made me hose it down.
   Shortly after that incident, I turned all my attention to God and faith. I had recently taken my first communion so I suppose everything was still fresh in my mind. It certainly seemed like the most sensible solution at the moment. I think that’s the way it goes for a lot of these born-again Christians. One little mindfuck and they fall to their knees. I know how it goes, so I guess I don’t blame them. Sadness, pain, and fear are the greatest motivators when not a loaded gun.
   I was very similar. I dove in head first as I usually do…obsessed and determined…wanting to suck all the information I could find. I prayed and prayed and prayed. I prayed for forgiveness…in the mornings, before bedtime, before every meal. I prayed for life and beauty and my family and the world. I prayed for the kids without mommies and daddies, for the kids without food and clean water, for the kids without a nice comfy bed to sleep on and a roof to protect them from the rain. I prayed for the people in wheelchairs, for the people in the hospitals, for the sick and for the dying and the Godless and the hopeless. And when I realized recitation was unimaginative, I became uninspired. So I created the most wonderful image of God in my head and we began our conversations. He was so merciful and compassionate and unconditional…and I believed in Him wholeheartedly. He was my everything. I worshipped Him…gave myself to Him completely. And sometimes I’d dare a selfish favor. Please…please don’t let me wet the bed tonight. Please…please don’t let me grow any blinder. Please…please don’t remind of that stuff…don’t let the nightmares in…don’t let the sadness come.
   And despite all the great thoughts God and I had shared together, not once did He pay any attention to my small requests. And I didn’t blame Him. Why would I? They were quite self-centered after all. Eventually, I stopped bringing them up altogether. But my brain is never satisfied…it always continues to question. If I’d’ve been Eve in that garden I would’ve eaten the whole fucking tree and childbirth would have split me at the limbs.
   And so something else began to plague me. God knew everything there was to know about me. It’s what I had always wanted…for someone to know me completely and still love me. But when I feel loved, I can’t help but want to love back…nurture He who nurtures me…hold He who holds me…know He who knows me. I needed to learn God more intimately.
   The only way to make that happen was to pick up the book entirely devoted to Him and read it. I’ve always had so many questions anyway. At catechism, they gave me half-assed answers for some of them…most went completely ignored.
   But as I flipped through those pages, soaking Him in…my ten-year-old ideology came crashing down. I discovered the awful truth. God had betrayed me. He had kept it all hush-hush. I’m the gentlest most loving being there is, He had said. But He had fucking lied!!! God was not merciful, compassionate, or unconditional. He destroyed cities on a whim, kingdoms at the snap of a finger. Not once did I read of His remorse…not once did I read of His attempts at forgiveness. He’d only point the finger, pass judgment, and kill needlessly. Are we not to follow by example? Are we not made in His image? Then let’s kill all who trespass against us…let’s be arrogant when compassion is most asked of us. Stand in the corner, take your medicine…and by God if you turn around I’ll turn you into a pillar of salt! There’s a punishment that fits the fucking crime.
   Good one, God…where was the lamb then?
   What a prankster…to make whores of good men’s wives for the promise of great nations.
   How is that a loving master?
   It’s a clever joke and I want no part of it.
   So…uh…where does that leave me? Have I come into existence to simply banish away someday? Am I to return back to the oblivion I was yanked from? I don’t think so. I still sense the otherworldly…I know it’s there…here…all around me. I know there’s a soul inside this body…and it’s calling out to me. I just need to find it…to really find it.
   And I know the coven will help. I believe in us, despite that annoying voice in my head that taunts me.
   What are you doing? This is stupid. Are you for real? Isn’t this a bit of child’s play?
   Aren’t all religions?

later

5:36am…I’ve been trying to sleep. Have to wake up soon. And I’m so fucking tired…but as soon as drowsiness carries me away I have one more thought and it snaps me back out of sleep with a gasp. I process it…and then it happens again a minute later.
   Yawns so tasty. Heh.
   My mom just woke me up…fuck…shower.

~

Next Entry: Thursday September 9, 1993

© 2010 fernando ramos, excerpt from billy reflects – the journals of a smalltown boy