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INTERNET CHURCH OF GOD |
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FATHER Father,
is it wistful, the thought, to be born a tree... My story begins in the City
of Naples 47 years before I was born: EXCERPT: There, a simple and good Italian family struggled
to survive. Never far from their thoughts, was the desire for an opportunity to come to
America; the land of Milk and Honey-- or so they thought. Between 1896 and 1908, the
opportunities would arise and the migration begun. By 1908, most of my ancestors had made the journey.
Some from Naples, Calabria and Sicily. Among these peoples was the Alphonso DiCanio
family; my great great grandfather and his son Antonio, whom had married His sweet heart
Julia when he was 15 and she 13. Unlike most of the other relatives whom arrived
with out passports or papers ("WOP" with Out Papers), Alphonso had signed up
with a recruiter and had managed to receive not only papers for him and his family, but a
job and home. Arriving at a NY pier in an overcrowded steamer, Alphonso and Clan were soon
to discover that the Job was a menial position from 4am to 8 pm and the "home" a
run down tenement on the lower east side of Manhattan. 5 years would go by and the suffering intensified.
Hearing that the Black Hand, the predecessor to the Mafia, were recruiting, Alphonso made
a choice he and his generations would forever regret. He joined the Black Hand and soon
his world was no longer his... he had given up his faith, his God, his virtues and
morality to the devil. Cursed would all succeeding generations forever be... Not only would all the male direct descendants of
Alphonso die untimely, horrible deaths, but the woman folk would forever be left to raise
their children in sorrow and poverty. . .alone.. New York City 1953: EXCERPT: My mothers Father had been murdered when she was 5.
Seems her mother, my grandmother, daughter of Antonio, had gone on to work as a Hostess
for Charley Lucky (she lives today. 1999, in
Florida, 91 years old!) after her husbands death and had left little Jeanette with
"relatives". By Jeanette's 17th birthday, in dire need of love and a desire to
make her OWN bed, latched on to a Gangster
named Joe-Pep. Joe Pep was a flashy guy who not only talked a lot,
but it was said that he liked to use his fists. He had a brother named Carmine whom was
forever by his side. It was said you never messed with one without having the the other to
contend with. Joe Pep was the brawn, Carmine the brain. They had another younger brother
whom adored them both and was forever trying to be just like them. Like most gangsters, my father lived by the code of
silence; of respect; of honor. He would be forever preaching this things of his: Never
Give Out a Last name Or Phone Number! Never Rat. AND NEVER, EVER CRY! By the middle of the winter of 1953, My mother had
already lost two children and gave live birth to my sister, Angela when I was born. That
date was forever burned in the mind of my father. For he could not accept his first born
was a cripple. My legs were turned and twisted and all the doctors and casts and
operations had done little to improve them. This condition would consume the first five
years of my life. Three months before my sixth birthday, my father,
in what little compassion he could show without hurting his image, purchased a new bicycle
in the hopes it would encourage me to ride it. And boy it did.... "God had come to him a long, long, time ago. It was during a dismal
time in his life when his birth defect, club feet, kept him confined; he could not play
with the kids in the neighborhood; he could not have fun; he just sat in a chair or
push-walker and had day dreams of nightmares: he would awaken to the shouts and cries of
his siblings and their friends playing with Father in the back yard, jump out of bed, and
run towards the gleeful noise, and then, just as he exited the front door, his feet would
shrivel and he'd fall on his face.... in front of his father! When
he was five years old, his father, in his determination to motivate him to walk, surprised
him with a brand new bright and shiny bicycle. All of his siblings and their friends were
riding bikes---he wanted desperately to join them. For an
entire five months the bike stood silent, like himself, waiting to join in happy
excitement with the others. The doctors warned his father that this experiment was
detrimental to his progress; "If he
cannot ride the bike the whole affair will cause damage to his will power". Yet,
every day, his mother would place him upon the bike's soft black seat, wrap his hands
tightly around the multi-colored tasseled hand grips, and place his bandaged and twisted
feet upon the boxy foot pedals and push him off. Holding back his tears, using all of his
will power, he would push and push and push, and never get no where--and every night,
mounted upon his dreams, cool, sweet, spring time children, cheering in the breeze, would
turn to laughing blizzards. "I'm
stopping. I don't wanna ride this stupid thing! Take it away!" He shouted one day. "But
you must try." His mother said. "I
have. It ain't gonna work. Give the bike away!" His mother
looked at him with sad, moist eyes, and wheeled the bike away. Later that
night, his mother came to his room and sat on his bed. Held tightly in her hands was a
blue and yellow book. She looked directly
into his eyes and said; "Joe, I know that more than anything else in the world, you
want that bike. Your Father and I want more than anything else for you to be able to ride
that bike. Sometimes it takes more than what we can give or show you for you to be
successful. We pray to God every day and ask Him to help them in their lives. We must
continue pray to Him. He will help you. This I am sure. If you truly accept Him in your
heart, ask Him to help, and YOU DON'T GIVE UP, He will help you! You must confess your
hopes and wishes to HIM!" "But
Mother, I do pray, and I have asked Him for help. I prayed to God last night, and all of
the other nights!" "But
you must ask of Jesus... You must use His name. This book I have in my hands is a very
important book." She said as she handed it to him. "It is The Lord's Prayer. I
want you to memorize it. When you can recite it by your self you will have his power behind you." Joe sat
upon his bed, eyes and hands glued to the bright, blue and yellow book and waited until
she had left the room, he then swiftly opened the cover of the book. A picture
of Jesus greeted him in color; yellow halo, a touch of thorny brown, white robe; His face
looking upwards, serene, divine, at stars, perched, white in creamy blue; arms and hands
outstretched, imploring His Father; sturdy, sandal feet, resting upon brown, rocky
ground... Yes,
sandal feet... "Oh, Jesus, how I want feet like yours." He thought. He turned
the next page. On a delicate, pastel blue background, within soft, white, billowing
clouds, rich, black Roman letters spelled out their urgency; "PRAY WITH ME." He began
to memorize the prayer; he'd open the book, look at the words, close the book, and
recite---over and over... Children playing in the yard
awoke him. He was dressed in the clothing he had worn the day before, the book lying,
still open, upon his chest. He closed it and looked out his window onto the patio. His
bike, glimmering in the morning sunlight like a knights patient steed, fully dressed in
battle armor, stood waiting for it's master. Boy, was
he ready! "I WILL RIDE IT... HOW FAST WILL I GO?!.. The Lord's MAGIC will bless
me!" He thought with happiness. He reached
for the book, picked it up, started to read... And then, had a change of mind and closed
it. He shut his eyes and began to pray. "Our
Father Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy
name. Thy Kingdom
come, Thy will be done, On Earth as it
is in Heaven. Give us this
day, our daily bread
And forgive us
our trespasses As we forgive
those who trespass against us. And lead us not
into temptation But deliver us
from evil For thine is the
power and glory Forever and
ever... And help me ride
my bike!
Amen" ."I want you to
push very hard." Mother encouraged. "I will start you off..." The bike
moved---just as it had so many times before--down the road. He struggled with the handle
bars, with the pedals, "Oh, Jesus, please help me. Oh please." All of a sudden,
it seemed his feet were moving the pedals with the ease of an adult! HE WAS RIDING HIS
BIKE! He zoomed
down the road, tears wetting his cheeks, past all of the other children. Zoom, he went by
the crowd of adults that were cheering him on... He had prayed to Him for His help and it
was He who provided him with the courage and strength to ride that bike: HE became his
secret Father Figure. He would
never tell anyone when they talked late at night. Mother would put him to bed and he would
wait until everyone was asleep, then he would get out of the bed, falling softly upon his
bent knees, and they would talk in prayer. You see,
Joe's father never truly got over the fact that his oldest son had a deformity. Joe-Pep's
secret of his own slight deformity of his right foot was kept locked in a file in his
mind. This birth defect that plagued his oldest son revealed his own faults. Thus, Joe-Pep would always take Carmine with him whenever he
could. He did not realize his penchant towards Carmine ever effected Joe... But it did. Jesus would provide Joe with the power to love him. Joe never ever held his father's treatment against him, he just prayed that they would someday come together. When his father was taken from him, all sorts of thoughts went through his head; did God take him because of his treatment? Had his prayers in some way caused his demise? The questions and facts were overwhelming. A car accident! A car accident! How did he die! He felt in some way that he had been privy to his demise. Did he not sometimes ask God to convince father that he was "normal? That he loved him? Did he not ask Jesus to come down and be his father? Confusion had taken over his life. His father was taken from him just as he was beginning to be his proud son. Had he not given him a job! Were they not living together again? What was the truth? What were the facts? Who was responsible? These questions allowed a battle to develop with in his mind. A powerful, purposeful, planned battle. His decision to runaway from home would be first steps in a continual war .... " November 21, 1961: EXCERPT: Two months before my ninth birthday, my father and uncle Carmine (the younger brother went mad) were brutally murdered in a Mob Hit in Manhatten, NY and my family thrust into a world of poverty, sorrow, grief, and welfare. Not a day went by that we were not subject to abuse --internal and external. An efficient killing machine consisting of three, evil, mortal beings and
a black, non-descript, '62 Ford, had become immortal in the eyes of its master, who, upon
the slightest whim, would set into motion a chain of events effecting not only the lives
of those chosen for death, but the very fabric of their lives. The Boss had made his decision: "Hit
Em!" Right or wrong, the two up-and-coming racketeers whom were targeted for death
would have no appeal; their sentence was to be carried out with an emphasis on sending a
message -- rather than revenge or pay-back..... On a wet, foggy, dreary night, Guiseppi's Fine Italian Food And Spirits
resembled a wake. The usual laughter and cheerful enthusiasm that greeted each patron, in
the form of one tall Robert Mitchum look-alike, was missing. Always joking and carrying on, he would normally
show each customer to the "best table in the house" where his inseparable
brother, the ever present "Professor"---slight of build, wearing simple, round
spectacles--- would complete the magic that kept the till brimming and made it hard to
find an empty seat. But, like the fog that tenaciously hugged the cold, wet, city of New York, tension permeated the establishment.
As if death were the main entree, a solemn, priestly waiter, dressed in black, seemed to
anoint rather then greet each patron... "See
youse gize lata..." Tony Black grumbled as he escorted -- apologizing profusely --
the "Abbot and Costello" looking Donatelli brothers through the ornate glass and
mortised oak doors, "...it's just the flu or somethin'." Then, turning on the
heels of his "pointy-toed Italian fence climbers", he grasped the hand-set of
the desk phone with his right hand and dialed a number with a diamond-clad-pinkie-ringed
left hand. As he
waited for the party he called to pick up, Tony toyed with his ring of respect, his pride
and joy; polishing it by breathing loudly upon it's surface and rubbing it against his
black tux jacket until a brilliant, blue-white reflection, danced a rhythm of sparkling
star bursts against the darkened gloomy interior ceiling. "Yea.
Who's calling..." A distinctive voice inquired. "Tony
Black... Listen, tell da guy dat I'm closing da joint early... Oh, and yea, Pauly Ham
passed away. I'll see im at three." "O.K."
Click... He hung
the phone up and sauntered to the bar to count his meager tips. Standing
under the wood trellis that draped a newly installed and cluttered bar, Tony turned the
tip glass over. The loose change that jingled to the bar was as devoid of substance as the
dusty plastic vines that drooped and dripped from the "Italian garden looking
contraption" above his head. For Tony, the entire past week was devoid... The only
thing that even resembled normalcy were the patrons that had sampled the pasta, and even
they showed their dissatisfaction for the absence of ambiance that usually ran rough-shod,
trampling all in its intoxicating, invigorating way. The pieces-of-eight that flooded the
joint and lined Tony's pockets were slow in coming. As Tony would say..."Da tips waz
as slim as fleas on a goldfish!" A close friend, Tony Black -- a five foot five, heavy muscled mean
scrapper -- had two jobs: protecting the brothers, Joe-Pep and Carmine, and tending bar.
The past two days he had taken on the additional responsibility of maitre'de and was
looking forward to a day off. He was supposed to stay until the brothers left, but tonight
he had asked for permission to leave early. Preparing
to exit the establishment he yelled towards the swinging doors of the kitchen, "Hey,
Carm...Yo, I'm leaving...Do ya hear me?" Only silence greeted him. Turning on his
heels he headed for the front doors shouting: "I'll lock da joint on da way out. See
youse gize Monday." Stepping
through the doorway and into a realm of pervasive darkness, he turned and closed the
massive doors with a hefty thump. Placing a heavy steal bar across them, he locked it in
place with a ponderous padlock --- sealing a the castle's keep from the beast of the city
rather then the cold, wet misery of the season--- and briskly walked to his parked Caddy. As if
Tony's departure provoked demons to play a loud and boisterous chess game upon the
spoiled, sauce stained, red and white checkered table cloths -- spoiled and blood red as
death's own signature -- the clamor of a heated argument in the kitchen ricocheted through
the dining room, abruptly lifting the eerie cloak of silence... "Let's
just leave town...go to Ohio or something!" The Professor shouted forcefully as he
nervously cleaned the sparkling, clear lenses of his gold, wire framed glasses. "It's
still on the table...we're safe until we get called on the carpet." Joe-Pep cut in.
"Let's just finish up and get home... It's eleven thirty, you're the one that has to
drive all the way to Hicksville and back, not me. I'll see you tomorrow at the house after
church. We'll talk then... Monday I will call Joe Pag -- get a sit-down, O.K.?" "O.K.,
but I just got this feeling... We should just lie low until this thing blows ov..."
"Come on, I know what I'm talking about. There's nothing to worry about!"
Joe shouted back with assurance--not showing the fear he felt. "The heck with those
jerks... I could give a damn!" Inauspicious,
the shadow of death, steady in its stealthy pursuit of game, rounded the bleak, dimly lit
corner. It stopped at the curbside in front of the shuttered restaurant -- allowing its
contents to spill upon the sidewalk. There it remained, engine idling, a man-made
carnivore of hopes and dreams--ready to pounce on all unsuspecting quarry... The
brothers -- unaware of death's grim reapers lurking just outside their door -- continued
to argue. "Why
don't you ride with me to Long Island?" The Professor asked, not reassured by his brother's comments. "We can call Jean,
let her kno..."
"Listen,
I'm tired of this bull...Its been thirty years... We shouldn't be responsible for what..."
Suddenly,
the sinister hit crew, one tall, one short, with finely-tuned precision, smashed in the
Back doors. The
brothers pivoted as one to face this sudden intrusion of fate... A hail of deadly, hot
lead greeted them, each projectile finding more than just flesh and bone in which to bury
--- deeply, mortally, these bearers of death, silenced forever, their dreams, hopes and
feelings... The
diabolical chariot of death, sleek in its shroud of pitch black midnight, with only a thud
in the night, disgorged upon the wet, slimy pavement, two cold and silent passengers. Then
with cold calculated determination, it zoomed off for its next intended victim; in a never
ending quest to satisfy an acquired taste for blood and power. The
repercussions were immediate --- like waves of tides constantly changing a shore's
landscape, the waves of time permanently altered and condemned the families of these two
Soldiers of the Hand to uncertainty, sorrow and a life of drifting sands.... "We were forced to move into the Woodside Housing
Project. Getting beat up EVERY day " EXCERPT: At eleven years of age, tired of the abuse and
desperate for answers--I was told father's demise was the cause of an automobile accident,
yet rumors crept the city"--I ran away from home on a quest of purpose, reason, and the cause of my predicament: " A Don Quixote and
Sancho a la New York City , he and his seven year old brother, Carmine, began a journey as
"Men of Respect", in a Knightly fashion: "He, in brim-feathered fedora, a
too small, pin-striped suite, and white sneakers; Carmine, in cloths over
Pjs"--leaving a note that they would one day return rich and famous to rescue the
family! " Upon our joyful "capture"--After an exciting and entertaining journey that took us from the NY Worlds Fair to the mountains of Pennsylvania!--we were returned, safely, to the "loving caring, family" and " warm, soft beds" we had dreamt of. ..." ********************* (remember, I was Catholic...) "My happiness would be short lived: Unbeknown to me, a group of my
father's enemies lurked in the shadows;
Social workers suddenly appeared on our doorsteps with orders to "take me in for
three days of psychiatric evaluation... just to determine why I ran away!"
............ "Three days became three months in a men's dorm and, lost in a maze
of suffering, the seeds of The Curse of Alphonso--as it had for four generations--
proscribed the soul of the first born of Joe-Pep...
" "Three women and two men
whom came for him were like an army of determined storm troopers; he fought them tooth and
nail until they overpowered him, placed him in a straight jacket, and injected him with a
substance that turned his world into a woozy, placid and serene dream.
Bing...Bang...Boom... He was on his way. His mother, screaming and crying, was left on the
doorstep with his siblings -- who added to the chorus of tears. Thus began one of the most
horrible experiences of his life. Everything
was neat and white: the shiny, clean, ambulance with sirens blaring, the starched and
pressed uniforms worn by the attendants, the straight jacket they roughly and violently
put him in, the sheets on the stretcher they used to transport him. When they pulled up to
a silent, massive, white tomb of a building with small dark--almost black windows--he
thought he had entered a world of the colorless afterlife...tranquil, imposing, permanent. Doors
opened and he entered a warm, austere, brightly lit, immense room with floors, waxed and
polished, reflecting spotless, white walls and white lights that hung from a clean white
ceiling. Another shot and he drifted off to sleep. His last thoughts... 'Where am I? Who
am I? This must be a dream...complete with silent, white, moving figures...' Then... "Ah!
No! Please!" "Get
the #$%@#%$!" Bang.. Boom...Crash! "What
the #$@%...." "Leave
me alone! No--no-- Help!" Crash!
Scuffle...."Hit 'im with the sticker!" Crash, bang, boom... The
commotion woke him with a start. The white gleaming thoughts that he had must have been a
dream -- he was lying in a bed covered by a dirty, gray blanket, in an institutional,
green painted dormitory. Its walls covered with stains of brutality. It's floors dulled by
the constant traversing of wild eye, mumbling figures--some semi clothed, some entirely
naked. Windows covered with bright, red, metal gratings--as if on fire--completed
his thought pattern.... Was in Hell? As his
vision and hearing returned to normal, he found the cause of the violent commotion that
began his awakening. Off in the corner of the
dorm, three demonic creatures--two black and one white--with needle in hand, were
molesting a man. In his drug induced nightmare, they were three appalling apparitions . "Oh!
God! Where am I? Father can you hear me? Why...why am he here? I must have deserved
this--I must have! What did I do? Where are you...why did you leave?" He wanted his
mother...he wanted to be home! Home! Home! Home... The next
thing he knew, he was fighting with two orderlies. "Get
his arm, get his $#%@^%$ arm..." "Get
your hands off me---leave me alone!" He screamed, as an orderly attempted to inject
something into his arm. He had
been screaming out loud about home when the two orderlies attempted to calm him down.
Having witnessed the MOLESTATION just minutes before, he was petrified that he too would
soon be in the same "position." Totally berserk, he fought an obstinate, savage
battle! Out of the bed, kicking, biting, clawing, cursing -- he was an enraged, beastly,
Tanzanian Devil. It finally took four, full grown men to grab hold of him long enough to
inject him. He awoke
for the second time in twenty four hours totally naked, in a frigid, bare cell. He had
nothing but a cold, hard, puke-stained floor on which to rest. His immediate thought was
that he had been molested and would soon be again. Like a terrified rat in a box-like
trap, sensing that he is in danger, he scurried to and fro trying desperately to find a
place to hide both his fear and his nakedness. But like the rat, trapped and confused,
there were none. This reaction only confirmed to an ever watchful ..." Upon my "release", my mind reeling in turmoil and question, I
returned to the streets; living in abandoned apartments and white and black checkered
hallways... "that dotted his lonely landscape like the craters of a cold and dusty
moonscape". Soon I began running with a group of young "Wise Guys" in
effort to survive and belong. After numerous "street:
ventures, I was returned, once more--this time to a reform school... " EXCERPT: Upon
my release, at twelve years of age, I had journeyed a life time, my small brain packed to
it's capacity with hardship... and it's loyal companions: hopes and dreams! I tried to
"become a cog in the wheel of misfortune, but the road continued to be a bumpy
one!" I left once more; only this time,
I added a "real" family, a father figure, and change in my life, to my original
plan. Through out my quest, I fought a
battle between the evils of my environment and my strong spiritual up-bringing. Why would
Jesus allow this? was I wrong? was I deserving of this? The battle would rage.... As I traveled the country and lived among American
Natives in New Mexico -- sharing their faith; Muslims
in Chicago -- where I learned of the Koran; Baptists in Georgia -- where my Catholic
up-bringing clashed with new views; Agnostic hippies in California--a culture believing in
free love, drugs and peace; African-Americans
in Miami --falling in love with a young girl of interracial parents and discovering racial
bigotry first hand, my need to belong, to want to be part of, sometimes required me to
become a part of... Yes!
Sometimes I became: A drug addict; "Harry, he had arrived... He was now a member of the thugs whom he
once despised... And they, deciding that he should go all the way, invited him with:
"Hey, Joe, lets go to Spanish Harlem!" Soon the guys invited him to
go along for a ride to a dope house in Spanish Harlem. They reached 117th street and rounded the corner. The neighborhood changed
as suddenly as the turn. Filthy, red and brown, three story buildings lined a debris
cluttered street. Hulking remnants of abandoned and stolen cars littered the street
side--cannibalized skeletons of rusted steel separating the worn and used family heaps.
Grubby, half naked children played in the street. A open fire hydrant spewed water as they
gleefully jumped in and out of the cool, wet gusher. Stoops of buildings, plain stone steps and rusted iron
railings, jutted out onto cracked concrete sidewalks like tombstones lying stacked one on
top of the other. A slice of concrete desert, it's face creased by age and sorrow, with
towering wind scathed monuments of suffering looming
in a surreal landscape of crime and death. Residents of this sweltering enclave crowded
upon their cool, weathered smooth surfaces like the deceased of the apocalypse, dead, yet
alive--longing for hope, but receiving pain. All along
the block, dealers and users mixed and mingled in a never ending cycle of master and slave. Addiction crawled along the
thoroughfare in the deep set, black ringed eyes of the damned. It seemed that all of the
occupants of this slum were evil, mean spirited, dangerous hoodlums, but, behind the
filthy brick and rusting iron, above the mass of death and deception, through the hallways
of inequity, families huddled in fear, alone, not daring to leave the semi-protection that
the flimsy, old and tired wooden doors of their musty, rat and roach infested apartments
afforded them. In NY, it
was said that all Puerto Ricans lived with roaches; it was said that if you had one you
had the other. The fact was, these great peoples lived in an infested slum because it was
the only place they could afford. He, in fact, could identify with this truth! They stopped in
front of one of the buildings. Exiting the car, and approached the stoop. Dealers and
users whom sat across it moved to the side with scowling faces at these Anglos from Queens
who dared interrupt their "peaceful ambiance". Tromping through a peeling door,
they climbed creaking steps through piles of subjects draping them like multicolored shag
carpet in drug induced stupor. After the fourth landing, they turned into a narrow
corridor and knocked upon one of the doors. Several locks, clicking loudly, turned and the
door slowly opened... "What's
happening, how you doing?" A squat, bald headed man--whom was a member of the Jones
Brother's crew whom peddled dope for a mobster named Joey Gallo--asked as they swaggered
through the door. "All
right man, just looking for the "white horse". The leader of their group
answered. He looked
around the place. It was a three room apartment with peeling, century old, wall papered
walls. The main room was furnished with three worn sofas. A kitchen, filthy, rust stained
porcelain sink, mounds of garbage heaped in every corner, was starkly visible. People of
all ages, dressed in decrepit clothing, in various states of drug induced stupor, were
crowded into three rooms. A foul stench pervaded his nostrils and he fought the urge to
vomit. Through a
door-less bathroom, above the chipped, black and white tile floor, one guy sat on the
toilet, rubber hose wrapped around his arm, a needle piercing a main vain in his arm,
while a second guy "booted" the plunger. As he pulled and pushed the plunger in
order to boost the drugs over and over, a morbid pallor flushed the face of the first, he
teetered back and forth in rhythm with this exercise. In the
bedroom--a hot, filthy cubicle that contained a single sweat stained bed-- a young girl,
about thirteen years old, lay nude; stoned, she seemed unaware of the perverse acts that
were being committed to her person by several, semi-clothed, drugged men of various ages. As they sat upon
a smelly sofa and their leader negotiated for the dope, he viewed this place of horror
with eyes that misted with pain from his recent revelations. Frightened, and alone in his
thoughts and sights, he wanted to bolt through the door;
a powerful force was telling him to leave. He realized that this was an impossible
situation, but, he did not leave...just vowed that he would not "do any drugs". When the
deal was consummated, one of the guys came over and began to wrap a belt around his arm.
He protested. He said he did not want to "shoot any dope"; peer pressure combined with feelings that he wanted to belong overshadowed his
thoughts and commitments... "Come on, its
great! You'll love it. Be a man. It won't hurt you! Just try it. Come on, do you think
that you will become an addict? That's b------! Give him your arm!" He sat
there in semi-conscious state as the needle entered his arm with a slight pinch. The
plunger was pulled and he could see his deep red blood enter the vial. Staring, lost in a trance, his blood slowly mixed
and then gathered speed. The drug seemed to boil with impatience as it realized it had
another slave. Alive, a parasitic embolism, it swirled with excitement; screaming in
silent motion to be released into the healthy body of this young man. It wanted to tear
through the rich, life giving blood, and attach itself forever, sending it's physical and
mental pain for succor. The belt was
loosened, the plunger sank half way, and a warm feeling traversed rapidly up his arm. It
coursed through his vessels until it entered his heart and brain. In an instant he was
lost in a world of slow moving peace. All thoughts and worries were cast aside. The
plunger was withdrawn and plunged again and again. Soon he was throwing up. In a split second he
was transferred into a world that seemed to answer to all his questions by eliminating
them: "What was that thought he had about father? What were his worries?" All
questions and thoughts were swallowed by the alien substance that was gleefully
transforming him into a creature of habit. The thing allowed only moments of pleasure when
compared to the long, desperate cravings, for the next shot. As it sent just the right
amount of pleasurable feelings pounding with in his brain, it tore out all other feelings.
He fell into a dreamy sleep. The demon was within
him. It controlled and demanded sacrifice. Friends, acquaintances, and even family, were
suddenly prey to it's sinister and evil intent to subjugate. The only demon to rear it's
head was him! Lost within the hazy warmth of the drug he would have no cares--except how
to regain the feeling... He awoke filthy with
vomit dried upon his clothing. He was thirsty and with urge to shoot again. Soon he was
lost again... They spent four
days "shooting up". He did not eat. He did not wash or brush his teeth--he just
plunged that filthy, bloody needle, into his arm over and over until finally, he missed
the sore and worn out vein and shot the drug into the muscle of his arm. His arm began to
swell, an abscess formed and he shot more into his other arm on the pretext of
"killing the pain". His life
revolved up and down in tune to the plunger. The urge to shoot heroin became the only
reason to live. They hung out on the corner scheming and devising ways to steal, rob and
connive in order to race over to Spanish-Harlem and journey to the land of the living
dead! He would sneak in the window of his Mother's apartment and steal money to support
his habit. And, on many occasions, he would swipe her keys to the beat-up-hunk-of-steel
she called her car to get his fix; until one night, after shooting up with his
"friends", he wrecked it and left
his mother with out her meager transportation! This went on an
entire summer. He became one of those filthy, skinny, drug users, whom traversed the
streets in packs; ready to pounce on any weak prey that "happened" by. His eyes
were black ringed, his hair filthy and knotted--yet he continued to hang out with the
crew. He was using more drugs than any two of the others. One hot, humid
night, he was hanging out behind Bernies. He had just shot up a "nickel" bag of
dope, taken two "reds"--sleeping pills--and was sipping on a bottle of wine,
when he realized that someone was pulling at his arm. Looking
up, he recognized Aggie. She was pleading with him, "Joe, Joe! Come on wake up!" "Leave me
the #$%@ alone," he screamed at her as he fought her like the demon he was. She
grabbed his arm as her tears dropped in storm upon his face. He swung his arm out and hit
her so violently that she staggered and fell upon the ground. As she arose, he realized
what he had done! He attempted to stand in
effort to apologize, but fell upon the ground as her figure disappeared into the darkness.
It was like a nightmare--yet he knew that he had not been asleep. He yelled at GOD. He
blamed HIM. He screamed so loud that all of his "friends" rounded the corner and
just stared at him. As he was
yelling at HIM, an old woman, dressed in black, pulling a hand cart filled with packages,
passed the alleyway. She was a wrinkled women of approximately seventy. When the guys saw
her, they vied her bag. In a second they were upon her and had wrenched her pocketbook as
she tumbled to the ground. They scurried away before she realized what had occurred. He
was brought back to the world of reality in that short period. Though still drugged, he
was suddenly rational. He could distinctly hear the old woman thanking GOD that she was
not hurt as she got up off of the ground. She then saw him on the ground and rushed over
to him. "Sonny,
are you all right? Did those hoodlums harm you?" Here was a
seventy year old frail woman. She had just been violently assaulted and her bag stolen,
yet she was assisting him--the devil reincarnated--with care and concern! He was both
embarrassed and sorrowful. He arose and helped her put her packages back into the hand
cart. Informing her that he was all right, he thanked her. She replied that JESUS would
watch over him! That very night he
went to the church and slept upon a pew like he had done the night of his fathers funeral.
When he awoke, he felt as if he had slept for several weeks. He was truly refreshed and at
peace. The cravings of the monster with in him were cast adrift in a sea acidic reality:
He was wearing blue jeans that had not been washed in months; His finger nails were black
with filth; The taste in his mouth was revolting. He swirled his tongue around in contact
with the slime that coated the enamel like a fungus and shuddered at the thought of what
he looked like. He stood up and slowly walked to a metal bowl that hung upon the wall by the entrance --it was brimming with Holy Water. He did not think of this fact at the time, he just had the urge to see what he looked like in the reflection of the stainless steel mounting. He was shocked. The face that stared back at him was one he could not recognize! He desperately scooped up the water in his determination to wipe off the mask that someone had glued to his face. With both hands cupped together, he reached deep into the curved interior and washed his face. Well let me tell you Harry, it was the most refreshing water that he had ever splashed upon his being. He was renewed with the thoughts and angers that had essentially driven him to dive so deep into the living world of nightmares, but this time, he was in control! Yes! He was once more in control of his feelings and emotions. He was suddenly beset with the consequences of his actions. He knew he would have to leave this place in order to remove himself from the demons grasp. ******************* EXCERPT: ....... A four story kid with Jack The Cat--A
mascot with The South Florida Chapter of The
Out Laws Motorcycle Gang-A junior--13--member of a '60's version of the Bonnie and Clyde
Gang--A Disciple of Rah Lum Nah, a '60's California cult.... Along this difficult and vast road, through state
after state and city after city, from people of the plains to folks of the south, from
loving, God fearing to hateful, hurt and pain, I would experience every situation that a
body could imagine: A Kidnapping; Sexual Abuse; Confinement; Religous Experience; Hunger;
Death; Joy; Happiness; Love; Compassion; Friendship; God; Angels; Demons; Hate; Bigotry;
Loss... But, through it all, I would find the time to teach
myself to read and write, "... to then read every book I could lay my hands on."
. . yet, was God allowing this? Why would I
ALWAYS be lifted and placed on solid, hallowed ground right before the experience forever
altered me, or killed me.. was purpose laced through out this journey?? When
my "book" and street knowledge
began to congeal into a mass of opposing question, I filed them away in a file marked,
Accident:Personal... when the file grew too large for my immature emotions, I dug an abyss
deep in my mind and threw the file in: Soon, I would find himself continually teetering on
it's brink; my thoughts flooding in a storm of hectic
thought; inventing the answers.. "The
need to overcome thoughts of his father, his Knight in shining armor whom wore a trench
coat and carried a .45, lying in a pool of blood: his dying thoughts of his family; his
hopes; his dreams--Oh! Had he felt his agony tossed upon his mind with ferocious
intensity!--filled his soul with a mixture of sorrow, revenge, and questions... Who was responsible; Tony Black; Sally; Uncle
Frank; Genovese; Gambino; The Police... All of them? And, how could these individuals go
home and play with their children; how did they join their families in celebration that
Easter Sunday so long ago? How could they enjoy each succeeding holiday of family solace
and warmth when they had destroyed the very essence of an entire family? Vagabonds
were left in their wake of cold, hard
silence; lost in nomadic journey upon an endless desert, burdened by a never ending
avalanche, each step of hope foundering in a lucid, liquid sand-trap; all truth and succor
hidden as soon as it was discovered! Death could not be simplified and dignified;
especially when there were others whom were morning that death. He new he had to leave NY
or he would join his friends and relations... DEAD!
So many thoughts converged within his novice mind. Revenge was the traffic cop... He would
get revenge. They had stolen his mothers happiness; thrust them into a world of sorrow and
depravity; ended their lives before they began! "The Family", "This Thing of Ours", had become a
ravaging beast bent upon total destruction; it left orphans of society in it's quest for
life. For a mere child of the storm, it was he whom was left to pick up the pieces. Would
he ever? Would he truly become the man whom revenged the dishonor and sorrow that was
placed upon his family with abstract, total disregard, to the repercussions of this
disastrous act of continuing greed? The
heroes of the theater spoke up as one... You will prevail! But, what of Sparticus? What of
all those heroes whom battled injustice only to die a glorious death in the end! Was he
ready for that? Like Charleston Heston in Ben Hur, would he return for the ending the hero
whom rescued his family with the assistance of GOD? "Oh, Jesus, where art thou now?
Come to me and deliver your power to defeat mine enemies -- They abound like a plague of
locust. Send to them a shower of fire and ice! The death of the first born has occurred!
Please, let my people go! This trial and tribulation has desecrated my soul, my Knight in
Shining Armor is gone. Will you to take up my cause..." Was God going to perform
miracles of Faith? Those same miracles that had burst his soul with HIS power all those
times evil tempted his soul with absolute control? He
could not answer those self imposed questions, later, maybe... But for now, he would have
to meet with the Boss (Gambino, seems I was robbing all the Mob joints in an effort to
"get even") , talk his way out, and then leave NY and plan his action!... All he could do was think of his anger and place blame on "The
Family". Yea, OK, I know what your thinking Harry, "his father's choice of
activity was of his own," but had he
not been delivered into "The Family"; encouraged by "The family"; died
in "The Family? His father was the
proverbial "Racketeer. Joe knew from his travels that crime did not pay. He knew from
living on the streets, looking in from the outside that life represented so much more. He
knew that jails; detention centers; and confinement in general were terrible. The loss of
ones freedoms tore at the very heart of This Thing Of Ours. Death. Confinement. Pain.
Sorrow. Fear. Hate. Selfishness. Greed. These were of the vocabulary of the Mob.... But,
the over riding factor that would lead him to the following situation was based on another
word: revenge!!!! ********************* EXCERPT: "Joe rejoined Sergio and convinced Pauly to come along... Sergio had an idea that would
enable them both to get even and get enough money to set them up again in Miami or
Georgia! Their plan called for a real, live, heist of the gambling den and drop off point
for Mr. Gangster's, Tony Black and Carlo
Gambino. Tonight, both the Don and Blacky were in New Jersey! They'd play cards until
midnight when Tony's bagman arrived and then they would take the place down They would
grab the nightly drop off and get all of the proceeds of the tables! Pauly would be the
driver and would wait outside. Joe had a .38 caliber revolver... with no shells. Sergio
had a twenty two automatic with one shell... and it always jammed! "Hey
Joe, don't worry, were in and out before they know what happened." "Yea,
but what if..." "Your
not worried, are you?..." Joe
was dead set to get even! YES AT LAST HE WOULD GET EVEN!... BUT, NO SHELLS? They arrived at an old store
front in Manhattan.... There were no guards at the entrance, only a single solitary door
blocked their way. They climbed out of the car and opened the door. At first Joe had
second thoughts, but he could not back out; deception and revenge overcame all other
thoughts. . . . . . a
dank, moldy, smoke filled room. Several wiseguys were hanging out, passing the bull. When
they saw Sergio, they looked up, nodded, and went about their business. They walked
through the front room to a door in the back and Sergio knocked in rapid code; the door
soon opened. A large and muscular gentleman gave Sergio the once over as Sergio covertly handed him his pay off. The
door then swung wide open... An
abutting counter on which perched an ancient cash register and phone blocked their
immediate movement. Coming round it, they entered the main gambling room. Seated at five,
felt-covered tables, on brown and weathered, bent cane chairs, were a variety of men; from
gangsters to local wannabes--wanting to be gangsters and pleased to be in their company--
playing cards! Behind the tables, on stained and peeling papered walls, were pictures of
the old country of Italy. Each one was a demonstration of fealty, respect, heritage,
family and politics. The room buzzed with the racket of a gamblers den. Times had changed
but not the events!... "Eh,
Charley. I'll give you six an' a half for five. '' That's
why they call you Cheech the Fleece... Sal already offered 6 for 5." "Yea,
but where is he?..." Predatory
loan-sharks, schooled against the walls viewing the action, waited patiently for a kill
that would line their pockets: someone would go bust and need more money! Over by a door,
with a sign that said "office keep out", was a large poker table; at its head, a
man dressed in a Guinea Tee--sleeveless tee shirt which they call muscle shirts today--and
slacks dealt cards to eight ruff, swarthy fellows. They were seated 'round a cash
cluttered table smoking, drinking and placing bets. Several other tables were crowded with
assorted guys engaged in various games. A kitchen was set up in a room towards the left
side of the main room where sandwiches were being prepared and served. The amazing fact
was that Joe was not frightened: he was prepared to conclude this job with determination.
His revenge was at stake and what could be more important? He
thought for only a minute the consequences of their planned act: This was a mob joint and
they were the kind of evil that would not give up until they found the perpetrators and
delved out punishment; but thoughts of father lying in his life sustaining blood; his
mother with tears in her eyes; his adventures to the hospital; the jail; the forced
journeys; his lost business; overruled this thought. Jumping up
screaming..."Every body put your #$@#ing hands up!" Now
remember, he did not have any bullets and his gun was a revolver. You could see it was
empty if you looked at it... Waving the
gun around so as to keep the fact of its impotency secret, he noticed that Sergio had not
budged! Joe was demanding the attention of over thirty Mafia figures and their subjects;
the room contained over thirty guns--in the hands of experienced wise guys that made a
living killing! He yelled to Sergio to go to the head of the poker table and place his gun
at Mr. Tee's head. Sergio got
a hold of his senses and quickly walked around the main table and placed the gun at the
back of Tony Tees head. Joe then
had Tee call in the guys that were hanging in the front room... Joe then
stripped them of their guns and proceeded to
terrorize them as he began picking up the cash. Suddenly, the power that he had over these
men of respect; the anger he had at these men of respect; just like those mobster movies
he had seen; he in fact became the person of the role he was playing.... "What
you looking at, get your #@%$ against the wall... ...Yea you, I'm talking to you!" Grabbing
all the cash from the tables, he then ordered his subjects to empty their pockets strip
and to keep facing the walls.!. Then he collected all of the cash and clothing into large
paper bags, Sergio ran
towards him, and as they passed the cash register, Joe hit the sale button and removed the
cash. Grabbing all of
the bills, he took the change tray and, like an actor in a scripted, James Cagney movie,
threw the change on the floor with a statement... "Save it for the sweeper..." They
opened the door, ran out, jumped into the car, and zoomed away..... WOW! They did it! He thought to himself as they celebrated by throwing money all around the car. Thirty thousand dollars in cash! He did not think of the consequences, nor implications of his act... He had revenged his father... He had revenged his mother... He had revenged his Uncle... He had revenged his ancestors...",,,,,,, ********************** "As he waited for Pauly, Joe checked the large pockets of his leather jacket and the wads of cash that made them bulge. One part of him wished that he had never stolen the money; wished that this nightmare would end... The one that was consuming the little life he had. No peace. No happiness. No family. Worse than that, was the fact that mother had become a word of so much conflict and emotion. Confusion was the order of the day... though he relished the thought of leaving NY forever with the knowledge of the defeat of his enemies! Pauly finally arrived and they drove to a hotel where they slept the night away-- at least Pauly did." ********************* "The area was blocked off and it seemed the entire Italian community were all crunched into the ten blocks or so that made up the progression route for the celebration of the feast of the Saints. The festive, carnival atmosphere, took control of his thoughts and visions. All he could see were colorfully dressed participants jostling for room as they crowded the food concessions that poked out into the streets like so many brightly lit cubes of color and aromas: sausage fried with tomatoes, onions, garlic and peppers; connolis, freshly made as you waited; his stomach groaned and he grabbed Pauly and they sauntered to a stand that sold meatball sandwiches. He purchased one and devoured it--along with all his thoughts of why he was there..." ************************ Through the crowd, they pushed and shoved their way, until a pitch black
patch, between the red bricks of the houses lining the street, beckoned escape. Turning
into the alleyway's darkness, they were rewarded with a false sense of vision-less safety.
His feelings magnified through his fright of death, Joe squinted his eyes in tight cracks
in order to keep a rage of threatening tears from bursting the dam; releasing pent-up
waters in a flood of a long lost boyhood. With his very breath was on fire, he turned his
attention to Sergio; he was steadily weakening in his arms as his life's blood poured with
blackness upon a black ground in a black alleyway from his blackened heart. His blackened
soul was doomed to a worse fate than that place that he had visited before... Finally,
pushing him to the ground, he groped for Pauly, whispering his name. No one answered him.
As he crawled in the dark he stumbled across him--- He was dead. He had been hit. Those
tears that welled in his eyes, daring to bust forth and drench his soul, he diverted to
anger! Desperately fighting that need to cry, he burst forth from that alley of shame and
death. The crowd, seemingly unaware of the seven or eight shots that had been fired, nor
of the situation of life and death that ruled the Streets of Saints, were but a blur of color and movement. One
of the men had his back turned; as he strove at discovery through the masses of bodies, he hit him in the back with a chair he had
wrenched from a vendor. He dropped instantly: due more to the shock of the unexpected blow
than to injury. Joe then grabbed his gun and careened down the street and in a split
instant was over the roof... ******************** He caught a train and rode it to Ditmars Blvd and walked from there to his
mothers house. It was towards the evening and he knew that all his "friends"
were home; having dinner with their folks. He realized that he had been more than simply
lost... He was never found! He was denying the facts; he had led a life that required
sleeping in hallways and abandoned cars while the world slept in beds with blankets. Where
did he belong? With his family? With the children of the street? In California and hippie
land? With Nihanio and Lost Cloud? Bonnie and
Clyde? Pigny and Popa Joe? On a trawler; a dairy; pulling dirty old and rundown carpet off
floors; painting City Jails; lost in a swamp; in a reform school; a mental hospital; in
his room condemned to pull that old suit of armor down--over and over! With an awful shout,that reverberated off the ghostly buildings, he reached for the gun he had snatched off the ground at the feast a placed it at his head.... suddenly, looming in the shadows of his dreaded thoughts a picture of sanctity, its cleansing powers of hope and love . ***. the strongest he had ever known..... ****....even though it was past midnight, the doors were wide open; beckoning... He mounted the warm, white stone steps and looked hesitantly into the sanctuary in hope; wishing that the old priest that scolded them back when he robbed the poor boxes of The Immaculate Conception Church would appear and offer comfort to his tired mind; he entered... Slowly. A soft, gentle breeze, brushing the alter, caused candles to flicker in the darkness like the many stars that had lit the sky in Pennsylvania; twinkling in hypnotic gesture, beckoning further entry... The Saints stood perched upon their thrones, silently viewing his every
move; patiently waiting for him to defile their sanctuary. He walked into the chapel, made
a sign of the cross, and proceeded quietly down the long lane between the ornate benches
on either side. When he had reached the black, wrought iron railing that separated the
alter--with it's huge Christ Crucifixion--from the Cathedral, he knelt upon the red,
velvet lined knee board. He felt like crying. He KNEW crying would cleanse his heart and
soul... Show his sorrow and penitence! But, his attitude... Or the evil internally
battling for domination demanded otherwise... "Blasphemies.... Blasphemies.. SCREAM BLASPHEMIES IT DEMANDED!"
Twisting, tearing, anger welled to his throat, choking him with it's intensity.
"Why!?" He asked out loud, waving his gun, ready to kill himself or someone
else... "Why did you take my father!? What did they do to you, What! Oh! Now look
what's happened! Why did you allow my father to be murdered? Why did you take him!" A voice
abruptly startled him... Loud, clear, as if
the entire chapel reverberated with the Lord's resounding voice, the words interrupting
all thought: "I AM YOUR FATHER!"... He was dumb-struck... The words continued... "Jesus said that! Yes, my son, those were the words of Jesus. He
declared for you. He died for you. He said he was our Father. FATHER TO ALL HIS CHILDREN!
So, he did not take your earthly father for he is your Father!" He turned
just as a priest swept down the aisle in his black, flowing robes. "What
do you know? Huh?" He whined at him, holding the gun upright. "All you people
say things that are not true! Where is He now? Why don't He come down and get rid of our
problems? Why don't He do something?" The priest
put his arms around Joe's shoulders to comfort him as he told him the story of their
Saviors last days on earth. He explained His last words and then he asked him if his
troubles were as bad as His. He did not answer him. He felt so bad. He had taken His love
and help and stepped all over Him. It was then that the priest said, " Sometimes you
must put aside your anger and let love into your heart. You have plenty of time to find
your place and the reasons to His will. Don't you worry. Take the time to study all those
around you and you will discover many things. If you desire HIS intervention you must pray
and leave your ways... Leave your ways! Leave this CITY!" The priest then asked if Joe needed a place of
refuge for a few days... Joe
informed him he did not and that he was fine. He thanked him and he left with his mind
twisting within it's confusion: the priest had shared his love and patience at just the
precise time he needed it... just like all of the other times... yet what about the world
outside; the dead and the living; the pain and the sacrifice; the lost and the found. And
what of his father? Had he lived, how different would his life truly have been.... would
he have grown up like Tony Black? The sorrow was something that he knew he would never
forget: father and his last day on earth; his experiences thus far; his friends death; the
fact that he continued to place blame on his mother.... when would it end? ..... .. Joe sat alone, on a hard
plastic seat, in an empty car of the Queens express... One of his hands stained with the
blood of Sergio and Pauly, the other holding a sack he had placed the money in: money that
he had been so determined to reap on the pretext of revenge; of honor; of father and
mother; of hate; on the pretext that life was going to be different -- Death became the
reaper of change. Death had become the difference in his life once again; only this time,
it was his fault! "Oh
Lord..." He cried internally. "What have I done... I have killed someone's love
and caused the death of others!" Those
tears that had welled within his eyes so many times, threatening to flow and release the
agony of his heart, were released internally... Rage
erupted from within. He could not wash away his guilt. Oh! The agony of desperately
wanting to cry and wash away his guilt,; his sorrow; his impotent inadequacy to rectify
his situation. His guilt was not of self-pity... it was of loss; both his and theirs: he
did not know Sergio as a brother or as a long time friend, but he had known him as a human
being with hopes, dreams, and a life as hard as his. And, Pauly had been his only friend;
he had become an older brother to him. He continued to hold his tears in check until he
could not hold out any longer... it was consuming his very being,... As the train rambled down the dark tunnel, screeching, screaming,
laughing, flashing bursts of Lucifer's lightening along the way, Joe screamed to his God
in Heaven to take him home! Thrusting the sack through an open window, he released it and
prayed that Jesus would take his guilt along with it... And then, a flash of bright, white
light, flooded his very soul. An heredity of tears
burst the dam of his legacy; flooding; washing; battling with the filth and grime that
coated his life... In heaving torrents of rains of grief and sorrow; of pain and of agony;
of his and all of theirs; they rushed forth draining; emptying; cleansing... It did not end here, it was a beginning, a journey
of Knowledge, a journey that would take him across America..... through riches and poverty
and peoples and ways, through loneliness and despair through renewal and Unto Christ,
"...... All
through this incredible journey, someone watched over me and guided me; rescuing me at
every turn. Though sometimes I received more than a taste of my predicament, my appetite
was usually satisfied in small bites; it seemed that I was allowed to feel, see, and
experience only so much at each stage, until learned and ready, I would be guided through
the next experience. After
a stint in the Armed Forces, where I received my GED, I attended three semesters at Miami
Dade Community College; where he attended an honors program in English... Eventually, after attaining gifts of communication,
knowledge, understanding, and a power and faith in God (though I was yet to HONOR these
gifts!) , I began to master the business world: A Custom Design Wood Work Company; A
Mechanic Shop; A Landscape and Nursery Business; A Consulting Sales and Marketing Firm;
Informercial Production; Flea Market; Boxing Gym; Pawn Shop; A Jewelers Institute; A
Custom Jewelry Business... But,
I never seemed to be satisfied, always starting a business, pouring my energy into it
until it became a power house, then abandoning it to begin another venture! I was driven
by a feeling that my life would cease if I became placid and content; that I had to run,
run, run forward; never slowing down, less I fall flat on my face and cease to exist! Something was wrong... Was back ground? Even in
relationships, it was go, go, go! Had the Curse of Alphonso been truly broken.... Then,
when my last venture--one he began with $2,500 and built in two years into an
eleven-thousand five hundred foot group of companies that involved one-hundred people, and
was featured in major news papers, TV programs, and magazines; with clients including such
renown names as Sylvester Stallone, Bob Lee (Boxing Commissioner and I.B.F. President),
Bob Beamon (Olympic Hero), Maynard Jackson (the Mayor of Atlanta in 1993), and many, many,
more--blossomed four years in a row, the longest I had ever remained in a single place,
and threatened me with security and happiness, I began to truly believe the Curse of
Alphonso had ended and I had discovered my purpose and happiness. "But had he truly discovered his purpose in
life? Was his purpose some how entangled
within a web spun from the many roads he had traveled; including his most recent?' 'Was
his perceived success just a disaster--or was it a beginning to an ending, a destruction,
a release from a cocoon that had him blinded within it's fragile, soft and comfortable,
silken threads; threads pulled and refined from lies and false bravado; threads that he
had in fact, woven himself , in his attempt to hide the degradation, destruction, and
perversion of his family through The Curse
of Alphonso?' And
then, like the symbol of his new found home, Atlanta's very own Phoenix, rising from the
burnt offerings of it's troubled past, purpose, it's wings of truth, gracefully swept,
reaching, striving, knowing it's very depth, swooped the thoughts of Rocky and he
discovered his destiny! "Questions! Questions! Questions! Always
questions... Am I to begin all over?... But
the void is full--it overflows it's banks with eternal sufferings! I HAVE NO ROOM FOR MORE
QUESTIONS! Must I put my thumb out and travel
the road in reverse; a road I know is straight and direct; one I can see ending in plain
and simple truth?... Can you really ask me to
substitute humility for the wall of pride I have built from all those fabricated
memories?... Must I expose their truths and fears that have gathered into that vast and deep abyss?... But, compressed are they,
weighted down with the pain and suffering and torment and degradation of so many before
me! Am I to resurrect their faults; their mistakes; their treachery; their vice; their very secrets?... My secrets too?...
Oh, Lord, is this my only means for the reparation of the souls of my many and vast
ancestors and the ending of the curse?... What
of Father?... What will they say?... And
Mother?... Grand Mother?... Even she?... The truth?... But she lives yet! And what of
Great, Great, Grandfather Alphonso?... What will become of
the five generations of great and gentile ancestors I have invented and placed upon
father-figured thrones of marbled thought and
dream..." And
so, with his questions swallowed by answers, Rocky, educated in mind, body, and spirit,
with vast amounts combat training and front line experience, became a full time M.A.G.I.C.
Warrior (Most Amazing Gift In Christ) . He
threw his weight into the corner of that entity which had nourished him and protected him;
setting out on a new and exciting journey--A
journey that would require all of his knowledge, experience, and training: He became a Front Line Knight under the banner of
The Knight of Good over Evil! His final quest would
be to give back; to inform; to teach; to show; to assist those whom live their lives with
questions of their worth and cause; to demonstrate that hate, bigotry and loneliness has
an enemy: truth and knowledge. His-story,
open for the world to see and know, after 40 years of
waging battle after battle, finally ended The Curse of Alphonso! ' |
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