The Spell of Ai

retribution

If you’ve been hanging out here much, you might not have noticed that the pronoun “I” doesn’t appear in my writing. That’s because it’s not about me, it’s about you.

The time has come to confess a little bit about myself, just because.

I was born with a curse, a Master level Black Belt degree in verbal jujitsu, so I apologize in advance for being me, and for bringing you into this foreboding place.
I survived a childhood with a psychopathic stepfather who beat us mercilessly every day, cursed us with withering obscenities, sexually assaulted my siblings and enslaved us. Harvey once emptied a Baretta 22 caliber semi-auto handgun in my direction as I was running down our lane, a nine-round magazine, I counted them as they went by.

More than once, he leveled a fully loaded high power rifle at my torso. He wanted to kill me because I knew what he was. My mother never believed me, my absentee biological father never believed me, he left me for dead.

I survived a prison term without a scratch, not because I’m big and strong, but because I’m different and I know it. If I had to open my mouth in defense of myself, shock and awe was coming out, in the kindest and gentlest of ways. Once a large black man sat down right beside me (a violent felon); he asked me if I’d ever been kissed by a man. Nothing. He asked me if I was going to stab him with the pencil in my top pocket, which was always there, sharp because I liked to write, “in your eye if I can, but up the nose will do”.

Those animals left me alone not because they were afraid of me, but because they fear the unknown.

I have in the forty-plus years since led a squeaky-clean life. I don’t lie and I don’t commit crimes.

I live alone because I’ve finally learned that abuse leaves its mark on us, and its face is recognizable. When I recognize abuse, it always comes with the face of The Harvey Monster. Most people are not prepared for the defense mechanism. My superhuman verbal command can wound swiftly and runs deep in the soul. There will be collateral damage. No one knows that better than my own family.

I started writing here shortly after my youngest brother put a bullet in his brain, another casualty of The Harvey Monster. My threshold grows short.

I despise followers because they never read, I’m not looking for friends, my audience is small (fewer than 100) but only a couple of them have the courage to engage with me, those that do I reward. My readers are highly valued, and my read list is short (8) because I want them to feel valued, and I don’t need the distraction of endless emails, furthermore I find much of the writing in here uninteresting. Nor am I willing to pit myself against a mindless algorithm.

In short, Dave don’t care. I’m still likeable, but I never aspired to be a nice guy. I can even be attractive, just don’t get too close, because I will force you away. Extreme abuse causes one to lack remorse. The military knows that; these make the best soldiers.

I have to restrain myself when engaging new creators here in Substack. I can shut down a thread in ten words or less without uttering a single obtuse verb. I suspect that even the haters are afraid to engage me (although they might hack my shit).

Here’s the thing:

The truth tellers are never going to be popular. Among all the gods, Casandra was the most despised; he/she was born with the powers of sight and predicted the future with an unerring degree of truth. Because of that Casandra was unbelieved and despised, fear of the unknown. The outcome, as you might guess, was not desirable.

My talent is both my ally and my curse. My intention is not to wound, but to confront you, and take you out of your comfort zone. It’s my service to you because living is unfair, it’s unfair because it’s supposed to be and we shouldn’t want it any other way.

So, there you go.

Strength and honor, go in peace.

When confronted with an adversary of superior size and strength, when death or defeat seem imminent, nothing is lost by fighting back. Ancient Norse edict