One step forward, and one, two, three back

There are a few things that have been weighing on my mind, wondering I suppose, how to tell you. This is simply a message in no particular format. I didn’t want to be trapped by convention, essay, poem, or otherwise. In my humble opinion, the English language sucks, and I wish that we could all be telepathic sooner rather than later. Let me preface this by saying I have no reason to lie to you, why would I?

Let’s start with the ‘Joe Rogan Experience,’ you know the guy who was booed for taking horse medicine (not) to heal from an alleged sickness. He had on his podcast or talk show not too long ago, a gentleman, who — forgive me, I forgot his name, and frankly I’m too lazy to go looking for it — said that without it, we’re being pushed backward regards our sovereign rights, or lack thereof. I’m not sure what he called the phenomenon, but I’ll call it the ‘creep’ method.

This is how the ‘creep’ method works: A person, for our sake, another human being, your equal, (in this story, we’ll call him Cain of the Cabal) walks up to you, getting as close as possible to the point you become uncomfortable. He stands there, noting your discomfort, watching you take a step back, breathing heavy, heart beating fast, plenty of questions circling your brain, waiting for you to calm down. Once you do, calm down that is, he takes another step, drawing even closer, so close in fact, you can feel his breath on your nose, you can smell what he ate for lunch or dinner, take your pick. Startled at this repeat attempt, by such forward bold measures, this time, you take two steps back, hoping that more space between you does the trick, and that this bully of a man takes a hint. For your own sake, you are only trying to be polite, to avoid a fight; you’re trying to do the right thing. One of the questions you have, but won’t ask, is what’s the idea (his complete agenda for one)? And another, why am I not standing my ground?

The obvious answers: He’s pushing you, and you are letting him (giving him permission), and it’s happening mostly because you don’t like confrontation, and it goes against your education / indoctrination / program. You were taught mostly to avoid violence or at the very least, disagreements. Besides, he’s not really hurting me? Is he? Before you have a chance to ask your questions, he steps even closer, and you step back, not once, but twice, then thrice. Quickly, before you have a chance to turn, he’s in your face again. It’s time to act, you think to yourself; but you don’t, regretting that you been pushed even this far, too far.

After time passes, years in fact, you have acquiesced, bent over backward to the point of breaking your back. You have given your time, and in that time, your valuable effort, the energy it took for you to feel better about your stance, but then you realized the last few steps have taken you close to the edge of a cliff or back to the wall, not much farther to go. You are miles, hundreds of miles, from where you started, on the verge of giving up everything, your life, thinking: how much would it have taken to stand up to this man called Cain of the Cabal? Maybe getting punched in the mouth and punching back. Maybe even running. Your mind begins to ratchet up possibilities, but then you remember the laws, the rules, following orders, and not causing trouble, as a good citizen, as a Patriot.

All of this is based in fear, and you know deep down that’s true. Why would you lie to yourself?

You never thought to find out what this man wanted, and what it all means. Hence, many of us, freely and willingly allow the man, on the six o’clock news to tell us what to do, how to behave, without a word, without a protest though he knows nothing about YOU, doesn’t know your name, doesn’t care (I know this because I met the man. I was that man.), your medical history or your individual circumstance, your beliefs. And how you feel about God.

He told you about the death rate at first, but that wasn’t enough. Then he changed the death rate to cases, and strictly counted those. He knew your heart would beat fast at seeing the so very large numbers. And, in alarming fashion, bright bold letters streaming and scrolling across the TV screen, threw in words like ’emergency’ and ‘crisis’ and ‘safety’; he ordered his billionaire friends to talk, share uncensored information, some doctors, others not, actors and musicians and athletes — all those people you held up as idols. And why not, you believed them to better than you in the time of bread and circus, because heck, Shaq throws down a mean dunk and Vin Diesel drives a fast car. And I can’t do that. As for the politicians and businessmen, check behind the curtain. They’ll be refunding your tax money (that was yours in the first place) and selling you water, while thousands of gallons flow free beneath Terra’s crust.

Thus, you, and no one else, granted them this unspoken authority.

They told you there were lots of deaths, but you failed to see them with your own eyes, of bodies piling up in the street. You watched them build fences around your seats of power, the capitol, the white house, but even that did not alter your thinking. There are protests around the world, but the man tells you, there’s nothing to see here, to move along, maybe to that cliff you’re now standing on where you’ll be arrested or executed if you resist the lame stream ways. In fact, you won’t see it anywhere on TV.

Now, see where you stand, if the man should take away every possible way to defend your rights. He wants your guns, maybe your bows and arrows, and maybe even your sticks and stones. All the land you have. All the marbles. It is the last hurdle he must clear, any idea that you could resist, maybe even having a better idea.

But first, ask the man, if you dare, what’s in the vials of seemingly clear liquid before the nurse sucks it up into the syringe pointed at your arm. Ask the man why seemingly healthy athletes collapse on the field of play from heartaches with no prior history of blood getting to the right places. Ask the man why some people in sports arenas and other venues wear masks and many others do not, all while sitting next to one another.

What do they hide from? Or, are they complicit in crimes like bank-robbing? You know deep down in that big brain of yours this is faulty logic. You see the lines of demarcation, right? The man told you there’s only so much you need to know, just enough to earn a paycheck way below the cost of living.

As a means of separating you, citizens of the world, he told you as American Patriots to hate the Germans, the Japanese, the Russians, the Chinese, the North Koreans, the Native Americans, the blacks, the whites, the Mexicans, then terrorists, but mostly those who were causing trouble in the Middle East. I personally don’t have a beef with the Afghans, and I never personally met any member of the Taliban or ISIS. They all live so far away. From my limited understanding, figments of my imagination. The bogeyman or so it says in the script. Might have know better if they were wearing blue windbreakers embossed with three letters on the back.

The man says I have enemies, and I bet you believe him. But I also bet Putin, Jing, Osama Bin Laden, and I could possibly be good friends as fellow human beings, sharing the same lands, bread, and water. The farmer in China and the one in Russia are the same as the one in Afghanistan that faraway land, someone else’s home, where I so easily carried a deadly rifle and 60 rounds of ammo everywhere I went. What could I say? The man told me we needed to practice using our weapons, and our protective warrior ways, in Afghanistan.

And at one time in my mixed up mind, and in this still mixed up world, I believed him.

Published by: frankmarquezwritings

I'm a writer, and have been for most of my adult life. Without making this sound like a resume, I wrote creatively in college, dabbling in poetry, short stories and play writing. Later, I became a journalist, public affairs specialist, copy editor and eventually a guy who ran his own newspaper. Now, I'm back to letting my imagination run wild in some new creations including a science-fiction novel. Somehow, I also managed to teach English to high school kids, and roam the battlefields of Afghanistan as a field historian. Field historian may be a misnomer considering all I did was write abstracts summarizing military unit profiles and missions that included hundreds of interviews of troops and contractors in combat. I grew up in a small town called Gering, Nebraska, before escaping to Pomona, California, where I spent my last two years of high school, graduating from Ganesha High School in 1983. I have a Bachelors in English from the University of La Verne (1987), and a Masters in Education from UNLV (2007). In between, I worked for government - the Army and TSA. I served tours in Panama, D.C., and Tokyo, all thanks to a teacher who encouraged me to see the world before I settled down. As hobbies, I run, hike and bicycle long distances. I have also been known to surf and ski. I now live in my hometown after moving back in June 2015. I get to see family on a regular basis, breath fresh air, and not have to ride the D.C. metro or get stuck in traffic. In fact, I ride my bicycle whenever I can. I'm happily married to my wife Lisa, and we watch over a pack of fur babies, our dog Charley, and three cats Spike, Bootsy, and Franky (his shelter name). If you should ever visit me in west Nebraska, be prepared to feast your eyes on paradise.

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