Hey. Get me out of here.

How the hell did I end up here, this empty place where no one can see me, touch me or more importantly, hear me.

Why am I locked up, away from the world outside this jar-like existence. Who did I piss off? What was my grievous sin?

I know I should not have written that piece about God. It was heresy. I’m sorry. I got carried away when WordPress allowed me to publish almost anything, without a censure, without guidance, without a clue  

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 (What the  .  .  . .  where did this gobbledygook come from? I never typed it. Who did? Was this generated automatically? By whom? And for what purpose?)

about what I was and was not supposed to do with this new calling; yeah, I blame them, those manipulators hiding behind the curtain, pretending to be all so important, above us wannabe writers. They’re the ones you should focus and cast your wrath upon.

C’mon. I said I was sorry. No, I don’t pretend to know all about the racial problem in America. I can not speak for the Blacks. even though I wrote about my good friend Joe and Nat Turner and slavery and  . . . oh . . . my . . . God! You saw that comment I made about the lilly-white area of the Hudson Valley. I asked if any Blacks lived there. I was only joking. I’m going to a meditative conference there, at the Omega Institute. And I just wanted to know if there was any urban atmosphere. No, it wasn’t racial, nor did I meant for it to be seen as racial.

Let me go, let me go

 You see, I grew up in a racially diversified section of North Philly. I learned to harmonize on the corner and how to box from African American guys of whom I will always be indebted. I also learned at an early age that I had what my Black friends called, “a lot of heart.” Stupid sometimes — that comes with the territory of growing up Greek. But no one could fake “heart” nor the camaraderie I shared with those of a darker skin. (Shit, mother humper. You ever seen my countrymen from south of Greece? Not only are they dark, they got kinky hair. I swear to God! Even my uncle Nick, of whom we named our son, Nicholas,  had the hair — who knows what my genetic background really has mixed in with it. Maybe the really cool part of my personality stems not from Greece, but Ethiopia!

And maybe that’s why you are persecuting me and not permitting any of my posts to appear in public. You don’t like minorities.

Or maybe I should have thought twice before mouthing off that I knew the real purpose of life. (To Know, Love and Serve God). Yeah, I ripped it right out of the old Baltimore Catechism. Do they still publish those Catholic books? haven’t seen one since grade school, and that was before Oswald assassinated Kennedy.

Please   .   .   .    please   .   .   .    P L E A S E       .     .     .     let me out! I finally found an activity in Life that gives me purpose, one that I find that I am losing  track of time in because the clock goes so fast while I’m so intensely involved. I’m having FUN again. I am writing with a purpose. Please don’t take it away.

I just started to write  after vowing a year ago that I would put on paper those stories of my life that could possibly enlighten, entertain and/or caution others to refrain from taking such actions as those I took. Humbly, I felt I had something to say.

Remember when I was in the Army and  attended AIT? Advanced Individual Training (we called it “advanced infantry training” from our barracks where we learned the art of defense and how to kill). Remember me getting stoned on wacky weed with another young trainee — a Black guy (there he goes again, using the color card), who was my closest friend despite him being raised in New Jersey. The newly minted Second Lieutenant. the training officer, approached me. He must have sensed I was a little high. I forget the start of the conversation, but You remember how I said that “Jesus lives” through the reading of the Bible. And the only way that man can live beyond his own life span, was to write a book. I almost got an Article 15 for goofing on him that day.

Was it just a hazy thought created by a 60s mind-set and some good Columbian Shit, or did I really mean it when I promised I would one day write about  life, to leave the writings as a legacy for I don’t know who or to whom.

So, let’s go. Publish me or  .  .  .  I was going to say “Perish” me. But i don’t want to tempt this god that has trapped me in the confining space where a mouse has a better chance of getting his word out than I do. At least the mouse can squeeze through a tiny space. It would be easier for me to get out than for a camel to get through the eye of a needle. Ok, Ok, it’s not original. How creative can you get when you don’t know where or for whom your next word, your next breath, your next thought will possibly get. I don’t want it to stay here, inside this computer-like box where no one visits or cares to even preserve and dust off for some future consideration.

I want out.

Now!

Please!