Saturday night

was a little better.
Sunday, I slept until about 10am., then went and made my own instant coffee, instead of going to Serda's and getting a newspaper and a cup of theirs.

The Battle For My Soul



Don't listen to him!

 There is now a battle for my soul going on, between the Baptists, and the people from the Revival, which takes place at the Convention Center, every weekend.

This past Sunday, as I was cleaning out my backpack and washing up in Cooper's Park, a man walked up to me. He was wearing a button up shirt, and looked to be about 50-ish, and a little bit like Eric Clapton. He told me that the Revival was going on 'right now," and said that he had been sitting in there when God told him to come outside and invite people to it. I guess I was his "mark."

Don't listen to them!

Apparently, there was an "evangelist" from England inside, who was curing diseases, by the laying on of hands and speaking in tongues. He was doing this on the second floor. I told the man that I would "pop my head in" and that I "might" see him in there. I still had to re-pack my backpack and put on clean clothes.

I hate to feel pressured to attend, and even worse, participate in things that are intended to be spiritual, but which are in the hands of humans. I walked towards the Revival, (and the beer store.)

It being Sunday, the football games were just to start on the radio. I was looking forward to drinking a few beers behind the store, while listening to the games, since Saturday night's tips were sufficient to give me that freedom.

I approached the Convention Center. I felt as if I was being watched, and as if I had personally promised the guy who invited me that I would check it out. I was wishing that I had been more ambiguous, because I felt like I was shirking and avoiding and running from God by not going straight into the building. Instead, I planned to go around to a side door, climb the stairs, poke my head in, and be strong in my resolve to run (like hell) if a group of people accosted me, speaking unintelligibly and attempting to snatch my body and drag me towards some kind of alter.

I thought it would be nice to be cured of my addiction to cigarettes and alcohol and my lust for certain women, Asian one's for example, but I also felt drawn toward my original plans. I almost wished that the guy had never spoken to me, because I was wracked with guilt.

Then, I heard a train approaching.

This was my break. Looking down the tracks, I saw the approach of a freight train, coming around the bend, at a pretty good clip. I didn't know if it would slow down, forcing me to wait on it, so, after judging its speed, I ran across the tracks, and thus became hidden by the train from the view of any revivalists, who might have been looking out the window, while chanting, in order to lure my soul into the building.

I thought about continuing to run but, thinking of my promise, I climbed the two flights of stairs, and entered the lobby.

I saw a couple of what looked to be ushers, in maroon blazers. I was hoping that they would rudely ask me 'Can I help you," so I could feign being affronted and leave. They didn't say anything, just looked at me.

So, that was their game; reverse psychology. They could read me enough to know that I was turned off by aggressiveness, and didn't want to get myself into an uncomfortable situation, such as having a gang of people lay their hands upon me and drag me to an alter and hold me down and try to make me repeat things after them. They sensed that I didn't like to be pressured, so they backed off. I felt pressured by this, and so I left.

Right this way, we're just about to get started.

I didn't want anybody asking me if I was "saved," only to claim "You don't sound too sure," after I answered in the affirmative. I envisioned them surrounding me, preventing my escape (by the laying on of hands,) as they rebuked Satan and commanded him to come out of me, and the ensuing awkwardness when, at a certain point I would impatiently say "Can I go drink my beer and listen to the game now ...and can that girl with the strawberry-blond hair come with me? I swear I felt something leaving me and now I feel as light as a feather. If you'll just excuse me, I'll just drop a couple dollars in the collection plate and be on my way."

Monday,

I still had some money left. I played at The Garage, at their open mic night, in the evening. The football game was on the TV.

There was a band onstage, and I joined the drummer and a bass player in doing "Come Together," by the Beatles, and then "Day Tripper," by that same band.

Then, I sat back down and watched the game with a guy, who works in computers, doing what he called "boring stuff" for the DMV. He bought me a beer. The Jets won.

I left there thinking that I hadn't gained much by the experience, except a beer and about 3 compliments.

I was played an electric guitar, owned by one of the guys in the band.

It was a coincidental, having sat next to the computer guy, because before going in, I had sat outside, warmed up, and composed most of a song, which I called "Computer Geek Blues," (about a guy who's woman runs off with a computer geek, from Walnut Creek.) The computer guy hadn't slept in 48 hours, and he was alternately friendly (buying me a beer) and cantankerous (telling me that he hadn't payed attention to what I played).

All in all, I left there thinking "What did THAT accomplish?"

I wondered if I had brought a curse upon myself by having blown off the revival, the previous afternoon. The revivalists would probably say that I had...

Tuesday

Tuesday was pretty much forgettable. I worked in the morning on my song, Computer Geek Blues, In hopes of having it ready for Serda's Songwriter's Open Mic, the following night. At night, I played at the acoustically superior spot, and made 8 dollars, even though no more than a dozen people went by. That is a dozen who weren't homeless and asking for the 8 dollars.

Wednesday

Wednesday, I continued to break a long-standing routine by working on music first, instead of blogging first. This after first getting an energy drink. I worked on the Computer Geek Blues, and didn't blog at all. I wanted to have it ready for Serda's.

A couple of girls had come along on Saturday night, who turned out to be Rebecca and her friend. They knew me from Serda's and told me that they liked "The Carcass Song," and even threw me five bucks, and brought me a (Serda's) coffee. Rebecca said that she intended to play there Wednesday, and I told her that I would most likely be there. I hate to promise things, because that is when the forces of Good and Evil wage a battle; one trying to help me keep my promise, and the other trying to make me feel like doing something else and wishing that I never promised.

Jeff's Church

Wednesday evening, I called Jeff the potter from the library about going to see his church. He had invited me more than a month prior, and our paths hadn't crossed since, for one reason or another.

He picked me up at the library, and brought me to his church, where they were serving a meal of chicken breasts, black-eyed peas and corn and bread. I ate a bit, and then struggled to stay awake through a sermon about Mary washing Jesus' feet and drying them with her hair. It was very cerebral, and diametrically opposed to the picture of the Revival, painted for me by those who have invited me there.

After the service, I mentioned to Jeff and a friend of his who had joined us, that I had been invited to the Revival. In unison, they said "Don't go!" They said that there were heretical teachings divulged there.

I met Jeff's wife and youngest daughter, Leigh, who rode with us to where we dropped her off at her house.

She is a writer and poet. She told us one of her clever musings, but due to copy write considerations, I cannot repeat it here.

John, The Street Preacher

Upon being dropped off at Serda's, I learned that Rebecca had indeed played and then left in a hurry.

I went to the church sleeping spot, to find someone sleeping under the central air unit, where I sometimes slept. It turned out to be a guy of about 60 years old named John, who said that he was a street preacher. I told him that I had just come from church. After asking me a few questions about what church, he asked me if I had been to the revival. I told him I hadn't.

He spoke in glowing terms about the revival, and invited me to attend on Thursday night. I told him that I might "pop my head in," and check it out.

I Go To The Revival

Thursday morning came, and I woke up. John the street preacher had already left. I wondered how, out of all the places to sleep in Mobile, he had found the exact spot where I slept.

Mom Sends Money

I went to get my egg, and then had a typical day. I was aware of the revival at 7pm. I couldn't help having 2 beers and sitting out to play for a little while. I made 8 bucks, just as I had on Tuesday night, and in the same denominations.

I prepared to go to the revival to check it out. I knew it would cut into my playing time, but, I thought about how my mother had sent me some birthday money, which is due to arrive maybe today, and I justified taking some time off. I took a few minutes off to drink one more beer, and then went to the place.

I walked in, and was directed by an usher type guy in a maroon blazer, to where the revival was already in progress.

As I rode the escalator down, into what seemed like a dungeon, I could hear the roar of a sound system, and the voice of a woman, singing and encouraging people to be revived.

I went into a large auditorium, which was half full of people. There were around 200 of them, I would estimate. Most of them were standing up and holding their hands up in the air, some of them with their eyes closed, some of them holding babies. Many of them seemed to be in a hypnotic trance. I was in a Budweiser trance.

You need to get there earlier!

I found a seat and sat down and listened for a while. The music was simple, and consisted of mostly three chords, nothing very interesting, and they lyrics were pretty much made up of cliches, which are Jesus related; stuff about being washed in blood and being lifted up, to dry, I guess. It was boring and I didn't feel any spirits moving in me, and I got the impression that I was at a poor man's Christian-rock concert, and I thirsted for Amy Grant, or J.S. Bach. One young guy came up and laying a hand on my shoulder, asked me how I was doing. I told him "OK," and he walked off, perhaps repulsed by the evil within me.

I eventually left, after the quality of the sound system began to grate on me. I thought that the God that I believe in wouldn't "put himself out there" like that, and would fix the sound coming out of the speakers, in between making the lame walk and the blind see.
I might give it another try, maybe when sober. In other words, I don't think I'll go back.