Life As I Play It

I nearly died when I was twenty-nine. Not by accident, not some oh-you-got-so-lucky situation that usually ends up on a talk show, someone had me dead to rights. I was only spared because I was needed alive at the time…at least, that’s what I thought.

But God has funny ways of getting your attention.

Let’s back up a bit.
When I was twenty-nine, I was staying in on the North Side of Saginaw, Michigan. It was about as close to hell as you could get without dying; every other home on the block was either burned out or a former crime scene. Nights were riddled with gunfire and the community park was a haven for hustlers and small children alike. Cops never came up there by themselves, and if they were up there, count on itchy trigger fingers. I couldn’t blame them; in the end, everyone just wants to go home, right?

As usually, I had gotten myself involved with something I had no business being a part of. Put simply, it was a contest only a few people knew about and the winner would take home a fair amount of money. I’m training—as usual, mind you, nothing had changed about my routine—when something funny happened. I couldn’t explain it, but as I’m punching and kicking the heavy bag, my legs feel as though I’m dragging them through sand, my shoulders strain and the muscles stretch with each punch. I can feel the shock of each blow against the back reverberate back through me and it hurts. My legs, formerly my best asset, now felt as though they took whole minutes to bring up. I tried resting and going back at it to no avail; it was as though my strength, speed, and endurance had been suddenly, unexpectedly cut in half. I wasn’t injured. It had been months since my last serious fight. There was no reason for this. It shook me to the core. Up until that moment, I figured I would fight for the rest of my life; my definition of immortal.

A few days later, I got a look at my competition as he swiftly beat a friend of mine into submission. Had I felt like I was in my prime, I wouldn’t have been worried. Shaken, unable to ascertain what the hell was wrong with me…there was no way I was going to take this guy on. Screw the money.

I went to the person who organized the event and told him I wanted out. He asked me if I was certain. I said I was. He appeared to let it go at that.
That night, as I returned to where I was staring, someone pulled into the intersection a block away. They stopped, and I looked up in time to see a dark silhouette step out of the car.
I felt something rip past my head before I saw the light, heard the defeaning explosion. I had never heard a gunshot that close. It was my breaking point. I lay there, on the ground, huddled, terrified, almost in tears, in the middle of the road in the worst ghetto I had ever been in.

The man who organized the event asked me if I was okay as I re-entered the place I was staying. Yes, I was fine. No, I won’t be dropping out of the event. I got the message. Fuckhead.
That night, with my cot traditionally placed under the pay phone by the men’s room (I slept light, and wanted to be woken by any movement), with everyone else sleeping and snoring, I got down on my knees for the first time in nearly three years. I folded my hands, lowered my head, and gave up.
I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know where else to go. I don’t want to die. Please…help me get through this. Help me get out of this situation. I will work. I will go straight. I will do whatever You ask of me. Please, God…just meet me halfway.

My life has not been the same since that night.
Two days later, the event ended positively, almost humorously—and I made a lot of money.
The next week, I was out of the shelter, and in my own apartment. I have not been homeless since.
The following month, I had a full-time job. A friend of mine sold me his old car.

Just like that. One prayer changed everything.

People often tell me that I can get away with things that other can’t, or that I seem to have figured something out that others haven’t. I wouldn’t give myself that much credit. In fact, I wouldn’t give myself any credit. The fact of the matter is, I have a standing arrangement with God; as long as I continue to work and pursue my ambitions, without bringing harm to others unless absolutely necessary, then He will always, without fail, continue to provide aid. This is the very definition of Meet Me Halfway. So many people expect God to do all of the work and then turn away when He doesn’t; He doesn’t work that way. In a dark tunnel, God is your map, He is your flashlight, but you still have to walk to the end of the tunnel.

It’s a beautiful arrangement, too. It allows me not to worry about most things because I know they will be resolved. They may not be resolved in the way I want them to be, but the point is, they are. I pray. He answers. I work. He does the rest. It’s allowed me to get this far.

I still get a little emotional going food shopping (no joke) because I’m grateful that I can. So many people take the simple things for granted. That I can sit here, write this blog, drink the tea I bought and listen to the music from the other computer beside me is nothing short of a miracle. Everything I am, was, and will be I attribute to God; I do none of it on my own.  I only advance because He allows me to.

I wanted to take a moment and use the gift He gave me to publicly acknowledge my gratitude for all He has done for me. Thanks for reading.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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About two years ago, I was walking home from work. I was a rentacop, in uniform, finishing up a night shift on the East Side of Jefferson City, Missouri. No do-rag, no gloves, nothing that could construe me as shady.

Less than a block away from my site, a cop pulls up alongside me and cordially asks me what I’m doing. Walking home, I explain. He asks me where I’m coming from. I exercise my right to remain silent and point to the two towers behind me. He asks me my business there, and I slowly pull back my jacket to reveal a badge. He’s then kind enough to tell me that he ‘guesses that it’s okay’ and then pulls away.

I was angry. Not just at the situation, but it was one of the only times I remember feeling powerless…

Today, I check my news feed and the first story I see is about a woman who reported her child missing. She’s now been charged with filing a false police report, prostitution, and there’s a suspicion of human trafficking.

Police still can’t find the girl.

The second story I find tells of the Mohler family, six in total, being charged with sexual abuse allegations that go all the way back to the mid-eighties. According to CNN Justice, their victims “came to law enforcement authorities with stories of sexual performances, mock weddings, rape with various objects and a forced abortion during their childhoods.”

Forced abortions.

This means they…
Thinking about it made me want to put my fist through something…someone.
Say what you will about the street, but one of the things I enjoyed about it was that these kinds of things didn’t happen. They call it street justice for a reason. Acts such as these got you killed, plain and simple.

Here, prosecutions take years and drag the victims right back through the act. They’re never the same again. And the kids…well, they’re lucky if they’re ever found again.

Coming from a life where I used to fight literally, and directly, against things like this, it’s very difficult to accept that there’s nothing I can do anymore.

No one should ever be a victim. No one, especially a child, should ever live in fear.

And so I’m left to ask why. Paralyzed and powerless, I want to know why things are this way?

How does anyone possibly justify raping a child? A woman? Anyone?
Isn’t there something in your mind that’s telling you this is wrong? Especially when it comes to kids?

Rape is primarily about power, not pleasure, and the sick fucks who do this kind of thing are almost always cowards (although I’ve met a few genuinely evil people in my life). Exposing them is easy; beating the hell out of them in front of everyone takes their power away, shows that they are just as vulnerable as everyone else.

But I still want to know why it’s allowed to happen…

How does anyone justify mass killing with religion?
If you’re going to kill a bunch of people, do me a favor, have the balls to do it because you want to, and not because you think God (Allah, Jesus, Buddha, whoever you believe in) is okay with it. Stop using God as a crutch for your evil. Stop using God as a crutch for your fucking shortcomings and stand on your own two feet.

Maybe this is just me going through a crisis of faith. I’m a Christian, not a zealot, and God knows I understand why atheists choose their paths. I look…I’ve experienced…a lot of the bad things in the world and in my darker moments, I wonder if God really did throw in the towel, and maybe we’re just out here on our own. If we’re so determined to self-destruct, then who’s He to stand in our way?

Honestly, baring my soul a little bit…this is why I tend not to get close to a lot of people.
I know I’ll never get answers to these questions. I’ll maintain my faith and my principles and trust in the grand design just as I always have.

But I want answers.
And I wish I could do more.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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With the rage and force of a meteor, she plummeted through the black vacuum of space. Darkness gave way to reddened skies as she struck the ground, hitting with enough force to rouse all of Heaven.

She looked around. Mist rose from the ground.

The screams, the horrible, agonizing screams of those hurt or dying, rose through the ground, piercing her ears again. She clutched her hands to her ears and fell to her knees, desperate to drown them out, if only for a moment. They had grown in number and intensity over the past hour. They could not drown out her own conscience, the eternal voice in her head telling her that she had failed, that they were all dead because of her. The mechanical sirens echoing from down below, a universe over, only indicated to her that many more would be judged that day. Those that were already screaming took the sirens as a sign that help was on the way.

There would be no hope for them. Not today.

She couldn’t bear it anymore. Her heart threatened to beat its way out of her chest, and her teeth were clenched so tightly that it hurt.

“GOD!” she shrieked. She knew this wasn’t the way to reach Him; through anger and despair. At the moment, she didn’t care. “ANSWER ME!”

“Ariel,” the gentle, masculine voice was omnipresent, everywhere and nowhere. It would’ve been calming if she hadn’t been so angry. Instead, she stood, fists clenched, shaking, and she looked around. “What troubles you, my daughter?”

“What troubles me?” she echoed, her voice shaking. “Do you not hear them, my Lord?” For the first time, the screams existed outside of her head, flooding Heaven. There wasn’t an Angel—or demon—that was unable to hear it.

There was a thunderous explosion that emanated from the ground, and the screams doubled. Ariel could see in her mind’s eye what had just occurred; hundreds more had just died on Earth. Another plane had crashed into the second structure. Fires not even hell could produce billowed up from the gaping hole in the once-mighty structure. She fought back tears.

“How…” her voice was quaking. Tears flew from her eyes as she turned her head to the sky. “HOW could you let this happen?”

No answer.

“No matter their sins, they did not deserve this,” she continued, trying to raise her voice above the screams and sirens. Her knees gave out, she fell to the ground. “They did not deserve this…”

Her mind was flooded with images of what was surely to come: an endless string of funerals, memorials, grievances, wounds that no counseling would ever be able to heal. “Is it any wonder they turn away from You?” she whispered, knowing the consequences such a question could bring, and no longer caring. “You say You love them, yet You do nothing in their hour of need.”

“My child…” God’s voice finally returned. “It was no mistake that I appointed you Guardian of Earth. You feel their pain as they do; you seek Me even when they will not.”

“Then why?” Ariel managed, her voice cracking. “Why did you not warn me? I could have stopped this.”

“Observe,” God replied.

To Ariel’s left, the fog dissipated. The reflective onyx opened to reveal clear glass; the screams and madness had ceased. She braced herself on her hands, leaning over to see. A gaping crater, four miles wide and twice as deep, now stood where the towers had been. It was no longer blocked off. People walked around it freely, some stopping to observe solemnly before going on their way.

In another part of the world, a teacher educated her class. Pointing to a child’s design on the chalkboard, she said something Ariel couldn’t hear, and the children laughed. The teacher laughed with them.

A man returned home from work that night. His two children ran up to him, embracing him tightly around his knees and nearly knocking him off balance. His young wife chuckled as she watched, gingerly wrapping her arms around her husband’s neck and kissing his cheek.

The world’s law enforcement somberly geared up, securing bulletproof vests around their torsos and buttoning their dark uniforms. They joked with each other. Outside of the building, the flags of their countries blew proudly.

Ariel shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“They will move on, my daughter,” God replied easily. “They are a resilient people. They will recover from this, and they will go forward.”

Ariel still wasn’t sure she understood. God’s explanation brought no satisfaction. “But what of today, Father?”

“Today they must suffer.”

The onyx closed and the fog reappeared. The heavy weight returned to Ariel’s stomach as the screams began anew. “They will never find their way back, will they?”

“They will when they are ready. They are strong, Ariel. They will get through this. But we will never intervene directly; doing so robs them of their free will. And we have no right to do that.”

Ariel lowered her head; as always, no immediate resolution or closure, just a promise that everything would be alright.

“I have shown you what is to come,” God’s voice was more authoritative this time. Now, we have work to do.”

Ariel nodded. “Yes, Father.”

With that, she rocketed into the sky, bound invisibly for New York and the chaos that had been unexpectedly unleashed.

But she had seen.

They would move on.

And in that knowledge, she smiled. It would all work out in the end.

This story is dedicated to the memory of everyone who perished on September 11, 2001. This story is also dedicated to those who continue to survive.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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Out of the corner of my eye, in the rear view mirror, I see the road behind me. It is littered with those I have hurt, beaten, broken, and left with nothing. Some of these people tried to hurt me, some of them did nothing but try to love me, but none of them deserved what I did to them. I look back with knowledge won by experience and a heavy heart—I am sorry.

I comb over the past a bit more and wonder…no, I dare to hope…from events long ago, the pain I’ve suffered and survived, the sacrifices I’ve made, the things I’ve lost…have I paid my price?

I look to the sky. Is it square now? Am I even? Can I trust the good things You give me…is it finally okay to stop fighting?

Hypocritical question, of sorts; is it okay to stop fighting…even though I don’t know anything else?

Everything in my possession I earned. Everything I ever held onto someone tried to take from me, and every good thing I’ve ever dared to want, I fought for all I’m worth to attain. I have felt better when I fought for the good things in my life. My father, for all his faults, was right when he said that nothing in life worth having is free.

So when something comes my way, I don’t give it a second thought, I just enjoy having it—because I worked for it.

Nothing good in life comes without a price—right?

Feeling secure enough in my current situation led me to shed the Busterwolf persona, leaving the weaker, considerably less confident Avery in his wake—and there’s a lot about the world I don’t know. For example; I haven’t the vaguest idea how to work Photoshop. Just opening the program is daunting to me.

For now. I have books.

My point is, the sheer, unadulterated confidence that came with fighting, and the ability to stare into the depths of human darkness, and come away (relatively) uncorrupted—all that’s gone now. I don’t think I’ll be on the street again, and there is no need for it.

So what now…?
How does life go on without Busterwolf?

I look upon some of the people I follow on twitter, and the people of the writer’s group, and I feel as a child among giants. If I was more active in social networking, I’d never get anything done. I only recently learned who Nancy Grace was and the inability to carry an intelligent conversation frustrates me to no end. It’s like being back to square one.

I feel as though listening to people is an excuse to cover up my lack of knowledge.

And then there’s—one more situation.
It is the one good thing in my life that I did not have to fight for.
Instead, I’m fighting an internal battle to make myself believe I’m worthy of it.

What’s the catch? What’s the drawback? Why me? Where’s the game? Where’s the shadow to the light? Where’s the lie? Where’s the–

I need to stop.

I didn’t write this blog looking for sympathy—I will come to terms with this on my own. I have too. I’m the only one who can make myself believe I’m worthy of the good that’s come my way lately.

Putting these things in writing allows me to deal with them, and as always, I hope that anyone else reading who may be going through something similar realizes that they are not alone…or those that know can pass on some advice.

Busterwolf is indeed gone, a relic of the past.

Only Avery—Iron Man—remains, and this is my ground zero. From here, up is the only direction.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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I spent a few minutes trying to sort through the madness of my life. I spent about ten minutes warming up, and this is what I came to.

My life is, and always has been, about faith. But I have yet to find the words to accurately convey what it means to me, yet I can provide examples.

If I may elaborate, please?

Faith is falling out of the running for a job—and then interviewing for it that following week.

Faith is living homelessly for more than five years and living to tell about it.

Faith is maintaining your residence and way of life despite a lack of income.

Faith is victory after exhaustion.

This is the most trying time of my life, and I’m not talking about the lesson plan I keep twittering on about. I’m still amazed that my children’s family (on their mother’s side) were the ones who alerted me about my children. Once my staunchest adversaries and now they’re the ones who’re instrumental in me being able to maintain contact with my kids? That is faith.

Still, the questions mount, and these are questions beyond whether or not I can do it; if it was that simple, there’d be no question.

There’s the thorny legal process. My ex-wife abandoned our children, leaving them with her family so she could be with her drug-addicted boyfriend. I don’t have much better on my side; I still left them. But…I’ve gotten myself together, somewhat. I mean, I live alone, I’m self-sufficient, I have a trickling revenue stream even though I’m out of work, and my oldest son seems excited about seeing me again. Will my ability to support them count for anything in a system notorious for awarding custody to the mother regardless of the father’s status?

I’m not just saying that. I’ve seen it firsthand.

What if I have to remain in California in order to keep my kids? This is the only way I’d have to concede the issue. I can’t afford to live in California, much less support two children.

I don’t want to live in California, either. It took me more than a decade to say that (and I would do it for my kids if left with no choice, and I had the means), but there’s nothing for me there. I grew up in San Francisco, and that feels great to say, but Missouri is home, and God willing, I’ll spend the bulk of my years in St. Louis.

Moments like this, when doubt creeps into my mind, I get that feeling at the pit of my stomach, and the comforting thought that I’ve had since I was a child; it’ll all be okay.

Funny thing; it always is.

And so I fight on, working towards the inevitable exhaustion, for the first time unsure as to whether or not I can achieve my goal. I know that I have a gift for pulling things together, and I do not quit.
Faith, like always, is what will turn raw willpower into reality.

So at last I find the words. What is faith?

Faith is the knowledge of knowing that things will work out without knowing exactly how.

Faith is the will to fight on.

The source of my faith is, and always will be, God and His Son, but what you use is entirely up to you.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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If I had to liken myself to any two objects, the first would be one of those pullback/release type of toy cars. You know how they feel when you pull them back; as though they’re about to explode out of your hands? Well, when you let me go, I’ll charge ahead blindly at full speed, until I hit the wall.

Another object would be a bullet. Once fired, I would usually destroy my target without caring about collateral damage. I was one who very much believed that the ends justified the means.

I’m not as reckless as I used to be. In fact, the older I get, the more things come into perspective.

I should’ve done something about my children a long time ago, but I didn’t, and I try not to waste time lamenting things that cannot be changed. Here and now is what I have to work with. I am terrified of being a single father. At nineteen, I edited out Eminem CD’s and allowed my son to sing along, and at thirty-two, I’m wondering what the hell I was thinking. I don’t engage in random acts of violence. I don’t even dress the same way anymore.

In short, I’m not going to have any idea what I’m doing.

I will have help—for which I’m grateful—but in the end, these two children are my responsibility, as I’m the one who brought them into this world. I don’t believe I’m any less guilty than their mother—we both left—and no matter what arrangement I work out with my children, I will never abandon them again.

I enjoy helping people and making a difference in people’s lives, even if it’s people I don’t know. I do this largely because I believe in karma, but also, it’s the right thing to do; I’ve had a lot of people help me for no reason throughout the years, I feel almost obligated to return the favor. My problem is that I don’t know as much as I think I do, and I absolutely hate to say no to someone in need. I used to habitually say yes and then apologize later, feeling guilty that I failed.

Okay, I admit to being pretty screwed up.

I’ve come to realize that there are things I know, and things I’m very good at, and those things I can pass on.

I would still like to create a place that encourages creative freedom; a place where writers, artists, and other creative minds can meet and bring their dreams to life without (too much) restraint. I have no idea how to do this right now, but when it’s time, I’m sure I’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll use the little traction I have as a writer.

I’d like to be able to work as a full-time writer. I had a little taste of it last month; as unbelievable as it seems, I paid the bills using nothing but my imagination. It’s an addictive, galvanizing sensation, and I want more of it. Besides, being able to work from home allows me to spend more time with my kids…and family.

So there it is. This is what I’m about now, this is what I dream about, this is what I’m working for.

Maybe the next time I speak of my dreams, I’ll be able to compare myself to something less destructive than a bullet.

From the publish button to God’s ear.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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