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Stoneman
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2/2/2018 8:26:03 PM
My Musical Fortress
When was a kid I quite often got beatings. The frequencies and length of the beatings made me very much afraid to be visible in the house I lived. So, I use to go into the clothes closet and sit on the floor in the dark. I spent thousand of hours in that closet. While in there I could hear my tormentor walking around the house doing things and it made me very scared. So, I would sit on the floor and in my mind I would build a beautiful musical fortress that I believed no one could penetrate. Of course, there were those days that my fortress came down with one swing of an extension chord. But other times I could hear my tormentor lingering outside the closet door. I would sing my songs to myself while hoping and praying that it would protect me from the demon that tormented me daily. Sometimes, my tormentor would laugh at me and my stupid songs. She would laugh and say "Nothing can protect you from me. I am the only one that even gives a shit about you. Without me you would die of starvation". But I would keep singing and believing until she finally went away. Then, I would change my song into a joyful rejoicing type of song. It was in that closet that I began to learn how to construct fully orchestrated songs. I would hum each part and then play it back in my head with all the other parts ringing in my ear. My fortress became my mode of songwriting and production and my mind was my first recording studio. I always approached songs as if I was building walls. The rhythm guitar, bass, and drums were the main parts of the fortress. Melodies were dangling parts that seldom dominated my fortress. Each day I would build a new one while hoping that it would shield me from the she devil. But she was strong as shit and no matter how loud I sang or played my guitar, she would bust in and beat me until I was bloody all over. One time she took my guitar and threw it up against the wall. It was broken in several places but I repaired it with glue. Then she would laugh at me. That bitch would laugh and tell me how stupid I was to keep singing my stupid songs. But I played and sang anyway. It made me strong. So strong that one day I came out of the closet and sang and played my songs loud so she could hear me. She just looked at me and said: "You ain't shit now and you ain't never gonna be shit as long as you live. You're just a stupid little trash can child. That is where you come from and that is where you will end up". But my fortress kept me strong. I wrote my songs and believed that one day I would prove the bitch wrong. Unfortunately, she died long before I began to win songwriting awards and shit like that. But I believe that somewhere in hell, she sits there being tortured daily by my songs. I believe that that is her punishment. To hear my shit all the time 24 hrs a day. Hahahaha, a very fitting punishment indeed. Sure, she tore my fortress down many times but I just kept rebuilding until the bitch was dead. Now, I am a decent songwriter because of that crazy assed bitch. My fortress is what keeps me going inb music now. It is what has shielded me from undue critiques about my work. Some say that to be in the music business you need to have thick skin. I say that you need to have a fortress around your feelings. Build it daily because no matter how good you may get, there will always be someone standing there outside the closet laughing at you. That same person may also emotionally beat you until your confidence is bloodied and broken. That's when you know that it is time for a rebuild.
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2/3/2018 7:29:49 AM
wow what an awful story, I had no idea, man.. but I guess all that made you as strong as you are. My family was kind and supportive, my youth was the happiest time of my life. Musical instruments came around in school and they bought me a drum, a few years later they bought me a piano and paid for piano lessons. My dad used to love it when seeing me sing in church and in school musicals. I've had a strong musical fortress most of my life, now not so much.
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Desperado Revue
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2/3/2018 9:56:15 AM
Moving!!!
Although I'm not an artist, I can relate in that I also had a tormentor, my father.
You had a closet, I had a rocking chair where I could find solace. I would rock that chair for hours on end when he wasn't around and kept telling myself that there had to be something better than this.
Glad to see that we both survived.
Norm
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Richard Scotti
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2/3/2018 10:02:49 AM
---- Updated 2/3/2018 10:03:46 AM
My heart breaks for you, Stoneman but your courage inspires me as well. I didn't have a childhood as rough as yours but it was no bed of roses either. Music was also the thing that saved my life and my sanity. I perceived my songs as angels that protected me from harm. I felt invincible with them by my side. My musical abilities gave me the confidence to stay strong and resist defeat. I'd like to say more but I don't have the courage that you have, Stoneman, to make certain things public at this time. The people who were so cruel to me and who attempted to thwart my musical aspirations are six feet under where they belong but whenever I see evil in others it reminds me of them and it just makes me more aware of the need to expand my army of angels. Evil will always be around in various forms and good is the only thing that can fight it. I try to surround myself with good people and good endeavors. I try to do good whenever and wherever I can. Those efforts and my musical angels are my shield against the dark side of life.
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Stoneman
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2/3/2018 5:32:50 PM
Yeah, when i grew up my tormentor claimed that the way she treated me made me a great man. A highly decorated soldier and a survivor of the mean streets of Los Angeles. But I never gave her that credit. I decided to change my life and I changed it. I decided I didn't want to perpetrate the violence that was heaped on me on my loved ones. I broke the cycle that she almost started. I once asked her why she beat me when i was a kid and she said it was because she loved me and that her dad had done the same to her. But it was awful shit man. She use to tie me up and leave me laying on the floor for hours. But the worst was how she would make me get naked, tie me up and then beat my genitals. Oh God, that was the worst of all. She even tried to murder us. It was crazy shit but I made it out man. Just like I made it out of Vietnam. Well, kind of. There are still some days that i feel like I am in Vietnam again. My flesh is weak. I bleed profusely when i am wounded. But my spirit is strong and it comes forth in my music . That is my fortress. I remember how the guys use to always ask me to play and sing one of my songs for them. I would play and sing with all my heart until I was crying and the whole squad was crying. But those song helped to break the depressive moments when i comrade or comrades had been killed in action. I would sing and everyone would sit there listening. Such peaceful moment in a war torn situation. 1st Class Petty Officer Towery always came through with a new song for the crew. The demand was huge because there was a lot of death in that place. But I always came through. Wow, I had forgotten all about that. I still have lost memories coming back from the brain surgery i had last year. Thanks for triggering that for me. Sometimes I look at my medals and wonder what was it I did to get these. I just flat out cannot remember most of it. That is probably a good thing because my PTSD is less intense now. But yeah, my musical fortress allowed me to overcome so much anguish in my life.
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Desperado Revue
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2/3/2018 6:14:21 PM
Childhood Spent In Poverty - The Smoked Meat Sandwich
Nate's Restaurant was an institution in Ottawa. It was half a block from where we lived. If you sat in the rocking chair looking east, you could see it just past King Edward Ave.
Nate's specialty was the smoked meat sandwich.
Every Friday, my father would send one of my four sisters or myself to pick up a sandwich for him. That being done, we then had the honor of sitting at the table, as we watched him eat that smoked meat while we drooled.
Here's the clincher. Once in a while, again on a Friday ( payday ), my father would get up in the afternoon, look at all of us and say that he was going to get a smoked meat sandwich. He would leave and not return for two weeks. He left with a paycheck in his pocket and would not get payed for the two weeks he was away.
When he returned, the smoked meat sandwich was in his hand and again we had the honor of sitting at the table to watch him eat while we drooled and salivated.
That's the kind of man my father was (on top of the beatings)
Norm - short story I wrote for a group on FB
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Stoneman
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2/15/2018 7:23:51 PM
Wow Norm, that is a very unique story. The fact that he actually returned with the sandwich is amazing. My father took us to Los Angeles and dropped us off at his relatives house who was known to be insane. He said he would be back in two weeks to get us but he never returned. Mom was missing until 1972. No one knew where she was so we were stuck with the crazy lady who beat us like we were run away slaves.
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