Max M. Power's Blog, page 6

I Am a Soul Collector

Time is said to heal all wounds, however, for a soul collector, such as myself, this is simply not true.

I am an Angel, of that there is no doubt, but what kind of Angel, good or evil, has yet to be determined.
Ever since I left the womb that kept me protected, I was born into conflict, and my soul has been a battlefield.
Soft and silent is how most of my life has been spent.  As any true monster lives, so as not to attraction attention to myself, I lived in fear of being destroyed, often times by my own hand.  The evil inside laid dormant, waiting in the shadows for the light to flicker out.
And flicker out it would, allowing the beast within to emerge, even if only for a brief moment before being lit once more.  It was me in my truest purest form, torn.
As I roam this realm, waiting, longing for my light to be extinguished permanently, I am looking for broken tortured souls to collect.  These souls are easy to collect for souls may be ours but they can be given to another.
True, a soul may be stolen but it can be stolen back, often times violently, destroying the soul completely.  In order to collect a soul for all eternity, it must be given freely, willingly.  Those who possess broken souls will often give them away willingly, so that they may be healed.
The truth is that their soul never stops being tormented.  It will suffer until Death releases it.  As an evil Angel, I feed off of their pain, however, they can be taught to live with the pain, reducing the sting daily.
Once the soul has been taught how to live with the pain a decision must be made, to release it or keep it for all eternity.  No longer having a soul of my own, keeping another’s soul holds no appeal for me.  I will freely return the soul to it’s owner.
However, sometimes a soul can not heal properly, and the pain they feel flairs up from time to time, allowing me to feed off of that pain.  For this reason there are only a few selected souls that I choose to keep.
Be mindful of your soul for the battle for your soul continues, deep within my own.

Why I Don't Trust Ted Cruz

I will admit that I voted for Trump.  I can hear all the hate speech coming now, but in all honesty, I don’t care.  I’m not playing nice anymore and neither should you America.
I keep hearing excuses of why he’s bad, and guess what, so is everyone else.  Is he a con man, yeah, he’s a New York business man, they pretty much all are.  Are any of the other candidates con men, you bet your sweet ass they are and if you say they aren’t, you’re lying to yourself.
He’s a racist because he wants to build a wall on the border.  How does that make him a racist?  That card gets thrown around WAY too much and by people who claim not to be racist but deep down really are.  Why do I say that?  Because deep down every person is a little racist, its human nature.
“We gotta stop illegals.”
“Trump hates Mexicans.”
Nowhere did I see MEXICANS in that statement.  Illegals are illegals no matter where they come from, but if you think that shoe fits you, feel free to wear it.
“He doesn’t talk like a president should.”  I’ve personally never understood that statement.  Why do people think a President is supposed to be better than them?  That’s kind of subject/master mentality.  I’m am average American, working hard for my money and to provide a good life for my family.  I help others where I can and I believe what I believe.
The ONLY perfect man to walk the earth was Jesus, so why are people trying to make the president perfect?  I trust someone who admits to their wrong doings rather than try to cover them up and dance around them. “What difference does it make?”  It makes a lot of difference… to me.
So the angry scared voters are flocking to Trump blindly, well if that is true why not ask yourself why?  What has had to happen that the American people have said enough is enough?  No more of your smiling to my face, lying to me, while stabbing me in the back before taking my wallet.  What has made the average American say, “Sorry, the con man scares me less than you do?”
The real reason why people do not like Trump is because if you are truly honest, he’s making America deal with its shit.  Things that are said, “You can’t say that,” or “You can’t talk about that,” or just flat out refuse to face the problem, well now you have to.
Ted Cruz is my representative.  In the end I voted for him as my Senator, even though throughout the entire time he was campaigning I kept thinking to myself, there is something about him I do not trust.  He’s a great guy, he says the right things, he does the right things and I have a great amount of respect for his values and his resolve to do what he says he will do… but I don’t trust him.
Deep down in my gut, I could never put my finger on it, but I don’t trust him.  I never had a good reason as to why, I just don’t trust him.  I will follow him and vote for him again if he is the candidate but I just don’t trust him.  I’m waiting for that other shoe to drop but I just can’t see said shoe.  It bugged me, tore me apart, my gut screaming, not allowing me to trust him… until now.
There are times in your life where you see or hear something and you are slammed with a true moment of clarity and everything surrounding the subject come into focus.  It no longer bugs you and you can move forward with complete convection.  On March 10, 2016 I was listening to Clyde Lewis of Ground Zero and it was said that Reptilians are trying to take over and that it’s rumored that Ted Cruz is a Reptilian.  When I heard that, WHAM, it hit me.  I don’t trust him because he’s a Reptilian.

Books Forward - From The ABC's of My Life

Carpets are a funny thing.  They come in many styles, textures, and color.  Some are so soft that we want to curl our toes up in them, while others are rough, just shy of sandpaper.
They are used to wipe our feet, cover the floors of our homes or vans, and to soak up our stains.  Many things are done on carpet, but in my family, it’s where we traveled the universe while reading our books.
You want to talk about low man on the totem pole, the younger you were the lower on the furniture you were.  Couches were for the older ones.  Us younglings were stuck on the floor.  We didn’t mind much because it was easier to spread out a newspaper on the floor rather than folding it up in a chair.
Often times we would be laying down, on our stomach with our feet up in the air, or on our backs, arms stretched out, reading a book and being so engulfed in the story that we were lost to the world.
My grandmother gave us this thirst for the written word.  It was passed down through her children and we in turn have passed it on to ours.  It’s something we craved and something that our parents made sure we had plenty of.  Certain things could be lived without but grandma always made sure books was not one of them.

Genova Bakery

In Stockton, California there is a little hole in the wall, most places in Stockton are actually hole in the walls, called Genova Bakery.  There is very little parking on the street and the building is old and run down, built in 1918, however, it’s always busy.
As a kid, every time we walked into the bakery we were transported back in time.  The floor boards were old, creaking, and the many miles people have walked over them showed.  The air smelled of Italian sausages, olive oil, and freshly baked bread.
During the summer the smells were even stronger as the heat slowly released the aromas that have soaked into the wood and walls over the years.
Not having a lot of money, we didn’t go to the bakery often but when we did it was a special treat.  Mostly it was on a Saturday morning and someone was visiting from somewhere else.
A couple of links of hard salame were brought, along with a small brick of sharp cheddar cheese.  Both were cut into small pieces and served on the white butcher paper it came wrapped in, in the middle of the table.  The white tight wrapper that needed to be peeled off kept us from devouring it all quickly.
The crunching sound of the paper bag the bread came in was a welcomed sound.  It meant soon we would be holding that hot soft white fluffy French bread in our hands.  No plates were needed as the bag was ripped open and laid flat.
A few loafs had to be spread between at least a dozen people so we never got a big piece but if we were good we would get the softest part, the middle, which to me was always the best part.
When I went home to Stockton for a visit as an adult, I don’t know if absence made the heart grow fonder or if it was strong memories from my childhood but all I did was talk about getting a loaf of bread and a link of salame for myself.  Of course I bought extra for the rest of the family because I didn’t want to get a whoopin, one of those that was claimed I never got as a child.
I visited Stockton twice more since that first trip in 2001.  The first stop I made as I arrived and the last stop I made as I left the city was to Genova bakery.  I had to buy a loaf of French bread and a link of salame, cut up into slices, so I could eat it while driving.
As I write this I am not an adult man sitting at my computer, clicking away at the keys, but an eight year old boy, sitting at the kitchen table, my back against the wall as the window A/C unit worked hard to keep us cool on a hot Saturday morning.
My mom pouring the orange juice in glasses for my siblings, my cousins, and myself.  My aunts Irma and Debbie slicing the salame and cheese as my grandma yells at my uncle Jess to stop tickling the kids because if we pee the carpet she’s going to be very mad.
My cousins Chris and Ron try reaching over and around my aunts to steal a slice or two, only to have the knife blade pointed at them with a firm STOP IT filling the air.
Not a single sound of silence could be found in that house but in my mind all I can see is my grandmother grabbing the bread with her soft firm hands and pulling it apart into smaller pieces, the smells of the hot bread filling my memories forever.

The ABC's of My Life - Forward

The ABC’s of life.  It’s different for every person and they greatly depend on who your family is.  For me, I can honestly say that ninety-eight percent of my memories revolve around the first three.
A – Ass whoopins.  I didn’t get whipped, I got whooped, there is a difference.  I will admit, half the whoopins I received I didn’t deserve and I got away with a lot more than what was known about, so I guess you can say Karma balanced it out.
In their elder years my grandmother, my mother, and my aunts claim they did not beat us as badly as the way I tell it.  I love these ladies with all my heart but I have to disagree, you whooped us and yes, we must have deserved it then, as they so often respond to my insistence.
B – Books.  Reading was just a natural as breathing.  Between everyone in my family, if we put our book collection together we would have our own personal library.  It was how we passed the time, traveled to far and exotic places, soared through the clouds, and blasted among the stars through hyperspace.
C – Cooking.  Food may keep us alive but it’s the making and consuming of that food that makes our lives worth living.  Powerful memories revolve around the aromas that came from the kitchen and filled the entire house.  Little things that can be trigged at the faintest whiff in the air, bringing a smile to our face, and causing us to respond, “I remember this one time…”

Uno Mas Cerveza Por Favor

“There are few life problems that can’t be solved with a good beer and good conversation.”

I’ve heard her say that a few times in my life.  Mom was a tough lady, not taking bullshit from anyone and calling you out on it.  She was strong willed and always spoke her mine.  When we watched sports her toughness would come out, yelling at the players, be it in person on in the back yard on the small portable black and white TV.
During the cool summer nights we could always grab a six pack, a few limes, the salt shaker, and sit in lawn chairs, just staring up at the bright stars.  Some nights silence filled the air, speaking volumes between us, sounds of popping beer tabs breaking the silence from time to time, while other times roaring laughter late into the night between our family and the neighbors.
Good beer and good conversation.
Mom’s children were grown now, with some scattered across the country, having families of their own, but one thing was a constant over the years, good beer and good conversation.  Every time someone came to visit, laughter would fill the house, often starting with, “Do you remember…” and ending with tears and soar sides.
Sometimes the conversation would get heated, treats of being knocked out until next Wednesday were thrown out, and then someone would leave in a huff, dragging their children out the door behind them.  Anger may have lasted for a few days but that’s what siblings do and mom reminded us of that often.
Once again, we find ourselves in a rough spot, but instead of being at each other’s throats we are holding each other tight with hugs.  Mom has been on her death bed for a while now and has maintained that she will go out on her terms, the tough lady in her taking over.  All we can do is to honor her request, she’s lived a long fruitful life and has earned it.
It’s hard to watch this strong woman who has taught me so much to slowly leave us.  She can barely eat or drink anything but she tries.  With spring around the corner the weather was perfect for sitting outside and watching the world go by.  One morning mom asked that all of her children come to the house at dusk, and to make sure we brought beer, limes, and the salt shaker.
As the sun was getting ready to fall below the horizon, the stars faintly visible at the same time, the lawn chairs were set up and mom was brought outside.  We all sat down, beer in hand, and watched silently as the sun grew smaller and smaller in the distance.  Laughter filled the air as a smile spread across mom’s face, drinking her beer slowly, enjoying an old friend.
Mom listen to her children relive memories of their childhood and tell stories of their children and grandchildren.  Everyone was happy, the sadness in our lives being solved by good beer and good conversation.  We were so engulfed with laughter than we had not noticed mom had fallen asleep for the last time.  Mom helped us all to heal with good beer and good conversation.

Bayla

Do you know what a sin is?  I do.  It’s taken me a long time to figure out every sin there is and was of getting around them, loopholes, if you will.  After two thousand years I’ve learned the loopholes all too well.
Yes, you read that correctly, I’m an immortal, and I’m over two thousand years old.  Jesus, is usually the first thing people say when I tell them how old I am, or that I can not sin.  Well, you’re right, it’s all his fault.
Yes I did know who Jesus was, yes I have meet him, and yes he I hate him with every fiber in my immortal body.  I know what you’re thinking, how can I hate, hate is a sin?  Wrong.  That’s a lie your religious leaders tell you to keep you in line.  Hate is an emotion, not a sin.
You know who I am, you’re even heard about the time I met Jesus, what you do not know is my name.  My name is Bayla.  It means beautiful and my beauty is also my curse.
When Jesus started his ministry I was among his followers.  I was taken in by his message and knew he was going to save us from the Romans.  I seen his perform miracle after miracle.  I was a believer, until he cursed me.
The Pharisees were always trying to catch Jesus in a situation saying something they could use as an excuse to kill him.  My beauty brought me many suitors and what can I say, I like sex.  So the Pharisees took me before Jesus and told him that I was an adulteress.  By the Mosaic Law I was supposed to be stoned to death.
Is the story sounding familiar yet?  Jesus told them, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”
Those traitorist sons of bitches walked away one by one, dropping stones they had hidden in their robes.  When they left Jesus looked up at me, surprised to still see me standing there.  Somehow he knew I had slept with three of those backstabbing bastards.
“Where did they go,” Jesus asked.  “Did no one throw a stone?”
“No,” I answered, still in shock at what just took place.
“Well I’m not going to condemn you,” he said as he stood up and walked over to me.  Taking both of my hands in his, he looked down into my eyes, piercing deep into my soul.  “Now go and sin no more.”
That’s what did it, that’s what turned me immortal and took away my ability to sin.

Hunting

Hunting
I was sitting on my front porch when I saw the little bastard across the street.  My dog was barking uncontrollably, another sign of the alien’s presence.  I dropped my drink and ran inside to get my sword.  The only proper way to kill a Grey is to remove its big head.
As I came back out I let my dog loose and ran to follow.  The little bugger was only a few houses away.
“Hey,” I shouted as I raised my sword to chop him down.
The Grey turned to see me and my dog running full steam toward him.  He dropped his bag and started running away from me.
“You won’t make it to your ship,” I taunted.
As I towered over him I swung down but missed.  He tried to tackle my midsection, catching me off guard with his shortness.  The little bastard wanted to play, I could play.
I picked him up, lifting him onto my shoulder before slamming his body down hard, his back cracking upon impact with the ground.  He rolled slowly, trying to touch his back, moaning and cursing in Spanish.
“Looks like I caught me one of those Mexico City Greys,” I said with a smile, lifting my sword once more.  “Guess you and your buddies should have stayed out of Texas.”
I swung down hard, cutting off his big head.  As it rolled toward me I smiled wide, proud of my victory.  I bent down it up and a human head fell out.  That’s why I hate Halloween.
- Max M. Power

What Is A Soul Mate?

What is a soul mate?  That’s a loaded question with no simple answer.  While most people view a soul mate as a single person to spend the rest of your life with in a romantic sense, I do not.

These are all my beliefs, with no proof behind any of them, except a strong notion deep in my core.  I believe that a person has more than one soul mate and that you meet them at different times in your life and they stay with you until the next.

A person can have as few as five and up to a dozen mutual soul mates, souls that you both belong to each other, and not all of them are human souls.  Any living soul can be your soul mate.  A pet, a parent, a sibling, a friend, a grandparent, any can be in your mutual circle of soul mates.

I say mutual soul mates because you can be someone else’s soul mate yet they are not yours or vice versa.  I call these healing soul mates.  They come into your life or you come into theirs to help them recover from something the universe has hit them with.  You help them get through it and then your souls drift apart and only come together when needed once more.

The souls in your mutual circle can change roles from lifetime to lifetime.  One thing will stay constant, you will always find them.

That’s my view on soul mates.  Take what you will from it but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

- Max M. Power 

Death Is Near

Death is near
But will not come close.
It’s not me,
That he wants the most.

I offer myself,
I’m ready to go.
I willingly surrender,
And he shouts, “NO!”

“We shall tango,
And then I will win.
Not accepting your surrender,
Tortures your soul more in the end.”

Death hides in my shadows
Causing me so much pain.
He roars with laughter,
While driving me insane.

- Max M. Power