(B01C03) Chapter 3: The Father

“THE VOICE THAT SITS BEHIND MY NIGHT. THE MAN WHO GAVE ALL IN THE FIGHT. MY GOD AND FATHER. TEACHER. FRIEND. SWORDED KNIGHT. PICTURE PERFECT SACRIFICE. THANK YOU FOR MY LIFE.” – “KNIGHT OF SWORDS” BY JD STAHL

Primarily, we look at our fathers as providers and protectors of the family. The popular masculine archetype often connects these qualities with fathers—and so they remain consistent with our models for God, the creator of the universe. Being that our relationship with this divine archetype often requires us to place our total faith and trust in them to not only assure that we will be cared for, but we also rely on our models for creation to supply us with a flawless model for how the world works. One could even say that our capacity for strength is proportional to how well our fathers display their general level of self control—or how well they can remain calm during stressful periods of our lives.

If our models for God show any hesitation or loss of composure, we immediately assume that they were not as reliable as we previously assumed. And so, the first thing that I learned about being a man was to learn eventually to accept my environment for what it is—not try to change it to conform to my idea of how life should be. Not only did my father provide his family with enough that we never had to struggle, the most important thing that he gave me was a proper display of confidence, even in the most difficult situations.

“OPERATOR, WELL, COULD YOU HELP ME PLACE THIS CALL?” – “OPERATOR” BY JIM CROCHE

Just as I said with my mother, we incarnate into lives which are always intelligently designed—like apples and seeds. Nothing is done by accident; everything is a paradoxical chicken/egg dynamic which is magnetically pulled into our environment. From the future, our hearts bleed electromagnetic energy with every single beat. This resonance frequency attracts or repulses people and events in our lives so that our souls will be brought into the most ideal state of balance. In a a similar way, energy from the fruit of the apple moves in an invisible torus, feeding energy to the seeds in the center, imprinting the tiny capsule with an entire genetic history—the instructions for survival which accounts for every generation’s previous experiences.

Even before we are born, our souls are quantumly tunneled through the genetics of our parents with a precision and accuracy that could rarely be understood by the human mind. It's as if there is an invisible operator who connects the telephone lines between each and every human heart. We call upon these energetic spirits as equally as we are called by them. These silver chains connect us to parts of our kin in the same way that the moon revolves around the earth. As a result, we are always intertwined with a unique destiny, which—if we allow it—will deliver us to our ideal (God).

“YOU'RE THE MISBRED, GRAY EXECUTIVE I'VE SEEN HEAVILY ADVERTISED. YOU'RE THE GREAT, GRAY MAN WHOSE DAUGHTER LICKS POLICEMEN'S BUTTONS CLEAN. YOU'RE THE MAN WHO SQUATS BEHIND THE MAN WHO WORKS THE SOFT MACHINE.” – “MEMO FROM TURNER” BY MICK JAGGER

First, we must learn to be able to metabolize both positive and negative experiences in our lives—with the least amount of preference for one or the other. And so, our lives are not something that need to be changed so that they can be more pleasurable or palatable to our preferences, but to be transcended with equanimity so that we can draw from the wellspring of eternal life (spirit). By doing so, we will be more present to answer when our proverbial bell (cerebellum) rings. The more present we are, the more intimately we absorb the energy of the “operator.” This man sits behind the “steel wheel,” surfing the ether to deliver the Akashic “phone” records from behind the meson/quark “switchboard.”

Though it took me a while to recognize, my father was exactly half of the greatest gift I could have ever received. The people who inhabit our life—both family and otherwise—are only related to the soul by energetic balance, not by blood. In the same way that my mother was a model of the womb of potentiated nature and abundance from which all creative energy could be sourced, my father was a model of her opposite: stoic and hardened like hammered steel.

Between the porticoes of my parents, I was offered an example of both archetypal purities. From my mother, I received a marked ideal of unordered poetic chaos (unconditional love), and from my father I received the balancing force: the model of discipline and obedience to purity. Between the poles of both life and death were left a veritable 3rd-dimensional (physical) playground of all that was temporary, frozen in time.

“I CAN HEAR THE BULLFROG CALLIN' ME. WONDER IF MY ROPE'S STILL HANGIN' TO THE TREE. LOVE TO KICK MY FEET WAY DOWN THE SHALLOW WATER. SHOO FLY, DRAGON FLY, GET BACK TO YOUR MOTHER.” – “GREEN RIVER” BY CREDENCE CLEARWATER REVIVAL

Paul Dennis Stahl was born on February 19, 1947. He was the poor son of Pennsylvania Dutch parents, Catherine and Carl. The product of alcoholics, my father rarely spoke of his childhood with any positivity. When he did bring up his youth, he spoke of it as if it were a fictional tragedy portrayed in such a way that would minimize anyone else's desire to complain about their own life. That's a fancy way to say that he struggled quite a bit during his younger years. However, in his defense, the stories he told made it quite clear that he spent most of his youth just trying to survive.

Paul claimed that he never had running water in his childhood home, located a few short miles from where I grew up. Hailing from a place called “Bullfrog Hollow,” my father learned from his favorite place of education: the School of Hard Knocks. Offering few amenities, he and his siblings would have to use an outhouse and source water from a nearby spring—or so he made it out to be. In the winter, when it snowed, his brother and sister would push their beds together in the middle of the room and occasionally wake up with a foot of snow in the room where they slept. His parents were never home. They were either working or getting drunk at the bar—which is essentially why they were always in financial dire straits.

GOD SWORD

“THEY'RE WEARING STEEL THAT'S BRIGHT AND TRUE. THEY CARRY NEWS THAT MUST GET THROUGH, OH. THEY CHOOSE THE PATH WHERE NO-ONE GOES. THEY HOLD NO QUARTER.” – “NO QUARTER” BY LED ZEPPELIN

If you would ask my father if he had to walk uphill in both directions to get to school, his reply would be, “School? I didn't go to school. I had to work so I could eat.” My father echoed a sense of abandonment and abuse to such an incredible degree that anyone would wonder how he survived at all. His family tree was riddled with suicide, addiction, incest, and even parents who murdered their own children. If the family didn't have money to eat, they just buried the kids in the back yard and went on with their life. Suffice it to say, times were very difficult for certain individuals in my father's genetic line. As a result, he carried quite a bit of that twisted history which you could see reflecting back whenever you questioned his honesty or authority—his word.

Though he had plenty of excuses to break bad and take his resentment out on the world, he instead swallowed all of his pain and forged it into a steel casing. This, of course, gives literal meaning to his last name (Stahl). The name “Stahl” was a German word, meaning “steel.” Those who bore this name were descendants of steel workers and weapons manufacturers—swords and things—from times far before we could chart or draw. Unfortunately, one of the side effects of working with these metals was a certain toxicity built up in those who forged the metal. Some of the main side effects were mental issues, psychosis, addiction, and death. One would say that those who heard the voice of God would experience similar issues. I guess that's why they associate madness with genius.

In order to survive all, my father had to develop not just a tolerance for pain and suffering, but a preference for it. When you are forced to adapt to your environment, eventually you will use whatever is abundant to source your energy. Contrary to my mother's upbringing, my father consumed abandonment until he could use it to not only survive, but to exceed beyond standards so many others had accepted as “good enough.”

However, as I said, his parents were often absent during his youth. In his teen years, he quickly had to take on the financial responsibility for his family. At age 14, my dad found his father (Carl) had committed suicide by shooting himself in a nearby wood. Though he never went into much detail, I heard from family members that his mother (Catherine) was caught sleeping with another man for money, which is what prompted my late grandfather to take his own life. My father still to this day occasionally has night terrors. As a child, I would occasionally be woken up after hearing him screaming through the wall in the next room, “Don't do it!” As people say, the mind replays what the heart cannot delete.

However, growing up with all of this as a “normal” thing to occur, I learned to just accept it compassionately as something that people may experience from time to time. Everyone has their struggles, and my father used his to become an incredible provider, a man willing to sacrifice himself for his family, and a stoic archetypal model. He was a hierophant of discipline as well as a steady masculine who left very little to take for granted.

“I HAVEN'T SEEN MY FATHER IN SOME TIME. BUT HIS FACE IS ALWAYS STARING BACK AT ME. HIS HEAVY HANDS HANG AT THE ENDS OF MY ARMS. AND MY COLORS CHANGE LIKE THE SEA. BUT I DON'T WORRY MUCH ABOUT TIME LOST. I'M NOT GUNNING FOR THE DREAMS I COULDN'T FIND, 'CAUSE HE TAUGHT ME HOW TO WALK THE BEST THAT I CAN ON THE ROAD I'VE LEFT BEHIND.” – MOST OF ALL” BY BRANDI CARLILE

Unfortunately, even though my father had an unmatched intellect, commanding logic and reason with a silver thread, his version of “normal” posed some significant difficulty with maintaining emotional relationships. He trusted very few people, if any. Whoever could unlock the mystery that was Paul Stahl would open the gates to pretty much any other heart in the world—even mine. However, to do so with any success, you would also have to unravel every last bit of time that was intertwined from their DNA.

From spaces beyond his control, the voice of his family's history echoed through every single darkened moment that remained uncovered inside him. In order to survive, he went head-long into his own pain until there was nothing left. What he found, he never spoke of to anyone. Paul's true authentic, vulnerable self was locked inside of a dark vault, unseen by anyone but himself. And so, to protect himself, he clothed himself with a hardened exterior, mysterious and dark. Behind his occasional deep sighs, you could hear him throw another shovel full of soil on his vulnerable self. That is a version of my father I only got to meet a handful of times—none of them too pleasant.

"NEATH THE BLACK, THE SKY LOOKS DEAD, CALL MY NAME THROUGH THE CREAM AND I'LL HEAR YOU SCREAM AGAIN. BLACK HOLE SUN, WON'T YOU COME AND WASH AWAY THE RAIN?” – “BLACK HOLE SUN” BY SOUNDGARDEN

The secret was that “time” was sacrifice. My father sacrificed his life and time for his children. At the center of dying star is a portal to the growth of another star—a sun. Stars consume both time and space in order to create the amount of energy which it gives so freely. Though this spacetime nutrition is not sourced from its environment, it feeds through quantum channels tied to its core. Through wormholes and dimensions, there is always a black hole that supplies the energy from unknown coordinates and vibrations. And so, every single star is an explosion of creation which is the direct product of incredible destruction occurring in unknown areas of the universe.

As children, we are the sun. When we have a child, we become that which supplies our kin with the energy of our eventual obsolescence. This is the sacrifice of time and creation made by every masculine archetype in a parent (either male or female), through which they supply their child with enough love to eventually (hopefully) create their own universe. The greater the risk, the greater the sacrifice, the greater the focus, the greater the eventual solar inheritance one can provide for their own children.

Knight of Swords

JD Stahl (11/11/2020) Blessed are the days you gave. A life purchased by circumstance. Dedication and duty. Enlisted for a second chance. Changing of your past. Your dance. Perfection unfolded by your call. Duplex definition of all that is all. Effort of your max. Steel fitted gaze. Vision above, out of the maze. From the mud, you rise. In the thunder, love was your battle cry. Letters between hearts so divine. Wings to birds and bombs for lives. Creation and destruction, Held within a life and twisted in your mind. Your soul is safe, here. Sun reflections. Apples. Eyes. Razor sharp. Bleeding mind. Grey cloud overcast. Shadow. Signs. The traveler. Weaver. Driver. Iron. Carbon. Time-rewinder. Cyclical producer. Conductor. Trains. Director of engineers. Reality boss—reconstructor. A soldier formed. A mended mold. In the flame, you stayed the extra day. In this way, your hand will remain, Through the rain, smoke, and pain. You’re the reason I could wake today. The voice that sits behind my night. The man who gave all in the fight. My god and father. Teacher. Friend. Sworded knight. Picture perfect sacrifice. Thank you for my life.

Prodigal Sunrise: Returning to the Emperor

“PICK UP YOU SWORDS AND FLY. THE SKY IS FILLED WITH GOOD AND BAD, THAT MORTALS NEVER KNOW. OH WELL, THE NIGHT IS LONG. THE BEADS OF TIME PASS SLOW. TIRED EYES ON THE SUNRISE, WAITING FOR THE EASTERN GLOW.” – “BATTLE OF EVERMORE” BY LED ZEPPELIN

Though the relationship between my father and me was often difficult—being that we were so frequently occupying the opposite sides of the round table of divine masculinity—we eventually forged a stainless product. Out of the opposing forces of our electromagnetism, as was predestined, I grew towards the deconstructive interference of both extremes. Few were ever able to understand the silent lessons which were communicated through the frequencies of our brains. Even my mother and sister rarely understood the deeper level upon which my father and I connected. I'll admit, for most of my life, I also took for granted the sheer weight of my own inheritance, buried under (or over) the energy of emotional tides.

In my defense, however, children aren't really used to loving pain in the way that my father had been—unless they have experienced similar experiences. For that reason, it was difficult for my father to get beyond my preferences for my mother’s protection. However, the moment that I was able to find enough faith in myself to receive what he had learned, my life would be forever transformed. Until I could hold the flames of pain in balance with my unbearable compassion, my father patiently waited until “it was time.”

Like two infinite souls playing with the veiled illusion of existence (both pleasure and pain), my father and I engaged inside a private mirror dimension. In this space, death was both a friend and an instrument for education. Like birth, death is an example of purity. In order for me to understand his “gift,” I would have to occupy both extremes simultaneously. Once I could reach balance between those two poles (birth and death), then I could command time. From my mother, I received perpetual rebirth. From my father, I was taught how to die so that I could be reborn. By shedding the skin of my previous self, I could grow in harmony with the same golden ratio which matched my date of birth.

My father was a king of the rational mind—the mental plane. He was akin Spock from Star Trek; to which I was more like Captain Kirk. Together, we played off of each other, creating an energy which would supply the necessary power to forge my eventual end product from the charges that clapped like lightning in between our equally stubborn hearts.

Prodigal Sunrise

JD Stahl (01/12/2018) By business is catalogued self-reflection. Grand inquisition caught up in suspension. Lost grips of a reality, Quite the calamity, Until ascension requires a mirrored Image of a 99 degree. It’s multi-dimensional history. A secret locked in a rock—a mystery. Under my porch, the archeology Screening sands from the gold rush This monopoly. I agree, it got to me: All of your eyes, on top of me. But now I see what I’ve got to be Savior, prophet, or saint? Amalgamation of this soul’s alchemy. Flip-screen hyper-sheen—clean code. The police have me writing dreams To release the intention behind the means. Because in the end, it starts at “go.” And I can’t lied, five above it grows. Into the low and so and so. You’re the one who runs the show. For the magick calls me back with whispered ears I will not deny it brought me here Don’t confuse the sneer, a smile is near. Like a drunkard lover with hands of glue. If took everything to unfool me and let me choose This reason, reclaimed and not resigned, A cauldron filled with futures and tunes, Storylines and infinite tries—drama too. But these corded thoughts and company Cleansed by the open eye and closing of two. And although these winds blow me back. Not condoning constant self-attack, You will be the only to turn me from black. And faith restraints I resign towards the light. My bended knees and twisted back. The age awaited me to track my age. And return the company of this blessed sage. And I’ll run through wilderness Until nature calls me back to be claimed.