RUINED: Chapter Two: No good deed will go unpunished

Chapter Two: No good deed will go unpunished

In the beginning, God lived in my basement and I remember this when I was two years old even though someone told me once, “Aw you were too young to remember anything at that age.” No. I remember because it is something you don't forget, being in a house with God in your basement. People are told to look up for God and this seems to me to be a major deception throwing everybody off the trail.
I say from personal experience that I didn’t look up to find God, instead, I crawled down, and sat across the room staring at him in my infancy, of course. The pure infant relates this to all in the face of a lot of literary directives from high-minded sources, raising the need to discuss a few things I have read through the years, including the Holy Bible, a book with a long history containing intense mystery. Okay, enough about that.
An illiterate God is represented by baffle-gab that incites murderous impulses in humans so many ways the mind boggles. It is objectionable to blame God for taking people apart limb from limb: Thou Shalt Not Kill (in hordes of less than 5,000 per day in sub-tropical zones with nearby rivers and industrial-grade transportation facilities). The world is designed to have the highest form of public nuisance running it.
"You’ve got to follow the money trail," says one slippery source to me one day (no doubt stolen it from another slippery source on a previous day).
Okay, but it's not the only trail. . . .
Is it possible we all do but don't know we wake up to six months of God in our basement, that ultimate time when we are innocent in the eyes of virtually everything and everyone, not excluding God? For me seemed to happen during an infancy of twists and turns. My older sister would not visit God in my basement and she was perfectly aware he was there. She refused to hang around with him. She was terrified of him as I recall, and this should come as no surprise because he was a mean-looking dude.
It is incorrect to suggest God wanted me in the basement because in my experience he didn't. I remember him barely tolerant. Is it possible that God lives in basements because he is in exile? Maybe the charlatans that stole the show are thieves who took the best of all creation and kicked him out of his paradise, and made God a refugee to be pursued out of heaven, which remains a wonderful place to be, no question, and very much around and of the earth. God is an exile from the best part of his creation. Is that one of the stories carved into Mayan temple walls?
Meanwhile thieves, typical of those having sociopathic tendencies, spend a lot of effort despoiling the stolen possession, intending to run it till it burns to the ground. They won’t be stopped before they are done abusing everything, being especially hard on a select group of humans who might invite God out of his exile and loneliness. These few become guilty of aiding and abetting Public Enemy Number One. These are worthy and the result is important. “You get to live with me. We live 10 feet under and eat a lot of worms. And eventually it will come to pass that during your waking hours we rebuild the completely destroyed world stolen from me and ruined while out of my possession. Thanks for your support. You're going be living like God, with me, working hard till the job is done.” He doesn't use a lot of words but everybody gets the message. Eat worms, fix burned-out paradise.
Or was God committing me to something else during a six-month period of my infancy? Did he sacrifice earth-bound geothermal comfort temporarily to live in a chilly concrete basement in order to achieve a goal? Is God a high achiever with low expectations of his achievements (man), informed as he is (by Satan) that man is a source of continuous disappointment and torment to God, says Satan, Jesus (half-a-man) supporting the argument by being a fucking wimp?
In later years I came to understand, even in the face of my terrible ego problem, which, according to Dick G. of the Coastal Health Authority Urgent Response Team in the Alcohol and Drug Abuse department of the social assistance agency of the D.E.S. of Vancouver, B.C., Canada, prevents real understanding, why God prefers it below the surface when he's hanging around. It's because on the surface the world is a horrible place to him.
The world is filled with difficult chores and God showed me a few years later that it's a mean, miserable, contrary place even for him to exist; perhaps more for him to exist. None of us respect God for who he is while he roams around looking like damaged goods picking up the shattered pieces left by his second favorite creation (his first favorite being a 'Tree of Knowledge' possessed of an invaluable fruit, which is out of his reach in this situation of exile; knowledge, which belongs to him, is stolen and yet to be returned.
Hell, it's no tea party for me either, damaged as I am and occasionally picked up and delivered to a form of succor, but for God the best thing to do is hunker down ten feet beneath the surface and let it unravel up there (it could not be unfolding). As a people-person, unlike the two chimps, Jesus and Satan, who play aloof, he makes friends with the few-and-far-between who accept him for exactly what he is. For whatever reason God prefers showing himself to me while minimizing exposure to the world on the surface.
What is he? Is he kind of homeless and a bit dumb, you know, on the surface? The dumbness is only silence, to be sure. He is definitely smart enough to create the world and stolen paradise, including a valuable knowledge tree that others are exploiting under false pretenses.
Here's what I remember about God in my basement. He was huge, a really big fellow. He was rough and tumble looking, not friendly. I would scramble down the wooden staircase to the basement and toddle into his space and he would be sitting and I was probably interrupting him from picking his nose or some other thoughful endeavor. I had no words; I wasn't speaking. I would find a basket of laundry to sit on and stare. He would stare back and usually he was quiet. We made eye contact and this might go on for several minutes. I recollect him smiling or laughing, which encouraged repeat staring matches. Sometimes he would be gruff and a bit snarly about me walking into his space but he always allowed me to sit and stare at him for a few minutes.
My mother would yell, "Get up here!" I would resist and God would indicate I had to go, wave his arm and shoo me out, and I had a sense of his happiness to be rid of me, but I remember feeling that I wasn't done with him, and I would crawl up the bare wooden stairs; and I remember being angry at my mother for calling me out of these important meetings. She would be angry back and instruct me to, "Stay out of the basement."

In a few months God was gone and I didn't see him again for 22 years. When I saw him next time God portrayed his circumstances differently, and I suppose he was older but I can't differentiate between his age and condition because there is not much memory of the first meetings. Not surprisingly I met him the second time in a similar vicinity, that is, another basement. I will tell you about this meeting. It was short. God had been drinking heavily. He wanted to sober up. Later I bore witness to the fact he would changed his mind about that too. Staying on the same page with God is both daunting and inevitable in my experience.

Chapter three
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