After the Waterfall--The First "Warrior Moment."

Okay, here goes.

Over the years since this event, i've tried in numerous ways to explain it, quantify it, somehow interpret it in a way that people who WEREN'T there would be able to at least gain some understanding of how important it was, of its significance. Most of these attempts were poetic in nature, because it seems that metaphor is the only tool that comes close.

In April, of my 14th year . . . shortly before i would turn 15, in fact . . . i had an experience at a waterfall that defies any normal description. It was misty, foggy, but not-quite-raining, and the hills and trees were clad in that almost spiritual light green. It had rained for several days, quite hard, and i was taking advantage of the break in the rain to walk to a spot i had been before, once when i was 13 with my father, and in the previous summer (after a long walk that took me to it in a roundabout way). The waterfall is hidden in a cleft of the mountains along the Blue Ridge Parkway, on a piece of land owned by a friend of my father's . . . it was known that i wandered all around that property (in later years), but since i was not hunting and not intending any harm to the property, i was allowed to come and go pretty much at will.

The waterfall often dries up during hot, dry weather, but the recent rains had given it a considerable flow. I walked until i stood at the base of the fall, near the small pool formed there. On the walk up, i passed numerous bloodroots, whose delicate white blossoms would wilt shortly after being picked, and whose nacarat hue stained the hand that plucked them. Responding to some impulse, i stripped my shirt off and leaned into the fall to drink. The water is very clean and cold. As i did this, my heart-rate seemed to triple, and the only other way i can describe the "event horizon" is that all my senses seemed to suddenly "jack up," and i even got the impression that i was using senses that had laid dormant; i was PERCEIVING something that was, by any of the usual parameters i'd used to measure such things, beyond my power to describe. I stood up, looked around, my heart beating a savage tempo in my chest; nothing had changed . . . but EVERYTHING had changed! Half-formed dreams and images seemed to suddenly demand my attention. I walked away from the waterfall that day in a daze, seeing the woods and trees and blossoms in a completely different way, as if there were something BEHIND them . . . the concept of a "veil" was doubly appropriate, given the misty and foggy conditions along the Parkway.

I was never considered "normal" by any of my peers, but this marked the beginning of a time during which i no longer CARED. "Fitting in" was impossible to me now. I had experienced something that catapulted me into a state that might have been called "satori," or "epiphany," or--as a poet friend of mine, Marty Evans, called them--a "warrior moment." (Marty was with me years later, in Georgia, when i experienced a similar moment, and though i didn't know how to describe it, he seemed to understand, and that was the first time i'd heard the term "warrior moment" described to me). I felt as if i'd been yanked halfway in to another world, a dream-world, a parallel dimension, or what-have-you. THE NEXT FEW YEARS OF MY LIFE, I WAS IN THAT STATE. My dreams became more vivid, my fantasies more intricate, and my beliefs marked with something that some people called "mysticism" (and my mother, God bless her, used the term "unrealistic," but in all fairness, it did seem kind of "unreal"). I could lay down, close my eyes, and see clear images of places i'd never been, and wrote many of them down in my notebooks of the time . . . over several years, i'd described worlds and places and creatures, drawing partly on my knowledge of mythology, that to me seemed all-too-likely.

I once discussed my mother's resistance to these things to our youth counsellor at the church, who told me that my mother might be afraid FOR me, because i believed these things. Years later, Pastor John Ault, a mentor and good friend, told me that--because i was an artist--i had the ability to experience on a creative level what Paul experienced in 2 Corinthians 12: Paul describes being "hijacked into paradise . . . whether in or out of the body, I don't know, God knows." He said there he heard "the unspeakable spoken, but was forbidden to tell what he heard." It's no coincidence that immediately thereafter, Paul describes his "thorn in the flesh," "a gift of a handicap, to keep me in constant touch with my limitations." He says it was BECAUSE of the "extravagance of these revelations" that he was limited by this (and he does not describe it specifically). I began to understand a lot about the creative gift i was given, and that the very extremes that i experienced through it were the "flip side" of the limitations i experienced. In latter years, it would be described (or, rather, categorized) as "anxiety-depressive disorder," "bipolar disorder," and so forth. I think those are just words that people use so they can gain some kind of "handle" on it. I don't really pay that much attention to the terms or diagnoses anymore. That moment . . . and some of the other moments that have come, rare but undeniable, almost frightening in intensity . . . were worth anything i suffered because of my inordinate imagination and fucked-up brain chemistry.

When people who are rigid or narrowminded in their outlook encounter things like these, their minds reject them. They run to a psychiatrist who prescribes some chemical concotion that allows them to "numb" the feelings. They focus on their jobs, on TV, on mundane things, and try to deny that they've been afforded a glimpse of wonder. It is what Michael Yaconelli would describe as "dangerous wonder." Wonder, and awe, are often uncomfortable feelings, partially because modern society lacks these qualities. They, along with imagination, are generally neglected by people whose focus on "rationalism" and "practicality" have actually stunted their growth. Sadly, too many of these people are Christians. I consider myself blessed, extravagantly blessed, by these few glimpses of an almost terrifying wonder, an eclipsing awe, that--despite my inability to fully describe them--have remained fixed in my head, indelibly written on my soul. My vain efforts through poetry to communicate the experience at the waterfall . . . or any of the other "warrior moments" in my life . . . are, at least in my mind, only reaffirmation of what happened. I was "let in" on a secret, was temporarily caught up in the Mystery that i pursued for so long, without knowing that perhaps that Mystery was pursuing me as well. I think Heaven will be much like those experiences, only heightened and endless . . . to live such a way, in the presence of the Almighty Creator who allowed such a flawed and fragile creature to glimpse them, is--in a way--almost terrifying. If it were not for God's love and mercy, the things i experienced would have undoubtedly broken my mind. Perhaps they have. I would consider nothing more honorable than to be broken for God. It may be that that first "warrior moment" was NOT the most powerful i will experience, though none that have happened since have neared that supernal level. I can only thank God that, somehow, those very things that limit me, cause me grief, and trouble my sleep, are also the essential flaw that He works through, His strength coming into its own through my weakness, and--in an outpouring of undeserved grace--allows me to experience moments like these.

GENESIS!!!!

Before i post a couple of poems (1 that i was able to finish after Genesis and a second one i wrote on the heels of that one), i need to say a couple of words about Genesis.

What is Genesis? It's a church plant here in the Roanoke Valley. If you want to find out some of the basics, check out their link: http://genesisroanoke.com. Their core beliefs, information, and staff are posted there. My friend and comrade from the old Slam days, Lewis Kleiner, is a staff member, and was instrumental in getting me to Genesis.

I've only been to 2 services, which have been held every 2 weeks, in the evening. At both of those services, i was struck by several things almost immediately:

I did not feel like an Outsider. This is an unusual experience for me, because as a person who--in the words of Pastor John Ault--"walks the edge," i usually find myself on the periphery of any group i come into contact with. To walk into a church where this was NOT the case was a powerful draw. The dynamic is utterly different from so many churches i've been privileged to attend. Even the word "attend" doesn't fit . . . any more than you would "attend" your home. Even more strongly tonight i was struck by the feeling of COMING HOME.

The Spirit was at work at Genesis . . . in a strong, powerful, forward-moving way. I've attended several churches who had the Spirit at work, in a powerful, convincing, CONVICTING way, but this is by far the strongest i've felt this. I can only report on my own reactions to this "phenomenon," but as someone who is aware of the Holy Spirit, i assure you, this is no fluke. There was a palpable sense--in the people, the music, the pastor (more about him in a moment)--that God was right there in the trenches with us. (WITH US! I actually said "US!" I'm used to talking in terms of "them," but man, i was a PART of this!)

There was no judgementalism here. This goes back to the first thing i mentioned . . . i could feel people looking at me, but it wasn't a cold or suspicious "looking-at" that i sometimes get. It was more of a "Hey, he's new here." Instead, i felt almost immediately embraced. I "clicked." And, brother, when somebody like me is able to sense that "click," it's an experience. I know i'm a bit of a freak (yes, i'll say it, and i'm not ashamed of it), and can be somewhat intimidating on short notice (i am Grendel, after all) . . . so imagine how powerful that felt. How simultaneously welcoming and, in a way, almost scary . . . when you know you're in a place or among a group of people who've cast their whole lot on Christ, and are willing to go the distance for Him REGARDLESS OF THE COST, it can be a very awe-inspiring experience.

The pastor--Craig Tackett--is HANDS DOWN one of the most powerful, energetic, and gifted speakers i've heard. I DO NOT EXAGGERATE. It's amazing to watch him take a single, simple, and maybe even oft-repeated passage of Scripture, and drive it home with what is undoubtedly the sheer force of the Holy Spirit working through him. He means what he says, too . . . there's no pretense, no "better-than-thou" attitude, none of the "party line" rhetoric. God has obviously called this man to do exactly what he's doing, and when he spoke, i could hear something inside me practically screaming "YES! YES! YES!" It was all i could do to restrain myself from doing just that . . . jumping up and screaming "YEAH, MAN, YOU TELL IT LIKE IT IS!" And, as intimidating as something like that can be, he's approachable, and that sense of welcoming, that he's really glad to see you there, flows as much from him as from the congregation as a whole.

I could sit here and rhapsodize about the experience for pages, but in all honesty, i couldn't do it justice. I've been talking and wishing and all-around WHINING about wanting to go back to NYC or NJ, and a part of me really wants that, but now i'm not so sure that God wants that . . . or if He intends for it to happen as quickly as i want it to happen. THIS CHURCH FEELS LIKE HOME. If God wants me here, to hang my wanderer's hat here and become a part of what Genesis is doing here in Roanoke, then i'll do it. I'll throw everything i've hoped and planned and dreamed on the altar for God, even if it's in Roanoke. God is everywhere, and He's everything good in my life, and if He wants me here, then "here am i, send me." This powerful conviction isn't something i take lightly . . . it's something i've felt in the past when i came to a place i was supposed to be. I felt it at the Poetry Slam. I felt it at Grace Covenant. I felt it in NYC. And i feel it now. This "waiting stage" of my life might have been nothing more than God preparing me for something else . . . something i couldn't have imagined. And, when you're talking about an imagination like the one that ravages me every day of my life, that's saying something.

I could think of nothing better than getting down here in the trenches with this group of committed people, LOVING people, and putting what shoulder i have to the wheel.

Freedom of Speech in Action: The Poetry Slam

It's been over 2 weeks since my last cigarette, and the craving is pretty rough. But, if anything, i've got an extra reason to hold off on the smoking coming up tomorrow night. That's right, after a long hiatus, Grendel is going to hit the Slam scene again, this time in the town that gave him his first set of Slam wings.

To newcomers to the concept of Poetry Slam, a bit of explanation is probably in order. First and foremost, someone interested in the concept should check out www.slampapi.com, and www.poetryslam.com . The first is the website of Marc Smith (SO WHAT?) (you have to be an insider to the Slam to get the "SO WHAT?" reference, but trust me, it's cool). Marc Smith is the "Slam Pappy," a man who has started the whole movement. Very few people can claim that they've inspired a movement, but Marc has. He's a Chicago poet who, in the mid-1980's, began bringing poetry back to the people. For years, poetry had been "caged" by the academia, the purview of readings where the only people in attendance were academics, other poets, and students. The decorous silence and golf-clap applause, where people were expected to HANG ON EVERY WORD, even if the speaker droned on for an intolerably long time. The Beat poets were a breath of fresh air in their time, Allen Ginsberg's live performance of "Howl" probably breaking the conceptual sound-barrier, actually being a "banned book" (a laughable concept which probably means that even people who would not normally read it would fight to get their hands on it). But as the Beats aged, finally gaining a grudging acceptance by the academia (and Allen Ginsberg turned into a really creepy guy who would take his clothes off in public and make everyone watch), poetry seemed to "slump" back into its former state. Along came Marc Smith . . . and everything changed again. At the famous Green Mill in Chicago . . . a BAR, of all things . . . the concept of having poets "compete" for prizes, with randomly chosen individuals in the crowd holding up scores in imitation of an Olympic event, became the epicenter of a movement that would sweep the nation, and even reach other nations . . . Great Britain, Germany, France, and even Israel, and by now probably many other countries around the world. Suddenly, people who normally would not even THINK about poetry, much less read it or listen to it, were attending these events, participating, and finding themselves enjoying it. Once you come into a Slam, whether you're a performer or a member of the audience, you're part of it, an integral part of something that is much greater than the sum of its parts. It's often intense, in-your-face, aggressive, perhaps a little intimidating, always entertaining . . . freedom of speech in action! I've seen poets perform all types and styles even in our hometown Slam . . . everything from hip-hop to villanelles, ages ranging from 7 to 70, subject matter that spanned the entire consciousness of this time and the times that preceded it.

Marc Smith, for somebody who started a movement, is a down-to-earth, likeable, friendly guy. He makes it a point to introduce people to one another, to "bring them in." It's an attitude that makes coming to a Slam that holds true to its roots a lot like "coming home." I've attended a number of Slams, including 2 Southeastern Regional and National competitions, and i've got to say that, like Kenny Mostern said, in his "Cheap Art Manifesto," i've been to one-horse-town Slams where i met 12 of my best friends that i've never known before. My own personal Slam experience began here in Roanoke, taken under the wing of a banty little Jew named Ian Cohen, a manic street-poet who encouraged me, and--along with poets like Mark Skelley, Patricia Johnson, Ian Mack, John Beard, and a number of others--gave me my early chops, showed me what it was all about, and ultimately convinced me that yes, i could do this. I'm not going to say that all my experiences with the Slam have been clear "wins"--it came to me at a time in my life when i was struggling with a lot of things, and there were situations where (especially once i accepted the responsibility of maintaining or running a slam) i mishandled it--it has also been the vehicle for many good things, probably most of the positive things in my life. I felt like i found something that the odd equipment God had given me could be put to use. It was at a Slam that i met Pastor John Ault and his wife Jane, two people who eventually became mentors and leaders as i re-encountered Christ on a new level. It was the Slam that put a hunger for travel and an edge to my senses, made me brave enough to tackle Jersey, and eventually NYC, for years . . . and not without some success. Some people who have become the best friends i've ever had, or ever will have, i met through the Slam. One individual i met through the Slam, Taalam Acey, has become--especially after seeing him twice in New Jersey, and purchasing his 2-CD set "The Market 4 Change"--almost like a prophet, and certainly somebody who made me more aware of what an awesome, dangerous responsibility it is to take on the title of "poet," to apply it to oneself. I can only hope that i could become one tenth of the poet that he is.

It's really no surprise to me that "Stevedogg," one of my friends from the old Wits' End days, is at the helm of the current incarnation of the Roanoke Poetry Slam. His energy and creative ability will no doubt sustain the new Slam, and i'm looking forward to seeing him, and many of my other old friends, at Studio Roanoke tomorrow night. It will be worth coming back to Roanoke just to see this new incarnation, and to be part of the wind in its sails.

Poetry Slams in general might "shock" or "offend" (oh, how i hate that word!) some people whose concept of poetry begins with Hallmark Cards and ends with Reader's Digest, and it might seem silly or wonky or perverse to people who've been freeze-dried in the academia . . . but, as Marc Smith would say, "So what?" I strongly believe that spoken word venues like this are the last bastion of true "freedom of speech," where people of different social, political, religious, racial, and national backgrounds can come together and find out just how much they have in common . . . and how much they have to learn from one another. A Slam isn't about scores, or about one or two divas who show up just to suck up the attention, or the applause or heckling or even "boos" of a bar-crowd . . . it is a thing that is greater than the sum of its parts, art happening before your eyes. Yes, you'll hear things that you may disagree with. Yes, you'll likely feel the prickly contact with more than a few artistic temperaments. Yes, you'll probably experience everything from rage to tears to hilarity. And, yes, you will probably learn something in spite of yourself. Is it for everyone? No . . . but it darn well should be. I've always maintained that freedoms, liberties, are like muscles . . . if you don't exercise them, they'll grow weak and atrophied, and when you most need to depend on them, they won't be strong enough to hold up. And, from a Christian perspective, if your Faith isn't strong enough to handle being in a place like this, a place where you might encounter in-your-face opposition, a place where people are WHO they are at the top of your lungs . . . then how can your Faith walk in the world there these things are real, but might otherwise escape your attention?

Shadows of a Twilight Empire: Chapter One

Reading over the blogs of two of my friends, Jeff Crook and Browning Keister, i'm realizing that my style and format are somewhat lacking. I'm not really discussing anything of radical importance to any "scene," and most of the work i do in this blog is dealing with the convolutions of my own twisted psyche. Outside of a couple of halfway-decent poems, most of this is just rambling, and probably incredibly boring to the people who persuse it (assuming that anyone does). I'm experiencing a sort of mental version of writer's cramp . . . the mental muscles i've used for so long to write poetry have been focused primarily on what i might call "slammetry," i.e., poetry specifically written to be performed. It's ironic that, while living in one of the spoken word capitals of the United States, i took very little advantage of the opportunities that surrounded me at the time. I've also wondered why i haven't "blogged" about my adventures and misadventures while living in NJ and then in NYC.

Okay.

I lost most of my material wealth thanks to a housefire. I had books, CD's, and all of my papers certifying that, yes, in fact, i AM Robert Todd Pack, a legal resident of the United States, not a terrorist--well, an ART TERRORIST, maybe. Also most of my clothes and some knick-knacks that, while not exactly precious, certainly had some sentimental value. Part of this was that, apparently, a large box of my stuff i'd packed up was either mistaken for trash or simply purloined by the people who came in to fix the house. I was lucky to rescue my cat, my computer, certain books, and a couple of tomes of hard copy of my poetry. Pretty much everything else was toasted, smoked, or soaked. (Even this small scattering of stuff was later partially destroyed when the basement of the house i had lived in in the Bronx--where a lot of my stuff was stored until i returned to Roanoke--was flooded). As far as my job in NJ was concerned, that was the least of my worries . . . my district manager was happy to transfer me to a store in the Bronx . . . and my friend there was giving me a rent-free room for 6 months. I thought, "6 months, cool, i can accomplish a lot in that time, and will surely find some other place to live by that time." Some of my earlier journaling in my blog reveals that optimistic state of mind. I was getting good hours at my job, but i ended up spending a lot of what i gained as simple "mad money." I've never been very good with finances . . . an understatement, to be sure.

About a month after i'd moved into my furnished room in the Bronx, i was sitting on my bed, writing poetry, listening to some music, just pretty much chilling out. Outside, i heard 3 loud sounds that i immediatedly identified as gunfire. I'd never heard gunshots outside of a few adolescent hunting trips (and, partly because i couldn't keep my big mouth shut even when hunting, there weren't many of those either, because i succeeded in scaring off anything living that didn't require a hearing aid). I turned off my music, and outside heard a loud crowd of people . . . it sounded to me like a mob. One voice shouted out over the other voices, "We're number one! We're number one! We're STILL number one!" Then, as the other voices died out, i heard a car, and the same voice in a lower tone say, "Come on, let's get out of here." The car drove off . . . not speeding, but not taking it easy either. At that moment, my brain kinda vapor-locked, and i thought, "Oh, shit, i'm living in the Bronx." I was the whitest cracker on the block. Later on that night, some detectives came around, asking questions. I simply told them what i'd heard. When asked by one cop if i'd looked out the window when i heard the crowd, i said, "No, sir, i did NOT look out. I distinctly heard three shots, which meant that even if the shots were fired from a revolver, there were three bullets out there, and i didn't want my name on any of them." The cops took it easy on me, they could see i was shaken up a bit. That was an understatement. The next day, i saw a shrine up by the bodega, for a kid--he couldn't have been older than 16, if that--called "Li'l Bit." I stopped and lit a stick of nag champa incense that i carried around in my backpack, and said a brief prayer for the kid's family and friends. Three Black guys who were standing nearby watched me carefully while i did this, and as i stood up to leave, one of them stepped closer to me and said, "Good lookin' out." I looked in the newspapers the next day, but not one mention of the kid. NOT ONE. No, instead, the front pages were plastered with the latest Hollywood scandal. THIS KID HAD BEEN SHOT AND NOBODY GAVE A SHIT. When people hear my ranting or pronouncements about the media, the "system," etc., they call my paranoid or cynical. My parents have even said that. FUCK that, that was REALITY that night, and my idealistic visions were shattered as sure as if it was the gunshots that hit them. Crack, crack, crack! I also realized at that time the simple reality that a lot of New Yorkers seem to accept without a qualm: this stuff goes on all the time. The people i hung out with at the park--"Park Rats," some of them even took that moniker on themselves--could just as easily have been that boy. I think of how i'd felt if it had been Spider or Smoke or Shadow or Papo or Pharaoh or one of the other guys i now called friends, who'd been shot. I mean, Pharaoh even had scars where he'd been shot before--i'd seen 'em. I knew that a lot of those guys were what the "norms" would call "criminals," "hoods," or "degenerates." Almost all of them drank, and several of them used cocaine. Almost everyone at the Park smoked pot--even i did (yes, i smoked pot, okay, fucking deal with it), but almost everyone in NYC either smokes it or has smoked it at one time or another (wonder what my Grandmother with her "when in Rome, do as the Romans do" philosophy would have thought about that, ha ha). Mostly, when i went up to the park, i was either involved in playing Magic the Gathering, or talking poetry, philosophy, and theology. It always amazed me how many of these streetwise kats were actually intellectuals in wolves' clothing. Or maybe just intellectual wolves. And there i was, a sheep in wolves' clothing, not dangerous, not a fighter, a whitebread guy from the South, and yet i was accepted. It took a while . . . and not everyone there trusted me, i found out later--in fact, the ones that didn't trust me were the least trustworthy themselves, and seemed to regard my honesty and lack of "hood-pretense" with suspicion.

It was Spring and Summer, and i spent most of my days well into twilight and evening there, associating with riff-raff . . . or so some would say. There are no limits to friendship, and quite a few of them came to regard me almost as a go-to guy when it came to the Christian faith. I encountered some opposition because of it, but not as much as you might think. I was always willing to talk to someone who had questions, and didn't pretend to have all the answers, and i didn't try to cram my beliefs down people's throats. I felt like a Lone Ranger for a while, until Conscience and i met up and started to hang around. Jesus didn't get a corporate job or hang around with the high and mighty . . . He spent His time with the people who were lost, the "losers," the "outsiders." People knew that what i had, i shared. I'd buy energy drinks, candy, whatever, and just share them around. Smoke particularly started respecting me early on, because i brought him a matching hat, scarf, and a pair of gloves back when i was living in Jersey, after i'd started making a regular weekly trip to the park to hang out. Pharaoh and i had spent hours of time together at his place in Jersey, staying up all night playing "Soulcalibur 2." These guys weren't BAD people. Yes, they engaged in illegal activities. Yes, they did a lot of things that i wouldn't do, and i could have gotten "bagged" by association by cops who--in New York--are just as happy to harrass two for the price of one. I didn't have "respectable" friends. But i had friends who, at the very least, didn't pretend to be things that they weren't. Sure, they had flashy names, and some of the typical macho bragging went on, but everybody knew when it was real and when it was bullshit.

Whereto tends all this? Other than trying to give people a sort of play-by-play of my experiences, and how they've impacted me, i'm simply saying i'm fed up. I'm tired of the way these so-called "criminals" and "outcasts" are regarded by society. Even people who are close to me in every other way seem to look down on my friends. These are people who shared what little they had with me, and who helped me out in whatever way they could when i was down-and-out . . . i'll go into details about this in later posts (this has already turned into a rather wordy chapter). IF YOU CANNOT WALK AMONG THEM, YOU CANNOT HELP THEM. No amount of political action, ratification, "charity dinners," or other elitist posturings are going to do them any good. YOU DON'T KNOW THEM. And when one of them gets shot, you just label them "thugs," and think "good riddance." When you think like that, i want you to remember what the Ghost of Christmas Present said to Scrooge: "It may be that in the sight of Heaven, you are no more fit to live than this poor man's child."

How I Became "Grendel"

Grendel, in Beowulf, was a monster of some kind. There are different concepts of what he was . . . some say a dragon-like creature, others say he was more like an ogre or giant, and still others say he was a descendant of the Biblical Cain.
The way i picked up the nickname is kind of humorous. Back in late 1999 and early 2000, there were a group of us--Slam poets--in my hometown of Roanoke, who started going to schools doing exhibitions of Slam poetry. Word got around to several middle and high schools that we were turning kids on to the concept of poetry, giving them a different view than what they'd had from textbooks. Teachers loved getting the kids hooked on something that would have been regarded as "dull"or "boring." We presented in perhaps a dozen middle and high schools, as well as a couple of local colleges. The first school we went to, we were performing for a single classroom (later on, we packed auditoriums!). The current unit that they were studying in English class was "Beowulf." The teacher asked if we could somehow tie that concept into our presentation. That "hook" was given to me, and of course i told the kids that Slam was actually a modern-day descendant of the old oral tradition . . . that the concept of "competition poetry" went back to ancient Greece, and to the Anglo-Saxon bardic tales . . . and then i performed this poem i wrote, called "Sympathy for Grendel," which was a re-telling (albeit much shorter) of the Beowulf story from Grendel's point of view, that Grendel was just a victim of "bad press." Pretty soon, the Slammers occasionally referred to me as "Grendel." When i moved to NJ, i dusted off the moniker, and decided that since Grendel was a predator who trashed the "status quo" of his time, that the new Grendel personna was perfect for my rants and tirades. It also fits with the kind of stage presence i adopt when i'm performing those rants . . . stalking around, glaring at the audience, kind of a "predatory" stance. When i went to the Open Mic in Newark for the first time, i signed in simply as "Grendel." That's how i was known there from that point on. Later, hanging out in NYC, i introduced myself to the Union Square "Park Rats" as Grendel, and that's what most of them still would call me. Ask 'em about Todd, and only a couple would know who you were talking about. Ask 'em about "Grendel," and they'll probably tell you some stories. Some of 'em might even be true. You never know . . . .