Who the Fuck is "Father Luke"?
Just who is “Father Luke” ?
I am.
I call myself a writer.
That’s what this website is all about:
My writing.
I just make it all up as I go along.
I live by two rules:
Never apologize
Never explain
I’m sorry, let me explain. . .
My name is Father Luke. Even my parents call me that. Weird as that is, I appreciate them calling me the name I’ve choose for myself.
My friends call me, Padre, Faddah, and “The Good Father”.
I include very few people in my life.
I see, or write to them, once in a very infrequent while. I feel lucky to have friends, and if I consider you a friend then I consider you among the greatest people I know.
I’ve lived on the streets of California, and California is in the United States of America. I don’t really care about the geography of where I live. I’m not a flag sucker. Love is all that matters in the end, and we are, all of us, in this together.
I used to be a Serbian Orthodox Priest, and now I’m not. I had a few problems with organized Religion. This happened during the Balkan War. Familiar with world history? No? Well, don’t ask. Remember I never explain. I’m sorry about that.
I took three vows as a Priest. They were:
1.) Poverty
2.) Sexual abstinence
3.) Obedience to God
I only had a real problem with the last one. But, hey? All roads lead home, baby. So… no problem.
I took a sabbatical from the Church some time ago, after the Church began getting political. My vacation has been so much fun I’ve just never gotten around to going back there. To The Church, I mean. I might someday. Not today, though. Like I said, I’m having fun.
I’ve been selling on the telephone since 1977. This is being written in 2008, which means that I have been on the phones for about 31 years. I have heard complete strangers call me every imaginable swear word, and insult over the telephone in those 31 years. Everything from mutant shit eating baby killer, to get a real job. So far no one has even been able to come close to calling me the bad things I say to myself. You certainly may try insulting me if it pleases you. I do love being surprised . . .
I’ve spent 31 years as a phone solicitor listening to people trying their best to verbally assault me. Some of them came close. If you don’t like me, man, I’ve heard it all before. And that includes my stalkers. “Write Misty for me, or I’ll sue you.”
Serbians have a saying:
“Go ahead. Bomb us. Then we will have even more room.”
You don’t understand all that? Well, sorry I, uh… you know?
Well, I like Vivaldi, I like Hank III, I like Lucinda Williams, and Johnny Cash, and… I even had a dear friend show me that I can enjoy Mexican Music, before she found out she had cancer everywhere in her body you can think of. Even her hair, I think. I hope she’s still alive.
Okay.
I enjoy diversity. Just don’t think you’ll pussy whip me. I’ll be gone faster than blowing out a match, and the only way to know that I’ve even been there is that certain smile you’ll have. I know that I’ll be grinnin’. I usually am.
What else am I holding secret? Let’s see…
I have been clean since November 7th, 1988. That means I have been clean for over 19 years. That also means no cigarettes, and no caffeine for all you A.A. snobs who think you have your addictions by the short hairs. Give up your smokes, and give up your caffeine, and give up your sugar then we can talk “Sobriety”. That’s what I’ve done. Until then keep your anonymous program just that: an anonymous program, otherwise you run the risk of someone calling you an enema bag sucking, brain washed, loser. Again I’m just speaking to you from my own experience.
I have a history of homelessness. A girl I was fucking counted it up for me once, and I was surprised to discover that I had lived on the streets for 26 years. She, and I, lived together for nearly eight of those 26 years. It pains me to remember her only as some girl I fucked. I miss her sometimes when I see a single star next to a crescent moon on a clear summer night.
So, where do I go from here ?
Well I have lots of plans.
And I’d explain them all to y’all, but. . .
