Ted Wiechert - writer, musician (Preface to my upcoming book following Intro)

Comic books were my earliest passion. Through them, and constantly asking grown-ups "what does that say?" I learned to read before starting kindergarten. I had direct access to fresh comics through my Step-Father's printing company position; so new they were still warm and the ink smeared. My Mother and Aunt later provided them, as well, through their positions at another distributor in the area, actually cited in Wikipedia for being a hub for them since World War 2. From there an interest was developed in ink art, spending an exorbitant amount of time alone producing detailed Samurai and ninja drawings... and yes, "Ninja Turtles," which came out when I was 11 years old. Music was always a vital part of that process, then became the next art. Once I reached High School everything seemed to be drying up. Sitting on the staircase one day, contemplating the nothingness, my Mother burst through the front door and said "we're moving to Florida," to which my simple response was "when?" "In 3 days." The new High School had 5 times more students and the building, itself, was only in it's second year. Oddly, my individually-acquired friends were already connected to one another; I was the one being added to the circle. Among them 2 were guitarists, a piano/keyboard player, and 2 drummers. Having a hypothetical discussion on music one afternoon, specifically about forming a band, each claimed their instrument, but no one played Bass guitar, or ever wanted to for that matter. I didn't know how to play anything, but felt inspired to learn for the sake of the group; "take one for the team" as they say. "As legend has it," one of the friends in our circle lived with his Uncle who had an old, disassembled, short-scale Bass sitting around in a box, which we put together and bought some strings for: instant "Bassist." Working with the keyboardist in our group at the local Pizza Hut, I was able to purchase an amplifier. Time alone with it paid off, quickly, so we started meeting at our drummer's house, leading to countless police-interrupted jam sessions in my first band: school on the weekdays and music on the weekends. I was later introduced to the local Marine Corps recruiter who once served as a Presidential Guard for Ronald Reagan. He was a magnetic and overall animated character, that easily harnessed my existing interest, mostly derived from old "G.I. Joe" comics ("Snake Eyes" was my favorite: a ninja who hunted rabbits without a gun). Right before High School graduation my family moved back north while I decided to remain in Florida, alone. Everything went downhill, fast, which expedited my eagerness to enter the military. After a series of discussions with the Staff Sergeant, I was carefully interviewed by the Gunnery Sergeant, signed all the necessary papers, and waited, struggling to survive. In Autumn they called, offering an early entry spot: off to Parris Island, SC. I went. Boot camp was beyond all explanation, to say the very least. I was skin & bones upon entering, but my heart was 100%. Afterward, at Combat Training, unrelenting pain in both shins reluctantly led to a medical examination revealing multiple stress fractures: my bones simply couldn't take the pounding. The Doctors insisted I was not gonna' be able to go forward as an Infantry "ground pounder," so the process of discharge was initiated. "Admin Company" was the next destination, to wait indefinitely with Marines who were all on the way out for a variety of reasons. Some unfortunate souls had waited over a year, being assigned ulterior duties they were able to perform relative to their condition. I felt totally defeated, but always ended up making people laugh, which caught the attention of the base Chaplain's Assistant one day. He made a comment that I would be mentioned to the Chaplain, but I never thought much of it since he was quite the joker himself, and taken even less seriously. I knew nothing of religion and would've preferred to ignore it at the time. What I didn't know was the Chaplain was also a Naval Commander, and I was being brought in to ultimately assume the role of the Marine Assistant recommending me when his medical discharge came through. I inherited his office, right across from the Chaplain, the keys to the building, charge over the grounds, charge over others, and many other responsibilities. Looking back, this was a shadow of the "Joseph" story in the book of Genesis ch.37. Just getting the Chaplain/Commander's mail required entering Base Command, filled with brass from front to back who got used to me and talked freely. As for the Chapel, high ranking officers and enlisted personnel were in and out of it; attending church, scheduling weddings, receiving counseling, having to go through me virtually every time to arrange it. At the time I was an "agnostic." My dog tags were actually stamped "No Religious Preference" since boot camp, unlike any other Marine I knew. In the military of 1992 that was not a respectable trait. You were either Catholic, Protestant, or an alien. This phase in life was very distinguishing, and simultaneously humbling. As my discharge was imminent, the music bug sensed this and grew increasingly restless within. I made a call to a lead guitarist that was well-known for his skills in High School, but I didn't technically know. With few words we stoically agreed we would start "the best band in the world." Culminating 5 months of service to the Base Chaplain, I was presented a certificate by him for excellence, with a big smile and underlying sadness. I knew we were gonna miss each other. I couldn't imagine not walking in there from the barracks each morning, unlocking those doors, even staying in the church by myself on the weekends ordering food and playing on a personal computer, which not many people had in 1992. With my Honorable Discharge in hand I returned to the world, as the Parris Island D.I.'s so-lovingly titled it, becoming "a nasty civilian" again. Things got unnaturally tough, quickly: not having that steady military pay, comradery, or active Marine Corps honor. The contrasting dysfunction of society was oppressive, and a daily issue. Employment was glycemic, especially in the on/off tourism-based economy of Southwest Florida. I also lacked any trade knowledge in a predominantly construction-centered region. On top of these external factors I had nerve damage in my back due to slight scoliosis. This was worsened in the course of training with a heavy pack bearing down, and, of course, my lower legs ached the more time I spent on my feet, which was not empathized due to my youth. After a couple of months (or longer), I took a late night walk with a friend around the neighborhood, rambling on about my circumstances in self-pity; specifically lamenting the fact I couldn't afford to buy the Bass guitar I needed, or hardly support myself for that matter. We ended up passing by the run down, unoccupied house where I lived prior to enlisting. The grass was overgrown and the place appeared to be condemned. I jokingly said "Let me check the mail," reaching in the mailbox, which didn't even have a lid left on it, to discover a rain-dampened letter inside - to me - from the Marines, containing a "Back Pay" check for about $700.00 - God is good. The instrument was purchased, brand new, and I could return to music. In a short time, a group of extremely comical, yet powerfully-proficient, musicians, especially for our age, was put together. After a series of epic practice sessions we ended up playing in a "Battle Of The Bands." Only a few groups had entered, but we won it. I'll never forget how nervous I was at first, walking up onto the stage, looking out at the people staring up in anticipation, trembling inside... then I heard this faint voice behind me, over and over saying "Ted... Ted..." I turned around to see the guy who had always been the most flamboyant member of our group, the drummer, with that "deer in the headlights" look. "I'm scared," he muttered. I replied "How about if I stand in front of you?" He quickly replied "OK!" and smiled in relief. Before the end of the first song I looked back to see him twirling his drumsticks with a big smile on his face like a seasoned rock star. That night will never be forgotten. From there we were galvanized, practiced constantly, improving by the session to a point of unshakable confidence. We took on the kind of cover songs usually too technical for other bands. We glued our set list together with original material, testing it on the crowd. Our lead guitarist was essentially our agent, booking us at virtually every club in the region. We even became the "House Band" at a few for months at a time. There's no way to quantify, or righteously detail, the spectrum of experiences: some were good, some were bad, but most of all we were "educated" into the business. We got to record in studios, interviewed and played on the radio. "Remotes" took place from big shows that drew crowds from miles around. Things got pretty intense, but progressively destructive, speaking for myself. I've been out of the scene for quite a while now. There were definitely "creative differences," but it ultimately boiled down to the lifestyle. Just as everything had bottomed out after the military, I found myself in yet another identity crisis. I missed many of the people, and that immeasurable lightning surge of energy fighting back the world with every note. They asked me multiple times to return, and I caving to make a few dollars, supporting them in process, but knew I had to keep moving. After a Christmas night breakup with my longtime girlfriend, I ended up giving my newest friend a ride home, spending that cold night at his Grandmother's house in their spare bedroom. It felt like the longest night of my life, agonizing about the future. The next day I woke up to the distant sound of a slightly out of tune a.m. radio mixed with an elderly woman talking to herself. Investigating, she was actually praying out loud while preparing food in the kitchen. The contrast from the night before was like the day after a storm, or a war. My mouth was dry from drinking, and I grew thirstier by the minute. Having to use the restroom, I was eventually forced to emerge from my tomb. She saw me and began talking to me as if we had known each other for a lifetime, seamlessly, about the Bible through her Jamaican accent. It was difficult to understand at first, but it caused me to listen more intently. My new friend, her Grandson, having heard our conversation, burst out of his bedroom and interrupted. He redirected me to his room where we would play video games, listen to loud music, smoking and drinking, which she did not approve of; this, to my retrospective shame. With every visit, from then-on, she told me more about this God as I slipped away from my friend for a drink or bathroom break. She taught me how to pray, how to be thankful for life, and to look at the worst rejections as concealed opportunities. My identity in the "Matrix" was becoming sheer, but the spirit-man was being formed. Due to the battles of life at the time, my mental state worsened, even to a suicidal ideation. The lady who suggested I call her "Grandma," as Grandson's friends did, intervened by asking me to drive her to the bank, the grocery store, and the Doctor, ministering to me the entire time. She insisting I take money for gas which I tried to refuse, but needed it just to eat. As time went on, I wrote intermittent music with my guitarist brother and friend from the original high school band. Another art came into view: fitness. A much older man introduced himself at the gym where my brother & I also spent nearly every night. This upright and well-spoken person insisted, like Grandma, on sharing the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I couldn't get away from him, and was the only one he seemed to focused on in that place. My Mother had accepted Christ years before, and had been encouraging me to give God a chance but I always resisted. This silver-haired strongman knew a battle was raging for my soul and he really turned up the intensity one day, which I distinctly remember wanting to reject, but held my tongue. Following that day I was changed but would've denied the notion if asked. One day, after gaining steady employment, I came down with a powerful fever and called into work. I ending up at my Mother's house on her couch since staying in my apartment, alone, didn't feel right in my condition; I literally felt like I was going to die. She had a Doctor's appointment so I stayed with the dogs resting and quivering from the intense fever moving through my body on that cold day (the "Sunshine State" gets cold sometimes, contrary to popular belief). The sun beamed through the living room window, directly hitting the big Bible opened on a elegant wooden stand my craftsman Uncle made for it. I rose up and went to it. The sunlight warmed my bones as I read the words in the spot it had been opened to. Time seemed non-existent as I made it through the entire book of "Job." It was as if I experienced what he went through, vividly. My Mother returned but I didn't say much; I was without words on what happened and over the fever. Eventually, I opened up about it and allowed her to arrange my babtism, confirming my faith in that water tank before a large assembly. Everyone's hands were lifted and a new peace filled that entire building. She still recalls how I broke out in hives on the way that day, knowing the kingdom of darkness did not want to let me go. "This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners; of whom I am chief." - book of 1 Timothy 1:15, KJV. An African-American Pastor had preached a sermon titled "Clean Out The House," loudly. As everyone started to sing he walked straight down the isle and pulled me out. I was dressed in a white garment and guided into the water. In one month I read through the Bible, not understanding half of what I read at the time, but revelation comes with diligence. Years later I ventured into Christian "fringe" topics, starting around 2012. Everybody thought the world would end according to the Mayan calendar. After that, the comet "ISON" brought with it a self-proclaimed "prophet," I saw online, telling everybody the wrath of God was upon us and the church would be "raptured": Nothing happened. This false witness solidified my course of critical thought. Opening the proverbial "Pandora's box" of investigation, I was hit with no less than a concentrated barrage of "supernatural" occurrences adding unquestionable impetus to the multi-dimensional conflict waged all around us. They came at me in dreams, and sometimes beyond the dream state, but I recovered and kept digging. God has plans for us but they aren't shown in a "power point" presentation. I was contacted by writer and documentary maker Trey Smith, founder of the "God in a Nutshell project," after engaging in discussions on his website. This led to an invitation to publish articles; that was about 4 years ago. Halfway through that stretch of time of learning to develop a thesis, experiencing what it's like to be trolled, then picking yourself up to fight on, Trey suggested I write a book. I admit, that concept was met with recoil and dread, being prone to introversion and doubt. I prayed on it and the challenge was accepted. 2 years in the works, I'm doing final revisions on my novel "THE UNIVERSAL." In this work I focus the entertainment industry, the occult, the "alien" narrative, Rome, the sciences, history, and much more. Publishing is projected this fall, Lord willing.
As promised, the link to the Preface...
https://spark.adobe.com/page/PSxHwOUWpZg2V/?w=0_7695