I was a really stressed out kid around that time, primarily from family issues. I was acting out at school, having problems with one of my teachers, regularly getting sent to the vice principle's office. The vice principle was a very patient, laid back and understanding man, a model administrator if you will. He knew what I was going through and decided to let me finish out the last few months of the school year as a teacher's aid for another teacher instead of my normal social studies class.
There wasn't much to do. My duties usually took all of about 15 minutes to complete, ..if that. Some days, I had nothing to do. That class period was being occupied by a group of students planning a special extracurricular project during the summer months. They didn't have a lot to do either. Most days it was a free period where we were allowed to hang out and do whatever. So we would usually goof off the whole hour.
I knew some of them and would always sit at the same table next to my beloved friend. For an hour a day I wasn't a stressed out kid. It was the high point of my day, in fact. It was mostly because of her. She made me feel so comfortable, so at ease. I dare not tell her, of course. I didn't need to. I was perfectly content with enjoying every minute of it. It was all so innocent and simple, ...just an hour a day of good times.
That is where the joke of the "Secret Song" originated.
I suppose you had to know her to understand. She had a kind of care free but grounded personality, with a certain kind of glow about her. She was sweet, petite and pretty, a real girl next door type. She dressed very conservatively and had manners to match. She was very lady-like. She had class, ...the type you expected to run into years later to find married to a dentist with 3 kids, living on the nicer side of town, driving a Mercedes wagon with an active social life and membership to the PTA.
The end of that school year was the last I saw of her.
It was about a year or so later. If I remember correctly, it was a Tuesday when she and her mother were on their morning commute in a Chevette. As they were crossing through an intersection, a large truck ran a red light, hitting the passenger side where she was sitting, killing her. She was 15 years old.
Her mother didn't grieve well at all. She was completely distraught, enough so to visit her grave every day for several years. She was loved by many. Everyone grieved. It was a truly tragic incident. If anyone deserved the very best that life had to offer, it was her.
I wasn't a part of her life then. I was standing in my girlfriend's living room when I heard about it on the local news. I was saddened of course. I didn't cry or call friends, go to the funeral or anything though. I just blocked it out. That was my way of coping I guess, to pretend it wasn't so significant.
For years I had dreams about her though, especially as a young man in my twenties. It was suppressed feelings needing to emerge. It really bothered me deep down. I remember one dream in particular. We were standing in the master bedroom of the house where I grew up. She was all grown up, the same sweet girl with all the features of a woman. And my God was she beautiful. She was standing there in my arms looking up with a warm smile while adjusting my shirt collar. ...as if we were happily married. The dream was reoccurring, but never went beyond that. It was always simple and brief, but vivid and profound.
I was a single young man trying to sort out life, trying to break the cycle as to one day be a financially stable father and husband in spite of all that has worked against it in my upbringing. In my subconscious mind she was a frame of reference of what I considered an ideal mate, a preferred standard of what would make an excellent wife and mother for my children. She was the kind of woman that all men hope to marry, the catch that lets us appreciate life and what it means to be a man.
My alcoholic father was staying with me at the time. I talked about her with him, sharing my experience with her, the accident, and the dream. It was the first time I ever mentioned the "Secret Song" to anyone but her.
Around the same time, I was randomly encountering a series of strangers in my daily life who would parrot or make reference to excerpts of my conversations with dad. I knew I was being spied on. I wasn't sure how or why, but I knew the origin of their information. I came up with all kinds of whacky theories as to try to explain it. Most were bizarre rationalizations. One was that maybe I was being recruited by an intel organization or something. I thought it might have something to do with that psychology office in Jacksonville where I took the Meyers/Briggs Test, or perhaps that night we were doing those classified experiments during my military service.
The last time I talked to 'Pamela Moore', she made a reference to one of those theories I had expressed while sitting in my living room with dad about fifteen years ago. It was after expressing my frustration with being stalked for so long. I made the connection immediately. My response was that if they were trying to recruit me, they were going about it the absolute wrong way.
So when I figured out what the song actually was, when I started making the connections, it was no mystery where it came from. It was stolen by violating the supposed and expected privacy of the sanctuary of my home in 2001 while you were posting on the internet.
That is the true story of the "Secret Song".
There are many many similar such examples, all of which have one thing in common within the conduit of information. One integral element of all of it is "Pamela Moore".
I told you this time would come, didn't I? You owe me your life. Your friends are no less excused.
For starters, I suggest you figure out how to raise the dead, or use that ability to manipulate time to go back and save the precious life of a 15 year old dream. You will deliver her to her mother.
There wasn't much to do. My duties usually took all of about 15 minutes to complete, ..if that. Some days, I had nothing to do. That class period was being occupied by a group of students planning a special extracurricular project during the summer months. They didn't have a lot to do either. Most days it was a free period where we were allowed to hang out and do whatever. So we would usually goof off the whole hour.
I knew some of them and would always sit at the same table next to my beloved friend. For an hour a day I wasn't a stressed out kid. It was the high point of my day, in fact. It was mostly because of her. She made me feel so comfortable, so at ease. I dare not tell her, of course. I didn't need to. I was perfectly content with enjoying every minute of it. It was all so innocent and simple, ...just an hour a day of good times.
That is where the joke of the "Secret Song" originated.
I suppose you had to know her to understand. She had a kind of care free but grounded personality, with a certain kind of glow about her. She was sweet, petite and pretty, a real girl next door type. She dressed very conservatively and had manners to match. She was very lady-like. She had class, ...the type you expected to run into years later to find married to a dentist with 3 kids, living on the nicer side of town, driving a Mercedes wagon with an active social life and membership to the PTA.
The end of that school year was the last I saw of her.
It was about a year or so later. If I remember correctly, it was a Tuesday when she and her mother were on their morning commute in a Chevette. As they were crossing through an intersection, a large truck ran a red light, hitting the passenger side where she was sitting, killing her. She was 15 years old.
Her mother didn't grieve well at all. She was completely distraught, enough so to visit her grave every day for several years. She was loved by many. Everyone grieved. It was a truly tragic incident. If anyone deserved the very best that life had to offer, it was her.
I wasn't a part of her life then. I was standing in my girlfriend's living room when I heard about it on the local news. I was saddened of course. I didn't cry or call friends, go to the funeral or anything though. I just blocked it out. That was my way of coping I guess, to pretend it wasn't so significant.
For years I had dreams about her though, especially as a young man in my twenties. It was suppressed feelings needing to emerge. It really bothered me deep down. I remember one dream in particular. We were standing in the master bedroom of the house where I grew up. She was all grown up, the same sweet girl with all the features of a woman. And my God was she beautiful. She was standing there in my arms looking up with a warm smile while adjusting my shirt collar. ...as if we were happily married. The dream was reoccurring, but never went beyond that. It was always simple and brief, but vivid and profound.
I was a single young man trying to sort out life, trying to break the cycle as to one day be a financially stable father and husband in spite of all that has worked against it in my upbringing. In my subconscious mind she was a frame of reference of what I considered an ideal mate, a preferred standard of what would make an excellent wife and mother for my children. She was the kind of woman that all men hope to marry, the catch that lets us appreciate life and what it means to be a man.
My alcoholic father was staying with me at the time. I talked about her with him, sharing my experience with her, the accident, and the dream. It was the first time I ever mentioned the "Secret Song" to anyone but her.
Around the same time, I was randomly encountering a series of strangers in my daily life who would parrot or make reference to excerpts of my conversations with dad. I knew I was being spied on. I wasn't sure how or why, but I knew the origin of their information. I came up with all kinds of whacky theories as to try to explain it. Most were bizarre rationalizations. One was that maybe I was being recruited by an intel organization or something. I thought it might have something to do with that psychology office in Jacksonville where I took the Meyers/Briggs Test, or perhaps that night we were doing those classified experiments during my military service.
The last time I talked to 'Pamela Moore', she made a reference to one of those theories I had expressed while sitting in my living room with dad about fifteen years ago. It was after expressing my frustration with being stalked for so long. I made the connection immediately. My response was that if they were trying to recruit me, they were going about it the absolute wrong way.
So when I figured out what the song actually was, when I started making the connections, it was no mystery where it came from. It was stolen by violating the supposed and expected privacy of the sanctuary of my home in 2001 while you were posting on the internet.
That is the true story of the "Secret Song".
There are many many similar such examples, all of which have one thing in common within the conduit of information. One integral element of all of it is "Pamela Moore".
I told you this time would come, didn't I? You owe me your life. Your friends are no less excused.
For starters, I suggest you figure out how to raise the dead, or use that ability to manipulate time to go back and save the precious life of a 15 year old dream. You will deliver her to her mother.
