Clark George

About me

My name is Richard Clark George; my alias is the Electric Monk. I'm married [happily] to a brilliant, beautiful woman, Jo Ann, and I have three great kids: Jonathon, Jasmine and Brendan. I was born in Manchester, CT on March 18, 1970 and died on the operating table 22 years later on December 22, 1992. If you've experienced an NDE [near-death experience] then you'll understand; for those novices out there--I went through the proverbial tunnel of Light and came out the other side in the arms of God. His voice can best be described as inhuman and heavy, like two bass speakers with no treble. God explained my time had not yet expired and I had a mission to accomplish on Earth, one that would ultimately affect millions of human beings. Christ only knows what that is. Since I'm a writer, I figure its got something to do with that. I'm uncertain at this time whether my altruistic personality will play a role in the grand scheme of things, however, I have since become a servant of God, a career I take seriously. As a stay-at-home Dad, I imagine my role as father and husband includes the beginning of my Mission. According to the ongoing prophecies--or visions--I receive through dreams and waking life...well, I'm certain those experiences will come in handy as I continue the Infinite Process.

Let's switch gears and back up to Manchester. Following my birth, we moved to Boston until my father joined the Coast Guard after transferring out of the Navy. We moved down to Tampa, FL and then on to Mobile, Alabama. Less than a week after moving from Mobile out here to California, the worst hurricane in Mobile's history destroyed the city, including our previous address.Once again God saved my family from harm or worse: death. That was in 1979. We've lived here ever since in northern California.

By 1992 my gal bladder was littered with stones and infection. A toxic blend of anasthic ended my life. I'll never forget my surgeon's word's when I returned to Earth. "We almost lost you, Richard." My parents were both wet-eyed and grateful that I pulled through. My two sisters, however, were probably somewhat disappointed. I couldn't blame them. Quite honestly, I wanted to remain there.

Within nine months in 1993 I lost 165 pounds from 325. It was then that I met and fell in love with my first girlfriend, Doneta Besio. That lasted a month. A few months later--when I attended a university in northern California, I fell for a secind girlfriend, Alla Titkove, a user from Russia who bled me dry financially, cheated on me, took advantage of my kindness, broke me down emotionally, promised to marry me with a single proposal, and skipped out on me when she discovered I'd been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. "You're diseased," she said coldly over the phone, "and I can't possibly have a future with one who's disabled."

Crushed, I ended up attempting suicide several times, found myself in a mental hospital, unfairly and dangerously given a span of twelve ECT [electroconvulsive therapy] treatments, an offensively blasphemous mistake the doctors running the asylum made, frying my brain and destroying what little sanity remained. Suing the administration's insurance company was out of the question since I signed my rights away to do so. Since then my memory has been shot. Like my wife says: I make new friends every day with people I've known and forgotten, unwitting, unknowingly running into them from time to time, pretending to know who they are, lying like hell about the whole ordeal. Retrieving what I lost is impossible, so I deal with it. I manage my manic depression with meds and therapy. I get by one step at a time.

In 2001 I met my soul mate, Jo Ann, online. We fell in love almost instantly and--one year later--got married at a local court house. She moved out here from Florida a year later with her youngest son from a previous marriage. A year after that, her other two kids flew out from North Carolina from a different relationship. I took all three of them in as my own and, to this day, I love them all with fierce loyalty and unending devotion.

Their bio fathers could give a fuck less about them. No child support. No nothing. Between my total and permanent disability benefits from the state and my wife's full-time job, we struggle to survive, technically homeless and remaining optimistic that, some day, we will own our own home. (Rent out here is outarageous and we don't qualify for low-income housing.) Thanks, Bush; thanks, Arnie.

If all we need is love, we've got plenty of that. If we need to pay the bills, we just barely get by. Groceries or much-needed meds? You decide.

My work

I'm a writer of science fiction, occasionally horror, sometimes mainstream fiction, even critiques. I'm a stay-at-home dad. I take care of the kids and make sure my wife gets foot massages, a clean living area (we live in a converted garage in the back of my parents' home), transportation, spirituality, psychological counseling when necessary, a swift kick in the ass for my eldest son, Jon, whose idea of work is sitting on his lazy ass, playing Gameboy Advance while his stinking feet rot along with his brain; I care for my fifteen-year old daughter with her own diagnosis of bipolar disorder, damaged rib-cage, aches, pains, impacted wisdom tooth, sinus infections, etc.; I care for my youngest, a seven-year old boy who had to repeat the first grade because his first teacher sucked--a seven-year old boy who remains in pull-ups because he wets himself night after night. And by the time I've completed caring for everyone--including my aging parents, I have little time for myself, my severe nerve damage ravaging my back, my manic depression, and my desire to write which, to this date, has been neglected--a consequence for raising three kids and keeping my wife happy, listening to her issues, doing what I can to keep up on the housework and seemingly endless doctors' appointments, school counselors' and teachers' conferences, mental health therapists' appointments for my daughter...the list goes on and on and on.

I'll never take for granted the role of housewives. As a house husband, I realize washing dishes, cleaning, vacuuming, polishing, picking up, laundering, folding, bed-making, and window-washing is as demanding and stressful as any job out there. By the weekend I'm dead to the world and, yet, my wife's spontanious, driven, compulsiveness robs me of the rest I cry out for. Eventually my body just gives out and I crash. Such is life.

So this is part of my mission? God give me strength.