The Beating...

The speeding feet in the pounding rain. The perpetual beat of a heart. Pounding blood. There is a cave in my heart.
Stepping out of the rain, into the shadows, the noise transitions from the wash of the cloudburst to the flow of your anxious blood. Then to the pounding of your heart. It's so loud. Terrifying, yet trusted.
The roar is overwhelmed by the beating. The beating of dark membranes. You have disturbed them. You are enveloped by their plethora of leather-silk wings.
Neither bird nor beast, the ostracized. Bats. After they have settled, you see the moonlight reflected in two tapetums. The truth in those eyes, is it familiar to you? Or should you be frightened? How many lives has this creature lived?
Come in, friend. Step closer, enemy. You were washed by the rain, rinsed by the darkness, dried by the wings, and clothed. By a purpose.
Am I a panther? Am I the dusk?

THE PLAN for Labels

CHARACTERS are influential people in my tales.
BROWN is tales from a span of ages.
WHITE is tales from age 0-7.
RED is tales from age 8-14.
ORANGE is tales from age 14-21.
YELLOW is tales from age 22-28.
GREEN is tales from age 29-35.
BLUE is tales from age 36-42.
INDIGO is tales from age 43-49.
PURPLE is tales from age 50-56.
BLACK is tales from age 57-63.
Grey is an insight into how these tales may be affecting me.

Labels

Saturday, August 30, 2008

The Chicken Coupe

I think it is plain evil to beat your children. That said, my childhood's warped perspective has me believing that there were a few times when, arguably, I deserved a beating.

Case in point:

Back when I was still quite confident of my aim with standard objects (not just knives), I would sink paper shots from across the classroom and bean 2 x 4s with rocks.

My grandparents had a chicken coop on the acre of land we had divided into several backyards. The largest expanse was the roaming grounds of our geese. The purpose of the second back yard, the one butted up against the chicken coop, was in dispute. my sister wished for the ducks to nest there. I hated the idea, as they were destroying the cane and grass with their grazing.

I had tossed all the ducks over the fence into the coop to hang with the chickens. The geese had to be segregated; they had a tendency to get lethal in their bullying. My sister, being a stereotypical sibling, tossed all the ducks back into the yard. We participated in this tennis match of sorts for two or three days. After returning the ducks to the coop yet again, I confronted my sister. It, of course, turned into an argument resulting in her trotting out to the coop.

As she rounded up the ducks, I collected rocks. I let her toss over the first few before firing a few warning shots into the coop's structural 2 x 4s to convey my seriousness. To no avail; as she bent down to grab the last duck in the coop, I threw a rock square at her right ass cheek. I missed by an inch or so. Whatever's necessary to miss a bent-over-person's ass and glide right up their side to nail them nicely behind their ear. My sister dropped like a sack of rags, nearly crushing refugee beneath her.

Having injured my sister before, I was well aware of the Standard Operating Procedure: offer assistance and apologies from a safe distance. My sister climbed to her feet, one hand grasping her wound all the while. Then she turned her Medusa eyes upon me. I was almost as pathetic as a dear in the headlights as she rushed me. As she closed half the distance between us, I scrambled to the coop gate, with all the speed of one knowing their life is literally on the line. Goddamn latch! See, the desert heat is no friend to wood; the screw to the latch ate threw the dry lumber as if it were mere saw dust. The latch was wonky. It rarely closed to the point of locking. This day, however, it was in rare form. My sister knocked me threw the damn gate in a pile of lanky limbs, asunder lumber, and the synthetic cactus known as chicken wire. She clobbered me.

After a few minutes watching the stars fade to clouds, I picked myself up, dusted off, rinsed the blood off with the coop pool's hose, stacked the ruined gate against the coop's opening, and walked my personal Trail of Tears to the house, where doom certainly awaited.

Doom indeed. My sister's wails had incensed my grandmother. At the door, she pulverized me as if I were Beetle Bailey. As I crawled into the house, I heard her ranting to my grandfather. Hoping to lose this event in my chores, or at least lose myself in them, I wandered to the broom closet. As I retrieved the broom, I heard my grandfather, The Man With The Ten Pound Hands, holler my name. As his shadow filled the hallway and set the broom aside. I thought: "You deserve this one, so take it like a man."

Saturday, August 23, 2008

Deathwish Dusk

I'm not sure where to take this life of mine. On Friday, August 22, I walked out on my job and drove to the beach with the intent of drowning myself.

Melodramatic. Extreme. A cry for help. I'm a big pussy. Whatever.
I don't want to inflict pain on myself, nor allow life to any longer.

I don't want to blow my head off, nor use my knives to cut off my life. Nothing quite like that. I just want to float away. Have the water ripple over me. Carry me down. Down. Down.
Much like Holden Caulfield wanting to sink into the street as he crossed, now that I think about it. (Catcher in the Rye)

I was interviewed by Mobile Crisis. Packed into an ambulance, and escorted by police cruiser to the nearest hospital. There, they subjected me to mind-bending boredom, as well as hunger, before interviewing me again. They came to the conclusion that I was not a threat to myself, nor others. Sent me home.


In the meantime, I had called my sister to have her convey my salutations to my mother. Idiot. Now everyone out West is tripping out over me, and there's an even larger riff between my wife and them due to one side not informing the other. I had been blabbing about my fears and frustrations to my sister in the hopes that she'd talk me down. Convince me to soldier on as a loving husband. FAILED. She would rag on my wife until I shut her up, then turn to some other subject. Typically literature. Clearly, no help.

My mother... I can't stand to weigh her down now that she seems to be getting somewhere on her spiritual sojourn. In my stupidity, I overlooked the fact that her and my sister would be discussing such things without my ears or opinions present.


What was different? What provoked me to this? Pretty much, I was closer than most anyway. My back injury and my despicable job were the final straws. I wanted desperately to get out of that job. Since February, when it began. Circumstances (usually my wife's wishes) prevented that. She wanted a house, I was making good money. My back was injured, they paid great medical coverage. But I couldn't stay.


My supervisor, he reminded so much of my grandmother. Always having so much for me to accomplish to start with, then throwing more on top of that. All the while ridiculing me incessantly. Bunch of cunts, him and my grandmother. Friday, he kept pushing me, and pushing me, and pushing me, and pushing me, and pushing me... I wanted to take the two foot socket wrench and beat him across his back with it until he was more crippled than I am. I ruined three jobs in about 30 seconds with him standing over me. He growled for me to take my break. The frustration and disdain in his voice was on par with a disapproving stepfather's. I walked off the production floor and just kept walking.


I haven't gotten to where I'm going just yet. Don't even know where I'm going, how to get there, or if I'll want to be there once I've arrived.


At the hospital, the psychiatrist on call labeled my state of mind as
Death Wish. Sounds pretty cool. Wish it was as liberating, or carried as much significance as that in all those Charles Bronson films. But it's just another strange glint in the cold granite of my perception of life.

Speaking of my skewed take on things: As I sat strapped to the gurney in the ambulance, I noticed that the car number of the police escort was 711. You play craps with dice? Firstly, it's called craps. Secondly, those two numbers can mean the extreme opposites of either winner's good luck, or loser's bad luck. That about sums up the general impression of seeing cops pull up to your locale. Crap. And some form of extreme luck or another.
As I chuckled inside at this silly revelation, I realized, too, that I'm probably one of the ONLY people who'd think of such a thing. Especially in such a situation. I feel so lonely.

Ranger



Ranger was my first pet. I got him around my sixth birthday, I believe. He was a full-blood American Staffordshire terrier. A pit-bull. A GREAT dog.


He was more tan than white, but to describe him, I'd say he was white with a tan vest and tan cowl. His paws, neck, and tip of his tail were white. There was a small tan island on the back of his neck.


Later in life, he had a bald spot in the middle of his tail from wagging it against furniture and such. He was most polite, always being ever so careful when stepping around our toys as we played. Hiding under his end table when someone would say: "Pew!" Poor guy, he was prone to flatulence!


I wasn't with him when he died, despite being inseparable from his side during his sickness. He died of liver failure, from too many table scraps. My sister woke me to tell me he had died at the foot of her bed. It makes sense. He probably wanted to protect her right to the end. And me; he probably didn't want me to suffer through it by his side; thus, he timed it carefully.


I wrapped him in a sheet and carried his still-warm, heavy body outside. My sister and I spent nearly two hours digging through the clay with pick axes to bury him. We ereccted a cross from lumber I nailed together and painted white.


He was replaced by my grandmother, less than tow weeks later, by Nina.


Thursday, August 21, 2008

Bronze

Porcelain's husband. In looks, he lives up to his Cer name. In person, he does as well. Tin is by no means a precious metal. Tin cans have gone the way of the dodo. Copper is valuable because it is a great conductor of electricity. As well as water. Mixing the two, tin and copper, you get a stronger alloy: Bronze. Also a some what precious metal. Bronze, despite his troubled youth and dropping out of High School, went on to marry the illustrious Porcelain, create his own successful business, and serve as an inspiration to any man who wishes to somehow juggle success and spirituality.

Funky Chunk

There are a few beatings that stand out clearly in my memory. This is one of them.

Sometimes my grandmother would get so over-zealous in her slapping and punching, she'd have to latch on with her talons to one of my arms to keep from falling over. One of those times, as I fell to the floor, she dug in to my arm with her nails. I fell anyway. She nearly fell on top of me. She just kicked me a few times, wiped her flabby arm across her spittle-ridden mouth, and staggered away. But this time, when I fell, her nails had torn skin off my arm.

When I went to the bathroom to wash my wounds, to my horror, I found my missing flesh in the bathroom sink. My grandmother had washed up before me. When I mentioned my sickening story to her, she simply smiled.

I'm glad she's dead.

To this day, you can still see a small scar on my left forearm from that incident.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Atarata

Psychic shock waves. A "disturbance in the force" if you will. I have given this phenomenon the Sezjeghn name Atarata. I have experienced it since as far back as I can remember. I used its cryptic pictures to save my mother's life.

I have these dreams. They're nothing more than pictures. When I view them in my sleep, I know them for what they are. I always see them, they as stationary objects, while I seem to be in motion. As if I'm walking while looking at a photograph that was snapped on accident.

These "pictures" almost never show what exactly is to come. Rather, when I experience the pictures later, in real life, in real time, I am alerted to an upcoming hallmark in my life. The emotional upset of those close to me is always tied in. Whether for good or bad. Alas, usually bad.

Scripturally, fortune-tellers of current times can only achieve their powers via demonic inspiration. This does little to assuage my nerves. My only consolation is that I cannot actually foretell the future. Merely the emotional upset of those I love, to within three hours of the source.

Lately, I've been bombarded by atarata. Yesterday, at 11:15 am, I was struck by one. I was at work when the picture slid into reality over my eyes. I recalled a recent dream. In it I was wearing a blue shirt I did not currently own, lamenting my back, working a die-cut machine and pondering over a wristwatch I also did not own. I remember thinking to myself as I dreamt it: "That's odd, I don't wear watches anymore."

The cryptic nature of these dreams often causes me to eventually forget them. Until they occur, of course. I have never written them down, nor written of them, until today. I was always afraid that I might be empowering demons by paying close attention to such an uncanny ability. Or at least amusing demons.

When this particular atarata came to pass, I was wearing the mysterious shirt and watch. Both recent gifts from my doting bride.

I called everybody at lunch, giving them the heads-up. My family, as well as my wife's family, have come to greatly fear and respect my warnings. My sister kept my nephews home from school. My mother wrote my number next to the phone in the home she resides in as a guest, and told everyone in earshot to BE CAREFUL.

Last night, I re-called everyone. My mother reported that she had mopped the floor of the elderly couple she cares for. Before she could warn anyone, their grandson rounded the corner in a run. He slid into the oven door, shattering the glass.

Despite this alarming news, I felt that it wasn't an answer to my riddle. Being that the boy wasn't seriously hurt, I sincerely hoped that it was, though.

In the past, I experienced atarata before Angela's death, my mother's near death, my step-father's last time driving a car, my mother's hip-shattering car-accident, my aunt-in-law's food poisoning, my dad's back-breaking motorcycle ride, the extension of my jail sentence, yadda, yadda, yadda. You get the idea. So I feared that the mop and oven incident wasn't The Event.

My wife's close friend, Kim (as of yet, no Cer name), won 4 tickets to the Renaissance Festival in Sterling, New York. A short drive from Rochester. She and her husband offered the spare tickets to my wife and me. We were to go this Saturday. Those plans were finalized on Tuesday. Again, this particular atarata occurred Wednesday. Yesterday.

Yesterday, Kim's other close friend, also a regular acquaintance of my wife, checked in to the hospital in the early afternoon (I don't yet know, but I bet it was around 2 pm). She had a stomach aneurysm. Today she died. She was 21. Needless to say, Kim is devastated. And so, my wife is devastated. And I, excuse my selfishness, now must attend my first funeral rather than the Festival I had my heart set on. I don't know, though. I've managed to dodge countless funerals. I can't handle the grief of others. I don't cry for the dead. I cry for the pain of those left behind. Maybe I can dodge this one. Seeing as how I'm married now, though, and therefore have two consciences to goad me through life these days, I'm skeptical.

Tonight, I had another one at 8:00 pm. At 11:00 pm, Kim called. Quite distraught still. Although that is the three hour mark, to the dot, I don't think it's The Event. Happily, though, when the atarata struck, I had a weightless feeling rather than a sense of foreboding. More exciting, we were talking outside a house we liked, with our Realtor. One can only hope, eh?

By the way, today I started chronicling these strange events in a little notebook. I write a timestamp, leave a gap, then describe the atarata. The gap is to be filled in later, when I discover the event it heralded. I hope to trap my future picture-dreams in this notebook as well, before the atarata slips the real time picture over my eyes, making me woozy with the wash of recollection. I do have one trapped already. Unfortunately, it feels quite heavy.

Oh, yes. Make that three, while I'm at it. Jennifer Plezmar (spelling?), whoever you are, our fates are linked. In a park the crowd will be in a panic, we will seek shelter in a bunker? A restroom? A beige-bricked building. Somehow, you get lost. Or taken. Who are you? Who are we all running from. Please, God. I hope you're not a future alias for my wife.

And my dear sister, in dreams the whole family has seen how you die. And I fear that I know where.

The Lady in Red

I was woken up by a red light in my bedroom. In later years, such lights would prove to be sirens. But not this time.

I felt a sudden, and intensifying heat on my back. My eyes rumbled partially open. As I took in the flickering red reflection off my bedroom wall, instinct kicked in and I flipped over, completely alert. I was expecting to see the flames, my mother was a smoker. Nevertheless, only the innocent inexperience of childhood can protect one from shocks so severe.

A woman, not my mother, was standing in my doorway. And she was very angry. Glowering at me in my bed, not my bed, not my bedroom. But it was now. The flames came from her. She was in flames, but not on fire; she wasn't burning, despite being engulfed. I was horror-stricken.

Amusingly, I responded the way seemingly any child does. I fixated on the light-switch. I found the manic courageous-foolishness necessary to spring from my bed. I rushed my adversary, as a kamikaze. Her head rotated as she tracked my flight across the bedroom floor. The heat from her made sweat spring from my pores. Strafing at the last moment, I managed to flick the switch. I held to the wall over the switch plate with both hands, as if an executioner at Old Sparky. The light jumped on. The flaming phantasm faded away like heat waves in the desert.

Sparing no time to catch my breath, I stormed my mother's room. I barely roused her as I crawled into her bed and her embrace. But I could never tell her what happened. After all, how could I tell her what she had opened the gateway to?

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Go Fly a Kite

As a kid, one of the many things I suffered through is something I suspect every kid in America has had to. When shopping with me, if I made a fuss over some toy or another, my mom would promise that we'd buy the toy next time, upon our return. She would even go so far as to hide said toy elsewhere in the store to allay my fears that it would be picked up by some other kid more fortunate than me.

I loathe holidays and hate birthdays. But I love cake, especially marbled cake with butter cream frosting! Anyway, part of the reason I feel this way is because we were poor. My mother rarely had money to buy any gifts, let alone the gifts I hoped for. This taxed her emotions far more than it could ever tax mine. I'd be hard pressed to recall three of the gifts I agonized over. I wouldn't be surprised if my mother could recall them all. Obviously my requests tapered off much sooner than most kids'. I couldn't stand to see the self-loathing on my mother's face on what seemed to be just another day to me, but was in actuality some "festive" holiday or another. The torment she endured as a single mother on the streets still haunts me to this day.

One year, I'm not sure which, I awoke to find actual presents under the modest tree. Presents. Plural. Ah, the way a child's mind works. I reasoned that if there were several gifts under the tree, then my chances of getting one I had wanted were greatly increased. As I recall, there was a sweater, a pair of boots, and a kite.

The kite either had Big Foot the monster truck on it, or Transformers. I was bummed. I liked Ghostbusters. And I didn't like kites!

I think it was several days before we actually put the thing together and flew it on a dark-clouded, windy day.

I distinctly remember putting the sticks into their proper slots, much like a tent.

I remember not having to run far before the wind took over.

I remember rare, pure, childish joy.

Somewhere along the line, that memory melded with the viewing of Mary Poppins.

To this day, whenever I'm more depressed than any human has a right to be, when I feel the waves of Darkness calling my heart's name, I find myself reminiscing in sketchy, blurred details, that day. And humming the tune Let's Go Fly a Kite.

Let's go fly a kite
Up to the highest height!
Let's go fly a kite
and send it soaring

Up through the atmosphere
Up where the air is clear
Oh, let's go fly
Fly a kite!

I can't seem to get that song out of my head lately.

Sunday, August 3, 2008

I Am Angry Man

People get this impression of me. That I have a temper. That I'm a bit crazy. That I'm angry all the time. Yet, this view of me does little to sway them from thinking of me as a good guy. I suppose it's because I am a decent guy, and most people can sense that my frustration does not stem from them, nor is it intentionally directed at them.

Not so simple with my wife. Her insecurities blind her. She insists that my frustration is anger. More, that it's because of her. Note: ladies, that's one helluva quick way to turn a delusion into reality. Because, when she accuses me of that, suddenly I am angry. At her. Her silly insecurities.

Just because there's a fire in the house, doesn't mean the house is on fire.

I keep my frustration contained. I don't take it out on people. At least, I don't physically abuse, or wantonly verbally abuse, people. If I come off as distant, I suppose that may be construed as emotional abuse. But there's a time and a place for all things. I make it a point to express my love for my wife in various ways. I can't maintain such fluffy feelings 24/7 though. I AM a man. A haunted man at that.

What does my frustration stem from? I know exactly. I grew up homeless for the first seven years of my life. From there, I lived in a physically abusive household. Running from that, I had to survive in the desert, on the streets, amongst the violence of lost souls.

I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO LIVE IN YOUR NORMAL WORLD. I can't force myself to learn how to take it seriously. Oooh! I missed a payment! Oh no! I'm gonna be homeless! Gasp! Somebody who knows me, hates me, and wishes me ill will!

Shit. I've survived on NO money. Homeless describes a HUGE portion of my past. I have had strangers try to kill me and mine. I've had people close to me actually pull it off. So excuse me if I find all this quite boring. If you never seem to get my undivided attention.

Put me in a crisis, I perk up. I get happy. You get my undivided attention. But it had better be what
I consider to be a crisis. Angry customers, late product, stretched finances, modest amounts of blood... Yawn.

But this screws me over. I am in this world now. I need to be able to function amongst my lesser peers in their trivial, mundane activities. But for all my adaptability, all that I've successfully survived, I can't seem to swing this. And it affects the people I associate regularly with. My wife, my workmates. I seem to let them down.

How I get my "angry" reputation is by complaining incessantly, cursing, yelling, storming around, scowling. Most of it is a facade. I'm trying desperately to prove that I do care. I care so much, it consumes me. I care more than you do!

But it's bullshit. People are starting to catch on. At least everyone but my wife. Although I think even she's starting to get an idea. Not that I haven's told her already. I have warned her. But it's heard about as well as my compliments. Never. The only real frustration comes from knowing the bleak truth.

I want so badly to fit in. To appreciate these situations. But I want to use my skills more. If I could bring myself to believe in this war America is embroiled in, I'd be better suited for that lifestyle.

In the meantime, I'm frustrated. I can't be who I am, and I won't be who I'm supposed be. THAT is where my endless supply of frustration comes from.

Saturday, August 2, 2008

Rebola

Back when my sister and I were kids, hackey sacks were back in fad. We were given one as a treat on Halloween. We kicked it until it split. Then I taped it up with electricians' tape. That made it too hard. It was painful to kick. So I tied a leather boot lace around it, making a single-stone bola of sorts. It made for fun games of catch, like those fox-tails they'd hand out in P.E.

Being that it had two cords, it also could double as a whip. It could grab branches, chair legs, brooms, rakes, and shovels. As well as high branches and power lines. After several hair-raising rescues of this "toy", out of trees and off power lines, I reassigned it. As it was, it wasn't bad as a bola, either. It helped catch our dogs when they'd escape. Also, it settled them down when they were rowdy with the high pitched screech it emitted when spinning it.

When I fled my grandparents' house, I took it with me. It sure came in handy. All the stray dogs out West. Too many times, I was chased and attacked on the way to my bus stop and such. Eventually, most dogs on my route came to fear the Rebola. Those who were newbies learned fast and hard. It made a good makeshift battle mace. Those who didn't learn, well... I already had Stinger.

After I collected more knives, experience, and martial arts moves from various people and styles, I retired the rebola. Ultimately it was riddled with nails and hung beside a Dragon painting from my friend Echo, along with an old rusty hatchet and short sword.

You'd be shocked at how much trouble that rebola landed me in later in life. Just by hanging on the wall. In California. Maybe not so shocked, for all you California natives.

Invisible Fence

When I lived in Lake Havasu, I had this back pack I carried all my mugetike (Gear in Sezjeghnin). It's always something. My blue coat, the black back pack. Currently my man bag.

I think I liked the back pack best, although my man bag is more compartmentalized and things are readily accessible. The reason my back pack was my favorite is because I had either my Junglee knife or my K-Bar clipped to one of the straps. The K-Bar was more visible, for when I wanted to intimidate. The Junglee, being in a black ballistics sheath, blended in with the pack; you hardly knew it was there. It was good for traveling outside of Arizona, where knives aren't so legal.

One evening, as I was walking to the book store, I was nearly accosted by two large dogs. I had walked by a home at which the family was slouched on the porch, drinking beer. Nothing wrong with that. Except their dogs were on the porch as well. There were no chains, leashes, nor fences. Being dogs on their own turf, and their masters present; I being a stranger upon the dogs' "territory" (dogs don't understand our borders), they saw fit to attack.

The owners had this white-trash, smug look on their faces. I'd seen it plenty before: Anyone who travels via car or bicycle is inferior. They just sat there with smirks as their dogs worked themselves into a frenzy, climaxing in their charging me.

My response? I whipped out my K-Bar, crouched and lunged. You'd be amazed at how fast and far those fat bastards leaped to their dogs' defense.

No animals were hurt in the making of this memory. Neither dogs, white-trash, nor Creature.

Friday, August 1, 2008

In Spades

It's really too bad my mom isn't able to be a blogger. She'd whoop my stories. She's got me beat in spades...

While I was attending one of the oodles of kindergartens I attended as a lad, my mother dropped me by my grandparents to visit my sister just before Christmas. Don, the man I dubbed Aflack, and my mother seem to have had some business to tend to. It was convenient to live me in the charge of someone else. Especially being that I enjoyed my sister's company, and she mine.

I believe it was December 8th, a Saturday...? I could figure out the year I suppose. Or I could just call my mom... Nah! Anyways, a cop comes to our door. I don't recall the flow of that particular grapevine. I was hiding from the cops, as trained. I think it was: grandfather, grandmother, sister, then me. The scene was familiar. As my grandfather knelt down beside me, my sister laid her hand on my back and my grandmother softened her eyes. I burst into tears.

My mother had been sitting in the front seat of a Chevy Nova. On her right, Aflack. On her left, the drunken owner of the car. On top of them? The trailer of an 18 wheeler. Thank God it was parked. The driver, as Don, suffered no injuries worth mentioning. My mom, on the other hand, had been crushed between the two men when the car slammed its side into the truck. Nobody had been wearing seat belts. In effect, my mom was a packet of ketchup in a wayward child's fist.
Her hips were shattered. To this day, she can barely run, and has internal problems she refuses to speak of.

Open Up

I remember this time, when I was overwhelmed with emotion (who knows why), and my grandmother grabbed my shoulders using all the kindness she could muster, saying: "You shouldn't keep all that bottled in, you need to open up, talk to people."

Obviously I listened. I can't shut up. I've seriously considered piercing my tongue just to remind me to keep my mouth shut.

Similarly, she forced me to cry as a child. Not to say I didn't cry when I was being beat, but other than that, I guess I had hardened myself somewhere along the line. There was this time, I feel it makes a mockery of love and endearment, when my grandmother acted out some historic legend. Some king, or emperor, known to be a hardened veteran, cried as his city burned. His aide grabbed a glass tube and kindly scooped the tears off his leaders cheek, and saved them as a memento of the overwhelming emotion of the situation.

As a single, hot tear traced down my cheek, she told me this, scooping my tear into a glass.

I regained my emotions over time. Only to lose them again with the toilings of marriage. I don't cry for serious things. I don't cry for my dead (save for my friend Larry). I do cry at the end of many movies. And touching commercials.

Criminal

I mentioned in one of my comments recently about an incident in which my mom ran over my grandmother while kidnapping my sister. Hell, why hadn't I written this story yet?

I don't recall our ages, we were young, but I'm sure it was my grandparents' house where it occurred. My sister was not too keen on the idea as I recall, deceptive was my grandmother, but my mother had her join us all the same. there was all the screaming, crying, and chaos one would expect at such an event-- and that was before the urn fell off the mantle, as I like to say.

I think my mom also stole my grandparents GM Caballero, which we made our getaway in. Basically just a whitebread version of an El Camino. Not sure if I sat in the middle or my sister, reason dictates we woulda plopped her between us to keep her from bolting. As my mom threw the car into reverse and peeled out,my grandmother came leering down the walkway, lunging for the car and grasping the passenger side-mirror. My mom didn't stop.

My grandmother told the cops she had been "run over". Actually, she was dragged. No contact with tires, plenty of contact with asphalt. I'm not sure why it occurred, if charges were pressed, or how long a stint my mom did for it. As I said, we were quite young, my sister and I.

Too bad she didn't get run over. But then, I might have been stuck in foster care for much longer. Might have made me a safer, saner individual. Then again, it might have added sexual abuse to the list of things I've had to endure.

The Watchman

Back in the day, I was stricken with insomnia, for the first time. This lousy piece was spawned. I say lousy because I've learned so much since then; my views are quite changed. Nonetheless, it is the favorite amongst my family and childhood friends. I have always considered it a work in progress, and still wish to someday both rewrite and finish it.

P.S. Okay!, I already altered it a bit. I'm writing it, might as well rewrite it!

The Watchman

I have written these words for all who call Hell home --
For all the poor bastards who live where demons roam.
Some words for all those dreadful fellows
Who live in an evil nation
Flooded with worries and woes,
In the land of Desperation...

'Twas a bright and dreary light,
Cast down by a moon of crimson hue
Yet through the evil of the night
He sent the Watchman through

The Watchman's training soon began
To sharpen his crafty skill
Alas, too, he had to overcome the troubles of man
Which ripped and eroded his will

As the Watchman struggled to learn
Satan cunningly played his game
And oh, how that devil did yearn
To scratch out the Watchman's name

The beasts teased and taunted him, all throughout the night
The demons came and haunted him, filling him with fright
And though they poked and prodded him, he wouldn't dare to fight
This was his one and only hope: he had to get it right


Satan, like a cancer, tried to get under the Watchman's skin
He called upon the Watchman's family, and the Watchman's friends
He began to weaken the Watchman by corrupting him from within
He attacked the Watchman's very fibers, fraying them at the ends

Although he desperately needed to repent
For the many sins in his short existence
The forces of evil were hell bent:
They would annihilate all resistance

Seeing that the time was near
He took a last look into the mirror
He had to right all that was wrong
Fearing he'd been in the darkness for far too long

All that time, he should have grown
For we must reap what we have sown
Too soon, the demons burst from the ground
With Satan's last lunge to steal the crown

The frightened people ran to hide
Abandoning their daily roles
For they knew deep down inside
Who they'd given stock of their souls

With precious hope, and knowledge at hand
The Watchman stepped forward to take his stand
The Book as his sword, his faith as his shield
No matter the odds, he would never again yield

And with his few weapons,
He took on the damned
Fighting ghouls, beasts, and demons
As well as the burdens of Man

So he renewed the age old fight
Opposing evil in favor of Good
He fought with courage and all his might
He finally did the best he could

After the long and endless night
The Watchman had all but lost
Near the end of our gruesome fight
None could count the souls it had cost

And though he knew he should not win
He chose to carry on
Struggling to breath; wounded by sin
He managed to live until dawn

The truth was at last clarified
As he staggered into the dawn
He accepted then, as he died
He was no knight -- at best, a pawn

But though the realization burned as a phosphorous flame
He knew that a pawn could still win the game
He finally grasped the key to his salvation
With his own heart he must expose Christ's love to Satan

He uttered not a word as the ground opened and he fell
Into the dark abysmal pit; the hungry maw of Hell
The Devil anxiously awaited, he chuckled and he grinned
As the Watchman's memories burned away, every enemy, every friend

And though he saw his sins setting fire to his grave
The Watchman still held hope, felt a reason to be brave
As he closed in on the home of the dreaded enemy
He held on ever tighter to the mighty key

What the Watchman had planned, Satan never would have guessed
How could
the devil, in all his vainness, see
What was tethered in the Watchman's breast
So small, but roaring with mighty power, he held the key

------

The roads were paved with infants' skulls
The woefulness rushed in like a flood
Screaming pitifully, infinite souls
The demons drinking gleefully upon their blood

Satan quited the howling creatures
Then stared upon the figure of soul and sand
So tenuous and frail, with such harsh features
One more tenant in this God-forsaken land!

Satan smiled and pulled out his list
Glowering at the man before him
The Watchman clutching triumph in his fist
Yet wearing a face eternally grim

The devil knew, as he went on down his list
The Watchman was finally his prize
Never sensing there was something he had missed
As he read off his elaborate offers and lies

When he finished, The Watchman stood up straight
And refused Satan and his schemes
His cry heard clear to Hell's gate
He had bigger and better dreams

When the Watchman dared to call him The Liar
Satan deafened him with his ghastly choir
Maniacally weaving into their song
Lyrics of all the Watchman had done wrong

Though drowning in pain and fear
The Watchman lay perfectly calm
Struggling to keep his mind clear
His fist
unclenched, the key laid on his palm

Satan howled with frightened eyes
He saw a key which was the perfect size
And as key is to lock, love is to hate
The Watchman quickly rushed out of Hell's gate

------

As the Christ collected the souls from Hell
Knowing he was done, the Watchman finally fell
He knew he'd finished his watch, he'd seen us through 'til Dawn
He hoped that 'though he lost most battles, his war was finally won.

Saturday, July 26, 2008

Train Spotting

On my trip to Missouri, when I was a kid, I saw a dear torn in half when hit by an 18-wheeler. A few years later I saw the remains of a rottweiler that had been hit by a train.

Asterisk used to play chicken with trains, standing on the tracks as they honked in vain. Not truly a game of chicken, seeing as how the train can't swerve. He stopped after one night, rather than honking, the conductor shut off all the train's lights. Risk described it as transforming the train into a bullet of death cloaked in darkness.

I always wonder how people can be hit by trains like you hear on the news. It HAS to be suicide. How can you not hear a train approaching? Even if your headphones are on too loud, you'll feel the ground rumbling.

-------

You know that feeling you get directly following a traumatic experience? Where it feels like your spirit stepped to the left as your body stepped to the right? A bit like those scenes in Chronicles of Riddick, when the Necromonger tries tearing Riddick's soul out.

Then you're left feeling, not like you're watching a movie or in a movie as yourself, but that you are a deceased actor in an old classic movie. You are not you, You are nonexistent, but there's something going on here and someone should be watching this. Like YOU are Charlton Heston
in the epic Ten Commandments.

I saw a man get hit by a freight train.

I hardly ever mention it. I don't want to mention it again.

Blue Coat

I had several coats growing up. They typically looked military in some way, as this was the unspoken agreement my grandparents had with me concerning coats.

That changed my freshman year of High School. We purchased a blue parka, rather spur of the moment. We were about to exit Harris' Gottschalks, before the Gottschalks, when I sighted it. The price was right. So began the notorious history of The Blue Coat.

It had more pockets than I was used to. depending upon your outlook, that could be good or bad. My grandmother, freak that she was, had emergency supplies crammed into every closet and corner of our property. I, in kind, had survival gear crammed into every pocket of my coat. Regardless of the rules of the schools, Everything from a Swiss Army knife to a butane torch. Dehydrated food, make-shift weapons, first aid, pressure bandages, tools, and a little yellow notebook I wrote all my favorite writings in --Poe to Longfellow-- for entertainment.

When I'd run away and live out in the desert, I would spray deet on my face, glove my hands, use electricians' tape to seal off cuffs, hood my head and bunk on the desert floor. All those supplies were in my coat. In the morning, I'd scratch a hole into the dirt, pour Carbide into it, spit on it to create acetylene and light it. This made fires a lot easier to start than the flint and steel (also in coat) on tumbleweeds. You'd be amazed at how could the desert feels in the predawn hours.

The insulation of this coat was so good that you could remain cool on hot summer days and warm on cold winter days. So why ever take it off? Therefore, I rarely did. I sewed patches onto spots where I wasn't faster than the stray dogs, or where the truck's tailpipe got me, and my coat seemed to perpetually emit a smoky aroma. All those barrel fires! Nate (Innuendo) never ceased to find amusement in the quirks of my coat. It has about as much history tied into it as my chain!

So, it should come as no surprise then, that I STILL possess this coat. When the cold New York winter hits in a couple months, I'll wear it yet again. Only now, my gear is in my Man Bag.

Friday, July 25, 2008

Hitting is NOT Allowed

I've...brutalized... everyone in my family, I think. That time my Grandmother spit in my face, the time my mother kangaroo punched me. I'm sure my Aunt and I went head-to-head. My sister's left wrist was destroyed, most likely from fighting with me.

This behavior refined itself over the years to include anybody, but only when they struck me. I nearly crushed the throat of some kid in school for hitting me. I've attacked people at a few jobs for striking me, raising their hand to me, or insinuating that I would be hit. I scared the holy-hell out of more-than-many of my fellow inmates in "camp".

I always feared that I'd inherit my legacy, and beat my wife or children. After helping to raise my first nephew, I am quite confident that my future children will be safer than most.

Regarding my wife, she's a Sicilian fire-cracker. We've been married for three years now, and I haven't beaten her. But it shames me that I've thought about it. Worse, I have put my hands on her in malice. No punching or man-slaps, but still, it looks as if the dam is leaking. Every time it's happened, she either struck me or seamed to be about to. But that's no excuse. Not every woman is as dangerous as those in my family; my wife could never hold her own against the likes of me.

It troubles me deeply. It takes weeks for my wife to trust me fully after such incidents. It hurts to know that now, in her heart, she at times compares me to her abusive father. If I thought it would do either of us more good than harm, I'd kill him. And my father knows he's still unforgiven, despite our relationship. So what does that mean for me?

I'm not sure what to make of it. Does it stem from my violent upbringing? Is it symptoms of OCD, Asperger's or some other form of autism? Worse? Is it something as rudimentary as the fact that my sister and I felt free to tackle and pummel each other, so that's my default response to heated arguments with my wife?

I lean toward the belief that I CLEARLY have some unresolved issues. Coupled with my experience with "problem solving" regarding my sister. Therefore, our children will be FORBIDDEN from hitting one another. As far as us hitting them, I suppose there may be a certain age when a slap on the BUTT may get through more readily than a comprehensive discussion. But again, it's not to be taken lightly.

Disciplining a child in ANY way while in a state of anger is at best futile and at worst abusive (whether it scars emotionally, verbally, or physically.) Too, there is an age when talking things out needs to become the precedent. I know that children tend to respect you more when they feel you talk to them and treat them, not as inferior beings, but as"not-quite-adults."

I wish my wife and I could just wrestle when mad! Rather, it's agreed that physical contact is WRONG. That if either of us ever gets violent, the marriage is over. For both our sakes.

I wonder if we'll ever be healed in this life? I hope so. I'm mortified that these legacies may somehow seep into our children some way, some how. Like a trusted, unsuspecting dog bringing a blood-thirsty tick into the home. Finding that tick gorging itself, not on the dog, but on someone far more precious.

After writing this, I feel just like a rusted spring, lying exposed in the dirt somewhere.

Candy Cane

I hear they banned candy canes in the penal system. Any guesses as to why?

Around Christmas time, when my sister and I were young, after the tree was up and decorated we had this ritual. We'd each grab a candy cane off one of the branches, throw our butts onto the couch beside one another, and race towards a needle point. The first of us to achieve an uber-needle point on the end of our candy cane would shove it into the others arm! Usually the triceps area. The tip would nearly always break off, so we'd continue on this way, back and forth, until the candy canes were finished.

Funny, we'd only use the traditional red-and-white peppermint canes. Never the green-and-purple, or brownish ones of fruity, butterscotch or root beer flavor.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Drinking Acid

When I was too young to remember, there was this incident. One of my first "near-death- experiences", I suppose.

My mother stopped by a friend's house real quick. Just to run in. Grab her purse, or something she had left behind. She didn't leave the car running, nor me in it (we'll get to those stories another time!). The man of the house was in the driveway, using car polish remover on his car. Apparently, I was quite thirsty. Apparently, the car polish remover resembles water. Or juice.

I drank a bit. Screamed. Mom rushed me to the E.R.

The hospital refused to pump my stomach. Two bouts with something so caustic would have killed me. They warned of possible future lung problems. Hmmm.

Obsidian

My wife's brother. I am no fool to think it's nothing special that I have a close relationship with most of my wife's family. The happiness they believe I've brought to their special girl caused them to seemingly adopt me. Again, I'm not so foolish as to push the issue. I don't try stupid things only a blood relative could get away with!

When my wife and I flew out to New York to set up our wedding, years ago, I was holed up with her brother while she with her mother. Her aunt had showed us around town, a good time, until that night. That's when the food poisoning kicked in. No, it wasn't on purpose, even though the family is
very Italian. See, I used to like eating the skins on baked potatoes, even in restaurants. If you don't know the risks involved, you really should.

About 2 am, I woke up my future brother-in-law. Indirectly. I was vomiting so violently that my throat was raw, I had pulled a few muscles, and I had passed out twice. Not to mention the terrible sounds woke Joe. Funny, none of the other guys woke up. Their rooms were closer. I think only Joe had a heart caring enough to recognize the sounds of someone in distress.

Joe had to pick me up off the ground and carry me out like he was some kind of hero or something. Now I know why his sister loves him to pieces--wait 'til I tell you some stories! I wasn't emasculated by the experience or anything, I was just happy somebody helped me live through it!

The thing is, just like my good friend Erik (McCoy), Joe grew up thinking he was sub-par. His peers ridiculed his thick Italian accent, his teachers had him convinced that he was "slow", his counselors stigmatized him with ADD, he had a lazy eye, and (of course) his older sister picked on him!!! I know what that's like, man. Only difference is, he didn't relish the change into manhood, when you get muscular enough to kick your sister's ass despite the age difference! Again, he was too bloody nice.

To look at a piece of obsidian, it looks like a chunk of bland, black glass. Compared to other rocks, minerals, stones, and gems you could go as far as calling a raw piece dull. A piece of black glass? We all know the bad associations with the color black. And who would want a chunk of glass when they're looking for stone? It would come as no surprise if any average person were to cast such a rock aside.

But Joe took himself, like obsidian, and chipped away, and polished, and chipped away, and polished some more.

Did you know that nothing can carry a sharper edge than obsidian? Natives used it for arrow heads. In certain procedures, surgeons rely on its incredible sharpness to perform feats a steel edge would find daunting. Polished to a luster, it makes a mockery of the sleekest panther's coat.

Cer Obsidian, today, is one of the kindest, most clever, charismatic GQ-looking men you'll ever run across. I often refer to him as The East Coast Erik. He's got himself a great reputation throughout the city, a list of true friends of high caliber, several college degrees, plenty of oppurtunity, the piercing-yet-comforting gaze of a trusted leader, and a beautiful fiance. Sorry ladies. Maybe you should track down McCoy. Or Window even.

I feel better as a person to be able to count him among my friends.

Sunday, July 6, 2008

The Proposal

My girlfriend had all the investigative spirit of Lois Lane. She was quite aware that I had received the ring. Thus, my creative genius and intuition was put to the test.

It was February. Being Arizona, it was not cold. The rain that falls rarely hits the ground, and that which does is almost as warm as you'd shower in.

In Lake Havasu, where we met, the London Bridge was reconstructed brick by brick to lure tourists to McCulloch's desert oasis at the hub of Phoenix, Las Vegas, and Barstow. To complement the bridge, The English Village was erected. A quaint series of authentic looking buildings containing myriads of shoppes.

It was here that I invited my girlfriend to spend the evening with me. I had borrowed my giant roommate's (6' 5" tall) raincoat to conceal a large package. My girlfriend was more excited than suspicious.

I told her not to worry, that I was a bit lost and was going to ask the gentleman in the strange costume for directions. After a brief conversation, I called her over to begin our evening. The man was no stranger, and he wore the garb of a gondola driver. Package still concealed beneath the coat, we cast off onto the lake under an Arizona sunset. The man's skills as a gondola driver were surpassed by his skill as a singer of fine Italian love songs.

We drifted beneath the lit bridge in the falling darkness. The gondolier's voice rang off the arched walls. As we glided out the other side, the warm rain commenced, dappling us along with the ever-brightening stars in the near distance.

As we finished the cheese and cider in the gondola's basket, unwrapped the chocolate and wrapped our legs in the blanket provided, I saw fit to reveal the mystery beneath the coat. In truth it was not one package, but three. Each was smaller than the last. I explained that they represented the past, present, and future.

The largest, past, contained our cards and love letters to one another. The dried first flowers I gave her, the rocks she collected from her visit to the Canyon as a gift for me. Our $1000 cell-phone bill!

The middle one, present, contained the most precious thing of all to me. Upon opening it, she found herself looking into a mirror.

The last, future, was to symbolize the most precious thing in my future. In it, she found the ring. As the gondolier stated after regaining control of the craft: "I suppose the bouncing means yes?" Indeed!

I asked our host to guide the craft to the shore near the town's fanciest restaurant, to top the evening off with an equally romantic dinner. Here is where my intuition paid off. Entering the lobby, my new fiance found all her friends waiting. See, I knew the first thing she'd want to do is show all her girls.

Few things have gone as perfectly in life as I plan them in my head. I'm happy that this most important event is among them!


HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, MY LOVE!


One of My Own Spider Stories

While living with McCoy, I had the experience of tending to his tarantulas.

He had a pink-toed tarantula of his own, quite cute actually, and a desert tarantula from his deceased father-in-law.

We fed them crickets. The gore of their feasting was legendary. The power of their jaws would spew guts inches up and down the sides of the tank. This gore had to be periodically cleaned.

Over the months I progressed form exiting the room to walking the individual tarantulas over my gloved hands. From there, I learned to appreciate the fuzziness of their hairy barbs on my bare hands.

One day as McCoy and Solaris were cleaning the pink-toed tarantula's cage as I held it, it became agitated. Perhaps because my hands were sweaty. It kept increasing speed as I, faster and faster, spun my hands as if preparing pizza dough. Finally the spider jumped.

I always knew spiders could jump, especially tarantulas. But, mercy! How far they can jump! McCoy was around four feet away, bent over the tank as it rested on the floor. When I yelled out in alarm, he looked up in time to see a pink-trimmed black hairy mass flinging itself at his face! It's front legs grabbed his nose, but lost their grip dropping the monster onto the floor. The damage was done. McCoy was peeling his lungs and dancing about like a girl who's seen a mouse. His horrific screams set his fiance and me into histaria all our own.

Meanwhile, the spider had made his way across the carpet and was making his way up the drapes! I threatened to expire if the spider made it's way to the strategic advantageous locale of the ceiling, and so, in a moment of brave brilliance, McCoy hefted the semi-clean tank toward the drapes and slapped the spider home.

We never cleaned the tanks the same way again. We bought a third tank. For prisoner transfer and holding.

Friday, July 4, 2008

Spit

When we were kids, my sister and I had this awful habit. We thought it was funny to spit on one another. Our abusive grandparents simply did not approve. After two or three beatings for spitting, they finally went so far as to beat me bloody and senseless. My sister had clumps of hair ripped out of her head.

Funny how malleable children are, huh? Years later, my grandmother walked in on the end of a movie, Diabolique, I believe. It was a thriller with a plot twist at the ending in which she had just walked in on. She was in a flurry: "Quick! Quick! It's an emergency!" Whatever the emergency was, Kathy Bates--as always-- was a gravitational force. My grandmother turned to the movie and stood, watching. "Emergency" forgotten. Now, as a kid, I learned the hard way to never ruin a movie ending for people. So, my sister and I were quickly up in arms: "You're ruining the movie for yourself! Get out!" An argument ensued. My grandmother and I were in each other's faces. She was yelling and some spittle flew from her mouth onto my cheek. I rebuked her with the saying that was trendy at the time: "Say it, don't spray it."

You already know what she did next. She spit in my face. So I strangled her. I had the first "red out" of my life. My fingers and toes tingled quickly, and then a burst of red flashed from all four corners of my vision until I saw only RED. When the rest of the spectrum returned, it was like looking through a telescope. Far down a dark tube I could see my grandmother's cold, confident gray-blue eyes staring me down like she was killing me. But there were hands around her throat. My sister was standing on the bed in the background. It looked like she was screaming, but everything was so far away nothing could be heard.

Suddenly, reality snapped back in full. My vision. The screams of my sister. I dropped my grandmother. Some how I had lifted her girth off the ground by her throat. I was quite young, far from 18 years old.

I let go, cast my eyes to the floor. Said sorry as I pushed passed her out the door. She had the mocking smile of a Sith lord smeared across her face. Not the look of horror we would have expected. This turned the full force of all the horror of the situation on to me with the power of a fire hose.

I escaped to the chicken coop out on the acreage. Scratched another mark into the metal trim to signify how often I'd fled there. The scores of marks reminded me of old movies where the prisoners would track time much like this.

Fast Driver

McCoy's father, before opening a couple restaurants in SoCal, was a detective for San Bernardino County. In Arizona, McCoy never ceased to find amusement in seeing his retired dad get out of countless speeding tickets, traveling between his homes in Arizona and California. He'd flash his old badge and use the same excuse every time: "It's tough getting out of the habit. I used to have to speed all over this county. Sorry, officer! Thank you for your concern. You're doing a fine job!"

Solaris

Solaris was the wife of my close friend McCoy. She is American-Indian, I forget form which tribe. Her parents moved to Arizona from Nebraska when she was about...14? She almost immediately took a liking to Erik (McCoy). Her parents loved him almost as much as she. And his parents treated her like a prized daughter. Her parents and his parents discussed it, and came to the conclusion that they'd allow Mandy (Solaris) to marry Erik at 17. Seems a little crazy, but you had to know them. It was beautiful. Then something terrible happened.

Mandy and her parents went Wedding Dress shopping in Phoenix. She drove out in her car. After all the excitement of the long day, Mandy was tired. Her dad, a guy as genuine as Erik, insisted on driving them home so she could sleep on the back seat. It was raining that night.

I was living with Erik at the time. I was home to take the call. Mandy was calling from the hospital. She was a bit confused. She'd been in an accident.

The only reason she lived is because she was lying down in the back seat. Her father had been impaled on the steering column. Her mother died on the helicopter.

Solaris took pride in her Native roots. She loved how her dad was so stoic and spiritual. He was tough, not afraid to roll up his sleeves and get dirty. Every one in our congregation loved the venison jerky he'd make after a hunt, especially me.

After burying her parents, she had to fight the remainder of her family for her right to everything. Especially to marry Erik. She prevailed. She had a good teacher.

On the trip to the Pacific for the wedding, I realized my love for Glass. It was a special trip.


Over the years, Solaris never talked about it. Never cried. When they came of age, she and McCoy began hitting the infamous club scene of the Southern California area. Ultimately, Erik regained his senses, opting to commence his pursuit of a more respectable life. Mandy didn't pull out of the spiral. She kept going out alone, coming home drunk at odd hours. Left the job my wife got her at the bank. Lost a few other jobs.

When Erik confronted her about it, she admitted to having an affair. She left after that. He kept the house, and when she was turned out elsewhere, he let her back in. He kept the door open, even in his heart.

The economic slump has been carving chunks out of Erik's business. Recently, his father went in for surgery. Erik caved. He left his business behind, sold his cars, foreclosed the house...

My wife never got to meet Mandy's parents. She moved to Arizona later in the year. But, coincidentally, while I was living with Erik, she was living with Mandy. They were about as close of friend's as Erik and I.

My wife has been devastated by this. Everybody keeps blaming it on Mandy's age. I think that's stupid. That opinion lacks insight. She never dealt with her tragedy. The party scene, an entertaining phase for Erik, was for her a way of coping. An escape.

Last I heard, McCoy's doing alright. He just went scuba diving and spear fishing in Cali. As far as Arizona, we don't talk about it.

Cer

Cer is a word from my language. Basically it relates to people who now have, or have had, a profound influence on your life. Cers, Cera in my language for plural, can also be the people tethered to your Cera. Not to be forgotten is the fact that a Cer can be a very negative person in your life.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Work it into the Mix

Crap. That's what seems to be going on most of this year so far. I don't care if we have an ice storm on December 31st, so long as it marks the end of this god damned year.

At the end of April, I had my car serviced for its 30,000 mile tune-up. Of course, this was the first time I'd ever rotated the tires. Last winter, I replaced the front tires for the first snow. Those were moved to the rear and the original, balder-than-I'll-ever-be tires were put on the front! At first I was miffed. Bald tires on the front of a front-wheeled drive? But then, what the hey, it was practically summer. I'd get better traction. But first we had to get through the thaw. Then the heavy rains. Then a vain fist-shaking from Old Man Winter. Then, More rain. We survived.

Well, first week of May, we pick up a screw in the college parking lot. In the shoulder of one of the newer tires. While removing the recently tool-tightened nuts, I threw my back out. This occurred repeatedly, on three of the five nuts. Serious Ouch Factor. Your sympathy is for once encouraged and embraced. OUCH!

Fast forward to Saturday June 7th. I had just gotten out of the bed. I sat in the desk chair and stretched. That level 7 pain from a month before that had died down to a manageable 4, it came back. Worse, it brought a couple kegs and strippers and every "friend" it could rally for its party. I choked it down and carried on. Even "snuggled" with the Mrs. for a couple hours. Probably didn't help. But worth it. Later, at my favorite restaurant, I leaned over to grab my hat... Next thing I know, I'm experiencing the second most physically painful event of my life. My wife about lost it. She almost dragged me to the E.R. But I'm Irish. That means I'm more stubborn than all your asses! I struggled through until Monday morning. Then I ended up in the hospital after all. At least I drove there and not some ambulance.

Now I'm taking so many pills I can barely keep track of which ones when and under what conditions-- with food, full glass of water, no machines, etc. Needless to say, I haven't had a drink of my savored tequila in quite a while. I think Heath Ledger was a rising star, but I don't wish to join him for tea any time soon. Which is interesting. See, I was courting suicide recently. I have it almost figured out. Just that it wouldn't look like an accident. So, if I was as intent on offing my sorry ass as I feared I might be, wouldn't overdosing be a more convenient way? I'd even get to enjoy a drink to go!

Obviously I wasn't all that suicidal. I'm worse than a suicidal person; I'm a survivor.

Here it is, Fire Day. My ALONE day to write and readjust. Screw my head on straight. This is what keeps me sane, this and music. And coffee. Sex and tequila aren't necessities like these.

I decided this afternoon to call my back's bluff. I'm going to work it into the mix like all my other aches and pains. Isolate it and accept it. Work just wasn't kind enough on me this week, despite my doctor's written plea for light duty. I just got hired on full-time with 100% medical and a second raise and I take a Monday off and return with a note saying I'm to be pampered. We are SO far behind now. My fellow workmates are QUITE frustrated. It actually exploded into a confrontation between me and Sean/Magneato, my supervisor, yesterday. He's catching hell from the owner and, in turn, looking for some one to pass the bill to. But, in my defense, I AM injured and it's not production's fault that we have too much work. "Production" is three people. If one of them is out, that's 1/3 of the crew! Might as well be having a strike! So why do we take on so much work? Whatever.

More worthy of our concern is the signs of the times, don't you agree? Natural disasters all over the world. I feel I need to "dust off my bible." Make sure I still have enough time and spirit to straighten out.

But to be frank, you know what I got on my mind? Honestly, this summer's movie line-up. I admire M. Night Shyamalan's work and look forward to The Happening. I'll see Hulk, just because it's a comic book movie. Already seen Indiana Jones 4, Iron Man, Chronicles of Narnia, and countless other movies. Refuse to miss Hellboy 2. Itching to see Will Smith's Hancock. Most of all, I can hardly wait for Dark Knight.

Black Cat

We have two cats. One black, the other white with a few large black spots. The black one, "Nick", was a wedding gift from my sister. He's mine, I like him. He's not shy with guests. He acts like a hunter, although he's really not. And best of all, he likes to be pet rough, like a dog. He doesn't like snuggles or being picked up, held, cradled. Unfortunately, the only displays of dominance he puts on is scratching the furniture and sitting on his "throne" above the throne. The bathroom window that his compadre can't figure out how to jump up to.

The white one, "Zach", (I hope you don't think these are their actual names/nicknames...) is quite a bully to Nick. He chases him, cleans him, beats him up, pushes him aside at the food dishes, scares him off the couch and steals his warm spot. He also scratches ONLY the scratching post, cuddles my wife better than I do, and knows that it is HIS job to wake her up in the morning.

We often joke that Zach always eats and never craps. And that Nick always drinks and is a poop factory. Seriously. We never see Zach use the litter box or the water, unlike Nick. But, also unlike Nick, Zach is always demanding to eat. "NOW!" he screams whenever you get within ten feet of his food bowl.

So it came as something of a surprise when Nick had to go to the emergency vet at midnight (we got home late from Urso and Luna's), because he has, we were later informed, FLUTD. That's Feline Lower Urinary Tract Disease. Disease. In other words, it's chronic. The couple hundred dollars we spent to get him better is to be a recurring event. How'd this come to be? Apparently, dry cat food is only to be used as a supplement. A snack for cats, if you will. They, being solely carnivorous, can't process all those carbs. But why Nick? He hardly ever eats and drinks plenty of water. If anything, Zach should have FLUTD, not Nick. Not that I'd wish that on cute little Zach. But it would have been better.

My wife all but hates Nick. He doesn't cuddle, he doesn't accept her affection (only mine :) ), he scratches the furniture, and whenever a stench comes from the litter box, he has just come from the litter box. She's not exactly comfortable with the prospect of spending small fortunes on a cat she'd rather give away to her aunt.

And, to label this as a rant, let me tell you about Doctors... I had noticed Nick licking his crotch too often. I mentioned it to Glass. We looked up cat websites. Urinary tract infections are signified by excessive crotch licking, howling in the litter box due to painful peeing, and sometimes blood in the urine.

Not long after this research, he started to cry when he peed. We decided to track down a vet. What the hell! Everywhere you go for ANY kind of treatment (for any creature, human or otherwise) has a "new patient fee". I think it's a bullshit fee. I paid one last year to my dentist, and doctor. This year, I've paid one to my eye doctor and...THE FREAKING VET! The receptionist, upon hearing our reason for appointment told us to bring in a urine sample. What? A urine sample? What, am I to ask my cat to piss in a cup? She responded that we could bring it in clump form. Alright, whatever.

Before his appointment came to pass, though, we came home late one night to find blood spots leading form the litter box. Damn. I swapped the litter while my wife called the vet's listed after-hours emergency number. They insisted that it was a bona fide emergency and that we should bring him in immediately. By the way, it's $100 just to have the Doctor take a look. Plus any fees for any treatment. Oh, and there might be a slight wait to see the doctor demanding on the urgency of the cases at hand. Holy shit! Is this the vet we're talking to?

We wait for Nick to pass fluid, scoop it into a GLAD tupperware, scoop him into the carrier and haul ass. Thankfully, he was considered urgent, so there was no real waiting time. After a bit, the Doc calls us in. He's not real sure what the problem is. He can give an empirical diagnosis, or run some tests. How about the sample? No dice. It's a dirty sample. Dirty? It can't be tested for crystal composition because of the litter. (Here comes a pisser) He could have gotten the sample there. He could try again, but maybe the cat has no pee to pee. He could do an ultrasound--or some scan-- of his kidneys to see if he does have any pee to pee tonight, for a sample. Unless we want him admitted. A scan. Of a cat's bladder. To see if he needs to piss. For a sample. Another sample. Because the one the receptionist at the regular vet (this is the Animal Hospital we're at, by the way) told us about was WRONG!

We opted for an empirical diagnosis. Nick was given a fluid injection under the skin, to help hydrate him. 'Cause, you know, if the giant clump of piss we brought in is any indicator, he's dehydrated. The injection cost? The fluid: $7. Cost to give any injection: $25. And let's not forget the pain pills and antibiotic serum, week's supply. As we going over our estimate, thank god my wife insisted on before treatment, we noticed another shot. Please recall, any injection: $25. This particular fluid: $30. What is it? A painkiller. How long does it last? Just for tonight. Aren't his pills painkillers? Yes, but... NO THANK YOU. We'll start him on his pills tonight. Only his serum must be taken with food.

At least we saved $60. Small victory. We locked Nick in the bathroom, with all his amenities for the week, to avoid bloodstains or uncontrolled urinating. To my dismay, Zach didn't miss him. my biggest argument in keeping Nick is that his friend Zach would be devastated by his loss. WRONG. How did Nick fare? He seems fine, now. Save for the hole he tore in the couch his first day out of "The Hole." Bah!

Rage-a-holics Anonymous

I've mentioned my driving habits and profanity problem. So has my wife. But get this, she's gotten to be worse than I am! Maybe I'm a bad influence.

She used to stick to 5 miles over the speed limit. Always. Not so much anymore. That, of course, doesn't stop her from telling me not to speed, as I'm doing a meager 65.

When someone is Driving Ms. Daisy in the fast lane, I'll pull up behind them and turn on my Left turn signal. Like a cop. My wife? She'll speed around them, then slow down to about 40 mph. You know, to make her point. :(

The other day, she gets down stairs on the way to work, and finds her car blocked in by someone else's car. Rather than coming inside and calling out for the owner, she screamed outside for someone to move the car. Think anyone could hear her? Apparently not. Her first reaction? Ram his car with hers. She didn't do that. Her second reaction? Leave a note saying "F___ You!" under his wiper. She couldn't find a pen. Her third reaction, the one she did go with? She dug all the trash out of her trash-filled car and dumped it on top of his, taking the time to tuck some under the wipers. Then, she carefully jockeyed her compact car around his clunker and sped of to work.

When I came down to get into my car, I saw a strange scene indeed, but WHATEVER. Later, at work, I get a call. It's Glass: Did I see her purse before I left? It's rather important. She tells me what the car-owner did, what she did, and that she thinks she left her purse on top of her car whilst she was perusing her garbage! Shocked, I can say nothing to allay her fears. I can only flash back in my mind...

A few months back, the nitwits kitty-corner to us were throwing a party on a week night. At 2:30 am, when we were still struggling top sleep, I suggested that I sternly, but with politeness, suggest that our neighbors consider their neighbors. My wife refused. She feared that they were deviant and would retaliate. Say, they might key our car or something...

Back to the present. Thankfully, her purse was safely in the apartment, where she left it in her rush to get to work on time. The car-owner? Apparently he was moving out that day. I recognized the car as belonging to the couple downstairs and across the hall. That morning, there was also a truck with a flat-bed trailer blocking some other nearby parking spaces.

Nice way to say goodbye to your friendly neighbors, eh?

College

I completed my first semester of college. My last final was Saturday the 24th. This semester, my wife and I attended classes together.

Last semester was a fiasco. I started out with three classes. All online. TERRIBLE IDEA. I dropped one, bailed on another and failed the last.


This semester I revisited the one I dropped, Basic Sociology, and shot for a passing grade in Advanced College Algebra.
The results? Drum roll: I got a B in Math and probably in Soc as well. My wife? An A in Math and quite likely in Soc too. Smart girl. I dare say too smart.

She's decided to go for nursing, continuing this Fall after a Summer sabbatical. I intend to enjoy the summer with her.

Come Fall, I hope to have my career sorted. I came to the conclusion that any job in a hospital is not a job for me. I'm thinking that my criteria of mobility, job security, and income will be met by a career in plumbing.

I was inspired recently by our apartment complex's maintenance man. If not Plumbing, our desire for a house will provoke me to pursue Heating and Air Conditioning instead.


Now that school is out, I give myself two weeks to regain my sanity before looking into a counselor. Seriously. Also, Fridays are mine and mine alone. I should be doing most of my blogging on that day of the week for now.

Stinger

I know it's really creepy that I name my knives--that I even have them, but hey, I'm Dusk. I've earned it.

What started it all was Stinger. It has nothing to do with Lord of the Rings. It's a Police issue Spyderco knife with a 4" fully serrated blade and partially sharpened spine. That's three kinds of illegal in several states. When I was living OUT IN the desert, I didn't have the luxury of leaving valuables behind. So I took them with me everywhere. Including school. I have never drawn a knife (or gun for that matter) on a person. I have used weapons on vicious stray dogs. And I collected nearly a third of my knives from jerks who thought they could take me on with a knife.

My few friends often joked about me and my formidable knife and "the unlucky fool who crossed my path". Somehow we got to referring to such a situation as me Stinging them, with my Stinger. I think it had something to do with the knife having the word POLICE etched into it.




When I was living in an abandoned van in the middle of the desert, Stinger came in very handy. It got quite abused. Even though knives are just another tool, you shouldn't use knives as screwdrivers or saws unless the need is dire, and even then... Thankfully, somebody actually tried to use a Leatherman knock-off utility knife on me before I got too stupid with Stinger.

Stinger was unfortunately sitting on the table out of reach the night Cruizer went possessed on me. I don't know, I just have a ton of memories with it. It's been a part of me for almost as long as my chain, Pacer. Yes, I named it too. I lost Stinger in late 2002, when I was just starting to excel in my studies to become, of all things, a minister.

On my
visit to the West Coast, my sister returned Stinger to me. She was working with the son of the lady I rented a room from back then. He had stolen it. My sister took it back. How? Well, she IS my sister :)

It feels good to have it back. Between seeing all my old spiritually strong friends out West and getting back this virtual talisman, I feel I can really have success returning to the only job that ever gave me a sense of joy and purpose.


Anonymous said...

im not really sure how i feel about this...

a little scared, a little proud, a little shocked, a little scared....

how DID she get it back?? i never asked!