Is a Darker Shade of Twilight

Plaguing My Conscience

2010-05-12T13:16:00.006-04:00

It's been a long time since I've written anything public. I have put a LOT of my resentment and anguish behind me. I don't think about my past much and I certainly don't talk about it-- not even with my psychologist. When I do ponder over the past, I rarely dwell on it. And I'm proud to say it doesn't ruin my day when I do remember something. Of course, there is seemingly ALWAYS an exception to the rule.

My (former) brother-in-law attacked me one day. He tried to gouge my eye out while he had me in a head-lock. My sister pulled him off me before things got out of control. I was calm during the fiasco, but I was warning him that if he didn't release me I would fight back. As his thumb scraped closer toward my eye, my hand slid closer toward my favorite knife, which I had strapped to my thigh. We'll skip all the rest of the story (no one went to the hospital, let alone the morgue), despite how troubling it is. Ah, screw it! I have to TRY to justify myself!

After he attacked me, he decided he needed to leave-- as in seperate from my sister. The whole thing started because he ran out of weed to smoke. He was grumpy and my nephew was being rambunctious. My brother-in-law pounced on him and spanked him savagely. When the boy began crying, his dad started screaming at him to shut up. My sister stepped in and a fight ensued. Meanwhile, I was trying to remain calm and neutral. However, I had an impending test at the college later that day and was trying to nap after working all the previous day and most of the night. As he and my sister were fighting, I stepped in and (not too politely) told him to calm down. That's when he attacked me.

So, now he's trying to "leave." He's packing up underwear, a pup tent, ...AND his Desert Star hand gun. My siter, having dealt with his emotionalism before, was afraid for his safety. They began wrestling over the gun. The loaded gun fell to the floor. My nephew picked up the loaded gun and handed it to me. Let me tell you: THE FIGHT WAS OVER.

OK. Now I've "justified" myself... Some time later, a couple years maybe, my brother-in-law saw that his marriage was in ruins. I was deep into my studies in the bible and making fine progress toward becoming a minister. He saw the unbelievable changes I had undergone and he, in all sincererity and humility, asked if I would study the bible with him and my sister. To save their marriage. I said I'd think about it. I never got back to him. They divorced five years ago.

Why this plagues me: Jesus is my king, and my exemplar (Psa 72:1,8; 1Pe 2:21). Obviously Jesus would never hold a grudge (Take, for example 1Pe 2:23). Jehovah god hates a divorcing (Mal 2:16). Knowing the truth from God, I have-- and had a responsiblty to teach anyone who wants to know Jehovah and his righteous ways (emphasis on Mat 28:20 (Mat 28:18-20)).

In a nutshell, I ignored the two most important commands in the universe: Love Jehovah with your whole existence, and love your fellow man (Mat 22:37-39). Up until recently, I got by with the assurance that repentence and obsevance of Jesus' sacrifice would absolve me of this (obvious) sin. OK, agreed.

Here's the catch: my nephews have reported that their father has been reading the bible lately, trying to make sense of it. I also hear rumors from reliable sources that he still loves my sister. I have heard, from my mother, that my sister admits to still loving him. They have both pretty much remained single since the divorce, especailly him.

Is it too late to get involved? Would it be presumptuous? Or would it be the Christ-like thing to do?

Reckless Abandon

2009-01-17T13:36:00.003-05:00

I just dropped an abandoned cat off at the Humane Society. It was a long drive; the cat cried the whole way. I had to drive around back, away from the visitors' lot. In retrospect, it brings to mind a clinic where pro-choice mothers-not-to-be can sneak in and out the back.

Two pages of paperwork and 20 minutes later, I was seen. The couple ahead of me had to have their one-year-old dog put down due to extreme seizures. They were pretty torn up. I felt whacked out of place by their raw emotion contrasted by my cool detachment.

Upon entering the check-in room, I plowed into a conversation regarding "kill-free" shelters. The employee argued that they simply were not feasible considering the population explosion of unwanted pets, especially cats.

Despite my explanation on the paperwork, I was questioned by a very young girl who looked strikingly like my sister. I explained that this cat had been snooping about outside in the freezing weather for roughly two weeks. That he was friendly, but despised being picked up. That apparantly I wasn't the only person looking after him, considering how good he looked. That one of the complex's tenants had moved out about the same time this cat appeared.

One of the four employees gathered around me posed the apt question: "Who could do such a thing? Abandon such a beautiful cat?" I agreed; but I know the answer.

I am a cut-throat survivor. I can leave a friend behind. This is why I figured I'd be better off as a mercenary, rather than in the Army where no man is left behind. The cat was my cat. I decided to pop his cork after he began breaking rules important to me. Namely, don't steal my foil-wrapped beer bread off the counter at night; I feed you to damn well for that.

How's my wife feel about it? She hates him; he destroyed her furniture set, despite the hundreds--literally, hundreds--of dollars we've spent on varying styles of scratching utensils to cater to his needs.

So, I'm home now; the deed is done. No tears from me. Just the satisfaction that must come over a shrewd business man after a decision well-made.

As I was taking my meds, I thought I saw my cat walk under the kitchen table. I looked, no. Our other cat? the pleasing one? He was still fast asleep on the couch. Perhaps dreaming of survival. Of friends abandoned.

I seem to recall...

2009-01-14T19:55:00.002-05:00

When I was quite young, I recall being overwhelmingly impressed that my step-dad could recite all the days of the week--in order!

And, too, I seem to recall inventing the number three. It probably went down like this:

I wanted some cookies, three actually. My mother offered me cookies: "Two cookies? Or four?" "Three," I replied. "Three?" she inquired, seemingly quite confused. Thus, I let her in on the secret: "It's one more than two, one less than four."

She still seemed quite perplexed, so I reached into the package of Oreo's and counted out: "One, two... three!" There you have it. You can thank me later. But, know this: had I been born sooner, perhaps woman would have three legs to caress and three breasts to ogle!

The Chicken Coupe

2008-08-30T12:49:00.002-04:00

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."

Deathwish Dusk

2008-08-23T19:36:00.002-04:00

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

2008-08-23T19:35:00.003-04:00

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.

Bronze

2008-08-21T18:38:00.005-04:00

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

2008-08-21T18:26:00.003-04:00

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.

Atarata

2008-08-14T22:41:00.004-04:00

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

2008-08-14T22:19:00.002-04:00

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?

Go Fly a Kite

2008-08-06T17:09:00.005-04:00

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.

I Am Angry Man

2008-08-03T12:28:00.007-04:00

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.

Rebola

2008-08-02T19:05:00.003-04:00

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

2008-08-02T18:50:00.004-04:00

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.

In Spades

2008-08-01T09:19:00.003-04:00

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

2008-08-01T09:14:00.004-04:00

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

2008-08-01T08:58:00.002-04:00

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

2008-08-01T01:34:00.001-04:00

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.

Train Spotting

2008-07-26T12:42:00.003-04:00

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

2008-07-26T10:39:00.004-04:00

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.

Hitting is NOT Allowed

2008-07-25T18:44:00.005-04:00

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

2008-07-25T18:36:00.003-04:00

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.

Drinking Acid

2008-07-20T23:19:00.007-04:00

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

2008-07-20T09:19:00.005-04:00

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.

The Proposal

2008-07-06T15:27:00.005-04:00

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

2008-07-06T11:25:00.002-04:00

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.

Spit

2008-07-04T14:04:00.006-04:00

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

2008-07-04T13:56:00.002-04:00

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

2008-07-04T13:17:00.005-04:00

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

2008-07-04T12:37:00.002-04:00

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.

Work it into the Mix

2008-06-24T13:48:00.000-04:00

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

2008-06-24T13:47:00.000-04:00

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

2008-06-24T13:36:00.002-04:00

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

2008-06-24T13:36:00.001-04:00

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

2008-06-24T13:34:00.000-04:00

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!; March 5, 2008 9:57 AM

Trip Out

2008-06-24T13:31:00.005-04:00

We just got back from our trip out West. It was awesome. We really miss Arizona and deeply hate ourselves for having moved to New York. But all the reasons we had to move away from AZ are still valid. It's just that all the reasons we had to move to NY seem like thin broth.
My wife climbed my favorite mountain with me out in AZ. We fell in love with bulldogs. Then fell right back out. I came to have a new under- standing and profound appre- ciation for one of my wife's friends, "Porcelain"

I saw my long-lost brother for the first time in over ten years, "Eagle." He was sporting this wicked bite from a desert recluse spider on his finger. He was cool with it though. Taking the meds his doctor prescribed and having my sadistic sister scrub it clean once a day. I am proud that he's my brother. My two nephews seem to be miraculously shaping up quite nicely as well.

In San Diego, CA, we missed out on the seals. Heck, we missed out on the whole ocean experience all together. We were rushed. But the wedding was perfect. It was the second best wedding I've been to. Of course, being married, I have to say that! "Polaris" made an absolutely beautiful bride, like out of a wedding magazine. And the bride's maids were all knockouts. Including, and especially, my wife.

She actually got me to dance to all the slow songs at the reception, and a few fast ones. The bride felt compelled to don Skechers and have us dance the "Thriller".

I hopefully made some new friends there. There was this "you-had-to-be-there" incident we will conspiratorially refer to as the "Love Dove".

And then, back "home". Within minutes of setting foot on native Western soil, I summed up my hatred of the Northeast in one statement: Anything you want to do, you have to drive through SNOW.

Regardless, our cats survived their caretakers (or maybe it's the other way around) and my wife saw to it that we overwhelmingly enjoyed ourselves. Every time we ate out, it was REAL Mexican food. Every drink I was offered, I had two. Plus one I'd never tried before. Every old friend and associate got a hug, even the pretty ones. And I feasted my eyes upon the splendorous beauty that can only be seen in the mountains of the Southwest.

Jeannie said...: I love the west - only visited a couple times but I feel like I belong there. Coming back east, the first thing I notice is how crabby people are.; March 2, 2008 5:54 PM
Anonymous said...: YES. people are crabby.....i had a great time too, pacer!; March 3, 2008 3:15 PM

Kicking the Pennies

2008-06-24T13:25:00.004-04:00

Wow. I've cried tears of joy only twice in my life. Once, when I saved my mom's life, and today. Sure, today's reason may seem shallow, but you would only think that if you didn't have all the facts.

My Step-dad let himself die in October, throwing my mother in California into heart-rending despair. I wanted so bad to be there for her, but I'm on the wrong side of the country. My best friend in AZ died in December. I found out in January, the same day my big-shot Fortune 500 company laid me off after 18 mos.

This stupid company doesn't hire temps for at least two years. If that's not illegal, it should be. Six months as a temp, no problem. Eighteen months is emasculating and demeaning. After we helped them exceed their fiscal year quota, establish half a dozen HUGE name customers, earn their maximum possible bonuses, branch off into their own company, open a larger state-of-the art facility, and have it operational a week ahead of schedule. Then, to repay us, after bragging about their status, they lay off all the temps...

My new job. They allowed me to take a week off to go to San Diego for our close friend's wedding. I'd only been with them 3 weeks. I got back this week. So did the owner. He said they really appreciate me and that I've already proven how good a worker I am. They plan to hire me on within a few weeks, in the meantime, they've demanded that the DIFFERENT temp agency is to give me a 20% raise. TWENTY PERCENT. Damn.

That made me smile. But it's Tuesday. So the boss comes back up to me and says: "That raise, it's effective as of yesterday." Now I was grinning. So what made me cry?

HA HA HA! I got a SECOND phone call from my old "assignment" asking me to return; they're bringing back all their temps. I've never acted on the desire to tell an employer to KISS MY ASS until today. So, life is decent after all.

I lost a friend and gained a brother. Lost an "assignment" and got a "position". Revisited my old home and reaffirmed my convictions--my faith, my family, my future career.

On the way home, traffic wasn't bad--for ONCE. As I was cruising down the "express"way a BIT over the speed limit, I saw a Trooper going the other way and imagined getting pulled over for speeding. I just started laughing. Until I cried.

Aww. I'm such a tender heart... (toothy grin)
<( | )> = <( | )>

Jeannie said...: Congratulations! That's excellent news.; March 4, 2008 7:21 PM

I Hate Rochester

2008-06-24T13:24:00.001-04:00

I hate Rochester. That's not saying much, considering that I hated Lake Havasu too. But I don't remember hating California.

There's this parable I heard, I think from my wife, about this old man at the train station. He greets people as they get off the train. One man gets off the train, old man asks him: "Moving here?" The traveler responds: "Yes. How is this city?" The old man, rather than answering, asks a question in reply: "What was the city like where you moved from?" The traveler responds: "Pretty lousy". To this, the old man answers the travelers previous question: "Yeah, this city's pretty lousy too."
Another train comes in and another traveler steps off. Again, the old man, in greeting the traveler, asks :"Are you moving here?" The travler responds: "Yes. How is this city?" The old man, rather than answering, asks the question in reply: "What was the city like where you moved from?" This traveler responds: "It was pretty nice." The old man assures this traveler: "This city is pretty nice also."

If I have to explain the moral in this, you either need to drink more coffee or, like Sylar, eat more brains.

I don't mind the cold temperatures so much; I prefer them to the incessant triple-digits of Arizona. And they have trees out here, unlike most of Arizona, and you can TOUCH the trees and hug 'em if you're so inclined and NOT get spiked. I'm not just talking about cacti. There are these trees out West called Palo Verdes, they conceal spikes under all the leaves.

When I had first moved out to AZ, I was walking home from a late movie at about one in the morning. I needed to relieve myself and all the businesses were closed. I saw a lone tree on an embankment to the side of the road, and decided to provide it with a rare treat in the desert: water. As I was navigating the embankment, I slipped. Slid into this pretty pale green tree. Having grown up in Cali, I considered trees friendly. Sure, I suppose parts of So-Cal are classifiable as desert. But parts of Arizona are DESERT. So this "tree". I slide into it, figuring I could have stopped the slide, but why? Trees feel relatively friendly compared to sand and rocks. Son-of-a-sea-biscuit! That friggin' hurt, BAD. And so began my incredibly long list of things I hated about Arizona.

Now here I am in New York. People scoff at me when hearing of my decision to move out here. "WHY?" they ALL ask.
My wife's family is from here, she missed them. Of course, now the roles are somewhat reversed: I miss my "family". My mom and my sister. And my friends, damn I miss them. I've been out here nearing two years. I haven't talked to my best friend in California in over a year. My best friend in Arizona died in December. I just found out last week, I hadn't talked to him since September.

My wife, though successful, seems to be jealous of her brother and her relationship with her mom typically is tentative. I and my mom are thick-as-thieves, despite the crap she put us through and I don't ever think I'll be jealous of my sister. Though I think at times my sister may have been jealous of me. I think it's just a stereotypical girl-thing to be that way with moms and siblings.

Back to terrain. Everything in Arizona seemed dangerous. Snakes, scorpions, cacti, heat-stroke--you remember the evil sun in Super Mario Bros. 3? On the original Nintendo in desert world, like level 2 or sumthin'? It was as big as you and chased you around trying to kill you? Yeah--CLEARLY the Asian that created that level wasn't native to any Asian country; THEY WERE BORN AND RAISED IN ARIZONA!!! But, oh, I've never seen stars or sunsets as beautiful as those in that rugged desert. And as much as humans long for beautiful green pastures, nothing surpasses the colorful beauty of the rocks and mountains out there. More colors than a gay clothing-designer could fathom can be seen on one mountain-side in one dusk out in the desert.

New York. Different world. Before coming out here, I assumed that this being the older part of the country meant they'd be more advanced somehow. WRONG! This part of America should just revert back to horse-drawn carriages. They don't know what to do with vehicles. Out West, sure, about 1 in 3 drivers need to be shot. Out here, maybe 1 in 1000 deserve to utter the word "car". They drive 10 miles under the speed limit on a sunny summer day, yet do 70 in sleet, 50 mph winds, and 20 degree freezing cold. Like an SUV has better traction on ice than my Corolla. Every nightly news report: car crash, SUV involved. Hmph! The speed limits are wrong, the street widths are wrong, the street signs are as big as the fingernail on your pinky--if there's a street sign to be seen at all-- and the stop lights are on your side of the intersection so you gotta peer up at them! Oh GOD! I started off swearing profusely, now I just revert to this prehistoric growling and barking-- no words can dispel the primal rage I feel on the roads out here.

Fire Day

2008-06-24T13:22:00.000-04:00

Been itching to blog about last Friday, or in my world, Fire Day.

Flashback a few days. As is the norm these days, my wife and I keep a rather busy schedule which often deters us from cleaning our Crash Pad. Once the bald spots reappeared on my head and in my stomach lining, my trusty wife took action.

So, the kitchen is clean. All the dishes. I missed the bathroom, but I replaced the cat-devastated mini-blinds with some savvy curtains throughout the house while juggling laundry.

Wednesday. My wife notifies the maintenance personnel at our apartment complex that both our sink and toilet are leaking. Something I've been meaning to report for about...oh say5 months now. Go Green, Planet! Or whatever the fad is at the moment...

Mind you, I was a Maintenance Overseer for nearly four years. One thing I know, plumbing is absolutely without argument the easiest task in home/building repair. It's easier than painting. By far. I would have loved to have fixed it myself, but I can't feasibly turn off everyone's water.
Hey, whatever. After all, easier than plumbing, is having someone ELSE fix it. Right?

We get home that night. The sprayer's gone, as is the hookup to the dishwasher. What the crap!?
Nothing I can do about the sprayer. I mend the dishwasher without complaint. I'm too embaraassed of my missing the bathroom cleaning before our visit.

Friday at my job. The 1800 rolls are due/done today. They are being picked up by truck at around 1:30. So, taking this order and all the jokes I've been the butt of quite personally, I work through my break and choose to work through my 12-12:30 lunch to get the order out barely on time. Honestly, I had it wrapped at exactly 1:30, just as the truck honked. As I zipped off the production floor, I yelled over the din: "I'm goin' to lunch!" Magneato is like: "No you're not." Seeing how he's always joking around at my expense, I quickly dispensed with the banter, and WENT TO LUNCH.

I get back from lunch, five minutes early. Magneato is waiting. Risking my wrath and the structural integrity of his skeletal system, he confronts me about my "insubordination." I chose to "work without lunch" and UPS comes at 3:30 so we need to hurry for the end of the day rush. Also, I came in at 6:30am for overtime, like I said I would, instead of 6 or 7am--apparently the only options (and they weren't accepting 7). I can't be making my own schedule. Question: If I HAD taken lunch, wouldn't the 1800 shipment have been delayed? And, two, wouldn't that have cost time from the rest of the orders for UPS? I worked through regular lunch to save the day. Not to starve. I get even MORE pissy when I'm hungry, as if you can imagine that.

Flabbergasted at first, I said nothing. I recall nodding in acquiescence at the end of his soap-boxing. He hasn't been at work since Friday. I'm confident I didn't harm him. I actually remember the incident ( a good sign), I'm not in jail again, and I'm still employed. Besides, he was scheduled for vacation. But the memory is a bit fuzzy. He came close. Chalk it up to learning; I'll never do it again. For Damn sure.

At home, I'm all frown and furrow when the Mrs. gets home. She pries it outta me. Only, this time, rather than pointing the errors in my reasoning and siding with my enemy, she agrees that we should kick his miserable ass! I had to grin. It feels so good to be understood. Of course, we'll do no such thing. It's just that some people eat, some people drink, some people smoke, some people rage, and some people (who have the time and energy, which I didn't--in spades--that night) blog.

Friday night. After 9 pm. My beloved goes to activate the dishwasher. We've been eating out all week, so it's taken the week to fill the thing. She reaches under the sink to get the dishwasher soap and water pours out.

Here's the thing: it was the faucet that had been leaking that precipitated our call. The faucet. Leaking into the basin. If you put the faucet over the drain, you didn't even have to deal with the annoying pinging sound at night.

So, water. Pouring out. All the pots and pans. Tupperware, baking dishes. They're brimming over. ALL of them. Did I lose it? It was Friday night after a helluva long, arduous week. I had TWO shots of tequila on top of exhaustion. I would have laid down in the puddle. Speaking of which, why was it BROWN? My cute, petite little shortcake, on the other hand... Holy Fallout.
Rightly so.

The emergency maintenance man swings by after an urgent call. He comes to the same diagnosis as I did. The pipes weren't soldered right. Now, what I didn't ask is: why in the Hell were the pipes soldered in the first place? He was swapping a faucet!! What an ASS! Worse, he soldered UNDER the shut off valve! Seriously. Was he toking up in our apartment before he began? So there's no way the guy can can fix it until morning and no way we can shut it off until then either. Thankfully, we didn't have to miss class Saturday morning because of it. Apartment maintenance has a key.

Of course, as if it needs saying, I didn't finish my homework.

Now, we have a kitchen riddled with pots, pans and so on. We have difficulty making time for regular dishes with a dishwasher. Hell, I feel that I NEED blogging as therapy, and I gotta piece together my posts over several days. Now, we have every pot and pan dirty.

Oh. And then there's the toilet... Never mind, I can fix it myself.

Urso

2008-06-14T12:47:00.003-04:00

Urso is Luna's husband. He's a big guy. Big enough to be intimidating. But he's got a very steady disposition, almost dry. Whether he's angry or making jokes, his voice and words are measured and equal. You end up feeling quite relaxed in his presence, despite his formidable size.

The Man, In the Van, Down by the River

2008-04-25T22:27:00.003-04:00

The Man, In the Van, Down by the River. That was what Innuendo called me in 11th grade.

I "ran away" from "home" again. Actually, I just walked away. I got off the phone, looked at the bitch, thought better of it, grabbed my infamous blue coat, and walked out.

I camped out in the desert near the house for a bit. One night, on my reconnaissance run, I discovered my mother's car parked out front, the infamous Mustang...oh, the stories I have to tell! I crackered (jimmied is somewhat derogatory against African-Americans. i.e. jimmied, slim-jim, jimmy bar, jimmy rig, etc.) my way into the hatchback and snuck (WTF? it's saying "snuck" isn't a word!) inside. I fell asleep waiting.

My mother played it pretty smooth upon discovering me, keeping 'Risk in the loop but on the down low. We drove deep into the desert night. I didn't need to fill them in. My grandmother had told her story and they'd figured out the gist of the truth from it.

My sister didn't meet her dad until her sweet sixteenth. My grandfather was a stick in the mud toward the cancerous end we were unaware was cancerous. Thus, I was bestowed the honor of giving my sister away at her wedding. Then the urn dropped off the mantle, as I say.

Her father's family demanded that he take on the honor he never earned. Of course, my future brother-in-law being a former gang member didn't have room in his party for me to be a groom's man. I was demoted to usher. Fine, whatever.

So, my grandmother and I get into some tiff. She takes it better than usual. That should have clued me in. See, I had no car or license. My sister was getting married some 200 miles away. My c u next tuesday of a grandmother canceled my suit and left me without a way to get to the wedding.

Guess who took the pleasure of cluing me in. My Aunt. "Murky". So, I got off the phone, looked at the grandparents who now ate dinner without me at the table, and walked out without a word.

My mom was living in a tent hidden in the dead forest. She happened to need a part for the car, so we stopped by her old friends home/junkyard. She put me up there for the night. No offense to the guy, but his place was a junkyard inside and out. Cockroaches had to get around on dune buggies. Visitors were perpetual. I wonder why... I crashed on the crusty couch for the night. Better than sand but more bugs to bite.

The next day, I explored his property. Vast. Think of the guy as an obese Mufasa. At the outer edges of his property, I could just make out the image of a literal oasis. Way the hell out passed way the frig out in the desert on his property in B.F.E. were some trees tapping into an aquifer. Just over the hill from the trees was an old abandoned delivery van. My home for the next seven weeks. My mom brought me dehydrated supplies. The change we could all muster from pilfering and cans I used to buy non-perishables when I'd swing by school.

School meant either bathing with bottled water in a pot, or a midnight hike to the house to hose off. An unreliable wind-up alarm clock was replaced with a wrist-watch missing its straps. Almost 45 minutes walking to the bus stop by 6 am to ride another 45 minutes to my High School who thought it clever to start school at 6:58 am. The homework I'd collect I had to do before sundown.

Of course I stopped. Took a hiatus from school about 3 weeks into my latest adventure. I had this little single AAA battery powered radio I'd listen to for company. I heard Rammstein's "Du Hast" for the first time on those headphones. Then the battery died. After a while, I actually forgot my own name. I don't know; three, four weeks after my last visit to school, no one to talk to all that time. Stopped thinking in words, stopped using 'em. Huh! Funny...

I boarded up the vans windows, carved holes into the cupboard walls with Stinger to erect a clothes-hanger pole, pried out a few boards to hide my supplies from the guy's nosy brats, and rolled an oil drum up to the entrance for before-bedtime heat.

My understanding friend, upon learning of my latest adventure, referred not to his beloved scripture. But, rather, to Saturday Night Live. Chris Farley. The man, in the van, down by the river. Gotta love the guy.

Did it get better from there? Spurred on by the chill of winter, my mom scrounged up the condemned apartment that saw the Dark Time. Where Cruizer and I had our misunderstanding.

PENDING List

2008-04-25T22:13:00.003-04:00

I promise to get back to these stories and explain A.S.A.P. Honest.

infamous blue coat
the infamous Mustang
Brother-in-law through sister
"Camp"
Jerry's kids

Murky

2008-04-25T22:09:00.001-04:00

Aunt Mercy had eyes the green of used, dirty money. Her hair shone like polished gold. She had a sly smile. Her size belied her movement, which flickered like the candles she burned throughout her home. When she hugged you - or made contact at all - it was always distracted. Not like it was forced, but like it was restrained.

She gave me my first Snickers bar; salty-sweet, delicious. I also tried potato-salad for the first time outside her home - gritty, awful. Her home. She'd grow frantic if you disturbed the tassels on her throw rugs. Everything smelled of incense, scented-candles, disinfectant. She smelled of beer, and of the hunt. Despite her alcohol-slurred speech she spoke in soothing tones - the better to con people with, her means of living. I don't mind potato salad these days. I don't really care for Snickers, though.

Grandpa's body finally caught up with his spirit and died. Aunt Mercy was there when it happened; she was the only one in the room. She said his suffering had finally come to an end. He had known about the cancer for three weeks. Everyone understood. She seized all the property. Grandma had a stroke and fell into Mercy's custody.

Perhaps she finally felt empowered, controlling the fate of the woman who controlled her. If not, then maybe when she took her mother's life too. I wonder sometimes, if she ever felt love, or if she ever will. I wonder, too, if she'll ever be strong enough to show love. I intend never to find out; I know enough about the darkness to identify those consumed by it.

Luna

2008-04-25T10:36:00.004-04:00

Luna is a girl. A friend of my wife's. This girl is a bad ass. But she doesn't act like it. She's always got a sunny disposition. Nothing rocks her steadiness. And she's tougher than most men I know. Might be tougher than me! She dislocated her shoulder years ago. It was WAY worse than either of mine.

She got a shoulder surgery recently. All her ligaments had to be re-attached. Every last one. The surgeon was shocked. He thought it was going to be in and out. He'd never seen so much damage. Barely phased her. Back to work, lugging around her foster kids, pushing her uppity monstrosity of a puppy down to teach it not to jump on guests, moving furniture alone. Quite likely as tough as me, only she's nice. Got me beat, in spades.

She's cute, no doubt, but something about her transcends gender. Honest to God, most times I forget she's a she, and carry on just like she's one of the guys. She's the first girl I've ever known who that ability came naturally to. Some girls hang with the guys to get guys. Some girls are tom-boys 'cause they've got "something to prove".

Luna has nothing to prove. She deserves the mantle of a Cer.

Nina

2008-04-19T03:59:00.001-04:00

Nina was bought to replace my "brother" and boy's best-friend, Ranger. Nina was half Lab, a quarter Husky, and a quarter German Shepherd.

Despite what you'd imagine, she was as white as the driven snow. She had a brown nose and brown lips, the bottom of which pouted pout, just like my sister's bottom lip. And just like my sister, she had brown eyes.

I suppose I needn't tell you that the dog who was to replace my dog became my sister's dog. She was my sister's dog, and no one else's. She would sometime jump in the air--straight up--to catch low flying birds which she would deposit at my sisters feet. If my sister and I were playing to rough, I could expect to get attacked. The same went for anyone who upset my sister in any way. My sister reciprocated, for the most part: she wouldn't let our grandparents hit Nina. She helped Nina birth her nine puppies. She concealed Nina from my discipline.

Nina was something else; she would "kickbox" when we'd play. She'd use all four paws, plus her teeth and tail to mount elaborate attacks. As if that weren't taxing enough on her intelligence, she learned how to open ALL types of doors and to climb all types of fences.

Her intelligence prevented us from keeping her locked within our property's borders. It also cost her her life.

Aquila

2008-04-12T20:06:00.002-04:00

My sister. Between us and our mother, we are the last of the Mohicans. We are the only people who understand each other, who we can communicate with without words and with words be unfettered.

We are of different fathers, but make no mistake: there's nothing half about our bond. We were all each other had growing up.

She was given up for adoption to our grandparents when she was just two. I never gave in--I refused to let them adopt me. I often wonder if she would be less like my mother and like her more if she had been dragged around by mom like I had. She still holds a grudge: she believes mom loved me more, hence I wasn't left behind.

She's a professional chef in Arizona, living with her two sons beneath themselves in her ex-husband's parents' house. Grrrr.

Porcelain

2008-04-12T19:53:00.006-04:00

Porcelain. Fragile looking, but deceptively strong.

She came down to Arizona from Washington. At first, we were all too intimidated by her beauty to approach her. In fact, if her mother-in-law hadn't told my girlfriend at the time that their friendship was inevitable, Glass would never have talked to her. But, intrigued by such a challenge in that statement, she spoke to Porcelain. They've been close friends ever since.

She's petite in size, blond-haired and blue-eyed, and has the features of a "Lord of the Rings" elf.

Up until our visit in Feb '08, I only liked her because she was my wife's friend. Our stay as guests in her and her husband's home enlightened me. It's funny how sometimes when you don't get along with someone, it's because you have a lot in common.

Pine and CedarElm

2008-04-12T19:38:00.004-04:00

Pine is my other Real Life Role Model. He is serene, insightful, intuitive, calming, informative, spiritual. He's married to an overwhelmingly gorgeous and loving wife I have named CedarElm, or Celm for short.

Why he's a role model: He's has a long-lasting successful marriage. He was a missionary in Tonga for several years. He is a good husband, father, and friend. He raised three gentlemen (the youngest I call Gecko) and an exceptional lady.

He lives in a beautiful, yet modest home and owns a coffee franchise that has a one-up on Starbucks: drive-thru!

He and his wife are so warm and large in heart, most people (my wife included) refer to them as "Mom and Pop."

Mach

2008-04-12T14:46:00.004-04:00

My horror of a grandmother.

She raised my aunt to be a homicidal psychotic and my mom to be a "daddy-issues" teen runaway. Then she adopted my mom's daughter, my sister "Aquila". Aquila ended up almost as screwed up as my mom.

My mom raised me on the streets and in the desert of Southern California and taught me love and fear of God. My grandmother taught me criticism, manipulation, that the anticipation of pain is usually worse than pain itself, make the pain worth the anticipation, and to hate and fear myself with my newly acquired skills.

I call her Mach because she was married to my grandfather, and they traveled the world in the Air Force. She never passed on a chance to mock and belittle someone, and her back-hand was faster than the viper she stole her eyes from.

Aflack

2008-04-12T14:23:00.004-04:00

After Church came Aflack. His name was Donald, like the famous duck with the infamous temper. Not that Aflack had a terrible temper. I only mention his real name so you don't think I'm THAT much of a jerk when I tell his story.

I often refer to him as my step-dad. This is because he was the only man my mother had that was a provider. He had a house and several tough Dodge cars. A '69 Charger (think Dukes of Hazard) and a '70 Challenger. He was a grease-monkey. He LOVED working on his babies. Fact is, I don't remember him ever actually driving the Challenger. However, I did manage to convince him to install the CB antenna in the trunk, like Dukes of Hazard. He wouldn't give up the metal-flake green paint for orange though!

He over corrected on a hill going to work in a Toyota Cellica. The car launched off the hill. He, not wearing a seatbelt, launched through the windshield. His head landed on a rock over 100 feet from the car. The doctors removed an enormous chunk of his right frontal lobe.

By the time he woke from his 3 year coma, my mother had moved on. And moved, and moved, and moved.

Byrd

2008-04-12T13:58:00.003-04:00

My mother's boyfriend after I moved to Arizona and beyond.

He was highly intelligent. Part of two different clubs for vain people with excessively high IQs. You know the two. He was a formidable swordsman too. Sounds like my mom finally picked a winner, no?

He'd been living with his mom for the last 25 years. Doing NOTHING for a living. You see, when he was fresh out of high school, with all the prestigious colleges jocking for him, he chose a girl instead. Shortly after their joyful marriage, she was murdered. He fell into a depression he never recovered from.

Decades later, my mom took him on as her latest fixer-upper. At the time, he was hooked on morphine. She nursed him off that, only to have him fall into alcoholism. The alcohol raced through his already ravaged body, sending him to the hospital with liver damage. Upon returning to his mother's house, he cashed in the alcohol for pills.

One night, Asterisk, feeling lonesome and sorry for himself, paid Byrd and my mother a visit. Byrd punched Risk (terrible idea) and Risk jumped in his truck and used it as a weapon.

Back from the hospital, Byrd added pain-killers back to his repertoire of addictions. He overdosed, leaving my mom to cart him back to the hospital for the umpteenth time. This time, doctors were more concerned than my mother. And Byrd's mother? She said: "I don't care if he dies."

I can understand her disappointment, but if you don't have the parenting skills to get the kids out and keep them out, even under his special circumstances, it's YOUR damn fault.

He took the message to his already fractured heart. He told my mom: "Sorry I put you through this, that I'm leaving you like this," before slipping into a three day coma and, ultimately, death.

That was October of '07. Right when I was reeling from having failed my midterms. The fact that I was 3,000 miles away from helping my heart-stricken mother started my own slide into the deepest depression I've personally ever experienced. Life got worse from there...

Asterisk (Risk)

2008-04-12T13:47:00.007-04:00

I played this game once where there was this weapon that they called the asterisk. It was a Shuriken, a throwing star, that would blast apart into two stars at the push of an RC button. If you so chose, you could press The Button again, detonating the stars after they were embedded in your obstacles or enemies!

My favorite of all my mother's boyfriend's. Schizophrenic, unmannered, foul-tempered, prone to paranoia, Kenny was the best damn driver this side of the dirt. Despite his personality flaws, there were times he'd talk civilly to you. During those times, he'd somehow give a piece of advice you've never heard before or since that proves precious and true. His hard-earned life advice was more precious and rare than platinum-encrusted meteorites.

Most important of all, even though he was a black belt (like my father) and former varsity wrestler who, when I knew him, weighed around 300 lbs and was well over 6' tall, NEVER hit my mother. We went many rounds. He actually pinned me in such a way to where I could literally kiss my own ass after I destroyed his cigarettes...

His self-loathing and paranoia did him in with regards to their relationship. He's incarcerated somewhere now after running down Byrd with a truck.

Baguira and Raksha

2008-04-12T13:31:00.005-04:00

My spiritual "uncle and aunt". After Torch and Lighthouse moved away, I continued my studies under their tutelage.

Quite a fascinating couple. He's African-American. Retired from Chrysler as a welder. Prior to that he worked in a hospital as a janitor--while he was illiterate! He learned to read from the Jehovah's Witnesses whom he studied the Bible with.

Raksha is a natural born leader-of-the-pack. The "black sheep" in her Italian family with it's former ties to the mafia. She did quite a few stints in the can due to her violent temper before succumbing to the advice to follow Christ's example.

They were an inter-racial couple back in the '60s. As if that wasn't hectic enough, her family threatened him, despite her violence against him--she even stabbed him!

They overcame all that to be one of the most devoted couples you could ever find.

Towels

2008-04-12T07:44:00.007-04:00

I always find myself folding towels a certain way on laundry day: my grandmother's way. Fold the towel width-wise twice, then tri-fold to finish. I've never known anyone else to fold towels this way.

And it never fails. I always find myself folding them that way. But I hate her. I hate her memory. I long for when I can forget her. Either by joining her in Death, or by being freed by the loving-kindness of God.

Until then, I fold every towel twice. Once her way, then anyway but hers.

My Way

2008-03-27T17:15:00.008-04:00

I wasn't a trouble maker when I was young. I didn't go looking for it. It just always found me. I suppose it had to do with location and association. I didn't have friends. I didn't drink to get drunk, I didn't get into drugs, I didn't sleep around, I wasn't in any gang. I was an Outcast. I truly believe it's because of a combination of my childhood experiences and the resulting adult insight into life. This confused my fellow youngsters.

Having no friends in such rough places didn't do me any favors. At first, I was prey. A punching bag. I adapt quickly when I want to, though. Soon, it was known that I was no prey. Where it wasn't known, it was conveyed to the general prey at large, in my eyes and in my step. Fellow predatory people could sense that I felt I had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

This reputation did me no favors either. It got me profiled. By the Authorities. By good, kind people I always dreamed of becoming. By girls. Sure, they like their "bad boys". But they don't like them as vicious as I was thought to be.

I was an A-B student. When I was IN school. I got along great with my teachers, as long as
they wanted to teach. Still, as an outcast, the Authorities perceived me as the threat that my peers perceived me as. Damn them.

As you can imagine, my reputation eventually brought trouble my way.

After I'd been egested, I was compelled to move to Arizona. My sister had moved there not long after she graduated. To insure that she wouldn't need to come back, she got married. To a former gang member.

In California, fresh out of Camp, as I call it, and right after graduation (for my peers), I got a tip through the grapevine that there was a hit out on my sister. Allegedly she'd been cheating on her husband. While he was willing to slink off and nurse his wounded heart, his remaining "brothers" were stirred to action.

Feeling rather put out by California, I decided to go to Arizona and clean up. After arriving, I tidied up in short order. Then I learned that my sister had, indeed, been slutting around. I know, that sounds mean, but seriously. I moved away from my territory into her husband's turf, defended her honor, chased off her would-be assailants and essentially transferred the "honor-bounty " from her head to mine. I was pissed. Having talked to her Sauncho, I realized he was little more than a witless victim: a pretty girl whining about how she's mistreated, hanging about, drinking, flirting. Few men still exist who wouldn't accept such an invitation.

There I was. Nowhere. I decided to commence becoming a BETTER person. After an exhaustive look at religions, I felt even more frustrated. More disgusted with people. Having left no other stone unturned, I agreed to study with Jehovah's Witnesses. Ultimately, I became a volunteer minister myself.

Typically, something such as this is a source of pride--and it was. But not so much anymore. See, I screwed up. I always assumed that my vice was violence. Then my future wife came along. I fell for her. Hook, line and sinker. That's fine and dandy. Where I went wrong is that I was so insecure and SHE was so insecure that I devoted literally all my time and effort into her. I wanted to be absolutely sure that she fell in love with me and that she had no doubts that I loved her. I left nothing to chance. I left nothing to Jesus Christ, the Savior. I left nothing to Jehovah God.

After sinking all four tires deep in the mud, I realized what I'd done. I had essentially turned my back on those who had set me free. Worse, I held my folly against my wife. I tried not to let it show. But she's quite sensitive. She felt the change. We rapidly declined. We completely stopped preaching. We stopped going to meetings. We stopped associating with our friends altogether.

Not that I could ever say a thing bad about my friend SandSurfer, but he was not a good role-model for me, an aspiring minister with a dark past. My dark side came back in spades.

What'd we do to fix it? We moved 3,000 miles away. Since then, I've held several jobs. Two of significance. I've told NOBODY of my time as a minister. The happiest, proudest time of my life.

I have, unfortunately, told many of my violent youth. I have to keep them at bay somehow. Apparently people think I'm a good person, want to get to know me. No.

I'd never felt truly week before. Honestly defeated.

Our trip out West a few weeks ago revitalized my strength. I floundered a bit, but last week, I started attending meetings again. I can't do too much just yet, seeing as how I got into a wee bit of trouble out West. Once I can show that I'm no threat to the flock though, I'll be up and running again.

Nonetheless, I'm scared. I swear more than anybody I've ever known or heard of. My sense of humor is as warped and morbid as you'd expect from my past and I brandish it like my great-grandfather's sword or somethin'. My wife's happy for me, but she's still not going to meetings. This frustrates me. And I wish I knew how to solve things without aggression, but the best I can usually do is growl at her.

That's not fair. She didn't exactly force my hand. I could have tried having faith. But I still keep kicking myself over it. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. I wonder sometimes if I was wrong to marry her. If I was wrong to get married. Sometimes I feel like I was ruined before I ever had the chance. That my poor wife is stuck with someone who is unfamiliar with love. I don't know how to talk nice. I think calling someone a punk, brat--whatever, is affectionate. A love tap on the shoulder is like a hug to ME.

I actually have moments where I crave a beating. When I miss the pain. I have moments where I fear my wife. I think she's out to get me. Do me harm. When she loses her cool, I expect a fist-fight. My body tenses. I find my jaw and fists clenched. It's like I never left the streets. What the hell am I?

I don't hit her, no. But who says you have to? All it takes is coldness, mean words--or no words at all. And that's where I often fail. Afraid of sounding hateful, like I am, I remain silent. How can I help anyone when I feel like I hate everyone? I have yet to know somebody who I haven't envisioned pulverized by me. It's all I seem to KNOW. All I want is to break the cycle, start my own legacy. But it's like all I NEED is to hurt.

And so, knowing that I'm like this, I'll let people take advantage of me. I'll play all tough until it gets down to it, then I'll back down. I don't WANT to hurt people anymore. But I am SO good at it. It comes so naturally.

You know, I actually forget to breathe sometimes. But I've NEVER ONCE felt like I've forgotten how to break bones, shatter skin. As I said, I'll avoid most fights, even worthy ones, because I'm afraid of myself. Afraid enough for the both of us. Me and my adversary. But when I DO get my blood up, I don't know what to say. My wife can get anyone to understand her displeasure and seek to make amends. Me, I just end up choking down a snarl, grasping after my profanities with useless hands that won't grab because they're clenched into fists.

And my wife, she thinks I can't fix any of my problems. That I NEVER stand up for myself or what I want. Basically, I feel that she thinks I'm weak. I've managed to stand up for myself without physically harming someone before. I'm not quite sure that I wasn't abusive, but I've pulled it off plenty of times. Before her. Now, I just let her handle it. She's good at it. More, she won't tarnish our marriage with a visit to prison.

It wasn't like that when I was a Witness. I was still too intense for some of the brothers. Most of the sisters. But I was happy. I felt calm, collected. Secure. Sane. Like I was finally doing some good. Like I had purpose. That perhaps I could forgive myself for not being vicious enough soon enough to protect my mom.

I hope I get that back soon. I miss it. I NEED it. Otherwise, why didn't I join the Army?

McCoy

2008-03-21T21:55:00.003-04:00

McCoy. The real deal. As genuinely good a guy as you'll ever meet. Smart, humble, soft-spoken, masculine yet compassionate. Infectious laughter that is frequent. A good listener. A true friend and a friend to count among your blessings.

Hank McCoy in the X-Men is known as Beast. If you know his character, you have yet more insight into my friend. Incidentally, he resembles Beast.

Polaris

2008-03-21T21:29:00.005-04:00

Polaris. Glass and I have this mutual friend since the beginning. She is the daughter of Pine and CedarElm, sister to Gecko.

She is an attractive young lady, with an even more attractive personality. Seemingly an extrovert, yet enigmatic, with a quirky sense of humor. Never fails to brighten the moment. I had a crush on her before she took off to New York to court her then fiance. As with all my crushes, I knew it was nothing real, just a self-prescribed infatuation to keep my mind off my loneliness and fear of possessing an unloving heart. Even when I heard she was engaged, I maintained the crush. I was finally at an age of independence; I figured I'd crush on her until I found my true love.

Like sailors using the star Polaris. They set their sights on a star, never hoping to reach some beautiful yet alien galaxy. Rather, they follow it to a safe, fruitful harbor.

Polaris's engagement fell through. She returned to her recently purchased home, not with a husband, but with a roommate!

I'm sure you can figure out the rest...

By way of mentioning. Before Glass and I started dating, we were talking about attraction. I said on the phone: "You know who has the most beautiful eyes--real or imagined?" Glass swooned, ready to take her sappy compliment: "Who?"

"[Polaris]," I stated. Fool.

My wife takes great pleasure in recounting this tale to all her friends-of-the-female-persuasion, most recently out in San Diego, when we were visiting for Polaris's wedding. Different guy. I'm glad they all have quirky senses of humor...

Glass

2008-03-21T21:22:00.004-04:00

Glass. My new name for my wife. Formerly Freeness.

Sharp, fragile, useful, pretty. In the brightness you can see through it, see in. But that doesn't mean that you can get inside. When dark, it's like a mirror, reflecting a darker version of yourself.

There's a glass platform over a section of the Grand Canyon. Imagine walking out on it. Exhilarating. Beautiful. Empowering. Like walking on air.

Cracked.Broken. Shattered. Regardless of the degree of damage, walking on broken glass is painful.

Your Momma Wears Combat Boots!

2008-03-21T19:49:00.003-04:00

I have this memory of my mom and me. I was quite young. Pre-kindergarten, I'm sure. She had recently broken up with her boyfriend Church again.

We had been living in his apartment. It was in a two story complex, I think. I know his level had a 6 foot wooden fence around a very small sitting space outside the slider door.

It had rained the night before. Everything was wet and sloppy, but the sun was shining. My mother had snuck into the "back yard" to collect the belongings she either threw out there or felt were entitled to her. She couldn't get into the apartment itself. Church must have locked it when he went to work. She didn't seem too concerned. We were picking through the stuff she had crammed into garbage bags. My eye caught a soggy, rolled back book of matches. I rubbed off the ruined chalky white heads before my mother confiscated them.

Suddenly a figure materialized on the other side of the glass. The door didn't go flying open, though. Rather, Church slid it purposefully, with a careful malice, standing with chest puffed out. Head down with a confident predator's grin. Ina flash he grabbed my mother's hair, rushed his face toward hers and growled some threat through his teeth as the spittle flew from his lips.

My mother had a look on her face. Same plane, opposite end of the spectrum. While his rage was hot and uncontrolled, my stereotypically dumb-blond mom had a steady, determined look in her currently abysmal eyes. A cold, calm rage.

She rammed her knee into his thigh, ripped her head away from his grip leaving behind a thick handful of hair, reached off to the side of the slider door and grabbed a flathead shovel that I hadn't noticed propped there. Without a verbal threat, just a quick menacing glare, she swung back and let loose.

KLANG!

Like steal hitting rock. She connected with the side of his head with the breadth of the shovel. Church went reeling into the slider door, bouncing off and landing ass and elbows into a puddle. My mom threw one of the bags over her shoulder, looked at me and handed me the shovel. Shovel firmly gripped in my one hand, she took the other. We strolled away, the shovel clattering as I dragged it behind like expired prey.

Puma

2008-03-21T15:25:00.004-04:00

Puma. My mother now. She's finally simmering down. By OUR family's standards. She hasn't had a man in her life in nearly 6 mos. Mostly I'm just glad that she seems to be clean. No drugs in a couple years I think. And she's studying the Bible. Drawing wisdom and strength from it. At the moment, I think she's spiritually stronger than I. And I got her studying! Now she spurs me on, reminding me that dark, cynical and cantankerous is not who I really want to be.

Church

2008-03-21T15:21:00.003-04:00

After my father, he was the first significant boyfriend in my mother's life. He kept a decent apartment. Had a huge collection of mirrors stacked by his entertainment center. He wouldn't move them despite how often we cut our toes on them. They were for the cocaine.

He had a childish temper. Given to regular tantrums. He liked to punch things. Walls, windshields, my mom.

Clay

2008-03-15T20:57:00.002-04:00

My grandfather. He won the war but lost the battle. From a little town in Tennessee, he lied about his age to get into the Army back when WWII broke out. Got into the Army Air Corps before it became the Air Force.

He fought in World War II, the Korean War, and Vietnam. Obviously he had some great stories. He unfortunately spoke in a monotone. He struck me as a solid individual, it's just that he never stood up to my grandmother. Rather, he would commence beating us when she'd get worn out.

Clay. It can be artistic, useful, sturdy. It can also be molded.

DewClaw

2008-03-15T20:46:00.004-04:00

My father. He shaped up before I could effect my vengeance. He's 5'2" and looks like a cross between Papa Smurf, Robin Williams and Kurt Russell. people always mistaken him for Kurt Russell.

In his youth, he was a mean S.O.B, picking fights with anybody who didn't flee in his wake. Became a black belt several times over, then married my mom as a "sparring partner."
She divorced him. I think it had something to do with being thrown in a dumpster.

He's quite a mellow guy now. Still strong as an ox. I want to get to know him and his side of the family, but then I don't. I waited impatiently for my known family members to scratch out.

DewClaw. An unnecessary toe on a paw. Some are painful and need to be cut off. Some are functional and serve a purpose.

Things I've Been Hit With

2008-03-15T20:26:00.003-04:00

An epiphany!
A car
A truck
Aluminum baseball bat
Wooden baseball bat (there's a DISTINCT difference)
Pepper spray
Gun
Knife
Lead pipe
2x4
Rock
refrigerator
clothes dryer
door
plate
mirror
drinking glass
glass
belt
boot
foot
fist
diamond studded ring
hand
knee
elbow
head
bottle - I wonder if it would have hurt less if it had broken
nails from a air-powered nail gun
teeth
Friggin' more teeth
chair
desk
couch
book
bola - it HAD to be my own...
tree limb
staff
nunchaku - flippin' ninja wannabes

It's been a while.

List of Injuries

2008-03-15T20:06:00.006-04:00

Trying to list from head to toe:

Dog attack - small scars, thank you plastic surgeon
Dog attack - scar across eyelid - damn, that was another close one
Dog attack - chipped tooth, scar in lip - what's with the face, damn it?
Molar torn in half - Now&Later x filling = PAIN
Torn acromio-clavicular ligament - hit by a car
Dislocated shoulder (the OTHER one) I was a stupid kid, at times
Hyper-extended elbow - it came with the dislocated shoulder...
Crushed ulnar nerve - sparring, I missed - Look ma! Fire doesn't hurt me! What's smells tangy?
Pinched nerve - made worse by ACL issue - I think I did this jumping from a building trying to escape some rowdy enemies.
Hip displaced - hit by truck - it's not that bad, really
Shifty knee - running from some other nut job - I returned the favor
A BROKEN BONE!!! My little toe! - Rock climbing. Didn't know about the rock buried in sand when I leaped of a small cliff.
Every ligament in my heel EXCEPT the Achilles (which is a tendon anyway). Rock climbing in wrong shoes.

I know there's more. Those are just off the top of my head. I'm always amazed by how few injuries I picked up on the streets.

SandSurfer

2008-03-15T00:23:00.005-04:00

My good friend. He was one of a kind, and he knew it. A Government Assassin of the highest order. He was an Army Ranger that served two tours in Vietnam with the 101st Airborne before going on to compete in and win the Best of the Best. Damn right.

He could chill your blood just looking at you. But he loved his wife and kids unconditionally. A hard worker who held to his moral code with an Iron Hand until the end.

I had the privilege of working with him at the last job I held in Arizona. He was, as I told him on our second day as partners in the truck: "The only person at the this place I haven't wanted to pick up and throw out the window." He laughed: "You got some balls. Yeah. I can work with you." Eight hours a day, five days a week, three states out of fifty. We shared a lot of tough stories with each other. He was the first, and likely the last, who could understand me.

I like to imagine that if I had gone down "that route", I'd be comparable to him when I was 60. One of my two REAL-LIFE role models. They don't make men like him anymore.

You'll never be forgotten my friend, not by me (LM: 1948-2007.)

Tecomde

2008-03-15T00:21:00.002-04:00

My mother. Before. Back when she was into drugs and such. This name was in reference to her excessively destructive ways.

Torch and Lighthouse

2008-03-14T06:45:00.004-04:00

My spiritual parents. I studied the Bible with them, ate them out of house and home, then they moved away. I remember that I started studying with them on January 8, 2002. Three studies later, on Jan. 22, I had more answers to both life and the Scriptures than I had gathered in my quarter-century of searching.

Everyone thought I'd grow to be something like Torch's protege, proving to be a pillar. That the torch would be passed to me. Oops. He did prove to help light my way. His wife, Lighthouse also proved to be a beacon that led me safely out of the storm-tossed sea.

Window (Innuendo)

2008-03-13T17:45:00.005-04:00

My closest friend during my Dark Years. America's most eligible bachelor. Tall, lean, super-intelligent. Good sense of humor, morals, and purpose. Arguably a man's man, quite possibly a lady's man, without a doubt a Jehovah's Witnesses' Jehovah's Witness. In middle school he was actually shorter than me and annoying. I tended to try to bully him. I hated him at first. Now I love the guy's whole family. I met his dad for the first time while I was trying to shove 'Window into a puddle of mud outside our GATE class (Gifted and Talented Education). Came to respect him as an artist, a scientist, a fellow goof-ball. After my Dark Years (Darkest, I should say), when I was looking for answers from God, I reflected upon the strength and peace that Innuendo possessed and instilled in others. His example inspired me to study with the Witnesses. After trying in vain to disprove their teachings, I ended up proving that I was meant to be one of them. I once said that I was always looking for a way out, a door that was unlocked and would lead someplace safe. I found my way out not through a door, but a Window.

Tuesday, January 27, 1998

2008-03-10T22:00:00.003-04:00

This is an old journal entry I found:

I saw a picture of a mission in Mexico in my Spanish class today. The frame was crooked, but the picture was straight. It reminded me of my life (or life in general); sometimes you have to move the frame to straighten out the picture, even if it means making the frame crooked.

Cruizer

2008-03-10T20:23:00.011-04:00

I've had far too many encounters of the wrong kind with dogs in my life. Both before and after the incident I'll be discussing briefly.

Cruizer was a white pit-bull my mother found limping down her street, thus the name. His previous owner had obviously mistreated him. He was quite hand-shy and distrusted other animals. Despite this, against common sense, she and her boyfriend took him in. My mother is forever in that "can we keep 'im" stage, and believed that she could change Cruizer.

He was an exceptionally strong dog. He had to be kept in the garage because of my mother's cats. However, her boyfriend Asterisk was usually working in the garage. Because of this, they tried tying Cruizer up with a nylon rope. he broke it. So they tried doubling the rope. It worked for awhile. Until he saw someone walking their dog. Then, he just bit through it. Not chewed; just one bite. He didn't attack though. He just intimidated the heck out of them. After that, they chained him to one of the studs in the garage. I guess he got excited, he pulled the whole dang 2x4 out of the frame.

A few months after finding Cruizer, Tecomde and Asterisk had to move. While they were searching for a new home, they left Cruizer with my grandparents and me. Although I'd had many bad experiences with dogs, I liked him. He reminded me of my first dog, Ranger. I liked to talk to him, walk with him (he was burly and intimidating), and sit in his shed with him when it rained. He hated thunder. Once again, though, his territory was restricted. He had to be kept out in the chain-link kennel. We already had dogs. He grew to be even more muscular sprinting up and down the fence, barking with them.

When Tecomde and Asterisk found a place to move into, Cruizer and I moved with them. It was an apartment complex, so he was kept inside. We didn't want him frightening the parents of all the kids who were running around. There were no yards and we weren't even supposed to have animals, but the land-lady was sympathetic. He didn't like being inside much. He gave us heck always sneaking and darting out the door. We walked him often and kept a large tow chain on him to "slow him down" when, and if, he'd dash out. It didn't really work though. If anything, it made him that much stronger and more agile. i still remember the sound of that chain dragging on the kitchen tile. It brings mixed emotions. Feelings of sadness. And terror.

The setting we were at later became what I refer to as the Dark Time. The apartment complex was not legally owned and operated. But cops NEVER came into this town without packing heavy--numbers and weapons. Having been tormented by The Darkness, I had recently started a campaign against it, using, of all things, The Dark Arts. I intended to use any powers I gained for good, to combat Evil. How...stupid. One too many episodes of "Buffy" you think? As a warlock's apprentice, I was studying a certain language I will never name. Not mine, Sezjeghn Koasz, but a dark one. Allegedly you could command animals with it.

As if a town with drug-runners needed sorcerers or a town with sorcerers needed drug-runners. My "instructor" and I had nothing to do with drugs. Or at least I didn't. We were arguably more foolish. Nonetheless, I swear that drugs and demons go hand-in-hand. Several months after my arrival and new studies began, people in town started going insane, then dying. More than a dozen people if I recall. Incidentally, the dark language was being found throughout the town. Most people mistook it for graffiti. I know I wasn't doing it. But, indirectly, try to imagine what was transpiring at home. All your cliche ghost-story occurrences. Levitating objects, doors opening and slamming shut on their own. Hot spots followed by freezing cold air. Our names, whispered when we were seemingly alone. Nightmares. The kind everyone wakes from bolt-upright, sweaty and screaming. Only to try to pacify ourselves wide-eyed in the fetal position

One day, while Asterisk was playing with Cruizer near the "animated" bedroom door, he attacked. 'Risk managed to hold him back and not get hurt. It was brief, but it shook us up. Tecomde wanted to get rid of him immediately. Asterisk and I refused. 'Risk played it down. I said I'd hang around Cruizer, see if he continued to act funny. Talk to him, pet him. Try to soothe him. I tried. But finding no success, I decided to try the Other language. He gave me the funniest look. So human, yet so unworldly.

I was drawing my hand for art class later that night. 'Risk was out looking for extra hands to help him work on the Mustang. My mom was cleaning up their room. The way the apartment was set up, I was lying beside their bedroom door, facing the front door, and with the kitchen behind me.

He had continued to act odd that day, but I told no one. While I was lying on the floor, drawing, I felt a funny feeling. That feeling you get when somebody's staring at you. I looked up. Cruizer was standing in the way of the front door. All his muscles were bulging. His head was down, and because of this, his chain had pushed the flesh up around his head, framing it I suppose. His eyes chilled my soul, I kid you not. They were black, all black - no white. His eyes were lifeless: there were no flecks of light caught in them. Just black. More like holes than eyes. I remember saying: "Why are you looking at me like that Cruizer? You're scaring me. What's the matter boy?" In response, he lifted his head and walked passed me into the kitchen, dragging his chain on the tile. I heard him sit down. Well, at least he wasn't staring at me. Or was he? Even worse--in my mind-- he was now behind me. I rolled over to look at him. He was indeed sitting and his eyes had caught some light, but I was still frightened; now he was twitching. His whole body was shaking, and he was popping his head back and forth. It seemed like he was trying to avoid looking at something, but it demanded his attention. Indecision--and fear, he was surely more frightened than I was. "Come here, boy," I said, "what's wrong?" I petted him and scratched him for a moment, talked to him, tried to calm him. But he was still twitching. At last, he glanced at me sadly, turned his head away, and returned in a flash of teeth. I'm thankful he was so close because his teeth bounced off my face. In reflex, I grabbed his jaws and pulled. I held his jaws open as he whipped and snarled.
Tecomde stormed out of her room, and in doing so, slammed the door into Cruizer and me. We remained "locked in combat". The only thing that physically hurt was the sting of the blood pouring into my eye, turning half my vision a syrupy red. I don't remember too much from there. Tecomde was screaming: "Let him go! Let him go!" I'm still not sure who she was screaming at. Later, she told me that I was yelling at her to get me my knife. I remember her screaming for Asterisk. I remember seeing Asterisk standing in the doorway, holding Cruizer off the ground by his chain. I remember grabbing my coat and telling my mom: "Talk to me, I"m going into shock." I remember telling her to calm down while thinking: Damn! I have to go to the hospital wearing shorts and sandals!

Everyone stared at me in the ER's waiting room. In the restroom mirror, I saw why: I was covered in blood. It's amazing how much blood is in your head. I, as usual, had the doctor "in stitches" as he sewed me up. I joked about it all the way home.

'Risk had him shot by a concerned neighbor ten minutes after Tecomde and I left for the hospital. For many years, I'd wake up from nightmares of eyeless dogs, in a cold sweat. I'm not quite sure what to make of it. Sometimes I think I'll never full trust a dog again. Other times I hate myself feeling that I shouldn't be trusted. I trusted that dog, I damn near loved him.

Born Free

2008-03-10T00:24:00.004-04:00

I rock. Literally. It's a habit. Some think it may stem from some form of Autism or something. I didn't always rock though. I think it's from other things...

In the dark I like to listen to my music and imagine that I'm a panther running through the jungle. I run at an uncanny speed for what seems like forever. In life, I can run fast but I can't run for very long. I can only ignore so much physical pain. But I dream.

Long before I ever read the Bible, I thought of myself as a watchman, a protector. So, when I read this, it gave me an indescribably intimate feeling. It's my favorite scripture:

Isaiah 40:29 He is giving to the tired one power; and to the one without dynamic energy he makes full might abound. 30 Boys will both tire out and grow weary, and young men themselves will without fail stumble, 31 but those who are hoping in Jehovah will regain power. They will mount up with wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary; they will walk and not tire out.”

The House was a Mess

2008-03-06T18:09:00.004-05:00

The house really wasn't a house-- and it sure as hell wasn't a home.
Nearly eighty years old, the walls were solid cement. The ceilings were mostly dry-wall and all of the electrical outlets were attached to the walls with pipes coming from them to conceal the wires. Nearly all of the switch plates were cracked, broken, or just gone-- and half the light switches sparked when the electricity was on. The bedroom was lower than the rest of the house and had the only normal wall in the apartment. It probably used to be a garage. The apartments were originally built for the workers of the cement plant across the street.

Of the two front windows, one was cracked and the other was a collage of cardboard, trash bags and tape. I had to shove through the front door because it's off two of its hinges. There are piles of clothes and such covering most of the floor, little alleyways meandering through them and framing the bare, stained mattress on the floor. Several crates are arrayed around the mattress; some organized, with gaudy junk and cheap nick-nacks set upon them,others with papers carelessly tossed upon them all helter-skelter.

The trash in the kitchen lines the wall knee high. Dishes overflow the sink and counter. An extension cord runs in through the grease-stained kitchen window supplying power to the fridge and only lamp. There's a puddle on the floor, coming from the leaky refrigerator. Inside the refrigerator is a wet box of crackers, a fermented quart of milk and a discolored pond at the bottom with its countless bodies of drowned roaches.

In the bedroom, once again a pathway carves its course through the trash, clothes, and used dishes while framing the mattress, upon which lays a plate of marijuana and some mirrors with razors slumbering in a scatter of white powder.

My Chain/Chain of Thoughts

2008-03-04T22:19:00.009-05:00

My Chain: It looks like a miniature bicycle chain. It sounds like a zipper being done and undone as my pendant slides to and fro while I stride. It feels like a serrated-knife gone dull as I run it through my fingers. It's warm as I move, retaining my body heat, but cold when I put it back on in the morning. It's heavy for a chain, but still quite light for it's durability. Sometimes, up close, it smells similar to a handful of pocket-change. When I clean it, it actually smells cold, with only a hint of the isopropyl I used as solvent. Sometimes, when I'm putting on a sweater or something, I hold it between my lips. It tastes gritty, and the metallic flavor is both foreign and familiar; it reminds me of the taste of flatware, only instead of delivering literal meat it delivers the meat of my memories.
=======
This chain is like a silent friend through the years. And like a true friend, it's stood with me through all my trials, beside me even through my mistakes. When the dirt of dusty roads was in my throat, it was in the gears of my chain. It hangs over my heart and knows its beatings better than I do. The tears that I have managed to shed didn't just fall onto my chest but were caught by my chain. It times my stride like the pendulum of a clock. If my chain were alive, it would be my closest friend; if it weren't for my wife, it would be my best friend.
===
Arizona. Terrain. Sand. Rock gardens. Avenues with no trees. Post-card sunsets. Mountain vistas too colorful for any painting. Authentic Mexican food. 125 degree heat - in the shade. Crickets - always the sound of crickets. Ruggedly beautiful - like how a little boy sees his dad. But everything is dangerous: the flowers worse than poison oak, scorpions, tarantulas, rattle-snakes, cacti, spikes hiding under the leaves of every tree, heat-strokes handed out like advice from a mother-in-law.
===
Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder. Blood may be thicker than water, but I'd rather drink water. I developed a family out there: my wife Freeness; my spiritual parents Torch and Lighthouse, who guided me away from bitterness, providing me food and shelter - especially in a spiritual sense; Baguira and Raksha, my "aunt and uncle" who's stories assured me that someone always has it worse, and can always be better.
===
Cer Torch. Kept everyone at arms length, but warmed their hearts nonetheless. Called a jerk a jerk, and a salvageable heart a good one. Almonds in a bottomless bowl - dry but addictive. A man's man and a mentor's mentor. Happy despite his scars.
===
People try to hide their heartaches, and usually fail. Torch grew up in an orphanage, moved out at sixteen and lied about his age to enlist. Some people would be scared enough to call this a triumph; some, like Torch, acknowledged that something was missing - and pursued it. He strove to convey that you don't have to be a genius to look for the truth, and understand it.
===
Credulity. Apathy in borrowed robes. I recently realized it's nothing more than fear. People are afraid of what they don't know or understand. Most think it's childish to explore with round-eyed wonder, which is why they cease to learn, stagnating in intelligence. When something unknown comes along, rather than exploring for the truth, they'll accept the first idea presented to them so they don't have to feel so scared. This is precisely why these kind (most) of people guard their opinions so viciously - like an immature toddler with their dingy security-blanket.
===
Regarding dog-fighting in the news a while back, somebody actually said that Michael Vick was doing the world a favor by killing pit-bulls; that pit-bulls should be wiped out because they're dangerous. What a Nazi-without-a -cause. That's the exact equivalent to advocating genocide. And all because they know nothing of the virtues of a properly raised pit-bull and this terrifies them. They are too vain to admit ignorance and do some research, and so, latch on to the first idea to be handed to them. Credulous people might be excused due to their fear, but if that's the case, junkies should be excused for wanting to get away from it all for a while.

Stinger

2008-03-04T20:12:00.015-05:00

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.

Smoke and a Pancake?

2008-03-04T19:53:00.008-05:00

Sandsurfer and I used to have this thing. It never really became a full fledged "code" or language, but it was a collection of phrases we used to discreetly communicate about our customers while in their presence. One phrase I remember quite fondly is: "Smoke and a pancake?" This was adopted from Austin Powers Goldmember. The part where Goldmember offers Austin every conceivable IHOPish combo from smoke and a pancake to bong and a blitz. After Austin refuses all of his options, Goldmember states: "There is no pleasing you." That's the meaning we adopted. When a customer could not be pleased, we would remind/notify each other of the fact with that phrase.

I introduced that one to the truck, but SandSurfer introduced: "On the other hand...she wore a glove." YOU figure it out!

Camp II

2008-03-02T01:22:00.006-05:00

The paternity test proved that "DewClaw" was my father. Which meant he had a lot of back-owed money to pay. Not to us, we got ours via welfare years before. Now California wanted restitution.

Seeing as how we were living illegally in a condemned building, I had to return to my grandparents.

Did I mention how we were discovered by the marshals? We were in this early 1900s apartment complex. It was being run by a Mexican family. We actually payed rent. We had water from a well. Usually it was contaminated. The electricity was piped in through a complicated arrangement. I didn't examine it too closely.

There was this crazy lady living in the apartments across from us. She was married to this ding-bat who lost his kids to his former wife. Later, his son was literally eaten by a German Shepard while in her care and keeping. The boy lived, but they couldn't do anything with his original face after digging out of the dog's gut. I digress.

The crazy lady. She did a long stint in a psych ward somewhere having murdered her former husband by slashing his throat. Now she was married again. Living across from us. Allowed to roam freely while her ding-bat husband scrounged for work. One day, she can't handle the hyper-abundance of cock roaches anymore. She decided to kill them with a blowtorch that was handy. The only thing that survived on their side of the complex was the three Metallica CDs I loaned to ding-bat. I still have them in my possession!

Raptors

2008-02-22T23:22:00.011-05:00

We lived with our grandparents in California on an acre-and-a-half of land. It had a front yard with grass and various bushes, a ranch-style house, two backyards with grass and cane as a windbreak, a chicken coop, and a chunk of desert. We had elm trees and fruit trees scattered around too.

The chicken coop housed ducks with the chickens. We had to keep the geese we had separate because geese, they make GREAT junkyard dogs: vigilant, sneaky, loud, and VICIOUS. They'd kill the chickens and ducks if otherwise.

My sister had to go to the Emergency Room when she was about 10 after the geese were done with her. She was feeding the foul alone and the geese surrounded her on her way back from the chicken coop. One decided to bite her on her stomach. It shook its head and beat with its majestic wings. She had a terrifying bloody bruise on her belly and purple bruising all down her ribs.

Years later the geese surrounded me. I punched the leader in the head. It bobbled right back up like one of those sand-weighted clown punching bags you have as a kid. It bit me anyway, but I think it was too phased by the punch to beat me.

My mom got attacked once also. She was crawling around under a car she had stowed out there. Worrying about black widows, she overlooked the geese. She ended up with three nasty purple welts on her inner thighs all said and done!

Angel and Devil

2008-02-16T19:01:00.016-05:00

Characters

"Glib" The setting; a demon-infested town of old Route 66.
"Cookie Monster" My Mexican friend with MS.
"Tecomde" My mother, before
Angela - Cookie Monster's aunt
Diablo - No good Cracker
"Rice " distant Caucasian cousin of Cookie Monster
"Mayor" Cookie Monster's Uncle, his Diabetic mom's brother. The head of the Mexican Mafia in that town
"Loco " Mayor's renegade nephew, made all these guys look like model citizens
"Other guy" Your token Mexican gang-banger
"Blitzen" girl in our bus-stop group
"Weedon" boy in our bus-stop group - huge Buffy fan, especially when he was stoned

In Glib, I had this friend with MS. I'll call him Cookie Monster. He looked and sounded like him after all. He couldn't stand without a walker, but he learned how to ride a bike. Because of the walker, he had massive forearms. He was quite proud of them. He was always challenging people to arm-wrestle. I actually beat him twice. That's about a 0.5% victory for me though.

He was inspirationally the only kid in that town to graduate from our senior class in a High School 50 minutes away. He went through some shit, though. Thankfully his uncle ran the town of Glib, so people didn't make fun of him. But most people didn't hang out with him either. My mom says he asks about me from time to time, all these years later. I should drop a line, but I'm not nearly as strong as he.

His mom had Diabetes. She found out when they amputated her foot. By then she was so set in her ways, the loss didn't change her. She had another stroke a few months later. That time the ambulance to her home was a hearse to the hospital.

So Cookie Monster's aunt, Angela, moved in to take care of him and his little sister. She always had car trouble, but nobody knew the extent to which it would go.

The night of her birthday, my mom was trippin' on something but I didn't care. She was laughing and not twitching so I figured I'd deal. She found this old Army cargo/freight belt. It had a buckle like the ones all us California boys wore to bold up our baggy pants. But it was so long that I had to roll it up and tuck it in my pocket. As a joke, I crammed it down my pants, to bulk up my package. Then unzipped my fly and let it roll out. We all thought it was so hilarious, we decided to use it to amuse Angela at her birthday party.

That was A RIOT! She was pretty buzzed, so the look of slack-jawed astonishment was compounded. I can't even think about it without laughing out loud.

For some reason, later that night, she went to run some errand with Diablo who had since healed up from his run in with Chuck. On the way out of town there was an accident. The car flipped, slipped under the barb-wire fencing and down the embankment near the bridge where Sammy Davis, Jr. was said to have lost his eye. The car's roof caved in, crushing Angela's larynx against the steering wheel. Somehow Diablo was thrown safely from the car. The Officials who responded to the scene said she died quickly. Of course they said that.

The next day, at the bus-stop, obviously Cookie Monster wasn't there. Neither was "Rice", this mildly retarded white boy who was somehow related to The Family. Just as we were discussing the accident this car comes screeching to a halt right in front of us. Three guys jump out and run up and over the railroad tracks. Two had rifles, "Loco" ("Mayor"'s other nephew) and some guy I'd seen only once before. "Rice" was with them, and he was packing a shotgun.

We hadn't even collected our breath when the shooting started.

They thought Diablo had something to do with Angela's death, seeing as how they were alone in the car, despite the bad blood between them.

"Rice" wasn't seen at school until the following week. "Loco" went on to be chased out of town by his Uncle, only to return later and stab the man who gave me the carbide that got in so much trouble. As for Diablo, well... he was never seen again. At least not in "Glib".

Chuck and Diablo

2008-02-16T18:44:00.011-05:00

Characters
Chuck - my pal, more uptight than me even!
Diablo - no-good cracker
"Mayor" ran the town I call Glib. He was Mexican Mafia, thankfully good friends with me ma
"Tecomde" my mother -before
Dusk - yours, truly

There's this town I refer to as Glib where I spent the time I generally call The Darkness. It was a demon-infested town that I inhabited after running away from my abusive grandparents. It was wedged between Route 66 and a dead forest and had one of the countries only remaining factories across the street. Don;t try to find it. You'd be better off in Silent Hill.

There was this white guy amongst all the current and wannabe Mexican Mafia out there. He was one of the wannabes. He had red hair but you'd only know it from his eyebrows. He kept his head Bic'd so you could see the tattoos of horns on his head.

Being at the bottom of the food chain, he had a hard-on for this kid we called Chuck. Chuck's head was large and round. Looked like Charlie Brown.

My mom was good friends with the head of the town. He was head because he was the MM rep there. This town had a post office and an elementary school, but what it didn't have was a city ordinance. No police, no fire department, no doctors. Just us, our rules, and a whole lot of desert thirsty for anything to drink.

I guess one day Chuck got fed up with Diablo. They were in the MM "mayor's" back yard, seeing how Chuck was his cousin. During a heated pushing contest, Chuck grabbed a nearby chainsaw and fired it up. Swatted Diablo in the head with it. Strange you may think, Diablo survived. Scathed. The guys ran out of the shed and dragged Chuck away before he stopped swatting and started cutting. It was still pretty messy, though. Head wounds are awful wet. I know from personal experience, though I wasn't nailed by something as surprising as a chainsaw.

The Skater vs. The Mexican

2008-02-16T17:54:00.008-05:00

I appreciated skateboarding growing up in the '90s and all. Can't say much for the kids trying to turn tricks, I mean...no, yeah. So, not much appreciation for the ones now who wear girls' jeans. How do you do any tricks? How do you move? As if being Caucasian didn't screw with your agility enough already!

Nonetheless, I DID find it screwy that whenever a skater-poser would instigate a fight with a Mexican, they'd use their board as a melee weapon.

One day, as I was walking past my former Middle School, I saw a group of "skaters" (there WERE some REAL skaters in the next town over) messin' with some Mexican. They all looked to be about my age, Junior in High School, what is that? 16? 17? Well, the Mexican takes a fighter stance, the skater takes a feminine hay-bailer swing and gets slugged in the gut. While down there, he grabs his board. But, in a rare, fortunate twist, the Mexican pops him in the nose, snatches away his board, and proceeds to bludgeon the kid with it until it breaks. Much to the astonishment of his crew, who stared stricken at the Mexican rather than looking upon their bloodied hero/leader. Just as they all were coming to their senses, the cops come rollin' down the street. The Mexican, oddly traveling alone, made a clean get away. The others got cleaned up by THE MAN.

If you don't find that hilarious you might want to consider never reading my blog again. In my world, that was DAMN funny!!!

By the Way...

2008-02-16T17:47:00.003-05:00

Not to confuse or anger crackers, but I'm...WHITE. Mostly Irish, enough Native-American (Blackfoot) to take advantage of if I were that kind of person, Norwegian to make things even more exciting, and Polish to prevent utter perfection.

Here it comes, the infamous smiley :) to let ya know that I have a sense of humor, just in case you lost yours on the bus.

Rasta Imposta

2008-02-16T17:29:00.009-05:00

Heh Heh Heh!

I have this new philosophy (No, it's not Rasta --don't jump ahead). I call it NOCCON. Basically it's an acronym for NAME, OCCUPATION, CHALLENGE. It's to remind me that, at work ESPECIALLY, all that people need to know is YOUR NAME and YOUR OCCUPATION. I have a new job (therefore a new chance) and this new blog to tell my stories. Nobody at work needs to know them. I don't have to be the freak anymore. Any story I feel like telling, instead I jot a note and blog it later...

A-N-Y-W-A-Y. My sister's ex-husband's brother is white. Let me redo that: He is WHITE. Alright. he grew up in 29 Palms, California and moved to Where-are-all-the-black-folk-with-soul? Lake Havasu, Arizona. HIS philosophy IS Rastafarianism. He has RASTA tattooed on his arm for all to see.

Knowing what we know about Jamaica's hospitality toward certain types of whities, I'd really like to see him take a trip to the island. It would make for good t.v. I doubt he'd last long enough for a full season. But definitely a mini-series.

A Kiss to Build a Dream On

2008-02-16T17:23:00.004-05:00

Rain. Drizzling down. Sluicing through pipes and gutters. Seething, crawling through the deathly-quiet desert. Sloshing off the tops of the palm trees. Desperado crickets chirping from the safety of dryness. An out-of-rhythm clock tick without the tock coming from what? - The light on the telephone pole. This brings the buzz of the power lines a little closer, just a little. The whorsh of cars sailing down the unseen street in the distance. The minute tickle-tackle of the neighboring gravel parking lot settling. A few nomadic pebbles and twigs migrating down various rivulets.

The lamp on the telephone pole borrowed from the memory of the boxy lights on the cafetorium in grade-school, only black instead of brown. The rectangle of light cast out of it is obscenely white; normally only illuminating the garbage bin. And moths, bats, and night-hawks. The clouds don't dominate the sky completely; in the distance are clusters of stars, suspended raindrops of light with their round edges sharpened, like burrs caught on the satin fabric of the atrous night. Palm trees. Pla-Doh rolled too long and used as trunks topped with giant pine-cones for beards, standing under the disheveled umbrellas of scruffy unkempt fronds.

The dust quelled, its specter nonetheless hangs in the air. The baked silicone smell contrasted with the sharp savory scent of creosote. The creosote nearly wreaking, like a collage of cacti, weeds, pine, patchouli, and Satan's Listerine. The palm trees odor is that of gritty pulp-wood and the fragrance they wear is the closest smell to grass out here.

The triple-digit air of the day warms the rain of the night. It loses its refreshing feel, and instead feels like a shower before work. Regardless of the sparse buildings and ample mountains, infinity crowds around. It gains strength from the darkness like Superman gains strength from the sunlight.

The vestige of garlic bread and fettuccine alfredo in our mouths.

Music. An idling engine, like quickened waves, high and low. The rain clatters clumsily over the corrugated steel top of the car-port. The popping, grinding, puffing of the A/C units. The fellow tenants oblivious in their apartments, distracted by canned laughter and inaudible dialog. Ever the sluicing of the rain in the gutters.

The apartments a cretaceous backdrop, teal trim pealing. Mini-blinds in all the windows, light in only some. Tawny metal framing the shadows that slip out: knick-knacks, cats, refrigerators. The dirt on the glass guides the journey of the run-off. The porch light is out-shined by the universal complex light, it in its cake shaped plastic casing on a twisted aluminum arm. The case has a jagged hole, seemingly from the same hulking moving-truck that bent the metal. The landscaping lights of the complex next-door cast up a ghostly mist, like dream scenes in old movies. The yellow safety pole by the back door, chunky cement pouring out of its iron tube, is slanted from having done its job. At bumper height, metal glints through – careless drivers! The cantankerous a/c unit has metal peeling away from a sharp slashing dent near its base. Somehow something slipped past its protector. It rests on unleveled concrete, a small tortilla chip shaped wedge slanting up. The rest of the porch's square slopes down. The car port matches the domicile's drab paint. Its shape is even more generic and forgettable. A blue stuffed bunny lies under the padlocked cabinets, forgotten.

The posts smell of stale wood and sun diluted chemicals. The smell of mold and mildew is virtually unrecognized. Even the metal smells dryer, so dry the rain can't generate rust.

Plip-plopping puddles. A Song. Pinging water pelting metal poles. The myriads of angels whispering sound of the rain.

Headlights. Stationary. Polygonal, lopsided fat diamond shapes delivering a soft, comfortable flavescent spotlight. The droplets carve through the air and cut the light into red, orange, yellow. Moist match flames without the sticks. The manufactured black color of the car. Tall, round, and compact like a dough ball. Cute, like someone else's puppy – a breed you'd never want to see as an adult.

Exhaust and sooty oil from repaired cars climb up the ladder of precipitation. They slip warily on its wet rungs.

Bodies swaying.

The warm rain tastes like a broth made of dust.

Flip-flop sandals plopping sloppy wet. The slide shuffle of the feet next to them. Swishing rain. A Song.

The blacktop is uniform in color despite the texture. The puddles that would be unavoidable temptations to children's feet if they weren't in bed are instead percussion to dancing feet.

Closer than the smell of cars is the scent of cotton, spent detergent, straining softener, and denim. The scent is warm—as if it were fresh from the dryer.

The rain is amniotic fluid to a baby. Scattered grain to a fertile field. The cushion of the shoes offers moral support. A neck supports a thick chain that slinks as the bodies sway. A ring on a finger, pressed to the back of the neck. The closest thing to cold. Earrings scratch his face, stubble scratches hers. He's nervous, afraid because he can't watch her feet. He's rebellious: who cares if we look silly! Who's gonna see us?

A wet wisp of her hair slips into his mouth when she repositions her head on his chest.

Rain gushing off their heads. The sandy voice of Rod Stewart croons his rendition of “A Kiss to Build a Dream On”. The air that's pushed out with a smile wafts up to his ear. Their breathing is steady, synchronized. Their shoes squelch like soap on a bathing body. Their clothes slurp on them like a tongue on ice cream. A moist whisper is emitted from skin being caressed. The rain pips off their arms, clips on their ears. His chain zigs from time to time, sounding like a zipper.

She is short with full round inviting curves,cartoon-round emerald eyes, a petite nose, and lips that pay homage to Raphael's cherubs. He feels her fragility as he pulls her warmth closer to him. She has a wondering look in her eyes: Is he the one? Her adorable feet are exposed in the pink flip-flops. Toes huddled together like puppies snuffling at the door while Master matches key to lock. The wet fabric of their clothing acts like adhesive urging them to bond closer still, accentuating feminine lines and masculine contours. The round stone of the engagement ring is in a vintage setting. It flashes between a shimmering glint and a determined shine, a promise versus an oath. Her earrings are cheap fake gemstones. Her mascara is running, but not from tears. Her head beneath his nose has that shampooed smell that only a girl can manage. A scent that every man fantasizes about. Her skin makes him hungry with its apple-pear lotion coating.

Their skin is warmer than the air, cooler than the rain. He uses her goosebumps as an excuse to rub her body with his hands. Their knees rub each others thighs, enticing. Her eyelashes tickle his cheek as she blinks away the rain. Finally, when their eyes lock, they're too close for their lips not to brush. His hands slide up to the back of her head pulling her in, then down her arms to her elbows stopping the dance. This kiss is special. It is a solid foundation. Hopes will rest on it. Dreams will be built on it.

" 'Oh Sh!t.' I know what that means!"

2008-02-16T15:13:00.013-05:00

My friend, who died in December, he was my driver/partner at my old job in Arizona. I was a Service Tech for an electronics company. We drove around the tri-state area picking up t.v.s for our company's repairman to fix. Unless it was something simple, in which case I'd handle it on-site. Nothing special on my part, just intermediate repairs anyone could do if they cared to try. Only difference is that if YOU crack open your t.v., your warranty is null and void. If I did it was $50-$95 an hour.

We had nick-names we gave ourselves on the job. My partner's was SandSurfer. That's a story for some other day perhaps. My name ended up as Diamond-Cutter. Again, another time. This tale is about my original nick-name in the truck: "Trickle."

We had a Maintenance call on an old RCA big-screen. Sand-Surfer and I called RCAs ORCAs, like the killer-whales because RCAs are so lousy. No, I can't be sued for that statement, I was working on RCAs prior to and during the class-action lawsuit against RCA concerning the universally defective SSB board. Anyway, we get to the client's home. It's this old couple. Reminded me of my grandparents: the old man was passive and hospitable, the old lady was as bitter as piss. And that was BEFORE I screwed up.

Thankfully we were in town that day and not Nevada or California. That way we didn't have far to lug the t.v. I think it was around a 55 incher. Old triple CRT rear-projection set-up from the mid-80s.

On a maintenance call, I had to dismantle the major parts of the t.v. and clean the interior screen, the mirror, the lenses, and under the lenses if dust was there and was accessible. Typically the rule was that if the lenses had cross-head screws you could clean under them. If they had hex-screws, you left them alone. Or lugged the unit into the shop for the certified repair-tech to handle. As if RCA didn't suck bad enough though, this unit had good ol' flat-head screws. What's that mean?

Well, unfortunately I assumed that it meant that I could clean under the lenses. And I thought that I wanted to, too, because it looked all nasty in the tubes. I was still pretty new to the job as I recall and didn't know that a lot of times what appears to be dust is actually algae. Yeah, algae! Apparently ethyl-glycol isn't SO toxic that it won't support some life if kept at the right temperature. Basically, ethyl-glycol is antifreeze. Cooler than that is that not only does it keep the cathode-ray-tubes cool but it's one of the few liquids that won't diffuse light as it passes through. That's why the old rear-projection big-screens have their three tubes filled with the stuff. And why some tubes shouldn't be opened in homes. However, not all companies had sealed tubes involving a secondary, removable lens.

So as I crack the lens off the tube after safely removing the screws, out dumps all this fluid. Spilling over my hand and onto the mainboard. Oh, did I mention that the fluid is VERY conductive of electricity? No? Well, not only did I neglect to remember that, but also that my standard procedure did not involve unplugging the set. Dangerous, I know, but it usually saved me from having to reprogram the custom settings into most (albeit newer model) televisions. So, I feel and see this fluid spill out ALL over the boards and immediately after smell the burning ozone that confirmed my worst fears. An average mainboard ran from$500 to $1000 if my memory serves right. I'm not even there to fix this thing, I'm only there to clean it as per warranty-contract, and I've DESTROYED it! Of course I don't play it COMPLETELY cool, I utter to my comrade: "Oh shit..." He, wide-eyed, responds: "Does that mean what I think it means?" And from the living-room couch, because people LOVE watching their t.v.s--especially if they're dismantled and being cleaned-- from the couch this old cantankerous broad screeches: " 'Oh shit.' I know what 'Oh shit' means!"

What it meant was that we had to replace everything but the trim on that old t.v. And that Sand-Surfer always rode my ass about it. "Are you sure you want your screwdriver? You REALLY sure you wanna do that, huh--Trickle?"

Identity of a Man, Through a Woman

2008-02-09T19:40:00.005-05:00

MOM
Chrysochlorous eyes, old beyond their years by several lifetimes. The rays of a warm sun after a cold winter morning were the curls around her face. When she made herself up she was the most beautiful woman on earth, to her son. A smile, always too quick to spring to her lips - always just beneath a surface. She couldn't get a good job because she dropped out. She couldn't keep any job because she silenced her doubts with crack cocaine. When she lost enough jobs and wracked up enough warrants, she'd run. She'd gotten good at it; she ran away from home at 14, she ran away from her first child - her daughter. But there must be something there, whether it's guilt or a hunger for love. Because she dragged her son through it all. She never forgot to feed him (even if it was just barely edible); never sent him off to school without adequate clothing (she'd drop him in the Salvation Army box to fish stuff out), and always provided shelter of a sort ( a literal shelter, friend's house, abandoned building, tent, car, some man's house...). Of course she couldn't find a good man, but maybe she could change a bad one, if not herself. If they changed for the worse, she'd just run.

I didn't want a man, I just wanted her. Her lived in clothes and stale tobacco hugs, her chirpy singing in the morning, her ever-ready smile, her bedtime stories, her burnt food, the sun we shared after a cold winter morning warming the car we slept in up in the mountains.

I remember her pain. The pain in her eyes as she explained that she had to take Tylenol up her nose because her throat hurt - and that I should knock. The pain in her face when I said I'd rather live with Grandma; she had never hit me, let alone beat me, before that day. She told me in earnestness that I'd grow up to be smart and strong. How could she be so sure? HER son. What did this creature know of such things? This creature that was little more than a flickering flame at the bottom of a lantern's cracked and grimy cyclone?

GRANDMA
Warm chocolate chip cookies - my favorite - and Grandpa's promise of more to come if I chose to stay. But Grandpa didn't wear the pants anymore; he made a mistake with some woman in Thailand, and Grandmother castrated him with it.

I somehow still appreciate the savory smell of grilled onions, the nauseatingly clean smell of bleach, the superstitious smell of pot roast. It wasn't just pot roast that was ominous, it was dinner in general. The salty criticisms, snide remarks, the yelling and screaming that was invariably served for dessert. There weren't too many musical tones in that place. The ones I do recall seem ironic now, if you think about it: the theme songs to "Wheel of Fortune" and "Jeopardy".

Thin celeste colored ice on a sidewalk. That was Grandma's eyes; the cold and venomous eyes of a snake.

Her fluffy hugs and monochromatic moo-moos shielded diamond-bearing fists. The sweetness of chocolate-chip cookies was overcome by the coppery taste of blood in my mouth.

Toys, that could only be played with after chores. Chores that never stopped coming, unlike the chocolate-chip cookies. Two in the morning, dragged out of the guest bed I'd been sleeping in for 5 years now and beaten bloody again. I had left my ice cream bowl in the sink. Maybe this is why Mom was so hurt when I said goodbye, why she acted so scared. Maybe this is why Aunt Mercy is so weird.

SISTER
I know why the caged bird sings: it's supposed to. My sister didn't look like a bird, but to see her move commanded your thoughts to birds in flight. Unlike me, she was dark, long, sinewy, stream-lined. Her hugs were gentle, frail, bony, fluttery - like her voice. Her voice was fluttery, like she wouldn't dare express full confidence; like a caged bird always sounds out of place, because it's not free.

It was us versus the world. Unlike most siblings, the only rivalries we participated in were who could stuff the most Atomic Fireballs in their mouth, or who could shoot the most shot-glasses of lemon juice without making a face!

I fell in love with classical music watching at her recitals. I reaffirmed my demands for freedom watching her run her marathons. She always smelled faintly of some powder. Talcum when she was in ballet. Gold-Bond when she dropped it for track & field - despite the repercussions.

When she could no longer kowtow to Grandma, like our mother she towed her children around in search of a father-figure.

Her eyes were puddles of refreshing rain-water contained in mud holes.

AUNT
Aunt Mercy had eyes the green of used, dirty money. Her hair shone like polished gold. She had a sly smile. Her size belied her movement, which flickered like the candles she burned throughout her home. When she hugged you - or made contact at all - it was always distracted. Not like it was forced, but like it was restrained.

She gave me my first Snickers bar; salty-sweet, delicious. I also tried potato-salad for the first time outside her home - gritty, awful. Her home. She'd grow frantic if you disturbed the tassels on her throw rugs. Everything smelled of incense, scented-candles, disinfectant. She smelled of beer, and of the hunt. Despite her alcohol-slurred speech she spoke in soothing tones - the better to con people with, her means of living. I don't mind potato salad these days. I don't really care for Snickers, though.

Grandpa's body finally caught up with his spirit and died. Aunt Mercy was there when it happened; she was the only one in the room. She said his suffering had finally come to an end. He had known about the cancer for three weeks. Everyone understood. She seized all the property. Grandma had a stroke and fell into Mercy's custody.

Perhaps she finally felt empowered, controlling the fate of the woman who controlled her. If not, then maybe when she took her mother's life too. I wonder sometimes, if she ever felt love, or if she ever will. I wonder, too, if she'll ever be strong enough to show love. I intend never to find out; I know enough about the darkness to identify those consumed by it.

WIFE
Another woman. A different one, not family. This one brings the essence of musicality into my life.

As my body and mind fought over which gives me more pain, I was soothed by this girl as we danced in the rain. In my storm-tossed heart is a safe, quiet place built by this girl and her warm embrace. Because of this girl who hides my tears, I've accomplished the responsibility of my years.

She chooses only the prettiest songs to sing. She holds me at night, like I hold her in the morning. Laying beside me, through her language of hums, I've learned the specialness of sun on trees - and apple blossoms.

Though I'm often distracted by her loving sighs, I can hardly get mad when met by virid entrancing eyes.

Though she's already done it, she still tries to please me. Only she knows how I like my coffee! She prepares my “gourmet” meals for the entire week. Still, she says I'm the one who's humble and meek. She's able to clean our home phenomenally quick. But she'll take the time to make me chicken-noodle-soup from scratch when I'm sick. Unmatched as a woman - especially as a cook! Yet she can recommend (to any man) a good movie or book. So, I found the courage to love again, and I love her - as much as I'll love my children. And I'll be glad to share, with them, my best friend.

They'll grow up to be smart and strong, like my wife says I am in the songs she sings. Her view of me reminds me of a flickering light once calling a boy such things.

ME
My mother is still without a home of her own, though she knows now that she has someone who loves her. All people make mistakes. All the more reason we shouldn't be so unforgiving – especially with ourselves. Anybody can change, they just need someone to turn up their wick, help them clean up and let the light shine through.
But, then again, some people don't need to change themselves; they simply need to alter course.

When I could finally meet my own eyes in the mirror, I saw chrysochlorous eyes. I saw strength, intelligence, my mom.

I am a man. I am perhaps the first person in my family to find their identity.