Deathwish Dusk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Go Fly a Kite

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I remember rare, pure, childish joy.

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

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

Let's go fly a kite
Up to the highest height!
Let's go fly a kite
and send it soaring
Up through the atmosphere
Up where the air is clear
Oh, let's go fly
Fly a kite!

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

I Am Angry Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Open Up

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

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

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

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

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

Hitting is NOT Allowed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Towels

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

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?

Tuesday, January 27, 1998

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

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

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.”

My Chain/Chain of Thoughts

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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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

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.

Identity of a Man, Through a Woman

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.