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.”

The House was a Mess

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

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.