The Hunt for Personal Truth

I Lost My Glue -An excerpt from my journal in 2008

2010-06-29T12:36:00.000-07:00

I have lept from a cliff or precipice, of my own devising to be sure, but a cliff none the less. I thought I had just jumped more than a scarce year ago, but I have to say it was a long time before that. As I experienced the act of falling I realized it is something I had no experience in and I got wrapped up in it. Embraced it and followed it right through to its terminus. The abrupt stop.

At first I thought it was inevitable that I just watch as I plunged deeper and deeper into the core. Most times I just mused that I was somewhere else, doing something else, with someone else. I have realized that by willing myself, I can turn this way and that. I have lost the glue that holds me to a set of rules and structure. In fact I am not falling at all but flying towards something extraordinarily bizarre and real.

At thirty two I was beyond any one persons help. I was smack dab in the middle of a crisis, too early to be midlife, and to late to be anything else. I lost in me the glue that holds me to a society that I was floundering in. At this moment I sit somewhere for no other purpose but to sit and muse and figure. It is a great and seemingly worthless way to spend time. Yet here I sit. Stuck with legs on both side of the fence trying desperately to find meaning in chicken bones, stars, and blades of grass.

Repetition and banality threatened to drive me mad with desperation. Menial, unending servitude to the here and now, the get and give, the stride and climb. The go, go, go.

I decidedly have flown the coupe. Left life behind and moved on to something different. So long crazy world, I said. Now, I have gone mad, and pirouetted into the grosses of states. I have traveled over twenty four thousand miles in the last year to find myself only accomplishing in creating a monster.

Sadly finding love again. I melted and realized that underneath the large iceberg of my outer trimmings was a hollow that stored the fragments of a puzzle that had been not, as of yet, fixed together. It was the swirling and trappings of what could be and unfortunately not what was. Terrible shock to find. Unbeknownst, to me I was a conflagration of nothingness and everything that I thought I should be and wasn't. I was unraveled. Though this unraveling made me into an eagle and I have since spread my wings and fly here and there at my whim.

Closed For Business

2010-05-23T14:34:00.000-07:00

I can no longer handle the tidal wave of heart break
the bloated body washed up
the salty hurt

I apologize for those who may meet me later
I am a crushed can of misery
unrecyclable, useless

It would be nice if my heart was broken
It is not, it still goes, still hurts
it still loves

I figure I will stay quiet and low and soft
save the final beats
for me.

Jay-Z Poet

2010-01-30T22:59:00.000-08:00

Had a dream I said, about who he said?
about B.I.G. I said, that's big he said
Dig what he said, proceed he said
Indeed I said, so - breathe I did
Don't repeat what I say I said, he said nothing
He agreed with his head, he just nodded like this
What I believe to be a yes I repeated what was said
It came to me like a well as even I said
"What's the deal, playboy?" was the greeting he said
First thing I wanted to know, what's the reason he was dead?
"More money -- more problems, better believe it," he said
"Careful what you wish for you might receive it," he said
I see I said, jealousy I said
Got the whole industry mad at me I said
Then B.I. said, "Hov' remind yourself
nobody built like you, you've designed yourself"
I agree I said, my one of a kind self
Get stoned every day like Jesus did
What he said, I said, has been said before
"Just keep doing your thing," he said, say no more

Keeps me going. No matter what, follow your dreams. - Travis

The Soul Collector - Haiku

2010-01-02T07:47:00.001-08:00

Oh how the lady

Moves through the open valley

Searching for lost souls

The souls are not there

They stay in the dark forests

Cowering in fear

When the moon rises

The souls gather thoughtfully

Moaning and dancing

The lady long searches

For souls who awake at night

While she lays asleep

The souls long for peace

Though they hide during the day

Fearful of the sun

Last Drink

2010-01-02T07:44:00.001-08:00

He put down his glass and raised his legs four inches off the ground in front of the leather chair he sat in. His legs were pressed together tightly and his whole body went rigid with tension, pausing in mid-motion. His head tilted back and his eyes rolled towards the ceiling for a moment as if searching for strength or clarity. At once he slammed his feet back to earth with a shake that nearly upset the end table with the empty glass. His head came back down and with a sling like motion he propelled himself into the center of the living room. He had done it now and his forward hurl sped him hurriedly towards the mantle and the fireplace underneath. Oh the manic clipped steps of a tumbling terrestrial. His gaze fell upon the bottle that sat quietly and undisturbed on the mantle as he himself did a singular foxtrot or waltz moving one step backwards then forwards then two to the side and back again. With a sashay he cut the dastardly distance in half and in a slide and a skip he made a felonious foray and grasped the bottle with a loud bark and a sharp retort of his bowls. He had his prize but as his other hand reached searchingly for a perch on the mantle it was hard pressed to find a home. His momentum had carried and spun him like a slobbering yet nimble ballerina driving him like a drunk locomotive heading towards a bridge that has been torn down, the gully being the unsuspecting fire grate and the extra warm contents on the other side of it. Smash was the sound as he took the fireplace head on taking the gate with a swoop of his large arms. Whiskey bottle up, whiskey bottle down, whiskey bottle smashed all around. Cracked and angry the whiskey bottle sprayed its pressured contents towards the man and the already outraged fire and its protesting flames. Whoosh went the man; fizz went the bottle feeding the frenzy of the moment.

Here to No Where

2010-01-02T07:40:00.000-08:00

Oh the wispy wind blows though me

Oh the darkness lolls me to sleep

Oh the times forget me

Oh the climb is savagely steep

Oh the stones on my frantic feet

Oh while I madly march on

Oh the sun harsh in the heavens

Oh the stars jeering judgments

A Moment With a Woman

2010-01-02T07:38:00.000-08:00

A Woman

Like or unlike any other

A Thought

Lips pursed and feelings blocked

Her Fingers

Caressing the thought from her lips

The Sound

A silence exploding in a breath

Her Surroundings

Bleached white stark and pale

Her Action

Slow and painful bereft of indecision

Her Eyes

Focused, relaying no betrayal

Her Scream

Dies in her throat

The End

Released from her own bonds

A Woman

Like or unlike any other

Dirty Dreams

2010-01-02T07:37:00.000-08:00

I lie down but do not close my eyes

God damn the pictures on the ceiling

Flashing by black and white and red

Closing my eyes will not stop them

Peace, but my heart thunders inside

A thousand explosions in my chest

I can’t shut down my breaking brain

Or close off the blood to my heart

Giving life to my unholy eardrums

And the sounds of screams and death

I am screaming too or maybe just

Trying to close my mouth I retch

At the sight of muzzle fire and flame

Bombs falling from a broken sky

I am here but tied to there so I

Tear off my clothes to stop the fire

And run across the ceiling punching

The walls, opening and closing drawers

This is my norm and closure as I sit

Sweat dripping from my nude body

As I stand at the precipice of madness

Closer than I have ever been

I lie down but do not close my eyes

Two Rocks In Each Shoe

2009-12-08T22:17:00.000-08:00

Chapter 1: The Abyss

Showto stood on the edge of the abyss and screamed. A wave of noise echoed outward carrying with it pain, suffering, longing, and resignation. His rheumy eyes surveyed the dark crevice that he stood above, trying to penetrate the darkness that started mere feet below him. The fever in his mind had him in a death grip now, pushing and prodding thoughts towards his consciousness. End it the sickness said, one step and it can all be over.

Showto had come so far. He had observed the rights carefully and had fought with everything in him to get here. He had lasted this long on sheer will power and determination. This is where it was going to end though. He knew that now. He knew that the next step would be the last one of the thousands that it had taken him to get this far. He had tried.

The stones in his feet were small. He had watched the elders put them into his boots. They were tiny but jagged and sharp. The miles that he had walked with those four stones now represented a span of time he no longer could count. On his first day with those stone his anguish was born and Showto had nursed that anguish until it was part of his own blood. His heel and toes, instep and arch had been torn with over the miles. Often he wished that he could break his oath and remove the stones, expel them from his body and this universe of masochistic walking. At this point though they were all he had.

The pain switched from side to side as he committed his sliding saunter for miles upon miles towards his destination. The stones, or boulders, as they sometimes felt like, told him that he was still alive. When he was beyond thirsty and wanted so badly to stop and sit for awhile the stones would drive him on. They told him that he was still alive when he was delirious from the pain. There was a moment of pleasure in the relief of bringing one foot off the ground and settling his weight on the other. These were fragments of the tiniest pleasure before returning again to agonizing pain.

He kept thinking along the way that he could not stop his pace, that if he continued on his shredded feet, with his grinding joints, and the tears in his overused and un-rested muscles, he would be rewarded. He would be reunited with the ones he loved and he would have earned his place in the village.

Standing now at the edge of the abyss he remembered some of the walk. He had crossed long deserts, plains and mountains that went on forever. When his feet had become infected he had poured oil into his boots and fat from animals he killed. He had been stalked by wild animals and what seemed to be a large group of men who shouted at him from very near, then very far away. He had never tarried too long in any place but had kept up a pace and had passed into the mountain range that he was in currently. The climbing took its toll on his weakened body . He had slipped and fallen more than once. He had been through valleys and back up into the heights of the mountains.

Now on the precipice and through the fever he listened. He reached out through the pain with everything in him, trying to get a small grip on reality and his place in it. He heard the voices again, then realized that they were in his own head. He pushed them away and dug deeper into the void of his mind that mirrored the one below him. He reached into the dark and heard something like the ringing of a bell. Below he heard the faint sound of water. Whether it was real or not he did not know but it sounded real to him at that moment.

Showto stepped off the side of the cliff and fell down into the darkness. The pain in his feet softened a bit and the release erased, if only for a moment, his mind from the shackles of the pain he had endured along his trail. He felt rather than saw something solid rising up to meet him and before he hit it he smiled and said, “Alisanee.” Then he knew no more.

Chapter 2: The Marriage Contract

Showto tuned his head around when he heard the laughter behind him. For a moment he was blinded as the sun was just setting to the west. The lake seemed to be on fire as it reflected the burgundy, purple and auburn clouds above it and the rays of the dying sun across it. The laughter came from Alisanee as she watched him shovel mud into pots. He heard her soft musical laughter and saw her framed with the lake and sun behind her and two things occurred to him at the same time. The first was that Alisanee was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. The second was that she probably waited until this exact moment to laugh knowing how she would look against the blazing sky.

That moment was locked in his mind forever and from then on a day never went by without him proposing to Alisanee. They would walk and talk for hours and Showto would always end the day by telling Alisanee that he loved her and that one day he would marry her. Alisanee would always laugh and say “we shall see” with a wink and a smile. One day while they walked along the edge of the village Alisanee turned to Showto and asked him, “Do you want to have a child of your own someday?” Showto thought for a minute and said that he would only want a child if it came from Alisanee. She asked him if he understood the marriage contract as it applied to the man of the house. Showto said he had a basic understanding of it but had never given it much thought. Alisanee sat Showto down and said, “Then I will tell you all about the marriage contract of our village.”

“Only two people who want to have children may enter into marriage. The fitness of the tribe is due in part to the size of the tribe. Capable women must bear a child if they are called upon to do so. I have been called.

“A woman must marry a man based on a need for a new child in the tribe. On bearing a child many things must be taken into account. First and foremost is where and how the resources that the child will need will be brought into the tribe without upsetting the equilibrium that the tribe has with its surroundings. “

“Also it is law in our village that if a man has a child, the day after the child’s fifth birthday the father must quest to the far coast. The trip is extremely dangerous and no one but the elders know where the father goes and what he has to do to get there. What we do know is that only one in forty men return from the quest. No one in this village speaks of this because it is the nature of our tribe and it is not questioned.”

“The father leaves for three reasons. The first is to allow the son to be trained and to receive all of the tools he will need to be useful to the rest of the tribe. He can only do this without the interference of the father. He must study with the different craftsmen here. Each one of them will bond with the child as his father, teacher and friend. Ultimately this makes the tribe more intimate and connected and is very beneficial to the tribe as a whole.

The second reason is that after a father bears a child he must make way for that child by leaving and letting the child have his home and his belongings. That way the tribe, nor the environment we live in, will be burdened with the extra person. This system has worked for centuries and because of it we have a perfect society.

Finally the third reason is for the man himself. To leave the safety of the tribe is a great burden upon the man. If the man returns from his quest then he is questioned by the elders. This is done in secret and no other person will ever hear of the quest outside of the elders. If the elders decide that the quest has been fruitful the man takes his place among them as a leader and is returned to his family. If the elders do not like what they hear, the man is banished for all time on pain of death.

I am saying all of this to you Showto so that you may understand what you are asking of me. I do love you as well, but I also know that by returning your love I must someday lose you, maybe forever. So after hearing all of this, is it still your choice to marry me?” Showto did not hesitate but quietly said, “One moment with you as my wife is worth more to me than anything else I can imagine.”

Chapter 3: Awakening

Showto raised his weary head. His body ached and was bruised and bleeding in more places then he could count. He looked about him and realized that it was the afternoon of the next day. He had slept and during his sleep his fever had abated. He had fallen into a river in the canyon and somewhere along its path it had released him and swept him ashore. He looked down towards his feet and realized that if he continued to wear his boots with the rocks in them, he would never return home. He would never again hold his son Marasu nor kiss Alisanee again.

Showto leaned over and with a rock cut at the tight cords that held his boots to his feet. The boots themselves were covered in mud and stained red by the blood he had lost. It took him hours to cut away the leather. He used the rock to separate the leather from his skin. In some places he could not tell what was skin and what was leather. It took him until the next day to complete the process. He lost consciousness again and again but awoke and started cutting again, finally getting the sole of one boot off and then the other. The small rocks covered in skin and blood had to be pulled out of his feet with his own fingers. At the time he felt a very real sense of loss and wondered at it. These small rocks had given him so much pain but the feeling of that pain had sometimes given him enough hope to go a bit further. He wrapped the stones in a small bag he made from the bits of leather and tied it around his neck.

He spent days washing his feet in the icy cold mountain river. It flowed fast and he would leave his feet soaking in it until they were almost frozen then pull them out. He crawled up the bank and found a stick and he began to fish. He tied pieces of boot leather together so that he could spear a fish then pull the spear back while sitting and with time he regained his strength.

For two months he sat by the river contemplating his current position, wondering if he should head back to his home and the anger of the elders or keep pursuing his quest. Showto wanted more than anything to see his family again, but he was also curious about what was at the far coast. He had been travelling for over a year already and knew that he probably had at least another year to go. It would also take him around two years to return to his village. This was supposing he made it that far even without the debilitating rocks in his boots. He had noticed the bones of men along the trail as he had been travelling. Many of his former tribesmen had not even made it this far.

So he thought about these things as he lived on the bank of the river. In the end he decided that he would have to continue on because he had sworn to do so no matter what. A thought in the back of his mind gave him a small glimmer of hope: he had sworn to complete the quest at all costs. He had never been asked to swear to keep the rocks in his boots nor did he ever offer up that promise. The elders had made sure that Showto understood the rules of the marriage contract on the day he was married. On the day that his son, Marasu, was born the elders again came to him and asked him if he remembered his promise and he had told them he had. The day of Marasu’s fifth birthday the elders had come to him for the third and last time and asked if he was ready to fulfill his duty. They had given him the many rules of the quest and had told him that it was inexcusable to turn back before reaching the far coast. They had put the rocks in his boots telling him that they would help keep him on his path but they had never said he could not take them out.

So after the third month Showto rose and walked away from the bank of the river and continued on his quest. He walked for months on end, occasionally seeing the bones of another traveler. Some bones had been cleaned and bleached by the sun and others looked more recent.

One night as he made camp he looked behind him and there on the ridge was a campfire, a small fire to be sure, but one that could easily be seen from miles around at night. Showto crept back towards it, careful to not be seen. He came upon the ridge and observed a man that he had known from his village. The man was talking quietly to himself and was sweating profusely. His legs were red and his veins showed clearly in the firelight. His head rolled back and forth and Showto knew that the fire had cost the man a lot to build. He had the fever and by his breathing he would not last the night.

Chapter 4: Marriage and a Son

It was the happiest day of Showto’s life. The first of two happy days that would mold Showto, change him into the man that he had always hoped he would be. Marrying Alisanee was like a dream that he hoped would never end. However as soon as the ceremony started he knew that their life would be cut short soon enough.

The Chieftain asked Showto, “Do you willingly enter into this marriage knowing full well your responsibilities to your wife, your children and to this tribe?”

“I do.”

“Do you understand and accept the laws of child birth in this village and embrace them wholeheartedly, knowing that this union is in keeping with the traditions laid down by our forefathers so that this tribe may continue upon this earth for all time?”

“I do.”

“Alisanee, do you understand and accept the sacrifice that your mate will bear in the name of loving you and this tribe for all time?”

“I do.”

“Do you understand that by entering into this marriage your husband will, upon the fifth year of your child’s life, be forced to leave this village and that he may never return?”

“I do.”

“You have both spoken before your fellows; by entering this marriage not only do you make a pact to each other but to all of the other members of this tribe. I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

That night Showto and Alisanee made love quietly and slowly for the first time, touching and holding, slowly exploring each other’s bodies and sealing the pact that they made to each other.

This was the greatest time for the both of them and they spent every day together, worshipping the time they spent together knowing that one day it would come to an end. They searched for each other early in the morning as if sleep had deprived them and held them apart. They worked side by side and spoke softly to each other and grew in each other’s love.

A year passed and Alisanee had a boy who they named Marasu. He was the envy of the village and all who saw him squinted their eyes as if looking at sunshine. He laughed, and ran, and sang. He spoke seriously with others and listened intently to his father. Showto imparted everything he could to his son and loved him every day.

On the eve of Marasu’s fifth birthday the elders came to Showto and asked him to follow them. He did as he was bid and walked with the elders along the road to the fields. Mancuso, the head of the council of villagers said the following:

“Showto, for generations past we have written the history of our tribe. We have been here before other civilizations and we are here after they have gone. We live simply and we provide not only a fair existence to ourselves but to the world around us. As your son takes his place among us it is up to you to sacrifice your place for him. For this reason we have devised a quest for all men who bear a child. You must travel from here tomorrow morning, taking nothing with you, and head into the morning sun. You must not speak to anyone while on this quest nor allow yourself to be seen by others. You must travel east along the road you will see until you come to the great waters on the other side of this land. When you come to this great water you will find a sign with a wooden box attached to it. Inside the box will be a special small leather bag with jewels inside of it that are priceless. If you make it back to this village with those stones you will become an elder. So it has been for more years than can be remembered. If you fail in this task and do not bring back the new jewels you will be barred from entering this village and from ever seeing your family again. Most do not return for reasons you will understand along the course of your journey. You will either succeed or fail. Either decision is up to you. Now, here are your stones to carry to the other coast. They will help you stay on your path.”

The elder dropped two small stones in each of Showto’s boots. He wrapped the boots in leather straps so that they would not fall out. He said, “Go to your wife and son now, tonight may be the last time you see them.”

Chapter 5: Signs to Nowhere

After the man died Showto left and was tearful. Although he could not remember the man’s name he mourned him as if he were his brother. To Showto he was. He carried with him the same burden as Showto carried now: the thought that he might never see his beloved family again.

The next morning Showto left and continued travelling east along the road. Toward the afternoon he saw a shiny sign along the path and as he approached he read the words on it out loud. “You are almost there.” The sign gave Showto a new sense of purpose and sped him along. He found more signs with messages like “keep going” and “Don’t give up.” He drove himself for days running to see the next sign and its message. Within a month he crested a mountain and looked below. There stretched out before him in mile after mile of liquid blue was the ocean. The path led him down but before he could approach the shore he heard agonizing cries tear through the air. He crept forward to see a man next to the last sign that simply read, “You are here.” Beneath the sign was a box which had an engraving on it. Showto could not see read the engraving and soon gave up to listen to the man as he lamented.

“It was a trick! A lie! A filthy murderous ruse! No jewels, No jewels, No jewels!” Showto saw that holes had been made all around the sign and its box. The man screamed on into the night and it took all of his watcher’s forbearance not to come to his aid. The man had a beard and his knees were raw and bleeding. Rags were hanging off the skin of his ankles and what remained of his feet looked as if they had been cauterized. He was mad with delirium and fever and stayed that way for two days. During that time Showto watched as he dug holes around the sign looking for jewels. The jewels that he needed to take back with him, the same jewels that Showto needed as well.

Showto had no idea who this man was or for how long he had been gone from the village. After two days of watching the man dig until his fingers were stumps he woke up on the third day to silence. From his perch he looked down to the beach and saw that the man was tormented no more. Slowly he walked to the sign and looked at the box below it. Engraved in the top of the box was one word, “jewels.” He looked inside and found that the box was empty.

Showto spent days looking around the beach trying to find small anything that matched the jewels the elders had told him about. He searched north along the coast for two weeks finding nothing but holes and bones, hHoles where other men had dug, and bones where they had died and the seabirds had eaten their flesh. He travelled south from the sign and found nothing but the same thing. He sat by the sign for over a month after first seeing it and contemplated what he would do next.

He had made it here even if he no longer had stones in his boots. He would not stay here and dig holes aimlessly like so many others did before him. It was obvious that no stones were here to be found. He decided to not waste another moment, and he stood up just as the sun rose from the east. He told himself that if he could help it, he would not walk towards a sunrise for a long time. Just like that Showto turned around and headed home. He walked for months and months. He ate and slept when he felt like it and did not hurry or tire but kept a steady pace. He made great time as he was no longer hobbled by the stones and by and by the miles ahead grew smaller and smaller.

One day Showto came to the top of a hill and saw an old man. The man saw him and he put a finger to his lips signing that Showto should not speak. This seemed natural to him as he had not spoken to another person in over three years. The man motioned for Showto to wait where he was and promptly left. Hours later the man returned with other men who Showto recognized as they approached. He wept openly as Mancuso and the elders of his tribe approached him.

For hours the men did not speak yet they gave Showto food, water and clothing and sat and watched him as he ate. One of them took the small bag from around his neck and emptied four blood stained stones into his palm. At that moment Mancuso looked at Showto and said “Welcome home.”

Chapter Six: Wisdom

The elders began by asking Showto questions.

“When did you remove the stones from your boots?”

“When I realized life was not worth living if all I did was inflict pain upon myself.”

“What do you think was the importance of not speaking during the quest?”

“So that I could realize the value of words.”

They looked at each other and asked him to tell them his story from the beginning to the end. He spared no detail and had no shame in telling of his failures as well as his triumphs. They slept in on the hill together and in the morning Showto continued. As the night was approaching Showto finished telling his story and the elders asked him some more questions.

“Why did you not help the man who was digging for stones”

“He had his health and his reason at one point and had traded them in for an unachievable task. He would not listen to what his own eyes and ears and heart were telling him. He definitely would not have believed me so I chose to let him walk his own path.”

“Why do you think we keep the stones journey a secret?”

“It is for each man to decide the path that he will walk. Letting the information out among everyone would create novelty and chaos in our village instead of balance and harmony we have based on individual sacrifice for what one wants in life.”

At this point the elders stood and wrapped Showto in white robes and led him back to the village. The village cheered at his approach because they knew a new elder approached. Showto walked slowly and carefully among them until he saw his wife standing before him. The moon was rising behind her and cast a glow over her light brown skin. Her hair was waving in the small breeze and when Showto beheld her he thought to himself that he had never appreciated life and his wife so much as he did at that moment. He knew without a doubt in his mind that he would love her forever.

Marasu, for his part grew up strong and wise with the tutelage of the tribe and his father. He was well respected in the village and late on a summer’s evening as the sun was sinking in the west he turned and faced it while looking out over the lake. The lake seemed to be on fire as it reflected the burgundy, purple and auburn clouds above it and the rays of the dying sun across it. Walking out of the water of the lake came the most beautiful women he had ever seen. He knew at that moment that he would love this woman for ever…

Everlasting Blue

2009-10-12T10:59:00.000-07:00

I sat with him

On a hulking steal runway

Talking or not

Watching always

Enjoying

The billowing blue

The pattern breaks

The perpetual Pacific

Runs beneath us and

Our dangling dogged limbs

Smelled of tangent truth

And unabashed love, unspoken

The wind whispered strong

Secrets to us two

The only people to hear them

He twitched, a byproduct

Of a summer time stroke

Kept time with the clouds

And sun as they moved

Overhead like silky shadows

My bell bottom pants

Whistled and shook

Carried deftly along

By forward progress, wind

And the work of others

I was on top

Of a floating world

Small, my Grandfather

Sat beside me, and

Together we watched

He squinted in the face

Of his old friend

The Sun, greeted him

warmly in return, they

being great friends

He looked to me,

Saw the trim of

Tattoos and tears

Of one meant for

a long sea voyage

I saw pride in

Those timeless eyes

Pride which I can

Carry with me

And measure myself

Pride which one day

I hoped

To look back and see

That with great effort

I lived up to

I carry with me lots of things

2009-10-12T10:45:00.000-07:00

The clothes on my back

A bag or sack

The shoes on my feet

Stomping down the street

Lined paper to no end

A few dozen pens

Books for school

A multipurpose tool

Flashlight for light

Glasses for sight

A planner for planning

Some language for damning

Lent rolled in a ball

Band-Aids, for a fall

Some change for a coffee

A package of toffee

Some stuff I don’t recall

But this is just about all

Mohave Summer

2009-07-06T21:00:00.000-07:00

Chapter One

Dale and I caught a train heading west in Las Cruces New Mexico. This was no easy task as Dale was what I would call retarded and the more politically correct crowd would call challenged. Hell, Dale was the kind of guy that everything was a challenge for. Not that he was not an able guy it just took a shit load of time to get him moving in the direction you wanted him too. I had to explain to him over and over what we were going to do. He would listen like someone blowing over a half drank coke bottle making a slight moaning sound. “Dale we are going to jump on this train and take it to Arizona,” then Dale would say, “Uuuuhhhhhhhhh.” Just like the damn coke bottle sound. After a dozen or so goes at it Dale would finally comprehend and give me the super understanding Dale smile. He would put his teeth together with the gap in the middle showing nice and sweet and pull his big smackers away from them. His face would light up like a Christmas tree and understanding would take over. That would be it for Dale. Once he got it there was no going back. He was like an attack dog on a singular mission. No deviation, no surrender until the task was accomplished.

He jumped on the train while it was moving and turned around looking at me running beside it trying to get on as well. I threw our bag of meager possessions up to him and he giggled and threw it back to me. “Dale just hold on to the fucking bag.” “Uhhhhhhhhh,” and a crazed moon chuckle was all I got in return for my efforts, but goddamn that got me laughing so hard that when I made my move to enter the world of rail riding the trip almost ended right there. I made my grab for the box car and almost slipped right off of it, onto the tracks, and to an uncomfortable ending of ,what could be, the best summer ever. Dale though, in a moment of retard clarity, reached down with his Lenny like strength and heaved me in laughing like a mad man the whole time. He is a funny mother sometimes that Dale.

So that is it. We are now heading west young man, on the back of a steel elephant. To the real west where it is still wild and raw and nasty. To drink pirate rum, howl at the moon, fuck copious amounts of relenting women and sally forth into debauchery like no one has ever heard of. Into a place where motorcycles and dune-buggies share the road. Where big boats run the Colorado and the bars smell like vomit and burnt condoms. Smack dab in the middle of the Mojave desert is a place that is the Shang-ri-la of people looking to drink doubles and act single. A place where the percentage of alcohol related accidents in the summer is only topped by the amount of women carrying sexually transmitted diseases trading them with men like Pokemon cards. The CDC could use it as a petri dish. The Mojave valley. Lake Havasu City, Arizona.

Dale is over in the corner rolling a joint and giggling to himself. Dale was taught to roll joints at a young age by his Mother. It was her way of saying “hey your a retard, not a useless retard.” Dale has a younger brother named Six Dollar Dave, he is a manager at Carl's Jr, who once told me that Dale was rolling joints for Mom ever since he could remember. Pretty sure she was smoking when he was in the old breadbasket too. Dale at 29 years old cant tie his own shoes but he can roll a perfect doobey in less than two minutes. He is a fucking genius at it. The positive side is when he is stoned he doesn't act as dopey as he normally does. Or maybe when I'm ripped out of my head I don't notice it as much. Someday I will have to try and not smoke when he does and solve that riddle. Meanwhile I use the two minutes I have to spare before spark time to check our thrown together mess of belongings in the single pack I brought along. Inside is two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a box of condoms, a sweater my dear old Grandmother bought me from JC Penny's at Christmas last year, 4 pairs of shorts, eighty dollars in bills and coin, a map of Arizona, and 3 tee shirts. One of the tee shirts has a picture of The Hulk on the front that belongs to Dale, another teeshirt has a picture of a girl dancing on a pole with a caption underneath that says “I support single mothers, one dollar at a time”. That one belongs to me. Things that are blatantly missing are underwear, socks, and any toiletries. Neither one of us has any use for underwear, the only shoes we brought were the flip flops on our feet and I figure we can steal tooth brushes from the local drug store when we get where we are going.

Dale finished the joint and passed it over for the lighting ceremony which consists of me taking the lighter out of my pocket and getting the fire started. He probably has passed me over a thousand silly sticks in my lifetime and they all have looked exactly the same. It just occurred to me that he never once has lit his own. Not once. Fucking retard. I take a huge stinky rip and pass it his way. No coughing, no fuss, just pure la la loopy fun.

I dig out the map of Arizona and stare at the route we are taking to get to Lake Havasu. The box car we are currently sitting in is attached to a big ass engine that is bound for California with a stop in Parker, Arizona. My drunk Uncle Tom, no not the one from the cabin, works for Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railroad company as a switch supervisor. I do not have a clue what the hell that is but he knows where all the trains go to and can spit out timetables and cities all around the country. Other than that he is a considerable piece of shit with whom I probably would not talk to very often but he grows the best pot in a green house in his backyard. He was also the one that told us a lot about Lake Havasu, the train going near there, and what we would come to expect out there. O.K. so he redeemed himself a little bit by doing that and he unknowingly let us steal a half pound of his finest Though, before he started smoking he used to beat the bah-Jesus out of my Aunt Helen. I stole the pot for her outta protest for historical wrong doings and such. God damn I am zipping up to twenty five thousand feet now and getting off track. So Uncle Tom gave us a lot of ammo for our traveling/adventuring guns and now we are headed for Parker, Arizona where we should be able to get drunker than a hundred Indians and hitch the last hour up to Lake Havasu.

I have a buddy I went to school with who lives up there also and has been hounding me to come up for a few years. He moved out there about five years ago from Las Cruces. He used to beat up Dale all the time in school and I used to beat him up for beating Dale up and we all became great pals. His name is Mark but everyone who knows him calls him Tread-Mark because of an occasion where his ex-girlfriend ran him over on purpose with his own car. Broke his leg in two places and left him with a hobble that just wont quit. I do not think the son of a bitch has worked a whole day in his life since. That hobble gets him laid about three nights a week too. The girls feel sorry for him I guess. Any way, Tread-Mark has been wanting us to come out and visit, Uncle gave us the means, and I had never rode in a box car before so there we are.

Besides that life in Las Cruces, as with many places in America right now, sucks a big fat cock. I am a used Recreational Vehicle salesman. Dale washes the RVs in the back for minimum wage plus all the coffee and dough-nuts he can stomach. I have lost my home and am living with Dale and his vindictive stoner hippie mother. My car got repossessed last week and the weather calls for more shit coming out of the east by way of the IRS. Fuck it. Fuck that life, fuck that way of living, fuck it all. I am done with trying to live like everyone tells me I should. I do not give a flying fuck about the Dow Jones, who the President is, what new fucking movie is out, and who Brittany Spears is banged by behind a garbage bin while doing rails off of the cock of the actor who played guy number two for the night. I do not care see. It all is a great big ball of horse-shit see. It is a distraction from what truly matters in life, living, and it makes me feel as hopeless as a guy trying to open a pickle jar without opposable thumbs. I mean come on. It is just too fucking much to deal with. End of rant.

I mean I tried folks. I tried to live the normal life. I tried to have a dog, and a job, and only one girlfriend who I was going to marry someday, and a house that I owned, and tons of cool stuff. Guess what? Even though my tax money is going to the banks that initially fucked us all in the first place I still cannot get anyone approved for an RV loan. That means I cannot sell a god damn thing. That means that I cannot pay for my home which was foreclosed on by the same bank that I gave my tax money too. That means that the car I bought that was safe and green and reliable got picked up by an asshole who's tow truck blows diesel smoke and said Camel Towing on the side of it. The repo guy isn't hurting for business let me tell you. My dog ran away and my girlfriend ended up giving me HPV that she got from the next door neighbor that worked nights at the local Denny's. She was banging him while I was trying to get old people to pull the trigger on overpriced hunks of shit that were last years models that did not sell then. End of rant number two. Maybe more later, I'm stoned, deal with it.

So with that said I am no longer part of the rat race I am part of no race. I have no creed, no social standards or standing, and no morals. I am and will now always be a nothing. I am the guy that the sign is for on the bathroom door at six dollar Dave's fast food joint. Se lave los manos. Actually I am not even that guy. I am the guy that if you tell me to wash my hands I am going to tell you to go fuck a Nun. I am a camp counselor at camp run-a-muck. Dale is the nurse. The world is my piss pot. I am a big failure. I am a bum on a train. I have a retarded best friend who rolls joints. I have to put cream on my dick once a day. I sell pot for a living. I have eighty dollars to my name. I will spend the next four months of my life, from memorial weekend to labor day weekend, in the Mojave desert in what some would call a free falling downward spiral. Tra la dee da, hoopity hoo. The crazy thing is for the first time in a long time I am really stoked about all of it.

Chapter 2: Stoned Train to Parker

Just a heads up. The text that is smaller than what you are reading now is excerpts of really fucked up shit that I wrote in my pocket journal while leveling off at 35000 feet. Yes I have a journal, no I do not suck balls and assholes. It is either this and weed or assault rifles and post offices. You decide. One of the excerpts is a story told by the Indian Princess Dawn Potter, she had a white dad which explains the name, and another one was a dream I had on this very train I am on now. I wont spoil it for you though.

So after blowing through a few joints with Dale and watching the early morning turn bright and desolate I started scratching away with pen ink and paper.
I am out of the city now, away from the hustle and flow of life in las Cruces and into the rural desert area east of Tucson. Dale and I are on joint number 4 and I am higher than Ben Franklin's kite. I dosed through the erratic transition between sweltering, jumbled, madness that is Las Cruces and the light, sleepy, slowness of the countryside. The stark light, tan mounds, browns, rocky hills, and cloudless blue skies seem to be awkward and desolate and beautiful all at the same time.

The train rolls on, rocking back and forth, lurching and shaking as if it has some kind of illness it cannot explain. Small clouds dot the sky now and the sun seems to be plowing through them in an unhurried nomadic way. I have slowed down as well. I feel rested and young and indifferent. The ungodly tossing and turning that has plagued me for a week while worrying about the end of my normal existence, has ended and I am painfully aware of being lolled to sleep while moving. My stomach is full of peanut butter, jelly, and wheat bread.

It is not all space and dust out here. Technology raises its many faceted head in the distance, diffracting light and peace and simpleness, detracting from its surrounding, a cellular tower. A country woman is out feeding chickens. She is probably a decendant from many other women who stood and fed the relations of the chickens pecking around her feet. Hopefully she never realizes what the cell tower bodes or maybe she already does. Her man is stuck between rows of cabbages, endlessly toiling for his family, weeding. Another house in the distance and a man raises his arm in a forlorn salute and waves it from his front porch, to me and a toothy Dale, not in greeting but to say goodbye to us and things he will never see. As the train passes him everything is soft, muted, tan and brown.

All the thoughts of whats ahead have been thought and discarded. As long as the train continues on its path I will continue along mine. This train is my destiny for the moment. The quiet before the storm. The path of the train is easy and meandering without deviation except for the lurch and roll, though that too is constant. Maybe the lurch and roll is the trains unhappy way of dealing with the smoking tendrils of thought about life on a straight path. The whisper of a life of freedom and choice. The train has the same choices as its passengers, to stop or to go, to be or not, for good or not. To close our eyes or to have them opened. I fear for those who have their eyes closed. What will happen when they miss the transitions that life has put before them. Will they be able to adjust to the stark difference of their own reality, of where they were to where they ended up? Will they be able to see how they arrived there?

The sun is high in the sky. Just sitting up there making the sky turn liquid, chaotic and crazy. It is an emotional thing this train and for awhile I look at the emotions around the train painted like the liquid sky, chaotic and crazy. Dale looks anxious to reach a destination, maybe any destination, or maybe he looks onto his final destination with trepidation and loathing. My only thoughts are of where we are at and what is happening around us. Outside of this pent up emotional vehicle a bright slow landscape passes by. It barely takes note of our passing and we barely have a chance to process it. Just more strangers meeting in someplace they thought they would never see each other. Still the music of the desert plays on, the mournful voice of wind sings her fears to us and to the countryside abyss outside. It makes me feel alone for a spell because I do not understand the words, so I do not understand her worry. Though this passenger feels alive because of it. To be someplace that I have never been before, sitting here in a boxcar with only my thoughts to keep me company.

I could jump from the train right now and be lost to the world forever. I do not though. I have Dale roll two more joints for me and him. For now this is my home, my path, and the only place I want to be.

Reading back over this I realize that I am out of my god damn mind and I start to giggle just like my retarded buddy. If you have never been on a trip across a desert I recommend it. It is a beautiful place because of its bleak nothingness and strange quiet. I wish I had some mushrooms. That would be a good time but I know at some point I would be out the doors and rolling down an embankment to live with the fairy people. I probably would be lost forever with a saguaro cactus up my ass and snakes and scorpions doing a mariachi dance on my sun bleached skull.

Well no mushrooms here and so Dale and I passed the time across the desert by snoozing and smoking. We had full water bottles and no more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches which is kind of shitty seein as how we had the munchies something fierce. We talked about food a bit though. Bacon, eggs, toast and orange juice is what we agreed upon as the best meal ever created. Dale is pretty specific about the things he likes. He is pretty vocal in that sense. Well as vocal as a retard with a speech problem can be.

I met him when we were 12 years old. He walked right up to me and slapped me in the mouth as hard as he could. Now Dale is no slouch and was always bigger than everyone else in that mongoloid kind of way. He was guffawing like the crazy person that he is when I picked myself up off the ground and punched him dead in the mouth with everything I had in me. Two things happened at the same time.
The first was that I really do not believe that Dale had ever been hit before in his life. When I punched him he fell down on his butt and just sat there putting the universe together in his own special way. The output of that input was that him and I were friends from that day on. No matter the social injustices that were received by yours truly for being friends with a big old laughing dumb ass, he was still my friend and I looked after him. I can't say now why I have been his friend for this long without sounding trite and simple myself. The guy makes me piss my pants. He has got a big ass heart and I swear he is smarter than most everybody else on the planet.

The second thing that happened when I punched him was that Mrs. Dunnhill a teacher at our elementary school, or Dunghill to us kids, and also the wife of a preacher at the Baptist church across the road saw me flatten him. She was sort of the moral thermometer in town. What transpired next was not only the most fucked up thing that had ever happened to a boy but should have been illegal. This crazy broad runs down the stairs from the school building and runs over to me yelling her fool head off the whole god damn way. She runs up to me and grabs me with her big meats by the throat while chanting at the top of her throat “you apologize, you apologize right now damn you” over and over again like a fucking loon. I cant apologize for shit because she is cutting off the blood and airflow to my noggin and I'm starting to get tunnel vision. No shit, I had bruises on my throat. Well that bitch drags me into the principals office and tells him what I did. He starts yelling at me and I am still recovering my vision when he starts whacking my ass with a paddle. I do not know how many times that fuckin screw ball whacked me but I woke up in the nurses office with my Dad thumping me on the head yelling wake up you son of a bitch. I had a damn diaper on because my ass was bloody and raw. My Dad thumping me on the head with his fist, the principal talking sternly to my mother outside the nurses office while Dunghill was nodding her head vigorously. My Jaw hurt because Dale whacked me and I could barely swallow because of the choke hold Mother fucking Superior put on me. I looked up at my Dad and I do not to this day know what my he saw in my eyes but he stopped cuffing me with a quickness. I got up from the table and walked over in my diaper and closed and locked the door on the Principal, Dunghill, and my Mother. I then walked back over to my dad and told him exactly what had happened from start to stop. My Dad teared up a little bit which I took as a good sign. He put a sheet around me to save me some embarrassment and took me out and put me in the car.

What happened next I only heard about second hand but it was almost worth the beating I took to hear about it. Almost. See Dad is slow to get angry but those steps from the car back to the school most have been long enough to get him down right boiling. A friend told me that he was standing outside of the Nurses office when my Dad came back. He grabbed the principal by the neck and shoved him into the infirmary. From what my friend told me he took off his belt and held the wiry little principal while he whipped him into unconsciousness. Dad worked on Diesel engines for the local electric company. He was not a huge man but I could attest that he was stronger than most men bigger than himself. When my Dad left the infirmary my friend said the principal was laying on the floor. He then grabbed Dunghill by her neck and marched her all the way across the street in the middle of town to the church where her husband was the minister and where we all went. I do not know what transpired over there but I saw him as did a lot of other people march her over there kicking and screaming the whole time.

About a week later I went back to school with some bruises and a sore butt. I held my head up high and had never been more proud of being my fathers son. He had righted a lot of wrongs in one fell swoop. We still attended the same church. The only things that changed after that day were that Dunghill was very reluctant to get in the lime light. The city council stopped corporeal punishment without Parent permission and I was best friends with a retard named Dale that made it all happen. Told ya he was smarter than everyone else.

Chapter 3:Sheep dreams

I woke up right before dawn as the train lurched to an awful stop. Dale smiled at me and I smiled back. He was already fixing up the morning smoke signals and I started to think about the dream I had. It ended and the train stopped. It was all about Sheep and Wolves and Shepherds. It was pretty fucking nuts. I will try my best to relate it here.

In the seven connecting valleys of Heron there lived a heard of sheep. These were not the normal sheep we are familiar with today. They were not slow witted and bullish nor were they pinned or kept by anyone. They were magnificent sheep that roamed the seven valleys navigating by keen intellect and sharp instincts.
They had lived in this valley as far back as they could remember. Time was not something that was measured more of something that was realized as it passed. They did not count the seasons but knew that when it started turning cold it was time to move down the seven valleys into the southern areas. When they reached the last of the seven valleys in the south they would turn around and migrate back to the north. Thus they passed the years moving north and south as the weather dictated.
The sheep themselves were aware. They gave great thought to what there place was in the world. The did not consider themselves above or below any other animal on the ground or in the air. They knew about the other animals and watched as they went about their business as the sheep went about their own. Migrating and eating grass, migrating and eating grass. The sheep enjoyed the simpleness of life and the conversation amongst themselves on the many wonders of it.
The sheep were different from one another as we are different from each other. Not only in color but in propensity. They all looked different with colors as widely displayed as a rainbow but they also had different outlooks on the world around them and shared them freely. They bred when the group was lacking in numbers and they kept a sort of equilibrium with the quantities of grass available and the amount of sheep in the group.
Inhabiting the valleys were also a pack of wolves. The wolves were fine animals as well. More exotic and intelligent than any wolf of our day. In fact the sheep would not have minded the wolves at all except that sometimes they would feed on the sheep. The sheep were always wary of the pack because of this and tried to make sure that no sheep strayed off on its own. They failed in this sometime and one of the sheep would stray and be taken by the wolf pack. They always reminded themselves that in numbers they were far superior to the wolves and all they had to do was stick together.
The wolves lived on the outskirts of the valleys in the forests and behind the hills of the wide open spaces that the sheep frequented. They roamed and played, raised their pups, and hunted for food. Like most animals they too migrated from the northern valleys to the southern valleys and back again with the seasons. They were a jovial pack and had a strong sense of family. They all had different personalities and nuances but for the most part they formed a tight unit.
They did not hunt the sheep singularly but took sustenance when and where it came. In fact sometimes the wolves would sit on the edge of the forest and listen to the herd of sheep talk amongst themselves, discussing everything under the sun, and think about these things too. Like the time did not pass for them, they just existed. They thought about themselves and the place they made for the pack in the world and were happy with it.
One day a shepherd came amongst the sheep and talked with them. He told them stories of things they had never before heard from outside the seven valleys. He told them stories of his life and his family and his adventures. The sheep grew to love the shepherd and the shepherd grew to love the sheep. He stayed with the sheep for many years. He was amiable, and a great companion for the sheep.
One day while the shepherd was walking he came upon a lamb who had strayed from the herd and was surrounded by the wolf pack who was steadily closing in. The shepherd picked up a knobby branch of an old oak tree, gave a ferocious roar and charged into the wolf pack. The wolves were taken by surprise and began to turn and run. The shepherd however was faster still and struck one of the wolves on the head. The rest of the wolves ran back into the forest and hid among the trees, whispering amongst themselves about this new animal. Wondering why he chased them from food that rightfully belonged to them.
The Shepherd picked up the unmolested lamb that had strayed and took it back to the herd. The lamb told all the other sheep the story of the shepherd and how he had saved him from certain death at the hands of the wolves. He recounted how the shepherd had yelled and hit one of the wolves with a staff. The lambs were at first confused by the actions of the shepherd who had killed a wolf but they became so overjoyed at the return of the lamb they soon forgot their uneasiness.
Meanwhile the wolves had come back to the spot of the attack by the Shepherd. They were utterly amazed to find the wolf who had been struck still laying in the same spot dead. They talked this over for many nights and came to the conclusion that the shepherd did not want the wolves for food, the shepherd wanted the wolves destruction.
This incensed the wolves. They made forays into the herd of sheep in the darkest of night to retaliate against the sheep and the shepherd. Now no longer did they kill sheep for food but for revenge on the shepherd. The shepherd had kept his staff however and anytime the wolves would attack the shepherd was there to drive them away. Due to the heroics of the shepherd the sheep made him the leader of the pack.
From then on the Shepherd would protect the herd from the wolves. He would still lose sheep sometimes but it was not because he did not try and protect them. Sometimes they still wandered off. He also took charge of moving the sheep to a different valley when he thought the valley they were in was getting to full of wolves.
No more were the days of the sheep slowly progressing through the valleys as the seasons dictated. Now the Shepherd and the wolves dictated the pace. Sometimes the sheep would leave the valley before the grass had all been eaten, other times the sheep would stay to long and some of the flock would die of hunger.
The shepherd pushed the sheep to reproduce more to make up for the lost numbers that the wolves would take and that died from hunger. The sheep trusted the shepherd and promised to do just that. In fact even though more sheep died in the next few years than had ever died before the sheep flourished as a species. The sheep hardly ever noticed when a sheep would be taken because of the abundance of sheep in the herd.
This was also true of the wolf pack. They flourished as the sheep did. They had an abundant food source and lusted after the meet of the sheep. Sometimes they would forgo other animals in the forest because they liked sheep better than anything else. This went on for generations of wolves and sheep. It lasted for eight thousand years.
During this time the shepherd had grown very old while his herd of sheep had flourished in numbers never before reached. It was not the same herd as he had once known thousands of years before. It was very rare that any of the sheep talked to the shepherd. In fact a sheep had not talked to him for a couple thousand years. These sheep only ate and slept. He had to move them to southern and northern valleys when the weather turned with his will, and sometimes with violence by striking out at them with his old staff of oak. He was lonely and old, and he knew that his time in the valleys would soon be over.
Even though he no longer had the same relationship with the sheep as he had before he still felt obligated to make sure they were cared for after he left. The sheep were stubborn and unintelligent now and in no shape to care for themselves. He thought about this problem for twenty years until he came to the only conclusion that the shepherd could think of that would save his sheep from total annihilation. He would have to talk with the only other species that needed the sheep for their own survival.
The Shepherd left the sheep one day and strode into the forest. He could sense that the wolf pack was all around so he called out in his voice to the wolves that he wanted an audience with them. The wolves responded with growls and howls, barks and gnashing of teeth. They were no longer the wolves that they had been either. They had become killers, hunters, rippers, cutters, shredders. They knew that the shepherd had killed hundreds, if not thousands, of wolves in his life time. They could smell death on him and they longed to bring that to him.
The Shepherd did not give up on his idea however and soon found the most ancient of all the wolves. The leader of the pack. The pack leader was thousands of years old and was the son of the first wolf that the Shepherd had ever killed. Though he hated the Shepherd for his waste and theft that day, he also respected the Shepherd as a warrior and pack leader of the sheep so he allowed him to come forward.
The Shepherd told the pack leader that he was going to die soon and that when he did the sheep in their current state would be totally open to complete destruction by the wolf pack. Without him they would not move in cold weather and would not stay together to protect themselves against the wolves. The wolf smiled at this knowing the Shepherd was telling the truth. The Shepherd continued by saying the destruction of the entire herd by the pack of wolves would not be in the best interest of the wolves themselves.
The shepherd then outlined a plan where the wolf could feed his pack for an eternity. He taught the wolf how to be a shepherd. He taught him about the seasons and when the sheep needed to be moved. He taught the wolf that by using the herds own fear he could move them when they needed to be moved. He taught the wolves everything he had learned about how to make the sheep flourish. The pack leader listened to everything the shepherd said and thought about it for some time. He then asked the Shepherd why he should follow the plan laid out for him. The Shepherd gave the pack leader the only thing he had to give, his life. He promised the pack leader that his pack could have him with no fight if the wolves would swear on his oak staff, with the blood of a thousand wolves on it, that they would follow the plan.
That night the pack leader agreed to the terms set out by the Shepherd and swore his most solemn oath on the oak staff. When he was finished the Shepherd dropped his staff to the ground allowing the wolf pack to tear him apart. They fed upon him all night until the early morning when not one drop of blood from the Shepherd was left. They then set about the task that the Shepherd had outlined for them. Using fear to control the sheep and drive them where they needed them to go. This lasted for many years.
One day a black sheep was born. Due to the way the sheep were breading a black sheep had not been born in some time. The sheep were mostly white and were not different from each other like the colors of the rainbow as they were before. This black sheep was not just different to the others in color, this black sheep was born aware.
The black sheep was aware of what his species had become, a herd of dumb animals. He was aware of who was herding them through the old valleys that were their home, the violent and ferocious wolves that fed on them. He knew what he had to do to stop the sheep from living in fear and desperation, always needing someone to drive them instead of taking care of themselves as individuals. The black sheep that was aware had to awaken his brothers and sisters and make them aware as well. He hoped it was not to late and his fellows would be able to grasp what he was trying to say.
The black sheep called to his fellows, in the way they all used to talk, and tried to explain to them what was happening. He spoke for hours and tried over and over again to reach the sheep but to no avail. Soon he became frustrated with the sheep as they fought over clumps of grass and fought between themselves and yelled at them, roared at them with everything he could muster. This startled the sheep and they became hushed and stared this way and that trying to see the threat to them. This they understood, this they followed. A roar, a bark, a nip at the heels. It was then the black sheep realized what he needed to do.
The black sheep roared behind the herd, nipping at their forelegs, and for the first time the sheep forgot about the dangers of the forest and as a group rushed toward it at an awesome pace. The earth shook as thousands upon thousands of sheep screamed while pounding the ground in a mad pace to get clear of whatever was behind them. The sheep were so frightened that they ran right into the camp of the wolf pack. As the herd outnumbered the wolves one hundred to one they trampled every single wolf to the last one.
The black sheep wept for joy but his joy was short lived. The sheep herd turned and kept running back toward the black sheep now in sheer terror and madness of everything that had happened. The drove straight down upon the black sheep crushing him as they had the wolf pack.
Later that day the sheep calmed and went back to grazing in the valley they currently were located in having completely forgotten the events that took place that morning. They did not even wonder where the black sheep had gone. A month later the grass in that valley ran out and the sheep began to starve. The temperature became colder and the sheep did not know what to do. In the spring thaw the valley was almost completely white from the bones of dead sheep. Not one made it, not one.
That spring the birds came out and sang as they had been for thousands of years. The bears rolled around with their pups, the otters played in the streams, the flowers bloomed and not one of the living things in the seven valleys of Heron missed the sheep or the wolves. I would say though they were affected none the less. The grass was especially tall that year.

I look over at the joint that Dale just rolled and I think to myself goddamn I need to cut back a little bit. Well maybe tomorrow. We are in Parker and I am excited to Poke around the town and see whats what.

Chapter 4: Parker, booze and Indians

So about eight in the morning Dale and I leave the train yard and roll into Parker proper. By the looks of things the town is populated by about forty five hundred people. It sits smack dab in the middle of the Colorado River Indian Tribe reservation and has a casino called the Blue Water. We stopped at a Circle K and asked the Indian lady behind the counter, feather not a dot, where a cool bar near the water is and she directed us up the road about 5 miles to the Roadrunner. About an hour later we see a sign for the establishment pointing down towards the river. Dale starts in giggling and I have to smile as well. We can smell the river, bacon, and booze. It looks like it is going to be a good morning.

The bar is located on a float on the river itself. Boats are already tied up to it and people are having breakfast. I was not prepared to see this place so busy so early as the town seemed kind of quiet. Dale and I had bacon and eggs, Bloody Mary's, and cold cans of Budweiser. The television was playing Ferris Buellers day off and and for two hours we watched that, watched the boats coming and going, watched the temperature creep over one hundred, watched cold cans of beer race down our thirsty gullets. I gotta tell you, it could have been the weed, the Bloody Mary's, or the 8 beers me and Dale consumed, or a combination of the three but I was feeling great.

Cameron was telling Ferris how pissed off he was about his life and kicking the shit out of his Dads Ferrari. The Ferrari fell off the jacks and went racing through the glass in the back of the showroom garage and dropped about a hundred feet to the canyon floor behind Cameron's house. Dale started laughing hysterically and I thought to myself what a euphemism on life. Sometimes you have to kick some fucking Ferrari's off a cliff. Sometimes you have to put yourself out there on the edge of it all and just say fuck it. Kick the shit out of all the seemingly important shit and really try to find what the hell is important. I looked at Dale and told him if we see any Ferrari's near cliffs they are done for. He nodded his head in reckless abandon.

About that time two early twenty something entered through the door and I was quick to make sure they knew that drinks and seats were available right next to us at a fraction of the cost of buying them themselves. The first girl set down next to Dale and he immediately started chuckling under his breath a little bit. He gave her the super understanding Dave smile and I knew that I would have to act quickly to keep her smiling back at him. She was a little plump and had the air of a girl who knew she was not the greatest catch in the world and was a little bitter about it. Though I will say these girls tend to give some of the best blow jobs ever once you get past the icy exterior and into the squishy interior. I however was after bigger or should I say better fish. The other girl introduced themselves as Dawn and plump girl as Debbie. Dawn and Debbie. Kind of has a nice dirty little ring to it. I liked them instantly.

Dawn was not a knock out but she was oh so pretty. She had nice olive skin and dark raven hair and a fit and trim body that was begging to be out in the sun naked and free. Her smile could open doors at Fort Knox. We talked and Dawn told us they were locals and lived in Parker. She was half Indian on her Mom's side of the family. Dad owned a boat repair facility in town. Blah, blah, blah, nice, nice, nice. Another round of Tequila please. By about four in the afternoon we were all in the bag and Dale was tickling the fat girl something fierce and hee-hawing like crazy. Now Dale is the only retard that gets laid more frequently than most normal guys. He is tall and stout and he usually does not say anything to speak of but he laughs and listens and sometimes blows beer through his nose when he things something is really a hoot. Most girls once they get to a certain drunkard level think he is just shy. I know that besides his paper and asparagus rolling act he is a complete doh-doh bird. He also is hung like a donkey which helps him out in a jam.

I suggest to the girls that I take my last nine dollars and buy a six pack and go out by the river in a nice spot they may know about and watch the sun go down. They agreed with the understanding of angelic little love cherubs and with a sixer from the bar we were off like a prom dress at midnight. They did know of a nice little spot up river and even had some blankets to lay out from the trunk of the old import they were driving. We sat by the river and watched the sun go down and talked and drank beer and generally had a fan-fucking-tastic good time.

About an hour after we arrived Dale was led up river a little ways by the now, ever so beautiful and loving Debbie. Dawn said that Debbie was such a little slut and I hoped more than anything that slutty girls ran in packs. I asked Dawn about life as an Indian girl in a joking kind of way and she really opened up to me. She said that sometimes it was hard being a half breed. Other tribe members looked down on her due to her mixed heritage. I asked her why she didn't go live somewhere else. She told me that this was home as far she knew. I told her that way of thinking is totally against everything that Dale and I stood for, or no longer stood for or whatever. She told me that her great grandfather had lived during the middle part of the eighteen hundreds and had then still been a semi free Indian. Her mom told her that her great grandfather had been a wise man and a trusted elder of the tribe. He was a dreamer and told stories about his dreams. I asked her if she knew any of his stories and she said she knew all of them that could be remembered. She said that she knew one perfect for this ostentatious meeting.

The Three White Men
As told by Dawn Jade Potter of the CRIT Indians

I dreamed last night of three men hiking on the tall rocks of the earth. It is when they reached the summit that they looked upon the true beauty of earth in the valley below. This valley was the place where all beautiful things in the world come from. It was the place where Mother Earth kept all of the original copies of the beauty that she spread around the earth. These three white men when they looked upon this they were mesmerized, each in his own way, by the sight of it. The men ran down from the advantage point of the tall rocks and into the valley below where they came upon a small hill in the center. They climbed the hill and rested on top as they surveyed their surroundings. The first man with an eye for the beautiful and appreciation for such stood after a long while and sang to the valley. He sang the song that the birds, the bones of the earth, the bees, the lizards, and the deer sing. He sang the song of rivers and the wind and he wept all the wile. Upon hearing this song the second man stood and pulled a knife from his belt and stabbed at the song singer. The man fell to the ground washing it with his life. He looked up at his traitorous companion and asked him how he could do such a thing in this Holy place. The man answered that the song sounded evil because he did not understand it. It was not sung in the white tongue. The third man sat quietly on the ground as still as the stalked rabbit. He never looked on the first man as he died and his bones turned to dust and fed the beauty of the Valley. After a spell the second man said to the last “what flower do you think is the most beautiful here?” The man answered and said “whatever flower you think is the most choice is the flower I like best.” The first man thought about this and realized this was the correct answer. After some time the third man, thinking only of his own survival, left the second man seeing the evil spirit that existed inside of him. He shed many tears as he left that beautiful place yet never returned for fear of his life. He made his home in the desert and hid underground on his belly like a snake for the rest of his days. Now the second man after being alone for some time became to get agitated at the disappearance of his brothers. Never realizing that he was the crafter of his own situation. His despair grew until madness overtook him. He grew calm then and built a fire that when put to flint burned the entire valley to the ground including the man stricken with the mind sickness. That was the dream I had while sleeping.

At the end of the story Dawn looked at me and asked me which of the three men I was. I looked out over the Colorado river and I heard Dale laughing like Debbie was finally tickling him back. I turned back to my little Indian Princess and told her the most honest answer I could come up with. “I am pretty sure I am all three,” I said. She looked satisfied as I pulled her to me and kissed her like she needed to be kissed. I would bet dollars to dough-nuts that Dawn told that story just as well as her Great Grandfather had. I bet more money that Great Grandfather could not do the things that Dawn and I did that afternoon and evening on the banks of the Colorado with Dales Hee-Haws echoing off of the water.

That night they drove us up to Lake Havasu City and dropped us off at Tread-Marks house. We all promised to write and call and all that but I was pretty sure that was not going to happen. It was eleven o the clock on May twenty-fourth. Tomorrow was Memorial day, one of the biggest weekends of the summer here in Havasu. I was ready to do some serious damage. I was ready to send some Ferrari's down some cliffs.

Chapter 5: Mecca on Memorial Weekend

Tread-Mark came to the door and was happy as hell to see us. He squeezed me and Dale and ushered us into his home. We were all chatting in the living room when the most beautiful woman in the world appeared. Mark introduced his girlfriend as Becky Weiler and I knew right then that I was completely and totally goo-goo for her. Not that in a million years I would try and move in on a friends territory but with Becky I did not need to. I was pretty sure that just being around her was enough for me.

Becky was as different from us as night was to day. She drank wine, worked hard, valued honesty- even though I suspect she was not always honest, took her duties to her family seriously. She was eloquent about what she believed in and wanted a better life for herself than the one that she had when growing up. She was like an angry angel sometimes and a insanely close confidant at others. She could melt frozen butter by putting her fingertips on it. She was amazing. She made me want to be better than I was. I drank her in like the last bottle of rum on a floundering vessel and I was drunk all over. I would have to keep my distance from her or risk becoming a gelatinous mound of quivering stupid.

Tread-Mark, other than his present company, was completely the same. Dale was already busying himself with paper and stinky algae. Tread-Mark was saying that nothing ever changes. We all sat down on his couch and got stoned like tomorrow would never come and caught up. We talked into the early morning hours and then one by one slipped off to the slumber of the dead curled up together on the couch like a stack of cadavers.

The next day we were up at the crack of noon. Becky was already out working and you could tell she carried the lions share of responsibility here at casa de Tread-Mark. Tread-Mark was jumping around like crazy yelling and hollering for us to get up and get going. We did and were ready in about 35 seconds. Getting ready consisted of Dale throwing water all over his face and putting his Hulk T-shirt on. I just put on my “cause”T-shirt and a Yankees hat that was laying on the coffee table. I squirted some tooth paste in my mouth and used my finger to run it all around the rot. Drank a shot of 151 and gurgled with it. Squished it all around and then spit it back out. Good to go.

Tread-Mark had an old boat that he had traded for a 454 engine that he had salvaged from one of the many wrecks he kept around his house. The boat was an old beat up day cruiser but mechanically it was topnotch as my buddy was an ace with a wrench. We launched from Windsor Beach State Park and made our way down river to Copper Canyon passing under the London Bridge. The city imported that bridge stone by stone from England thirty or so years ago. It was a landmark and something of a tourist attraction like the worlds largest ball of yarn somewhere in Texas. They even had a little english village underneath it. The bridge led to an Island in the middle of Lake Havasu that mainly was a bunch of eating establishments, a marina, and camping and RV lots.

Copper Canyon was a place that everyone brought their boats. Like an old malt shop where everyone brought their souped up hot rods except this was on water. The canyon was boxed in on three sides and had cliffs that you could dive off into the water. Boats tied up to each other and it was literally impossible to leave if you got there too early in the morning. You just could not get your boat out no matter how much you maneuvered. We hung out at the mouth a little and I jumped off the boat and swam over to the cliff where people were diving, flipping, and jack hammering their way into the water. The top of the cliff was about 60 feet high and once you got up there you better jump or the crowd, which at that time had to be over a thousand people, would let you have it. I did a swan dive off and rolled it over into a lazy front flip before I entered the water. The crowd cheered I waved my fist in the air like I was Phelps himself and swam back over to the boat.

We stayed in the canyon for a few hours drinking beer, smoking pot, and watching girls dance on make shift stripper poles on pontoon boats. It was great. Dale was hee-hawing and woo-hooing like crazy every time a girl would lift up her top. Boobies make Dale crazy. Or crazier maybe is a better word. As we left the canyon and pulled past other boats I asked Tread-Mark what some of the other boats in the canyon cost. Some of them were amazing in size and colors. It was like watching the pink-elephants on parade section of Dumbo. Tread-Mark said that boats ranged from ten thousand up to half a million dollars sometimes. Most of the big power boats are usually over one hundred thousand dollars and can go 80 miles an hour at least.

The three of us made our way up river to the Sand bar, a low level area where sediment has formed allowing boats to pull up and park in the middle of the river, and pulled the boat onto the soft shelf. We wasted the rest of the afternoon throwing a Frisbee around mingling with the rest of the crazies. It was sort of like a Lord of the Fly scene for older people. We talked to women and flirted like crazy, Dale walked on his hands all over the place-which I did not know he could do, and basically had a decadent time of it all. We pulled out and headed back to Windsor and the Tread-Marks truck as the sun was going down and I thought to myself that I could die today and that would be fine by me. Later on that night I would die, wish I would have the last 29 years to do all over again, and regret thinking those words.

Dale was smiling his super understanding Dave smile at me with his gap showing nice and sweet and his smackers pulled back away from his teeth as we left to go out that night. We were showered and clean yet both of us were wearing the same clothes we had on earlier in the day. Tread-Mark was drunk as hell and ready to conquer the world. Becky was the exception to the majority rule. She was breathtaking in her simple blue turtleneck and jeans. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she had little diamond studs in her ears. She smiled at me and my brain went to mush and I mumbled something incoherent. She laughed quietly and put her hand on my arm and guided me out the door.

We had dinner at the Naked Turtle on the Island and then went to BJ's outdoor cabana in the middle of town. It was packed to the brim and a line was running down the street. Loud music and people yelling and laughing could be heard from outside. Tread-Mark knew the bouncer, Dennis, and he let us in with no fuss.

That night I was as stoned and drunk as I have ever been. I remember the whole thing seemed to me like that underground scene from the Matrix. Morpheus giving a speech and then the whole crowd going crazy. Dancing and jumping and twirling and moving. A blur of emotion and synergy. People grinding and laughing. I remember briefly dancing with a plump girl named Tiffany and was pulled away from her by Becky who I danced with for what seemed hours. Then the spell was broken by a gunshot and just like that the happy mob turned to a scared one. People rushed to the doors and pushed and ran all around me. I grabbed Becky and started looking around for Dale and Tread-Mark. A bunch of people near the bar were not moving. They were standing still. Looking down at their feet.

Later on when I would call Dales mother in Las Cruces and tell her what happened she said she already knew. When I saw everyone looking at the ground I knew as well. I let go of Becky and slowly walked over to the mass of ground watchers. I heard people in the background yelling for the police or ambulance, call nine one one, some people were shouting but most were looking at the ground. I parted the crowd and saw Dale, my only friend lying on the ground. He had been shot in the chest right through his Hulk T-Shirt. I sat down next to him and picked up his head and started crying into it. Dale was already gone. He was not laughing now. He was quiet. He was gone. The only thing left was a partial super understanding Dave smile. His gap in the front was barely showing.

Witnesses said later that Dale was sitting next to a local girl named Monique. He had been tickling her and laughing when Monique's boyfriend had shown up. Monique was supposed to be at home but she had gone out and been drinking with some friends. Monique's boyfriend got rough with her and she pushed him away and slapped him. Dale being Dale started hee-hawing like crazy. The boyfriend pulled out a small caliber gun and shot Dale in the chest. So simple, so neat and easy. No mess no investigation. A lot of people had seen everything so that was that. Except for me.

It seems I have leapt from a cliff or precipice, of my own devising to be sure, but a cliff none the less. What is odd is the timing of the jump. I thought I had just jumped more than a scarce couple of weeks ago, but in a further study of honesty, I have to say it was a long time before that. As the experience of falling and realizing it is something I had no experience in, I decided to get wrapped up in it. To embrace it and follow it right through to its terminus. The abrupt stop. I am quite lost in the fall.
At first I thought it was inevitable that I just watch as I plunged deeper and deeper into the core. Most times I just mused that I was somewhere else, doing something else, with someone else but I knew that it was the fall that was real. Suddenly in the last few days I have realized that by willing myself, I can turn this way and that. I have lost the glue that holds me to a set of rules and structure. I lost in me the glue that holds me to a society that I was floundering in. Now I just sit, wonder, and figure about the fall that I am involved in. It is a great and seemingly worthless past time. Yet here I sit. Stuck with legs on both side of the fence trying desperately to find meaning in chicken bones, stars, and blades of grass and I realize that I am not falling at all but flying towards something extraordinarily bizarre and real.

Repetition and banality threatened to drive me mad with desperation. Menial, unending servitude to the here and now, the get and give, the stride and climb. The go, go, go. No longer, for I have flown the coupe. Left life behind and moved on to something different. So long crazy world, I said. Now, I have gone mad, and pirouetted into the grosses of states. I have traveled all over to find myself only accomplishing in creating a monster. Finding love again only this time of myself not ideas or notions. I melted and realized that underneath the large iceberg of my outer trimmings was a hollow that stored the fragments of a puzzle that had not been, as of yet, fixed together. It was swirlings and trappings of what could be and unfortunately not what was. Terrible shock to find. Unbeknown to me I was a conflagration of nothingness and everything that I thought I should be and wasn't. I was unraveled. Though this unraveling made me into an eagle and I spread my wings from now on and fly here and there at my whim.

Epilogue

Dales mom took the bus up from Las Cruces and arrived two days later. As we had no money the county cremated Dale and gave us his remains in a little white box with a clear plastic bag inside of it. The clear plastic bag held what was left of Dale. We scattered his ashes in Lake Havasu off of a dock in a protected wilderness area. Dales mom left that day and she was never heard from again either in Las Cruces or Lake Havasu.

I spent two weeks down by that dock. I slept there sometimes. I rarely ate, just drank bottles of cheap rum that Tread-Mark bought for me. I was waiting for something down there. I didn't know what. One morning Becky came down to the dock and sat with me. We didn't talk she just sat there until the sun went down and watched me drink and cry. That night she told me to come up to the house with her because she was cold. I followed and the three of us ate quietly. After dinner Tread-Mark and I went out to his patio. We sat out there and he asked me if I remembered the day that Dale smacked me in the face. I told him I could never forget that day. It had been paddled into me. We laughed a little bit and I felt a little relieved and a little angry at myself at the same time. One part of me was glad I could still laugh, another part was angry at myself that I did it without Dale.

Tread-Mark told me that him and Becky were over and she was leaving to Arcata, California in the morning. She was going to be studying up there at the University and had an apartment all ready to go for herself. Becky told him that if I wanted I could go along for a change of scenery. I thanked him and told him I would think about it and let them both know in the morning.

The next morning I did decide to go with her but every summer no matter where I was I made it back to Lake Havasu, a little dock, a bottle of pirate rum and a joint that took me forever to roll.

Three days in Gori

2009-07-03T08:22:00.000-07:00

I am sitting at a standard card table in a make shift tent draped over a small area next to a communications truck. The truck is a typical drab olive color with antennae protruding from the top of it and a small door in the rear. The man sitting to my right is copying down all of my credit card numbers as well as my passport information, logging it into a journal in front of him. There is a TV in the corner that is mostly showing white noise. I am consciously aware of the wall of sand bags behind my head with the stains on it. The man across from me continues to ask me insane questions. “Do you work for the CIA?” “Are you Jewish?” “Do you work for the Turkish government?” “Have you been in the military?” “Do you speak Russian?” I try and answer the questions as best as I can but it all seems too surreal for me. The Russian Major to my left is translating the questions and I realize that as he translates the interrogator across from me is staring intently at my face. The soldier to my right is writing down my words as the Major repeats them back in Russian. I am freaking the fuck out. I have been scared and the adrenaline has been pumping for about 6 hours now and frankly it is wearing me out.

I tell the three of them for the last time that I am a non-combatant and as such under the Geneva convention they cannot hold me as a prisoner. I tell the three of them that I would like my phone back so I can call my embassy. I tell them I no longer wish to answer any questions until I have done that. I do not know where it comes from but for a moment I am just tired of being scared. I am tired of worrying about the sand bags behind me and wondering what the stains are from. I am just plain tired. I imagine it is around eleven o'clock at night and I also wonder, not for the first time, if I am going to see tomorrow. The Major takes off his hat and lays it on the table. He pulls what looks like a small caliber pistol from out of his waste band and places it under his hat.

The Major says something to the soldier writing in the journal and he leaves the tent. The Major tells me in English, “No problem, we will get your phone for you”. Him and the interrogator then stand and circle around behind me. I look at the TV in the corner and in the reflection I see the Major pick up a Kalashnikov behind me and hear the distinct sound of a round being chambered. He sees me looking in the reflection and smiles. He pointed the barrel at the back of my head and I think to myself for the hundredth time “What the fuck am I doing here”?

It is a good question. One that I had asked myself over and over again during the five days it took me to get to Georgia. I was sitting in Prague during the opening ceremonies of the Olympics when a news bulletin interrupted announcing that Russian tanks and soldiers had crossed the Georgian border. I remember thinking how crazy it was that Russia was invading another country, even if it did happen to be a former Soviet state. I did not sleep that night wondering why the Russian government would threaten their own new found place in world leadership.

The next day I watched the television and was awed by the amount of force Russia threw at the comparatively minuscule Georgian Army. As odd as it sounded in my head I felt like it was a bit unfair. The Georgian military just did not have a chance. That day the entire story unfolded and I learned quite a bit about Georgia. I learned of Abkhazia and South Ossetia, the territories in northern Georgia that were not governed by the Tbilisi government. I read of Genocide committed by rebel forces in the Caucus Mountain regions and I read dozens of posts by Georgians who claimed the Russian Government was providing backing for the rebels.

On the other hand I also read that the Georgian Army had provoked Russian intervention by moving troops into the region and unbalancing a precarious peace between all the parties involved. The leadership in Tbilisi led by President Mikheil Saakashvili was vying for NATO, or North Atlantic Treaty Organization, entry and had to clean up its borders before they would be allowed in. Russian government officials had spoken often that NATO would not be tolerated along its borders. Further alluding that all means or measures necessary would be taken to ensure that NATO would not encroach on territories that historically fell under Russian influence or were detrimental to Russian security.

It felt oddly familiar. A stand off the likes of which had not been seen since the Cuban Missile crisis. Except it seemed now that the rolls had been reversed and it was western NATO encroachment that had triggered military aggression. Instead of the United States taking offense at Russia putting medium range nuclear weapons on Cuba, Russia was taking offense of NATO digging in the Soviet backyard. Russia and Ukraine were having the same problems and were also having serious disagreement over the price of oil and gas traveling through the former Soviet SSR. During this time Poland was getting pressure as well from the Russian government over a missile defense agreement with the United States.

I felt like this was a historic moment in the history of the world. In a fatalistic sense I saw the cold war, Berlin, and Cuba all happening again and I wanted to be there to watch it all go down. I wanted to see what was going to happen. I wanted to find out what was really going on.

At this point in my European travels I had about nine hundred dollars to my name and was starting to think about heading home. I had been in Europe for almost two months backpacking, sleeping on beaches, kayaking down remote rivers, and generally living like a hobo. I was running out of capital and knew I could not keep it going too much longer. Still, I was drawn to Georgia. I was drawn to the moment. I had never seen a war before. I decided for better or worse I was going to go.

I soon found out it was not going to be as easy as it sounded. On day three of the invasion the airport in Tbilisi was closed. I found a cheap flight from Vienna to Ankara, Turkey. From there I could take a long train ride to the city of Kars where I could arrange transportation by bus across the Georgian border and to the city of Tbilisi. I hopped a bus from Prague to Vienna and the next day I flew to Ankara. The day after that I took a thirty hour train ride across Turkey. I shared a sleeper car with a Muslim family on the way to visit family in the eastern part of that country. A taxi from Kars got me to the Turkish border town of Ardahan. The next day, day six of hostilities, I took a bus into Georgia and then a van with eleven other passengers to Tbilisi. The main east/west road was apparently mined and some bridges had been destroyed so we took what could barely be described as a dirt path along the Armenian border. Instead of the estimated six hours by road it took us thirteen hours by dirt track. My fellow travelers and I arrived in Tbilisi on day seven of the Russian invasion at three in the morning.

I checked in with the embassy in Tbilisi and then checked in to the GTM hotel near the new Presidential palace that was being built. I slept for four hours and hit a lucky break in the morning. The GTM hotel had a Euro Vision satellite up-link on the roof and so it also held twenty or thirty journalists that could not afford the likes of the Marriott downtown.

That morning I met a journalist named Margo Dunne who was a sports reporter for the BBC. She also freelanced for Deutsch Welle Television and France 24, both twenty four hour international news companies. I overheard her talking about the rebel forces terrorizing the city of Gori to the north. She had been there the day before and had been shot at while walking the city with other journalists. They had made a quick departure. I asked her if she was willing to return to the city today and she looked at me like I was crazy but said she would go back if I wanted to go.

Margo Dunne was built of some amazing stuff. Neither of us had ballistic armor or helmets. We just had the clothes on our backs and I had a camera I had picked up in Barcelona a month before. I had no idea what to expect and I realized that I was putting myself in harms way. This however was not an idle curiosity. It was not a sick fascination with human suffering. I wanted to see something I had never seen before. An event that happened in the world from time to time that completely changed peoples lives. It was also something that few Americans had seen close up. War, or at least the aftermath of it. Margot Dunne had opted to being my guide already knowing what could await us to the north.

The day before President Sarkozy of France had brokered a cease fire between the two sides. I realized that I would be getting a first hand look at a city that was right in the middle of the conflict. The main Russian base was on the outskirts of the town of Gori. Russian troops still controlled the town and we were told that the Russians were requiring visas to enter. Rumors were flying but we made our way by taxi north until we reached a Georgian road block just outside of the town of Caspi.

We spoke with a few soldiers, that were part of a Georgian special forces unit, and found out that the Russians had stopped just a half mile up the road from them. They had not moved from this position, about 6 miles south of Gori, in two days. Sporadic fighting was still taking place but for the most part this was South Ossetian rebel forces that had preceeded the Russian forces into undisputed lands in Georgia. Margot and I decided to walk up the road on foot to the first Russian checkpoint. As we walked the half mile of the no mans land between the two forces I noticed how quiet it was. Margot broke the silence by telling me that Gori was the birthplace of Stalin and the home where he grew up was still viewable in the center of town as was a rather large statue of his likeness. It was a strange coincidence that such a brutal historical figure was born in the same town that was now the center of the current conflict.

I instantly recognized the first Russian checkpoint. A tank was parked to the right of the road. A dozen soldiers were sitting in the trees to the left and two were standing near boulders that had been pushed to the center of the road where a large caliber machine gun had been set up. On the hill behind the soldiers two more tanks could be seen as well as a couple more machine gun placements. We slowly approached the soldiers with our hands open in front of us and asked politely if we could continue on walking. A car had just been allowed to pass and we figured our chances were good that they were not worried about an English lady and an American on foot.

They let us pass and a little further up the road an Orthodox priest picked us up and took us past five more checkpoints, several bombed out tanks and vehicles, machine gun placements, hundreds of Russian troops and finally into Gori itself. He dropped us off in the Northern part of the town where we met several locals including a few members of the OSCE, or Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe, team in Georgia and a couple aid groups.

We had lunch with the locals who offered to let us spend the night with them and then headed off to tour the town. We kept our heads down and tried to pretend that we knew what we were doing. Russian soldiers were on patrol everywhere but the locals seemed to be out and about so we took it as a good sign. It seemed like tensions were lessoning and that the people who stayed in Gori were trying to pick up the pieces of life after war.

We toured bombed out apartment buildings, destroyed houses, and met and talked with more locals. That night we slept at a house with our new Georgian friends. I did not realize then that my accommodations the next night would not be so comfortable. That evening though was spectacular. It always surprises me how great humanity can be at the worst of times.

The next day we were up early and explored more of the town. We watched as food was being handed out at the local Orthodox church to people who were displaced. At around three in the afternoon I decided to have a closer look at the Russian encampment while Margo waited with a local Georgian man.

I climbed up a small hill and walked down a dirt road. I saw the base ahead, rows of tanks, tents, trucks, soldiers, and I could not stop walking towards it. I kept thinking in my head that the worst thing that could happen was they could kill me. Seven journalists from all over the world had already died in the conflict what was one more. I just wanted to get a good look at them all, ask a few questions, and abate my flawed sense of curiosity. It sounds trite but I could not think of a better excuse to be walking towards them.

Finally a soldier saw me and all hell broke loose. They came towards me with AK-47's leveled. I kept my hands raised in front of me in a “I do not know what the hell I am doing here either” sort of a way. They put me on the ground and searched me while I said the word press over and over again. I kept saying journalistika hoping that was the right word. They drug me over to a tent where an officer was while they continued shouting at me in Russian. I really started thinking to myself that I was a complete jack ass.

Over the next few hours I was moved from tent to tent. No one really saying too much to me but at least two guards had guns leveled on me the entire time. I do not think they knew what to make of me. I was taken to a building that was being used as a command structure. I was marched into the room and I saw a group of men huddled over a map of Georgia. They kept saying Tbilisi but it felt preplanned and staged. I was yelled at by what I think was a General while a man behind me was beaten by a couple of soldiers. It was so fucking crazy I cannot adequately explain it. I still try and reason it out in my mind but for the most part it felt like they were having a bit of fun at my expense. That was when they took me to the interrogation tent. That was when the assault rifle was held to my head. That is when I thought I was going to die. Then I remembered one important fact that the Russians behind me had forgotten about. The sand bags with the weird stains were behind me and behind the Major and the Interrogator. If they shot me from that direction my brains would fly over the Majors hat, the table, and the TV in the corner. As irrational as that thought sounded in my head it made me smile back at the reflection smiling at me in the TV. I could see that the Major wanted me to pick up the gun under his hat. He could see I was not going to give him any reason to mess up the front of my face.

They returned my phone to me and I called a friend I had made on the trip across Georgia a couple of days before. It was the only phone number I had in the country. I had promised to have dinner with her and her husband later on in the week. I asked her to call the Embassy for me and the Major explained to her that I was being held for my safety. She asked when they were going to let me go and he told her he was not sure. That night unbeknown to me all my tax dollars went to work and the embassy in Tbilisi contacted the State Department in Washington. They in turn called Moscow and asked them to release me. While those wheels were in motion things were happening in the base. At around one in the morning while I sat on the ground with my ever present guards two starburst flares shot up in the sky behind me. Tanks began to fire across the town. Machine guns and mortar fire exploded into the night. Tracer rounds were everywhere outbound across the city. I realized that I was sitting in the middle of a big target. I hoped who ever the Russians were shooting at did not decide to shoot back. It ended around five in the morning as the sky started to lighten in the east.

I was released around noon at a gas station in town. I walked to the house where I had stayed and found a devastated Margo. She thought I was dead. I was relieved that she was wrong. I left Gori that day and never returned. I stayed in Georgia for another week and a half and then slowly made my way back home to southern California. I had watched an American war ship pull into the town of Poti on the black sea coast. A town controlled by Russian troops. The ship brought much needed supplies, blankets, and food. I cringed hoping things would not escalate and luckily cooler heads prevailed. Not since JFK was alive had Russian and American troops been so close to each other on different sides of a conflict.

Now almost a year to the day later Georgia is still recovering. Political unrest is still rampant and protesters are camping out in the streets near the capitol and parliament buildings. Russia has recognized Abkhazia and South Ossetia as independent nations. For the most part the war seemed like posturing between the west and east. A game with no one winning and only people who were already poor losing even more. A valuable lesson that I had to learn and see first hand. A lesson I know I will not soon forget.

The Welsh Girl With The Wooden Spoon

2009-06-25T12:59:00.000-07:00

How breath taking your smile is,
daunting, complex, refined, poised.
Under a bombardment you are cool,
relaxed, confident, enchanting.

You speak of the Cymru and Celtic heritage,
and I imagine you as a princess of Caerdydd.
I see Llywelyn in the sparkle in your eyes
and the curve of your face.

Your hair is light as the morning sun,
falling on your shoulders like a million rain drops.
I cannot help but stare and be surprised
by your sturdy gaze and your musical voice.

You carry an artifact with you
and in some ways it defines its beholder.
Grown from its ancestors as you were,
carried with an air of purpose, a wooden spoon.

Though are time was brief,
I could never pretend to imagine,
for one moment forgetting
the Welsh girl with the wooden spoon.

Sea Winds

2009-04-27T08:20:00.000-07:00

The wind of the seas are lifes breezes
A plan of action in ways and seasons
Look to the sails, the mate, and the rower droves
Most importantly look to see how the wind blows

The still calm lax and tolerant spurning apathy, madly
The blue skies clear and piercing nothing to learn, sadly
To task and polish with paint and hammer
Till the sea winds come, preparing, is all that matters

Ah, the gentle breeze pushing forward and true
Destinations, love, and friends all ahead of you
Up the mast we go to dream of far off places
All around your vessel the present races

In the distance a dark sky ahead rolls
A stiff wind takes the slack and we fight to stay in control
You change your tack and break for the calm and norm
But sometimes at sea you have to face the storm

The gail force wind blows like a chaotic and crazy killer
So dark, black, and soulless; you stand firm at the tiller
No stars or light for direction, looking only to yourself to see you through
You fight and scream and cry, doing all that you can do

Dawn breaks and with the morning comes the light of the sun
You remember the winds and all that they have done
You smile a tired smile and point your vessel to any destination you please
Dennison said, "the cure for everything is saltwater -whether sweat, tears, or the sea".

Living for what is important.

2009-04-05T21:51:00.000-07:00

I find the more I sit and wonder about the world, my roll in it, and what direction I am currently taking I have to answer some serious questions about myself. Questions I have tried hard not to look at or focus on for a long time. I often think that when the world views me, or when I view myself by using the world I live in as a standard, I feel, maybe wrongly, that the scope of such a review is too finite. It leads me, at this point in my life, to see myself as an apparition, or specter. That the world is too big for me even to matter at all. Call it egotism but I cannot even fathom that an idea like that could be correct. I know that taking my life in its current context would be limiting and I also believe that it is the whole of ones life that matters, not singular events.

I have always wondered what I would be when I grew to be an adult, both mentally and physically. What would give me joy, what sorrow I would have, and where I would find myself at the age I am now. I could never answer that question and I find that this may be true of many people. I think back to the experiences that I have had and wonder if I have been searching for some sign of my originality, finding who I am, or if I have been creating myself and this is the product of that venture; what I am. If this is true and we measure ourselves by the product or sum of all that we have done then I find it the greatest truth that by studying who I am I can find the good of myself, as it relates to what and where I want to be.

This is a complex and simple problem at the same time. The real problem is that I see this as the only valuable truth to exist in my life. The truth of knowing who and what I am, and in turn finding my own reality, is the greatest search I can bend my mind to. What complicates this is the different truths I have to live by. The truth of my surroundings, the truth of my society, the truth of my needs as a human. These things are all objective and are all realities created by outside forces.

To achieve my goal to study my personal truths I must first cut away outside influences provided ad hock by the world around me in order to glean the truth in me. Finding this truth is the only path towards finding fulfillment. Socrates rightfully said know thy self. Self awareness is the only key to unlock the mysteries of my own happiness and the path that will lead me to it.

In finding who I am I would then be able to control my own time and space. I would be able to differentiate between the shackles of the truth as seen by others and what I find to be true. My inner dominion would find peace knowing that every action and inaction is in line with my nature.

When looking at myself I would also find what my inner demons are. Inner demons are needed by the unfulfilled as a method to avert thought from our fears and true desires and the challenges they present in the outside world. They are excuses that I use to not break free of the mundane and constant and search for the unknown without fear.

Fear of failure is the single biggest obstacle on the path to self awareness and happiness. Though over time I have realized that failure is one of the greatest tools to finding those things. If I can overcome my fears and focus all of my efforts on my true desires I would find what I am, what I could be, and what I can do without. Life becomes limitless. It is by cutting through all limits placed on me and becoming less that I can become more. Surgically removing what is wrong in my life to focus on what is right. Not the social view of what is right and wrong, historically these are just habits formed over time, but the interpersonal view of right and wrong. With no standards set but the standards formed out of the depth of my own mind. Using the truth of my soul as a guide and rule book.

Only at the end can I see the whole. At that time if I have truly listened to the guidance of my personal nature and bared the soul of what I am then I can have lived without regret. I will have lived without shame, second guessing, or internal strife no matter where I end up. At this point that would be all I would hope for.

The Three Faces of Man

2009-03-04T12:16:00.000-08:00

I dreamed last night of three men hiking on the tall rocks of the earth. It is when they reached the summit that they looked upon the true beauty of earth in the valley below. This valley was the place where all beautiful things in the world come from. It was the place where Mother Earth kept all of the original copies of the beauty that she spread around the earth.

These three men when they looked upon this they were mesmerized, each in his own way, by the sight of it. The men ran down from the advantage point of the tall rocks and into the valley below where they came upon a small hill in the center. They climbed the hill and rested on top as they surveyed their surroundings.

The first man with an eye for the beautiful and appreciation for such stood after a long while and sang to the valley. He sang the song that the birds, the bones of the earth, the bees, the lizards, and the deer sing. He sang the song of rivers and the wind and he wept all the wile. Upon hearing this song the second man stood and pulled a knife from his belt and stabbed at the song singer. The man fell to the ground washing it with his life. He looked up at his traitorous companion and asked him how he could do such a thing in this Holy place. The man answered that the song sounded evil because he did not understand it. It was not sung in the white tongue.

The third man sat quietly on the ground as still as the stalked rabbit thinking only about self-preservation. He never looked on the first man as he died and his bones turned to dust and fed the beauty of the Valley. After a spell the second man said to the last “what flower do you think is the most beautiful here?” The man answered and said “whatever flower you think is the most choice is the flower I like best.” The first man thought about this and realized this was the correct answer. After some time the third man, thinking only of his own survival, left the second man seeing the evil spirit that existed inside of him. He shed many tears as he left that beautiful place yet never returned for fear of his life. He made his home in the desert and hid underground on his belly like a snake for the rest of his days.

Now the second man after being alone for some time became to get agitated at the disappearance of his brothers. Never realizing that he was the crafter of his own situation. His despair grew until madness overtook him. He grew calm then and built a fire that when put to flint burned the entire valley to the ground including the man stricken with the mind sickness.

The Sheep, The Shepherd, and The Wolf King

2009-03-04T12:00:00.000-08:00

Letters To Chris Morales

2009-02-26T15:52:00.000-08:00

It is not the destination but the journey that is important. We hear this but do we really, truly grasp its meaning. As we sit back in our day to day lives its important to take an account or measure of ourselves. Self. is an important word these days. It is not just that we differentiate our selves from the rest of the world but more importantly we include our selves into the day to day living that is going on around us. I muse that these two things are mutually exclusive. How can we on one hand do for our selves what we as individuals must do to live a full and benefitial life while at the same time tying our selves into the mold that the society we live in dictates that we personify? Talk about an exercise in futility. Society dictates in our culture that to be a person of worth we must have a few and distiguishable traits. I ask you this; why must we be tied to these traits? In every new revolutionary idea their is a break from traditional thinking. The world was flat for hundreds of years till a few men thought enough of themselves to question the norm. Beauty was considered a certain thing until Van Gogh and Picasso decided Beauty was in the eye of the beholder. In today's day and age, and in this country, why is the divorce rate so high? Why is crime rampant throughout? Why, because the bar is not raised high its just slanted. Where is free thought? Where is the adventure that once made things so great. Why don't I live on the moon or mars? Why dont people leave there individual homes and set out on missions of self discovery to find the things in life that they will be passionate about? Where are the risk takers, the dreamers, and the emotional journeys? Why do people choose to live in an unhealthy box of societal unhappy rightness instead of forging there own individual path? The only answer I have for you is that we are cowards. We are afraid to face the unknown. We believe the world and for the most part new experience is something to be disdained and feared than something that should be embraced and cherished. We bury our hopes and dreams for the idea that we should not stray from the flock. It is important to remember that life only holds in its hands what you put into it. So to my friends that read this I would say go outside the box that you may have created for yourself. Reach for the stars even if it seems like a ridiculously long stretch. The only way you will look back and realize it was all worth while is if in the end you are content in the way you took part in the journey. Think outside my friends. Discover yourself and your uniqueness in the quiet of a park or the buzzing of a city. Take a closer look at what could make you happy. We put all of our faith in immaterial things to make us complete and full. Find out what will make you happy that is not set in front of you on a platter. Be a revolutionary in your own self. Make a difference in your own life.

Civil Revolutionary

2009-02-26T15:51:00.000-08:00

Today I decided to walk on my hands,
My friends asked me why but I was sure they would not understand.
Someday you must make a stand,
Today I will differentiate and become my own man.

I am a civil revolutionary,
I put my eyes to the sky and see things you cannot see.
I listen to the part of me that I wish to be,
I open my mind to things as vast as the sea.

Do not mistake my course,
I do not indulge in flippant mediocrity of any sort.
I simply believe in discovering

Dominoe Theory

2009-02-26T15:50:00.000-08:00

We are all dominoes, standing side by side
Waiting for the man next to us to fall down
So we may in turn fall down.
Clack, Clack, Clack is the defeaning sound or our doom
We know what approaches but our backs are turned
We marvel at our numbers and laugh at the blank back of the man in front.
Ignoring the roar and concentrating on our ignorance.
Should we instead lean our selves toward the tide,
Tip the scales of balance and pull our brothers with us.
Forcing them to turn and see what approaches and to pull the man next to them
Chaotic, inverted, reverse chain reaction.
Halting time and destruction for a moment
Opening a window behind us so we can properly see the path ahead
Is it impossible to change our ways
We fall, that is what is meant for us
This is the cry of the box of dominoes
Setup to be knocked down
Not having the imagination to be something different
Maybe a box of dominoes can only be a box of dominoes

Train from Ankara

2009-02-26T15:44:00.000-08:00

I am out of the city now, away from the hustle and flow of life. In the background is Turkish folk music, the constant strumming of guitars, the sad painful song, moaning the sun behind the distant hills and rows and rows of farming tracts. I dosed through the erratic transition between sweltering, jumbled, madness that is a living city and the light, sleepy, slowness of the countryside. The stark light, tan mounds, browns, and cloudless blue skies seem to be awkward and desolate and beautiful all at the same time.
The train rolls on, rocking back and forth, lurching and shaking as if it has some kind of illness it cannot explain. Small clouds dot the sky now and the sun seems to be plowing through them in an unhurried nomadic way, having done its job for the day and retreating to some other place and time. I have slowed down as well. I feel rested and young and indifferent. The ungodly tossing and turning that has plagued me for a week while stopped, has ended and I am painfully aware of being lolled to sleep while moving.
My stomach is full of things that make the whole world I am visiting more surreal. Gifts that are appreciated more while in the belly of the desert, or the long expanse of plain. Melon, sweet bread and water shared by the family in my sleeper car. We do not communicate with words but we are travelers, moving through the world together for a time, and that is enough to bond us.
It is not all space and dust out here. Technology raises its many faceted head in the distance, diffracting light and peace and simpleness, detracting from its surrounding, a cellular tower. A Muslim woman is out feeding chickens. She is probably a decendent from many other women who stood and fed the relations of the chickens pecking around her feet. Hopefully she never realizes what the cell tower bodes. Her man is stuck between rows of cabbages, endlessly toiling for his family, weeding. Another house in the distance and a man raises his arm in a forlorn salute and waves it from his front porch not in greeting but to say goodbye to things and people he will never see. As the train passes him everything is soft, muted, tan and brown.
All the thoughts of whats ahead have been thought and discarded. As long as the train continues on its path I will continue along mine. This train is my destiny for the moment. The quiet before the storm. The path of the train is easy and meandering without deviation except for the lurch and roll, though that too is constant. Maybe the lurch and roll is the trains unhappy way of dealing with the smoking tendrils of thought about life on a straight path. The whisper of a life of freedom and choice.
The train has the same choices as its passengers, to stop or to go, to be or not, for good or not. To close our eyes or to have them opened. I fear for those who have their eyes closed. What will happen when they miss the transitions that life has put before them. Will they be able to adjust to the stark difference of their own reality, of where they were to where they ended up? Will they be able to see how they arrived there?
The sun is setting and is half gone. Just sitting on the rim of the earth making the sky turn liquid, chaotic and crazy. The moon its cousin has made its first appearance now. It seems like a good sign that tonight it will be full and bright in the southern part of the world. Another good sign reaches me from the dining car; the smell of spices and food being prepared. The atmosphere is musky and light, and, ominous and dark all at the same time. It is an emotional thing this train and for awhile I look at the emotions around the train painted like the liquid sky, chaotic and crazy.
Some passengers look anxious to reach a destination, maybe any destination, while others look onto their final destination with trepidation and loathing. A few, like myself, have no idea where the train is going and do not chance to wonder about it. Our only thoughts are of where we are at. What is happening outside those dark windows under that full moon.
Outside of this pent up emotional vehicle a dark slow landscape passes by. It barely takes note of our passing and we barely have a chance to process it. Just more strangers meeting in someplace they thought they would never see each other. Still the music plays on, the mournful voice sings her fears to us and to the dark abyss outside. It makes me feel alone for a spell because I do not understand the words, so I do not understand her worry. Though this passenger feels alive because of it. To be someplace that I have never been before, sitting here with only my thoughts to keep me company.
I could jump from the train right now and be lost to the world forever. I do not though. I roll two cigarettes for me and the night porter. For now this is my home, my path, and the only place I want to be. This train from Ankara.

Optimism

2009-02-26T15:43:00.001-08:00

OptimismAh, to start out, to seek something better, to relinquish the pasts hold on you. I seem to be bound by the inexplicable taste of something and the desire to be something I am not. Well, I, of course can only be what I am. I have tasted and moved on in body, now must my spirit and heart follow. I have started to break away and through the web of lies and self doubt to discover the bright shiny darkness of what is me. Not darkness in the sense of light and darkness but the dismal quality of my hidden being. The not looked for, the unearthed, the unwashed, and the unseen. It is when I truly look upon the diseased manifesto of my life that I can amputate the flailing and phosphorus burnings of before and focus on the next. The yet to come is exciting knowing that the last is over and done. The dawn is clear and morbid and somber and loath to peek over the mountainous divides of past soulless trials and tribulations. But, peek it does. And in that oh radiant shred of a beam I see possibility, understanding, awakening. It warms me and I crest a universe for it to shine on me in full. This is why I continue on. So continue on I will.

Jumping off without knowing

2009-02-26T15:30:00.001-08:00

It seems I have lept from a cliff or precipice, of my own devising to be sure, but a cliff none the less. What is odd is the timing of the jump. I thought I had just jumped more than a scarce year ago, but in a further study of honesty, I have to say it was a long time before that. As the experience of falling and realizing it is something I had no experience in, I decided to get wrapped up in it. To embrace it and follow it right through to its terminus. The abrupt stop. I am quite lost in the fall.
At first I thought it was inevitable that I just watch as I plunged deeper and deeper in to the core. Most times I just mused that I was somewhere else, doing something else, with someone else. Though, I have realized that by willing myself, I can turn this way and that. I have lost the glue that holds me to a set of rules and structure. In fact I am not falling at all but flying towards something extraordinarily bizarre and real.
At thirty two I was beyond any one persons help. I was smack dab in the middle of a crisis, too early to be midlife, and to late to be anything else. I lost in me the glue that holds me to a society that I was floundering in. At this moment I sit somewhere for no other purpose but to sit and muse and figure. It is a great and seemingly worthless past time. Yet here I sit. Stuck with legs on both side of the fence trying desperately to find meaning in chicken bones, stars, and blades of grass.
Repetition and banality threatened to drive me mad with desperation. Menial, unending servitude to the here and now, the get and give, the stride and climb. The go, go, go. I have flown the coupe. Left life behind and moved on to something different. So long crazy world, I said. Now, I have gone mad, and pirouetted into the grosses of states. I have traveled over twenty four thousand miles in the last year to find myself only accomplishing in creating a monster. Sadly finding love again. I melted and realized that underneath the large iceberg of my outer trimmings was a hollow that stored the fragments of a puzzle that had been not, as of yet, fixed together. It was swirling and trappings of what could be and unfortunately not what was. Terrible shock to find. Unbeknown to me I was a conflagration of nothingness and everything that I thought I should be and wasn't. I was unraveled. Though this unraveling made me into an eagle and I spread my wings and fly here and there at my whim.