Where I'm From

I am from painkillers

From Advil and Asprin

I am from the grass on our hill,

Wet, sharp; It slips under my feet.

I am from the tree outside my window.

The breeze in the summer,

which cools one faces,

on a scorching hot day.

I am from smart-assery and arguments,

from Colin and Thjis

I am from the witty bastards,

And the dumb fools.

From "Welcome Home,"

To "Good Morning, We've been robbed again."

I am from a squad of atheists,
Surrounded by an army of Christians.

I am from a small, miserably cold town,
Which I never even lived in.

I am from a line of settled people,
When I'm a traveler.

I'm from spicy food and churrascarias,
From the blood on our staircase,
the destroyed nerve in my fathers leg.

I am from the picutre books of my parents,
Filled with family faces,
And I'm from my father's computer files,
Just the four of us,
Happy as ever.

I'm from the branch
The branch that fell of the tree
The branch that stemmed.
I'm from the tree who's leaves

are far too distant,
But are always ever green.

That is where I'm from.

Short/Memoir: Delicious Water.

I was edging my way across the muddy hillside, trapped between razor wire and the stench of sewage. Rocks littered the face of the hill , with small patches of under-grown grass infesting the already ugly slope's side. We weren't in the best of situations right now, and it was partly our fault. On the way back to our house, dissension had occurred in our car. Evert and I had decided to get out at Embassy Gardens to prove that we could make it back home faster by foot.

On a normal occasion, we could. Except the guy who lived near the shortcuts border had decided to put up a huge, ten foot fence topped with razor wire and with iron bars under it so we couldn't rip the whole damn thing up then clamber under it. It was a bizarre sight, on our neighbourhoods side, there was a pathetic, miniature fence that I could step over. Yet on the shortcut side it looked like we were trying to cross the Mexican border. If I had paid more attention to the people around here, I would have known the guy who built this fence was lionized here in Cardenas. As a complete asshole, that is.

"Well... Shit."

We now had a choice, double back and take the long, two hour walk around taking the main roads. Or take the adventurous, stupid way. Through a swamp like jungle , snakes, sewage, drains and spiky plants. To be fair to ourselves, the stupid way was only a twenty minute trip at maximum. It seemed like the obvious choice at the time. But of course when I had razor wire a few yards to my right, and a sewage line on the other time, I didn't feel all too smart.

The water at Crap Creek(formerly Crab Creek) is a very special kind of sludge. It seems that anything that falls into it just assimilates into the drink. Now I'm meticulously moving my way across the slope, finding places to put my feet and grabbing onto the hillside. My brother is at the very start, being a pussy(or being smart?) waiting to see if it's safe. My foot hits a loose rock, and now I'm sliding down on my leg, swearing. I try to grab onto the grass, but it just rips out of the soil. "Gah! F*CK!" I tried jumping to the over side of the shallow water(this was pure sewage, not the creek anymore) but my feet can't get a grip.

Splash.
Now I'm over the ankle in sewage water, damn.

Memoir Monday: Graves, Homework, and People.

Dirt, rust, leaves, twigs, they grasp to my shoe, and they cling there. I extricate my foot from a hole I myself dug, my father and brother are there, yet my mind is not on them. Not on the graves we are hunting for, but the grave I dug for myself. The metal detector in my hand is silent as I sweep it along, a foot above the ground. The knowledge that I was screwed had slowly instilled itself in me, all the work I had not done was going to hit me like a tidal wave, anger and the most pathetic form of self-pity would encompass me. I was the victim of my own guile, of my own “BS” as people love to call it when they talk to me.

Then metal detector goes crazy, and I sweep it back to where it was before, iron, probably just a pipe or something, but that's not up for me to decide. I take a shovel and I slam it down to the ground, but the strength and the enthusiasm that I usually can summon fails me, and it slams in miserably. Bill makes a comment about how my generation has no backbone, but what people think of all the idiots at school is not an imperative issue to me.

My dad looks at me with a look of disappointment and worry, but I know it will not compare to his look on Monday. The idea of just skipping school recurs in my mind constantly, to escape my doom. He takes the shovel, and starts to dig up in the place my brother indicated, prevalent as it is. In an act of spontaneity and rage, I took the other shovel, and started to dig up in a spot we had already dug up. The shovel sliced through the dirt, splitting through it's layers of life, the roots, and breaking them into pieces. I stare at what we had uncovered earlier. Strangely enough, a foot under the layer of soil was concrete, with a rusty piece of metal sticking out, stuck in the concrete.

We were digging here because next to Bills house, the one's whose garden we were wreaking havoc on, they had found dozens of French graves, with only numbers on them, keeping the casualties anonymous. Chances are I live not only next to two graveyards, but on one.
Creepy.

I stare down at the concrete, knowing that this could have been part of some suckers grave, and that the rusty trash metal was likely part of a grave marker which had been ripped up and dumped in the pile next door all those years ago. I wonder what it would be like, just to not have to worry about anything, about all the school, all the drama, all the stuck up idiots, all the sensitive retards. It could be nice, in a way, just to escape all the crap in life. Then I look back at the green of my neighbourhood, random people are going through the streets, and I remember back to my friends who are all around the world.

What a stupid idea.
Now to go back to my disposition of a cynical, sarcastic, arrogant, but damn happy individual, and pick up the damn shovel.

Memoir Monday Paintball Party

“Rattata-tat” I heard the bullets whiz past my head and immediately threw myself behind cover, I saw Evert take a bullet to the face as paint splattered over the side of his visor.
As I looked for my remaining allies I realized there were none and I was “last man standing”. I made my way across the field sprinting as bullets bounced off the pillars around me dyeing it yellow with paint. I slid a few meters shooting with my gun at full rate, I saw an enemy get pegged in the leg by my fire and for that moment I felt like some guy from the matrix, that moment was broken as I felt my back hit the fence.

“Shoot him” Mathew screamed, too late, Matthew didn’t need to tell them. I felt a bullet hit me as I threw myself behind the nearest cover, and I grimaced as I saw my armor was yellow. I stood up as I held my gun up high signaling that I was down. I nearly dropped it on my foot as I realized who had gotten me out, one of the girls had taken me and worse, she was new to the game. I heard Mathew start to laugh but I gave him such a menacing look he stopped as quickly as he started. Game over.


I realized that no matter how much experience you had in something, people can still beat you at it, and that I took games far too seriously. this realization changed me. I now dont really care much about winning or loosing only having fun.