Tonight’s the night.  At twelve o’clock midnight, July 2000, I am to be finished with eight years of probation and be one step closer to my calling of someday becoming a Buddhist monk.

            Sitting, silence, presence, breathing.  Meditation, the air is still.  Eleven forty-five PM, a midsummer’s eve here in the upstairs bedroom of Mom’s antique Texas home.

            Candles flutter, fragrant wisps of smoking incense float through the thick, dark air; the hour when heartfelt prayers are muttered.  “Thank you, all of those who have shown mercy on my ass at times when I really fucked up and my probation was in jeopardy.  So many blunders, so many close calls,  I could have gone to prison for so many years, yet was somehow spared.  Thank you, thank you, thank you more than I am capable of feeling thankful."

             With this in mind, how can I ever repay society for the grace it has shown me other than by acknowledging that I owe the world, by using my life to be of benefit to others?

            Compassion for the wicked, regardless if they deserve it or not, I wish to teach yoga, the art of stretching and meditation, to prison inmates, those locked behind bars, shut away with no hope.  Time tested and proven, I know that it will help them to find meaning, joy, and forgiveness within a life of misery.       

            On the same token, have you ever had a flash of inspiration and in the blink of an eye known what you want to do with your life?  That night in the mountains I raised my hand to the sky of stars and the destiny still burns.  I wish to plant trees upon the soils of devastated rain forest lands, where greed and irresponsibility has led to a desert or a muddy wasteland, the situation growing worse by the minute. 

            Perhaps I can wash away my stockpiles of negative past actions through a life of planting trees; creating food, fuel, shelter, habitat, and oxygen for those in need.  Damn, am I ever sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused.

            Forged in the fire of suffering while locked for nine months in a concrete cell, I will not forsake these promises I have made to myself.  How can I now live a life of chasing my own selfish desires when instead I can live to chase life eternal?  It seems that every spiritual text points to how human existence is but a rare and precious dream, and that opening ones heart to loving kindness is the fundamental reason for life on earth.  Considering this, I will not forsake the opportunity to embody the great awakening, to reap the one indestructible gem, to realize the divine within and become liberated from the cycles of death and rebirth.

            “May I give to the world more than I have taken from it.  Great Spirit, watch over me in all of my ignorance, foolishness, and all of the dumb stuff I have yet to do.  Keep me grounded in my commitments, as I trust that it’s within your will for the kid to now begin living a few years of the fun and adventuresome life that he has so longingly yearned to live.  It’s time to play.  Thank you, and game on.”

            From my belly, up through my chest, throat and mind, resonates the syllable “ooooohhhhhhmmmmmmmm.”  While at this moment, coming from downstairs, is the all so familiar noise of that antique windup clock contraption, signifying that it is now in fact twelve o’clock midnight.  First comes the sound of gears churning, revving, winding up, preparing to bang a sound somewhere between that of a harpsichord and a spring-loaded gong.  “Chic-”, release the hammer, “Glang”, it strikes the brass.  “Chic-Glang”, twelve midnight and one second, probation is now over. Don’t be happy, don’t be sad.  Just be here.  “Chic-Glang”.  From outside the house comes the sound of a car speeding up the forested gravel road below, “Chic-Glang”, scuds to a halt, “Chic-Glang”, and BANG slams the door.  “Chic-Glang,” footsteps charging up the brick sidewalk, “Chic-Glang”, the house door flies open.  “Chic-Glang”, feet scurry upstairs, “Chic-Glang.”  “Big Brudder, hooray, you made it,” says Goblin, my six foot-five inch kid brother of ten years.  “Chic-Glang.”  Free at last, free at last, acknowledge the two, “Chic-Glang”, Baby Brudder and Big Brudder, shaking each other, jumping up and down, slugging one another in the chests in a fit of joy, aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!!!  “Chic-Glang.”

            Press play on the stereo and Pachabel, Cannon in D, celebratory classical violin celebrates the hour.  Wasting no time, it’s the hour to be scamperin out onto the upstairs roof and chug some beers like someone, (me), hasn’t chugged beers in a really long time.

            A summer night’s dream in the canopy of this leafy oak forest.  Warm breeze sets tree tops into motion.  The swampy scent of summer is on the air as the sweet taste of pilsner tickles my belly.  “Yes, I'm free.”  Crickets chirp from their hiding places, fireflies glow momentarily here and there, and toads ribbit-ribbit as the moon illuminates spooky Spanish Moss draped from dark green southern oak trees.

            Light as a feather and swaying in the treetops, the soft art of stillness in motion, of motion in stillness.  Forgotten it has been how a few brews sets the imagination on fire.  Not the purest state of mind in which to practice tai-chi, yet brilliant just as well.  I feel that I am a river of liquid colors, feet circling, flowing with the currents of breath.  Waterfall, crane spreads wings, snake creeps down.  At once I have been transformed into a tiger stalking on all fours; face first, down onto the lower slant of steep roof.  My paws, precision instruments of grip and balance, execute precisely calculated movements in surrealistic slow motion; completely aware of every tiny step as they deliver me precariously to the posture of ninja climbs in through small window, aah-hah!    

            A window I've done plenty of staring out of lately, for here in my tower of incarceration I have done little over the past few years but read spiritual books, practice yoga, scouring my eyes over road maps, holding my breath (literally), laying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, sweating, muttering, "I'd be hitchhiking around the world right now but I’m damn well stuck here in Texas and the free-bird travel style has been is forbidden.”

            "Yeah but," Goblin , the optimist, had always tried to cheer me up, "it’s not all that bad, your probation officer sometimes lets you make trips to the center of the state, the hill country, full of freshwater lakes, rivers, and cows. You know you like cows, soy flavored cows that is."

            "Yeah," I had done my best to agree, "its not that I hate the bayou country, I do love humidity, mosquitoes, gigantic petrol-chemical refineries rising from the horizon, bird migration corridors, alligators and tons of green-green trees.  But..."  Yes, a very big but indeed, "but there’s no mountains, no snow."

            But but but, but now 'but' in an uplifting tone.  But now the nightmare is over and I’m free to get the H E L L away from this bull shit existence, no pun intended, and go where ever on earth I want.

            So, where first?  Asia; jungles, and Zen temples?  Europe; wine, castles, and hashish?  South America and the twenty thousand foot high Andes Mountain range?  No, no, no, maybe later, yes indeed, maybe later, but for now there’s no question about it.  I’ve been riding skateboards for fifteen years, snowboards for four seasons and I still have not learned how to surf ocean waves.  I’ve been California dreaming since I was a child.  Hold on to your cowboy hat, I'm going to California, boyeee!

                And just like that, today is suddenly ‘The Day,’ and the flaming arrow of a Sagittarius rising is set into motion, no one can stop the wind.  I’m never coming back here again.  Goodbye forever, Texas, you son-of a-gun.

               My SUV, Space Utility Vehicle, loaded up, I got tent.  I got tarp.  I got camping stove.  I got clip on sandals.  I got big, tough gray hiking boots with stark blue laces.  I have a stir-fry wok and the fresh start of two large pork-chop sideburns.  I have the complete collection of Farside cartoon books compiled into five thick galleries.  I have a magical silver ring that my good bye lady has placed on my little finger.  I have my little dog who looks like an extra fury raccoon.  I got a road atlas.  I got heart like hell.  I have no will to ever return.  Let’s go.

            Soaring down Nasa Road One, past the gates of the Lyndon B. Johnson Space Center, home of mission control, T-minus no seconds and counting, D is for drive,  Houston we have lift-off.  P is for play, and ‘Ride The Lightning,’ early years Metallica, heavy metal fury is thundering over the crafts PA. 

            !!!! I don’t know how to live through this hell, woken up I’m still locked in this shell.  Frozen soul, frozen down to the core, break the ice, I can’t take anymore!  Freezing, can’t move at all.  Screaming, can’t hear my call.  I am dying to live, cry out, I’m (no longer) trapped under ice!!!!     

           The shackles have been shattered, and the vehicles V-6 rocket engines shake vigorously as we are propelled into trajectory, around the 610-loop and west onto Interstate Ten.  Welcome to the Low-rider Lightening, next stop: somewhere out of Texas....