As is it said, becoming a published author is about a ten year endeavor. Eight years deep and scores of edits later, Quest California is yet a monsterous block of words hundreds of pages long. Chizled out and and presented here are some samples of what's to come. Punctuation is not yet perfect and misspellings run rampant. Some say that I need "rich character development," plot, this and that. Yeah, I just like to write stuff that makes me laugh. The plot is the day to day awesomeness which I cook up. The character is Myself. However, I will attempt to give voices to inanimate objects and the random people I meet along the way.
These excerpts are samples from larger essays arranged in chronological order. The first page is a little corny, but its message is the motivating factor driving the book to completion. Brutally honest feedback about what elements you like and dislike are appreciated.
Tonight’s the night. At twelve o’clock midnight, July 2000, I am to be finished with eight years of probation and embark upon my calling of traveling the world, frequenting meditation retreats, 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." 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. A tested and proven practice, I know that it will help them to find meaning, joy and redemption 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 destiny was set into motion. I will 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. Surely 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 bullshit and troubles I’ve caused others. “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 an American built pickup truck speeding up the forested gravel road, “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.” Press play on the stereo and Pachabel, Cannon in D, triumpthent classical violin music celebrates the hour, bitter sweet notes floating through the midnight air. Wasting no time, tis the hour to be scampering out onto the upstairs roof and chug some cold beers like someone, (me), hasn’t chugged cold 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 "Yeah but," Goblin, the biggest metal head redneck black guy on earth, had always tried to cheer me up, "it’s not all that bad, your probation officer 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. Black Sabbath rules!" 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?
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?
Forged in the fire of suffering while locked for months on end within 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.
“Oscar, you made it, you friggin made it!” Says Goblin, my African American adopted kid brother of seven years.
“Chic-Glang.” Free at last, free at last, acknowledge the two, “Chic-Glang”, Baby Brudder and Big Brudder, furiously shaking each other, jumping up and down, slugging one another full contact chest blows in a fit of rowdy joy, aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh ha ha ha!!! “Chic-Glang.”
"Yeah," I had done my best to agree, "its not that I'm hating 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. Metal forevers."