IN THE OLD STORIES RAVEN WAS AN AMAZING MAN. It was out of the darkness that the story took place, when men and animals and nature were all connected as one. The trees could speak with animals and men could speak to all. So Raven was listening to all the arguments, the fighting was all about what the role of mankind would be in the new world that was unfolding out of the darkness. Raven became tired of the bickering among all the societies so he walked away and told them, “I will be where you don’t want to be, picking out the eyes of the dead in the smelly world where you hate. You will find me there, and from now on, my feathers will change from white to black to be a reminder of the darkness that we came from. My language will be that of the backstabbing bickering that I hear from all of you…”
And so Raven left and he amongst all the creators favorites became an outcast, the rejected one, the one who left his way.
However, today he is the only one that kept his secrets and sacredness intact, always reminding us of where and how we got here.
Random thoughts of you…I feel like a recovering addict working on her chills, no more veins in my arm. Shooting up Opiates fried them all, my liver my kidneys are shot. I’ve been spitting up blood for about a year now. Not all the time, just pieces of me leaving my body in the morning cough. I notice that I have become way too brave to go to overly rich doctors that don’t understand why under the bridge is so much better than a BMW.
I have the three kids, one is already gone, died as a baby in his little crib and I can’t leave him behind. Every time I feel a tremor, it’s a reminder of my pain. Nine years and it feels like yesterday. I tell you something, “Death doesn’t believe in time. It comes in shades of misery and more misery. Time doesn’t heal all wounds, because if it did, it would have healed this gaping hole in my heart that has still never healed.”
“I love you, Mikki,” she said in a heroin stupor. He was, at one time, the famous chef of the newly revised cartoon world of 9th Avenue’s Hell’s Kitchen turned heroine addict when his little boy died around the same time nearer another ocean.
Staring with blood shot eyes and groggy mis-steps of saliva and dry throat struggles of “Hey.” The astronomical drug was doing what it does best to the heart, the mind, the body. SPACCYYY…
We had nothing to lose, I had lost everything and so did Mikki…ten years and a day too late – what a horrible break…
It’s amazing that I’m still alive. I was born addicted. My momma was addicted and so was daddy. The smell of burning heroine on spoons was the first smell I remember. My oldest sister died of a breakdown on the L.A. streets, and my youngest was born retarded.
I was homeless more times than I can ever imagine and everything I own is on me or in the paper bag.
Homeless, hopping cars, people, beds – everything to survive. However, that’s what I know – conceived and birthed out of a vacant homeless drug infested womb.
Look at my skin. My tattoos tell the story of my journey. My canvas is my world, stretched and pulled every night as I sleep, stared at while my lover circles his fingers in my raven wings and ghetto tats. I can honestly say this however, “The living are dead, living people are Zombies..”
I have died twice, and everyday is a lucky day cause I’m alive. That’s what the living don’t see as they bicker and complain about bullshit. I know what it is to be alive and what it means to subjugate my body to death, to death, to death, to death. We are not all free.
So I told Mikki, “There’s nothing to lose my love. Let’s hop the train and go to where the sunrise and sunsets can be seen over the mountains, where the old ancient Indians still dance for the rain and changing seasons. We have to choose now, today, walk out of this fucking city and never look back cause our dreams are now nightmares.”
You Spider Man and me Wonder Woman. No fear, just a bag of crack and heroin and a jug of water. Just enough to kick the habit in the desert, if not – die trying.
Every night I wanted this, to run away from the insanely gruesome grasp of the L.A. streets. I wished this every morning just before the aching jonesing for the dirty needle. I, as the former living prom queen from Eldorado High, crave freedom in the mountains. Every night the world ends and starts all over for us and everyday we have the choice.
“The dream that you saw before all this shit can still be real…” I told Mikki.
We must do what we can. Hold my hand I will never let go of you – you are 3, you are 13 you are 16, you are my man walking on the endless, aimless, scorching hot pavement away from the Pacific Ocean and Santa-Ana Winds.
Mikki died, the magnificent sun setting on the outskirts of Gallup, spitting up blood, screaming ’cause his insides couldn’t. Nobody could hear us – maybe the random coyote or the wondering raven eating road kill on highway 666.
I held his body found the last blue finale of a vein and gave him the final fix. I held him tight next to me until his body received the quietness that the liquid does to you. His eyes glazed over and the dying breath of a once great man faded away in the winds of Interstate 25.
I shared with him his last sunset. With dusty and dirty tear stained cheeks, I buried him in the morning where a once massive flash flood had unearthed a juniper tree hanging on its last roots. His lifeless body stumbled and rolled down through the man-sage and Chamisas, settling into the dusty dry sand. Posing, twisted, his body facing the rising sun like a mummy.
What else could I do.
I walked out of the sand and clay until there was nothing left but black top to stare at.
I died with him on that cold stretch of asphalt across the wild, wild west.
“Love is a man giving what he can…love is a woman giving what she can.”
Somewhere I lost my tooth,
Somewhere I gained a new tattoo.
I got a new chance at life, whatever it means,
I can be around booze, drugs, whatever. I can handle the craving now. I seemed to have tamed the craving, it’s in fall that that devil shows its ugly face.
People often ask me to go out, but I don’t ’cause I can’t bring anymore stray tattooed demons into what’s left of my heart.
I paint, I dance, I draw, I chop wood, I go to the local spa to shower. You never know what and how heavenly hot water feels until you’re left without.
The new-age women likes to peek at my nakedness when it’s actually at my extremely tattooed body,
I’m still beautiful, so I think, but every movement is like a wild animal’s timid coded movements.
We all do what we can, I walked until hell was behind me…
I walked until heaven opened her arms and embraced my collapsed veins and ghetto tattoos.
I know this, “There’s a place, not an overly clean place, just a good enough place in heaven, for Ravens misplaced children.”
“Raven will never keep you in the darkness without showing you a way out….”so the medicine man says.
Yours with Love & Honor,