Fire and Ice

Fire and ice have formed my body—my heart—my soul—and my life’s philosophy. 

Fire and Ice have formed me—and today I will claim my branch on the staff tree, for fire and ice have formed me—I will walk no more with head hung lowly.

And for this I need no permission—it has been rightly earned through years of perdition.

All of the stiffness and strength wrought from the cold touch of hammer has been matched with the flexibility borne of the heat from many pyres. 

I’ve been on fire. 

But the healing rain came to quench the flame,

Just in time to preserve grains—                

The tiny fibers of my being, now annealed into one firm feeling.

The steel winged butterfly has been formed.

From fire and ice I was born. 

And it is fire and ice that I will face until the day my grave is adorned.

Through fire and ice, mire and strife, my visage and armor have been honed.

I will take flight no matter what prayers or curses have been intoned.

The future years may take their toll and further test the stuff I’m made of…

But in the end…

When truth is told and all that was transient has faded and worn off…

This steel winged butterfly won’t fail to fly…

No matter the weather, ware, or temperature, nothing will corrupt my alloy.

I am the steel winged butterfly…

Fearless and ready to plunge into the blue unknown…

Without doubt or a moment’s hesitation…

Spread my wings...

And take flight.

So here’s my story...my fight…

Here is told, the history of the Steel Winged Butterfly’s Flight…

Finding Faith Part I

Faith can be such a tricky, elusive thing at times.  As we fall, stumble, paw, and claw our way up the seemingly shear ascent of our own personal barriers sometimes the blood and bruises makes us lose faith in everything from ourselves, to our fellow man, and even in God.

People have often said to me in tumultuous times that there is a reason for everything—that God has a plan, and these struggles are a part of it.  I don’t know that I believe this is true.  I think, sometimes, bad things just happen.  And to believe that such seemingly senseless and terrible tragedies are a part of a larger plan, to me, almost makes God seem cruel and cold…or it is just someone trying to remove blame from themselves.

If God is truly the loving, benevolent being that I’ve learned for so many years about, I cannot believe that He, in is omnipotence, omniscience, and omnipresence could be so limited as to teach those that love, serve, and seek to know Him with such a heavy hand. 

As a person who has a great appreciation for science and the arts, I find myself ceaselessly amazed.  When I carefully look at the world around me, I see the painstakingly complex processes that occur in nature.  Yes, scientifically, many of the natural events can be explained and even reproduced but the by-product of both the complex and simple interactions is breathtaking and stunning.  Every interaction—down to the molecular and subatomic, produces something that as both a scientist and an artist, would take a great deal of care, attention, and dedication to reproduce.  Scientists and artists alike feel such a connection with that sort of work that it becomes an extension of themselves.  Can you imagine the kind of love and dedication would need to be invested to create a world, moreover, all of creation?!

So, I don’t think that the Creator makes these bad things happen.  I don’t believe that any being would want to destroy the produce of their clearly deep love and devotion.  I don’t believe that the Creator of us all would want us to suffer or labor aimlessly. 

Sometimes seemingly illogical and senseless things happen—even in nature.  Things don’t always evolve or change in the way that we, humans, perceive to be best or ideal.  But even then, whether these events are divinely deigned or not, nothing is lost…ever…it is just redirected…carefully placed somewhere else…we have only to look closely to find it again.

Although my faith is often fragile, my hope that there is someone, somewhere, watching over us is constant.  And it is in that hope, that I continue to send my prayers and labors up to God. If creation itself is any indication of the nature of the Creator, although we may not understand how or why the world and every part of it is as it is, I think we all can take comfort in knowing that in the end, whatever happens, knowing why will never be as important as simply knowing that

Life and Creation will always be precious and beautiful…and none of that beauty is ever gone…sometimes you just need to look for it in new and unexpected places.

Babička’s Backyard

Yellow daffodils and peppermint roses, sprinkler heads and garden hoses.

A greenhouse full of fragrant herbs used in the dishes my dear babička serves.

Stone-faced statues of angels and saints keep dutiful watch o’re the garden gates.

All is protected behind the ivy and morning glory veils as my babička’s skirt, this little girl trails.

A soft wind directs the wind chime symphony, while bullfrogs and song birds sing the harmony.

Baby girl and babička happily sing a melody that babička’s mother once used to sing.

Flower pots and potting soil, master gardener and miniature assistant loyal…

Neither flower nor vegetable plant will ever be left to wither or spoil…

Because here, no life is deemed not worth the toil.

For the “sake” of “Pete” we accomplish even the most difficult feats…

Without a whimper “for cryin out loud” the little girl makes her babička very proud.

With the laundry stately hung and the morning chores “all done” babička and the rascal watch Lucy reruns…

While babička takes her afternoon nap, rascal escapes from babička’s lap…

Heading straight for the cookie jar stash, rascal grabs one…or two…or three…in a dash, completely unaware that babička knows exactly where she’s at…

Sneakily climbing back into babička’s lap, rascal only realizes she’s caught when dear babička laughs…

Silly little girl, she baked them for you…brewing a pot of tea for the both of you too.

The afternoon too quickly comes and goes with the thick green grass tickling rascal’s little toes.

Shoes are not a requirement at babička’s house…unless, of course, mom and dad are around…

The sun goes down, and the Lawrence Welk show comes on… babička sings along with every single song. 

Sometimes I catch her eyes wandering to a different time…as though she’s watching her life on rewind.

What is this buzzing noise?!  And is that Juanes playing?!  ….*Sigh* It’s 5:30 am and my alarm clock is ringing….

I must have been dreaming…or just remembering while sleeping…

It was nice to think about my grandma though.  Love you and miss you babička.

The Stars and Stripes Forever

Since when did my country’s flag become a symbol of intolerance—of hatred—of persecution?  When did it become the intention of those bearing the stars and stripes to use this hallowed symbol to instill fear in those who come to this great nation for assistance and a better life?  It has come to my attention that those who display the red, white, and blue are often viewed as racist or nationalistic extremists.  When did this change happen?!  I remember a time when those who proudly displayed their flags were viewed as patriots—people who firmly believed in the ideals of America. 

From my history classes I have come to learn of America’s wrongs—of the injustices done by one hue of skin to another.  And as someone of mixed racial backgrounds, I can truthfully say that I understand these cultural hurts…I can sympathize with those who have come to view our flag as a symbol of those who conquered rather than peacefully coexisted.  I am the descendant of immigrants who came from Mexico, Czechoslovakia, various parts of Europe, and South America—and of the indigenous to this land—and all of these groups at one time or another suffered persecution.  But when liberty was in danger, and the U.S. asked them to pledge their lives to the service of the nation—and of the world—they responded without hesitation.

This summer when I moved into the dorms, I took a large American flag with me to hang in my dorm room.  I don’t know why, but every time I glimpse the American flag waving in the wind,  I get goose bumps—my heart fills with pride—and I feel invigorated by all of my ancestors who so bravely fought for this country both on and off the battlefield.  I feel my grandfathers and grandmothers watching over me with the attentive eye of the eagle—wings fluttering much like the flag in the wind.  I must say that it deeply saddens me to think that some of my fellow citizens and others visiting our great nation actually feel a sense of fear when they see such symbols displayed. 

To me, that says that someone who is unworthy of bearing this nation’s flag has shown these people that this banner of the fallen heroes stands for shame—for hate—for intolerance and injustice—for all of the things our Great Nation’s Constitution is supposed to protect against.

I am not naïve.  And I won’t even try to defend those who shaped our country from the harsh criticism that is rightly due.  Hindsight, after all, is indeed, 20/20 and it would simply be untrue to say that the forefathers took true equality into consideration when they constructed the basis of our National Identity.  However, I will say that I hope my life and actions show the true spirit of America...of what this country is working to become.  My grandfathers lived and fought through two world wars, various military conflicts, the first airplane flight, the conception of the atomic bomb, and the creation of the space program.  They saw human kind at its worst—but also at its best.  And through all of this, they still loved their country…and even though it was imperfect, their actions and devotion helped to purge this country of its imperfections—both on the battlefield and the home front.

I hope that my fellow Americans will come to see our nation’s flag as something that should be used as a security blanket—a bandage for this wounded world—rather than some gaudy—and moreover—disrespectful—display of white “nativist” "supremacy"…which is itself, a COMPLETE fallacy.  The flag is not a symbol of military prowess, but a guide to those seeking clemency and opportunity—a source of hope to those enduring great hardship.  The American flag should be the banner of all those who seek to better the world—and a source of encouragement to those who were not blessed with the PRIVILEGE of being born in a country that provides the opportunity to work towards progress.

I must also say that it truly enrages me to see the remnants of the Confederacy…I absolutely HATE it when people from the south (or elsewhere) wear or display various Confederate flags…because it stands for so much more than rebellion and “living free.”  Upon those stars and bars lies the blood of my ancestors—including the Native American blood in my veins…I may not be of African American decent, but I feel a deep anger towards the symbols of African/African American bondage—because it is just another variety of the injustice and hate that my Native American, Slavic, Mexican, Catholic, and Jewish lineage endured.  And in many cases, those who expressed prejudices against those of African heritage also abused the people sharing in my ancestry.  In my opinion, it is the equivalent of displaying the Nazi Swastika.

We are ALL family…the hue of our skin may be different, but the color of our blood is the same deep red…

The only thing that should be judged by its size, weight, and pallor is a person’s heart—the intentions behind their deeds.  And because the true gravity of this matter can only be fully understood by God—judgment of another should only be left to God…who by the way, made human beings in His (or Her) own image…so I guess we can’t really define God as one race/classification or another.  Why then should we insist upon using these social constructs with each other?

What right do these un-educated hicks have to tell me and my fellow Hispanics and Czechoslovakians to “go back to where we came from?!”  The Mexica and Mescalero Apache within me says “why don’t you do the same?!”  We were the ones that were here first!  We lived in harmony with the land for thousands of years prior to your arrival—taking only what we needed, giving thanks for what Creator provided, and allowing Mother Earth to heal after giving us such bounty.  My Czech lineage says “your relatives were once immigrants too.”

So, don’t tell me that this is not MY country!  The blood of my ancestors forms the crimson stripes of this flag—their loyalty paints the blue—and their pure devotion to the ideals of freedom and equality illuminate the stars and white stripes of this flag! 

I can’t say that racism was not a part of my family and that all of my family members are as adamant about equality as I am.  But the only way that history is not repeated is by each member of the current generation making the choice to behave differently.

So do not use my last name and my skin color to determine my intentions when I wave this flag.  Instead, redefine your perception of this flag’s symbolism by the way I treat others; because when I see these stars and stripes I have only the desire to protect and share the wonderful life I have had the PRIVILEGE of leading thanks to the sacrifices of those who came before me—both military and civilian.  And NO American would have had this privilege had it not been given by the Amazing Grace of the Creator.  Who are we to deny or impede the ability of those TRULY seeking what’s guaranteed in the Constitution, from attaining these graces unconditionally granted by God? 

I am not worthy…are you?

Street Dreams [In Progress]

Street Dreams aren't just for Gs--No
Street-corner thugs can't get you these
Street Gs aren't badass--please!...
Those rocks you sell won't set you free...
And No bags of green won't ground your feet...

I dream in groups of threes...
Four-I wake up still in need...
Got hunger pains I just can't feed...
Cause I'm starving for some sweet, sweet dreams.

But Street Dreams do come in 3s,
Bitter, sweet, and bended knees.
Street Dreams, do you get these?
Or am I alone in these feelings?

Street Dreams aren't always sweet...
Sometimes we fall when we dare leap...
No, Sweet Dreams aren't just for Gs...
No, Drugs and Guns can't buy you these...
Street Dreams aren't just for Gs...
So, 'gangstas' please--DON'T TREAD ON ME...

Oh why can't I just live to be free,
From the words pent up inside of me?!
My pen moves as the spirit breaks free...
Dropping these lines like they're killing me...
Like if I don't write them down, my heart won't beat...
My chest won't heave, 'cause I just can't breathe...
These words unspoken, will choke the life outta me...
So, I'll write them down with a fevered frenzy.

Street Dreams aren't always sweet...
Sometimes we fall when we dare leap...
No, Sweet Dreams aren't just for Gs...
No, Drugs and Guns can't buy you these...
Street Dreams aren't just for Gs...
So, bitches please--DON'T TREAD ON ME...

No I can't think and I can't sleep...
'Till I drop ev'ry thing and spit these deep seeded pleas...
Cries from within--dark and deep--A mental weep...
Tears in form of lyrics--so deep--falling in rhythms so neat...
Fitting of the heart--that's resting within the beat...
Expressing the thoughts--and beliefs-- of the muse inside of me...
This master that I cannot see--but can only feel--instructing me...
In the means and ways of human beings--how they act, speak, and think...

Street Dreams aren't always sweet...
Sometimes we fall when we dare leap...
No, Street Dreams aren't just for Gs...
No, Drugs and Guns can't buy you these...
Street Dreams aren't just for Gs...
So, chucos please--DON'T TREAD ON ME...

No, Sweet Dreams just can't defeat,
The Street Dreams that feed on me...
No matter what I do or whom I fiercely beat...
My mistakes just seem to play--repeat, repeat...

Yeah, Street Dreams keep haunting me...
Remembering all the darker things...
The past replayed in horror scenes...
Showing present and future destinies...
Of all the fighters who think and rage like me...
Who stand and stumble like yearlings...yearning...
To simply die and and live freely...
Fighting just to feel the sting--
The burns and scars from these--
My curses and my blessings...of these, my Sweet, Street Dreams...

Street Dreams, I speak my peace...
And pay the price from my Sweet Dreams...
"Laying Dead" for truthful speaking...
And for fighting for the fairytale ending...
To the reality of the Dreams we're living...
Living and Dying for the Street Dreams I'm rewriting...

Sweet Dreams...now rest in peace...
Think no more of frightful things...
Sweet Dreams...now rest in peace...
Think no more of these...broken Dreams...

Sweet Dreams...
Street Dreams...

Close my eyes to live in sleep...
Only to wake in these Street Dreams...

Street Dreams aren't always sweet...
Sometimes we fall when we dare leap...
No, Sweet Dreams aren't just for Gs...
No, Drugs and Guns can't buy you these...
Street Dreams aren't just for Gs...
So, fakers please--DON'T TREAD ON ME...

'Cause Street Dreams are alive in me...
And I'm--fighting hard to make them be...
Street Dreams, you'll all soon see...
Just how Street Dreams transform when cleaned...
Into Sweet Dreams...ones filled with peace...
For, Sweet Dreams, I'll do my piece...
To make these Street Dreams,
Realities of hope, love,...and inner peace.

Unfiltered

10 lit tips…nicotine burns my lips…eyes blood red, voice deep and thick…voice rough and dark, eyes matching the embers’ spark…

Got no filter on this cigarette, cancer as the bayonet—time makes deadly this game of roulette…

But I think that just living is, in its own right, a bet.  The culmination of one’s life—all the fruit of one’s sweat—can all boil down to a single regret…or maybe a string if you’ve gotten your feet wet…

Why, oh why did you have to go around and mess with it?!  This stupid silly little thing called happiness…

Never again will I trust someone else with it…

This life is mine and don’t you dare forget it…that I invited you to be a part of it…so don’t go ‘round thinking that I owe you one bit…after all you ever did was just step on it…

I am independent and don’t you forget it…I have no idea what the hell is next…All I know is that you won’t be a part of it….hand over the time/energy you’ve taken, and I’ll decide what to do with what’s left of it.

Yep.  I’m calling you pathetic.  The strong should never use their strength to make others dependent…and you did that to her—took the truth and swiftly bent it…crawling back and apologizing just like you meant it…you’re a manipulator—sorry, I just call it like I see it.  And yeah it is my business…you made it mine through befriendment…

I tried to help…and maybe I could have tried harder…played your game—faked it.  But I’m not like you—how I act is how I feel it…

I’m sorry but I couldn’t pretend it…I care enough to fight and defend it…this thing called loyalty is more than just a word on a necklace pendant…I called you my family—and I damn well meant it.

You of little faith should know well that to believe it is to see it…and I do…I see the truth through the filters and fun house mirrors that distort and bend it…

What I believe is the truth…not the fearsome facade you’ve painted…you’re a frightened little boy—clinging tightly to this fictional security you’ve created…

You stupid, silly little boy…

True fearlessness does not come from oppressing and controlling the world around you—it lies within the knowledge that no matter how the scene changes, you can adjust inside and still be okay with it.  I am fearless—you only feign it.  I will speak my mind and act my heart because I have the strength to do it.  And I trust my God and my sword to keep at bay those who would wish me to regret it.  I fear nothing—least of all your half-hearted and shallow threats…so put your goddamn toy away before you get hurt with it…

You’re damn right I’m gonna fight…

I am free—and I won’t forfeit it. 

I’ll see you on the battlefield…so be prepared for it…

‘Cause I’ve got no filter on this cigarette…I laugh at the sight of a bayonet…

Especially when there’s a silly, nervous, little boy holding it.

Yeah…physically you might be bigger and stronger than me and the rest…

But at heart…well…you might just want to toddle back to your mother’s breast…

Because as the bumper sticker says, “God’s coming…and She’s PISSED!”

Inspiration/Motivation

Inspiration flows like a deep, dark ocean,

Comes in waves and sets me in motion,

Gives my heart a sense of sol'mn [solemn] devotion,

To something that's beyond my emotion,

Something stronger than this [fiery] potion…

Head swirling in pain, Heart thumping in vain,

Chest heaving in strain, Mind pulsing with [the] vein…

Sweat pouring like rain, fate’s not what I [had] deigned…

Running down the road I paved, this truth is seen quite plain.

Falling down to what I craved, in the glory I’ve lain--slain.

What the hell is all this commotion?!

Charge the crowd…I mean lo-co-motion…

Pushing, pulling…this big, bad notion…

Just to see the night’s big pro-motion …

Back up Jack ‘fore I serve the demotion…

Masses going insane, the Sheep are running in vain,

Wolves moving in campaign, I’m looking on with distain…

I’ve got too much on the brain…It’s just too much to explain…

Tell me-- who’s gonna maintain, this way of life [that] we [try to] feign…

Too proud to show the emotion…

Too stubborn for absolution…

Too smart to believe the illusion…

Too pissed to reach a solution [too pissed for a peaceful solution]…

Too tired to seek retribution…

Mind racing just like a train, But face [is] more silent than Kurt Cobain,

Words connected all in a chain, Lyrics flowing just like champagne,

The social alcohol now helps restrain, the masses from their work—so profane,

So while they’re tripping on word cocaine, I’m moving freely now—against the grain.

Delving deep into this new notion…

Trying to understand this deep devotion…

To things so base in their actuation…

Fighting off this strong dark addiction…

Ending now this sharp—heart affliction…

Cutting of its flow to the brain, heart and mind both stop [this] fearful reign,

My will and spirit both break the chain, that bound me tightly to this fake charade,

I won’t fall in line at this masquerade, dancing like a fool in this parade,

Walk away, I won’t stand in [this] parade, to please the masses who forget my name.

I’ve seen the heart of this selfish promotion…

No regard at all for friend or family devotion…

No respect at all for works of godly motion…

Lacking honest, truthful introspection…

Into themselves and in the ways of intuition…

I won’t just stand here gawking in vain, helplessly watching events unfolding the same…

I won’t watch these lives being taken-maimed, won’t keep quiet as addictions pay for [this] game…

I am not the one who should be ashamed, my thoughts and my opinions aren’t the ones to blame…

For the murder of the suppliers, the pushers and the buyers, and of those simply in the way…

You think of me as a goody-two shoes…as someone who’s afraid…to stand against you, showing the errors in your ways…

But don’t piss me off guey…’cause I promise…you’ll feel it just the same…as those who disregard me…as those who forget my name…

Haha…you don’t even know my face…but one fact still remains,

That even though my face and name aren't within your brain…

Once our paths have crossed these ways…

Never… in your life… will you ever be the same…

Calling All Angels

I know it’s kind of crazy, especially with gas prices being so high, but sometimes I intentionally take the long road home.  I guess I just like to observe the life around me.  Sometimes I’ll take Transmountain home or Montana Street.  It’s just really interesting to watch how people interact with each other and with nature.

Sometimes you’ll see people riding bicycles with varying degrees of skill.  Some people will run, others will walk---if it’s late on a Friday night, they’ll stumble from one “Watering hole” to the next. 

On several occasions though I’ve watched as one particular woman uses a payphone on the corner of Cotton and Montana.  She’s an older woman; however I think she’s probably younger than she looks.  The blistering summer heat and bone chilling winter winds can do that to a person.  Every line on her weathered face and tanned skin has a story to tell…an accompanying worry.  But I think indifference and judgment are more damaging than the natural elements.

She is what many would describe as homeless. 

She is not homeless.  She is neglected.  She is forgotten.  Her value is dismissed.  She is a human being.

She feels.  She thinks.  She needs exactly what every other person needs.

She needs so much more than bread and water.

She is entitled to respect.  She deserves concern.

But most of all, she needs our love…not our judgment.

There is a fine line between the working class and the unemployed.  Sometimes it’s a white line on a mirror.  But more often than not, the line separating those who live underneath a roof from those under a bridge is invisible.  It is within our minds and in the churning tides of fortune.  Underneath the tough, weathered skin beats a heart not so unlike our own.

Every time I pass this intersection, my hermana’s bent and broken form leans against the telephone booth.  Her head is stooped and face obscured by a worn hat and bag laden arm—avoiding the piercing glances of those around her.  Her free hand clutches the receiver as she makes her calls.

But who is answering?

From what I see---no one.  Including myself.

Calling all angels.

Both walking and flying.   She’s calling all you angels.

Don’t leave her there crying.

Calling all angels.