Sitting here late at night, thinking about music and trying to keep this rambunctious black

cat by the name of Kali in line. I’ve been reading some of David Foster Wallace’s book,
Infinite Jest. Perhaps I enjoyed his description of Mighty Sphincter in the short story
contained in his book, Girl with Curious Hair. But there are other motivations as well. I
think that by reading a style I enjoy that perhaps I can get more in the mindset of a writer
who tells a story about some risqué subject matter that will enthrall the audience with
delight and horror. The kind of stories I have to tell are mostly real, although making
them up would be easy enough, it’s just the things in life that have happened make an
interesting enough story to tell to the casual reader. My stories are often hinged around
danger; therefore it seems natural to write a book about some of the dangerous events that
have happened around me. At this point in world history there seems to be plenty of
danger for everyone to have a piece of the pie, so perhaps this type of tale won’t get as far
as I’d like it to, but never the less I’ll begin to tell my stories.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who grew up in hostile conditions with parents that
truly loved him, however their lives were so inundated with drama between each other
and the young path they had started out on together, that the child that they had brought
into the world had little space and time to develop in their midst without something going
amiss in short order. Oh, there were pleasant memories and lots of 8mm movies to reflect
on, but it didn’t take long for things to go seriously off track, never to return to those days
of duel parental nurturing. The first dangerous experience I can remember centers on this
beginning point.

One night I remember waiting for my Father to return home from his evening carpentry
class as was a regular event during his 22 year as a young man with a new family and a
day job as a concrete construction foreman. It seems as if he was a bit late, and Mom
was a bit concerned. When he came through the door a fight soon ensued between these
two parental figures and it didn’t take very long for blows to ensue. I think I was two
years old. I remember looking up at their towering bodies and trying to break up the fight
by holding on to my Fathers leg. I was thrown across the room in some fashion and
landed against the wall and began crying. The next day I took a walk out of the house by
myself and down the street a block, turned right and headed straight for the edge of a
canal that passed behind our house in Phoenix, Arizona. I looked down from the edge
and at this young age contemplated suicide. I thought about jumping into the brisk
waters beneath my feat and allowing myself to drown. It would appear as an accident of
coarse, but I would be free of the pain and discomfort that my life was starting to be. On
some level I suppose that I felt hopeless, that my life wasn’t turning out very good, and
the parents I had weren’t fit to be such figures in light of the abusive environment
encountered on the preceding night. As I gazed into the rushing current, I also realized
that my death would cause pain in others and for this reason I concluded that I must
refrain from proceeding with the idea that had come to me so spontaneously. As I now
have a hard time imagining that a two year old could premeditate suicide. Never the less,
just the other day I drove down the street where I lived some 31 years ago and I see the
house we lived in and just a few houses down the street when you turn right, there is a
canal only a house away from the main street.