Where do I begin?

I think with any journey, there is always a beginning. When I had my first job layoff, I started to write. I mean what else was I supposed to do? Clean the house? Then, it turned out to be wonderful. I had an outlet to apply my creativity, I found inspiration, and I learned a lot about myself. I am still working on my style, but that comes with time and work. I miss some of that freedom and productivity because I am working full time again. BUT I feel the writing bug again. If I don't act on it, it's just going to keep me up at night. So, for the first blog on "A Means to an End," I will start with a memory of mine. It is one of the first reflections I wrote from those days. Every time I read it, I get grounded because from there I didn't stop. I wrote almost everyday until I finally found a job. I need to get on that routine if I want to write my feature length script (120 pages). That means a 120 good pages; resulting from writing a million words and who knows how many of those end up in the digital trash bin. So here is is my foundation:

The Virgin
I only had to move once growing up. I had a two story house that my dad was able to coax out of the mountain seemingly with his bare hands. I was in first grade at the time, and I thought my dad to be superman. He was a quiet, powerful force that probably shouldn’t be crossed. My home was the only one on the block that was solid cement and as hard as the mountain rock my father had to blast through to form it. We had a couple of neighbors that were really nice. Dad always sent us down to give them food. I was always scared of our neighbors. One was an old asian man who lived in a dilapidated house. It was even leaning on the power lines threatening to break through them one day. But in the backyard was the most wonderful tree, a Lychee tree. The boys in the neighborhood used to torture me by singing “oh Donna from” its tree limbs. I used to seethe in anger and embarrassment and hoped that mom and dad weren’t listening. The other two neighbors I called Uncle Joe and Uncle Bob. They had chickens in the backyard raised for cockfights. The crowing would always wake me up at 5:45 am until I got used to it, and later on after the old men died, I missed it. I think at night sometimes about my life then because those are my clearest memories since I can barely remember what I was doing yesterday, but can remember my first grade years as clear as the day I first experienced it all. And now I’ve taught myself to forget…Right before the asian man died, I think he knew he was going soon…he came out from the house and gave my mom a present. It was a stature of the Virgin Mary. We said thank you as we were dropped off to school. I think it stayed in our house for a very short while because the old man died. My mom came to me very wide-eyed and said we had to give the statue back. There were spirits wandering about and it could enter into the statue and haunt our house. I guess this could be regarded as crazy talk, but in my household dreams and ghosts are not taken lightly. My mom made me take the statue back. The old lonely house was abandoned. Without the old man, the house became a ghost house. I remember the winds were blowing so hard. There were no windows. The place was a mess, leaves strewn everywhere. I couldn’t do it. The house was already leaning heavily on the power lines. It could fall apart at any moment right on top of my head. My mom grabbed my hand and together we went back in. She deposited the statue in the corner of the house, and we ran out as soon as we could. My mom was shaking from the experience. Soon after, the house was demolished the statue along with it. I sometimes think about that moment. What if the statue really carried the man’s spirit? Maybe his ghost was as kind as the old man. Maybe she was sent to protect us. I will never know the answer. All I know is the neighborhood changed slowly with each one that passed away left the street. Where did their spirits go? Are they shaking their heads at the horrible state our street has become? I think it is unsafe there now. I feel the presence of gangs and crime with the new people that move in. It hit really close to home when my mom’s car got stolen a couple years ago. There is still one more of the “original” neighbors left on the street. When she finally goes, I know that the world as I knew it growing up will disappear.