I Cried to Dream Again

I wished my family would go away every day the day I went to east Texas to wander through the woods for no reason. I ended up kicking aluminum cans older than me and laughing at couches rotting way past my dues.

My uncle had insisted.

It was his Property.

Just like that. Capital boring letters. THE PROPERTY. Let's drive two hours to see THE PROPERTY.

He called me "Hollywood". I was a magic elixer and we would forget that we had all forgot my mother like some inheritance gold. Sorry, mother. I'm sure you never enjoyed this place, despite the way your brother insisted that you did. You died in the north. The north is filled with places like this. To such an extent, that they're annoying. You'd call us in when we played in woods like these. How could you enjoy them?

Lighten up. I made the mistake of wearing sunglasses and nice clothes. I had been to Santa Monica Blvd., once, and I hated it. But they called me "Hollywood". Probably because I wasn't impressed by the woods.

I could have been looking for a real job. Or bothering pretty girls on Guadalupe St. But I was wandering the woods like I did for 3 years when I was 15 and high all the time. An insatiable appetite filled me apathetically.

"Your mother loved these woods." He said to me.

Bullshit. I know because I hate these woods. As they stop to take every picture like a grandfather dying from brain cancer holding the youngest grandchild. We both know it's bullshit as we waste our time and the worthless dog sniffs the roots. Had I brought my gun, I think, I could've at least shot some cans.

"This is a pine." They say, as everyone crowds around digging a plant with nothing special about it. This land drags me down.

"Look how old this can is." Says a cousin-in-law holding a 7-up piece of trash. She's worthless. At first I thought her red hair was a nice change but she revealed herself to be boring as hell. She asked me to quickly explain the book "Guns, Germs, and Steel." I lost her when she said it sounded "Too liberal." I didn't ask her what she meant, just smiled and ate my dinner.

They fell further behind as I walked faster along barbed wire fences towards the road by the car filled with brownies on THE PROPERTY. UCLA is a joke, and if I'm Hollywood, no one loves me. This is my country. Finally, my family emerges, only described as wearing bright colors fearing the next door neighbor who happens to be a washed up country music star, might shoot them. Don't shoot them.

Didn't you hear? My mother loved these woods.

It's some ground we bought back in '72. The neighbors call to buy the lumber. But I never saw any trees worth cutting.