By John Rodriguez
I’m relaxing my mind, sitting on my bed, letting the music massage my ears. I’m looking out the window, watching the sun’s every move, waiting for it to set. The whole time I’m in my room writing, killing time waiting for my parents to fall asleep. I’m practicing different styles, making sure to get them stuck in my head. I peek out my bedroom door. It looks as if the coast is clear. I slide my closet door open, slip on my black Levis, a black t-shirt, and the dirtiest black shoes I can find. I open up the top drawer of my dresser and gather my tips. I pick out the finest colors of paint. I unzip my backpack and stuff all my needs towards the bottom. Now I’m off.
I slowly open my front door. I hold my breath and take light steps. Now, I’m outside. The cold air hits my face and wakes me right up. It has me eager to get there. I walk through this mellow city, Inglewood, California. The streets are quiet. Walking down each block, I can hear my every footstep. The cans in my backpack rattle. I glance left, right. All I see are light poles and parked cars. No people. I’m near. I look around to see if there are any cops or people who might call the cops while I’m jumping in.
I’m in! My feet hit the dirt. It smells as if I landed in a nursery. The floor is covered with branches. The gigantic gray walls that surround me are covered with tagging. My heart is pounding. I look to the heavens and all I see are the blurred clouds. I make my way down the hill. The branches are constantly causing me to lose my balance. I take every step carefully. I’m at the bottom of the hill. I glance towards my right. Cars speeding at 70, 80 mph. I take a deep breath. I make my run for it across the 405 Freeway. The headlights coming my way are blinding me. My ears are crying from the cars’ obnoxious honking.
Thank God I make it across the freeway safely. I’m now near the exit on Manchester Boulevard. I can see the wall staring at me. It’s the wall I’ve been wanting to “hit.” It’s beautiful. I love the way the wall is positioned so that when people are driving by, it clearly stands out.
I approach the wall. I take a breather and rip my backpack open. I pull out my spray cans. My hand immediately bonds with it. I feel the coldness of its skin. I can hear it screaming my name. I put my “New York Fat” tip on the can because in my eyes it’s perfect. The way the tip flares the paint out and the thickness of the lines is just right, not too wide, not too skinny.
I’m spraying away, letting my hand guide itself, letting it go free. The paint comes out getting a right grip on the wall, leaving a trace of fine lines. I’m rotating the can as I write, getting the perfect flare and thickness of the line. While I’m writing, my body purifies itself—relieving itself of my stress and helping me forget my worries. No more getting screamed at by my mother. No one is telling me what to do. There is no better feeling than this. I’m in another world. Nothing bothers me. It’s just me, the wall, and the can, doing what I do best.
This is my home.
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