leland murkowski / d3 / (fin) cb

It’s tempting to say my family owes a techno-dynasty when they actually owe a techno-graveyard.

Because hey, if you look at the Murkowskis' home and its heaping towers of metal scrapes, torn tires, and broken glass from a really niche angle, it could somewhat resemble bright-colored domes that some castles have or one of those grand watchtowers beside a moat.

Everything’s perspective, right?

If you look at it right, my house is more like a castle and less like a junkyard.

But, I’m just complaining. I can’t say I hate this place; I don’t. After all, I’m a product of it. Firstly, my denims are always soot-stained and, pardon me, smells like oil that’d gone beyond bad and is now toxifying. Secondly, I know how to discern treasure from junk now, a really good thing that keeps me and my family’s stomachs full when I sell said treasures. That little gadget tossed by some factory because they thought the design was primitive? Treasure. The suspiciously-green potion that’s meant to make your teeth shinier in an instant? Junk. Trust me, because I’m speaking from experience and through a few green teeth.

And thirdly, I’m an anagram of it.

Because we couldn’t afford to put me in school, I learnt everything in the graveyard, heeding my dad’s words on how to mend objects that don’t appear too broken, and how to melt iron parts to forge something entirely new. I learnt how to discard, how to salvage, and most importantly, how to survive.

So, in a way, the Murowskis' Graveyard of Technical Wonders can be a castle but it isn’t about perspective this time. It’s about how secure it is. It’s about how it’s a home.

It’s about how it’s my home.