Brittle Grass

Steel sky whispers to the brow of the hill.

The grim father, his worn hand on the casket pall, bears the body of his broken son to the waiting rift in the frozen ground.

Brittle grass undulating in the bitter wind.

Walking

Six days ago, I walked with my brother.

The refuse of mammoth hunters at our feet.

Note

I am well, for connected days, but there are other spans when the light is not as full, the sounds are dim, and odors are empty.

I have lived well beyond my expected years, connected to this world by threads.

I miss you all, my family, my father, my brothers and sisters.

Your passing has left me damaged and the repairs are leaking patches on a worn out hull.

Forgive me for squandering these many years that you did not have the opportunity to hold in health.

I pine for you, I want you , I need you.

Burn

There is a fire in the cane field; flames fanned by high winds are licking the store-houses and stables.

There is nowhere to run.

This is going to burn us all.

I can't stop feeling this way.

It is not death that I fear, but the torment that is feasting on the souls and blessings of man.

I turn my head to hide my eyes, but the sound is there to remind me.

A deafening roar and crackle; the darkness of man is here and it will not be abated.

I will exhaust myself, beating and stamping the multiplying embers.

I pray that you can mercifully sleep away the night; unfortunately, I cannot.

Other Men's Boots

The roar of the guns and cannons was deafening as the men fired upon the inbound Japanese planes.
The blue Pacific sky was filled with flack and burning projectiles, like innumerable hornets released from a savaged hive, searching for reckoning in the hundreds of Kamikaze that bore down upon the picket.

The sailors howled in anger as the damaged planes penetrated the swarm of steel and dove for the deck of their ship. The angle and range to impact were uncertain so they ran port to stern and stern to bow in hopes of evading the burning havoc of ordnance and fuel that was hurtling toward them.

The dismembered wreckage slammed into the deck; the ensuing explosion rocked and twisted the ship, blasting hot, fragmented metal through the men, cleaving bodies and scattering them like chaff in the wind.

The battle lasted for fifteen days. The torn remains of their shipmates were stacked as high as a standing man and bloated in the blinding sun.

As the battle subsided they were allowed to bury their brethren;
shame, rage, and disgust washed over the mourners as sharks came to feast on the swollen flesh of the dead.

A halt was ordered on the procession as live munitions were lashed to the cadavers in hopes of speeding their descent into their cold, murky graves, fathoms below.

Carl "Junior" Stanger , who is slowed by injuries from logging camps, the second great war, and age, still carries himself impressively. Though stooping and shuffling a bit, he is still striking.
His glinting silver eyes reveal an active mind that contains unfathomable chapters and verse; his voice is booming with conviction and passion; his snow white hair and beard command reverence.

During his war, Carl heard a Voice that would lead and drive him through the many years that followed; restless, he wandered in the south western deserts and mines, searching.

For brief numbers of days he would return home to visit and share his spiritual experiences and life lessons brought to him by the voice of his God. His revelations were met with glazed eyes and discomfort, because His messages that came from Carl’s lips did not fall in line with our family’s accepted spiritual beliefs. From the moment Carl began to share his guidance, he was disregarded; believed to be "off" and "out there", he became the source of jokes and unanswered phone calls.

Shamefully, I admit that I believed my families opinions of Uncle Carl and accepted them as my own.

He knows all of this, and he is loyal to his spirit.

The pursuance of my beginnings led me to the place of my birth and to the home of my Uncle Carl.

His residence is a disintegrating trailer, strangled with Virginia Creeper and wasp nests that is slowly sinking into the earth.
I sat opposite to him, that August, separated by a veil of afternoon sun. The light settled on his hoary visage, radiated about him, flashing, manipulated by his gesturing hands as the conversation carried him over memories and time.

He shared with me the adventures of his youth, the work in the forests that broke his body, and the lone journeys through wind carved canyons, abandoned shafts in the ground, and the founding of the fading utopian idea that lay scattered, moldering among the hills surrounding his habitation.

As the hours passed, a calm settled about him and he began to speak of spiritual experiences. The words that poured from his mouth connected the fragments of conversation that had been hidden in my heart as a child.
I suddenly remembered his visits to our home and the images of he and my father sharing words in a similar light and a kindred manner.
Until my reunion with him I was unaware that he was one of the pioneers that settled the village with my father, and that my father was one of the few who accepted his council and communion.

I had to know the source of my uncles passion and vision; I asked where his spiritual journey began and he told me in a manner like one would describe a well known fact.

"I heard the voice of God."

He described to me the battle that he endured in the Pacific, and of the moment when a string of words, that would reshape his mind and his heart, resonated in his soul; in a tick of seemingly frozen time that fastened his feet to the wooden deck of a man made ship and locked his eyes on a man driven bomb one hundred feet above his head, he heard, "I will save this ship because of you."

Did Carl hear the voice of God?

There are countless stories of men, under horror and great duress, experiencing unexplainable events; they report, with great feeling, that they would not believe what transpired unless they had been there themselves.
They understand that common sense and psychological theories will negate their irrational, absurd, and unbelievable attests; they hammer and chip-away at the occurrence, hoping to sculpt and shape the phenomenon into something smaller and manageable, and in the process, degrade themselves prostituting the purity of the action.

Carl and his ship were saved; they survived, battered and scarred, and managed to transfer many other wounded, dead, foundering souls and vessels to safe harbors.

I believe that Carl experienced something extraordinary during an unbelievable moment that triggered the expanding of his consciousness, leaving him void of doubt.

Nearing the end of this life he is collected; an aggregation of history, experience, and thought, still searching for traces of a Voice that only a few will truly hear.

I am fortunate to have reconnected with him and I find him much less threatening, having spent some time walking in his boots.

Lucent

The moon, he is near.

Stone creeps slowly, and water silently; drawn to his primal counsel.

The earth sighs, releasing her sweet breath of loam and dew.

Live things stir and are wakeful, lucent in the night.

Lamb's Creek

Lamb’s Creek is a long, lazy, cool collection of spring water and rain, dappled with sunlight and shadow.
For thousands of years, like an aged serpent, it’s glistening, dark body has undulated through the forest and tall grass fields, polishing stone and shifting sand.
Small, shimmering fish, dart in it’s shallows; larger, older, colder bodied things lurk, deep under the wet limestone banks, waiting.

My mothers family settled along the branch more than a century ago.
For generations, the creek was a place to hunt and a refuge from the permeating presence of Summer.

When I was nineteen, I chose a Memorial Day to return and feel the waters, and maybe collect a few geodes that had been washed from their places of birth.
Heat had come early that particular May. The Cottonwood trees were releasing their progeny; the young, suspended on the sultry air, innumerable in the afternoon light, were slowly making their way to the surface of the shade covered stream.
I followed them to water, jumped from the high bluff that was covered with fern and moss, and sank my feet into the cool with the others.
Earlier in the day, after visiting my parents, I had brought a kitten home to my young wife; she quickly, without words pulled the cat into her arms, where recently, had been an erroneously trusted friend.

When I was younger, my father told me many times, "You will have many friendly acquaintances, but few, true friends."
He could have been sharing lessons from experience, but, maybe he was offering counsel for behaviors I was exhibiting.
What may father had said about friends and friendship was so very true, but I would be long in understanding it.

The Sunday morning that my sister began my religious indoctrination, I watched my brothers and my father pull away; their bodies, blown in the wind and jostled, disappeared into the distance as I stood on the sidewalk, shackled.
I knew where they were going, and I knew what they would find, I had been with them before and relished the shared experience.
The wonderful, wild, and weird, were substantiated when our eyes met across the encounters between us; the fears, we each understood, were lessened and courage festered in our hearts as we stood, shoulder to shoulder, facing the unknown.
But, those times were over, and they, all too soon, would be gone as well.
I would spend much of my life searching to get back into that green truck with the souls I had known.

I faced the unknowns of my adolescence with a group of acquaintances; hooligans who are now found in addiction or prison, but one, a shining example, was a friend, a surrogate for the brotherly relationship I was missing.
Together we honed our talents, raided pantries, sought beautiful girls and their treasures held, shared stolen cigarettes between gulps of similarly acquired alcohol, wondered at the stars over frosted stubble in broad corn fields, endured punishments, and laughed at it all, but eventually, and unfortunately, we were to part ways.

As a young adult, continuing my quest, I suffered an acquaintance as a friend. As Lamb’s Creek, he stole through my life, eventually wearing and separating lands that were joined. I survived the encounter, wounded, with a religious respect for my fathers advice.
The concurrence left me bitter and guarded, but unconsciously I continued to prospect for my elusive brothers.

After Lamb’s Creek I found associations, for a short period in time. We shared an occupation as soldiers, and with the duties, shared many memorable times.
Those links, often called Brothers In Arms are scattered now, among the grass, under the wind. We drift in and out with one another through phone calls and letters place by me. Not real friends, but friendly, they are there, each validating our life experience.

Upon reaching middle age, the yearning subsided; I had experienced most of the grand events expected in this life, many without the presence of a proponent. The close confidants that held the proof of my life together were fewer, and further away, and frankly, I was no longer interested in parceling what was left to others. What more was to come, I was willing to face alone.

Yet, a few years ago, seasons changed, along with the currents of the wind, and like the Summer Snow on Lamb’s Creek, strangers blew into my life; serendipitously drifting beside me. Being apprehensive and tired, I held them warily at a distance, as acquaintances, but, they, being seeds of something I lost long ago, found purchase near me and have grown into entities that I am happy to know, and they, swaying in the wind with me, shoulder to shoulder have become more than friends.

They are my brothers and I am thankful to share what's left of this life with them.

Drink Your Fill

The border of trees, naked, limbs like arthritic hands, made of coal, stand unmoving as the gun colored fog rises from it’s hidden abode and breaches the cordon of slumbering entities.
Stealthily , void of sound, it crosses the ink hued waters, silently steals up the frosted banks, and without notice entrenches for assault on my damaged ground.

My old friend returned to share a drink with me. I didn’t hear his feet upon the cabin floor nor receive notification of his passing. While enjoying a bit of comfort I mistakenly left the door unbolted, which to him has always been a sign of invitation to my hearth. I must say, I am always a bit startled when I enter the room to find him quietly sitting.
I can’t recall how long we have known one another, or even our introduction; it seems as if we have always been familiar, but him of me, more than I of him. I call him friend, not out of friendliness, but from time accrued. Truthfully assessing our relationship would have me admit that I really do not like him at all; surely, I have enjoyed his company from time to time, but out of youthful melancholy. I don’t know why he has always been so fond of me.

His visits often last for months, though recently they are fewer and far between. He’s really not a person that brings warmth to a place; his appearance is grim, his countenance is consumption.
Draining, he is; the fire, quivering in the corner, recedes before his presence, food is un-filling, and drink is un-quenching.

I’ve never been a good host; when he visits I rarely speak, offering little to the union. We sit at my worn table; I with my arms folded, and he with his flickering yellow eyes set deep in his black face, searching my heart for the liquid that fills his cup. His voice not heard, but felt, like a hive of droning hornets, recalls and places before me the wretchedness of times past and proposes fearsome futures. Shifting my gaze, I look about the chamber for artifacts that might spur some lighter conversation, but to no avail; he commands his ensnared audience.

Rising, I reach for the iron to stoke the fire, hoping to provoke a flame and warm the cold that is embracing the space, maybe fuel the embers to lick at his heels and drive him into the night air, to move him along on his way. My selfish desire; for him to find some new friend, some new dwelling where he can draw his quarter and be done with me.
I lay the final piece of kindling upon the waning blaze, wishing it were his funeral pire.
He cranes his crooked neck to squarely place his lamp-like gaze upon me and continues his growling murmur.

Drink your fill my friend, drink your fill and go!

Resurrection

The Greyhound coach had taken what seemed an eternity to transport me and my small backpack to central Kentucky. But for the driver I was unaccompanied; throughout the day the rolling carcass had rumbled to stops at it’s pre-positioned hubs and disgorged the other travelers.
I had departed from the Indianapolis Military Entrance Processing Station in a limousine with a few other recruits. Upon arrival at the bus station we shook hands and went our separate ways. A few were heading to the Great Lakes Naval Center, some were on their way to the east coast to become Marines. I was traveling to Ft. Knox to be reborn as a soldier.

As the miles accumulated on the odometer, my old life was slipping into the dark. The physical span of this particular journey was minimal, but it might as well have been light years, unfathomable miles, from the sun.
I was a flesh and bone satellite tumbling away from earth. As the hours passed and the familiar sights shrank in the distance a great silence enveloped me. I was solitary in the hinterland of a great emptiness.
Ice began to form on my hull, obscuring my markings of origin. The processes inside began to slow with the cold and soon their noises would cease. The remnants of life were flickering, desperately drawing what energy was left, intermittently blinking in the dark until finally extinguishing in the subzero environment of space.

I was alone.

The cavernous aluminum leviathan lumbered to a halt on a small hill next to a battered concrete block shanty and opened its maw to spit me from it’s gullet.
I stepped out, into the gloom, and into a growing storm. The bus pulled away as a damp wind picked up the red dust of the ground and threw it against the diminutive weathered building. Lightning was flashing in the distance, silhouetting the unfamiliar horizon in crimson and gold. Thunder rumbled and mingled with the unmistakable "thud" and "krump" of artillery that was rising and falling in far away fields.

I stood on this forsaken purchase of ground with the vacant shack, inhaling the ozone, rain, and iron. The feeling was desolate and charged, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand like prophets speaking of unavoidable action.

I had receive no instructions on what to do upon reporting to this post; do I wait here for some sort of shuttle? I had imagined that I would now be face to face with someone who would usher me into this alien world, but here I stood in the hollow of night with a frigid blast buffeting this remote, empty outpost.
The thought of walking away flashed in my mind; I could step away from all of this, evade into the tempest, and no one would observe my parting. But, I had no place to go; I had committed to this path and left my home as well as all that it had to offer. I was unprepared for any other option.

I looked to my broken associate who was anchored to the rise; in the shadow of it’s entrance, illuminated by a dim lamp, was a hinged metal box marked in with faded yellow paint ‘New Arrivals’.
I raised the cover, revealing a worn old telephone from a previous war. The receiver had been painted numerous times with varied shades of olive, and below it’s base was a single red button.

This moment was final; these terminal seconds that it would take my finger to touch the blood colored stud would be my last, as the person that I was.

The device was bitter against my ear. My chest expanded as I formulated words for the being on the other end of the line.
I exhaled old fears, my heart rushed and resonated in my ears. I looked into the imminent roar, drew one last breath, and depressed the flaming contact that would announce my entrance to this world.

Another flash in the blackness, another rumble, more thunder.

With great labor, I would soon receive my resurrection.

The Old Man

I have seen his face, somewhere behind my reflection.
I hear his whispers in the dark, driving me from rest.
I have suffered his blows upon the good in me.
I have grappled with him, viciously assaulted him, but he will not be subdued.

I am unable to sever myself from him;
he is welded to me and I am torn from his constant abrasion.

Born with me, he is my burden; I have carried him all of my days.
Panting, gnashing, gnawing, murmuring; he writhes inside of me.
He is a sickness within me, requiring constant nursing.

He is the old man, a mortal coil encumbering my every action.
Shackled together he, my constant companion, slows my pace.

Oh! To press my thumbs into his eyes on a dark, rain-soaked field;
to drive my fingers into his throat; to squeeze the life from him;
to release him from his chains, would be the end of me as well.

So, I will continue to bear him, and his cur-like nature, throughout the remainder of my years.

Maybe he will quiet himself as we walk into the ages.

God of War

To break from her corrupt gaze is to live a life of peace and to harvest the fruit of life.

Sublime is her call; deceit pours like syrup from her full mouth.

I have followed her with multitudes of other young men, beating our chests, and pining for her hot soft skin.

Her touch is a haunting, and a horror in the night.

Her bosom is the grave.

Salvation

Summer, 08’

The chipmunk, panting rapidly, had narrowly escaped the jaws of the canines that were in his pursuit; he paused, in horror, at their backsides as they dug for his home under the porch.
His black and white camouflage did little to hide him from my daughters ‘pet acquiring’ eyes that had watched the scene unfold; the shocked little pest was soon wriggling in her delicate hand.
As the rodent sank his tiny teeth into her finger she thought "Dad has callused man hands, surly he can hold this little varmint better than I can!" and with victory in her eyes she carried the now vicious ball of fur into the house.

My daughter was born at the perfect moment in my life; she entered this world when it began to darken for me. I was twenty-one when she arrived, and in no way, was I prepared to raise her; I was wound up with immaturity, depression, and grief.

Her months in the womb were difficult, resulting in numerous, journeys to the hospital.
Her birth, long labored, was finalized by an emergency cesarean section.
My soul turned and tears came as I held her tiny body and listened to her delicate voice.
The glow of her life warmed my heart and planted my feet in the ground.

She was marked with hemangianoma’s on her nose and hip. The pediatrician assured us that these were common and would fade.
At four months of age she began having seizures that caused her breathing to halt; my family medical history mandated an EEG as well as a CAT Scan.

An "un-definable mass" was found in her brain.

The doctor assigned to us insisted that she should be administered anti-seizure medication as well as be connected to an alarm while sleeping.

Terms like, Rage and Anger, do little to describe the feelings I was filled with. "Why, in the name of God, does my child have to be afflicted with the plague that is destroying my family? Is it not enough that all of the other facets of this life are damaged, can’t one be free of marring?"

I knew what the medications prescribed would do to her; I had experienced their mental and physical effects on my brothers.

I refused to administer the toxin to my daughter.

Chance counsel from a family physician offered the idea that the "un-definable mass" could be a hemangianoma and would fade with the others.
I threw away the paper prescription, but taped the sensors of the respiratory monitor to her every night.

The marks on her body slowly faded as well as her seizures and the nightly alarms.

During this period of her life, my brothers were dying as well as my relationship with her mother. I yearned for escape from turmoil and pressure, but her hold was tight upon me; her spirit was reaching through me like the roots of a great tree to water.
She was the glimmer of hope in me; she was the quantity that eased and quieted the shaking that could bring me to the ground.

Looking back, I can see that I was in a similar situation as the chipmunk in this chapter; I was in great danger of demise, my home was being destroyed, I was exposed, and unprepared for the world.

But, fortunately, grace shined upon me; I was rescued and uplifted by the delicate, loving hand of my daughter.

"Make Do."

The Great Depression pushed the young men of my home town away; some went to the Civilian Conservation Corps and a great many (including my uncles) retreated to the local river camps.

The people in town called the men who went to water "River Rats" and I guess you could say that their behavior mimicked that furry creature; industriously they worked to gather refuse for shelter, took advantage of the bounty nature provided, and in this way survived until fortune carried them home.

From the woods and farm field dumps they gathered material to construct their small shacks and shanties.

Some built floating barges that carried them through other river towns, looking for work while sustaining themselves on fish, turtle, beaver, and musk rat.

Tin and canvas roofs sheltered them from the rain and snow that fell. Tar paper, battened boards, and rough hewn logs blocked the wind.
Deadfall wood, burning in the oil drum stoves, provided the heat that warmed them and cooked their meals that were gathered from the river and it's banks.

The workday commenced before the sky began to glow through the trees; they waded through the river checking traps and trout lines. As the sun drew the wind to the east, rifles report echoed through the bottoms; squirrels, raccoons, deer, and birds were harvested.
Fishing with poles and traps continued through the day as well as the gathering of spring water, dandelion greens, wild onion, chicory, berries, persimmons, pawpaws, roots, and nuts.

Excess was traded and sometimes sold in the town square for sundries that could not be acquired naturally.

They were looked upon with jest and scorn for their rudimentary ways of living, but they were indebted to nothing except their basic human needs.
Hunger and the need for shelter was satiated by will and the knowledge of what our earth provides, free of charge.

My uncles "Made Do" and survived to thrive. They passed on their knowledge of the creeks and rivers to all that would listen.

I’ll end this by sharing their advice;

"If it’s tough out there, Make Do."

Ghost in the Machine

A Dream in Winter, 96’

The great northern forest was hushed by dense, falling snow.

The snow, as a fog, seemed to separate me from the innumerable, tall, dark, pines that faded into the white distance.
Solitarily, in pairs, and in groups, a great many owls fluttered and glided over me in silence; passing through the fog and into the distance, gradually filling the lower branches of the ghostly pines as far as I could see.
The owls shook the snow from their feathers as they preened, without notice of me.
I knew that one of them was my father. And I knew that he was home, without memory of horror, and without pain.


From the depths, dreams are delivered;
shifting and tumbling through the mire, gaining speed as pressures subside,they make their way to the surface.

Contours flash, surfaces glow, and substance is revealed as their journey nears the light of consciousness.

Images of objects and places, unknowingly stored in the recesses of the mind, are selected, assembled, pieced together, encrypted for the recipient, and jettisoned from fathoms below.

These messages, written in the language of the soul, are communicated and in darkness they take shape in a myriad of forms:

secret, as the whispering breath of a lover to the ear, warm, sweet, and sublime;
horrid, thrown before one, howling, gnashing, and biting like an animal caged;
welcomed, like a nudge to the ribs from a childhood friend.

These flickering moments are artfully crafted to expose the workings of the heart; unveiling condition, reaction, and intent.

The aged majority are from a familiar library and the necessity of their delivery is understood.

But some, a rare few, speak from other volumes and are parcels, not of my own.

A Well Remembered, George Gadd

My daughter was seven years of age when she wrote to me the following note;

Some things should never be forgotten.

My father, George Gadd, was born into a dirt poor family on October 1st, 1939.

His father was a veteran of The Great War. As a child, his mother had sailed the Atlantic Ocean from Portugal to Hawaii.
His parents courted while on the island, were married, and soon sailed to The States.
They moved into a board and batten shack in "Bucktown" on the south end of town.

Alcohol was my grandfathers remedy for the troubles that ruled that era and his hands channeled frustration upon his family.

George was twelve when he was turned out upon the streets. His mother had fallen to a cancer and his father to another woman with other children.

George delivered groceries throughout the town and for a time lodged with an older brother; the brothers wife would skim the greater part of George’s pay and lock him from the home during weekend revelries.
George began to hide a portion of his weekly pay and eventually purchased an old car that would serve as his home until he graduated high school.

Upon graduating from high school he married and began Tool and Die trade school.
He and his wife began to fill their lives with children, but the full family he had hoped for would slip through his fingers as disease and death stole them away.

He labored with mind, muscle, sweat, and tears. Prayers poured from his soul, and still, life faded.
He held closely to five of his children as they passed from this world and left behind a loving father who groaned in great agony.

He pounded his days away from dark of morning to dark of night to cover his family responsibilities and never failed to extend himself to others, where needed; he paid for the education of employees that wanted to improve themselves, posted bail for their youthful mistakes, and counseled them on the definition of father and husband.

We were grievously insulted when we learned of his imminent death.

My remaining brother and I were at his home helping him with plumbing the bathroom.
He departed for the hardware store, a place he had been to many, many times before.
He returned hours later and secluded himself in the living room, holding his head, swaying in his chair, and weeping.

He had spent the previous hours in confusion trying to find his way home.

A tumor was found in his brain that night and he began the end of his journey with death.

During his final years he would experience every malady his children had experienced; surgery, medication, radiation, chemotherapy, infection, weakness, confusion, dementia, spinal meningitis, and finally death.

He parceled out what remained of his life, day after day; he gave his all, all of the time. He spoke with compassion, helped where he could with weakened hands, and offered a selfless love to all that would accept.

In the Fall of his last year, my wife and I drove to visit him at his home, arriving late, we found a note, "Took George to the hospital."
He had awakened from a nap in great pain, believing he had been shot in the head. He was lost in extreme pain and could not be comforted.

By his screams, I found him in the emergency room of the hospital. " My feet are on fire!! Fix my head!! Help me!! Oh, God help me!!" The doctors would not administer any pain medication for fear of masking symptoms of neurological problems. Their decision was to ship him to a larger medical center.

The ambulance was filled with his screams.

Magnetic images showed fluid on his brain and a spinal tap confirmed spinal meningitis.

Mercifully he fell into unconsciousness and into a coma, never to utter coherent words again.

I spent the following weeks at the hospital. On December 16th my mother called for my support in removing my dad from the machines that were keeping him alive.

I agreed to let him go.

He slipped away quietly one labored breath at a time on December 19th.

For years I removed family memories from thought. After living through their suffering, their absence became a respite from the turmoil.

I am finally able to remember them and choose to do so. Like prospects in a pan, the horror is washing away in waves and the gold in them is shinning through.

My father was an amazing soul. From birth, mountains of chaos were shoveled upon him. He was battered continuously, had futures torn, was physically afflicted, but always, without a single curse on his lips, chose the high ground.

In this state he lives on;

A well remembered, George Gadd

Among the Living

I observe the Canadian geese on the river behind our house.
Some of them are without mates, through predation, age, or disease. The ones without walk among the others, calling while shaking their heads, continually searching the distance for the return of those they are bound to. Their days are without end and their voices are withered by want of those lost.

I have been among the missing.

26 January 98
04:30

I left her standing on the cold wood floor of our living room. Her arms were crossed, trying to hold in the anger, pain, and hopelessness. My daughter was sleeping in her room upstairs. The remains of what I once was had been packed into boxes and slid into the far away corners of the attic.

There was no guarantee of my return.

I slowly closed the door and stepped into the cold dark of morning to bring an end to my path.

We met when I was thirteen and she was fifteen; years later, we bound ourselves, one to the other. Unknowingly she had also bound herself to a heart that was marred from darkness.
Below the surface, of what she had known me to be, was damage that I could not repair myself.
I was saturated with depression; like fresh tar, it had crept from the earth into my shoes, onto my back, around my heart, and into my mind.
With all of the love within her she tried to wash it from me, but it would not go away. With tears and words she called to me, but was answered by echoes.

My experiences with death and dying were treated like obstructions on a path; I dodged them, crawled over them, and put them behind me, out of sight and mind.
I refused to give time or space to these incidents and did everything I could to physically separate myself from the perceived weakness of my family members and the horror that surrounded them.
I had little compassion for my siblings that were ill. Their illness drew attention to my family and validated the fact that we were weak and dying.

Compassion was the channel that could have drained the building waters of grief and darkness, but I was selfish and turned my face from the immediate pain.

I managed, poorly, to contain the darkness for years; the memories pressed and manifested themselves in destructive activities. Desperately I built the retention walls higher and deeper, effectively occluding myself from the love and compassion around me, I prepared no thoughts for the morrow and laughed when friends spoke of planning a future.
I did not expect to live long. Every headache or eye twitch made me question and discern; when will the seizures come, am I harboring the disease, is the sickness growing in my brain, pushing cells and synapses, making it’s nest, setting it’s defenses against chemotherapy, radiation, and scalpels?
I expected, daily, an early end to this life. I believed, I would be reunited with my family long before I reached maturity.

But, there was a quantity that would eventually ruin my wall and allow those deep dark waters to overwhelm me.
In the fabric of my body it was quietly working; from conception it ticked and whirred, suppressing the illness that had surrounded me and taken my loved ones, one by one.
There it sat, functioning properly, culling cells that could grow radically and form cancerous tumors. Permeating my flesh, it was keeping me alive.

After my fathers death I volunteered for genetic testing and a few weeks later held in my hands the business size envelope that would be the ruin of my expected demise.
I tested negative for Li-Fraumeni Syndrome. In my genetic code, Gene P-53 was not mutated.

Gene P-53 is important in multicellular organisms where it regulates the cell cycle and thus functions as a tumor suppresser that is involved in preventing cancer. As such, P-53 has been described as "the guardian of the genome," "the guardian angel gene," and the "master watchman," referring to its role in conserving stability by preventing genome mutation.

Elvis left the building.

The train I had packed so dearly for passage on, departed with all aboard but me.
I was suddenly separated from my birth family. I was not marked as they were and therefor not accepted.
A chasm formed between us because I was found unworthy.

The waters I had contained breached my wall and carried me towards the chasm. My baggage was strewn and there was hell to pay.
I could no longer hold the deafening memories as they bore down upon me.

The memories perforated may days, interrupting my work, and raged at night through the quiet.
I could not suppress them with alcohol or counselors. The promises of the good in life could not tame them.
The more I attempted to befriend them, the stronger they became.
I could not swim their currents.
In despair I succumbed to their tides and drifted further from my wife and daughter.

I dove for the deep in search of silence and peace.

I sought my physical destruction.
If death would not come for me, I would search for him. On my terms.

When I walked out on my wife and daughter I engaged death through the military and life as a soldier. I volunteered, trained, and prayed for war, but death was elusive.

Through the daily challenges of preparing for war I eventually found the surface of my life; after distancing myself from the physical haunts and connections of my history I was afforded the opportunity to heal.
In a way I was born again, and as a castaway coming to rest on a pebble strewn shore that is washed with clear water and bright sunshine, I was able to stand with a clear mind.

Through it all the love of my life followed me and continually held my daughter to me; as the din of the pain slowly subsided I heard her impassioned calls and began my return.

Being alive has been difficult to accept, but I have come to terms with my history and I am now enjoying my life and all that it holds. I owe a great debt to my wife and daughter for holding tightly to me through the darkness. I continue to miss my siblings and my father very much and hopefully, in some way, I can honor them for the strength that I gained from walking next to them.

Maybe the best way to thank them is to span the void between us by living a long life filled with the fortunes they were not afforded.

I am fortunate, thankful, and once again, among the living.

Earn your keep

I have spent too many days scraping to acquire.

Out of a sense of loss and privation I have scrounged and coveted.

I have requested quarter, but given none.

I have reaped the harvests of others only to transport them to strangers.

My actions of hoarding and heaping have been perpetuated when I have looked to my stores and found them empty.

My life has been a market; I have lacked value and sold myself short, day after day.

My hands are my most valuable tools, but unfortunately they have been as sieves and whatever monetary gain I have attempted to grasp has blistered my hands and covered my feet like grime.

I am worn from want. I can no longer live negatively.

I have never experienced monetary excess, but my years of clawing for it have racked me with experience, character, talent, love, and blessings; I don’t have room for these intangible items anymore. My bank is full of this form of wealth and it is time to pay out.


I will divulge.
I will bless.
I will pardon.
I will accept.
I will value.
I will rest.

And maybe, in this manner, earn my keep.

Into Night

The sun set ablaze the fog and dust that settled above the brown cornfields as it mingled with the crisp air in the autumn sky.
We were bathed in the odors of wood smoke and harvest and surrounded by the golden light of September.
The cool winds of the day buffeted us as we were bounced around in the back of the old green truck, rambling and grumbling down the tar coated gravel roads.
Earlier we had fought for ownership of the trucks wheel well housings; we all knew that they afforded the best view and offered the bed rail to hold on to. The smaller of us normally found ourselves sitting with our backs to the cab where the fine particles of dirt, churned by the wind, would sting our faces.

The feeling of defeat was not lasting.

As the glowing colors of evening turned to a dark starry night, the temperature dropped and bastions of fog silently assembled from field to road in efforts to reclaim their taken ground.
Danny and Carrie held positions of windswept sentry and we younger and smaller huddled for warmth behind them, covering our cold, aching ears.
Hurtling into the night.

You don’t always have the opportunity to choose the souls that journey with you through this life.
There is no guarantee of the person’s quality, or that all of you will endure and arrive at the same end.

We are all fragments of the same stone; separated, sorted, and faceted. Each, ground and polished over time to different degrees. Tumbling like gems on dark velvet, turning and resting, for a time, as light and color are captured and reflected.

Each one of us is comprised of what the other is missing; possessing for the other a memory of what we once were and the knowledge of what we can be; searching for purchase and acceptance, like so many keys for so many locks.

Where are you?

What do you need from me?

I will reach for you,

as we pass in the night.

Coyote

10 April 2008, 21:32
The team of coyotes padded South off of the blacktop road and down into the wet grass of the ditch bottom.
Pausing, they glanced over their shoulders, through the drizzle and into the dark of where they came.
The wet shadows of the night covered them as they continued on their fog entrenched path. Leaving only silence and an image seared upon the mind and soul.

Every one has a path to tread through this life; mine was marked before I was born.

My father had a dream years before my birth. The dream was filled with dark and dread. From the dark, an image of a boy formed and was given the name Lamech. A second boy appeared from the gloom and was named Amalek. I am the second boy born to may father after that dream and am named Amalek

"The Lord will have war with Amalek from generation to generation."

At an early age I found this scripture while sitting on a pew in the local Pentecostal cult that we were members of.
I knew about the dream and had the name so I took what was written to heart and wished I hadn't been born.

Amalek: Warlike; Dweller in the valley.

I was immersed in that religion for eighteen years. Spiritually I tried to reconcile my dark birth by repenting, speaking in tongues, praying, memorizing my bible, and separating myself from the things of this world. I tried to be "In the world, but not of the world." as the pastor said I should be.
But, I still never measured up to all of the 'saints' around me. I knew I could never be as close to God as all of the white haired elders who spoke in the tongues of angels.
After all, I was born to be rubbed out and never brought to mind again by the chosen people of God.
During these years my brothers and sisters fell around me. But, I survived, waiting for God to fall upon me with 'all, consuming fire.'

When my father was dying he recounted the dream and the dread that it was filled with. He was impressed with the accuracy of the dream; out of the dark, dread, and death that had stalked his family he had been given two sons that would continue. Two healthy sons who don't carry the mutated gene that killed his other children.

My father left this world and with him went many of the difficult life situations that had kept my heart and mind alive. The era of emergency, critical decisions, camaraderie, and adrenalin was over. My soul was empty; I was a cavernous well-shaft that had been propped and braced with rotting timbers and fissured stone. My heart was a vacuum and as it strained to pull the ceiling down I began to follow a dark trail of self destruction. I sought the occupation of a warrior. I chose to meet God on my terms.


It is insanity, but so often necessary to close the doors on so many memories; good and bad are sickly laced with an ache that radiates out of my skin. It is a fragmented life, a partial being, an incomplete person that needs to clip out, tear off, and utterly remove portions of his life to take further steps to continue a path in life.
I have robbed other people in my life by being so incomplete….
Who reached into my soul and hollowed me, who scraped the insides of me and left the cavernous well of empty…….
Did a God do this? "Ask anything of Me, I will give it….." What you want, I will give, I will make it so…..Ask anything of me, I will grant it….." "….. Guide my feet, take me, Guide my feet……"

I chose the hard ways, the tough and the bitter. I volunteered for the arduous, the dark, the wet, and the dirty. I pressed the veil that separates this world from the next.
I pressured that old God to meet me, but he pushed back and obscured my fields of fire.
I cursed him and sharpened my knives.
I authored my operation order and he let me run my reconnaissance behind enemy lines.
I prepared the field of battle and he sowed it with poppy's.
I was born again, hard. Hardened by my enemy.

I chose a path that in my mind was far different from the one I had been taught to walk, far removed from the way that I was raised.

I searched for destruction, but found healing.

My years as a soldier repaired my heart and mind. I educated and strengthened myself, I buried the parts of me that were dead, and I gained innumerable brothers in arms.

I have met my God and have accepted my name.
I have accepted who I am and what I was formed to be.

Looking over the years, I can see where I have been and I can see how seamlessly my path had been directed.
I have become what I was born to be; I am a living promise to a father, a human article of war, and I have walked in the valley, in the shadows of death.

My path continues. The waters are sweet, the grass is plentiful, and I fear no evil.

Resonance

I am absolutely unable to deny that there is a substance that fills the voids in this world with unseen tethers.

An element, ancient, that continues to reach beyond years, and time.

Vibrations that permeate mass, the peripheral of sight, and the infiniteness of silence.

Without question, I am not the first to witness the inescapable artifices of this quantity.

This essence has been filtered and manipulated into the God’s of primitive men and worshipped for what it once was.
I cannot relinquish the understanding that it is much, much more than saviors, prophets, saints, and angels.

It reaches through me to draw and connect the particles of this existence.
Yearning for the good in things, the good as embers that seem to have been cast from the fire.

It resonates, whispers, pushes to pull, shines, and guides.

I am bound to it, and I am as much a part of it as I am the earth, the sky, the stars, and the void that holds them.

It is undeniable.

It is.