Going Down into the City....
I listened today. I have spent the last four days talking, presenting and generally expressing myself, using all manner of verbal devices and non-verbal behavior. But today I listened. I was at the North Chicago Naval Hospital where I do that 'teaching' thing I do every week or two. Damaged veterans who have come home in quiet pieces from Afghanistan and Iraq. My job to acquaint them with the things they cannot tell the shrinks once they encounter them. My job to make sure that they do not share their photos and war memorabilia with their new found non-combatant neighbors. Usually the 'class' goes pretty well. But today we happened to turn to the issue of the Sullenberger Flight, as I call that controlled crash into the Hudson River. And the discussion was discomforting to me. The vets went back and forth about just how much the passengers cried and lamented about their experience. How the whole crew and all the passengers got out of the potential fatal disaster with nary a scratch. How many of the same 'uninjured' are filing suits against the airline. How all of them are on television talking, crying and even singing about their histrionic experience. I took a good twenty minutes of that kind of talk before I used bully-pulpit-power to make my own opinion felt.
"Any of you guys ever afraid to fly?" I interjected, with an innocent intonation. Nobody said anything. These guys don't yet admit to fear of anything, although they are seeing me because they have a new found fear of everything. "Any of you guys ever been on a commercial airliner that had a problem while you were in the air?" Nothing. Dead stares. A frown here or there. "Okay then, can you imagine being inside that aluminum tube, low over a developed city, just having lifted off, and having the engines shut down?" A few nodded, hesitantly, not trusting where I was going. "That's right. No engine noise whatever...the plane just gliding...and you can look out and see the city below. Very close below." They all frown as one, and I pause a few seconds to let them fully take in the scene I've described. "And you can't see the river. You can't see any water, because even in a window seat you cannot look either directly down or see where the plane is going." They look at one another an move their surviving limbs uncomfortably. You are gliding just above tall concrete buildings with no power, and you begin to realize that you are going down into the city itself aboard an unpowered airliner."
"The pilot comes on and tells you to brace for impact." You could drop a pin in the room, and the sound would reverberate up from the rug. I nod my head, as I continue "Yeah, you are going to die in a few seconds, and it is going to be anything but pleasant." All the guys in the room (there are two females but I call all my returning kids 'guys') grow still. They know about death. They know about the expectation of death and the painful process which trauma usually starts, and then plays out, mercilessly and viciously.
"But you don't die. The plane hits, unbelievably bounces a bit, and then settles to a harsh stop. It then begins to rapidly fill with ice water." I smile now, as I talk, after all, life is once more found. "You can't panic because you are not yet over the shock of certain death. You allow yourself to be guided out to stand on the wings of the plane in your shock. Cold, ugly ice water is up to your knees, as you look around at the city skyline, finally becoming aware that you are standing in the middle of a great huge river. Boats are everywhere, coming toward the plane. But the plane is sinking, and not real slowly." I look at their faces. They are in the story, as possibly only patients with post traumatic stress disorder can be in such a story. They are there, seeing it. One of the passengers or crew. They are standing on those wings.
"The boats come ever closer. Your legs, almost fully submerged, are freezing. Helicopters are flying nearby and you notice how flat the water is under where they hover. Divers are in the water helping some of the passengers you have not even noticed. Passengers who have fallen off the, now invisible, submerged wing you are standing on. You look, but nothing impacts on you, as the rescues are effected. A boat comes close and you reach out for warm welcome arms, extended with serious smiles from kind dry people telling you that everything is going to be alright." I stop talking and just stand there in front of them. Nobody moves, or fails to meet my eyes, as I sweep them back and forth across the group.
Moments pass, until one of the female IED survivors of Iraq raises her good left hand (the other is in a sling, it's damage unknown to me). I nod, ever so slightly.
"Everything isn't going to be alright," she says quietly, her eyes averting to floor past her feet set in the little steps of her wheelchair. "It's never going to be alright." I nod at her, even though she does not notice.
"Those people, each and every one of them, they are your brothers and sisters. They are like you. They are like the survivors of 911. They all will live their lives with a defining moment they did not choose, and cannot every avoid or get away from. Just like you. They will have your road rage, your hyper-vigilance, your sleep deprivation, and even your strange dreams. Take care of them. Only you will ever truly understand them....and they, you."
I closed with that today, earlier this morning. It effected me. You see, I have post traumatic stress disorder. It is so easy to minimize the effect or performance of others who have gone through similar or differential stressors, to arrive at where I live and breathe. It took many years for me to understand that these people are my fellow travelers through life. A different life from any that I ever imagined or might have made for myself. And these people, the crew and passengers of Sully Sullenberger's flight into the Hudson, are traveling right with me every step of the way.
from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
http://www.themastodons.com
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
The Mastodons
"The Mastodons"
Tomorrow morning I travel to Chicago to attend the mystery writer's convention there. I have a number of reasons for going. The person who puts on the entire affair (working at it all year for little or nothing) is a wonderful person. That would be cause alone. Last year, in my first go at attending a writer's anything, I met some really neat people and was included in just about everything that was going on. I was quite surprised by that, as I am not so accustomed (the 'naturally insubordinate' man I have been declared to be, if you will recall). This year my first novel is set to be published on April 15th, so I decided to attend the conference to kick off the book. It is kind of a warm loving convention, not like most. That wonderful director of the convention gave me five slots, to be on panels or conduct sessions. That will mostly be about Hollywood screenwriting I know. Something that I am coming away from. Oh, don't get me wrong, I love to screen write. But I can't stand the people in that end of the business. I have always wanted to be a novelist, but had to use the screenwriting to springboard myself, since I do not have the right last name. I am also not of the proper cultural heritage, and I am too old for that scene (like over twenty!). Reality scripting is in (writing idiocy for idiots), animation is all the rage, which is not so bad, and computers are only linked, in that reality, to people who have a one or two before the second number of their age. And without assumed computer knowledge and capability you are nothing there. Hell, you are not much out here without it either....evidence John McCain.
So I am off to speak about things I don't particularly like in order to do something I love. Sound familiar? I am going off to work! I'm a writer. I am not used to work. That is not really true. Rewriting, and all the maddening detail that goes into getting finally edited work into the public's hands, is a heck of a lot of work. My first book is called 'The Boy,' and it took about twenty re-writes until final. That first work is only just short of three hundred pages, so do the math. Six thousand pages of work. I love the book. Only two people, in the chain of people who read it and passed it on, figured out that it was only an introduction, however. The real book is called 'The Warrior' and it will come out in 2010, unless you, the public, buy all of The Boy that you can get your hands on...which I do not expect. Then it might come out sooner. I am not Colin Powell (who can't write at all) or Sarah Palin (who can write even less) so I do not have a name to market. I am just a guy who has lived one hell of a life, and write a lot about it, but never about the living of it. I use devices. Like this blog. Like my books. Like the character House. I learned long ago that people do not really believe what other people tell them directly. They believe things they overhear. They believe fictional writing more than non-fictional just because most of the non-fictional authors have lied so much. So much that nobody believes what they read of 'the truth.' The truth is for sale today. And it is a very malleable substance indeed. Like the 'news.' I live in a time where John Stewart has more credibility than Charlie Gibson. And with good reason.
I have a website now. I never thought I would. I don't know why. A seven year old I love looked at the site and said 'cool' when he viewed the first page. He was very tickled to have seen that same art work in progress in my basement months earlier. But he also said that the site was 'boring.' I was cut to the quick. But I was also responsive. He tried to make me feel better we he noted my pain. "Maybe you can change it to add some games, or make it less boring," he ventured. He likes me. And feels sorry for someone as old and boring as I am. See what you think. The site is: http://www.themastodons.com
from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
http://www.themastodons.com
Tomorrow morning I travel to Chicago to attend the mystery writer's convention there. I have a number of reasons for going. The person who puts on the entire affair (working at it all year for little or nothing) is a wonderful person. That would be cause alone. Last year, in my first go at attending a writer's anything, I met some really neat people and was included in just about everything that was going on. I was quite surprised by that, as I am not so accustomed (the 'naturally insubordinate' man I have been declared to be, if you will recall). This year my first novel is set to be published on April 15th, so I decided to attend the conference to kick off the book. It is kind of a warm loving convention, not like most. That wonderful director of the convention gave me five slots, to be on panels or conduct sessions. That will mostly be about Hollywood screenwriting I know. Something that I am coming away from. Oh, don't get me wrong, I love to screen write. But I can't stand the people in that end of the business. I have always wanted to be a novelist, but had to use the screenwriting to springboard myself, since I do not have the right last name. I am also not of the proper cultural heritage, and I am too old for that scene (like over twenty!). Reality scripting is in (writing idiocy for idiots), animation is all the rage, which is not so bad, and computers are only linked, in that reality, to people who have a one or two before the second number of their age. And without assumed computer knowledge and capability you are nothing there. Hell, you are not much out here without it either....evidence John McCain.
So I am off to speak about things I don't particularly like in order to do something I love. Sound familiar? I am going off to work! I'm a writer. I am not used to work. That is not really true. Rewriting, and all the maddening detail that goes into getting finally edited work into the public's hands, is a heck of a lot of work. My first book is called 'The Boy,' and it took about twenty re-writes until final. That first work is only just short of three hundred pages, so do the math. Six thousand pages of work. I love the book. Only two people, in the chain of people who read it and passed it on, figured out that it was only an introduction, however. The real book is called 'The Warrior' and it will come out in 2010, unless you, the public, buy all of The Boy that you can get your hands on...which I do not expect. Then it might come out sooner. I am not Colin Powell (who can't write at all) or Sarah Palin (who can write even less) so I do not have a name to market. I am just a guy who has lived one hell of a life, and write a lot about it, but never about the living of it. I use devices. Like this blog. Like my books. Like the character House. I learned long ago that people do not really believe what other people tell them directly. They believe things they overhear. They believe fictional writing more than non-fictional just because most of the non-fictional authors have lied so much. So much that nobody believes what they read of 'the truth.' The truth is for sale today. And it is a very malleable substance indeed. Like the 'news.' I live in a time where John Stewart has more credibility than Charlie Gibson. And with good reason.
I have a website now. I never thought I would. I don't know why. A seven year old I love looked at the site and said 'cool' when he viewed the first page. He was very tickled to have seen that same art work in progress in my basement months earlier. But he also said that the site was 'boring.' I was cut to the quick. But I was also responsive. He tried to make me feel better we he noted my pain. "Maybe you can change it to add some games, or make it less boring," he ventured. He likes me. And feels sorry for someone as old and boring as I am. See what you think. The site is: http://www.themastodons.com
from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
http://www.themastodons.com
Saturday, January 24, 2009
The Electric World
Twittle Dee Twittle Dum
The subterranean world of electronic communication is wedging it's way into our social awareness. How is it going to manifest? Facebook, Friendfeed, and Twitter. Clones of them are springing up all over, like wild weeds. But I am only becoming acquainted with those three right now. And I am reporting the experience to you, here, on my 'mixed review' blog. Twitter is my entry into the other electronic mediums. You join Twitter just by entering 'Twitter' into google and finding it. Sign up for free, and there you are, staring at a rectangular box that begs you to write something inside of it. And you do. Your message to the world is instantly presented to that world. Supposedly, there are three million twits out here, and the number is growing exponentially by the moment. There is a system you learn, on the site, very quickly. You can follow people merely by clicking on their entry (which scrolls down the screen under the rectangle you wrote in). At first, since you have not clicked on anybody to follow, you have to click on 'Everyone' in order to see the whole population scrolling away. Click on some of them to follow. Some of them will automatically click back on you, and you will have your first followers. Then you are off and running. Three days ago I had none, but today I have almost a hundred. Problems abound, as you learn the system. You try to not make friends with advertising (spam) sites. They flood your scroll with ads (unless, of course, you want ads). wonderfully, you are one click away from weeding them from your 'tribe,' as I refer to my followers. I weed carefully, looking for those people who write intelligently, and more in general (rather than simply messaging back and forth to their few friends in strange text code).
People write the most amazing things. I am FromTheChateau on the site. I took that name from the name of my outside blog, which is always written somewhere here in this blog. I live in fear that the Obama people will one day shut the site down, or worse. The worse being that they might just excise me from the blogsite because I can be controversial....don't you know. People admit things on Twitter that you do not expect to see. I laugh like crazy at times. "The cartoons on in early morning are terrible now. They used to be so good in the eighties!" That person did not know she was being seriously funny. Which made it all the funnier, of course. The average I.Q. really is one hundred (that is 100!) and you get to see that, up close and personal. So you have to select your 'tribe' in order to be able to read stuff that has interest with respect to living out here. And so that people can understand the length and breath of your own intellect. If you have any, I mean. But you occasionally meet luminaries on the site. Like Zetazen. She is quite something. A woman for all seasons, and mostly unaware of the fact that she is all of that. A delight. Stuff like that makes you smile. And it is good to look at this screen and smile, once in awhile. Late at night Twitter is inhabited by a different breed of cat, however. The vampires, I call them. At midnight, their coffins open and out they pour. And the Japanese. The Japanese are on the other side of the clock from us, so they sleep when we are having 'normal' Twitter hours. But late at night they are up, wedging their wild Japanese script between Goth texting presentations which you have to be nine years old to understand. That or have metal rings running through most of your facial parts, interspersed with nicely done purple hair. So, watch out for what bumps into you during the night on that site.
Facebook I am just learning. Again, it allows for entries, but I don't know how that works yet. I mean, how much writing can one do, even me, in a day? And it is all about typing. I type really fast, so I do not know what 'normal' people do who are rather limited in that skill. Friendfeed is another mystery. I am on it. I am tied into Twitter and Facebook too, through it. I shall have a report up just as soon as I figure it all out, in which case I willl probably be found by the NSA and incarcerated. Please come visit me....or at least send a few bucks for commissary.
from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
The subterranean world of electronic communication is wedging it's way into our social awareness. How is it going to manifest? Facebook, Friendfeed, and Twitter. Clones of them are springing up all over, like wild weeds. But I am only becoming acquainted with those three right now. And I am reporting the experience to you, here, on my 'mixed review' blog. Twitter is my entry into the other electronic mediums. You join Twitter just by entering 'Twitter' into google and finding it. Sign up for free, and there you are, staring at a rectangular box that begs you to write something inside of it. And you do. Your message to the world is instantly presented to that world. Supposedly, there are three million twits out here, and the number is growing exponentially by the moment. There is a system you learn, on the site, very quickly. You can follow people merely by clicking on their entry (which scrolls down the screen under the rectangle you wrote in). At first, since you have not clicked on anybody to follow, you have to click on 'Everyone' in order to see the whole population scrolling away. Click on some of them to follow. Some of them will automatically click back on you, and you will have your first followers. Then you are off and running. Three days ago I had none, but today I have almost a hundred. Problems abound, as you learn the system. You try to not make friends with advertising (spam) sites. They flood your scroll with ads (unless, of course, you want ads). wonderfully, you are one click away from weeding them from your 'tribe,' as I refer to my followers. I weed carefully, looking for those people who write intelligently, and more in general (rather than simply messaging back and forth to their few friends in strange text code).
People write the most amazing things. I am FromTheChateau on the site. I took that name from the name of my outside blog, which is always written somewhere here in this blog. I live in fear that the Obama people will one day shut the site down, or worse. The worse being that they might just excise me from the blogsite because I can be controversial....don't you know. People admit things on Twitter that you do not expect to see. I laugh like crazy at times. "The cartoons on in early morning are terrible now. They used to be so good in the eighties!" That person did not know she was being seriously funny. Which made it all the funnier, of course. The average I.Q. really is one hundred (that is 100!) and you get to see that, up close and personal. So you have to select your 'tribe' in order to be able to read stuff that has interest with respect to living out here. And so that people can understand the length and breath of your own intellect. If you have any, I mean. But you occasionally meet luminaries on the site. Like Zetazen. She is quite something. A woman for all seasons, and mostly unaware of the fact that she is all of that. A delight. Stuff like that makes you smile. And it is good to look at this screen and smile, once in awhile. Late at night Twitter is inhabited by a different breed of cat, however. The vampires, I call them. At midnight, their coffins open and out they pour. And the Japanese. The Japanese are on the other side of the clock from us, so they sleep when we are having 'normal' Twitter hours. But late at night they are up, wedging their wild Japanese script between Goth texting presentations which you have to be nine years old to understand. That or have metal rings running through most of your facial parts, interspersed with nicely done purple hair. So, watch out for what bumps into you during the night on that site.
Facebook I am just learning. Again, it allows for entries, but I don't know how that works yet. I mean, how much writing can one do, even me, in a day? And it is all about typing. I type really fast, so I do not know what 'normal' people do who are rather limited in that skill. Friendfeed is another mystery. I am on it. I am tied into Twitter and Facebook too, through it. I shall have a report up just as soon as I figure it all out, in which case I willl probably be found by the NSA and incarcerated. Please come visit me....or at least send a few bucks for commissary.
from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Christmas Pueblo
Christmas Morning....
The sun has broken through and, although God has decided that the deep snowy sunscape beneath should stay awhile (it's below zero out there), it is nice to have a break. And the presents are under the tree and waiting, which I am delaying going at with my bare hands until I have everything else in the house just right. A few minutes from now. I found a place to make a fifty out of two twenties and a ten, so I have the paper person's tip ready to post. Hopefully, that person will not take 'Halloween' type action against me for a few days, or so I hope.
I have placed a couple of stories inside the body of my posts over the past few days. They have related to Christmas, or the poignancy of it all, in some way or another. Here is one from the mid-nineties when I was not yet 'all that I could be.'
Christmas Pueblo
I found myself inside the confines of the Santa Fe County jail on some vague trumped-up charge. I was in the 'drunk tank,' which is what the cells they use for new prisoner intake are called there. No bars, no windows, just concrete and steel. No way to see out of the ten by twelve box and no ability to hear. Thankfully I was alone for the first few hours, as I had to come to terms with being inside an American institution for the first time (I had already been in a few abroad, so I was not exactly a 'new fish'), and this was not much fun. It was Christmas Eve. Late into the afternoon. The heartless Santa Fe 'Gestapo' had shown no mercy, in spite of the impending holiday. The way I saw it, I was a gringo and they were anything but. They probably saw it in a more 'Harry Callahan' kind of way. The tank did not remain empty for too long. The riff-raff of evening Santa Fe, New Mexico, began to flow in, dredged from a pristine city that prides itself on not having any homeless people. No, they don't, as all of the potentials get combed off the streets and into that heartless modern version of the Bastille, conveniently located five miles South of even the most outer edge of the town.
The cell became so crowded that the entry of one more body meant that there was just no floor space left. And then they opened the door and forced a huge American Indian through. They slammed it shut again, immediately. He stood there for a few seconds, then stared at the man laying next to me on the bare concrete floor. The man moved, finally settling atop the rim of the stainless steel john located in the corner. The Indian took his place, and glared over at me, inches away, when I happened to look into his eyes. This was no Little Big Man Indian of great good cheer and ancient wisdom, like Chief Dan George. No, this was an Indian from hell, more like that one who killed the girl in the Mohican's film a few years back. I showed no fear, but did look away. I was already an old hand at the predation game. You do not show fear to a predator. That is what the predator is looking and waiting for, because it identifies you as prey. No, you meet predation by impassive and emotionless presentation. The predator then takes you for a predator, as well, and there is no point in attacking another predator unless territory is an issue, or survival. You will only likely get hurt, and predators are deathly afraid of injury, as then they become prey.
There was no trouble from the Indian, as the hours passed, nor from any of the usual suspects. Just prisoners inconveniencing the poor guy who's only spot was the on top of the john. He had to move so the drunks could be sick, and worse. Some head of corrections guy must have known a modicum of mercy that night, or, more likely, there were just too many prisoner's for the place to hold, because they came for me. The guards called my name and told me that I was being 'rolled out,' which is prison slang for being released. I went with enthusiasm, but somehow kicked the foot of the snoozing Indian as I departed. "Excuse me White Eyes!" he hissed up, already into a sitting position as I turned. I held together against the pure ferocity of his expression and the penetration of his hawk-like eyes. "My apologies, I was careless," I stated, flatly. Then I moved slowly to join the corrections officer at the door. The Indian's eyes followed me out the door and remained embedded in my mind as I went through the many steps of processing out. Finally, the guards took me to the big door of intake, opened the steel slab with a key about the size of a Waring blender, and shoved me through it. Merry Christmas, the guard said with a laugh, then slammed the door. My relief was immense, until I looked about me. The sodium yellow of the parking lot lamps allowed the driving snow to appear as if I was standing adjacent to Niagra Falls. And it was cold. I wore an old Sheepskin Company coat so I knew I was not likey to freeze, the torso of my body anyway. But I did not know how I was going to make it the many miles to town, much less a few more miles to anywhere I could get a ride. I turned to see if there was a pay phone on the wall to call a cab, but there was nothing. Only the pitiless concrete.
For an instant I felt relief, as the steel door opened again and I saw the warmth that had been prevalent inside. But that was extinguished in an instant, as the big Indian was pushed through the door, before it slammed again. There we were, and I knew fear. He looked down at me with no expression on his face. I tried to look impassive once more, but I knew I was not doing well because I saw a slow cruel smile begin to form around the edges of his mouth. Then he spoke. "Where you going?"
I was surprised. Not that he would talk but that this time he did so in clear unaccented English, not like he had sounded inside. "To town," I murmured, motioning back with my right shoulder. "Never make it. Not on a night like this," he mused, more to himself than to me. He looked out at the scene I had first encountered. The snow was coming down heavier. Then he shrugged. "You can come with me to the pueblo. It's down the way," he gestured south with his own shoulder. I looked off toward the darkness, then looked to the parking lot. But it was Christmas, and i could not stay there, and I knew I could not make it to town. I shrugged with deep resignation. "Okay," I said aloud, then whispered to myself, "let it be Quick." I followed the Indian into the night. There was no trail, there was no moonlight or any other way to establish bearings. So I just followed the huge man closely. We moved downhill, through the La Bajada Canyon, finally trudging under an overpass which held up the four lanes of Interstate forty.
A yellow glow in the distance became the pueblo. The Indian wormed his way between the densely packed mud buildings. Lights glared out, to assure us that the snow had not abated in it's attack. We came around a corner to a wooden door. The upper floor of the adobe structure jutted out above, so we stood and beat the snow from our clothing and boots as best we could. The door opened without anybody knocking. An old woman stuck her head out, then motioned us both inside. I stepped into a different world. The room was filled with people of all ages. They were all sitting at the many tables, seemingly strew about without order. The big Indian motioned me to an empty seat between two young boys. He said nothing. They said nothing. I sat, more in shock and wonder than because I was willingly following rational directions. The two boys reached for bowls and started scooping stuff onto my plate. Tortillas and burritos. I did not even know what Indians ate until then. Corn things, with lots of hot sauces. Everyone went back to eating. They did not look at me, so I started eating as well. I ate the whole plate, so the boys refilled it without any request on my part. When I finished the second plate, they refilled it again. I looked over at the old woman, whom the big Indian had seated himself next to. I saw here smile very briefly. Then the big Indian smiled for the first time, and I understood without any words being necessary. The old woman liked the fact that I loved her food. And the big Indian appreciated that.
"This is my family," he said, gesturing around at all the people at all of the tables. They smiled, as if on cue. "Welcome to the Reservation and my family. I'll drive you back to town tomorrow. But its Christmas, so maybe you want to stay longer for the ceremony." I nodded, only briefly wondering if the 'ceremony' had anything to do with a White Man being cooked in a pot over a roaring fire. "Merry Christmas," I said, as I nodded with enthusiasm, a genuine smile creasing my face for the first time in months. "Merry Christmas," they all yelled back in unison, then began talking, laughing and carrying on, just as if I was an Indian returning to his home.
from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
The sun has broken through and, although God has decided that the deep snowy sunscape beneath should stay awhile (it's below zero out there), it is nice to have a break. And the presents are under the tree and waiting, which I am delaying going at with my bare hands until I have everything else in the house just right. A few minutes from now. I found a place to make a fifty out of two twenties and a ten, so I have the paper person's tip ready to post. Hopefully, that person will not take 'Halloween' type action against me for a few days, or so I hope.
I have placed a couple of stories inside the body of my posts over the past few days. They have related to Christmas, or the poignancy of it all, in some way or another. Here is one from the mid-nineties when I was not yet 'all that I could be.'
Christmas Pueblo
I found myself inside the confines of the Santa Fe County jail on some vague trumped-up charge. I was in the 'drunk tank,' which is what the cells they use for new prisoner intake are called there. No bars, no windows, just concrete and steel. No way to see out of the ten by twelve box and no ability to hear. Thankfully I was alone for the first few hours, as I had to come to terms with being inside an American institution for the first time (I had already been in a few abroad, so I was not exactly a 'new fish'), and this was not much fun. It was Christmas Eve. Late into the afternoon. The heartless Santa Fe 'Gestapo' had shown no mercy, in spite of the impending holiday. The way I saw it, I was a gringo and they were anything but. They probably saw it in a more 'Harry Callahan' kind of way. The tank did not remain empty for too long. The riff-raff of evening Santa Fe, New Mexico, began to flow in, dredged from a pristine city that prides itself on not having any homeless people. No, they don't, as all of the potentials get combed off the streets and into that heartless modern version of the Bastille, conveniently located five miles South of even the most outer edge of the town.
The cell became so crowded that the entry of one more body meant that there was just no floor space left. And then they opened the door and forced a huge American Indian through. They slammed it shut again, immediately. He stood there for a few seconds, then stared at the man laying next to me on the bare concrete floor. The man moved, finally settling atop the rim of the stainless steel john located in the corner. The Indian took his place, and glared over at me, inches away, when I happened to look into his eyes. This was no Little Big Man Indian of great good cheer and ancient wisdom, like Chief Dan George. No, this was an Indian from hell, more like that one who killed the girl in the Mohican's film a few years back. I showed no fear, but did look away. I was already an old hand at the predation game. You do not show fear to a predator. That is what the predator is looking and waiting for, because it identifies you as prey. No, you meet predation by impassive and emotionless presentation. The predator then takes you for a predator, as well, and there is no point in attacking another predator unless territory is an issue, or survival. You will only likely get hurt, and predators are deathly afraid of injury, as then they become prey.
There was no trouble from the Indian, as the hours passed, nor from any of the usual suspects. Just prisoners inconveniencing the poor guy who's only spot was the on top of the john. He had to move so the drunks could be sick, and worse. Some head of corrections guy must have known a modicum of mercy that night, or, more likely, there were just too many prisoner's for the place to hold, because they came for me. The guards called my name and told me that I was being 'rolled out,' which is prison slang for being released. I went with enthusiasm, but somehow kicked the foot of the snoozing Indian as I departed. "Excuse me White Eyes!" he hissed up, already into a sitting position as I turned. I held together against the pure ferocity of his expression and the penetration of his hawk-like eyes. "My apologies, I was careless," I stated, flatly. Then I moved slowly to join the corrections officer at the door. The Indian's eyes followed me out the door and remained embedded in my mind as I went through the many steps of processing out. Finally, the guards took me to the big door of intake, opened the steel slab with a key about the size of a Waring blender, and shoved me through it. Merry Christmas, the guard said with a laugh, then slammed the door. My relief was immense, until I looked about me. The sodium yellow of the parking lot lamps allowed the driving snow to appear as if I was standing adjacent to Niagra Falls. And it was cold. I wore an old Sheepskin Company coat so I knew I was not likey to freeze, the torso of my body anyway. But I did not know how I was going to make it the many miles to town, much less a few more miles to anywhere I could get a ride. I turned to see if there was a pay phone on the wall to call a cab, but there was nothing. Only the pitiless concrete.
For an instant I felt relief, as the steel door opened again and I saw the warmth that had been prevalent inside. But that was extinguished in an instant, as the big Indian was pushed through the door, before it slammed again. There we were, and I knew fear. He looked down at me with no expression on his face. I tried to look impassive once more, but I knew I was not doing well because I saw a slow cruel smile begin to form around the edges of his mouth. Then he spoke. "Where you going?"
I was surprised. Not that he would talk but that this time he did so in clear unaccented English, not like he had sounded inside. "To town," I murmured, motioning back with my right shoulder. "Never make it. Not on a night like this," he mused, more to himself than to me. He looked out at the scene I had first encountered. The snow was coming down heavier. Then he shrugged. "You can come with me to the pueblo. It's down the way," he gestured south with his own shoulder. I looked off toward the darkness, then looked to the parking lot. But it was Christmas, and i could not stay there, and I knew I could not make it to town. I shrugged with deep resignation. "Okay," I said aloud, then whispered to myself, "let it be Quick." I followed the Indian into the night. There was no trail, there was no moonlight or any other way to establish bearings. So I just followed the huge man closely. We moved downhill, through the La Bajada Canyon, finally trudging under an overpass which held up the four lanes of Interstate forty.
A yellow glow in the distance became the pueblo. The Indian wormed his way between the densely packed mud buildings. Lights glared out, to assure us that the snow had not abated in it's attack. We came around a corner to a wooden door. The upper floor of the adobe structure jutted out above, so we stood and beat the snow from our clothing and boots as best we could. The door opened without anybody knocking. An old woman stuck her head out, then motioned us both inside. I stepped into a different world. The room was filled with people of all ages. They were all sitting at the many tables, seemingly strew about without order. The big Indian motioned me to an empty seat between two young boys. He said nothing. They said nothing. I sat, more in shock and wonder than because I was willingly following rational directions. The two boys reached for bowls and started scooping stuff onto my plate. Tortillas and burritos. I did not even know what Indians ate until then. Corn things, with lots of hot sauces. Everyone went back to eating. They did not look at me, so I started eating as well. I ate the whole plate, so the boys refilled it without any request on my part. When I finished the second plate, they refilled it again. I looked over at the old woman, whom the big Indian had seated himself next to. I saw here smile very briefly. Then the big Indian smiled for the first time, and I understood without any words being necessary. The old woman liked the fact that I loved her food. And the big Indian appreciated that.
"This is my family," he said, gesturing around at all the people at all of the tables. They smiled, as if on cue. "Welcome to the Reservation and my family. I'll drive you back to town tomorrow. But its Christmas, so maybe you want to stay longer for the ceremony." I nodded, only briefly wondering if the 'ceremony' had anything to do with a White Man being cooked in a pot over a roaring fire. "Merry Christmas," I said, as I nodded with enthusiasm, a genuine smile creasing my face for the first time in months. "Merry Christmas," they all yelled back in unison, then began talking, laughing and carrying on, just as if I was an Indian returning to his home.
from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
Monday, December 22, 2008
The Nativity Scene
The Manger
It is said that St. Francis of Assisi created the first Nativity Scene in his yard. The mythology has it that he set up a manger, and the then made up other characters from whatever he had laying around. He wanted to recreate the birth of Christ, the best he could, for himself and his friends. I have one. A manger and the Nativity Scene characters. The stable I made myself out of some old wood with a hand saw and some nails. It has survived intact for twenty-nine years. In 1969 I was fresh out of the hospital from getting all shot up in Vietnam. I could not be a Marine and I could not walk, or move well enough, to get a job. So I sat around and waited. During this time I found a small apartment in San Clemente to live in. So cheap that my other dwellers in the six-plex were new immigrants from Vietnam. Strange, to circulate among them every day as I limped around with nothing to do. One day I encountered an older man, who I knew to be the head of one of the families living there. His name was Huang Nguyen. Somehow, he had found out something of my service in his former country. He approached, shook my hand, and then apologized. I didn't get it. I tried to get to the bottom of things but his English was bad. Instead he invited me in to meet his wife and three young children. They treated me very nicely, and I was surprised. In country, the Vietnamese civilians I met had all been cold and remote. Huang took me into his bedroom/office. There he showed me two pictures on his walls. One was of him walking arm in arm with Ho Chi Minh, the leader of the North Vietnamese Army. In the other, he was striding along, a huge smile on his face, with Robert McNamera. I asked Huang who he really was. He told me that he was the former Province Commander of the I Corps area. I was stunned. That was the area I fought all over and had been wounded in. I asked Huang who's side he had really been on. He said that he was on both. He had a family. He did not know who was going to win. He then asked me what I would have done in his place. I thought over that one, and then had to laugh. We shook hands again, both laughing. We would have become friends, I think, except the language barrier was just too great. And maybe, I was too soon from that awful war.
It was just before Christmas, when Huang and I met that year. On Christmas Eve, his oldest daughter, a pudgy cute little thing everyone called Hamburger, because of her proclivity for those things, knocked on my door. She handed me a bag and said Merry Christmas, then giggled and ran. I took the bat in and opened all the small packages wrapped inside. The Three Wise Men. The manger. The baby Jesus. Mary and Joseph. The dutiful cow, sheep and donkey. And a big camel. All the pieces are porcelain and gilded with gold that has not tarnished to this day. The sit this evening in my home-made stable atop a special table near the base of my tree.
I think often of Huang and Hamberger. I wonder what became of them. They were always wonderful to me and seemed to always act surprised that I was wonderful back to them. As much as I could be. I had nothing but limps, scars and painful memories back then. Why did Huang apologize? Why were they so nice? Why did they give me a Nativity Scene, of all things? Today, I don't know anymore than I knew back then, although I have had a lot of time to think and many more battles to grow more experienced. If there is a God. If there really is a Jesus. Then Huang and his family were sent to help me through. To help me understand, at that so very difficult a time, that the Vietnamese people were not to blame. That they were not much different than we are, and were. That my pain did not have to be translated into an eternal hatred. And so I have the set. And it means a lot to me. Christmas is special in so many ways to me, and I wish that the spirit evident in this season would seep through to the rest of the year for everyone.
from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
It is said that St. Francis of Assisi created the first Nativity Scene in his yard. The mythology has it that he set up a manger, and the then made up other characters from whatever he had laying around. He wanted to recreate the birth of Christ, the best he could, for himself and his friends. I have one. A manger and the Nativity Scene characters. The stable I made myself out of some old wood with a hand saw and some nails. It has survived intact for twenty-nine years. In 1969 I was fresh out of the hospital from getting all shot up in Vietnam. I could not be a Marine and I could not walk, or move well enough, to get a job. So I sat around and waited. During this time I found a small apartment in San Clemente to live in. So cheap that my other dwellers in the six-plex were new immigrants from Vietnam. Strange, to circulate among them every day as I limped around with nothing to do. One day I encountered an older man, who I knew to be the head of one of the families living there. His name was Huang Nguyen. Somehow, he had found out something of my service in his former country. He approached, shook my hand, and then apologized. I didn't get it. I tried to get to the bottom of things but his English was bad. Instead he invited me in to meet his wife and three young children. They treated me very nicely, and I was surprised. In country, the Vietnamese civilians I met had all been cold and remote. Huang took me into his bedroom/office. There he showed me two pictures on his walls. One was of him walking arm in arm with Ho Chi Minh, the leader of the North Vietnamese Army. In the other, he was striding along, a huge smile on his face, with Robert McNamera. I asked Huang who he really was. He told me that he was the former Province Commander of the I Corps area. I was stunned. That was the area I fought all over and had been wounded in. I asked Huang who's side he had really been on. He said that he was on both. He had a family. He did not know who was going to win. He then asked me what I would have done in his place. I thought over that one, and then had to laugh. We shook hands again, both laughing. We would have become friends, I think, except the language barrier was just too great. And maybe, I was too soon from that awful war.
It was just before Christmas, when Huang and I met that year. On Christmas Eve, his oldest daughter, a pudgy cute little thing everyone called Hamburger, because of her proclivity for those things, knocked on my door. She handed me a bag and said Merry Christmas, then giggled and ran. I took the bat in and opened all the small packages wrapped inside. The Three Wise Men. The manger. The baby Jesus. Mary and Joseph. The dutiful cow, sheep and donkey. And a big camel. All the pieces are porcelain and gilded with gold that has not tarnished to this day. The sit this evening in my home-made stable atop a special table near the base of my tree.
I think often of Huang and Hamberger. I wonder what became of them. They were always wonderful to me and seemed to always act surprised that I was wonderful back to them. As much as I could be. I had nothing but limps, scars and painful memories back then. Why did Huang apologize? Why were they so nice? Why did they give me a Nativity Scene, of all things? Today, I don't know anymore than I knew back then, although I have had a lot of time to think and many more battles to grow more experienced. If there is a God. If there really is a Jesus. Then Huang and his family were sent to help me through. To help me understand, at that so very difficult a time, that the Vietnamese people were not to blame. That they were not much different than we are, and were. That my pain did not have to be translated into an eternal hatred. And so I have the set. And it means a lot to me. Christmas is special in so many ways to me, and I wish that the spirit evident in this season would seep through to the rest of the year for everyone.
from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Star Trek
What was it about that show? The many shows? Why is it so popular? Why do people, many of them anything but whacked-out science-fiction nuts, flock to the conferences? Because it is about philosophy, life and the human condition. That series of shows and movies always remained oriented around truth, justice and the dream of a better future. The dream of adventure filled with compassion and caring. Even when using such dialogue as "the need of the many outweighs the need of the few," it was written from a viewpoint of self-sacrifice, not enforced sacrifice. We are tribal in nature, we band of humans. We are not national or international, except by association. We take care of the people we know. The people we like. We admire cult, television and sports stars from afar, and it is to their advantage that most never become known by almost anyone, other than those selected to be in their close tribes.
We are living in a time when we are going to be forced to become more homogeneous, not less. We are not going to be run by some international government, or, if we are, we are not going to care. We are going to soon be forced to look within, to our family, our circle of close friends, our neighborhood. And that is where we shine. Just as the 'tribe' in Star Trek was, in reality, a small cadre of tribal members who manned the bridge of the Enterprise, or appeared on it regularly. There is even a standing joke among Trekkies with respect to crewmen who wore red uniforms. When those 'non-tribal member' crewmen appeared in a scene you knew they were going to get killed by the aliens or in some gruesome accident. And it did not matter all that much. But when a tribal member was lost to the show, as in life, then there was grief and wailing to no end.
Tribalism is good. From the close association of tribal members comes new ideas. Comes synergy of ideas and work. Comes survival cooperation. We are all in this life to survive and propagate. That is it. All that was given to us by biology and physics. But we, us homo sapiens, have taken that to a height beyond what we know to be the case in this universe. We have used tribalism to advance ourselves to the point where we can actually give ourself as one for the good of the many. And that is a tribal achievement. Our young men and women still dying in Iraq and Afghanistan, are not dying for the money, the contract they signed, or for the Marine Corps or the Army. They are not dying and being horrendously wounded for you and me. Unless that you and me has a family member or friend doing so. They are doing it for the tribe they serve with and the tribe they have back home. It is how we get through. How we survive. And it is good.
As Obama is organizing a tribe to surround him in the White House, to supplement the family one he is moving in there, we are called upon to do the same thing in our lives. Think. You have time. Who do you want in your tribe? What does it take to have that participation? What must you do to be a member? What must you require of other's for their membership? It is time to take an active role in such thoughts, and then actions. In this direction lies bliss. Joe Campbell. This is about Joe's understanding of mythology and the real world. Come in from the real world. You can only survive the real world by living in the mythical one.
My coming series, called The Mastodons, is all about this. The first book is called The Boy and will be available at TheMastodons.com soon. Come, adventure with me.
We are living in a time when we are going to be forced to become more homogeneous, not less. We are not going to be run by some international government, or, if we are, we are not going to care. We are going to soon be forced to look within, to our family, our circle of close friends, our neighborhood. And that is where we shine. Just as the 'tribe' in Star Trek was, in reality, a small cadre of tribal members who manned the bridge of the Enterprise, or appeared on it regularly. There is even a standing joke among Trekkies with respect to crewmen who wore red uniforms. When those 'non-tribal member' crewmen appeared in a scene you knew they were going to get killed by the aliens or in some gruesome accident. And it did not matter all that much. But when a tribal member was lost to the show, as in life, then there was grief and wailing to no end.
Tribalism is good. From the close association of tribal members comes new ideas. Comes synergy of ideas and work. Comes survival cooperation. We are all in this life to survive and propagate. That is it. All that was given to us by biology and physics. But we, us homo sapiens, have taken that to a height beyond what we know to be the case in this universe. We have used tribalism to advance ourselves to the point where we can actually give ourself as one for the good of the many. And that is a tribal achievement. Our young men and women still dying in Iraq and Afghanistan, are not dying for the money, the contract they signed, or for the Marine Corps or the Army. They are not dying and being horrendously wounded for you and me. Unless that you and me has a family member or friend doing so. They are doing it for the tribe they serve with and the tribe they have back home. It is how we get through. How we survive. And it is good.
As Obama is organizing a tribe to surround him in the White House, to supplement the family one he is moving in there, we are called upon to do the same thing in our lives. Think. You have time. Who do you want in your tribe? What does it take to have that participation? What must you do to be a member? What must you require of other's for their membership? It is time to take an active role in such thoughts, and then actions. In this direction lies bliss. Joe Campbell. This is about Joe's understanding of mythology and the real world. Come in from the real world. You can only survive the real world by living in the mythical one.
My coming series, called The Mastodons, is all about this. The first book is called The Boy and will be available at TheMastodons.com soon. Come, adventure with me.
Friday, November 14, 2008
KWAZULU
A quiet encampment,
Ulundi hills,
Where lions temper evening moves.
Zulu rest toward coming dawn,
In wait of warming light,
To hunt, as men.
Tribal ways come undone,
Time ravaged then passed,
In hunger's swollen wake.
Young boys unmade alive,
Who pray for prey,
To fight, as men.
Shaka's day came then went,
Advancing industry,
Exchanging liberty.
Unrest, these left and,
Once again,
` To live, as men.
Ulundi hills,
Where lions temper evening moves.
Zulu rest toward coming dawn,
In wait of warming light,
To hunt, as men.
Tribal ways come undone,
Time ravaged then passed,
In hunger's swollen wake.
Young boys unmade alive,
Who pray for prey,
To fight, as men.
Shaka's day came then went,
Advancing industry,
Exchanging liberty.
Unrest, these left and,
Once again,
` To live, as men.
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