The letter had stated that I was to proceed to a place called the Cotton Estate, in San Clemente, and report in there. It had included no additional instructions, other than the confidentiality clause, and it had not been signed by anyone. I reflected ruefully, for a moment, on my departure from the First Civil Affiars Group. If I had been able to control myself better, when I was with Colonel Taylor and Captain Merrill, I might have learned more. I might have been able to get a peek at the orders which had been delivered to Howling Jack. My orders had been unsigned, but it was very unlikely that the Commanding Officer of any Regimental Support Team in the United States Marine Corps would have accepted any document that was not impeccably inscribed and signed. But, that chance, to at least have the identity of whoever was behind the orders, was lost. I smiled widely, however, as I wound the Volkswagen deftly through the curves of Camp Horno, on my way back to the Pulgas gate. I repeated the words of my exit from the Civil Affairs Group, then laughed aloud. The XO had given me a last look, so twisted and intense, that it had been as if a lighted cigar had been inserted into his mouth, burning tip first. I laughed some more, with both front door windows cranked down, and the small tinny FM radio belting out: "In the Year 2525, if man is still alive, if woman can survive...."
The Calafia exit, from Northbound Interstate 5, loomed ahead. I began to slow from my Volks' top speed of eighty-eight miles per hour. I had thought to call my wife, back at our apartment, but there had been no place to call from. There was also the stipulation, in my single sheet of orders, which said "immediately." I guided the car across the overpass, and toward the ribbon of blue ocean visible near the horizon, to the West. The exit took me to El Camino, which took me to the San Luis Rey overpass. The overpass ran into Pacific Palisades. That street ran half the length of San Clemente, paralleling the beach atop, alternately, one hundred foot bluffs and dunes rolling just above flat sandy beach coves. I turned South at the "T" made by the dead-ending of the road over the interstate. I crumpled my one page of orders between the buttons of my Class A green coat, straightened the tie clip on my cream colored Marine tie, then headed for the end of the road. Expensive homes lined the area, between the cliff down to the ocean, and the road I was on. I passed first, a small grade school, then the Coast Guard station. The road abruptly ended, just beyond the station. I turned around and crept back the way I had come. Recessed back, just before you got to the Coast Guard Station, was a large white wall with a big arch in it. I had missed it. A small asphalt road rant under the arch.
I drove to the arch, which had been converted into a gate. The gate had a guard, who only stepped out after I had stopped in front of a rickety looking wooden saw-horse. The guard turned out to be a single Marine Lance Corporal in field utilities. He stood at Parade Rest, next to the driver-side window, then slowly saluted. I didn't know if he was saluting the blue Officer base-sticker on the windshield, or if he had seen the yellow bars on my shoulders. I did not salute back. My cover was on the passenger seat. Marines did not salute indoors or uncovered, unlike Army personnel.
"How can I help you, sir," the Marine said, his arms dropping to his sides. Once he had finished the short sentence, his right hand rose up and extended to the window, as if waiting for some contribution. I looked at the hand. I knew immediately that security was tighter than the saw horse gave the impression of. The hand was waiting for documents of identification and some sort of clearance for why I was there. I said nothing, working my wallet our of my back pocket. I took out my military identification card, then pulled out the single sheet of orders from inside my blouse. He took the I.D. card, but just waved at the piece of paper. "Be right back, sir," the Lance Corporal said. I waited. I looked over at the Coast Guard Station, wondering if I was somehow going to be connected to that place until I processed out of the Corps. The wait grew so lengthy that I finally turned the ignition key off, and pulled my left arm out of the hot morning sun.
The Lance Corporal came back. "Proceed down the road, and through the next gate. Park next to the wall. Someone will meet you at the door." I took my I.D. card back. "What is the Cotton Estate, anyway?" I asked, then "Do they grow cotton here?" The Corporal just looked at me. "I don't know, sir," he said, deadpan, then moved to the front of the car to pull back the saw-horse. I shrugged. I had been having a nice day-dream about sailing a Coast Guard skiff among a bevy of Southern California beach beauties, but it did not appear that that was going to be my assigned function. I drove away, as instructed. The new black tarmac weaved back and forth several times, before the vegetation cleared, and I as able to see a second wall, with a second arch. I presumed the Marine's description of a second gate was, in reality, the second arch. I stopped near a barred wooden door, set deep into the solid stone wall. I got out of the Volks to examine it. It was one of those thick old wooden things with black steel straps. There was no visible handle or port. I looked around, feeling foolish, then tapped on the door. I would have said "open sesame" at the same time, but I was intrigued by everything that had happened that morning, and a bit unsure of myself.
The door sucked silently open. A tall suited stranger filled the space left by the door. The man wore a small radio microphone in his right ear, and aviator sun glasses. The glasses were of too dark a material to allow me to see the man's eyes. I had only seen Secret Service Agents on television, but I knew instantly that I was standing in front of one of them.
"Identification?" the man said, his hand extending out, in exactly the same way the Marine's had. I noted that he did not refer to me as 'sir.' "Wait here," he said, then left with my I.D. card, just as the Marine had. "Holy shit," i breathed, very quietly. Until that moment I had not realized that, whatever I had somehow stepped into, was not to be taken lightly. The Secret Service was a serious outfit. Also, the Marine guard out front was not there for play. Real Marine guards were only used for National Security assignments. The rest of security was contracted out. The man returned, but his hands were empty.
"This way," he said, gesturing with the slight flip of his left shoulder, while closing the door with his right hand. The door clicked instead of slamming. I realized that the door only looked like an old Spanish entryway. I wondered what it was really made of. I followed the man. "What about my I.D. card?" I said to the walking man's back. We walked through several more doorways, the doors always open. Finally, we stepped through an interior arch into a great windowed room. The agent stopped, turned, then leaned close to whisper, "You'll get your I.D., and a new one, when you leave....I think." He then departed the way we had come. "He thinks?" I whispered to myself. I looked out across the Spanish tile floor of the room. It was well appointed, with expensive furniture. The floor was partially covered by large Persian rugs, the kind I had only seen in stores.
The room's windows ran side by side along the far wall, giving a complete curved panorama of the breaking waves, which were moving ceaselessly in toward a long beach of flat beautiful sand. I noticed a man. He was standing, facing the ocean, right up close to the windows. He wore an unusual cream-colored suit. A distinctive feature caught my immediate attention. The man's blond hair was cut strangely. His haircut was like a Marine cut, except it was flat on top. It was an old flat-top cut I had only seen in photos and on television, not in real life. I looked around, but there was no one else in the room. I walked to stand next to the blond, flat-topped man. He was taller than me by several inches. I looked up at his chiseled profile. He face was clean-shaven, the muscles of his jaw tight, individually distinguishable, while his nose was long and straight. His face was slightly too long, I decided, and he looked a little too much like the Marine Corps posters of the perfect Marine. Every real Marine hated those posters. I didn't know what to say, so I turned and looked out at the waves too. We stood like that for several minutes.
"You're orders are from me," he said, his eyes remaining glued to the ocean just outside the windows. I held myself rigid, next to the man. I felt that he would tell me when to say something. I listened, and stared at the sea. When the man talked it was almost impossible to discern lip movement, I noted. "You'll be working for me," the man said, his lips again not moving. I felt an impulse to giggle. Maybe the man was a ventriloquist sent to entertain the President, I thought. But I did not even smile. I finally could not contain myself anymore. "Who are you, sir?" I asked.
"I'm H.R. Halderman, advisor to the President of the United States," he said, the words rolling out one after another, as if a tape was being played at a slower speed than it was recorded, with all emotion sucked out of it. "They call me H.R., behind my back....so don't." I nodded, wanting to ask "don't what?" but I didn't. H.R. Halderman flicked his head to the rear. Somehow I knew, from the gesture, that our strange, one-sided interview was over. I turned, heading for the arch I had come in under. "We start at 0900 in the morning around here," he said. I nodded, although I knew he couldn't see me. The Secret Service agent appeared, magically, at the arch by the time I got there. He handed me my I.D. back. "You get a new one in the morning. Don't be late. He doesn't like to start late." I nodded, putting my I.D. card away. "Start what?" I said, very quietly, so H.R. Halderman would not hear me.
"You work for H.R. now. Welcome to his world," the agent said.
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http://www.themastodons.com
http://www.from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
copyright 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Saturday, April 4, 2009
San Clemente "Chapter I, " The Registered Publication"
The First Civil Affairs Group maintained an office on a small barren knoll, about a mile distant from the Headquarters of the 13th Artillery Regiment, of the First Marine Division. The area was uncleared, but comprised of such hard-crusted flooring that it gave the appearance of being set onto a great rounded concrete pad, broken up only by a few brown tendrils of struggling vegetation. I reported in to an ugly rectangular building at seven a.m. every morning. The morning sun, just mounting the Pulgas Mountain Range in the distance, reflected back a dull green hue upon the side of the building's wall. There was no Marine guard at the building door, unlike Headquarters. There was no "Mornin' Sir," or crisp salute, to start my day. I glanced back over my shoulder, to make sure that the new red Volkswagen I had purchased only a week before was properly parked. There were no real parking lines. Headquarters had asphalt parking, with bright white lines. Our cars were parked between lines scraped every day into the hard desert surface. But Marines parked inside the lines. Always. The Volks was easy to park, not like the GTO I had to trade in for it.
But the GTO had had to go. My leg would not take the torque, no matter how much patience and therapy I put into it. One of the bullets I had been hit with had broken my hip bone. Fragmented Ilia, they termed it. I'd loved that blue streak of a car, and had almost killed myself with it many times. But I was also a lieutenant, and didn't make very much money. Driving the Volks, however, had not been too terrible. It actually was a lot of fun, but not fun like the GTO had been. "Different, very different," I muttered to myself aloud, turning the last corner of my passage through the labyrinthian switch-backed corridor to arrive at my tiny walled in cubicle.
"No shit," a male voice said, from behind me. I turned before getting to my gray, rubber-covered desk, which had been produced some time right after World War I. Captain Merrill stood facing me. Captain Merrill was the Executive Officer of our small outfit. We disliked each other intensely, although very politely. It had been Captain Merrill who had 'collected' me when I had reported into Headquarters following my release from full disability status at the base hospital. I had thought, until meeting the Captain, that I would be able to serve out the short remainder of my Marine Corps tour with some light duty, along with getting ready to transition into civilian life. My entire prior year had been spent in hospitals, trying to come back from gunshot wounds in the abdomen, hip and legs. Pieces of Vietnam were still inside my body, working their way out through small festering boils, every few months. Vietnam wasn't in my mind, however. It was just that I couldn't sleep.
Captain Merrill had spotted my release forms, and immediately had me assigned to the Civil Affairs Group. We did nothing there except plan, plan and re-plan. We planned for a time when the Marine Corps might be fighting in the Palau Islands. I was in charge of planning the layout of a supply depot on the island of Babelthuap. The island had been planned for, as a depot, by the prior ten officers to hold my position.
I stared at the Captain, almost in shock. The man had appeared at my cubicle, and said a swear-word. Two things I had never known him to do. His aversion to swearing was one of the reasons he hated me so badly. When I had found out he liked to be thought of as some sort of left-over war hero from "Merrill's Mauraders," I had instantly converted the phrase into 'Merrill's Mother-Fuckers.'
"What is it, sir?" I asked, coming to a position of vague attention. I could not stomach any part of the phony Marine Officer Corps I had found back home. The one's who had avoided Vietnam like the plague, but then acted like they were God's gifts to macho warriors. Merrill had never been in combat, and his chest ribbons blared that. I had five rows of combat decorations on my own. I realized, looking at the vertical puke-tube of a human being, that I did not despise him, I hated him.
The Captain didn't answer me. He just pointed at the desk I was standing in front of. I twisted around to look, grimacing through a spike of pain. I would not show any reaction in front of Merrill, however, so I covered it with a "yes, sir." On top of my clean gray rubber desk-top was an envelope. A large eight-and-a-half by eleven brown one. The envelope was typical Marine inter-office stuff, but not the writing across the top of it. Large red letters were printed horizontally across it's entire surface. They read "SECRET." A small white note was clipped to the envelope. I moved closer, to be able look down and read it. It had only my name and rank on it. The envelope had had to be hand delivered. I realized right away why Captain Merrill was there. The Registered Publications System, which controlled all classified documents, had very specific rules for the handling of them. No classified document, designated above 'Confidential,' could be left unattended. Merrill was the assigned attendant. He had had to wait for my arrival. No wonder he was pissed off, I thought.
"Oh," gushed out of me. I could think of nothing else to say. I stared down at the unlikely envelope. My tour of duty, which would formally end with the implementation of the disability board's findings, was three weeks away. I could not walk right, eat right, sleep right, or do much else right, when it came to Marine Corps procedures and actions. I was history, and everyone, including me, knew it. Even my reports on the supply depot located at some idiotic, never to be visited, tropical isle had been scaled back. I continued to stare at the unlikely envelope. I had not secrets. I knew no secrets. I was a highly decorated, blown to smithereens low-life to the Corps. I had not even been promoted above Second Lieutenant. I had stopped wearing my ribbons to mainside. Too many higher officers had stopped me, and wanted me to prove that I really had the decorations indicated by the ribbons. They had claimed that a Second Lieutenant, who had received such decorations, would have been promoted to at least First Lieutenant by the time he got home. I did not mention to them that I thought I had figured that riddle out. Why I had not been promoted. That it was because the officers on promotions boards were just like them. But I had to wear the things to work, and so I did, which just caused Merrill to hate me more.
"Open the damned envelope!" Merrill said, behind me, quite forcefully. In the back of my mind, I smiled, to hear the human maggot swear for the second time that morning. I went around my desk, tossed my flat cover onto the moldy chair, then reached down and picked up the envelope. The flap was glued. Another unusual feature of it. I tore the edge off of it, slowly, watching the XO squirm with impatience. I slid out the single sheet of white paper it contained. I read the document. Then I read it again. "What does it say?" Merrill demanded, stepping closer. I took my eyes off the piece of paper, holding it so Merrill could not see the writing.
"I have to see the Commanding Officer." I said, flatly. I quickly replaced the sheet of paper inside the envelope. Merrill and I frowned at each other. I thought about our Commanding Officer. He was another of the more nasty creatures I had met in the Corps. Colonel Jack Taylor. He preferred other officers of his rank to call him by his self-designated nickname. Howling Jack. Howling Jack had been in both wars, WWII and Korea. He had been in Vietnam, which he continually pontificated, was not a war at all. He had been in the rear with the gear for all of his wars, I knew. Supply Officer. Which would have been okay, except he was a buff. A buff was an man who had served, but had not served in a combat position, yet acted like he had. I had had to stop going to the Commanding Officers lunch at the "O" club because of the fake war stories. My facial expressions, no matter how much I tried to control them, gave off emanations of boredom and derision. They had been noticed.
I followed Merrill out through the corridor of many unimportant cubicles. Both the C.O. and X.O. had big offices out front. They were the one's who watched the rest of us drive up and park, then wrote up reports when we drove across, or parked on, the make-believe lines. The C.O. was in. His short legs were propped up so he could rest them on the front edge of his desk. His shoes were the new face corfam things. Shine from the factory. Fake shoes. Fake Marine. I stopped in front of his desk. Merrill came up to me, and demanded the envelope. I just looked at him, putting it in my hand farthest from him.
"What have we here?" Howling Jack said, smiling his mean, scum-bag, smile. I smiled back at him, before speaking. "I have a registered document," I flashed the SECRET designation at him, "and it says that I can't tell you anything." I reached into the envelope. I took out the sheet of paper, and started quoting. "You will not discuss this document with your Commanding Officers or anyone else." I put the paper away, again. The two men stared at each other across the desk. Howling Jack brought his feet to the floor with a loud crash. I watched the X.O.'s face diffuse with blood and become dark. "Bullshit," he hissed at me, swearing for the third time that day. I almost checked my watch to get a record of it, but did not.
None of us noticed the entry into the room of a third individual, until he spoke. "Excuse me sir, but I'm from mainside. May I have a moment, sir?" I noted that the new man was a staff sergeant. He was carrying an envelope similar to mine, except there was no registered designation on it's surface, that I could see. "What the hell do you want?" Taylor screamed at the sergeant. The sergeant extended his hand, holding the envelope out. Merrill took it roughly, then handed it to Taylor. "You have to read it, sign for it, and then I have to take it back." I noted that the sergeant had not ended his presentation with the word 'sir,' which made me smile. "What the hell's going on?" Howling Jack said, opening the second envelope, then reading. He shook his head. He gave the letter to Merrill.
"It says that we can't ask him any questions at all. That we have to carry him on the rolls of our command, as if he's still here, even when he's not. It says we have to do what he tells us." Merrill's voice had gone low, near the end of his reading. Taylor grabbed the letter back, signed it, then gave it to the staff sergeant. The man took the envelope, then walked out without saying a word, a direct violation of Marine etiquette and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. I smiled again.
"We have to do what he tells us?" Howling Jack said, a bit of spittle coming from his mouth, giving away his building rage. "What he tells us? This pip-squeak of broken-down little bastard?" He stood, then turned to look out the window, to his commanding view of our desert parking lot. "Just what is it that you'd like us to do, before you get out of my office, Lieutenant?" he inquired, not turning to face me. I thought for a minute, about my remaining time in the Corps. My service in Vietnam. My treatment by these two supposed Marine Officers since coming to the command. "Well," I said, slowly, "I'd like you to both go fuck yourselves."
http://www.jamesstraussauthor.com
http://www.themastodons.com
http://www.from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
copyright 2009
But the GTO had had to go. My leg would not take the torque, no matter how much patience and therapy I put into it. One of the bullets I had been hit with had broken my hip bone. Fragmented Ilia, they termed it. I'd loved that blue streak of a car, and had almost killed myself with it many times. But I was also a lieutenant, and didn't make very much money. Driving the Volks, however, had not been too terrible. It actually was a lot of fun, but not fun like the GTO had been. "Different, very different," I muttered to myself aloud, turning the last corner of my passage through the labyrinthian switch-backed corridor to arrive at my tiny walled in cubicle.
"No shit," a male voice said, from behind me. I turned before getting to my gray, rubber-covered desk, which had been produced some time right after World War I. Captain Merrill stood facing me. Captain Merrill was the Executive Officer of our small outfit. We disliked each other intensely, although very politely. It had been Captain Merrill who had 'collected' me when I had reported into Headquarters following my release from full disability status at the base hospital. I had thought, until meeting the Captain, that I would be able to serve out the short remainder of my Marine Corps tour with some light duty, along with getting ready to transition into civilian life. My entire prior year had been spent in hospitals, trying to come back from gunshot wounds in the abdomen, hip and legs. Pieces of Vietnam were still inside my body, working their way out through small festering boils, every few months. Vietnam wasn't in my mind, however. It was just that I couldn't sleep.
Captain Merrill had spotted my release forms, and immediately had me assigned to the Civil Affairs Group. We did nothing there except plan, plan and re-plan. We planned for a time when the Marine Corps might be fighting in the Palau Islands. I was in charge of planning the layout of a supply depot on the island of Babelthuap. The island had been planned for, as a depot, by the prior ten officers to hold my position.
I stared at the Captain, almost in shock. The man had appeared at my cubicle, and said a swear-word. Two things I had never known him to do. His aversion to swearing was one of the reasons he hated me so badly. When I had found out he liked to be thought of as some sort of left-over war hero from "Merrill's Mauraders," I had instantly converted the phrase into 'Merrill's Mother-Fuckers.'
"What is it, sir?" I asked, coming to a position of vague attention. I could not stomach any part of the phony Marine Officer Corps I had found back home. The one's who had avoided Vietnam like the plague, but then acted like they were God's gifts to macho warriors. Merrill had never been in combat, and his chest ribbons blared that. I had five rows of combat decorations on my own. I realized, looking at the vertical puke-tube of a human being, that I did not despise him, I hated him.
The Captain didn't answer me. He just pointed at the desk I was standing in front of. I twisted around to look, grimacing through a spike of pain. I would not show any reaction in front of Merrill, however, so I covered it with a "yes, sir." On top of my clean gray rubber desk-top was an envelope. A large eight-and-a-half by eleven brown one. The envelope was typical Marine inter-office stuff, but not the writing across the top of it. Large red letters were printed horizontally across it's entire surface. They read "SECRET." A small white note was clipped to the envelope. I moved closer, to be able look down and read it. It had only my name and rank on it. The envelope had had to be hand delivered. I realized right away why Captain Merrill was there. The Registered Publications System, which controlled all classified documents, had very specific rules for the handling of them. No classified document, designated above 'Confidential,' could be left unattended. Merrill was the assigned attendant. He had had to wait for my arrival. No wonder he was pissed off, I thought.
"Oh," gushed out of me. I could think of nothing else to say. I stared down at the unlikely envelope. My tour of duty, which would formally end with the implementation of the disability board's findings, was three weeks away. I could not walk right, eat right, sleep right, or do much else right, when it came to Marine Corps procedures and actions. I was history, and everyone, including me, knew it. Even my reports on the supply depot located at some idiotic, never to be visited, tropical isle had been scaled back. I continued to stare at the unlikely envelope. I had not secrets. I knew no secrets. I was a highly decorated, blown to smithereens low-life to the Corps. I had not even been promoted above Second Lieutenant. I had stopped wearing my ribbons to mainside. Too many higher officers had stopped me, and wanted me to prove that I really had the decorations indicated by the ribbons. They had claimed that a Second Lieutenant, who had received such decorations, would have been promoted to at least First Lieutenant by the time he got home. I did not mention to them that I thought I had figured that riddle out. Why I had not been promoted. That it was because the officers on promotions boards were just like them. But I had to wear the things to work, and so I did, which just caused Merrill to hate me more.
"Open the damned envelope!" Merrill said, behind me, quite forcefully. In the back of my mind, I smiled, to hear the human maggot swear for the second time that morning. I went around my desk, tossed my flat cover onto the moldy chair, then reached down and picked up the envelope. The flap was glued. Another unusual feature of it. I tore the edge off of it, slowly, watching the XO squirm with impatience. I slid out the single sheet of white paper it contained. I read the document. Then I read it again. "What does it say?" Merrill demanded, stepping closer. I took my eyes off the piece of paper, holding it so Merrill could not see the writing.
"I have to see the Commanding Officer." I said, flatly. I quickly replaced the sheet of paper inside the envelope. Merrill and I frowned at each other. I thought about our Commanding Officer. He was another of the more nasty creatures I had met in the Corps. Colonel Jack Taylor. He preferred other officers of his rank to call him by his self-designated nickname. Howling Jack. Howling Jack had been in both wars, WWII and Korea. He had been in Vietnam, which he continually pontificated, was not a war at all. He had been in the rear with the gear for all of his wars, I knew. Supply Officer. Which would have been okay, except he was a buff. A buff was an man who had served, but had not served in a combat position, yet acted like he had. I had had to stop going to the Commanding Officers lunch at the "O" club because of the fake war stories. My facial expressions, no matter how much I tried to control them, gave off emanations of boredom and derision. They had been noticed.
I followed Merrill out through the corridor of many unimportant cubicles. Both the C.O. and X.O. had big offices out front. They were the one's who watched the rest of us drive up and park, then wrote up reports when we drove across, or parked on, the make-believe lines. The C.O. was in. His short legs were propped up so he could rest them on the front edge of his desk. His shoes were the new face corfam things. Shine from the factory. Fake shoes. Fake Marine. I stopped in front of his desk. Merrill came up to me, and demanded the envelope. I just looked at him, putting it in my hand farthest from him.
"What have we here?" Howling Jack said, smiling his mean, scum-bag, smile. I smiled back at him, before speaking. "I have a registered document," I flashed the SECRET designation at him, "and it says that I can't tell you anything." I reached into the envelope. I took out the sheet of paper, and started quoting. "You will not discuss this document with your Commanding Officers or anyone else." I put the paper away, again. The two men stared at each other across the desk. Howling Jack brought his feet to the floor with a loud crash. I watched the X.O.'s face diffuse with blood and become dark. "Bullshit," he hissed at me, swearing for the third time that day. I almost checked my watch to get a record of it, but did not.
None of us noticed the entry into the room of a third individual, until he spoke. "Excuse me sir, but I'm from mainside. May I have a moment, sir?" I noted that the new man was a staff sergeant. He was carrying an envelope similar to mine, except there was no registered designation on it's surface, that I could see. "What the hell do you want?" Taylor screamed at the sergeant. The sergeant extended his hand, holding the envelope out. Merrill took it roughly, then handed it to Taylor. "You have to read it, sign for it, and then I have to take it back." I noted that the sergeant had not ended his presentation with the word 'sir,' which made me smile. "What the hell's going on?" Howling Jack said, opening the second envelope, then reading. He shook his head. He gave the letter to Merrill.
"It says that we can't ask him any questions at all. That we have to carry him on the rolls of our command, as if he's still here, even when he's not. It says we have to do what he tells us." Merrill's voice had gone low, near the end of his reading. Taylor grabbed the letter back, signed it, then gave it to the staff sergeant. The man took the envelope, then walked out without saying a word, a direct violation of Marine etiquette and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. I smiled again.
"We have to do what he tells us?" Howling Jack said, a bit of spittle coming from his mouth, giving away his building rage. "What he tells us? This pip-squeak of broken-down little bastard?" He stood, then turned to look out the window, to his commanding view of our desert parking lot. "Just what is it that you'd like us to do, before you get out of my office, Lieutenant?" he inquired, not turning to face me. I thought for a minute, about my remaining time in the Corps. My service in Vietnam. My treatment by these two supposed Marine Officers since coming to the command. "Well," I said, slowly, "I'd like you to both go fuck yourselves."
http://www.jamesstraussauthor.com
http://www.themastodons.com
http://www.from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
copyright 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
"The Bering Sea"
Hello, to my small following of readers:
The chapters of the online novel, The Bering Sea, will no longer be available online. For those of you who have been following it, I thank you. You helped give me motivation and inspiration to continue writing. Writing fiction is so hard today. Life is so agonizingly complex and obligations so very pressing and extreme. Writing creatively, even something as 'true' as The Bering Sea, requires an isolation and focused intensity of thought which our social order does not want to allow. The people around me, almost one and all, ask the same question continuously: 'What is wrong?' What is wrong, is that I am not here. I am away in the novel. I am lost in the art form. I am writing or thinking, and then writing some more. I am writing and editing, then editing some more. I do not have the ability to always draw myself down. I cannot remove myself from the high adventure of the story, without losing the threads of the story. There are fourteen vital characters at play in the novel. They all have their own identities, personalities and stuff happening around them. It is a complex world I have woven. I cannot live in both worlds at the same time, so I am constantly moving from one to the other. While driving, yesterday, I was asked where I was going. I was in the novel, mentally. All I could think to say was 'that way,' as I pointed straight ahead. I had no clue as to where I was going or why I was going there.
If you are one of those forty or fifty people who want to know how the novel ends, as there are six more chapters to go plus an epilogue (this novel only ends for a moment, as the story continues on) then you will have to send me a note or email with your address in or on it. I will hard copy the remaining pages and send them to you in the mail. I will do that at my expense, because I owe you. I owe your for you continued loyalty, comments and care about my story and characters. Quite possibly, even your care of me.
Thank you. This blog will return to the political questioning and commentary I was involved with before I interrupted it with the online publishing of this novel.
I remain,
Most Sincerely,
James Strauss
P.S. My email address is: antaresproductions@charter.net My physical address is: 507 Broad St. Lake Geneva, WI 53147
http://www.jamesstraussauthor.com
http://www.themastodons.com
http://www.from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
The chapters of the online novel, The Bering Sea, will no longer be available online. For those of you who have been following it, I thank you. You helped give me motivation and inspiration to continue writing. Writing fiction is so hard today. Life is so agonizingly complex and obligations so very pressing and extreme. Writing creatively, even something as 'true' as The Bering Sea, requires an isolation and focused intensity of thought which our social order does not want to allow. The people around me, almost one and all, ask the same question continuously: 'What is wrong?' What is wrong, is that I am not here. I am away in the novel. I am lost in the art form. I am writing or thinking, and then writing some more. I am writing and editing, then editing some more. I do not have the ability to always draw myself down. I cannot remove myself from the high adventure of the story, without losing the threads of the story. There are fourteen vital characters at play in the novel. They all have their own identities, personalities and stuff happening around them. It is a complex world I have woven. I cannot live in both worlds at the same time, so I am constantly moving from one to the other. While driving, yesterday, I was asked where I was going. I was in the novel, mentally. All I could think to say was 'that way,' as I pointed straight ahead. I had no clue as to where I was going or why I was going there.
If you are one of those forty or fifty people who want to know how the novel ends, as there are six more chapters to go plus an epilogue (this novel only ends for a moment, as the story continues on) then you will have to send me a note or email with your address in or on it. I will hard copy the remaining pages and send them to you in the mail. I will do that at my expense, because I owe you. I owe your for you continued loyalty, comments and care about my story and characters. Quite possibly, even your care of me.
Thank you. This blog will return to the political questioning and commentary I was involved with before I interrupted it with the online publishing of this novel.
I remain,
Most Sincerely,
James Strauss
P.S. My email address is: antaresproductions@charter.net My physical address is: 507 Broad St. Lake Geneva, WI 53147
http://www.jamesstraussauthor.com
http://www.themastodons.com
http://www.from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
Saturday, February 14, 2009
The Lagoon
The Lagoon
I have written and received so much correspondence over the past year. There is also my participation in online media resources using the internet. There is Twitter, Facebook, Friendfeed and blogging. There is email. I remain aware and learning, while I flow back and forth across this strange surging ethereal sea of communication. I reflect on what I read, process the reflections, and then write works of analysis and consideration. One of the most common strains of conversational tone I run across is the one of integrity declared. This is my phrase (integrity declared) for the people who constantly tell me that they tell the truth, no matter how much it hurts. They tell me, and write around me, of the necessity required by both business and relationship to always be honest and truthful. That no great success in either area can be had without it. They tell me that they only tell the truth and would never be dishonest. I have to admit I am frequently vexed but more often entertained by this kind of delivery. And it is a constant, never changing, litany that seem to cross all cultural borders and barriers. Only this evening I was reminded of this by a woman who works out in Hawaii. She had written a short missive on Twitter about how it appeared that the market in Hawaii was on the way to recovery, with much activity over the last few days. When I commented that I had never heard a realtor every say, at any time, that right now was not the best time to buy, I got the integrity presentation delivered hot and fast over the net. I backed off. I am not out here to confront, or make miserable, the people who correspond with me. Sometimes my blog here might indicate otherwise, but in reality I do not seek to attack individuals for what they think or believe. I do like to disagree with them, however.
In light of the subject I have chosen to discuss herein, I would like to tell you a story. It is a true story, and it happened several years ago on the shore of a place called Bainbridge Island. That Island lies seven miles across the Sound from the city of Seattle in Washington State.
The Lagoon
It was early morning when I looked out from the deck of my second story office, which was located in my home on the shore of Puget Sound. It was already a fine day, with the sun rising behind the spit of land my house was located on, and Mount Ranier half lit on the Southern horizon across the gently moving waters. I looked down to the Lagoon below. It was a rather large lagoon, spanning about forty yards across the narrowest of it's oval shape. Earlier in the year I had built a wooden pier that reached out about ten yards straight from the house on my side of the shore. I had built the pier so that the triplets, living at the other end of the lagoon could come visit on a paddle boat I had purchased for that purpose the summer before. The triplets were three children six years of age. Two boys and a girl. They had named the paddle boat 'Bubbles' so I had dutifully painted the name on both sides of the pontoons which kept it afloat. Some days they would vigorously paddle over to my pier, be greeted by Harvey, my dog-like cat, and Tank, the large seagull who always sat on one of the high poles at the end of the pier. I kept a supply of those popsicles, the ones with the funny idiotic sayings printed onto the sticks, in my freezer, as the trips' parents would not let them have such sweet things.
This morning I noted that the Lagoon was faintly aromatic. I looked over toward the far shore and confirmed my suspicions. The far shore abutted the Sound itself. Normally, there was a narrow inlet of water that ran between the Lagoon and the waters of the Sound. The constantly working tides usually kept the small stream open and running. That movement of water allowed the lagoon to be refreshed and healthy. I noted, with a frown, that the stream was no more. A bad tide had moved the small, golf ball sized stones, just enough to close the gap. I sighed. Something would have to be done.
I threw on my jeans, boots and logging shirt, went to the back door, selected a pointed shovel, then made my way down to the shore along the bracken, following a well worn path Harvey and I took at least twice a day. I found the course of the old outlet and began to dig. Harvey found a large flat rock nearby to recline on, and provide moral support from.
The work was hard. The stones did not take to shoveling at all well. It took a full hour to dig half way to the Sound. I sat against one wall of my four foot deep trench to rest and reflect. I saw a line of miniature people approaching from the South. It was the triplets. They were walking in a single file, each with a small shovel over their shoulder. I waited until they arrived. "Hey you guys," I said, and waved with a big smile. One of the boys, Mark, was very expressive and yelled back, as they approached "Hi, Mr. Strauss, we've come to help you." I laughed aloud at that. The other boy, Tom, just smiled his usual little smile, while Anna, the triplet leader held up an arm. They stopped mid-way down the finished part of the trench. "We'll begin work here, Mr. Strauss," she stated imperiously, with no smile or wave. I nodded at this industriousness and set back to work. I threw rocks for another fifteen minutes before I had to rest. I leaned on the shovel and looked back.
Anna was sitting on one edge of the trench watching her two brothers. Mark and Tom had worked to drag a pile of driftwood to the edge of the divide and were carefully assembling some sort of edifice right in the center of the trench. I shook my head and walked back to where they worked. "What are you two doing?" I asked, with a moody serious expression. The boys looked up at me, then bent down and continued their efforts. "They're building a fish trap, Mr. Strauss," Anna said from her position nearby. The boys continued to work. I looked down at them in exasperation. "You can't build a fish trap out of wood. The wood will just float away when the water comes through," I argued, to no avail. "You can't catch a fish in such a contraption." I tried again. Anna appeared at my side and grabbed my hand. She nodded to me when I looked down, then applied some pressure to move me back in the direction I'd come. When we got back to where I had been working she let go of my hand. I looked back at her laboring brothers and was about to speak. She shook her head at me, so I said nothing. She reached up carefully and grasped my shirt near the collar. I bent down to her pull. Very seriously she looked into my eyes. "Mr. Strauss, the fish does not have to be real," she said.
What Anna said to me resounded out of that Lagoon, across the Sound and echoed straight into the marrow of my life. And the lives of almost everyone who has come into contact with me. At my company the expression "the fish does not have to be real" is stated over and over again. It is applied to situations wherein people are just being too damn serious. To situations wherein people are claiming that they have the highest integrity. That they never lie. That truth is this precious commodity that is just of too much value to do anything other than be admitted to and recognized.
Physics is real. Gravity is real. Water boiling at a certain temperature and pressure is real. But this phenomenal world we have created to survive in is not. Even the physics of that phenomenal world do not necessarily have to be real. It all depends upon perspective, belief, needs, wants and desires. And therefore, once this is realized, the world becomes a different place altogether. To survive in the real world we need to lighten up in the phenomenal. We need to become more flexible about understanding this place we inhabit and the fellow travelers we run with. The next time that somebody around you tells you that they have never told a lie, then tell this story and say these words: "The fish does not have to be real."
from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
http://www.themastodons.com
I have written and received so much correspondence over the past year. There is also my participation in online media resources using the internet. There is Twitter, Facebook, Friendfeed and blogging. There is email. I remain aware and learning, while I flow back and forth across this strange surging ethereal sea of communication. I reflect on what I read, process the reflections, and then write works of analysis and consideration. One of the most common strains of conversational tone I run across is the one of integrity declared. This is my phrase (integrity declared) for the people who constantly tell me that they tell the truth, no matter how much it hurts. They tell me, and write around me, of the necessity required by both business and relationship to always be honest and truthful. That no great success in either area can be had without it. They tell me that they only tell the truth and would never be dishonest. I have to admit I am frequently vexed but more often entertained by this kind of delivery. And it is a constant, never changing, litany that seem to cross all cultural borders and barriers. Only this evening I was reminded of this by a woman who works out in Hawaii. She had written a short missive on Twitter about how it appeared that the market in Hawaii was on the way to recovery, with much activity over the last few days. When I commented that I had never heard a realtor every say, at any time, that right now was not the best time to buy, I got the integrity presentation delivered hot and fast over the net. I backed off. I am not out here to confront, or make miserable, the people who correspond with me. Sometimes my blog here might indicate otherwise, but in reality I do not seek to attack individuals for what they think or believe. I do like to disagree with them, however.
In light of the subject I have chosen to discuss herein, I would like to tell you a story. It is a true story, and it happened several years ago on the shore of a place called Bainbridge Island. That Island lies seven miles across the Sound from the city of Seattle in Washington State.
The Lagoon
It was early morning when I looked out from the deck of my second story office, which was located in my home on the shore of Puget Sound. It was already a fine day, with the sun rising behind the spit of land my house was located on, and Mount Ranier half lit on the Southern horizon across the gently moving waters. I looked down to the Lagoon below. It was a rather large lagoon, spanning about forty yards across the narrowest of it's oval shape. Earlier in the year I had built a wooden pier that reached out about ten yards straight from the house on my side of the shore. I had built the pier so that the triplets, living at the other end of the lagoon could come visit on a paddle boat I had purchased for that purpose the summer before. The triplets were three children six years of age. Two boys and a girl. They had named the paddle boat 'Bubbles' so I had dutifully painted the name on both sides of the pontoons which kept it afloat. Some days they would vigorously paddle over to my pier, be greeted by Harvey, my dog-like cat, and Tank, the large seagull who always sat on one of the high poles at the end of the pier. I kept a supply of those popsicles, the ones with the funny idiotic sayings printed onto the sticks, in my freezer, as the trips' parents would not let them have such sweet things.
This morning I noted that the Lagoon was faintly aromatic. I looked over toward the far shore and confirmed my suspicions. The far shore abutted the Sound itself. Normally, there was a narrow inlet of water that ran between the Lagoon and the waters of the Sound. The constantly working tides usually kept the small stream open and running. That movement of water allowed the lagoon to be refreshed and healthy. I noted, with a frown, that the stream was no more. A bad tide had moved the small, golf ball sized stones, just enough to close the gap. I sighed. Something would have to be done.
I threw on my jeans, boots and logging shirt, went to the back door, selected a pointed shovel, then made my way down to the shore along the bracken, following a well worn path Harvey and I took at least twice a day. I found the course of the old outlet and began to dig. Harvey found a large flat rock nearby to recline on, and provide moral support from.
The work was hard. The stones did not take to shoveling at all well. It took a full hour to dig half way to the Sound. I sat against one wall of my four foot deep trench to rest and reflect. I saw a line of miniature people approaching from the South. It was the triplets. They were walking in a single file, each with a small shovel over their shoulder. I waited until they arrived. "Hey you guys," I said, and waved with a big smile. One of the boys, Mark, was very expressive and yelled back, as they approached "Hi, Mr. Strauss, we've come to help you." I laughed aloud at that. The other boy, Tom, just smiled his usual little smile, while Anna, the triplet leader held up an arm. They stopped mid-way down the finished part of the trench. "We'll begin work here, Mr. Strauss," she stated imperiously, with no smile or wave. I nodded at this industriousness and set back to work. I threw rocks for another fifteen minutes before I had to rest. I leaned on the shovel and looked back.
Anna was sitting on one edge of the trench watching her two brothers. Mark and Tom had worked to drag a pile of driftwood to the edge of the divide and were carefully assembling some sort of edifice right in the center of the trench. I shook my head and walked back to where they worked. "What are you two doing?" I asked, with a moody serious expression. The boys looked up at me, then bent down and continued their efforts. "They're building a fish trap, Mr. Strauss," Anna said from her position nearby. The boys continued to work. I looked down at them in exasperation. "You can't build a fish trap out of wood. The wood will just float away when the water comes through," I argued, to no avail. "You can't catch a fish in such a contraption." I tried again. Anna appeared at my side and grabbed my hand. She nodded to me when I looked down, then applied some pressure to move me back in the direction I'd come. When we got back to where I had been working she let go of my hand. I looked back at her laboring brothers and was about to speak. She shook her head at me, so I said nothing. She reached up carefully and grasped my shirt near the collar. I bent down to her pull. Very seriously she looked into my eyes. "Mr. Strauss, the fish does not have to be real," she said.
What Anna said to me resounded out of that Lagoon, across the Sound and echoed straight into the marrow of my life. And the lives of almost everyone who has come into contact with me. At my company the expression "the fish does not have to be real" is stated over and over again. It is applied to situations wherein people are just being too damn serious. To situations wherein people are claiming that they have the highest integrity. That they never lie. That truth is this precious commodity that is just of too much value to do anything other than be admitted to and recognized.
Physics is real. Gravity is real. Water boiling at a certain temperature and pressure is real. But this phenomenal world we have created to survive in is not. Even the physics of that phenomenal world do not necessarily have to be real. It all depends upon perspective, belief, needs, wants and desires. And therefore, once this is realized, the world becomes a different place altogether. To survive in the real world we need to lighten up in the phenomenal. We need to become more flexible about understanding this place we inhabit and the fellow travelers we run with. The next time that somebody around you tells you that they have never told a lie, then tell this story and say these words: "The fish does not have to be real."
from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com
http://www.themastodons.com
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Flight Into A Very Distant Future
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
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
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
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