Momma Nature

The Weather's moving in.  Wind's picked up in the last few hours and the waves are tipping their whitecaps to the beach and laying Karate chops on the seagulls as the seagulls drop down to grab some stray bit of food.  


The temp's coming down as the north-east wind picks up.  It's getting chilly and threatens to cool down and rain. 


The weather looks beautiful when it is angry.  It will be one of the things that miss the most.  

Sidney and Adelaide

This time of year I think of the hot weather in Sidney Australia -- that and of a woman that I spent a few forgetful hours with.  God, it was so long ago but, in my mind seems only a few days ago.

We met in a bar the name of which I can't even begin to remember, we both were looking for a few hours of mindlessness, a few hours to forget about the killing, the dying, and the sound of bullets snapping by your ears.  I wasn't expecting nurses to be in the thick of it, I mean, I knew they were in the hospitals and in the MUST units and had even heard of a few of them having been captured and hurt and a few killed.  This was the first time I'd ever actually run into a live one, a "Combat Nurse," as I teased her.  I had seen and been around a lot of Combat Medics, but "The Combat Nurse," I teased her, was as rare as a Unicorn.  She had a beautiful laugh, too.

She didn't have any companion, and nothing to do so we had a drink and that drink became two and those two became more as we sat and talked and got wasted.  We became quick buddies and hit a few more bars when the bartender at the one refused to serve us any more.  I vaguely remember ganging up with her and with a couple of Ozzies (Aussie in Australian), on another poor bartender, tossing him out of his own pub.  I don't remember much more than that.  Several hours later we woke up in bed, I don't know if it was my room or hers and at the time, didn't much care.  I'd only brought  a few sets of clean underwear, another set of cammos and toiletries so it didn't matter where I was, if they stayed behind, it wouldn't be any big loss, I'd get new ones when I got back anyway.

I came awake all at once, a body lying across my chest, and I shoved it off me in disgust.  In my half-numb brain, I thought it was a dead body.  She shrieked and scrabbled around looking for her weapon, I assume.  It took a few seconds, but we both finally came to our senses.  We were both in our birthday suits, so I assumed that we'd gotten very familiar with each other and I smiled at her as some of last night came back.

"Hey, good-looking," I smiled. 

She gave me a "hung-over with my head splitting" smile back, and sat back on the bare wooden floor of the old GI R&R bungalow, holding her head in her hands.  Her feet -- very pretty feet -- splayed apart giving me a clear view all the way to her hairy center. She looked up at me and saw the direction of my eyes and just shook her head, dropping it back into her hands.

"God," she grunted, "do I look as bad as I feel?"

"Worse," I smiled agreeably.

I rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed.  I started to get up but, as the world spun around me a couple of times, I decided that sitting might be better.  I could still reach her from there, though, so I just reached over and took her hands, braced my feet against hers and pulled her up on her feet toward me.  She lost her balance and fell into me, knocking us both backward onto the bed.  She lay across my chest and simply made herself comfortable there, it was less taxing than trying to fight the banging in our heads.

I grinned at her and told her I was damned if I could remember her name.  She said that right now she didn't even want to use her brain because of her head, that she'd tell me when it started working again.  I laughed in spite of my head and said that I'd just call her Sidney until then, it was the city name and I liked it.  She nodded and said okay, as she looked at me like I was some kind of a dumb-ass.  I could literally see her head pounding, the veins in her temples looking like a cartoon water hose, the drops passing through and expanding it and shrinking as the drop passed.  She nodded without looking at me, and said that she'd just call me Adelaide.  I burst out laughing, stopping abruptly as my head pounded back at me.  It felt like a Chinese gong and rang just as loud.  She gave a little snorting giggle.

"At'samatter, Adelaide, head hurt?" she raised up on her elbow, planting it painfully on my right breast.  I, however, was a Ranger, I was tough, I let it hurt and put my hands comfortably behind my head. 

"By the way, did I do you any good last night?" she continued. 

I tried to remember last night but all I could remember was the cops busting up our party and the three Ozzie women and four or five Ozzie GI's with us.  The bartender had called the cops evidently, but past their arrival was a dark alcoholic hole that I couldn't see into.

"I can't remember shit after we ran that poor bartender out," she mumbled.

"I don't know," I shrugged, raising a painful wrinkle from her sharp little elbow.

"Must'a did sump'n," she ran a finger from my forehead, down the bridge of my nose and flipped my lips a couple of times.

I looked at her trying hard to remember, but I finally just shrugged my shoulders and told her I had no recollection of us doing anything.  She was plain as an adobe brick with clean regular features, but when she smiled at me, it seemed as if he sun had broken through the monsoon, she had a beautiful smile.

"We must have," she said matter-of-factly, "my cunt's all full'a goop."

"Then I guess we did," I smiled, "hope you enjoyed it."

"Maybe I did and maybe I didn't," she half-grinned, "first time I did something like that and don't remember."

She grabbed my lower lip and pulled it down baring my lower gum and the inside lip.  I just let her play.  She pulled herself up and kissed the exposed inside of my lip --  gently, sweetly and let it go, her lips still pressed to the spot.  It felt as if I had a face-sized dip in there.  She finally pulled back, took her elbow off my chest and lay her head on my shoulder.

"Gawd, it hurts," she grabbed her head again, then turned to look at me, "what the fuck are you doing here?" she had this wondering look in her eyes.  I started to answer, but she interrupted, "what the fuck is such a sweet and gentle guy like you doing in this fucking insanity!?" she demanded.

"And just what makes you think that I'm a gentle guy?"  I remember that it kind of ticked me off to be called "sweet and gentle."

"Ha!" the single syllable burst out of her mouth, then she did start laughing rolling onto her back, her laugh sounding almost hysterically insane.

"This is insane," she burbled, "so totally fucking insane!!!"

For an answer, I pulled my arm out from under her head and pushed her under me in spite of the gongs reverberating in my head.  I wanted to strangle her just to stop her laughter, but I'd already killed too much and would soon be killing more, so instead I just kissed her, quieting her sounds with my tongue.  She smiled as I rolled on top of her.

"You gonna put more of your goop in me?" she teased.

I said nothing as I spread her lower lips open and entered her, ramming into her as hard as I could.  She groaned with mixture of pleasure and something else that I refused to understand at the time.  We lost ourselves for a few minutes, her cries of pleasure and my ruttish grunts the only sounds we made.  A few minutes later, she lay back and let me spend myself in her feminine softness.  Her soft, capable hands caressed my back and she wept -- quietly and unobtrusively kissing my shoulder gently.

I finished noisily, realizing that she was weeping.  I guess I knew why, because I don't remember asking why she cried, I just held her and whispered that it was all right, that it would all end one day and take us out of our misery.  She continued to weep and asked me to promise her that some day it would.  I promised her that it would, thinking to myself that one way or the other it would end for us someday -- maybe tomorrow, maybe a hundred years from now, but it would end. She wept a few minutes more as she rested and took some comfort from our intimate embrace, letting her pounding head quiet down.

A long while later, I got up to use the bathroom.  I sat on the pot and grabbed a large plastic tumbler and the half of a litre bottle of rum that we'd stashed there, sipping out of the bottle to quiet my head.  I did my business, poured us half a glass of rum, nothing to mix it with, and came back to bed, carrying both.  Sidney jumped up and ran to the bathroom as soon as she saw me come out, practically knocking me over.  She very noisily threw up, before taking care of her business, I smiled.

She sauntered back to bed, still looking a bit green around the gills and complaining of how messy I was as she climbed in.  I shrugged my shoulders and said that the bathroom didn't look a bit messy to me.  She took the glass from my hands and just before she sipped, said that it wasn't the bathroom she was talking about.  I nodded and picked a piece of toilet tissue off her crotch.  She giggled and said "oops." 

Sidney and Adelaide lie side by side sipping their liquor, they're only nine-hundred miles apart.  Sex was our solace and our only communication.

The "concierge," the Duty NCO at the desk when we came out for another round of bar-hopping, leered at us and told us that there was a concert in the city center and if we wanted to go, the bus would be outside in another hour or so for pick up.  Sidney and I looked at each other and shrugged.  Might as well.  We took a quick trip to the nearest pub and I bought a pint of rum and a couple of cokes apiece and fixed us a couple drink in the bottles. 

We went to the concert not knowing who or what was going to be presented and for a couple of hours we listened to Wagner and Liszt as the Royal Australian Philharmonic serenaded us.  We walked around Sidney afterward, neither of us straying far from each other.  We were just a pair of temporary lovers, caught up in the only moment we knew.  We got lost several times and had to ask directions, refusing to get a cab.

We had a pleasant time, which was heaven to us, I mean, pleasant was better than the alternative.  We felt as if we were in a new home-town, a boy with his girlfriend, goofing around and acting stupid, sneaking little kisses in the dim corners and groping each other as unobtrusively as we could.  We finally took one wrong turn too many, and found that it actually was the right turn, it had brought us to stand in front of our guest house door.   I turned her to me and, still assuming a long-time familiarity, pulled her into my embrace and kissed her.  It was a long, tender, loving kiss, the kind of kiss that a guy gives his steady girlfriend.  And, I guess that for those few precious days, we were boyfriend and girlfriend -- maybe even temporary newlyweds, married by our common ties to death and mayhem.

I held her desperately as she in turn held me, neither of us wanting to let the other go, trying to make this moment last forever, wishing that what we felt, in these few brief hours, was the reality and not the dream that it was.  Neither of us wanted this moment, this brief wrinkle in time to pass.  We were both trembling as we separated, and I wish that I could say that it was trembling in desire, but instead, it was fear, knowing that, as much as we wished it were the reality, in another couple of days, we would both be traveling back to our units.  Back to the upcoming bloody fight that would almost kill me and her back to the wounded, the dying, and the dead that she had to minister to.  She finally turned from me, her arm still around my waist, and opened the door.  I couldn't remember if I was staying at that guest-house or not and was about to ask the "concierge," the relief Duty NCO what my room number was, but before I could speak, he asked us to be more discreet and quiet.  He said that he'd pounded on our door several times last night.  I promised him that we would and Sidney giggled at the thought.  He thanked us and handed us each our keys and told us to pick one or the other and please be quiet.  Sidney giggled again and promised.

---- May Be Continued -----

Go Joe, No!

Joe, it's not that don't want to say how many bodies I've made, but it's simply that Viet Nam was so long ago.  Back then, everybody assumed that if you were in the military, you were a killer, there was that strong a hate of our policies.  Be that as it may, I just want to put most of that behind me and not have to relive it over and over for the edification of friends and family, I re-live it enough in my dreams and nightmares. 

Every time I speak with someone about some of those experiences, I end up reliving them in my head, over and over and over.  You go off saying, "Oh, man!  That must have been some firefight!" smiling and wishing you had been there.  Well, I'm here to tell you that you better be glad that you weren't there, be glad that you don't have to fight it all over in your head.  Be glad that you don't have to see your partner's head, three feet away, blown off his shoulders, by two .50 caliber rounds, leaving nothing but a fleshy mask where his face had been.  Worse, you  don't even think about it, you don't even think!  You just roll away and slap another magazine into your M-14.  The gunfighters flying in with their 40 mm guns lay fire not only on Charlie, but half of it ends up on us and all you can do is hug the earth as close to the thitkas as you can and pray that none of those rounds hit you. 

The Patrol Leader is screaming into the radio to "cease fire," but Charlie has done that to them so many times that they have to hear an authenticating code word before they'll lift their fires.  Meanwhile the Patrol Leader is suddenly silent.  He's likely dead and all you can do is hang onto the earth and try to become part of it, thinking illogically that if things don't go right, you will become one with it. 

They finally run out of ammo and run back to reload.  We try to regroup, but there's too many dead to make any kind of a coherent unit.  Recon 4-5 comes up and I use their radio to call my higher and report.  Charlie has done his usual trick of picking up his dead and wounded and disappearing into thin air.  My medic is still alive, bleeding from a cut on his forearm and we go about marking bodies and collecting dog-tags.

It wasn't fun Joe, it wasn't "exciting."  It was what we enlisted do do, never realizing the price that we would have to pay to maintain the "honor" of our country.  We still believed that.  Still believed that we were defending the gates of freedom, defending your right to be what you want to be. 

But it wasn't "fun," it wasn't "exciting."  It was survival.  Body count, theirs and ours, was incidental to survival.

Temporarily Separated by Death

A couple of months before I lost Brenda, she had come to the realization that she was not going to get better so she pretty much made her peace with the world.  The night she came to this epiphany was a Sunday night, her pastor had been by earlier, several friends had also come by to visit.  But now they were gone and we had a conversation pretty much to the point of saying good-bye.  i held her in my arms and gently rocked her to sleep.  About an hour or so later, she opened her eyes and peered up at me.  Between labored breaths, she scolded me for sitting there when I should be getting some rest for work.  I told her I was off for the night, and she smiled and puckered for a mooch.  I should have started grieving then, but Death and Me are old acquaintances and I refused to accept the idea that she would be leaving me.  I've never thought of myself as a fighter, but I was determined that we would not give in easily.  When the Grim Reaper came to harvest her soul, he would have me to contend with.

She first told me that she didn't want Andy, her son, getting his grubby fists on any of the insurance money – which he ended up with anyway, because we never got a chance to set up a will.  Our plan was for most of the money to go into a fund for the grandson, Drew's care.  Drew’s autistic, has cerebral palsy, and is mentally challenged.  He's not expected to live to see 30.  Anyway, we also spoke of pulling the plug if she ever ended up in that kind of position, she also expressed her desire for cremation, she didn't want to end up moldering in the cold ground, food for the fungus that would grow all over her dead body, she said that as far as she was concerned, we could flush her ashes down the commode, she just didn't want to be buried; we talked about a memorial. and period of mourning – I told her that I would forever hold her in my heart and kissed her, her lips already felt cool.  As I tried to rock her to sleep again, I repeated that she would always be my Pretty Baby, and I'd always carry her in my heart.  She got pissed at that, thinking,  and rightly so, that I'd be mourning her for a long time.  We argued a little, mostly for form because she didn't want anybody feeling sorry for what she was going thru and since we were always fussing with each other over little stupidities, I didn't want to change any of that because we usually finished up laughing over them, anyway.  It was just so she knew that she was still alive and loved, I guess.

She said that she really loved the idea that I would mourn her, but that I better not keep at it for too long.  I promised her that I wouldn't.  She said that she’d come back and dope slap me if I mourned her too long.  I laughed at the thought, she tried to laugh, too, but she wasn't breathing very well by then – and it was killing me!  I now believe that I was hurting more than she was.  I gave her a beddy-bye mooch and rocked her in my arms as she fell asleep.  She woke up an hour or so later, turned just her eyes and looked up at me and wanted to know what the hell I was still doing there.  She demanded that I put her down and get some rest so I could go to work.  I had the day off and I told her so, and that I wasn't going anywhere tonight.  She smiled, and bummed another mooch and asked me to put her on her pillow.  I did and lay down beside her, snuggling against her back, trying to warm her cool body with mine.  After a while, when I thought that she'd fallen asleep, she spoke and her words are forever burned in me.

"Baby doll," she whispered, with her lungs not being able to take much air, it was hard for her to speak, but she’s always been a determined lady, "Baby Doll (breath, breath) you awake?"  I told her that I was and she took as deep a breath as she could, "I don't (breath, breath) want you to (breath, breath) mourn for too (breath, breath) long, hear? (breath, breath) I think (breath, breath) a year at (breath, breath) at the most (breath, breath) is all. (breath, slow breath, slow breath)  More'n that (breath, breath) and I'll come back (breath, breath) to haunt (breath) you!" (breath, breath) (small sigh) (slow breath) She was done talking, and it had taken a helluva lot out of her, her face was turning blueish.  I said "okay, baby, a year, tops,"  but in the back of my mind I wondered if after all these years and all these memories, how long, really.

Well -- it's been a year and almost 4 months, and I guess I should have expected her, because she rarely breaks a promise.  She's come back to me.  In a way I'm glad, because she's in good shape, still my chunky pretty baby, still fussing at me.  But I don't want her to go. I have to.  I have to let her go, she keeps telling me that I need to let her go.  I need to let her go.

Or I need to go with her, I guess.

And, Christina, I'm so tired and still feel so lost without her.  I thought about going with her last night, but I felt her hand reach over and land a dope slap on the back of my head – like when I did or said something totally stupid and she caught it.  So that's not an option, if I do myself in, I'll never see her again.   And, I've got to let her go.   I have to let her go.   But not yet, a few more nights with her, then – well, maybe then.
    So, before I let her go again, I’ll tell her how much I still love her.  How much I still miss her. 

"The News"

'Where have all the young men gone
Long time passing,
Where have all the young men gone
Long time ago,"

They have all to combat gone, 
Gone to combat everyone

"When will they ever learn,
When will they ever learn."

"They" being the operative word, the bold italicized words are mine, they're not the words in the original song. 
I guess what I'm wanting to say is that what comes goes around, comes around.  We've gone full circle now in Afghanistan.  Back in the '70's I was in a unit that I believe is still under a classified status, so I'll only say that we helped train the Taliban on the use of the weapons we provided for them to fight the Soviets. We learned a lot about them, during those training missions, we learned their strengths and their weaknesses as well as personal characteristics of their various leaders -- we learned how to kill them in order to learn how to survive with them.  All of these knowledge went into our After Action Reports, and yet, this knowledge seems to have been filed away in the darkest hole that the Department of the Army has.
We learned that in order to get anything done, one must first court their leadership, their Imams, their village chieftains.  Theirs is a paternalistic society.  They must, to survive, have one leader to whom they all have an allegiance.  They are not dissimilar to ants, cut off the leadership and they scatter until they find a new one, and like ants, they eventually do find a new one.  The only way I can describe their culture is by referring to the quintessential Viet Nam epic flick, "Apocalypse Now."  The movie was basically a lot of bullshit, but it made a good point in that the Operation Phoenix goal was to kill the leadership and replace it with our own hand-picked leaders.  In the move, Colonel Kurtz went rogue and placed himself as the leader, the warlord, of a guerilla militia. 
The Taliban, at the time we were there, operated in that manner, and that little matter seems lost to our current leadership.  They are intent on cutting off the heads willy-nilly without putting a warlord that is sympathetic, or at the very least, amenable to our advances.  The idea that we would be meddling in their internal affairs seems to be their reasoning, however, lost to them is that by killing off their leadership, we are meddling in their internal affairs, and if we're going to meddle, we need to meddle in our favor.  Meanwhile, we're spending the lives of our young men like we're spending our grandchildren's, our great-grandchildren's, and our great-great-grandchildren's futures, and putting them forever in debt to finance our own current laziness -- but that's another story for another day. 

Bonfire

I was sittig on the northern end of North Beach earlier, and it was a little chilly, and I bethought myself -- I've wanted to use that phrase for a long time, "I bethought myslf," Ha-a-a -- anyway, I bethought myself of the old days when I used to was a young boy and we built fires there on cool days. 
There was a nice soft southwest wind blowing, not too hard, just enough to keep it cool and I thought that it was just right for a good bonfire.  Then, I thought about what I'd have to do to be "allowed" to build one.   These days you have to get burn permit, clear it with Parks and Recreation, call the Rangers to tell them what you're doing, and, in spite of the fact that sand doesn't burn, you have to have the mandatory two or more fire extinguishers on hand as well as a lookout down wind to make sure that sparks don't get carried off, so oh, well.  The sun was setting as I trudged back to my truck, and I didn't have my camera with me.  It was probably just as well, because I wouldn't have enjoyed the sight of the sun setting, and it was a glorious sight.  I stood there enhralled, leaning against one of the demarcation posts.  They used to have steel cable strung through them, but they've long since rusted away, anyway, I stood and watched the sun go down. 
As it went down, the clouds in the far distance, between it and me, served as a linear boundary, separating the sun in two and taking it from a golden ball, passing it through the strainer of clouds and sifting it onto a reddish, almost flattened, ball.  The distant atmosphere, like a  magnifying glass, stretched the sides and it sank, as if dropping into water or as if squatting on Highway 181. 
As it finally went down, the top of it peeked back to see if I was still watching, and I thought, "who needs a bonfire with that to say good night?" 
I wish  had the words to capture the feelings I had watching it go down.  Even the seagulls seemed to be enjoying this wide-screen, technicolor spectacular. 
       Ted --- Corpus Christi 

She's gone

I used to soar like an eagle -- to climb in my mind's cockpit and take wing, soaring through the windswept skies, my soul twined with my heart's companion. She soared with me, but like Icarus flying too close to the sun, she lost her wings and fell, becoming one with the earth. Dropping with her, I could not leave her, I dared not leave her. Finally, I let her soul rest and never lifted my wings again. Now I sit earth-bound and no longer trust these useless feathers, my wings. My soul seems dead without her and I don't know if I can ever fly again. I know I cannot fly alone and stare painfully cloudward.


LET THE SKIES FALL IN ON ME, let the storms surge and tear the earth. I want that turmoil, to add my scrams of pain to those keening gales --- they serve to remind me that at least I am still alive, shackled to this earth though I am. How can I turn from her? How can I say goodbye?

The Wall

It's black, it's imposing, and it has many names.  Every name has a history.  Every name has a father and a mother.  Some of those names are parents, some are brothers and quite a few are sisters to someone.  They all put their nickel on the grass, they never came back to look for it.  The rest of us somehow found our nickel.  We ask ourselves "why me?  Why am I not there, too, with my brothers, why am I not with my Recon Team, listed there for anybody to see?"  I was there.  A few times I was their only comfort. 
I've been to that damn Wall.  I've found each one of my former team brothers.  The last living one put a hole in his neck with his old M-1911 and blew the back of his head away.  I know why, but I don't have the balls to join them.  Maybe one of these fine days. 

Wet WX

There's something about the wind driving the rain sideways that is really a thrill. I find it invigorating and refreshing. Maybe it's the clean smell of the air afterwards -- the lack of car fumes, or the clean look of the streets afterwards, as if they were just cleaned with a gigantic water wand.
The sailboats here in the marina were sparring like kids jousting with wooden swords, slapping and snapping at each other, the waves rolling under them like wet hobby horses bringing them face to face with their paper helmeted opponents.
I remember the paper bag helmet I made for the very young Bryan; remember the way he threw his leg over his faithful steed, my then-wife's broom, and King Bryan Of Our House galloped off to face his opponent, The Evil Sir Jimmy Of The House Next Door with the help of Prince Kegan, The Good Knight Of The Other House Next Door. Even Melissa The Fair, got into the act, wanting a "Tiara" because she was The Princess Of Our House. One paper bag Tiara, coming up.
I still remember the feel of the paper as I rolled and folded each bag, the feel of their small heads trusting me to set their hats properly on them. Even Jimmy and Kegan came by to get fitted for their helmets. I really enjoyed my days off, then.
The bags didn't last and I ended up taking them out to Burger King for some hamburgers and to get some of the Burger King crowns.

"Don't take life so serious . . ."

There ain't nothing that's so serious that it can't be worked out. Even living can be worked out. Having lost the woman I loved to lymphoma, I find the pain coupled with the loneliness almost unbearable. It's probably nothing compared to the alternative.
She wasn't a very good-looking woman by the time I met her, and in her salad days, probably wouldn't have given me the time of day, she was a very beautiful young woman and I was this Tejano, shorter than she usually dated. She liked them tall and bearded and bald. Odd, I know, but this is what she told me was her ideal. Here I was, short, full head of hair -- a pony-tail, I might add, although I did have a nice, full beard. She was still my beautiful woman. When we dressed after showering or to go out, I'd hug her from behind as we stood there nude, all our rolls of fat and loose flesh hanging, and tell her that I loved her and she was my most beautiful lady. She'd laugh and tell me that I was prejudiced and wasn't really looking at her rear end. I'd laugh and repeat those words, she'd turn and we'd kiss. She was a beautiful woman on the inside where I was looking. She loved me as much as I loved her, I believe. It's something I haven't felt since I was in my twenties --- and again I lost out.