Heavy eyelids, heavy hearts,
heavy minds that make their mark
are mired and mishandled
like that box you labeled "fragile."
Smile big for all to see
when all you see is me,
but it's fishy and it's fake:
drives the best of me away.
Instability explains this mess
and so there's no need to confess
that how I act is how I feel
and I want you oh so real.
If I weren't falling apart at the seams
you wouldn't know what to make of me.
My eyelashes brush your cheek,
but my efforts are too meek.
You're so much bigger than I
so why should I even try?
I'm an ant of your floor
that you've stepped on before,
but I love feeling you breathe,
watching your chest heave:
like if you inhale me now
I'll be part of you somehow.
It's the words I can't articulate
that seal my sorry, sullen fate.
Take pity and I'm yours;
I don't want anything more.
********************************************
It's about trying to decide whether something's really worth the effort or if it's more beneficial to just remain a fly on the wall, just on the outskirts: stay put and lose nothing or dive in and hope for the best. It's about being stuck...but more by your own limits than the limits being place upon you by anyone else. It's about feeling like you could change and just not doing it...for one reason or another. It's about not believing.
I actually have no idea what prompted this. I found the first couple of lines saved in a note marked in September, but I don't remember why I began it or why I, apparently, abandoned it.
"This is the part of me I don't like..." Pablo Words For Free
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
Present
I got nothing but words
hiding up my sleeves.
They're tangled and tricky
and
temporarily
they leave my tongue tied
in dos
and do-knots.
So, you see me silenced
and stopped in my tracks.
You're a metaphor
that's gone too far.
Unfortunate am I
to be choked by a lie.
Wishful words whimper
inside the distance.
They don't bring you
any nearer.
They won't make you
true.
False starts
and finished ends
make up a history
as time bends.
But you would never see me,
not nearly as I see you.
I won't place you in the past tense,
but then I need you as my present.
**************************************************
It's about missing you one second, hating you the next, hating myself after that, and then letting the whole cycle repeat.
It's not about anyONE. It's a pattern.
It's about some other stuff too, I guess, but that's the gist.
"Blue house dress, fading fast with time and age: a metaphor for where I let us go. Will we rise again?" The Miracle Of '86 Two-Color Pattern
hiding up my sleeves.
They're tangled and tricky
and
temporarily
they leave my tongue tied
in dos
and do-knots.
So, you see me silenced
and stopped in my tracks.
You're a metaphor
that's gone too far.
Unfortunate am I
to be choked by a lie.
Wishful words whimper
inside the distance.
They don't bring you
any nearer.
They won't make you
true.
False starts
and finished ends
make up a history
as time bends.
But you would never see me,
not nearly as I see you.
I won't place you in the past tense,
but then I need you as my present.
**************************************************
It's about missing you one second, hating you the next, hating myself after that, and then letting the whole cycle repeat.
It's not about anyONE. It's a pattern.
It's about some other stuff too, I guess, but that's the gist.
"Blue house dress, fading fast with time and age: a metaphor for where I let us go. Will we rise again?" The Miracle Of '86 Two-Color Pattern
Monday, November 24, 2008
But It's Not Mine
I'm pretty sure I'm left for dead
beneath a swirling ceiling fan.
I'm cold as you
and turning blue.
That line I can't forget
sings somewhere in my head,
but warmth is just a memory
and love is just a fantasy.
Heart beats slower now,
breath breathes light and futile.
This room becomes a grave:
so still as I lay bleeding.
A crimson carpet drowns me
and imaginary voices chide.
You lied: said I was strong,
but still my will can't save me.
My fading thoughts drift far
and I see you like you're here.
In that brightened doorway,
I can almost taste you.
Life flashes, but it's not mine.
Three.
Two.
One.
****************************************************
I had a line in my head for this poem, but I forgot it. Then, I got another line in my head and ran with it. This is a fictional room and a fictional suicide. Don't go all nuts and call 911 on me.
There's this show "Fringe" and in one episode, they hypothesized that the last image you see before you die gets frozen in your memory, behind our eyes. (This is a totally fictional show, for the record.) This is sort of a spin on that idea except it freezes on whatever image the mind drifts to last rather than what's actually there. I guess, if I died tomorrow, this is what I think I would think about before I was gone.
"It might be tomorrow. You can't tell the minute or the hour. Well, you just will get ready: you got to die." Willie McTell You Got To Die
beneath a swirling ceiling fan.
I'm cold as you
and turning blue.
That line I can't forget
sings somewhere in my head,
but warmth is just a memory
and love is just a fantasy.
Heart beats slower now,
breath breathes light and futile.
This room becomes a grave:
so still as I lay bleeding.
A crimson carpet drowns me
and imaginary voices chide.
You lied: said I was strong,
but still my will can't save me.
My fading thoughts drift far
and I see you like you're here.
In that brightened doorway,
I can almost taste you.
Life flashes, but it's not mine.
Three.
Two.
One.
****************************************************
I had a line in my head for this poem, but I forgot it. Then, I got another line in my head and ran with it. This is a fictional room and a fictional suicide. Don't go all nuts and call 911 on me.
There's this show "Fringe" and in one episode, they hypothesized that the last image you see before you die gets frozen in your memory, behind our eyes. (This is a totally fictional show, for the record.) This is sort of a spin on that idea except it freezes on whatever image the mind drifts to last rather than what's actually there. I guess, if I died tomorrow, this is what I think I would think about before I was gone.
"It might be tomorrow. You can't tell the minute or the hour. Well, you just will get ready: you got to die." Willie McTell You Got To Die
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Only In My Head
Shadows mark a passing phase,
like the lines on my arms
and the circles under my eyes
and the frog in my throat.
There's a road I can't quite
force myself to cross
without a hand to hold
or a guide to follow.
Or maybe it's a fork in the road
and neither path is cleared.
You use silence as an art
with your arms like a brush
and your eyes like a voice
(which say everything).
But my eyes are shut
so I don't hear a thing -
like always - but words are clearer
when you say them, anyway.
Missteps and mistakes
and misunderstandings along the way
and all the things I swore I said
(but only in my head)
amount to scribbles on a page
which you would never read anyway.
Words are safe when eyes can't see them
like hearts are safe enclosed behind ribs
like I am safe when I lock myself up.
Oh, how I want to be so very unlocked.
***************************************
This definitely just came out of my ass as I was sitting here mentally kicking myself for any number of missed opportunities. Parts of this I really like, but parts I still think are really weak. I didn't want to mess with the flow, so I just wrote what came out with little interference. Not sure it was a good choice, but that's how it came out.
"I keep feeling my eyes close shut. You know I love you sincerely, but now I just wanna be still and not move and not think: be still, be still, move and make me feel ill." Heatmiser Still
like the lines on my arms
and the circles under my eyes
and the frog in my throat.
There's a road I can't quite
force myself to cross
without a hand to hold
or a guide to follow.
Or maybe it's a fork in the road
and neither path is cleared.
You use silence as an art
with your arms like a brush
and your eyes like a voice
(which say everything).
But my eyes are shut
so I don't hear a thing -
like always - but words are clearer
when you say them, anyway.
Missteps and mistakes
and misunderstandings along the way
and all the things I swore I said
(but only in my head)
amount to scribbles on a page
which you would never read anyway.
Words are safe when eyes can't see them
like hearts are safe enclosed behind ribs
like I am safe when I lock myself up.
Oh, how I want to be so very unlocked.
***************************************
This definitely just came out of my ass as I was sitting here mentally kicking myself for any number of missed opportunities. Parts of this I really like, but parts I still think are really weak. I didn't want to mess with the flow, so I just wrote what came out with little interference. Not sure it was a good choice, but that's how it came out.
"I keep feeling my eyes close shut. You know I love you sincerely, but now I just wanna be still and not move and not think: be still, be still, move and make me feel ill." Heatmiser Still
Friday, November 14, 2008
If God's On Our Side
Preface:
This story was originally written for my Political Theory independent study in the Spring of 2008. It was about half this length at the time, though. Now, it's more or less how I wanted it. As always, there are probably formatting errors as well as typos (spelling AND grammar), so please let me know if you catch any!
"If God's on our side, he'll stop the next war." Bob Dylan With God On Our Side
"For when it's time to kill, who needs a reason?" AA Bondy Against The Morning
* * * *
She anxiously picks at the dry flecks of skin the winter air has stripped from the rest of her body. They fall to the ground as her jittery legs dance in place. My eyes engulf her as if I’d never seen her before. She doesn’t know I was in first class. She doesn’t know to expect me to be among the first to descend from the plane into the arms of a much missed and beloved mother, father, spouse, or child.
“Richard!” she shouts, forgetting how badly the backs of her hands need lotion.
Clara jumps into my arms forcing me to drop one of the gigantic knapsacks labeled “MARINES” in letters that seem almost bigger than her entire body. She is warmth. I know she has me in her arms as tightly as she can bear to squeeze and I struggle not to hurt her within my own arms. Her lips on my neck, and suddenly I am no longer in Afghanistan. Suddenly, I am home in the arms of the only person who has ever seen me cry, heard my stories, and knows my nightmares. I won’t let her go. She has to be the first to step away and I am in no rush to feel her hands remove themselves from my back. Lips mischievously travel further north and a warm tongue massages the insides of my mouth. God, it’s good to be home.
“Where’s Abby?”
“I left her with my parents. Everyone’s there, waiting for you. We didn’t want to clog up the whole airport,” she explains without removing that brilliant smile.
I grab my bags from off the airport linoleum and follow my wife of six years in and out and up and down every curve in the airport until we finally arrive at the car. It still smells like baby even though my daughter is now five. So many nights with bombs going off in the distance, I worried if my little girl would even remember my face the next time she saw me. I knew she’d know my voice, but what if my appearance jarred her? The concern haunted me. Some nights I never slept. This is information Clara doesn’t need to know.
* * * *
“WELCOME HOME, RICHIE,” shouted the miss-matched group of hooligans who greeted me at the entrance of my parents-in-law’s home; their guns at bay with seemingly sincere smiles smeared across their faces.
I don’t call them hooligans to imply any disrespect. Quite the contrary, I am proud of my mongrel family: those by blood as well as those by marriage. We are a large, mixed family. My wife’s father in Nigerian and her mother: Puerto Rican. Clara is an English professor over at Monmouth State, a writer, and occasional journalist. Her family is about as liberal as possible, borderline Socialists. My father nearly killed me when I first introduced Clara, not because of her heritage, but because her mother was known for making noise in the local media. Nina, my mother-in-law, is an outspoken women’s rights leader. She often campaigns for pro-choice candidates and is pretty famous in her own right.
Similarly, Clara’s father (Tombari, or Tom for short) is a journalist who, until he retired, dealt with economic inequalities and homeless immigrants. He remains an important figure for immigrants’ rights, but he no long writes articles about his work. Most of his time is spent volunteering at shelters and raising money. He is quieter than his wife, but by no means less influential, especially to the people for whom his presence has meant life or death.
My family, on the other hand, is…well, very different. My mother had and raised four children while my father worked in the next town over for Ford. I went to church every Sunday, coming up, and for a while I thought I might become a priest. Nancy, my mother, stayed at home with us and helped us with our homework every night. She was always baking. The house always smelled like cake. She and my three sisters spent most of their afternoons in the garden once homework was out of the way and while dinner was cooking in the oven. I’d help by swimming around in the soil in place of a more refined shovel.
My father, Joe, owns six guns. One, legend has it, is a Civil War piece he inherited from Grandpa Leo. I don’t know if the story is true and I never cared to ask too much about the gun. All I know is Grandpa Leo was born in Georgia. If it’s true, you do the math. I decided when I was very young that I didn’t want to know the history of the weapon. I was intrigued by the mechanism as a boy, but I realized I was interested in most mechanisms. That’s how I became a mechanic and an engineering specialist for the Marines.
Dad fought in Vietnam. I suppose I never really questioned my future. I’d go to school for as long as I could stand it and then I’d enlist. Mine is a military family. It was never a discussion, nor was I unhappy to sign up. I felt like I had reached my telos. I was sure that America was a worthy cause, one I’d willingly and happily give my life for because she is the definition of freedom.
Then, I met Clara.
“Richard!” my mother shouts and is the first among the familiar faces to grab my cheeks with her heavily lip-sticked lips.
I give the appropriate length hugs to both my parents, but I can’t stand it, “Where’s my little girl?” I finally ask.
“Right here, daddy,” Nina announces smiling, holding her granddaughter tightly.
Nina hands Abby to me and the little girl’s face lights up; she remembers: “Daddy!” she says through her baby teeth.
“Hey, baby,” a smile eats my face and I kiss her nose.
“Cake! Richard, please tell your mother to cut this thing already! The smell is taunting me!” Tom jokes in his exquisite and exotic accent.
“Yes! Cake, please! Feed me something that isn’t served from a metal pan.”
* * * *
There’s sand up my nose and in my eyes and pounding my eardrums. I can hardly see a goddamn thing. Wind rushes and whistles, stings. It’s like a sand blaster aimed at your entire body; nothing is safe. The truck is our only guard. Six guys huddled behind one big truck and bullets firing from an unknown source. I can’t hear anything except wind and bullets. I know they’re talking; I can see their lips move. And then.
“Man down! Man down!”
“Jimmy!”
Gasp.
“Rich, what’s wrong?” my wife asks lying next to me.
I shake if off, realizing I didn’t even know a ‘Jimmy’ in Afghanistan, “Uhh, dream. Sorry.”
She leans over and massages me chest with his hand as she kisses me. God, it’s good to be home.
“It’s funny. The whole time I was over there, I dreamt of nothing else, but being here and now that I’m hear, I’m dreaming of being there.”
A little concerned she asks, “Not because you’d rather be there, I hope,” and another kiss.
“No, no.”
Clara twists herself around, “6:23. I was going to have to get up soon to get Abby ready for school anyway. Eggs or waffles?”
“Eggs,” I smile.
I watch her climb out of bed, her tiny stature, her stick like arms reach for her robe and she steps into her slippers. She disappears from the room without making a single floorboard creak.
* * * *
“No, no, no. You never leave a battle un-won. I don’t know what those goddamn liberals are talking about. Get your ass in battle and see how easy it is to win a war. These thin skinned politicians think these people will all just kiss and make up! It’s not gonna happen. They have to be taught to be civilized. These people need to be told where to take a shit!”
“A lot of them are actually highly educated,” I peep in while my dad goes on and on with his buddies.
“Maybe a lot of the ones you were around. You were an engineer.”
“I was still in combat, Dad. I mean, look, they need to be taught to organize and they need to learn loyalty to a democratic government, sure, but their intelligence isn’t the biggest problem.”
“Oh, here we go. This is his wife’s jargon: ‘We need to hold their itty bitty hands and ask them politely to not blow each other up!’ That’s pussy shit,” my dad loves impersonating my wife and – I didn’t tell you this – but he does a really good job of it.
"I’m not sayin’ that either. They need jobs, though. They need electricity. They need to see that living in democracy is better than the alternative and I’m not sure we’ve shown any of them that yet: not in Afghanistan and certainly not in Iraq.”
“Weren’t you in Afghanistan?” George, one of my dad’s buddies, asks.
“Yeah, but I had friends deployed in Iraq; we all kinda got spread out.”
“Anyone you know workin’ Abu Ghraib?”
“God, no. Thankfully. It’s a big war; we don’t all know each other. I just hear shit from friends. Emails get through. Pictures. I saw one of this little kid. Dead. It was an accident, but…still. Like…what are we doin’ over there? Are we trying to give them a government they can run with a military they can control or are we just exterminating them?”
George takes a long drag and nods his head. My dad shakes his head in disapproval. I know I’m too soft for him, but I can live with that.
“How’s your little girl,” George asks, his eyes still examining my face intently.
“She’s great. She’s perfect. Her mom did a great job.”
“Abigail, right?” I nod. “As is Adams?”
I laugh, “No, not Adams. Clara had a younger sister who died; her name was Abigail, so it’s for her sister. We call her Abby, though.”
“Has she heard Abbey Road yet?”
“No, not yet. I want to wait until she’s older for that. I’m not sure a five year old can totally appreciate The Beatles,” I laugh.
“As long as she ain’t listening to any of that ‘Wiggles’ shit,” my dad puffs.
* * * *
“Jimmy!”
“Jim’s down. Jim’s down!”
“Woah, woah…drag him there!”
“I got this side. You cover there!”
An ambush in a sand storm.
I grab a helmet from the truck and toss it over, then one for me. I can’t see who I’m shooting or even if I’m shooting. Wind and bullets. It’s all a blur. I can’t make out shapes: not of people or guns; I can’t even see the fucking truck.
There’s a haze. There’s a spot in my vision; the sand is thick in the air.
“What is that?” I ask, but no one answers. “Hey, hey…what is that!?”
I don’t know these men. I can’t see them or hear Jim’s cries anymore. All there is to hear are disorienting winds, even the bullets are muffled. I know there’s combat if I could only see it. The dark spot in my eye line inches closer as if I’m about to be eaten by a sand blob.
Gasp.
5:48.
* * * *
Abby sits in her grandma’s lap. Nina brushes her hair back.
“Clara should be back soon and we’ll start dinner. Would you like a drink. A Brandy perhaps?”
“Oh, no, no. I’m fine, Nina. Thank you.”
“Alright, well, you just say the word. You know, Clara’s been working on this story about women refugees. It’s taking a lot out of her, I think.”
“She’s hardly mentioned it to me.”
“Well, of course not. She doesn’t want to bother you with it,” Nina puts Abby on the ground. “Go see how Grandpa’s doing with the sauce!”
Abby runs into the kitchen with her two braids bouncing behind her.
Nina leans in and I meet her, her voice is low, “To be quite honest with you: I don’t think she wants to worry you about anything right now except sex! It was a long tour for her too, yanno,” and my mother-in-law laughs.
Most men would be concerned, if not entirely creeped out by this exchange, but that’s Nina. She hardly gets a sentence out without alluding to sex and she’s a truly beautiful woman in her own right. So, I laugh because men always laugh about sex.
“Have you been…you know…able to perform, officer? Sometimes PTSD can effect…”
“Performing fine, Nina. Thanks for your concern.”
“Listen, I don’t know how sympathetic your father will be, but if you’re experiencing any sort of depression, you better tell someone. Tell me. Tell Clara. It’s been hard on her, having you away with Abby and all. She needs you here, totally here…so if you’re not…”
“I’m fine, actually, Nina, but thank you. I was worried a little about that too. I don’t think any solider can say he doesn’t fear coming home and feeling depressed about it, but I’m feeling great.”
“You’re not jumpy?”
“No, not particularly.”
“Feeling anti-social?”
“I’ve been your veritable social butterfly the last couple days.”
“Sleeping well?”
“Sleeping…” I nod.
The jingling of keys can be heard from outside the door.
“Mommy!” Abby squeaks and runs to the door to greet her mother.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m late!” she says, carrying a gigantic bag with wrinkled papers sticking out from under the flap.
She drops the sack in a huff and picks up Abby. She is glistening.
“Finally!” Tom jokes, slowly walking out from the kitchen. “Wash your hands. Dinner is served.”
* * * *
“What the fuck is that!?”
it’s all in the distance; it’s all out of my reach. It seems like miles away. The sand blob moves closer.
“Stop,” it says, only it doesn’t.
It’s not human, but it’s not earth either. It has neither form nor language.
“Stop?” I choke out through sand and dirt.
Gasp.
“That game must be riveting,” Clara jokes, walking into the room with a bowl of chips in one hand and Abby slung around her other shoulder.
“Mets suck,” I reply, a little disoriented.
She takes a seat next to me on the couch. It’s the modern Rockwell portrait of a family: big strong man with his darling, perfect wife and daughter, watching baseball on a Sunday afternoon. It’s a snapshot of perfect unity in which everything truly is as it should be. A father at home with his little girl and feeling both love and admiration from as well as for his wife: is this not exactly what every human wants out of life and family? Isn’t this the real American dream?
Yet, in a room so far from death and destruction or anything resembling the depths of hell, I feel coming upon me the eerie feeling that hell isn’t as far as Afghanistan, like it’s creeping up under my home’s own foundations. I swear I can see it seep in through the window screen and air vents and it leaves this sinking feeling that once felt, you forget how to feel anything else.
“Yeaaaah!” Clara, excited. “That’s four to one now, sissies! Eat that!”
Abby, on her lap, “Yay, Mets! Yay, Mets!”
“You taught her well,” I kiss my wife.
It’s not something about which she should feel concern. I’m sure reoccurring dreams about war and sand blobs are perfectly normal.
* * * *
“Stop,” it says, or it would if it had a mouth.
“What are you?” wind whips and whirls around my face.
The sand blob hovers in my general vicinity. In this storm, I can’t tell where it begins or ends. I can’t hear its voice, yet I comprehend its language.
“What good is this?” the blob asks.
Around me, fellow soldiers move in slow motion. Jimmy is being attended to, but blood still flies everywhere. Two others duck behind the truck with weapons, shooting at someone they can’t even see. How informal war has become, when you can shoot at a target without ever even making eye contact. The charm of a good sword fight: you got to know your enemy before killing him. You’d have the chance to turn back as you dance around each other, eyes stinging your heart and soul. The decision to kill then was, truly, a decision, not simply the pull of a trigger to take a life you never felt, but would now touch and change forever.
“This is war,” I say.
“I write history…and every line is about what I don’t want to write about anymore,” the blob, its essence, communicates to me.
Confused, I squint, desperately trying to see behind this swirling tornado of sand that seems to want to tell me something, but clearly cannot: it’s sand and sand, in case you missed that day of science class, doesn’t speak; I must be going mad.
“History? What are you?”
“I write history…”
“Are you God?”
“I create and destroy. I am no more or less than you. I set in place circumstances and help to deal with the consequences.”
“You are God, then?”
“What good is this? This death? Whatever I am and whatever you are: does this help either one of us feel safer or live happier? Centuries of death suffered by men because of men. If there exists a God, do you think he would allow this to continue much longer?”
“So, you’re not God?”
“When all humans are gone, the Earth will remain and she’ll recover and new life will form. This planet and this circle of life and death will continue regardless of whether your species is here to defend it. Humanity could be just a blip in her memory. So, do you envision a future with or without mankind?”
“With, of course, with, but…”
“Then men must find a way to live among men. And men must find a way to live within their means on this earth.”
Bullets wiz around and I see another one of my men collapse. Everything except the wind and my body are still stuck in slow motion, but – for some reason – I cannot compel my body to lunge forward to help my fallen comrade.
“What does that mean?” I try, but when I turn my face back around the sand blob is dissolved.
* * * *
“Did we know a Jimmy?”
“Jimmy? When?” Andy, a Marine with whom I served, asks.
“Afghanistan, I guess.”
“Last name?”
“Uhhh, I don’t know. I mean, I don’t even know if he existed.”
“I don’t remember a Jimmy. What’s this about?”
Andy and I went through a lot together from boot camp to war to reuniting with our families after far too long away from home.
“I don’t know. I thought maybe I knew a Jimmy over there,” I respond vaguely.
“More coffee?” the waitress asks.
“Yes, please,” Andy replies.
“Please,” says I.
The waitress fills both our cups and leaves some extra cream on the café table. It’s a gorgeous day; everything’s in bloom. Andy stirs his creamer into his coffee with a particularly peaceful smile etched onto his face.
“It’s so nice to enjoy a cup of coffee without having to worry about pissing in the sand somewhere later on,” Andy laughs. He finishes preparing his coffee, “So, this Jimmy guy…you got a crush on his or something?”
“No,” I laugh. “I’ve been having this weird dream. Some guy named Jimmy gets hit. I think he lives, but he’s the only person in the dream who has a name.”
“You dreaming about Afghanistan?”
“Not really about anything in particular, but – yeah – it’s set there, in like a sand storm.”
“Well, yeah, we became real acquainted with those…”
“But it’s weird because the dream isn’t so much about war or battle as it is…I don’t know…like…about life.”
Andy looks confused.
“There’s this…thing…that appears,” I say in a low voice.
“A thing?”
“Like, it looks like it’s sand just swirling around, right? And there is sand swirling around, but this is like contained. I don’t know…it’s a fuckin’ dream. Look, it talks, but it doesn’t have a mouth. So, I just hear and feel what it’s trying to say without it actually saying anything.”
Andy looks more confused.
“Okay, I know it sounds nuts and it is, but it was just like this nameless, shapeless entity and it was trying to warn me.”
“About what?”
“The end of the world. About how we treat each other and that if we don’t shape up, everything we have…all we know…could get wiped out.”
“Woah, dude, that’s heavy shit.”
“And this thing that was talking to me…it – like – it was talking about if there’s a God, He might not let this go on much longer. Like, humans. Like, we might kill so many of our own and piss God off so much that God just goes, ‘Yanno what? Fuck it! Gone! Poof with humans.’ And, like, yeah…maybe he would. I think I’d be getting pretty pissed about now if I were God too.”
“Sure. I mean, theoretically He created us, but we’re destroying ourselves.”
“Dude, did you ever think that, even though we were defending our country that, maybe, there was something about what we were doing that wasn’t totally moral? I mean, I know we were following orders, but so did the Nazis…and I’m not equating us to Nazis obviously, I just…I wonder if it’s ever worth it. To kill.”
“Yeah, man, of course. I’d think about my boy and my baby girl and I’d think, ‘I hope they never find out about this,’ and that’s like a test for me, man. If I’m thinkin’ about doing something, I think about if my kids find out and whether I can live with them knowing about it and if I CAN live with them knowing, then I think it’s an okay thing to do. So much shit went down over there I hope my kids never hear about.”
“Right, exactly! And, like, what if it’s the same with God.”
“God’s all knowing. He’ll know shit whether you want him to or not.”
“But what if he just creates the situations and wants us to work ourselves out with his help…not like we’re just pawns.”
“You think God’s telling you to end the war, end killing, and save mankind? That’s an unfair task to put on one man’s shoulders, dude,” Andy laughs.
“I know, I know. And I’m not sure it’s God or if it’s just…like…me.”
“Lemme get this straight. You think you were talking to yourself in the shape of a sand creature in a dream about the Apocalypse?”
“Okay, well, when you say it like that it really does sound like I’m fucking losing it!”
“No, dude, it really doesn’t sound any better even if you replace yourself with God…I just wanted to know if I understood you right,” he laughs.
“When we were over there, I hated it. I never really understood the mission or the point. I feel like the stakes need to be really high to go killing people. War almost seems like acceptable mass murder, even genocide. I’m proud to protect my country, my family, but I don’t feel like that was ever really what we were doing.”
“So, you don’t want your girl to know.”
“I don’t want Abby…or Clara…to know what it’s really like over there. And, is that moral? To hide it from them?”
“You askin’ me or your sand monster?”
“Har – fucking – har. It’s just been rumbling around in my head is all. Should I take this seriously?”
“I don’t know if God’s talking to you or not, but – I mean – what it said to you is true. We can all kill each other and burn in hell and it’s our own fault.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“No, man,” Andy says. “Not really. Why…do you?”
“I did.”
“But?”
“But…I don’t know.”
“Do you really think God’s talking to you?”
“Now, if I saw ‘yes’ are you really ever going to look at me the same again?”
Andy chuckles.
* * * *
“When all humans are gone, the Earth will remain and she’ll recover and new life will form. This planet and this circle of life and death will continue regardless of whether your species is here to defend it. Humanity could be just a blip in her memory. So, do you envision a future with or without mankind?”
“With, of course, with, but…”
“Then men must find a way to live among men. And men must find a way to live within their means on this earth.”
“What does that mean? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?” I shout, but my words aren’t audible.
Jimmy still bleeds. I can’t see him, but I see his blood. The only things I can see are sand and blood. My comrades are lost in disorienting winds. A bullet could hit me and not only would I not hear it, I wouldn’t see it. I’d be dead before I knew what hit me.
“WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?” I try again, but the sand blob is lost: spread around Afghanistan or maybe drenched in Jimmy’s blood.
Gasp.
My eyes shoot open and sweat pours off my forehead in large drops to the sheets. And then I see it.
“What are you?”
The sand blob now stands in front of me, several feet away n my bedroom with my wife sleeping soundly to my right. The sand blob communicates nothing.
“What. Are. You?” I ask again slowly and softly so as to not disturb Clara.
The blob moves closer and – with what almost appears to be an arm – begins to reach out to me. Almost involuntarily, my arms rises out from under the sheets and my hand meets the blobs. Upon impact, the blob disintegrates and disappears into the carpet, not leaving a trace.
All the clocks in the room shout “4:21AM” at me. I know I should sleep, but what use is that when I’ll only wind up back in a war zone.
* * * *
“You look like hell,” Tom, my father-in-law, lovingly informs me. “She keepin’ you up all night?” he nods to Clara with an elegantly mischievous grin as she exits the living room to meet up with Nina and Abby. Nina insists on giving Abby piano lessons, which I don’t mind except it’s becoming increasingly obvious that my perfect daughter may be tone deaf. Or just five. The piano can be heard throughout the house crying every Thursday evening.
I give a half-chuckle, which acts like an answer to his question, but really isn’t. He accepts it and moves on.
“Have you heard anything from friends still in Afghanistan?” he asks.
“No, nothing yet. I’m thankful for that, though. Right now, I just want to be home.”
“Yes. Home is a much better place for a young man with a family.”
“Yes,” I smile. “Yes, it is.”
The room goes silent except for Abby’s lesson in the next room until…
“Tom, I’ve never asked you, but I’m curious. About Nigeria. Growing up there. Would you mind if I – ?”
“Go ahead,” my father-in-law answers, rocking back in his chair.
“So, when you were young, you lived under British control, right? Nigeria was part of the British Empire?”
“This is true. I lived in the Southern region on Nigeria which Westernized much more quickly and also inspired me to, eventually, leave the country for America.”
“Did you care that you were under the rule of a country so far away from you? A country out of touch with your needs?”
“Well, look, I was young. British rule was all I knew because we were already under British rule when I was born. I was in my early twenties when we gained our independence and I left soon afterward, so I’d lived a great part of my life that way. I was aware of it and I didn’t think it was right, but for me personally, it may have almost been a blessing.”
“Because it eventually brought you here?”
“Partially that, yes. But also because of the education I received. Look,” he leaned in, “I cannot say that British colonialism in my country was a good thing, but I also cannot say it was the worst thing for me personally,” he paused. “Likewise, what you did in Afghanistan: the good, the bad, the ugly…all those things will have both positive and negative consequences.”
“So, you don’t think it’s wrong for one country to rule another country?”
“Theoretically, no. A strong, wealthy country can bring a lot of good things to small countries with minor economies and failing infrastructures. In practice, though, colonialism or invasion is never truly just about helping the indigenous. And I knew that even as a boy. Britain had her reasons for being in my country and they sure as hell had nothing to do with educated one little black boy.”
“I just wonder whether those folks over there, whether anything we do is ever going to bring peace.”
“I think there’s a right way and a wrong way.”
“And which did we do?”
“Look, Rich, you know I’m against these wars. And that doesn’t mean I’m against you or even that I think you acted immorally by fighting over there. But, I think our great country did a very bad thing. I think you have to choose your battles wisely and I don’t think anything was done wisely in the run-up to either of these conflicts…in Afghanistan or Iraq.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” I force a laugh.
“But that isn’t to say that America can’t win or can’t make something good come out of a very serious mistake. You can always turn situations around with real leadership and direction.”
“But – at a certain point – do you ever wonder if maybe we’ve gone too far? Just too far and there’s no turning the situation around?”
“I suppose there’s a breaking point somewhere, but I don’t think America’s war crimes have reach it. Yet. I still think the principles of liberation are good and that some among us really hope for that. I believe you hoped for that when you were there. And you continue to.”
“Of course.”
“Then, the world may go to hell, but you did all you could to prevent that.”
“Do you think God will view it that way?” I ask almost under my breath.
“God? I wasn’t expecting questions of God tonight.”
“Sorry. Nevermind,” I laugh it off. “It’s just my mind wandering.”
“No, it’s alright. But I’m no priest. You’ll have to work that out with God, I’m afraid.”
I would, but he doesn’t answer me and then he disintegrates and disappears into my carpet. (This point, I chose not to mention to my father-in-law.)
* * * *
I don’t try to touch it this time, despite my curiosity. I let it swirl around. I can’t tell what it’s doing, but it’s doing something. It’s growing or forming. Whereas the dream leaves him formless: just sand swirling, particles flying in and out; now, it is becoming more confined to structure. I sit up silently, watching.
“Honey?”
And the sand blob again disintegrates into the carpet. It’s a good thing it disappears every time. I’d really be pissed if I had to vacuum it up every morning.
“Yeah, babe?”
“Why are you staring out the window? Is there something going on?” Clara, groggily, asks.
“No. Nothing’s going on. Just woke up. It’s a clear night. Lots of stars.”
She burrows her head back into her pillow. She probably won’t even remember this conversation come morning.
* * * *
My mother busily chooses this pan or that pot. The house smells like cake, but there’s no cake. How does she do that?
“Not that I don’t appreciate your combat work, but you’re home now, so you can help me out,” she says hurriedly. “Grab that spoon over there wouldya?”
“Yanno, if dinner’s three or even five minutes late, no one’s gonna scold ya, ma,” I say as I lean across the counter to grab the wooden spoon. “Not even Dad.”
“I’m not worried about it being late. I’m worried about it being burned.”
“You haven’t burned anything in your life.”
She laughs, “Well, regardless, I like having dinner on the table at 7 o’clock.”
“We always had dinner at 7. Every night. You’re pitchin’ a no-hitter, ma.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes it is! Every night. And Dad’d yell at me if I wasn’t at the table, hands and face washing by 6:58.”
“No, no, no, I was late once. Remember that Sunday? After church, I stayed late to talk to Mrs. Farrow and I lost track of time?”
“No, I don’t remember that at all.”
“Well, I guess I was more upset about it than anybody else was. My job was to be your mom. I guess I saw it as some sort of failure. I would have been docked a day’s pay had I been workin’ in an office or factory or something.”
“Ehhh, you’re a great mom,” I say and kiss her cheek. “You’d be Head Supervisor Mom is you were in an office or a factory.”
“Oh, Rich. I’m glad Afghanistan hasn’t worn your sense of humor. I was wondering, actually, if you’d come to church with your dad and I this Sunday. Everyone’s been askin’ to see you.”
This request isn’t an outlandish one. I went to church with my parents every Sunday as a kid and most Sundays even once grown and married. It would only make sense that once home, I’d fall back into the routine.
Routine? How sad. Is that all church is to me?
“Richie?”
“Sure, ma, I’ll go.”
“Great! Oh, that’ll make Father Davis so happy.”
“Can I ask you something?”
She nods.
“Why do we always go to church? I don’t remember ever seeing either you or Pop with a Bible out in this house.”
“Well, I guess your dad and I always went growing up. It was something we thought was important. Give you and your sisters some sort of spiritual background.”
“But it wasn’t so much to believe in God. More just to believe in…something?”
“I don’t think we ever decided to press God onto you kids, but I certainly think we hoped you’d enjoy church and learn something from going.”
“I guess. I don’t know. Do you really believe in God or do you just think the stories are good. Not good like entertaining, but good like moral: stories to learn from.”
“Both.”
“So, you think there’s a God up there somewhere watching us?”
“Watching us, guiding us. Yes, I do. But even for those who don’t share that belief, I think learning some of those stories could do the whole world some good. Whether you think Jesus existed, even as a fictional character, he’s not a terrible role model.”
“If God’s watching us, then, do you think he’s happy with us?”
My mother, now realizing this wasn’t just a casual conversation, pauses her stirring.
“Happy with us as a family?”
“Happy with us as…humanity. All of us.”
“Father Davis would surely be more qualified to answer that than I am, but, yes. I think he’s happy with us.”
“Despite all the death and war and fighting? You think he’s happy with us?”
“I think all this death and war and fighting is part of His plan. Right now, it’s tough to swallow, tough to understand, but He has a purpose for all of us. He has His reasons.”
I pick up the spoon and begin to stir the sauce. I test it was my pinky finger.
“Think the sauce is ready,” I tell her.
If there is a God and if he is causing this, is that really a God I’d want to worship in a little church every Sunday? Shouldn’t God love us? Shouldn’t He want us to live long, happy lives? Why should war be the test of humanity? Why does there need to be a test at all?
* * * *
It’s always the same dream. The same war. The same ambush and bloodied sand. It’s always the same spot in my vision that speaks, but doesn’t speak. It’s form created before my eyes yet has no start or end. It’s always the same conversation and unanswered questions, the same gasp and beating heart.
And it’s one thing for this blob to haunt my dreams, but now he has invaded my turf: my home.
I try to keep my distress low and my wife ignorant of Afghanistan’s invasion of our home. There it is again: standing in front of me. Afghanistan sand has no place in my American bedroom. (Am I allotted no privacy? I mean, really, what if we were…yanno…busy!?) I say nothing this time. I stare at it, puzzled. I wonder if I watch it all night, will my wife see it when she finally awakes and – if she does – exactly how do I explain this one? I wonder which is worse: if she sees it or if only I can see it? I wonder if I’m simply crazy. Am I a prophet?
Is there a difference?
The sand blob swirls silently beside my bed. If it had eyes, I’d swear it was staring just as hard at me as I was at it. I wish I had a name for it. Or even a gender. I want to be polite. Would it respond more pleasantly to, “Hi, Mr. Sand Blob, sir: what can I do for you?” Does it even understand my non-dreaming language or could it only understand me when I was asleep because anything is possible in dreams?
Is this a dream too?
The tiny tan beads which form the blob are now darker and more defined. A shape is forming. God’s body? When they say that God is omnipresent is it because He’s made of sand and is quite literally everywhere?
A human-like figure forms, but the details are still blurred by sand. I can see a face, but it is neither feminine nor masculine. It’s just two eyes, and bump of a nose, and a hollow mouth. There are limbs, but nothing defined: hands, but no fingers; that sort of thing.
“Does this form intimidate you any less?” its mouth opens. I don’t hear it. I only understand it. It’s telepathy with the courtesy of a moving mouth. But I don’t know how to best communicate back: do I speak aloud or can he hear my thoughts?
“The latter,” Mr. Sand Blob responds.
This would be a wild acid trip had I taken any acid before bed.
“Actually, drugs make it tougher for me to enter your mind.”
Right. You hear my thoughts. Gotta remember that before I think anything inappropriate about Angelina Jolie.
“Anything inappropriate you think about Angelina Jolie is perfectly understandable. I do apologize for my intrusion. I know you cannot always control your thoughts and I will not hold it against you. You see: you keep waking up. I keep scaring you and I don’t mean to. Does this form intimidate you less?”
Well, yes, I suppose.
“Very good.”
If my wife wakes up – ?
“She’ll only see her husband sitting up in bed, staring blankly out the window.”
So does that then make you a figment of my imagination or…are you real?
“Reality is subjective.”
You’re really going to give me the ‘if a tree falls in the forest when no one’s there does it still make a thud’ argument?
“Reality is whatever you want it to be. If you want me to be in your imagination, then that is all I will be. If you want me to be real and physical, holding your hand on the beach, I can be that to. That is not important and it is not why I am visiting you.”
Okaaay. I’ll bite. Why are you visiting me?
“You’re in trouble.”
Me? Like…personally?
“Your planet and your kind are suffering. There is death like I’ve never seen before and not just among human beings, but among all species of all living creature.”
If you’re God, shouldn’t you be able to – yanno – make it stop?
“Regardless of whether I’m God, I couldn’t stop humans from doing what they choose to do. Unless you’re a determinist in which case…well, don’t be a determinist. Those folks are nutty. Point is: the only ones who can prevent early Armageddon are you, humans. You’re the only living creatures on the planet smart enough to fix the mess before it’s irreversible.”
Early Armageddon? You think we’ll end the world ourselves – what – before you’re ready for the judgment?
“No. Before the four horsemen’s horses are fed and bathed.”
You’re sort of a smart ass, aren’t you?
“If I’m God then don’t I deserve to be?”
And if you’re not God?
“Well then you’re the smart ass, aren’t you?”
Well, what am I supposed to do? I’m one guy. I’m not even over there anymore.
With this question on the floor, the blob suddenly went silent.
Excuse me? You still hovering over there?
“Men must live among men. Peace must be the goal for which all mankind is driven to achieve. Love was engineered to be among the strongest human emotions for just that purpose, but men seem to have forgotten what love really is. They’ve made marriage a popularity contest. They’ve made sex dirty. They’ve been blinded by greed and falsified faith. Mankind wants harmony – instinctively – and it is in the best interest of humanity that humanity thrive, that man lives on, that the Earth be revived and nurtured.”
Pretty sure I could have figured that one out.
“Yes. And you have. Now, what about your fellow men?”
With that question on the floor, I suddenly went silent.
“If I were God, I could promise you that if the world comes to an end by human means and not mine, you can be damn sure those pearly gates won’t be opening for anyone.”
So…you are God?
“And if I’m only a figment of your imagination, listen to what you’re saying to yourself: something is wrong with this world. It’s plain to see. It’s obvious. There’s death and hunger, greed, disease, mass sadness. You know that isn’t right.”
Yeah, okay, but – yanno – there are some people who think they’re doing you a favor. You, God…not you, me. So, what about those who encourage the destruction just to bring about the end of days?
“They are wrong. No deity would ever condone murder and any book which claims so has greatly misinterpreted the words of that deity.”
What if they won’t just listen to me?
“Figure out what they will listen to. It’s as if instead of one anti-Christ walking the earth to bring the end of days, the entire Christian right has turned into an army of anti-Christs, but they’re all wrong – all the religious fanatics – and they’re all pushing their luck. And my patience.”
Your patience? You are God, then?
“Aren’t they really trying your patience?”
And before I could answer, the blob disappeared again into my carpet and I fell back in my bed, compelled to sleep as if my body literally could not stand being awake any longer. There were no dreams of desert ambushes or sand blobs anymore.
* * * *
“So, that sand monster of yours still visiting you?” Andy asks as his son and Abby play in the sandbox.
“Oh, him? No.”
“So did you vanquish God or just start seeing a good therapist?” he laughs.
“I don’t know what it was. I think I just figured out that – while no one person or soldier is at fault – there is a very big problem over there. A messy one. And it’s okay for me to think it’s a mistake even if I served; I’m not betraying anyone.”
“No, man, of course not. We all got our opinions of what went on over there.”
“And that isn’t to say that there’s no cause over there worth fighting over, but we’re just not doing it right. We’re just making them hate us more. Our morals are clashing with theirs and – ultimately – it’s what they think that matters; it’s their land.”
“For now,” Andy says, shaking his head in disapproval.
“This whole thing really never felt like it was totally about liberation.”
“No, of course not. We got caught with our pants down and had to react. And we lucked out because at least we did help a little in Afghanistan. Iraq has just become such a fuckin’ shit hole. ‘Howdy, we’re from America; here to give you freedom and democracy, but first we’re going to destroy your cities and force curfews upon you! Oh…and we’ll take some of that oil too, while we’re here.’”
“It just never really seemed that worth it, yanno? And if we were going to invade, it should have been done a lot better than this,” I lament.
“We’re just snatchin’ up countries left and right. Next stop…Iran? What the fuck, man.”
“Empires fall. They always do. And someday this one’s gonna fall too.”
* * * *
After church, Father Davis wants to speak with me. He promises my parents, with whom I had driven, that we would only be a few minutes. He has an office down a short corridor where those doubtful souls or the lost-willed come for heavenly words of guidance.
“How’ve you been since you got home?” he asks.
“Doin’ alright. I’m sorry I haven’t been to church until today. So many people to catch up with,” I say as I pull out the chair in front of Father Davis’ desk.
“No, no, it’s quite fine. I was not offended. In truth, a lot of returning soldiers seem to find it difficult to return to church. For some, faith is all they had, but for others, war can often make it difficult to keep the faith.”
“Well, I can’t say I was a regular attendee of the chapel, but I made it there when I could.”
“I just wanted to make sure you were readjusting well and to tell you that the church and I are here for you, for whatever crises in faith you may experience.”
“Well, Father, thank you. I really appreciate that.”
“Is there anything you want to get off your chest?”
I think for a moment.
“Son?” Father Davis asks.
“Just…I worry that God won’t be proud of me, that my service – in his eyes – is just pointless killing.”
“I see. Every person must take responsibility for his or her deeds. What you did in the war – in any other situation – could be defined as pointless killing. Does God know or care whether you killed because it was your order, because you had to protect your country?”
“Exactly. Does He?”
“I believe ours is a forgiving Lord. I believe you know in your heart whether what you did was justified and, if having decided it was not, you must reconcile your deeds first with yourself, your friends, you fellow soldiers, and then with God. God granted us the gift of morality. With his help, we can see the right path.”
“Thank you, Father,” I say, nodding.
Father Davis stands. I stand as well. I reach out my hand and he places his in mind. He shakes my hand firmly, smiling like a proud father, and we exit the church.
I’ve never thought or morality and a ‘gift from God’ particularly. I always sort of thought of it as something we all learn. Despite this minor disagreement, I understand what Father Davis means. If I sense that our actions in the world are wrong, I have the power to protest them, the duty, in fact. I don’t regret my service. I know I did some good and, perhaps, as my father-in-law said: “I still think the principles of liberation are good and that some among us really hope for that.”
I don’t know whether it’s God’s will or my subconscious gnawing at me, but it doesn’t really matter. The pain, death, and suffering occurring in the world is plain to see through anyone’s eyes: omnipotent or not. I know right from wrong, or I know one version of it. I recognize that different people, even the ones we had to deal with overseas and even the ones who blow themselves up, all have a version of morality by which they have to live. I learned from my parents that defending your country is good and I learned from my wife and her family that war in the name of anything less than defending your country is not good. I don’t need a God to tell me that and while I didn’t always know it, once it was learned it was very much real and apparent to me. Almost innate. So, whether I’m a prophet or a guilt-ridden former soldier who can’t sleep through the night, whether my moral compass is as a result of God’s works or my upbringing: I know the blood being spilled in the name of what used to be such a great and strong state is being spilled haphazardly and unnecessarily.
A new Bible needs to be written.
Acknowledgements:
“This is war…every line is about what I don’t want to write about anymore.”
- Stolen from Brand New’s “Okay, I Believe You, But My Tommy Gun Don’t” off Deja Entendu (2003)
“Empires fall. They always do. And someday this one’s gonna fall too.”
- Stolen from Kevin Devine’s live version(s) of “Noose Dressed Like A Necklace” (and/or “Whistlin’ Dixie”) off Make The Clocks Move (2003)
This story was originally written for my Political Theory independent study in the Spring of 2008. It was about half this length at the time, though. Now, it's more or less how I wanted it. As always, there are probably formatting errors as well as typos (spelling AND grammar), so please let me know if you catch any!
"If God's on our side, he'll stop the next war." Bob Dylan With God On Our Side
"For when it's time to kill, who needs a reason?" AA Bondy Against The Morning
She anxiously picks at the dry flecks of skin the winter air has stripped from the rest of her body. They fall to the ground as her jittery legs dance in place. My eyes engulf her as if I’d never seen her before. She doesn’t know I was in first class. She doesn’t know to expect me to be among the first to descend from the plane into the arms of a much missed and beloved mother, father, spouse, or child.
“Richard!” she shouts, forgetting how badly the backs of her hands need lotion.
Clara jumps into my arms forcing me to drop one of the gigantic knapsacks labeled “MARINES” in letters that seem almost bigger than her entire body. She is warmth. I know she has me in her arms as tightly as she can bear to squeeze and I struggle not to hurt her within my own arms. Her lips on my neck, and suddenly I am no longer in Afghanistan. Suddenly, I am home in the arms of the only person who has ever seen me cry, heard my stories, and knows my nightmares. I won’t let her go. She has to be the first to step away and I am in no rush to feel her hands remove themselves from my back. Lips mischievously travel further north and a warm tongue massages the insides of my mouth. God, it’s good to be home.
“Where’s Abby?”
“I left her with my parents. Everyone’s there, waiting for you. We didn’t want to clog up the whole airport,” she explains without removing that brilliant smile.
I grab my bags from off the airport linoleum and follow my wife of six years in and out and up and down every curve in the airport until we finally arrive at the car. It still smells like baby even though my daughter is now five. So many nights with bombs going off in the distance, I worried if my little girl would even remember my face the next time she saw me. I knew she’d know my voice, but what if my appearance jarred her? The concern haunted me. Some nights I never slept. This is information Clara doesn’t need to know.
“WELCOME HOME, RICHIE,” shouted the miss-matched group of hooligans who greeted me at the entrance of my parents-in-law’s home; their guns at bay with seemingly sincere smiles smeared across their faces.
I don’t call them hooligans to imply any disrespect. Quite the contrary, I am proud of my mongrel family: those by blood as well as those by marriage. We are a large, mixed family. My wife’s father in Nigerian and her mother: Puerto Rican. Clara is an English professor over at Monmouth State, a writer, and occasional journalist. Her family is about as liberal as possible, borderline Socialists. My father nearly killed me when I first introduced Clara, not because of her heritage, but because her mother was known for making noise in the local media. Nina, my mother-in-law, is an outspoken women’s rights leader. She often campaigns for pro-choice candidates and is pretty famous in her own right.
Similarly, Clara’s father (Tombari, or Tom for short) is a journalist who, until he retired, dealt with economic inequalities and homeless immigrants. He remains an important figure for immigrants’ rights, but he no long writes articles about his work. Most of his time is spent volunteering at shelters and raising money. He is quieter than his wife, but by no means less influential, especially to the people for whom his presence has meant life or death.
My family, on the other hand, is…well, very different. My mother had and raised four children while my father worked in the next town over for Ford. I went to church every Sunday, coming up, and for a while I thought I might become a priest. Nancy, my mother, stayed at home with us and helped us with our homework every night. She was always baking. The house always smelled like cake. She and my three sisters spent most of their afternoons in the garden once homework was out of the way and while dinner was cooking in the oven. I’d help by swimming around in the soil in place of a more refined shovel.
My father, Joe, owns six guns. One, legend has it, is a Civil War piece he inherited from Grandpa Leo. I don’t know if the story is true and I never cared to ask too much about the gun. All I know is Grandpa Leo was born in Georgia. If it’s true, you do the math. I decided when I was very young that I didn’t want to know the history of the weapon. I was intrigued by the mechanism as a boy, but I realized I was interested in most mechanisms. That’s how I became a mechanic and an engineering specialist for the Marines.
Dad fought in Vietnam. I suppose I never really questioned my future. I’d go to school for as long as I could stand it and then I’d enlist. Mine is a military family. It was never a discussion, nor was I unhappy to sign up. I felt like I had reached my telos. I was sure that America was a worthy cause, one I’d willingly and happily give my life for because she is the definition of freedom.
Then, I met Clara.
“Richard!” my mother shouts and is the first among the familiar faces to grab my cheeks with her heavily lip-sticked lips.
I give the appropriate length hugs to both my parents, but I can’t stand it, “Where’s my little girl?” I finally ask.
“Right here, daddy,” Nina announces smiling, holding her granddaughter tightly.
Nina hands Abby to me and the little girl’s face lights up; she remembers: “Daddy!” she says through her baby teeth.
“Hey, baby,” a smile eats my face and I kiss her nose.
“Cake! Richard, please tell your mother to cut this thing already! The smell is taunting me!” Tom jokes in his exquisite and exotic accent.
“Yes! Cake, please! Feed me something that isn’t served from a metal pan.”
There’s sand up my nose and in my eyes and pounding my eardrums. I can hardly see a goddamn thing. Wind rushes and whistles, stings. It’s like a sand blaster aimed at your entire body; nothing is safe. The truck is our only guard. Six guys huddled behind one big truck and bullets firing from an unknown source. I can’t hear anything except wind and bullets. I know they’re talking; I can see their lips move. And then.
“Man down! Man down!”
“Jimmy!”
Gasp.
“Rich, what’s wrong?” my wife asks lying next to me.
I shake if off, realizing I didn’t even know a ‘Jimmy’ in Afghanistan, “Uhh, dream. Sorry.”
She leans over and massages me chest with his hand as she kisses me. God, it’s good to be home.
“It’s funny. The whole time I was over there, I dreamt of nothing else, but being here and now that I’m hear, I’m dreaming of being there.”
A little concerned she asks, “Not because you’d rather be there, I hope,” and another kiss.
“No, no.”
Clara twists herself around, “6:23. I was going to have to get up soon to get Abby ready for school anyway. Eggs or waffles?”
“Eggs,” I smile.
I watch her climb out of bed, her tiny stature, her stick like arms reach for her robe and she steps into her slippers. She disappears from the room without making a single floorboard creak.
“No, no, no. You never leave a battle un-won. I don’t know what those goddamn liberals are talking about. Get your ass in battle and see how easy it is to win a war. These thin skinned politicians think these people will all just kiss and make up! It’s not gonna happen. They have to be taught to be civilized. These people need to be told where to take a shit!”
“A lot of them are actually highly educated,” I peep in while my dad goes on and on with his buddies.
“Maybe a lot of the ones you were around. You were an engineer.”
“I was still in combat, Dad. I mean, look, they need to be taught to organize and they need to learn loyalty to a democratic government, sure, but their intelligence isn’t the biggest problem.”
“Oh, here we go. This is his wife’s jargon: ‘We need to hold their itty bitty hands and ask them politely to not blow each other up!’ That’s pussy shit,” my dad loves impersonating my wife and – I didn’t tell you this – but he does a really good job of it.
"I’m not sayin’ that either. They need jobs, though. They need electricity. They need to see that living in democracy is better than the alternative and I’m not sure we’ve shown any of them that yet: not in Afghanistan and certainly not in Iraq.”
“Weren’t you in Afghanistan?” George, one of my dad’s buddies, asks.
“Yeah, but I had friends deployed in Iraq; we all kinda got spread out.”
“Anyone you know workin’ Abu Ghraib?”
“God, no. Thankfully. It’s a big war; we don’t all know each other. I just hear shit from friends. Emails get through. Pictures. I saw one of this little kid. Dead. It was an accident, but…still. Like…what are we doin’ over there? Are we trying to give them a government they can run with a military they can control or are we just exterminating them?”
George takes a long drag and nods his head. My dad shakes his head in disapproval. I know I’m too soft for him, but I can live with that.
“How’s your little girl,” George asks, his eyes still examining my face intently.
“She’s great. She’s perfect. Her mom did a great job.”
“Abigail, right?” I nod. “As is Adams?”
I laugh, “No, not Adams. Clara had a younger sister who died; her name was Abigail, so it’s for her sister. We call her Abby, though.”
“Has she heard Abbey Road yet?”
“No, not yet. I want to wait until she’s older for that. I’m not sure a five year old can totally appreciate The Beatles,” I laugh.
“As long as she ain’t listening to any of that ‘Wiggles’ shit,” my dad puffs.
“Jimmy!”
“Jim’s down. Jim’s down!”
“Woah, woah…drag him there!”
“I got this side. You cover there!”
An ambush in a sand storm.
I grab a helmet from the truck and toss it over, then one for me. I can’t see who I’m shooting or even if I’m shooting. Wind and bullets. It’s all a blur. I can’t make out shapes: not of people or guns; I can’t even see the fucking truck.
There’s a haze. There’s a spot in my vision; the sand is thick in the air.
“What is that?” I ask, but no one answers. “Hey, hey…what is that!?”
I don’t know these men. I can’t see them or hear Jim’s cries anymore. All there is to hear are disorienting winds, even the bullets are muffled. I know there’s combat if I could only see it. The dark spot in my eye line inches closer as if I’m about to be eaten by a sand blob.
Gasp.
5:48.
Abby sits in her grandma’s lap. Nina brushes her hair back.
“Clara should be back soon and we’ll start dinner. Would you like a drink. A Brandy perhaps?”
“Oh, no, no. I’m fine, Nina. Thank you.”
“Alright, well, you just say the word. You know, Clara’s been working on this story about women refugees. It’s taking a lot out of her, I think.”
“She’s hardly mentioned it to me.”
“Well, of course not. She doesn’t want to bother you with it,” Nina puts Abby on the ground. “Go see how Grandpa’s doing with the sauce!”
Abby runs into the kitchen with her two braids bouncing behind her.
Nina leans in and I meet her, her voice is low, “To be quite honest with you: I don’t think she wants to worry you about anything right now except sex! It was a long tour for her too, yanno,” and my mother-in-law laughs.
Most men would be concerned, if not entirely creeped out by this exchange, but that’s Nina. She hardly gets a sentence out without alluding to sex and she’s a truly beautiful woman in her own right. So, I laugh because men always laugh about sex.
“Have you been…you know…able to perform, officer? Sometimes PTSD can effect…”
“Performing fine, Nina. Thanks for your concern.”
“Listen, I don’t know how sympathetic your father will be, but if you’re experiencing any sort of depression, you better tell someone. Tell me. Tell Clara. It’s been hard on her, having you away with Abby and all. She needs you here, totally here…so if you’re not…”
“I’m fine, actually, Nina, but thank you. I was worried a little about that too. I don’t think any solider can say he doesn’t fear coming home and feeling depressed about it, but I’m feeling great.”
“You’re not jumpy?”
“No, not particularly.”
“Feeling anti-social?”
“I’ve been your veritable social butterfly the last couple days.”
“Sleeping well?”
“Sleeping…” I nod.
The jingling of keys can be heard from outside the door.
“Mommy!” Abby squeaks and runs to the door to greet her mother.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m late!” she says, carrying a gigantic bag with wrinkled papers sticking out from under the flap.
She drops the sack in a huff and picks up Abby. She is glistening.
“Finally!” Tom jokes, slowly walking out from the kitchen. “Wash your hands. Dinner is served.”
“What the fuck is that!?”
it’s all in the distance; it’s all out of my reach. It seems like miles away. The sand blob moves closer.
“Stop,” it says, only it doesn’t.
It’s not human, but it’s not earth either. It has neither form nor language.
“Stop?” I choke out through sand and dirt.
Gasp.
“That game must be riveting,” Clara jokes, walking into the room with a bowl of chips in one hand and Abby slung around her other shoulder.
“Mets suck,” I reply, a little disoriented.
She takes a seat next to me on the couch. It’s the modern Rockwell portrait of a family: big strong man with his darling, perfect wife and daughter, watching baseball on a Sunday afternoon. It’s a snapshot of perfect unity in which everything truly is as it should be. A father at home with his little girl and feeling both love and admiration from as well as for his wife: is this not exactly what every human wants out of life and family? Isn’t this the real American dream?
Yet, in a room so far from death and destruction or anything resembling the depths of hell, I feel coming upon me the eerie feeling that hell isn’t as far as Afghanistan, like it’s creeping up under my home’s own foundations. I swear I can see it seep in through the window screen and air vents and it leaves this sinking feeling that once felt, you forget how to feel anything else.
“Yeaaaah!” Clara, excited. “That’s four to one now, sissies! Eat that!”
Abby, on her lap, “Yay, Mets! Yay, Mets!”
“You taught her well,” I kiss my wife.
It’s not something about which she should feel concern. I’m sure reoccurring dreams about war and sand blobs are perfectly normal.
“Stop,” it says, or it would if it had a mouth.
“What are you?” wind whips and whirls around my face.
The sand blob hovers in my general vicinity. In this storm, I can’t tell where it begins or ends. I can’t hear its voice, yet I comprehend its language.
“What good is this?” the blob asks.
Around me, fellow soldiers move in slow motion. Jimmy is being attended to, but blood still flies everywhere. Two others duck behind the truck with weapons, shooting at someone they can’t even see. How informal war has become, when you can shoot at a target without ever even making eye contact. The charm of a good sword fight: you got to know your enemy before killing him. You’d have the chance to turn back as you dance around each other, eyes stinging your heart and soul. The decision to kill then was, truly, a decision, not simply the pull of a trigger to take a life you never felt, but would now touch and change forever.
“This is war,” I say.
“I write history…and every line is about what I don’t want to write about anymore,” the blob, its essence, communicates to me.
Confused, I squint, desperately trying to see behind this swirling tornado of sand that seems to want to tell me something, but clearly cannot: it’s sand and sand, in case you missed that day of science class, doesn’t speak; I must be going mad.
“History? What are you?”
“I write history…”
“Are you God?”
“I create and destroy. I am no more or less than you. I set in place circumstances and help to deal with the consequences.”
“You are God, then?”
“What good is this? This death? Whatever I am and whatever you are: does this help either one of us feel safer or live happier? Centuries of death suffered by men because of men. If there exists a God, do you think he would allow this to continue much longer?”
“So, you’re not God?”
“When all humans are gone, the Earth will remain and she’ll recover and new life will form. This planet and this circle of life and death will continue regardless of whether your species is here to defend it. Humanity could be just a blip in her memory. So, do you envision a future with or without mankind?”
“With, of course, with, but…”
“Then men must find a way to live among men. And men must find a way to live within their means on this earth.”
Bullets wiz around and I see another one of my men collapse. Everything except the wind and my body are still stuck in slow motion, but – for some reason – I cannot compel my body to lunge forward to help my fallen comrade.
“What does that mean?” I try, but when I turn my face back around the sand blob is dissolved.
“Did we know a Jimmy?”
“Jimmy? When?” Andy, a Marine with whom I served, asks.
“Afghanistan, I guess.”
“Last name?”
“Uhhh, I don’t know. I mean, I don’t even know if he existed.”
“I don’t remember a Jimmy. What’s this about?”
Andy and I went through a lot together from boot camp to war to reuniting with our families after far too long away from home.
“I don’t know. I thought maybe I knew a Jimmy over there,” I respond vaguely.
“More coffee?” the waitress asks.
“Yes, please,” Andy replies.
“Please,” says I.
The waitress fills both our cups and leaves some extra cream on the café table. It’s a gorgeous day; everything’s in bloom. Andy stirs his creamer into his coffee with a particularly peaceful smile etched onto his face.
“It’s so nice to enjoy a cup of coffee without having to worry about pissing in the sand somewhere later on,” Andy laughs. He finishes preparing his coffee, “So, this Jimmy guy…you got a crush on his or something?”
“No,” I laugh. “I’ve been having this weird dream. Some guy named Jimmy gets hit. I think he lives, but he’s the only person in the dream who has a name.”
“You dreaming about Afghanistan?”
“Not really about anything in particular, but – yeah – it’s set there, in like a sand storm.”
“Well, yeah, we became real acquainted with those…”
“But it’s weird because the dream isn’t so much about war or battle as it is…I don’t know…like…about life.”
Andy looks confused.
“There’s this…thing…that appears,” I say in a low voice.
“A thing?”
“Like, it looks like it’s sand just swirling around, right? And there is sand swirling around, but this is like contained. I don’t know…it’s a fuckin’ dream. Look, it talks, but it doesn’t have a mouth. So, I just hear and feel what it’s trying to say without it actually saying anything.”
Andy looks more confused.
“Okay, I know it sounds nuts and it is, but it was just like this nameless, shapeless entity and it was trying to warn me.”
“About what?”
“The end of the world. About how we treat each other and that if we don’t shape up, everything we have…all we know…could get wiped out.”
“Woah, dude, that’s heavy shit.”
“And this thing that was talking to me…it – like – it was talking about if there’s a God, He might not let this go on much longer. Like, humans. Like, we might kill so many of our own and piss God off so much that God just goes, ‘Yanno what? Fuck it! Gone! Poof with humans.’ And, like, yeah…maybe he would. I think I’d be getting pretty pissed about now if I were God too.”
“Sure. I mean, theoretically He created us, but we’re destroying ourselves.”
“Dude, did you ever think that, even though we were defending our country that, maybe, there was something about what we were doing that wasn’t totally moral? I mean, I know we were following orders, but so did the Nazis…and I’m not equating us to Nazis obviously, I just…I wonder if it’s ever worth it. To kill.”
“Yeah, man, of course. I’d think about my boy and my baby girl and I’d think, ‘I hope they never find out about this,’ and that’s like a test for me, man. If I’m thinkin’ about doing something, I think about if my kids find out and whether I can live with them knowing about it and if I CAN live with them knowing, then I think it’s an okay thing to do. So much shit went down over there I hope my kids never hear about.”
“Right, exactly! And, like, what if it’s the same with God.”
“God’s all knowing. He’ll know shit whether you want him to or not.”
“But what if he just creates the situations and wants us to work ourselves out with his help…not like we’re just pawns.”
“You think God’s telling you to end the war, end killing, and save mankind? That’s an unfair task to put on one man’s shoulders, dude,” Andy laughs.
“I know, I know. And I’m not sure it’s God or if it’s just…like…me.”
“Lemme get this straight. You think you were talking to yourself in the shape of a sand creature in a dream about the Apocalypse?”
“Okay, well, when you say it like that it really does sound like I’m fucking losing it!”
“No, dude, it really doesn’t sound any better even if you replace yourself with God…I just wanted to know if I understood you right,” he laughs.
“When we were over there, I hated it. I never really understood the mission or the point. I feel like the stakes need to be really high to go killing people. War almost seems like acceptable mass murder, even genocide. I’m proud to protect my country, my family, but I don’t feel like that was ever really what we were doing.”
“So, you don’t want your girl to know.”
“I don’t want Abby…or Clara…to know what it’s really like over there. And, is that moral? To hide it from them?”
“You askin’ me or your sand monster?”
“Har – fucking – har. It’s just been rumbling around in my head is all. Should I take this seriously?”
“I don’t know if God’s talking to you or not, but – I mean – what it said to you is true. We can all kill each other and burn in hell and it’s our own fault.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“No, man,” Andy says. “Not really. Why…do you?”
“I did.”
“But?”
“But…I don’t know.”
“Do you really think God’s talking to you?”
“Now, if I saw ‘yes’ are you really ever going to look at me the same again?”
Andy chuckles.
“When all humans are gone, the Earth will remain and she’ll recover and new life will form. This planet and this circle of life and death will continue regardless of whether your species is here to defend it. Humanity could be just a blip in her memory. So, do you envision a future with or without mankind?”
“With, of course, with, but…”
“Then men must find a way to live among men. And men must find a way to live within their means on this earth.”
“What does that mean? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?” I shout, but my words aren’t audible.
Jimmy still bleeds. I can’t see him, but I see his blood. The only things I can see are sand and blood. My comrades are lost in disorienting winds. A bullet could hit me and not only would I not hear it, I wouldn’t see it. I’d be dead before I knew what hit me.
“WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?” I try again, but the sand blob is lost: spread around Afghanistan or maybe drenched in Jimmy’s blood.
Gasp.
My eyes shoot open and sweat pours off my forehead in large drops to the sheets. And then I see it.
“What are you?”
The sand blob now stands in front of me, several feet away n my bedroom with my wife sleeping soundly to my right. The sand blob communicates nothing.
“What. Are. You?” I ask again slowly and softly so as to not disturb Clara.
The blob moves closer and – with what almost appears to be an arm – begins to reach out to me. Almost involuntarily, my arms rises out from under the sheets and my hand meets the blobs. Upon impact, the blob disintegrates and disappears into the carpet, not leaving a trace.
All the clocks in the room shout “4:21AM” at me. I know I should sleep, but what use is that when I’ll only wind up back in a war zone.
“You look like hell,” Tom, my father-in-law, lovingly informs me. “She keepin’ you up all night?” he nods to Clara with an elegantly mischievous grin as she exits the living room to meet up with Nina and Abby. Nina insists on giving Abby piano lessons, which I don’t mind except it’s becoming increasingly obvious that my perfect daughter may be tone deaf. Or just five. The piano can be heard throughout the house crying every Thursday evening.
I give a half-chuckle, which acts like an answer to his question, but really isn’t. He accepts it and moves on.
“Have you heard anything from friends still in Afghanistan?” he asks.
“No, nothing yet. I’m thankful for that, though. Right now, I just want to be home.”
“Yes. Home is a much better place for a young man with a family.”
“Yes,” I smile. “Yes, it is.”
The room goes silent except for Abby’s lesson in the next room until…
“Tom, I’ve never asked you, but I’m curious. About Nigeria. Growing up there. Would you mind if I – ?”
“Go ahead,” my father-in-law answers, rocking back in his chair.
“So, when you were young, you lived under British control, right? Nigeria was part of the British Empire?”
“This is true. I lived in the Southern region on Nigeria which Westernized much more quickly and also inspired me to, eventually, leave the country for America.”
“Did you care that you were under the rule of a country so far away from you? A country out of touch with your needs?”
“Well, look, I was young. British rule was all I knew because we were already under British rule when I was born. I was in my early twenties when we gained our independence and I left soon afterward, so I’d lived a great part of my life that way. I was aware of it and I didn’t think it was right, but for me personally, it may have almost been a blessing.”
“Because it eventually brought you here?”
“Partially that, yes. But also because of the education I received. Look,” he leaned in, “I cannot say that British colonialism in my country was a good thing, but I also cannot say it was the worst thing for me personally,” he paused. “Likewise, what you did in Afghanistan: the good, the bad, the ugly…all those things will have both positive and negative consequences.”
“So, you don’t think it’s wrong for one country to rule another country?”
“Theoretically, no. A strong, wealthy country can bring a lot of good things to small countries with minor economies and failing infrastructures. In practice, though, colonialism or invasion is never truly just about helping the indigenous. And I knew that even as a boy. Britain had her reasons for being in my country and they sure as hell had nothing to do with educated one little black boy.”
“I just wonder whether those folks over there, whether anything we do is ever going to bring peace.”
“I think there’s a right way and a wrong way.”
“And which did we do?”
“Look, Rich, you know I’m against these wars. And that doesn’t mean I’m against you or even that I think you acted immorally by fighting over there. But, I think our great country did a very bad thing. I think you have to choose your battles wisely and I don’t think anything was done wisely in the run-up to either of these conflicts…in Afghanistan or Iraq.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” I force a laugh.
“But that isn’t to say that America can’t win or can’t make something good come out of a very serious mistake. You can always turn situations around with real leadership and direction.”
“But – at a certain point – do you ever wonder if maybe we’ve gone too far? Just too far and there’s no turning the situation around?”
“I suppose there’s a breaking point somewhere, but I don’t think America’s war crimes have reach it. Yet. I still think the principles of liberation are good and that some among us really hope for that. I believe you hoped for that when you were there. And you continue to.”
“Of course.”
“Then, the world may go to hell, but you did all you could to prevent that.”
“Do you think God will view it that way?” I ask almost under my breath.
“God? I wasn’t expecting questions of God tonight.”
“Sorry. Nevermind,” I laugh it off. “It’s just my mind wandering.”
“No, it’s alright. But I’m no priest. You’ll have to work that out with God, I’m afraid.”
I would, but he doesn’t answer me and then he disintegrates and disappears into my carpet. (This point, I chose not to mention to my father-in-law.)
I don’t try to touch it this time, despite my curiosity. I let it swirl around. I can’t tell what it’s doing, but it’s doing something. It’s growing or forming. Whereas the dream leaves him formless: just sand swirling, particles flying in and out; now, it is becoming more confined to structure. I sit up silently, watching.
“Honey?”
And the sand blob again disintegrates into the carpet. It’s a good thing it disappears every time. I’d really be pissed if I had to vacuum it up every morning.
“Yeah, babe?”
“Why are you staring out the window? Is there something going on?” Clara, groggily, asks.
“No. Nothing’s going on. Just woke up. It’s a clear night. Lots of stars.”
She burrows her head back into her pillow. She probably won’t even remember this conversation come morning.
My mother busily chooses this pan or that pot. The house smells like cake, but there’s no cake. How does she do that?
“Not that I don’t appreciate your combat work, but you’re home now, so you can help me out,” she says hurriedly. “Grab that spoon over there wouldya?”
“Yanno, if dinner’s three or even five minutes late, no one’s gonna scold ya, ma,” I say as I lean across the counter to grab the wooden spoon. “Not even Dad.”
“I’m not worried about it being late. I’m worried about it being burned.”
“You haven’t burned anything in your life.”
She laughs, “Well, regardless, I like having dinner on the table at 7 o’clock.”
“We always had dinner at 7. Every night. You’re pitchin’ a no-hitter, ma.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes it is! Every night. And Dad’d yell at me if I wasn’t at the table, hands and face washing by 6:58.”
“No, no, no, I was late once. Remember that Sunday? After church, I stayed late to talk to Mrs. Farrow and I lost track of time?”
“No, I don’t remember that at all.”
“Well, I guess I was more upset about it than anybody else was. My job was to be your mom. I guess I saw it as some sort of failure. I would have been docked a day’s pay had I been workin’ in an office or factory or something.”
“Ehhh, you’re a great mom,” I say and kiss her cheek. “You’d be Head Supervisor Mom is you were in an office or a factory.”
“Oh, Rich. I’m glad Afghanistan hasn’t worn your sense of humor. I was wondering, actually, if you’d come to church with your dad and I this Sunday. Everyone’s been askin’ to see you.”
This request isn’t an outlandish one. I went to church with my parents every Sunday as a kid and most Sundays even once grown and married. It would only make sense that once home, I’d fall back into the routine.
Routine? How sad. Is that all church is to me?
“Richie?”
“Sure, ma, I’ll go.”
“Great! Oh, that’ll make Father Davis so happy.”
“Can I ask you something?”
She nods.
“Why do we always go to church? I don’t remember ever seeing either you or Pop with a Bible out in this house.”
“Well, I guess your dad and I always went growing up. It was something we thought was important. Give you and your sisters some sort of spiritual background.”
“But it wasn’t so much to believe in God. More just to believe in…something?”
“I don’t think we ever decided to press God onto you kids, but I certainly think we hoped you’d enjoy church and learn something from going.”
“I guess. I don’t know. Do you really believe in God or do you just think the stories are good. Not good like entertaining, but good like moral: stories to learn from.”
“Both.”
“So, you think there’s a God up there somewhere watching us?”
“Watching us, guiding us. Yes, I do. But even for those who don’t share that belief, I think learning some of those stories could do the whole world some good. Whether you think Jesus existed, even as a fictional character, he’s not a terrible role model.”
“If God’s watching us, then, do you think he’s happy with us?”
My mother, now realizing this wasn’t just a casual conversation, pauses her stirring.
“Happy with us as a family?”
“Happy with us as…humanity. All of us.”
“Father Davis would surely be more qualified to answer that than I am, but, yes. I think he’s happy with us.”
“Despite all the death and war and fighting? You think he’s happy with us?”
“I think all this death and war and fighting is part of His plan. Right now, it’s tough to swallow, tough to understand, but He has a purpose for all of us. He has His reasons.”
I pick up the spoon and begin to stir the sauce. I test it was my pinky finger.
“Think the sauce is ready,” I tell her.
If there is a God and if he is causing this, is that really a God I’d want to worship in a little church every Sunday? Shouldn’t God love us? Shouldn’t He want us to live long, happy lives? Why should war be the test of humanity? Why does there need to be a test at all?
It’s always the same dream. The same war. The same ambush and bloodied sand. It’s always the same spot in my vision that speaks, but doesn’t speak. It’s form created before my eyes yet has no start or end. It’s always the same conversation and unanswered questions, the same gasp and beating heart.
And it’s one thing for this blob to haunt my dreams, but now he has invaded my turf: my home.
I try to keep my distress low and my wife ignorant of Afghanistan’s invasion of our home. There it is again: standing in front of me. Afghanistan sand has no place in my American bedroom. (Am I allotted no privacy? I mean, really, what if we were…yanno…busy!?) I say nothing this time. I stare at it, puzzled. I wonder if I watch it all night, will my wife see it when she finally awakes and – if she does – exactly how do I explain this one? I wonder which is worse: if she sees it or if only I can see it? I wonder if I’m simply crazy. Am I a prophet?
Is there a difference?
The sand blob swirls silently beside my bed. If it had eyes, I’d swear it was staring just as hard at me as I was at it. I wish I had a name for it. Or even a gender. I want to be polite. Would it respond more pleasantly to, “Hi, Mr. Sand Blob, sir: what can I do for you?” Does it even understand my non-dreaming language or could it only understand me when I was asleep because anything is possible in dreams?
Is this a dream too?
The tiny tan beads which form the blob are now darker and more defined. A shape is forming. God’s body? When they say that God is omnipresent is it because He’s made of sand and is quite literally everywhere?
A human-like figure forms, but the details are still blurred by sand. I can see a face, but it is neither feminine nor masculine. It’s just two eyes, and bump of a nose, and a hollow mouth. There are limbs, but nothing defined: hands, but no fingers; that sort of thing.
“Does this form intimidate you any less?” its mouth opens. I don’t hear it. I only understand it. It’s telepathy with the courtesy of a moving mouth. But I don’t know how to best communicate back: do I speak aloud or can he hear my thoughts?
“The latter,” Mr. Sand Blob responds.
This would be a wild acid trip had I taken any acid before bed.
“Actually, drugs make it tougher for me to enter your mind.”
Right. You hear my thoughts. Gotta remember that before I think anything inappropriate about Angelina Jolie.
“Anything inappropriate you think about Angelina Jolie is perfectly understandable. I do apologize for my intrusion. I know you cannot always control your thoughts and I will not hold it against you. You see: you keep waking up. I keep scaring you and I don’t mean to. Does this form intimidate you less?”
Well, yes, I suppose.
“Very good.”
If my wife wakes up – ?
“She’ll only see her husband sitting up in bed, staring blankly out the window.”
So does that then make you a figment of my imagination or…are you real?
“Reality is subjective.”
You’re really going to give me the ‘if a tree falls in the forest when no one’s there does it still make a thud’ argument?
“Reality is whatever you want it to be. If you want me to be in your imagination, then that is all I will be. If you want me to be real and physical, holding your hand on the beach, I can be that to. That is not important and it is not why I am visiting you.”
Okaaay. I’ll bite. Why are you visiting me?
“You’re in trouble.”
Me? Like…personally?
“Your planet and your kind are suffering. There is death like I’ve never seen before and not just among human beings, but among all species of all living creature.”
If you’re God, shouldn’t you be able to – yanno – make it stop?
“Regardless of whether I’m God, I couldn’t stop humans from doing what they choose to do. Unless you’re a determinist in which case…well, don’t be a determinist. Those folks are nutty. Point is: the only ones who can prevent early Armageddon are you, humans. You’re the only living creatures on the planet smart enough to fix the mess before it’s irreversible.”
Early Armageddon? You think we’ll end the world ourselves – what – before you’re ready for the judgment?
“No. Before the four horsemen’s horses are fed and bathed.”
You’re sort of a smart ass, aren’t you?
“If I’m God then don’t I deserve to be?”
And if you’re not God?
“Well then you’re the smart ass, aren’t you?”
Well, what am I supposed to do? I’m one guy. I’m not even over there anymore.
With this question on the floor, the blob suddenly went silent.
Excuse me? You still hovering over there?
“Men must live among men. Peace must be the goal for which all mankind is driven to achieve. Love was engineered to be among the strongest human emotions for just that purpose, but men seem to have forgotten what love really is. They’ve made marriage a popularity contest. They’ve made sex dirty. They’ve been blinded by greed and falsified faith. Mankind wants harmony – instinctively – and it is in the best interest of humanity that humanity thrive, that man lives on, that the Earth be revived and nurtured.”
Pretty sure I could have figured that one out.
“Yes. And you have. Now, what about your fellow men?”
With that question on the floor, I suddenly went silent.
“If I were God, I could promise you that if the world comes to an end by human means and not mine, you can be damn sure those pearly gates won’t be opening for anyone.”
So…you are God?
“And if I’m only a figment of your imagination, listen to what you’re saying to yourself: something is wrong with this world. It’s plain to see. It’s obvious. There’s death and hunger, greed, disease, mass sadness. You know that isn’t right.”
Yeah, okay, but – yanno – there are some people who think they’re doing you a favor. You, God…not you, me. So, what about those who encourage the destruction just to bring about the end of days?
“They are wrong. No deity would ever condone murder and any book which claims so has greatly misinterpreted the words of that deity.”
What if they won’t just listen to me?
“Figure out what they will listen to. It’s as if instead of one anti-Christ walking the earth to bring the end of days, the entire Christian right has turned into an army of anti-Christs, but they’re all wrong – all the religious fanatics – and they’re all pushing their luck. And my patience.”
Your patience? You are God, then?
“Aren’t they really trying your patience?”
And before I could answer, the blob disappeared again into my carpet and I fell back in my bed, compelled to sleep as if my body literally could not stand being awake any longer. There were no dreams of desert ambushes or sand blobs anymore.
“So, that sand monster of yours still visiting you?” Andy asks as his son and Abby play in the sandbox.
“Oh, him? No.”
“So did you vanquish God or just start seeing a good therapist?” he laughs.
“I don’t know what it was. I think I just figured out that – while no one person or soldier is at fault – there is a very big problem over there. A messy one. And it’s okay for me to think it’s a mistake even if I served; I’m not betraying anyone.”
“No, man, of course not. We all got our opinions of what went on over there.”
“And that isn’t to say that there’s no cause over there worth fighting over, but we’re just not doing it right. We’re just making them hate us more. Our morals are clashing with theirs and – ultimately – it’s what they think that matters; it’s their land.”
“For now,” Andy says, shaking his head in disapproval.
“This whole thing really never felt like it was totally about liberation.”
“No, of course not. We got caught with our pants down and had to react. And we lucked out because at least we did help a little in Afghanistan. Iraq has just become such a fuckin’ shit hole. ‘Howdy, we’re from America; here to give you freedom and democracy, but first we’re going to destroy your cities and force curfews upon you! Oh…and we’ll take some of that oil too, while we’re here.’”
“It just never really seemed that worth it, yanno? And if we were going to invade, it should have been done a lot better than this,” I lament.
“We’re just snatchin’ up countries left and right. Next stop…Iran? What the fuck, man.”
“Empires fall. They always do. And someday this one’s gonna fall too.”
After church, Father Davis wants to speak with me. He promises my parents, with whom I had driven, that we would only be a few minutes. He has an office down a short corridor where those doubtful souls or the lost-willed come for heavenly words of guidance.
“How’ve you been since you got home?” he asks.
“Doin’ alright. I’m sorry I haven’t been to church until today. So many people to catch up with,” I say as I pull out the chair in front of Father Davis’ desk.
“No, no, it’s quite fine. I was not offended. In truth, a lot of returning soldiers seem to find it difficult to return to church. For some, faith is all they had, but for others, war can often make it difficult to keep the faith.”
“Well, I can’t say I was a regular attendee of the chapel, but I made it there when I could.”
“I just wanted to make sure you were readjusting well and to tell you that the church and I are here for you, for whatever crises in faith you may experience.”
“Well, Father, thank you. I really appreciate that.”
“Is there anything you want to get off your chest?”
I think for a moment.
“Son?” Father Davis asks.
“Just…I worry that God won’t be proud of me, that my service – in his eyes – is just pointless killing.”
“I see. Every person must take responsibility for his or her deeds. What you did in the war – in any other situation – could be defined as pointless killing. Does God know or care whether you killed because it was your order, because you had to protect your country?”
“Exactly. Does He?”
“I believe ours is a forgiving Lord. I believe you know in your heart whether what you did was justified and, if having decided it was not, you must reconcile your deeds first with yourself, your friends, you fellow soldiers, and then with God. God granted us the gift of morality. With his help, we can see the right path.”
“Thank you, Father,” I say, nodding.
Father Davis stands. I stand as well. I reach out my hand and he places his in mind. He shakes my hand firmly, smiling like a proud father, and we exit the church.
I’ve never thought or morality and a ‘gift from God’ particularly. I always sort of thought of it as something we all learn. Despite this minor disagreement, I understand what Father Davis means. If I sense that our actions in the world are wrong, I have the power to protest them, the duty, in fact. I don’t regret my service. I know I did some good and, perhaps, as my father-in-law said: “I still think the principles of liberation are good and that some among us really hope for that.”
I don’t know whether it’s God’s will or my subconscious gnawing at me, but it doesn’t really matter. The pain, death, and suffering occurring in the world is plain to see through anyone’s eyes: omnipotent or not. I know right from wrong, or I know one version of it. I recognize that different people, even the ones we had to deal with overseas and even the ones who blow themselves up, all have a version of morality by which they have to live. I learned from my parents that defending your country is good and I learned from my wife and her family that war in the name of anything less than defending your country is not good. I don’t need a God to tell me that and while I didn’t always know it, once it was learned it was very much real and apparent to me. Almost innate. So, whether I’m a prophet or a guilt-ridden former soldier who can’t sleep through the night, whether my moral compass is as a result of God’s works or my upbringing: I know the blood being spilled in the name of what used to be such a great and strong state is being spilled haphazardly and unnecessarily.
A new Bible needs to be written.
Acknowledgements:
“This is war…every line is about what I don’t want to write about anymore.”
- Stolen from Brand New’s “Okay, I Believe You, But My Tommy Gun Don’t” off Deja Entendu (2003)
“Empires fall. They always do. And someday this one’s gonna fall too.”
- Stolen from Kevin Devine’s live version(s) of “Noose Dressed Like A Necklace” (and/or “Whistlin’ Dixie”) off Make The Clocks Move (2003)
Saturday, November 01, 2008
A Saint
Sometimes I can feel him,
hear his voice inside my head.
A saint I never mentioned;
a saint forever dead.
But I hear his songs
sung sweetly through
a sadness and a thickening soot,
digging himself out of an unspoken rut.
Working through some late night terror
with beauty and matchless grace.
Dark demons only he saw,
though thousands heard,
left him hungry and raw
and inevitably alone.
Everyone is a fucking pro,
but they let you walk around with a head so low.
He knew it better than most
and with a whisper from his ghost,
I heard a hundred sorry songs
of so many regretted wrongs.
We hear every word
and hum every tune.
Don't worry, dear balladeer,
you will not be forgetten soon.
***********************************
Meh. I already wrote this poem and it was better the first time, but it just keeps coming up.
"Everyone is a fucking pro and they all got answers from trouble they've known." Elliott Smith St. Ides Heaven
"We look to flashes of sky, the windows of time, the crust of our dreams. But really we wait, only to find the crest of our sea. And, we ride when we find our wave. Take us to the coast, carry us home." Band Marino Dear Balladeer
hear his voice inside my head.
A saint I never mentioned;
a saint forever dead.
But I hear his songs
sung sweetly through
a sadness and a thickening soot,
digging himself out of an unspoken rut.
Working through some late night terror
with beauty and matchless grace.
Dark demons only he saw,
though thousands heard,
left him hungry and raw
and inevitably alone.
Everyone is a fucking pro,
but they let you walk around with a head so low.
He knew it better than most
and with a whisper from his ghost,
I heard a hundred sorry songs
of so many regretted wrongs.
We hear every word
and hum every tune.
Don't worry, dear balladeer,
you will not be forgetten soon.
***********************************
Meh. I already wrote this poem and it was better the first time, but it just keeps coming up.
"Everyone is a fucking pro and they all got answers from trouble they've known." Elliott Smith St. Ides Heaven
"We look to flashes of sky, the windows of time, the crust of our dreams. But really we wait, only to find the crest of our sea. And, we ride when we find our wave. Take us to the coast, carry us home." Band Marino Dear Balladeer
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
