Indian Poker

I was seated at a table, small round, covered in the familiar green felt that I had come to dread. The room was in neutral colors, beige paint on textured walls. The room was rimed in the dark cherry oak that you would find in our grandfathers studies. The room reeked of cigars, its pungent left over smell and its slight discoloration of the ceiling would be nauseous if not edged by the glass of scotch in front of me, filling my nostrils and flooding my senses with something better. I glance around the room and recognize the leather chairs, reading tables and bar for what it is, a famed Republican hangout. A place of old men sipping bourbon and smoking illegal cigars, where decision are made and discussion take place that will move the country. A place of power; A place of control, a place where those who sat before me knew the rules, and would change them when they did not fit. I blink, the view blurs and as I bring it into focus I see the glass in front of me. It is half empty; a pessimistic truth that came from an optimistic beginning, the glass was full of Glenlivet. As my eyes focus I see the bottle on the other side of the green felt, a similar glass in front of him, slightly more full I should say. There is card stuck to the bottle, slightly eschew, it is a queen of spades. I am mesmerized by the card. Then I am aware that I too am holding a card to my forehead. I have no idea what it is, yet I will continue to bet. The bottle of scotch looks at me, taunting me. Yet I know it is a game, a card game, it has rules, and rules bring equality. As I look at my bet, I notice the small reflection in the glass in front of my opponent, it is hard to make out but it is the card on my forehead. As if it can read my mind the bottle laughs at me, he knows the rules, I do not.If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a noise? If a game has rules to level the playing field, and one of the players does not know the rules, are there really any rules. It is clear that I have been out classed by this piece of glass across from me. The reflection becomes clearer and I see the four of hearts stuck high on my forehead. I laugh, a sad laugh, and reach for my glass and take a long pull. The bottle has done it again; it has beaten an opponent that doesn’t know the rules. The room around me blurs and fades into my neighborhood, into my dining room where I sit glass still in hand. The dining room blurs to a collage of my past and present. I see the bets that I have made ignorant of the rules; ignorant of the second and third order affects. I laugh again, slightly harder this time as I realize the truth. I have placed myself on the altar of self pity and I have drank deep from the wells of despair. The control I envisioned around me, and of me is gone. I have wished it to be with a passion that made it almost real, then the bottle looks across the table at me, waiting for me to ante up. Reality slides away, or is it the other way around and my world drifts into reality. I am the fiction writer constantly amazed that there are no dragons.I stand from the table and turn to walk away, knowing that it is impossible for me to let it go. Our illusions are everything, they are my everything. I look back, and feel the emotion rise up from somewhere deep, somewhere where childhood dreams still live, and I come crashing back to the table swinging my arm in a sweeping arch sending glass, cards and the bottle to the air. With defining shatter all smashes against the hard wood floors of the Capitol Hill lounge. I blink, and sit up. The room is dark and I am breathing way too hard. Ripping the covers off of me I swing my legs out of bed and take the three large steps to my bathroom sink and splash water on my face. It is but a dream, a reminder of the effort that I must put forth everyday to maintain control; to maintain my illusions of control. I breathe a little calmer; the cold water has felt good. I turn and head back to bed, fully aware now of where I am. I lie down and reach over to turn off the light, and that is when I see the empty glass looking at me.

Video Response

http://www.iamsecond.com/#/seconds/Chris_Plekenpol/
A Response to a video confession of the next Billy Ghram


First you did not fail in the first four minutes of combat. And as you are now aware that it had nothing to do with god or you. In fact the names of heroes that are forever written on the walls of history were never made by the etchings of those you shielded and protected but rather those who stood tall and gave the orders that others would not give, with great concern. You were incredibly successful. How you coped with those first days has nothing to do with your actions during command. It matters not to those who served with you or those around you to know about how you cope with your own internal thoughts and spirit; it is way more important for us to see you stand solid in the faith or choices and in god. It is here where you can fail, to stumble when faced with these decisions, with these impossibilities of a Christian life, no matter how far removed from all that you know and have been comforted by. To know that Gods strength is a direct reflection of your actions at every moment. To know that as you take your stand he weeps in admiration of his very creation. Standing in front of the wreckage of the car bomb waiting for its imminent destruction and looking at the very actor that gave his life to kill you, and deciding not to save him is not a failure in anyone’s eyes including God’s. It is not fair to compare your failure of sacrifice to that of Christ’s. In fact is the anathema of what he would have wanted. Do not be so vain as to believe that the choice of sacrifice is always a martyr’s death, or you trap yourself to the same chains that our enemy is shackled to. Christ died for an inherent failure of the flesh, to insure that our ascendance would be maintained and that his example would allow us to have a human template in which to emulate to our best. Your choice though covered with the militarisms of not dying for your enemy, or even better “fuck him, let him die,” is merely a façade. The decision in all honesty was made with much less emotion than either of the last two statements provide. It was the calm cool rationalization that you could not order another soldier to grab him when the impending risk that ended up killing him was too high. That being said, your choice to do it yourself would have been worse than the ordering of a soldier. The loss of the senior man on the ground would have been a huge success for the enemy and the ultimate gesture in futility. You had no choice but to watch and pray. And even though you do not believe that you prayed for him, you did, that night laying awake you prayed for him, later in your dreams, you prayed for him, and even today in a video confession of a wrong that you never committed. Never degrade your achievements on earth, do not be so vain as to feel that the martyrdom that would have ended both his and your life compares to that of Christ who saved generations of humanity, saved those that have committed no sins maliciously. Take strength in the understanding that God weeps with pride of his creation when you are able to look at your enemy and wish you could save him. Take strength in the knowledge that God takes strength in you. Stand tall and do not be apologetic about the series of choices that brought you and many of your soldiers home while accomplishing the mission to the best of your understanding. To do anything less will force those not as strong as you to throw themselves back into the flames of self doubt. Remember always that the sacrifice of gods is the glorious relinquishment of their ultimate power, for you it would have been a needless waste, a small gesture that would have been lost in the moment. Martyrdom to be true must have a much greater price than your life.

Love ya brother…… and don’t worry I haven’t switched sides……

Snowy Woods

Every once in awhile one looks around and wonders where he is and how he got there. Of course, he knows where he resides and if he is lucky, even his place in the world. But it is a rare moment that he notices he is in too deep and thus snaps away the façade that he is in control of his situation. It is akin to walking through the forest and enjoying the warmth of the sun on his skin and the excitement of a rushing river through the rocks only to wake up and realize that it is getting dark, he is naked and he is without shelter. When life strips away these vestments of control and leaves him stark to the world he tries to remember what this was all about and how long he has been wandering in this forest. He therefore not only wonders how he arrived in this forest but starts to entertain the possibility that he has always been there. Why is he there? What is he trying to accomplish? Which way is up? Which way is down? In this vertiginous environment he has no way of focusing his motivations and decrypting his bearing. He is lost in the forest now and not enjoying the scenery at all. The trees scrape at his skin and the sharp rocks and cold river are threats that could be his undoing. Where is the control? Where is the preparation? How does he live one life at the top of the motivational and moral ladder while living his other in the dark alley of turpitude? Does he know what is right? Of course. His choice to adhere to part of the social pattern of accepted behavior and eschew the rest of it leaves his soul limping. He maintains one strong limb for walking but the other is a shriveled vestige that inhibits him from taking long vigorous strides toward his goals. His weak shortened limb isolates him and ensures that he will never walk in a straight line but is destined to drag himself in circles. He knows that he does this to himself and still perpetuates the behavior of his self-fulfilling prophecy without understanding or even asking; why. The auto destructive choices he makes should send a signal to his brain saying “get out of the forest and you will be ok”. He is chooses not to hear the creaking and groaning of the impending cave in over the raucous laughter and fickle impetuous shouts of his temptations. More than a warning, this klaxon of common sense falls on deaf ears that are determined to mask his eventual undoing.
-my friend-