Response

ironic that you write about his expressive and vivid use of color when in the end there was a darkness that overtook him.So it seems that he had two (maybe more) personalities - one that his fiance related to and loved, the same (possibly) that you related to, and another that only he understood.Out of curiosity, and as an observation to your writings, do you ever feel you relate in the aspect that you are living your life but growing in ways that others think they relate, but you personally realize (and may not vocalize) that they dont fully connect with you? Is your blogging a stream of conscience or a way of vocalizing these observances or maybe I am way off.

First and foremost, who are you? And second, you are probably closer than I would like to admit to. Not that I have any problems with no longer fully relating to any of those that I have connections with. But the unfortunate reality of that statement, is that I would rather it said that they no longer fully relate to me. That they are the ones that have changed. I know it is almost semantics and has no logical flow but then again emotions rarely play solely on the physical and almost always push the metaphysical. So I am afraid maybe that any sort of acquiesce to where the writing comes from. I would like to think it is both a stream of conscience and a way to vocalize that which I cannot express through oration. The world as it is to me today is filled with impossible amounts of mystery and wonder, and as each of us must find their grove and niche, so must I. The rub is that I do not know where mine is, and I am awash in possibilities. As for my friend, I am sure that I related to his personality in its entirety. It is true that all humans are plagued with internal strife, and it is not shared equally nor dealt with equally. My friend had way too many demons and not enough strength to fight them. I related to that part of his existence. I shared with him the same amount of demons, yet I was able to overcome. For those that are as haunted as he was, you never really win you can only place at bay and build walls. Very rarely can you make them go away. At best you use those demons for your own strength and personal exploration. We commiserated and shared what was unspeakable. I survived; I beat back the horrors that he allowed to become reality. I was just as prepared as he was, I was just more capable. That is why his death haunts me more than any other I have felt before. It is as if I was running a mile long race. That I am in a pack of men sprinting around a track fighting the clock. This is not a race to see who is faster than the other; it is a race to see if you are faster than a set time. The penalty for not making it is death. To know that you crossed the line and your friend did not is a harsh reminder that all men are not created equal. To add insult to injury, the type of life that I lead now, places me around men that give no respect to weakness of any kind. And his type of death is the paramount of weakness by their definition. The taunts and jokes thrown around about those that cannot make it in this world hurt every time I hear them. And I am a part of this crowd. I was forced with his death to remind myself of where I came from, from what impossible odds I thought I faced at the time to now. That I had forgot that and enjoyed a self gratifying existence where I could sit firmly among the top of the food chain and look down at those near the bottom. So, I can say with certainty that I am comfortable around death. I have lived times that others are already saying are best forgotten. And just when I can square with the truth I am reminded of my own failures and my beginnings. I can only hope that one day I will have proven my worth…

Another...

Death… a word of finality a word, of the highest divinity. I have written many times of such events, some sad, some heroic, but all righteous, or as righteous as my beliefs will justify. Last Sunday a friend of mine died, suddenly, yet not so unexpectedly. Most days the death of a friend will remind me of my own mortality, of my own choices that I have made in relation to my occupation and life.

Not this time, this particular friend did not travel to foreign lands to do his countries bidding, he truly owned his own soul, and he would bear no cross for others. He was an artist and an admirer of life. He strived daily to show the world its own true colors trough various mediums. From repainting the industrial brick walls of the Chicago inner city to his prints of his city in reflection, that now hang in galleries across the country. Always outwardly he tried to make the world see its own beauty, and improve it, to leave the world more beautiful than he and others had found it. Always outward he faced hiding the ugliness that he found in his own internal struggle.
He fought longer and harder than I ever have. From my personal battles to those in uniform, together were nothing in comparison to the wars that he waged, in both difficulty and duration. This Sunday he finally lost his fight, years of battle, where ground is lost and gained in feet and yards. A difficult reminder of my own days, charging trenches next to him, and fighting against the same daemons.

It is amazing the same survivors guilt that I felt when returning from oversees I have felt with much more intensity with his death. A week ago today my friend killed himself in an act of desperation, the final white flag and surrender to an enemy that would take no prisoners. Such shame, such shame, for him, for me, his family and mostly for his fiancée that must finally learn that he could never truly love her no matter how much he wanted to, he was still trying to maintain his love of himself. Such shame. So much shame that I have trouble talking about his death, that my coworkers and current friends would despise him for his loss, and curse his name. They will call him weak; say that he was undeserving of this life. They will judge from a position that they should not be able to. The ministers will cry pity for a soul they cannot save, and condemn him to worlds of fire and torture. They will ridicule his decision, they will laugh at his final actions and claim good riddance and congratulate him on a job well done in his final act. They will say he was undeserving of this life.

Those people never faced his daemons; they never fought the same battles that he did. They will say that if he didn’t want to live then let him go. They will degrade his existence to something far less than human. Ironic that the strong automatically assume they are deserving and they may critic and enforce our worlds standards of perfections; and yet, have such little compassion for those that have too much love, and feel too deeply.

Those people never met my friend, never stood beside him and saw the world in the colors and designs has he did. None were there when he reached out to their gods for sanction and salvations, none of those people saw the greatness he was and the greatness he was going to become. Many a days I spent traveling with him. Numerous adventures that we shared, great fortunes were made and lost in minutes of our time together. I remember to this day me looking at him in the face and telling him that where I was going he could not come with me. That I had won my battles and I was off to see the world. I told him that I would come back, that he would never fight alone, that his existence was significant enough to the world. Well I never came back. I sailed the islands with a new found freedom and then raced off to fight for others…

I Wish I was There

The world spins around me as I continue to move through my life. I have woke again in self sadness that comes from the emotional high of victory. Only to find that it was a dream, that the victories were not mine at all. As the day grows cold and dark I know that I am walking in my footsteps again. That I am no longer pushing the world around but are instead moving in place. I dream the horrid dreams of war, and wish with every part of being that I was still there. For the news from the front is not what it should be, it is not filled with laughter and jokes of my friends. No, now I find it filled with sadness. I trained a platoon of forty men to be efficient and strong, and they were. The army took them away from me and sent them into harms way. And before they even loaded onto a plane and I lost a man. To call him a man might be an exaggeration at 17. Now they are in the midst of the toughest fight of their life, they have lost five to enemy fire, and have had over ten of them wounded. This time my platoon will return scar’d and changed for life, as I sit here and read about it. My dreams are tough, I have slain dragons and sieged castles, I have fought and stormed across Flanders fields, and I have wrestled Iraqis to the ground, only to wake and find that the life I have now pales in comparison to the sacrifice of those whom no longer dream of such heroics but rather live them. You ask me where I want to be today, I have only one answer “I want to be next to Verdeja, Boyd, Pulford, Watson, Salazar, and all the others that I have fought beside before, that is where I want to be.” I only hope is that one day I will be able to lie next to them forever and know that from then on I will always be with them.

Rest In Peace my friends

Eulogy for Polo

I thought it would be different now; I thought it wouldn’t hurt as much. Half way around the globe men and women are pursuing our nations national interests, and implementing policy with a rifle. They are tired, worn, and most would rather be here; yet with a consistency that should make you cry, they will never leave, or quite. They are tough in ways that most will never truly understand.

Many psychologists would agree that distance and time can fix most things, as well as lessen the impact of almost any event. Last night, this abstract idea that I had held as fact, came crashing down around me. On a rooftop that overlooked most of downtown DC, two blocks from the Verizon center. I was having beers and bullshiting with the low-end political aids that scurry around the real administrators in the Old Executive Office Building, though most would just say they work at the White House. The irony was absolutely complete when my phone rang during a heated conversation of how much it would cost to build more F-22 or fund a new infantry battalion. How is anyone supposed to be prepared when the real cost is measured and paid.

My roommate called and my phone started up the annoying Gnarls Barkley song. Answering, I immediately started to tell him what the plan was for the next couple hours. When I was done speaking there was an awkward pause, nothing more, followed by “Polo is dead,” two breaths, “he was killed by an IED.”

The world stopped moving, people stopped talking, all actions and senses ceased. No more words were exchanged on the phone, just silence. The phone was still open and on when I stood up and walked away from the party on the rooftop. No one looked at me, no one noticed. The shock wears off much quicker than you want. In fact, I found myself trying to hold onto the void that shock can create; knowing that this is so much better than what comes next. My pace picks up as I move faster and faster across the roof and down a hallway of wooden fences towards a door. I do not know why I am headed this way but I need to leave. The anger builds with the pace and I am not sure why pain and anger come together but I do know that both demand that every part of my body feel the same pain in proportion to the rest. So I strike out at the wall, punching and punching. I kick in a portion of the wooden fence and slam the beer bottle that was still in my hands to the ground. Now I can feel the pain in my hand, the throb of the forming bruise, the emotional fury subsides and I regain composure now that I can feel the physical pain. As if the physical can and should overshadow the emotional screams that rushed through me.

I returned to the party, only partially aware at the stairs of confusion as I reached for ice to sooth my hand. My friend asked “what happened to your hand?” and in the only way I know how to deal with the absurdity of the situation, “It picked a fight that it couldn’t win with a brick wall, stupid eh?” As I wrapped the ice around my hand I went and found another beer, and rejoined the group, forcing myself into some pattern of normalcy before I could break away and be alone, as I wanted.

Polo, there can be no lasting tribute for you. A man, a child, a friend, an atheist Chaplin of the highest order. How do I write of a man that knew more about life than I do. How do I say some words that he would have accepted as just and honest, how do I make reconciliation with a man who was my better. There are no words, nor diction that can tell you of this boy-man. Life is meant to be tasted and enjoyed the invigoration of the living, this will be Polo’s testament, he truly drank from the well of life, where I, and most are but merely spectators of this cosmic play. The verse he added was much too short. The streets of paradise are lined with his friends, whom all remember the smile and charity of Polo.

May you rest in peace, we are coming, please wait for us, we will be along shortly, my friend.

Arlington

Oh how fate plays tricks on even the most reverent of us all. Without warning, a day that should have had the sharp crisp feel of winter to it suddenly warmed up, yet graying the sky in such a way as to leave you with the impression that neither day nor night was fast approaching. I have driven fifteen minutes to visit my friend. I have not seen him in some time and felt the need today. I stopped by the convenient mart and grabbed a small gift for him. In this overcast warming day snow tried to flee as fast as possible, laying bare rows and rows of white stones. It is a short walk from where I parked over a single rise and part way down a slope. The first time I came here, I memorized how many stones past a certain tree laid my friend. But now, it is almost on instinct that I look for a small Government Issue stone. Short and white I kneel before it. For the most part I am alone today and those others moving through the thin layer of snow and ice are being quiet. They do not seem to have the purpose that I have in my walk. Pulling from my bag a small flower that I hastily bought from the store and pull a bottle of Canadian Club that I brought from home. Laying the flower down I sipped my whiskey and as the sharp painful taste bit me the memories came flooding back. Images etched in time forever engraved on me. Trying as hard as I could to control my emotions with the waves of images; I close my eyes and clench my fist around the neck of the bottle. Another drink. This time the emotions surged through my body though no tears would come. None had come for years. Something much worse than tears, the reworking of the days events, looking for changes that could have been made, differences that should have happened. Each critical moment that could have changed the outcome of that days tragic events rolls through my mind. Painful and sharp the bitter taste in my mouth as I recognize all of the things that could have been done differently. What was I supposed to do, I was helpless. How was I supposed to change it, how was I supposed to make It different? Would it be better to have it been someone else or would it have been better if it was me? Another helping of whisky, and another; distant whisperings float down to where I am, others are starting to stair. They know why I am here and give me room. I push aside the memories, I am being too hard on myself or not hard enough. Either way it does not mater. The events took place so long ago that the world has moved on as I have. Except on those frost bitten days that I think back to the smiles and laughter that my friend and I shared for some lonely months in a desolate land.

Soon, but not yet.... (September 2005)

So the song another one bites the dust comes to mind even though it is so not fair to anyone. I have lost another friend, another brother, another lost soul, another kid trying to earn himself a place in a world that doesn’t deal kindly with the undereducated. The soldiers of today are the smartest of the uneducated and they are also the ones that are dying the fastest. How was I supposed to know, how was I supposed to care and live. You cant, you lose focus and you lose perspective and you leave each day with each night and wake to find the new light just as bright and strong. Or you let the day own the night and the sun will eventually stop moving around and the moons and stars will abandon you to your self-desolation. Where will it end? Were does it begin? These I am sure are questions asked a hundred times in as many languages, many days wasted in the hot sun that beats its tireless hammer against all who dare cross this cursed country. The beauty is there in its own quiet way yet always slowed and hunted by the relentless power of the sun. So where are the answers to these questions, Virgil never found them and neither did Homer. They just tried to relay to us the immortality that others try to grasp when they are given these situations. There is no fitting tribute or memorial other than the words, ‘he is my friend.’ There is no greater glory or greatness reserved for his soul except for the shallow phrase, ‘we shall endure and continue.’ There is only the absolute truth that comes with the absolute end. My friend has found peace, and is finally at rest, for his great verse that he has added to the cosmic song is finally at an end.

I am coming, don’t wait for me, for I will be along shortly, my friend, my brother……

Shakespearian Tragedy (October 2005)

The hardest day of my life.

I was standing still next to a small set of bleachers with my hands behind my back, watching a crowd of people, in the cool clear Colorado morning, approach in anguish, stone slabs that are engraved with simple names.

Through the crowd, a grief stricken mother doing everything in her power to maintain her composure just until she can be alone again, pushed her small daughter forward. The little girl slightly confused about what is going on, having just a limited understanding of the of the elaborate ceremony and its importance, yet even in the small child’s eyes there is the glimmer of understanding that this is solemn occasion. She is basking in the glow of the attention given by all that see her, for they see the star in the greatest tragedy they know. Playing with the golden curls of hair that her mother had spent hours working on in the morning, she smiles and wonders why every one else is smiling with just their mouths and not their eyes. With her mother’s hand on her back and a yellow rose in her right hand she breaks free of the crowd and stares at a rock slab jutting out the grass, she knows this is not natural and that someone must have placed it there. Then seeing the names on the polished stone she attempts to read what is written, however the sounds do not make sense and the abbreviations that are laid out in front of the confusing sounds are unreadable at best. In a confused look back at her mother, who is remaining strong and impassive, she is told to lay the rose at the base of the stone. When she turns back to the slab and bends over to put the rose down as only a child can do, by bending the knees, squatting and looking up all at once, she notices one word that she can read. Her name. Right there with all the other confusing words close to the bottom is her name. Then terror comes across her face as the rising storm of grief washes over her, she knows that it is not her name but the name of her Dad that someone has etched into the slab of rock before her. Breaking the rose, she spins back to her mother screaming. Even to this child with no more than five years behind her she knows that she is looking at the lasting tribute to her dead father. And the understanding that he is never coming home sinks in for the second time in her young life. With barely shedding a tear and sucking in a deep breath she forces her daughter to complete the task and lay the rose at the base of the stone with everyone else’s.

Standing next to the mother is a smartly dressed Lieutenant. Barely 25 years old and only a child in the eyes of the woman that he is escorting. His tears shed months ago for the loss of his comrade, his Platoon Sergeant, his mentor and friend, and none are coming today because he must be strong for the wife and child of his fallen brother. His composure is solid as he stands there in his uniform. He helps get the mother daughter combination through the crowd, with some anticipation he too wants to see the slab and ensure that his friend’s life is marked on the rock for all to see and know. Being strong and compassionate is easy in uniform, the shiny buttons and tabs and badges give you a false sense of security and an added strength. It is not until he watched the little girls face light up with final understanding of what the meaning and reason of this whole elaborate game she had been playing all day was. At the moment the girl spun he could see the look in her eyes and it brought him to his knee and unleashed emotions that had been buried for over ten months.

I stood no more than ten feet away from this Shakespearean tragedy, watching the final tribute of a family that I did not know except from stories and smiles, and the tinny pictures that my friend loved to show to all of us that were so new to life and love. I watched as my friend had to endure the pain of escorting the family to the monument, as well as watch the crowd of people grief stricken and sad. All I felt was complete sorrow toped with a not so health proportion of anger. The contemplation of the sacrifice made by men for other men, is too much for anyone to truly appreciate until they have seen it in person. That man whose name is forever etched as a hero in the a marble slab on the west entrance to Fort Carson Colorado, would probably tell you he would do it all over again knowing the outcome.

“Greater love hath no man that this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” John 15:13