High Street

Driving home
'round midnight
on High Street
steady rain falls
putting a thick
shine on every
conceivable surface
the lane lines
barely visible

floating sensation
like a small fish
skimming along
the back of a
Killer Whale

neon lights from
Tee Jaye's create
a psychedelic slick
on the street
colors running together
over the washed windshield
puddles sending out
splashes of synesthesia

NPR's "Echoes"
on the dial
ambient music of
Tangerine Dream
flowing from the radio
like liquid sound

a pseudo-experience of
sensory-altering substances
striking the cortex.


***

Watching the Wheels

"People say I'm crazy, doin' what I'm doin'..." or so sings John Lennon, a man and his music that I've grown to appreciate over the years. This has been especially true after becoming a father myself and seeing the positive changes it made in his life after Sean came into the picture. It didn't hurt that in my college years I grew my hair long and wore circular spectacles for a time. Those were the days of the occasional comment that I resembled the former Beatle which helped solidify the affinity.

This phenomenon had its strangest manifestation when I was living in Korea. One of my friends during that time was a Korean man who went by the name "Paul". The first time I saw him was at Seoul Union Church, barefoot and sitting Indian-style on a side pew with his eyes closed. He wore all black and had a large wooden pectoral cross hung around his neck. We went out after the service to a coffee shop where I learned he was a Catholic attending a Protestant church because "I'm learning about all different kinds of spirituality." He was a peculiar fellow, fancied himself a monastic of some sort and never without a lit cigarette on his lips.

He had a part time job at a Catholic bookstore and was always broke, which he reframed as a monastic virtue. We spent most of our time together hanging out in coffee shops with me picking up the tab, but on one occasion he took a notion to treat me at a small restaurant near his neighborhood. He was very excited about this and ordered a good amount of food that I slurped down gladly. We were there for what seemed a very long time and the restaurant owner was becoming increasingly impatient, asking Paul if there was anything more we needed. Finally, he came clean with them that he had no money but assured them that he would return by week's end to cover the bill.  What could they do but agree to this atypical arrangement?  I did not have the money to cover the tab or I would have paid for the feast we'd just indulged in.  This, as I was to learn, was par for the course when hanging out with Paul.

Another incident involved one of the ubiquitous coffee shops which cover Seoul like a pleasant rash.  These establishments must top the list of Korea's entrepreneurial endeavors as there are so many unique offerings and so few chains.  I must have visited at least a hundred of these places in multiple cities and towns. The one I'm thinking of was very dark with no windows and low lighting.  Either side of the room had booths lining the walls and running down the center were tables and chairs separated by chest high wooden dividers for a sense of privacy.  Paul was chain smoking as usual and complaining about his extreme sinus pain. He said that he needed just fifteen minutes to sleep and laid down in the booth with his dirty bare feet sticking out into the aisle.  The female owner eventually saw this and came over to tell him he couldn't sleep here.  She looked very stern with hands on hips, but I held up my hand to keep her from shaking him and told her in Korean to please not do that, he was not feeling well. A waitress had come over by that time to see what was going on. The owner's stern look broke at my attempt to intervene with minimal Korean language skills and she gave a little forced laugh. She then directed the waitress to help her move one of the wooden divider walls and they placed it in front of our booth so that people couldn't see Paul sleeping there like a homeless person from the street.

He had a way of exasperating people who weren't in tune with his oddness. It definitely made things interesting.

After being in Korea for two years, my tour of duty with the Army was up and I returned to the States to finish my senior year of college. That last year at Indiana Wesleyan University I befriended the six or so Korean students there and when I returned to Korea as a civilian I met up with two of them at different times to hang out, one in Seoul and one in Pusan. I met the one from Seoul, whom I'll call "Ki" because that is the half of his name that I still remember, at one of the many coffee shops I'd frequented during my two previous years there. We were sitting at a window booth on the second floor overlooking the front of the building.

By that time I'd grown my hair down to my shoulders and carried with me some retro green tinted sunglasses, very different from my military cut and look of the previous year. Ki and I were reminiscing about the good times we'd had the past year at IWU when I glanced out of the window and saw a man staring up at me from the street, fixed in place, eyes big as saucers. It was Paul. He broke into a huge grin and started waving frantically. My Korean friend looked at him and then looked at me with a distinct WTF? expression. As Paul hurried to the front door I quickly explained to Ki that I knew Paul from when I was last in Korea and that he was a little strange, trying to prepare him for what was to come.

Paul barreled up the steps and plopped onto the bench opposite me next to Ki. He was like a kid hopped up on sugar. Ki was bemused but also visibly uncomfortable with Paul's demeanor. I should add here that Ki was a "cool guy" who used expensive haircare products and wore fashionable clothes. Paul prattled on in a rapid fire manner and then, rather excitedly, declared that I looked exactly like John Lennon. He wanted me to put on my sunglasses and would not take "no" for an answer. I finally relented and as soon as they settled on my nose Paul exploded into squeals and clapping, "IT'S JOHN LENNON!  IT'S JOHN LENNON! WOO WOO! YOU ARE FAMOUS! YOU ARE FAMOUS!" Ki looked like he wanted to slide under the table and hide from all of the eyes that were suddenly drawn to our table. I quickly removed the sunglasses but it was too late. Ki was caught in a seriously uncool scene and I felt bad for him, but I couldn't bring myself to be mad at Paul.  No one had expected such a highly improbable meeting. Maybe it was just meant to be.

So, fast forward twenty years to last night. I was feeding Poppyseed her bedtime snack at the dining room table. She typically will refuse to eat any bites unless there is something that interests her playing on the iPhone. A friend had posted a link to John Lennon's "Watching the Wheels" on Facebook earlier in the day and so I pulled it up for her. The video included pictures of John in various poses and situations as well as some live action stuff, some with a beard and some without, some with long hair and some without, some with glasses and some without. Poppyseed leaned forward to get a closer look and said very matter-of-factly "Dat's you." She said it again while pointing at a picture of John with medium length hair poking out from under a beret, glasses and no beard, "Dat's you, Daddy." She looked up at me with a funny little smile as I watched the wheels go round and round in her bright eyes.

The Brothers K

The Brothers K, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

***
I ask forgiveness
for everything
and from everyone
without exception
because the only
evil that matters
is that which
I've contributed
to the noxious mix
of self-centered
wants and desires
that do not
recognize limits
or restraint
where mediocrity
masks as virtue
and suffering multiplies
with my indifference

***

A Family Portrait

A family portrait
of perfect strangers
perfectly framed.
Side by side,
staggered, unsmiling,
staring straight ahead.

A glowing arrow,
disembodied voice
with lovely lilt,
"going down."
The elevator
doors slide shut.

A box of contained
pain, descending
into the depths
of my being,
looking for
a bottom.

The Melancholic Collector

Big Hat, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

***

I don't want to build
or own anything new
but to use and inhabit
what has come before,
molding it to my needs,
a Salvation Army store
approach to living,
breathing in musty
smells while rubbing
my hand along rough
and uneven surfaces
imagining who has
worn these clothes,
what has been
in these drawers,
who has read
these yellowed books,
being the latest
link in a long
chain of existence,
feeling connected to
those who have
gone before while
my days play
themselves out
and the next
melancholic collector
wonders about who
I might have been.

***

Power Trio

Power Trio, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

Today I switched hospitals with a colleague for the convenience of going to a doctor's appointment that is located here. The thing I love most about this particular hospital is that it has a medical library that discards books relatively frequently and makes them available gratis. Many of the books are outdated manuals and reference books from obscure medical specialties, but sometimes, when the literary gods are feeling frisky, they are novels.

Today was just such a divinized day. The discard section was lined with brightly colored paperback spines that drew a running gaze from me, head tilted severely to the right. My eyes tripped along several low quality affairs and a shite-load of Tom Clancy titles until fixing firmly on the name Walker Percy. The book was "Love in the Ruins" and for those not familiar with mid-twentieth century Southern writers like Walker Percy, Eudora Welty or Flannery O'Connor, it might have been mistaken for a trashy romance or other some such thing. As it is, the main character is a psychiatrist and the story itself has a faint SciFi odor about it. It might as well have had my name written in it.

Another book that made my eyeballs stop and take notice was Kurt Vonnegut's "Breakfast of Champions". The last time I'd picked this book up and begun reading was in the early 90's as an overly earnest student at a stridently conservative college. Two chapters into it I had been thoroughly scandalized and saddened that this author whom I'd grown to love and trust for good fiction would write something so trashy and un-American. I stopped reading it in disgust and may have even thrown it away.

This book too was snatched up and put in my cargo pocket. I read the first two chapters while eating my lunch and found myself more than once giggling like a silly school girl. Such brilliant satire! Such scathingly accurate insights! Quirky as heck. Apparently it took twenty years of maturity for me to be able to appreciate what he was doing with this novel.

I met Kurt Vonnegut once, kind of, not really, and managed to piss him off. As a senior in High School I drove up to Indianapolis with some friends and fellow Vonnegut lovers on a blustery winter night to see him give a talk at a large High School auditorium. I had my hard back copy of Cat's Cradle with me and after the talk my friends and I snuck back stage.  As he attempted to exit in the rear I presented my book and a pen for his autograph while partially blocking the doorway. He gruffly waved me aside and pushed past us to leave, burning my friend's hand with his cigarette in the process. If I'd really known anything about him outside of the few books I'd read, I'd have probably known that that shite wouldn't fly with him. But I was just happy to have had my brush with fame, literally (literarally?).

The third book that caught my eye was John le Carré's "Russia House". To be perfectly honest, I have never read anything by him though I was enthralled by a movie based on one of his books, The Constant Gardner. I also recollect that the movie based on Russia House had a beautifully melancholic soundtrack that featured Branford Marsalis on soprano saxophone, a favorite Jazz musician of mine at the time. The music haunted me for weeks afterwards and gave me a burning desire to learn how to play a soprano saxophone.

I even went as far as to buy a soprano saxophone when I was living in Korea, a black beauty with nickel plated keys. I was able to shave almost two hundred dollars off of the price by using the monetary exchange rate to my advantage. The seller refused my offered price in dollars, so I split my offer into dollars and won (Korean currency) that he ended up accepting even though for me it was an equivalent amount. The one thing I learned from that experience is that if you want to learn how to play the saxophone, don't try and start with a soprano. And if you want a good deal in Korea, carry two currencies.

Sadly, I sold that saxophone a few years later for a loss in Bloomington Indiana after squeaking and squawking on it for awhile, but getting free books today has helped take away some of the lingering sting of that memory.

Whatever It Takes

whatever it takes

to escape the pain
if only for a minute

whatever it takes

to keep myself sane

or even to admit it

to take a hit
to draw a drag
to punch the vein
to light the fag

to sniff a snort
to slice the skin
to drink it dry
to grind a grin

to give it up
to a stranger's grope
to hang it high
to knot the rope

whatever it takes

to keep myself sane

or even to admit it

whatever it takes

to escape the pain
if only for a minute

***

A Very Snowy Day

A Very Snowy Day, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

A peculiar thing
to see a squirrel
dragging a cut
of cloth, jumping
from branch to branch,
through swirling
bits of snow.
Later, I ascend
the stairs
to a window,
binoculars in hand.
From my warm
perch I spy
the clump of
leaves and twigs
just slightly above
eye level
and bring the
viewing circles up
to take a look.
At once I am,
or perceive myself
to be,
in the nest
padded by a cut
of cloth on this
very snowy day.

Reading about Poetry

Reading about Poetry..., a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

***
Reading a book
about writing poetry
on a couch
in front of a window
while wind and snow
blow at my back.
My son says,
"Look Dad, it's a
blizzard!" And
so it seems.
***

The Sweater

The Sweater, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I want to write about the sweater. It has wide stripes of black and red, only some have said over the years that it is dark pink or other somesuch color. The color is not important, though there is some significance to the fact that it was a color other than green. That detail came from how I acquired it in the first place, from friends, on my birthday, while serving as an infantryman in Korea. They were one American school teacher and two Korean students, friends I'd made while teaching English as a volunteer in the evenings in a small town north of Seoul.

They bought it at a shop outside of my military base, a shop among many shops selling cheap knockoff clothes, watches, and anything else that could be stitched or made to look like something it wasn't. But this sweater was different; thick, warm, and roomy. It has been in my possession for twenty three years and it looks like it could have been bought yesterday. What significance the red/pink/salmon whatever color?

My wardrobe then and now is 75% olive drab with the other 25% comprised of mostly earth tones. They were happy to give it to me for my birthday, so far from home, and laugh that they bypassed a nearly identical one that was green and black because I needed something "different" to wear. I later saw the one they passed on and found it exceedingly pleasing to my eye, but I did not buy it.  Instead, I wore the one they bought me out of deference to their friendship, a sustaining force in a hard place in my life, and it grew on me.

I brought it back to the States when my time was served and continued to wear it when the weather permitted, usually with a black or olive drab turtleneck, needing to temper its color with something more familiar, a compromise of sorts. I was wearing this very sweater the night I met the girl who was to become my wife. Accoutrements included a beanie and a man purse that I wore across the chest and called a "pouch." We laugh about it now, such strange ideas, individuality gone a bit awry. It is the prerogative of the single person with all eccentricities at full bore w/o any temperance or tampering by others, significant or otherwise. Somehow it was not off putting enough to disallow the coming of vows and the co-creation of two small but exquisite human beings who fill my heart beyond imagining.

The years have passed and the sweater has followed. It has survived several wardrobe weanings as we've hopscotched from the Midwest to the East Coast to the South and back to the Midwest. I have never been able to part with it, though it has fallen out of favor with my wife almost from the git go and I've ignored it these past almost fifteen years of marriage, sitting in the back of closets or in boxes, touched by neither moth nor decay. Until today.

It was one degree fahrenheit this morning when I let our dog out to potty. Instead of her usual roaming she did her business and returned quickly to the door to be let in. The few seconds of having the door open while standing there in my PJ's was almost unbearable. I made my way back upstairs and looked to my top shelf where I keep my sweaters, digging through the green, beige, brown, and black ones until that odd colored one dislodged itself, unearthed like a pleistocene fossil, the gay coat of a woolly mammoth. I brought it down and unfurled it to take a look, unchanged over so many years, a witness to so much of how I came to be who I am.

It was as thick and comfortable as I remembered it, worthy of a polar vortex. I'd sworn off turtlenecks for decades, nevertheless I dug around and found my old olive drab one and felt the two should be wed once more. Coming downstairs, I found my wife cooking breakfast for the kiddos.  She glanced up at me when I entered the kitchen. There was a hitch to that look that made her eyes hesitate, "You're not going to wear that to work, are you?" I told her it was warm and, ultimately, just a sweater, though in that look I could see that she wished I'd gotten rid of it years ago.

Premature

COSI, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

***
Perpetually born premature
I live out these tenuous hours
in my incubator of a house
kept alive by the oxygen-rich
vitality of my two children
and a spouse who will not
simply let me go with the
pull of a plug when the
drain of my selfishness
has reached its fullness
***

My Father's Shoes

New Basketball Shoes, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I found them in the back of my father's closet amongst a litter of 70's style above-the-ankle leather shoes with side zippers. To be fair to my Dad, it was the 70's and I was seven years old. Above my head hung what seemed to be hundreds of polyester suits and a rack of ties, each wide enough to prevent any food from reaching a shirt front. In those younger days I had a habit of exploring every nook and cranny of the house when my parents were otherwise occupied, certain that I'd find something of interest that had been hither to hidden from me. And, by gum, I found just such a thing that day.

I picked one of them up and turned it in my hand to look at it from different angles, heck, I may have even smelled it. It was not like the others and it did not seem connected to my father who was a preacher from a very conservative denomination that was always on the lookout for signs of "worldliness." Its function and appearance did not include anything remotely Sunday-go-to-meetin' and had me not a little scandalized, but exhilarated all the same. What was it? Well, I can only say in retrospect what I did not know at that time. It was a bona fide black canvas Chuck Taylor All Star high top tennis shoe.

This was a part of my father that was a mystery to me at that time. He traveled a lot for his weekday job as a carpet salesman and oftentimes got home late. On Sunday mornings and Sunday evenings, as well as on Wednesday nights, he was preaching. The first time I really saw him in action was when he had invited another pastor from the same denomination to bring some of his church members over to play a full on game at the basketball court situated on a corner of the town square.

They all wore short sleeve buttoned shirts and long pants, not t-shirts and shorts which were deemed too worldly. They had to be a witness to anyone that might pass by and plainly see that they were of a different sort. The Chuck Taylors made an appearance that night on my father's feet for the first time since my discovery. I watched him shuck and jive around that court, run from end to end, and throw up several Bob Cousy style running hook shots. It made me deliriously happy and proud.

Now I am forty four years old and I have a son who just turned nine. This evening we bought him his first pair of high top tennis shoes for basketball season which starts this Sunday afternoon. Seeing those black Nike high tops in front of his closet tonight brought back that memory of a thrilling discovery in the back of my father's closet all of those years ago. And it made me deliriously happy and proud.

Purple Play-Doh

***
It's all she wanted
for Christmas
at two, almost three
years of age.
A consistent request
from which she
did not waver.
The look on her face
when she opened
that yellow cup
filled with the shade
of her fancy.
Who can describe
such a thing?
I won't even try.
***

The 4th Day of Christmas

***

On this fourth day of Christmas our almost three year old was playing with her favorite Christmas present, a Sesame Street playdoh color mixing machine, while standing in her tower at the kitchen island. She was also eating breakfast which was a glass of ice water and a small bowl of cut up sausage pieces.

At some point I looked up from my coffee and saw her using the small playdoh dipping spoon to transfer small amounts of water to her mouth, à la Orthodox Communion.  "Hey Anya, you look like you're taking Communion."

This triggered a huge grin and what appeared to be an actual sparkle in her eye. She picked up the glass and gave it a big kiss. "I kiss da cup," she giggled. She then put a piece of the sausage in her mouth. "I eat da bread."

Elias and I looked at each other and started laughing. High on her imagination and energized by our response she proclaimed in a loud voice, "I take cu-moony-yum!"

***

Children’s Classics

Poppyseed has discovered classic children's poems and songs on her mother's iPhone. For the past several days I have found her listening to them or singing snippets around the house. Today I caught "Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater..." coming from the front room. I later went to investigate and as I turned the corner I was greeted with "Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been?"

It's strange how technology is shaping the way we ingest information these days. I can remember these exact same poems and songs in our Childcraft books growing up. I can perfectly picture the illustration for "Fishy, fishy, in the brook..." as well as others that really caught my eye and stoked my imagination. The other source of these children's classics as a kid was the record player with it's quarter-sized plastic adaptor for playing 45's.

I'd recently opined that Poppyseed knew more pop music references than those poems and songs passed down through the generations. Now it appears that she is making up for lost time on a smart phone. And now that I'm living in the new millennia I think I'm going to go on line and find those books on Amazon. Poppyseed's birthday will be here before we know it.

***

Ol' Roy

Untitled, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

***
It's raining
in December

Ol' Roy
hangs on
our tree
these past
ten Christmas's

painted before
kids came

A young
married couple
far from
their roots
in the
Mid West

He was
my grandpa
and he
loved trains

Still feeling
the thrill
of his
room-sized
train set

A six
year old
boy with
engineer's cap

shoebox-sized
train cars
powered by
electrified rails

A connection
that gets
more precious
with time

***

A Full Moon

St. Elias, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

***

My son lies
in a darkened room
the lights out
sleeping
as I stand
over his bed.
I can see him
in the cold glow
of a full moon
its reflected rays
slanting through
his bedroom window.
Three fingers together
two drawn downward
making the sign
of the cross
reciting
a paschal hymn
a psalm of protection.
Let God arise
let his enemies
be scattered.
Let those
who fear Him
flee before
His face.

***

The Desert

Watching the Mud Dry #1, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

***
Still haven't figured out this writing journal thing. I've always waited for inspiration in order to write and having some direction has always made writing easier. Writing w/o direction or inspiration, now that's a different story. When there is no excitement to fuel the writing it becomes a vast desert of unexplored territory. And what to explore? Sand? Cacti? The occasional boulder?

Writing seems to be pure magic. When I can't do it I wonder at those who can. When I am writing and it is going fairly well I wonder at where all of this information is coming from and how I am able to make sense of it all. I've also learned that I'm a sucker for alliteration and it comes up frequently when I write. So much so that I have to edit it out sometimes because it can get comical when I'm not trying to be funny. "The conniving clown cut cautiously on his crusty carbuncle." See what I mean?

At present I am trying to write a story about a crow I killed when I was a kid. I sense there is something powerful and disturbing in this story. I feel a need to write it out, to think it through, and come out on the other end with some new insight into myself. I love the idea of writing as self-therapy. I was made aware of this facet of writing when I was taking pictures and writing poems during a deployment to Iraq. It was so desolate there with no escape to familiar places or a recourse to well known faces. Sitting in my little concrete room at night I could handle the fear, the tedium, and the loneliness by writing a poem and pairing it with a picture.

Another recent example was starting with the idea of "I remember when" which led to memories of visits to a laundromat in the small town I grew up in. When we first moved there I was starting first grade and we were renting a house while waiting for our house to be built on the edge of town. The rental house, I later learned from my Mom, had no washer and dryer and that is why we were visiting the laundromat that first year or so. In writing down that little walk down memory lane I was able to gain a greater appreciation for my Mom. Our relationship was pretty bumpy growing up and looking at this one little bit of our lives by writing about it as an adult brought some understanding and healing with it.

So writing *is* powerful, but you gotta put down the words and spelunk the brain. That's what this journal is all about and this is my second entry, Hurray!
***

"Hallelujah"

***

If we only knew
the gravity of grace
that sustains all that is
and all that could be
working in and through us

one word would repeat
in an endless loop
of joy and love
transforming our suffering
into hope and thanksgiving.

***

The Door

"How are you feeling today?"

is the door
through which
the doctor steps.
Some answer, some don't,
some can't, and some won't.
A trickle may come
that is encouraged to flow.
A flood may result
and cover the floor,
two people bobbing
on words and emotions.
He provides an anchor, an oar,
a will to be present.
Whatever happens,
he must never be distant.
Above all else
it must remain open.
But if it is slammed shut,
he will wait patiently
on the other side.

***

Uncle Bob and the Baltimore Ravens

Uncle Bob and the Baltimore Ravens, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

Grabbed my Baltimore Ravens cap as I headed out the door to return my son's books to the library today. I've not worn it out and about before, but today seemed a good time to do so. The trees are in full Fall regalia and the sun is shining down with a cool breeze blowing.

I am not a Ravens fan nor do I know any Ravens fans in the circles I run in here in the Midwest. I've heard that someone on that team had been involved in a stabbing years ago and "got away with it." I don't know much about it, but what I do know is my Great Uncle Bob lived in Baltimore and was a Ravens fan, a mellow man with a sweet spirit.

His sister is my grandma who passed away a few years ago. Their brothers died much earlier in a run of heart attacks due to bad genes and even worse eating habits. I remember those brothers only from foggy childhood memories of a family reunion or two, especially Uncle Charlie who was a real character and had a humdinger of a son named Chuckie whose antics have gone down in family legend.

Several years ago I visited a residency program in Washington DC as a fourth year medical student and Uncle Bob invited me up to Baltimore for breakfast at an old fashioned diner. I remember enjoying pancakes and coffee as well as his quick smile and uncanny resemblance to my grandma who was still alive at that time. When my wife and I moved to DC we visited him and Aunt Stephanie and later brought along our new little boy who was born there.

This past summer we went down to see my family in Southern Indiana. While we were there my Mom remembered that Aunt Stephanie had sent some of Uncle Bob's ball caps for family to have as mementos of his passing this year. My Dad brought down a shoe box full of them from the closet shelf and I went through them one by one. Many had golf themes which was a passion of Uncle Bob's though it is a sport I've never really gotten in to. Somewhere in the middle of the pack I found the Baltimore Ravens hat, a team that had just won the Super Bowl.

So, today I am remembering Uncle Bob in this beautiful twilight time of the year as the days begin to shorten. The leaves are starting to die, but not without an explosion of color to ease their passing in winning fashion.

Sibling Snuggles

***

There are two of them,
a boy and a girl,
six years apart.
There is no comparing,
it's apples and oranges
(I like it that way).

***

Starting a Writing Journal

I'd love to learn to write better, but my inclination is to take a picture instead., a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

10/30/13

What does one write in a writing journal? If what I've read is to be believed, you write about anything as long as you keep writing. So here I am, writing. I'm tapping away in a Panera Bread where I have not purchased anything, but inhabit a booth like a literary freeloader. In all truth I'm afraid to write. I see people write long stories or blog posts that go on and on and on, and I wonder, "where do all of those words come from? Why can't I just write and write and write?" My brain is always striving to be concise and say as little as possible to convey the idea or image I am trying to get across.

OK, see, here it is again. I stopped, looked around, and now I'm forcing myself to tap on keys again. I have started a journal like this a few times in the past and it never gets past one entry and that entry is terrible, so self conscious, so contrived, so dadgummed forced that I never want to try it again. But here I am, tap, tap, tap. You can't get from A to B by hanging around A and complaining how hard it is. Where will that novel come from? Where will those short stories wrung from life come from full bloom? I guess by doing this writing practice thingy.

And now, almost as soon as I've started, I'm finished. Family duties call and there is no spiriting myself away to some beautiful isolated locale to create imaginary worlds and revel in what amounts to self-therapy. At least this entry got made. I've gotta be happy with that, I guess.

The Protector of Children

The Protector of Children, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

*****

"I watch for cars when the kids are going over to Sunday School."  As he says this he looks left at a car coming around the corner.  When it sees him squatting there in the mouth of the alleyway on the narrow street, it slows down.

*****

Enough to Be on Your Way

Kevin Remembered, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

Tonight I was washing dishes and listening to James Taylor while the kids showered upstairs. The song I had on rotation was “Enough to Be on Your Way.” It is a favorite of mine and never fails to bring back memories of Kevin McCarty.

I bought the CD when it came out in 1997 and was so impressed by it that I took it with me to visit Kevin in his studio apartment in Marion, Indiana. We listened to this song in particular and when it was over I noticed Kevin had a funny grin on his face. “Man,” he said, “no one can sing the “F” word and make it sound beautiful like James Taylor. “

Kevin was tall and lanky like JT and I've often imagined that if his skull hadn’t been malformed by the radiation treatments he’d received as a child for retinoblastoma he would have looked very much like him.


So long, old pal.

A Visit with St. John of San Francisco

A Visit with St. John of San Francisco, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

The melodic drone of chant
fills the immense church as
darkly translucent icons sway
in the flickering candle light.
To one side sits a glass-topped box
under a carved wooden canopy.
St. John is sleeping there,
more awake than awake.
His dry and boney hands
lay crossed over his midriff.
A bishop's crown is on his head.
A cloth covers his face,
not out of fear,
but as a function of mystery.
His experience transcends the flesh,
no longer limited to five senses,
no longer bound by space or time.
He hears prayers
whispered in earnest,
ever the pastor,
connected to all
through faith and love.
I draw near.

"Hello, I'd like to report a parenting problem."

I yelled at a kid today and I'm not proud of it. Sure, he's bigger than my son but how much bigger than him am I? He's a bit of a bully and I bullied him good in what feels like a hollow victory. What did he do? He took my son's bike and when my son asked for it back (five times) he acted as if he couldn't hear my son who was jogging alongside of him.

Deep emotions from my childhood welled up, a neighborhood boy very much like this one who did what he pleased b/c he was bigger than me. I yelled his name to stop him in his tracks and told him (in a very loud voice) that when someone asks for something back that is theirs, you give it back to them, plain and simple.

It had the desired effect, but it kind of threw my son off, hearing me yell like that. My wife heard and was not comfortable with what I'd done. It's not easy being a parent: rational, calm, measured in words and wise in actions. Maybe kids like that are around to teach us patience and force us to find solutions to problems that do not involve violence, verbal or otherwise. I'm still learning.


***

The Skeleton Remains

***************
The mirror sits as it always does, cold, flat, indifferent, impossibly shiny. He looks intently at the reflection there, absent-mindedly drawn to the dark round hole of his left nostril. It looks blacker than the right one, a portal of some sort, a cave, a tunnel, whatever, and the longer he stares, the bigger it grows.

Once its dark diameter has reached the size of his face, he grabs the skin folds on either side and in one quick motion pulls it back over his head, like the hood of a sweatshirt, revealing his skull underneath. Its toothy grin confronts him as he rotates his head slowly, taking it in from different angles.

“This is what I’ll leave behind one day, a cicada shell on a tree,” or so his thoughts go. The image seems natural to him, removing some of the horror.  A blink of his eyes and things return as they were: a slow march to the grave with decisions to be made about how that time should best be spent.

***************

The Laundromat

1976, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I remember the laundromat that my mother used to take me to when I was a child.

It sat on the north side of the town square sandwiched between two other businesses: a little girl dress shop called "Sugar and Spice" and a Realtor's office, if memory serves. The front of the laundromat looked like a giant multi-glass-paned garage door that could open up its entirety to the outside when raised. The ceiling was almost two stories high which made for a massive cube of space ringed by dryers. Washing machines occupied the center with at least two large folding tables. Scattered about were wheeled metal laundry baskets, each with a suspended bar for hangers.

The drone of the dryers and wumping of the washers made it a very noisy place. The smell of laundry detergent and an oppressive heat surrounded you, but it was something peculiar, different from home.

I loved getting the change from my mother to put in the detergent dispensing machine, hearing the clink of the falling quarters, three in a row, and then getting a firm grip on the rounded handle and pulling back with a hard tug until it stopped and a small brightly colored box of detergent thudded into the tray. Further satisfaction came from releasing it quickly so that it returned with a loud metallic clack. These little boxes were like toys and once they were emptied they could be used to play basketball with the laundry baskets as well as kicked, whacked, or thrown.

At night the well lit interior threw bucketfuls of light out onto the darkened square creating elongated shadows of the swings and slide situated across the street on the square proper. Red and yellow points of light from circling cars winked like fireflies.

I remember my mother always wearing a dress, beehive hairdo, no make up, and a bit of a scowl on her face. I was always testing her limits, making it difficult for her to relax or just be able to do what she needed to do with a minimal amount of hassle. My older sister was there too, maybe nine to my seven, as well as my younger sister who was just a toddler. Those two were manageable, compliant to some degree, the older looking out for the younger.

I, on the other hand, was trying to climb into carts or disappear into dryer holes. If my mother had her back turned for too long while folding clothes, I was outside seeing how far I could get down the sidewalk before being ordered back and scolded.  I've seen that scowl on my wife's face, trying to deal with our sometimes unruly and rambunctious son.  I'm sure that scowl has been on my face, seen in my son's expression like a mirror, his nose scrunched up in anger.

Almost forty years later and with a seven year old son of my own, I am just now able to feel the full weight of sympathy for this mother of three laundering our clothes in a small Midwestern town on a hot summer's night.

Three Blind Mice

Muir Woods, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

The slightly-edited story below is one I wrote when I was a college student in the early '90s. The idea for it came from a story one of my professors told us about his experience in standing before a panel of academics when he was defending his doctoral thesis. The tone of his experience transferred itself into the characters as described below. Revisiting this story so many years later, I find it striking how true to my subsequent experience it has been, though my understanding of things now is very different from then. It is like this story suggested a trajectory that my thoughts were eventually to follow.
______________________________


Three Blind Mice
(have you ever seen such a thing in your life?)


Being a young twenty something is not unlike being lost in a foreign land only to discover it is the place you were born.

College had presented me with a paradox by broadening my horizons while at the same time trapping me in a water-filled globe of unreality. With a shake of my head, philosophies and world-views would swirl around like bits of artificial snow in my mind. I believed that I had to have all of the "big questions", and assorted smaller ones, answered in order to successfully move on with my life. There was never a sense I'd read enough books or taken enough of the right classes. For the first time in my life I felt utterly lost and set adrift. Disappearing into the rear distance was the security of home and looking ahead there was only open water with no land in sight. Who knew what sharks plied these waters. How does one navigate by the stars? Accompanied by these thoughts, I entered a forest.

***

Almost immediately I felt some of the caffeine fueled angst begin to abate under the canopy of leaves. This reprieve did not last long as I eventually became aware of a change, something subtle, but making me feel uneasy and unsure of myself once again. A quick survey of the area turned up nothing unusual which only proved to intensify my confusion. Thinking that it was just the effects of weariness I rubbed my eyes. With my eyes closed my ears picked up the incongruity immediately. The routine sounds of the forest had completely ceased, an unnatural stillness, dead quiet.

A headwind caught me unawares and sent shivers up my spine. It carried with it noises that were strangely inexplicable. Tinkling sounds, like tiny metallic wind chimes, were accompanied by murmurings and intermittent shouts. Apprehensive, but also curious, I continued moving towards the source.

This brought me to within sight of a clearing from where the sounds appeared to originate. Creeping along in a clandestine manner, I found concealment behind a tree near its edge. The grass was a sickly hue beneath me diffusing into a dead grayness inside the circle of trees. The noises were distinct now and sounded very much like an argument in progress. I cautiously peeked around the tree and took in a sight most unforgettably bizarre.

In the center of the clearing there were three immense books, like paper-made pillars of varying height, but all much taller than I. Upon each sat an old man in grey-black tasseled robes faded with time and the elements. Arcane academic badges hung from their chests and jingled in the wind. They were caught up in some disagreement and were not aware of my presence. This gave me the courage to move in a bit closer to observe them in better proximity. From this greater vantage point I was startled to discover that they were all quite blind.

***

The old scholar in the middle sat perched upon the tallest book and looked to be the eldest of the three. His eyes moved about as he talked but fixed on nothing. The light playing off them produced an unnatural glint betraying their true nature, glass globes in place of eyeballs. To his right sat the frumpled figure of scholar number two, a dowdy character to be sure. His white hair was a wild and tangled mess. Two blackholes-for-eyes were split by a crooked nose. A piece of hay hung from one of the holes out of which a little mouse would periodically poke its nose to sniff the air and then quickly retreat. Even more unnerving was to see it scamper over the bridge of his nose from time to time, socket to socket. The third scholar was much more agreeable to me than the other two. A cravat encircled his head covering his eyes. He did not look quite so ancient as his fellows and his demeanor was much less severe.

I listened to their discourse without understanding. The argument seemed to be of an esoteric nature that I failed to grasp. My sympathy was with my cravated friend who apparently was at odds with the other two. The old man of the mouse-house head had been going on for a time and had reached some conclusion to which the elder nodded his head in agreement. The youngest, to whom it had been directed, gave a demur reply that sent number two into paroxysms of rage.

With a movement that belied his age the agitated man jumped up, secured his robes about his waist, and scrambled down the side of his book, head first. Like a mad squirrel he rifled through several pages, upside-down, finally stopping to share what he thought he had found there. At these frightfully peculiar acrobatics I let slip a giggle that so startled the inverted scholar that he almost lost hold of the book's edge. Finding a secure seat once more on top he and the others "looked" my way.

***

"Who's there?!" demanded the eldest, his glass eyes trained on a spot somewhere in front and to the right of me. "Well, out with it child. I heard your giggling just now!"

"Be gracious. He's just a boy", said the youngest. I hadn't noticed it before, but the cravat did not cover his right eye completely. Within its folds I could see a clouded orb peering out purposefully. "Where have you come from young one?"

"F-from the meadowlands beyond this forest glade," I stammered.

"What?!" cried Number Two. "What nonsense is he spouting about a forest and glade? What are such things but child's tales? Where is your book, boy? So small it could fit in your back pocket I wouldn't doubt." What he was saying was terribly confusing so I answered what I thought I had been asked. I began to describe the meadows and their flowing grasses like waves in the wind, of the trees like...

"Enough, enough," said the eldest with a peremptory wave of his hand. "I tire of your childish prattle." Hearing my brief description seemed to exhaust him somehow.

The youngest smiled at me and spoke meekly, "Yes, I've seen forms of what you describe, but such detail? Your imagination is commendable in this descriptive fiction. As you study and grow older you will see more of the truth." The other two harumphed at this and chided him for his eccentric equivocations.

At this point, frustrated and a little angry myself, I challenged them to come down from those terrific tomes and confirm, themselves, what I had described. "Come down, come down, he says," mocked the dowdy scholar. "Can he command the view we have from up here? I think not, the little ground-hugging mole." The eldest joined in the game of scolding me while the youngest simply looked down at his robe and picked at loose threads. Feeling saddened, especially for my slightly-sighted friend, I left them behind in the clearing as I had found them, arguing.

***

My mood lightened as I distanced myself from that circle of dead grass. Fresh air once more filled my lungs and cleared my head. The birds singing over head lifted my spirits and set me down a path different from the one I'd been on.

Death Island!

It has been quite some time since my son last updated his blog, Kramer's Kronicles, a blog we created to post his stories. We started it in January of this year as a way for him to use his time creatively over the winter months while stuck in the house. Over the summer it lay fallow and I wondered if he had lost the bug to tell a tall tale as each storyless month passed us by.

The past few days he has picked up the pencil again and has been working on a story entitled "Death Island." He drew a cover for it and he is now on "chapter five". At the end of chapter four he wrote a particularly scary scene which ended abruptly in cliff hanger fashion. He has picked up this technique from watching "Call of the Wild Man" on Animal Planet. It was a revelation to him when he realized that the show was set up so that something dangerous would be about to happen right as it cut to a commercial. This forces you to stick around and maybe even forego a snack or a potty break so that you don't miss anything.

Well today he disappeared upstairs and after some time I decided to check up on him. He usually does not stay that quiet for that long unless he is doing something he is not supposed to be doing. I snuck up the stairs very quietly and peeked around the corner only to find him sitting at his desk scribbling away. I snapped a shot with my phone and when he looked around to see what that sound was, I took the shot above. He read me what he'd added and as he read he found mistakes and marked them saying, "oh, that's wrong. I'll have to change that later." I told him the word for that is "editing."

I have a dream

I have a dream that one day my children may be free from the sins of their father, sins passed down from generation to generation, dyed white in denial, waiting to visit upon them that which they did not choose.

I have a dream that they may be free from imperatives hidden in the unconscious which generate stumbling blocks. That, instead, such things may be transformed by grace into stepping stones to wiser ways.

I have a dream that one day my desire to be seen and known is supplanted by the desire to see and know those who suffer similarly, without knowledge or support, to be given the strength to reach out, to lift up, to co-suffer and in so doing find healing together.

I have a dream.

***

Honour thy father and thy mother...

She sat across from us during the Divine Liturgy, on a bench typically reserved for the Bishop, when he visits.

It accommodates three seated, but this morning it was just her and a picture of her parents sitting there, together.

At some point the picture was transferred to her lap, facing outwards like an icon, held in a kind of hug.

At yet another time I saw her standing with it, showing it to others nearby, a big smile on her face.

Later I asked to be introduced to this lovely pair, she told me, "You don't really know someone until you know their parents."

***

The Gazebo

The Gazebo, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

A book and a beer accompany me to the back deck, sitting comfortably in an adirondack, under the attached gazebo. The two year old naps while the 8 year old mines for gold on his laptop in a world he is building one block at a time. The time away will likely amount to minutes, not hours, but it's nice to find at least a little time to be alone and even nicer when the weather cooperates.

The paperback on my lap has been sitting in the back seat of my car for a few months, waiting for an opportune time to tell its tale. I take in its faded cover and read the accolades on the back, but skip the one paragraph synopsis, afraid it might give away too much too soon. It begins with a foreword that I take for non-fiction, but then realize it is an attempt at realism in a fictitious account that wants you to believe it could have happened, like blair-witch-in-a-book.

The foreword finished, a breeze brushes my face and I look up. A rectangular light through the kitchen window catches my eye. I see my wife silhouetted by the bright interior of the refrigerator, such a strange perspective, like a voyeur, and an instant realization that I don't love her enough, that I don't appreciate her enough, that I let petty annoyances sour so many things between us. Do I deserve this house I am peering into, this wife taking stock of our food, this precious child sleeping, this son creating worlds rendered with the illusion of three dimensions?

The Context of Texting

We know
texting and driving
is bad
but what about
texting and walking?
Head down
mind far away
led astray
by electronic chatter
as people pass
paying them
no matter
robbing them
of existence
by cold indifference
withholding
the warm look
the kind smile
that could make
all the difference
in their day
maybe even
dare I say
their life?

everywhere present and filling all things...

Everywhere Present and Filling all Things, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

*****

Do not fear annihilation.
You cannot disappear
into nothingness
because there is
only somethingness.
Or better yet a
Someoneness who
is everywhere present
and filling all things.

*****

The Dangers of Denial

The Bridegroom, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

This is important. Are you hurting deep inside but afraid to show it? Seek out others who suffer. Do not look to those trying to convince you that they have it all together. You will only be invited into their delusion and yourself be deluded. The appearance of having less grievous life circumstances does not mean that they have something you need.

There is nothing wrong with acknowledging you suffer. It is a sign of healing, the pain of the surgeon's knife laid on your life. Take hope in that. Christ suffered and died to show the way. You must suffer and die to follow the road He traveled, even continually. It is a painful process by which the impurities of your soul are being burned away by God who in His love is a consuming fire. Another metaphor, I know, but how else to explain that which is well nigh inexplicable?

Lord save us from those who tickle our ears and tell us we have already attained what we have not already attained. It is a denial of salvation as process; a path, a journey, worked out in blood, sweat, and tears. It hobbles us spiritually even as it appears to strengthen us in the superficial assessment of others in like denial, those who would assert, "I am saved" and ask others, "are you saved?"

Denial works as a false sign that things are OK, that we are OK, when in fact we are ill and in need of healing. I recently saw a patient who had a mild stroke, pneumonia, and a vitamin deficiency, all of which have detrimental effects on the mind and body if not treated. She was refusing treatment or to acknowledge in any way that she was ill. She said, "I feel fine", and no amount of explanation, to include lab results and x-rays, could change her mind. Denial is a barrier to healing.

***

Death Comes for the Sergeant

I couldn't remember his name. Twenty years later and it wasn't coming to me. It bugged me all day at work and on the drive home it finally came to me, Carmichael, Sergeant First Class Carmichael. 

His first name is likely forever lost to me as only last names are regularly used in the Army. He was a non-commissioned officer in the mechanized infantry which might erroneously conjure up an image of a robot programmed for battle. Even so, his demeanor could resemble one at times. He was tall, gaunt, spoke little and showed little emotion. "Stoic" might be a good way to describe him. I met him in 1992 towards the end of my first tour in Korea as an infantryman. He came from the large infantry training center at Ft. Benning, Georgia where I'd finished my Basic Training the year prior to his arrival. He helped develop the training manual for the Bradley Fighting Vehicle which was a new troop transport vehicle that resembled a small boxy tank that carries soldiers into battle. Our battalion was to be the first to transition the Bradley into use in Korea.

I don't remember exactly how it happened, but I was chosen to be the gunner in his Bradley. He sat in the right half of the turret as the Bradley Commander (BC) and I sat in the left half of the turret, our shoulders practically touching. The third crew member was the driver who sat in his own separate compartment, the three of us communicating through helmeted headsets. The other infantrymen sat in a large compartment in the back separated from the turret by a curved sliding door. When the time would come to dismount, the back of the Bradley would drop to the ground forming a large ramp. My job was to stay in the turret and operate the weapons system which included a 40mm main gun resembling a miniature tank barrel, a coaxial machine gun, and two TOW (Tube launched-Optically tracked-Wire guided) missiles. The gunner and Bradley Commander work closely together to orchestrate all of these complex interactions and they spend a lot of time together, especially in the field training exercises that can last weeks at a time in austere conditions.

***

During the first of my two years in Korea, prior to the arrival of Sergeant Carmichael, my unit functioned for all intents and purposes as a light infantry unit, sans armored vehicles. When I arrived fresh from Basic Training, Delta Company was doing its three month rotation on the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ), a kind of no-man's-land separating North and South Korea. We lived in tents at a place called Warrior Base and participated in night patrols within the DMZ as well as a lot of live fire exercises, guard tower duty, and something called QRF or Quick Reaction Force.

One of many surreal experiences included being on a guard tower in the middle of nowhere and hearing music playing throughout the night. The South side blasted mostly American pop music from huge speakers directed at the North. While on patrols in the DMZ proper you could sometimes hear the speakers from the North blasting their own kind of music and propaganda. One memorable night we were patrolling in our single file line somewhere along a shallow ravine and I heard the music coming from the North side for the first time. The song featured a female soprano and tuba with absolutely no other accompaniment. I felt like I was in a Stanley Kubrick film.

In the months leading up to the Bradleys arriving there was a lot of training that involved practicing fire commands, learning about vehicle maintenance, and studying its specs to include things like what kind of engine it had, what kind of fuels it could run on, the range of the various weapon systems, etc. For a few months, the gunners and BC's in our unit followed a 3rd shift schedule in order to get time on the Bradley simulator which resembled a small white trailer with no windows. Inside was a compartment which mimicked the turret of a Bradley and could take the gunner and Bradley Commander through a number of video game type scenarios in order to practice using the controls to engage enemy targets. All of the scenarios had to be successfully navigated as a team in order to move on to the next step of qualifying as a Bradley crew. It was a lonely routine, getting up in the wee hours of the morning to walk a quarter of a mile in the cold and dark to the simulator, half asleep and stumbling along dirt trails. During the morning we slept while the rest of Delta Company followed the regular training schedule.

When the Bradleys actually arrived, we continued this qualifying process of gunner-BC pairs. Sergeant Carmichael had already been through the simulation process at Ft. Benning and so we were paired to continue the qualifying process. All of our time training together culminated in a live fire exercise at a massive firing range near the Northern border of South Korea which was built at the base of a mountain. The qualifying runs occurred at night. The targets were large wooden cutout figures shaped like vehicles and set on tracks between us and the mountain. They were heated so that they would show up on our thermal scopes in the turret. Off in the distance they would pop up and move along tracks at which time the BC would identify them, ask for confirmation from the gunner, and then give the command to fire. I would open up on whichever weapon system was appropriate for that particular target at that particular distance. Some of them were a kilometer or two away. At the end of our two weeks we were a fully qualified Bradley crew.

There have been at least two memories from that two week stint at the firing range that have stuck with me most clearly over the years. The first one involved an unexpected interaction with the Korean guard sitting at the front gate. I was on my way to visit a makeshift tent set up outside the gates where you could trade an MRE (food sealed in plastic that you were issued each morning) for a hot bowl of noodles and a drink from an elderly Korean woman or "Aju-ma". As I passed the guard house the guard waved me over with a concerned look on his face and gestured at his small television set. On the screen was a helicopter's view of several city blocks burning in the night. He said something in his thickly accented English that I could not understand. After a few more attempts I figured out he was saying something about Los Angeles being on fire. I watched in horror and fascination having no idea what was happening. It wasn't until returning to our base a week or so later that I learned there had been rioting and fire setting in the wake of the Rodney King trial.

The second memory involved a Korean snack bar in a cinder block building located inside the firing range compound. Due to the nature of it being a live fire range, any time you left your tent you had to be in full gear, ie, kevlar helmet, flack jacket, web gear with full canteens, and your M16 rifle. Lumbering into the snack bar was made easier by bidirectional doors that swung inward and outward with just a push. The booths were made out of unfinished wood. You could buy hot noodle or rice dishes as well as some knockoff sodas, cash only. In the corner of the room was a large TV with a VCR and a few hundred bootlegged VHF movies stacked all around it. Whoever wanted to could choose a movie and pop it in. If you were there when a movie was ending a soldier or two would shamble forth and dig through the piles calling out movie titles to reach a consensus for the next movie to be seen. People would yell out things like, "Nah, we saw that one yesterday" or "That one sucks!" The day I visited the snack bar, the movie playing was "When Harry Met Sally." I watched Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan interact in a very un-Korean like manner while mortar rounds impacted on the nearby range every few minutes. Each time one exploded the doors would fly inward from the pressure and the glass in the window panes would rattle loudly. Encased and encumbered by my heavy gear, an orange soda in one hand and a pair of chopsticks in the other, I wondered how on earth I'd ever come to be in such a situation.

***

After qualification the winter came and the time for field training exercises arrived. In Korea, due to the large number of rice paddies, almost all field training occurs in the winter when there is less chance of vehicles getting bogged down and stuck in the mud. It was the received wisdom that any major conflict on the Korean Peninsula would occur in the winter months and many of the most famous battles in the Korean War were remembered as being fought in freezing temperatures. The Army motto in this regard is "we train as we fight" which, to my dismay, meant living out in the field for long periods of time cold, hungry, dirty, and stressed out.

Probably one of the most miserable nights of my life occurred during one of these field training exercises. We were all bedded down for the night in sleeping bags on frozen mud in the middle of some farmer's field with the wind howling and the temperatures well below freezing. We had to sleep with our clothes on and have our boots somewhere in the sleeping bag with us otherwise they would freeze. To make matters worse, we had our cold metal rifles between our legs which was exceedingly uncomfortable.

Sleep was almost impossible, but when it did finally come I was soon awakened for my turn at guard duty around 2am. My survival instincts kicked in and refused to let me out of that bag! After a few more jabs from the guard's rifle and some foul-mouthed threats I began to rub all my limbs vigorously to get them warmed up and prepared for opening the zipper of my sleeping bag. When I could stall no longer, I zipped it down to my waist, sat up, and quickly put on my coat. The boots came next and then the gloves. The time from unzipping to being fully clothed was only a minute or two but seemed like an eternity. The next hour was pure misery as I stumbled around in the dark stamping my feet and rubbing my gloved hands together to try and keep them warm while keeping an eye out for a nonexistent enemy.

***

After field training exercises we looked forward to getting hot showers, warm food, and sleeping in an actual bed. It was comical to ground your gear, peel your clothes off, and then look in the mirror before stepping into the shower. My head and neck would be dark brown from all of the accumulated grit and sun exposure while my torso would be bone white. The time not spent in the field was referred to as being "in garrison." It was not as exciting as living in the field, but a heck of a lot less stressful.

Many weekends were free to do with what you pleased which was not something you took for granted in Korea. I mostly spent them traveling to Seoul in violation of the Two Kilometer Rule which stated a soldier could not leave a two kilometer radius of the base without a special pass. This was easily circumvented by learning some Korean and familiarizing myself with the public transportation system to include the passenger train which connected to the northern most extension of the Seoul subway system one town south of ours.

One of these Saturdays I was hanging out in the small town outside of our base instead of traveling to Seoul. I returned to our barracks sometime around noon and there were people that I did not recognize standing around the front entrance to our barracks. They wore black clothes and had on sunglasses instead of the ubiquitous Army camouflage. A Sergeant I knew well saw me standing on the road unsure of what to do and came down to greet me.

"Hey Haney, are you OK?"

"Yeah, I guess so. What's going on Sergeant?"

He looked at me as if he didn't exactly know how to proceed.

"No one's told you what happened?"

I told him I'd been out all morning and had just returned.

As it turned out, after I'd left that morning Sergeant Carmichael's Korean wife had come to his room on the bottom floor of our barracks and knocked for awhile without an answer. When the CQ got the keys and opened his door they found him in his closet hanging by a cord. My roommate later told me she was crying and screaming, refusing to be consoled. I can only imagine what it must have been like for the majority of the soldiers in my unit who were sleeping off hangovers.

Things were eerily quiet as I stood there with the sun beating down on my back, unsure of what to do. I wandered back down to the front gate in a kind of daze. I left the base and I remember making my way to a small bridge on the other side of town. I don't know why I chose that particular spot but I hung out there for awhile just feeling the breeze blow down the river and trying to sort things out. Closer to evening I made my way to Shalom House. It was there that I sometimes attended Saturday night meetings of "The Fishermen", was a volunteer English teacher during the week, and hung out with my Korean friends playing ping pong and shooting pool.

After that I likely went out to a local coffee shop that my Korean friends and I had adopted as our after-hours spot. It was called "Gurim Madang" and the owner was the sister of one of my English language students. I must have been their token foreigner because I don't recall seeing anyone there other than Koreans in the nearly two years I frequented the place. It wasn't unusual for us to stay there until after midnight and then for me to make the long lonely trek back to my base and barracks in the wee hours on foot. This particular night I stayed out even later than usual.

When I eventually arrived at the three-storied barracks housing Delta Company there were no room lights on. It was probably two or three in the morning. I walked around back to the entrance that was nearest my room. When I came around the corner I saw some light spilling out into the darkness coming from a room on the bottom floor at the far end of the building, Sergeant Carmichael's room. I stood there for a moment and let the strangeness of the situation soak in before deciding to walk down the sidewalk and see what there was to see. I half expected to see him sitting on his bed spit shining his boots. Instead, the room was devoid of activity or occupation. A box of cornflakes sat on the bedside table beside a bowl. The door to his locker where he'd hung himself was open and revealed an empty interior. Someone had not thought to turn the light off after his body had been removed earlier in the day, and so I stood there in the grass awash in the room's shared light surrounded by darkness.

***

The next few days were spent in preparing for the funeral. A handful of soldiers from our platoon were chosen for the gun salute and rehearsed to a reasonable uniformity. Because of my sidekick status of being his gunner, I was chosen to be one of the people sitting on the platform in the front of the chapel along with the Commander and First Sergeant. I do not remember clearly what my role was for the service, but I seem to recollect reading the 23rd Psalm.

The Chaplain's message was exceptional. I thought to myself as he approached the podium, "How in the world does one give a Christian message for someone who has committed suicide?" I do not remember his sermon, only the impression that his words left, words that were gracious, humble, comforting, full of sadness as well as love. While he spoke, you could hear Sergeant Carmichael's wife sobbing and saying words to herself that were indecipherable, probably in Korean. When the Chaplain said "He was a good man..." she wailed, "MY man!"

In the week after the funeral I was required to go and speak with an Army psychiatrist at the base hospital to see how I was handling the situation . We chatted for awhile and I told him about how much I'd enjoyed my time in Korea. I talked about teaching English, my Korean friends, and some of my adventures, but nothing about my clandestine travels to Seoul and elsewhere. I was at the beginning of my second year tour in Korea, an extension that I'd requested, and they were offering to let me out of it and return to the States. I had no inclination to serve in the Army stateside and asked to remain in Korea to the end of my commitment. I must have checked out OK because they allowed me to stay in Korea and fifteen years later I became an Army psychiatrist myself.

The Bradley Fighting Vehicle

back ramp down revealing troop compartment

Sergeant Carmichael after our Bradley broke through

the ice and got stuck during a field training exercise

PFC Long, our Bradley driver, at Aju-ma's tent

my home during field training exercises