Loser

I found it in the library’s culled CD stack and slid a dollar bill into the slot of the wooden collection box on the wall to claim it as my own.  It was a purely nostalgic purchase tied to the first song listed on the back of the case, “Loser” by Beck.  The album came out in 1994, the year I graduated from college and left with a friend to drive to his home on Staten Island where we spent a few days taking ferry-driven jaunts over to Manhattan before I flew out solo from Newark to explore Europe for the summer.  

A quarter century has passed since that trip and I am now less than a month away from turning fifty.  My hair is receding from the high tide mark of my 20’s and my beard is mottled with gray like dried moss on a beach.  I realize only now how surprisingly similar I looked back then to the picture of Beck on the back cover (see below): thin Caucasian male, long wavy hair nearly shoulder length, and a penchant for long sleeved t-shirts.  

***

I landed at Gatwick Airport outside of London with my Army surplus backpack full of power bars, a change of clothes, a book or two, and wearing my trusty pair of Birkenstock sandals.  The customs official was a young attractive female who looked me up and down as a straggly American washed up on the shores of her island.  Her presentation started out professional but quickly transitioned to curt when I was not playing the game right.  

“Where will you be staying?” She asked.

“Uh, all over I guess.”

“How long do you plan to stay?”

“Uh, I’m not sure.”  I wasn’t expecting these types of questions.  I was time and itinerary-free, not thinking that might be a problem.

“Where will you be leaving from?”

I seriously wasn’t stonewalling her, but she stopped after that question when it became clear I would simply be wondering throughout England and Europe with no plan of where I would go or when I would be planning to return to the United States.  She looked at me, looked at my passport, stamped it and handed it back to me with what might have been a kind of exasperated grin.  As the Bryan Adams song says, I was “young and wild and free.”

There was a week or two in London then Paris before I started to realize that Western Europe was draining my money too fast and so I got a bus ticket to Bratislava, Slovakia where my best friend from college, Shane, was working with a group of other college students to spread the gospel of free markets with some Jesus sprinkled on top for good measure.

During the month I spent there we visited a club or two to include one that was an old bunker burrowed into the base of a mountain, like a large cave with curved walls that likely served as an air raid shelter during the Communist era.  It was known as the “U Club” (the U pronounced like in “zoo”).  There was a live band and a middle-aged plainclothes policeman who was drunk and asking us if we were there selling drugs.  We had a hard time convincing him that we were there just to have fun.  We yelled back and forth over the music, half in English and half in what Slovak Shane could muster after having lived there for about a year.  He finally decided to leave us alone when he spied a very attractive young female on the dance floor who was gyrating in a kind of ecstasy with her eyes closed.  He sauntered off to dance with her despite the fact she was ignoring everyone around her.

Another person I remember from the U Club was a young lady who spent much of the night staggering around with a drink in hand, a Bohemian caricature trying to be the center of attention.  At some point she was lying on her back half on and half off the stage where the band was playing.  Her head and arms dangled upside down, like a rag doll tossed onto a countertop in danger of falling off.  We saw her again a week or two later in one of the city plazas, drunk and calling out for “vino!” always a young man watching out for her like a reluctant bodyguard.  Such a sad, lost soul.

And then there was “Charlie’s”, a club named after Charlie Chaplin that sported his likeness in a large black and white mural over the entrance.  It was night and there were a lot of people milling around the front of the building to include a young man named Boris.  Boris was from Poland, prematurely balding, and eager to rub shoulders with us American expats (well at least my friend was an expat.  I was more of an interloper).  He brought us into his confidence and talked about how dangerous it was these days in Eastern Europe with the fall of the iron curtain.  To emphasize his point he waved us in closer in a kind of conspiratorial manner and pulled his jacket back to reveal a revolver tucked into his pants.  Shane and I exchanged a brief look of alarm and quickly came up with an excuse as to why we had to leave, but Boris was not so easily dismissed.  He insisted we should meet up again and to placate him we agreed to a date, time, and place to hang out again.  With this we parted and disappeared into the crowd.

At some point we made our way into the club where the music was pumping so loud you had to yell at people to be heard.  Shane and I got separated briefly and when he found me again he had an Asian college student in tow.  He was pointing to her and yelling something that ended up being “she’s Korean!”  I’d spent two years in Korea and he thought this would be a great way to make a connection with an attractive stranger.  We put our heads close to each other and yelled out a conversation in which I learned she’d been adopted as a baby by a Swedish family.  She did not speak Korean nor had she visited Korea.  “I’m Swedish,” she said matter-of-factly.  I encouraged her to visit Korea for no other reason than I thought she should.  We did not “click” which I now realize was because I was trying to force her into a category that she didn’t really fit in to and so we melted back into the mayhem in opposite directions.

That’s when the song dropped.  It was “Loser” by Beck.  I instantly felt my head bobbing as I started hopping in place to that funky phat beat and a silly grin spread across my face.  My long wavy locks bounced and whipped as my head swung from side to side and my body spun.  It was a kind of abandon to lose myself in a song at a time when I was far from home and trying to find myself.  Self-consciousness fell away.  After all, I was a loser, baby, so why don’t you kill me (Boris?).

Speaking of Boris, we did not meet him at the agreed upon rendezvous spot and some time later we were unfortunate enough to run into him again.  He was visibly upset and told us it was “not cool” to promise to meet him and then not show up.  I do not remember how we extricated ourselves from Boris a second time but I do remember it was exceedingly awkward.  It seems Boris was the loser and “you can’t get it right if you can’t relate” as the song says.

***

Now my balding head bobs in a nerdy Subaru with Loser bumping on the speakers while scenes of my small midwestern town slide by outside the windows.  Snow is in the forecast.

Bottom of a Well

At the bottom of a well

the circle of light above

looks small and moon-like.

I need a rocket ship for

rescue, but when that 

is not forthcoming

a friend will have to do,

and the humility to

accept the help offered.

***

Te Deum

The click of plastic CD cases 

sets a cadence for musical exploration

in the used CD shop on Kirkwood.

The novelty of digital sound is still 

a relatively new and exciting experience for

those who grew up on cassette tapes.

I am in the jazz section ploughing 

through some John Coltrane 

feeling a love supreme when

I suddenly come full stop on 

“Te Deum” somehow misplaced 

in this part of the shop.

It is my Russian friend who made 

high recommendation of Arvo Pärt

and the name itself has me intrigued.

I hurry home and pop it into the player.

The lush yet sparse music penetrates me

like an existential dagger.

It is like a small hole has appeared

in the fabric of space-time revealing the 

Kingdom that was, and is, and is to come,

Amen.

***

Couch in my Pocket

I want a couch in my pocket

that I can pull out whenever 

I need, cup it in my hands,

and with a few warm puffs

it expands to full size, poof.

No water needed just moist

air from deep inside my chest

that makes necessity of want

in a world that is too much.

Pardon me, I must lie down.

***

Grace is a Pale Blue Orb

Grace is a pale blue orb

offered by selfless hands,

received into an open heart.

Like the earth seen from the moon,

the depths of its beauty can 

only be imagined in part.

It is life, it is love, 

it is a death that frees one from dying,

passed from the Divine to us all

(parent to child)

but if that chain is broken by some terrible tragedy

it can still be found through the hole 

that has formed from our suffering.

***

The Library across the Street

He hangs out

on a bench 

at the library

with all his 

belongings

in a bag.

It’s not necessarily

good or bad

happy or sad

just an example

of a world

gone mad.

Be sure to 

say “hi” when

you pass by.

They’re people

just the same

as you and I.

***

The Reckoning of Now

When things have been rough 

(and they’ve been rough recently) 

I’ve had the tendency to escape 

in my mind to the past, to what 

I would consider happier times.  

Today it strikes me that this is 

a highly selective and greatly 

illusory process that  allows me 

to hide from myself...

my failings, 

my shortfalls, 

and pockets of downright dysfunction.  

Who can save us from ourselves?  

It’s like sharing a foxhole 

with an enemy combatant 

while the war rages all around.  

Can I look with pity on this man that is me?  

As much as I want to separate myself from him?  

Is this what it means to love one’s enemies?  

There is truly only the reckoning of now.

***

In Search of the Night Kastle

The feather lay half in and half out of shadow,

clean and dry, molted, not torn free or bloodied.

A sigh of relief escapes his cachectic form as he

wades forth through bands of light and dark.

It is soft and downy, smelling of melancholy,

promising a long awaited reunion of father and son.

His own wings had failed him long ago from disuse 

leaving him to wander on foot to find what he had lost.

The Night Kastle beckons as the place he’d left the boy 

young and wingless within its walls, a place of protection

against dangers both real and imagined in the  

slanted lands where only shadows grow.

The Distorted Image

Far from Home

The interplanetary locum tenens recruiter had really talked up Mars as a plum position for a working psychiatrist. “Lots of lonely people out there, Dr. Monk. Depression rates are high, not to mention a steady stream of trauma victims from the asteroid mining operations.”

Dr. Monk was seriously considering the offer.  Nothing had panned out for him on earth: a failed marriage, estranged from his kids, that indiscretion...  And Mars had the most infrastructure of all the hitherto inhabited planets from the outward expansion.

He was not really a nature guy anyhow, preferring the cold clean lines of metal and glass, plastic being about the most supple thing he could tolerate (there was plenty of that on Mars).  He was sure to be paid handsomely to self-exile from a crowded mother Earth.

The trip was made in suspended animation, dream-free, and therefore instantaneous.  Being a bit on the socially-averse side he was not one to venture out much and so the transition was a smooth one, from one hermetically sealed structure to another 50 million kilometers away.

Scrubbed air circulated pleasantly through the endless corridors smelling like absolutely nothing.  A deep hum permeated everything and made for a kind of calming white noise, but now that he was here something deep inside him sensed that he was far from home.

The Fox

I sat heavily at the base of the tree as my body began to fail me and shut down one vital organ at a time until all that was left was a kind of vision or sighted-awareness that pulled me through the orbs of my eyeballs like a man jumping through the portal of a sinking ship.

There was no one around to observe the dissolution of the processes of my physical existence much less the escape of what was left, but something must have been signaled by my demise as a figure coalesced from the shadow of leaves darkening the forest floor.

I saw if not sensed its dark profile, a large curving nose coming to a point like the blade of a scythe and I felt a chill run down my spine that no longer existed in this disembodied state.  The man-shape approached with what appeared to be a confidence mixed with caution.

I sat there defenseless, no arms to raise, no legs to run, no mouth to shout, just my naked being quivering in a timeless space or a spaceless time, confused and unclear as to the rules of the game once one has crossed over from life to death, or different-life as it were.

My fear appeared to embolden the thing as it drew substance and form from it, undulating in odd proportions though retaining an overall humanoid appearance with predatory eyes the color of obsidian looking to encase me in their cold and dark malevolence.  

When all hope seemed lost a fox came trotting down the path, its red fur flickering through the shafts of light that pierced the forest canopy.  It locked eyes with the shadow-form as it stepped into full sun and burst ablaze, then charged and leapt without hesitation.

On impact the shadow splintered into a murder of crows scattering to find refuge in the tree tops far from the fox.  He turned his cool blue eyes my way and I knew in an instant it was my son who had passed over before me as a child, now an unlooked for savior.

And I saw my body reclining against the tree amongst the Autumn leaves.  It had carried me far along the path of this earthly existence, but I was happy to leave it to be reunited with the red-headed boy who I’d helped bring to life, and he had returned the favor.

***

This Moment is a Mystery

This moment is a mystery

shunned by the mind

which cannot control it.

The past is different.

It is stored and manipulated,

an intellectual playground.

The future is also there 

to be grappled with as anxiety,

a fantasy of could-be’s. 

But this moment is a mystery

over which the mind is powerless

and so it wants to be anywhere but now.

***

Watch it Burn Away

It feels like it’s time to go deeper.  

I’m not sure what this means, 

but there are times that I get 

sated on superficial concerns 

to the point I want to puke 

it all out and start all over.  

But maybe it’s just that I’m 

at the point to go deeper,  

not giving in to winsome wants 

and instead exploring that strange 

and neglected realm of needs.  

Why is it so hard to distinguish the two?  

It is a stark and beautiful landscape 

free of clutter and scattered trash.  

The air is clear and clean there

though I am quite fond of pollution

like the sweet smell of gas that pools 

on the ground reflecting many colors.

But I need to light it on fire and watch it burn away.

***

The Shadow Giant

This is a story about a story that was written when I was a young infantryman in Korea.  As the story of the story goes, I was on CQ duty one night some time in the winter of ‘92 which required me to sit at our headquarter’s main desk all night long, man the phones for any emergencies, clean, and initiate “first call” at 5am by knocking on everyone’s door in the barracks to get the training day started.  I was a PFC (private first class) at the time and a sergeant was required to be with me, though that just meant he would watch VHS movies until around midnight and then doze off on the couch in the common area until morning while I did pretty much everything else.

In one of the back rooms there was a computer and printer which I seem to recollect was the Training NCO’s office.  When I was sure the sergeant was fast asleep I snuck in there and fired up the computer which took awhile.  I pulled up the word processing program (WordPerfect) using some DOS commands that I was familiar with from my time in college prior to dropping out to join the Army.  I had hatched the idea to write a story and this was my only chance to get it printed out with the help of a dot matrix printer.  I was not sure how much time I would have before someone might find me out, so I got to typing.

The story I had in mind was inspired by an incident that happened on one of my many clandestine weekend trips to Seoul.  On a particular Saturday night I was in Myeongdong which was a famous shopping area in the city.  I was not there for the shopping though, but to visit a famous Catholic cathedral that sat on a hilltop at the end of the main street.  It was built of brick over one hundred years ago by masons brought in from China.  It was a place I liked to visit from time to time to just sit and think about things.  It emanated a kind of peace that was a respite from the city’s hubbub and the stress of being a soldier in a foreign country.  Behind the cathedral was a statue of Mary in a small grotto with a couple of rows of benches in front of it for people to sit and pray.  Around her feet were strewn flowers brought by mostly elderly Korean women and some partially consumed candles.

I was there fairly late at night and no one else was around.  I found a match amongst the items left there and decided to strike it and light one of the candles.  After I lit the candle I turned to go and sit on the front bench, but was startled to perceive movement high up on the back wall of the cathedral.  I froze and the movement stopped.  It took a moment with my heart pounding in my ears to realize the movement was my own shadow being projected in gargantuan proportions on the walls by the candle behind me.  

So, this is where the story began as I sat in that back office trying to be quiet and not awaken the snoozing sergeant while I typed.

In the story I see the giant shadow and I am thinking about my Korean friend with whom I’ve come to feel a good deal of affection.  It was a time in my life where I’d physically disconnected myself from my family, friends, and even country to bide my time overseas for God-knows-what reason by joining the Army.  The melancholy could be crushing at times.  In the story I experience a great burst of feeling and frustration from that melancholy and exit my body to inhabit the giant shadow, becoming in essence a shadow giant.  I stand to my full height and gaze out over the sprawling city and my eye is drawn to the glow of Seoul Tower sitting atop Yongsan mountain which is the highest point in the city.  I am north of it and, incidentally, the headquarters for the US Army in Korea is situated on its south side.  I lumber that way in large strides feeling out this strange new body until I am atop the mountain and grasping the tower like a sign post.  

Throughout the story I am weaving in comments about spiritual parallels, sometimes using metaphors, sometimes being more concrete.  Also interspersed are small paragraphs of commentary about this girl, her family, how we met, and the challenges faced in being from two very different cultures and me as a military interloper as well.  There seems to be an overarching theme of helplessness which I guess, in retrospect, is aptly captured in being so large yet so insubstantial.

From the mountain top I spy the large dark patch of land that is Seoul Olympic Park south of the Han River outlined by the lights of bordering neighborhoods and office buildings.  I descend from the mountain at a run and clear the river in one massive leap landing in the open grassy fields of the park.  Her neighborhood is not far from this place and I get on my shadowy hands and knees to try and find her house with the help of landmarks and subway stops that I’d used when merely a tiny human.  At this point in the story I try to add some realism by having a drunken reveler weaving his way home glance up and almost make out my features in what appears to be a low lying cloud to him.  We lock eyes, he shakes his head vigorously to clear the vision, and then stumbles on.

At last I identify her house and notice her second story bedroom window light is on even though it is past midnight.  I am able to crouch down low enough to see her small form lying in bed with one giant eye.  She is still in her daytime clothes as she has been working into the night to prepare for celebrating the Lunar New Year coming up with her family and has collapsed into bed and fallen asleep.  At this point it gets overly gushy as I describe her as likely dreaming and possibly sensing my presence.  She then suddenly looks very sad (something about a “furrowed brow”) and I wonder if she is “hearing the splash of my giant tears.”  

Oy vey, so dramatic!  It is embarrassing even writing about it 25 years after the fact, but I wish I’d written more and captured so much more of my experiences as a restless traveler over the years.  I was too critical of an editor and quickly abandoned most attempts to write anything more than a letter or e-mail.  The few stories that did get written down (or typed out if a computer was available) were lost in so many moves or the obsolescences of evolving computer disk technology.  

But there is this one.  The story of a story.  An attempt to catch a glimpse of my younger self, perhaps.

***