Last Mission (Short Story)

No one was more surprised than Alex when the domestic 737 in which he was traveling split apart at 32,000 feet. No one was less surprised either, if surprise can be measured by the super-caffienated jolt of adrenaline that shot through every body alive long enough to note it. Each person got what they could handle - a kind of height, age and weight appropriate dose of shock that carried a stoic and monochromatic notice to every soul that felt it. The message was simple: “I am going to die”.

About seventy-five percent of the passengers felt nothing at all. One minute they were exhibiting their humanity by laughing, smiling, chewing, snoring, walking quickly to the restroom, reading, daydreaming, watching movies, chatting, typing and, for Elwin McAllister, even trying to fart quite silently next to a mercifully sleeping aisle-mate. In the next blink of an eye and white light they left their disintegrated, disemboweled or disfigured humanity behind to continue towards another light.

The rest of the passengers, in various states of injury ranging from deafness to missing limbs and organs to fried skin to no injuries at all emptied into the sky as the jet slowly ripped in half and each piece of the fuselage began independently tumbling through the air. The passengers sprayed out like bugs being thrown from buckets.

Alex was one of a few people not seriously physically injured. As it happened, he had set towards the rear of the careening projectile and had been rifling through his carry-on bag when the explosion occurred. The utter shock of the blast made Alex’ body reflex in the form of vomit, which was now in his eyes as he fell. He instinctively wiped them. His skin felt unfathomably cold. He held his breath at first, pushing hard in his torso and making an involuntary “nnnn” sound as he tumbled through the air.

His former military training now began to kick in, so while the “nnnn” sound continued for a few more moments, he righted himself and ceased tumbling, spreading his arms wide as if he had a parachute on, as any self-respecting Ranger would.

The few screams Alex had heard faded quickly but he could still see his fellow passengers, most still attached to their seats, some trailing pink mist, others falling limply through the sky.

As dire as the situation was for Alex, his nervous system actually calmed; his thoughts were clear and his breathing approached a normal rate, a testament to the strength of his training and his talent as a former soldier.

“I’m going down,” Alex thought incredulously and with cool-headed sarcasm, “in a goddamned commercial jet. Oh, the irony.”

Suddenly, and with great surprise to him, each and every military mission in which he had ever been involved began to flash in front of his eyes in a kind of hyper-speed slow motion, showing the scenes in excruciating detail. He attempted to blink the visions away, but was unsuccessful. He saw them all, from boot camp to his final missions in Iraq and Pakistan just before he was honorably discharged.

This review and detail was more terrifying to Alex than his impending death, he having pushed such memories to the dark corners of his mind many years ago. The reason these visions were so terrifying to Alex was because, although he had been a tremendous father, community leader, husband and businessman, he had also once been a ruthless and vengeful soldier through parts of two Gulf Wars. At the time, his actions had been justified by his simplified, young military man’s world-view. The ends had once justified the means. These necessitated making the enemy suffer, whether that meant prolonging an agonizing death, deep humiliation, torture, or simple annihilation. He had experienced a change of heart towards the end of his career that had manifested itself in a type of mercy that was confusing to himself and to those in his command, but that he had enjoyed. The damage had been done, however, in many ways; because although in his mind his more recent life was an atonement of sorts for the kind of soldier he had been, years later when the memories arose in waking or in dreamtime his stomach still soured. Why these visions would parade in front of his eyes at this moment was a question that did not enter his consciousness as he now calmly fell, but it’s a good one for us to ask.

The Universe is neither cruel nor kind, but on occasion it tends to look more the latter. For although Alex was indeed a good man, he was also about to die and would have been justified in control-breathing his way to Mother Earth with no other thoughts than, “why me” or “oh, shit”. But since that was not the case, since the steaming vengeance of his former military life had shown itself, when he saw little Olivia he was more motivated than he might otherwise have been to move into action.

Olivia, only two-and-a-half years old, fell gracelessly through the air. To her physical credit, she no longer screamed in terror, but she had not passed out, either. Alex had no way of knowing this, but his intimate knowledge of the human body and the way a live one differs from one not so endowed told him that this small person was alive. She was not far away. He knew he could get to her within a few seconds.

At 15,000 feet Alex tucked his arms and closed his legs together to make a beeline towards a terrified Olivia.

He expertly slowed his approach to the terrified toddler and at 13,000 feet grabbed her clumsily, stopping her slow tumbling. His hunch had been correct; she was alive. However, he could see that she was unable to breathe because of the wind in her face. He turned his back to the approaching earth and held her against his chest so that her face was out of the wind, allowing her to breathe more freely. He looked down at her, his left arm holding her small body tight against his while his right hand gently cradled her head. She looked into his wondering face with wide eyes from beneath his strong arms.

So that is how it came to be that Alex was found on his back in a Midwestern farmer’s field, the body of a little girl not his own in his arms, a look of sublime peace on both their faces.    

Direction directions, please...

Its 442 in the AAM. I wake when I awaken, and so here I sit, in bed. Actually, this is a relatively new experience. I used to get upset when I would wake before my alarm, which is set for 5am. But I think my body lets me know what it needs, generally. I already eat when my body tells me it's hungry, eschewing the three-meals-a-day practice that seems to be a sister to the "Hallmark holidays"; an institution that was created for reasons about which if we were informed would make us choose otherwise. I've been doing it for years, preferring to graze most of the day then eat a smallish dinner with pie, but that's another story and battle. So why wouldn't it work with sleep? If, in the middle of the day, I crash, rather than drink a Rockstar (which I do love), I curl up in my Jeep (and I mean curl up) or lay down in my luxurious F250 with the sweet bench seat and nap for as long as I need, which is hardly ever more than 20 minutes.  I awake refreshed and ready to continue my day. It's like, duh.

So here I sit, slightly earlier than would generally be my preference, but there is more.  

The mornings are times of clarity for me. Special dreams happen during this time of day before my breain gets all cluttered with the stuff of an American life. I once had a vision, and I mean a vision, of a man that appeared before me with a chanupa - a peace pipe - that changed my life, literally. Yesterday, I spend a significant amount of time pondering what I wanted in my life, since I kind of seem to get what I want, sprinkled liberally with what I need if my wants are at odds with those needs, as they have been. To wit: I live in a lovely, furnished attic where the only entry is the broken garage door and there is no kitchen. This would not have been, and is not still, my preference in many ways. But I am beginning to call this little place my temple because I've learned so much here. I needed it. It came to me when I was kind of getting sucked back into the illusion of The American Dream, and freed me again from it's grasp, at least temporarily (T.A.D. is a graspy, greedy little sucker for me, historically).

This morning was no different. I had awoke, and was wondering if my awake-ness was going to reverse itself into a lovely slumber as it sometimes does. But then a picture out of absolutely nowhere I can name appeared in my mind. It was a dream of one frame, and it flashed with a mercury-bulb explosion and faded extra slowly. And what was this mini-dream? I saw myself from behind, kneeling in the dirt. In front of me was an African woman, screaming in pain. She may have been in childbirth. I think she was. Someone I knew and loved, an Anglo woman that was a friend, was assisting her to my right. I was incredibly grateful in my vision to be helping this screaming woman. I loved her. I was with not only her, but with her whole village. This moment was the culmination of something for me, the definition of why I came to the earth, a fulfillment of my purpose, of cosmic promise.

Something about this was amazingly powerful for me and has capped off or at least added to a few substantial events in the last 24 hours. Yesterday morning, after a unique dream that featured a holy man I know that lives in Mexico, I had a powerful planning session where I began to identify with clarity where I was regarding my hopes and dreams of the past in contrast with my current situation. I took stock of my talents and my high standards regarding how I spend my day; my j.o.b. I remembered vividly my old favorite dream of sailing on the open ocean in my own boat with a woman I love, and I had never before seen her face before yesterday (don't ask who it was, I ain't tellin'). I took a bold move yesterday evening, taking the first step towards seriously pissing my boss off because I will not charge $6,700 for a furnace when my potential clients can get the same one for under $4,000, and I told them that. It's how I roll, so sue me (or fire me- which he well may, if he finds out. By the way, I'll still make a good sale based on the other work we do which I DO believe in). This was a big deal for me in some ways, because it mirrors for me the choices I made as a surgical supply salesman. It proves to me that my actions in that arena, leaving for ethical reasons among others, were no fluke, no sudden flash of consciousness or honesty. It's who I am. It was hard to do in some ways because I am barely making ends meet and I need the commission, but I did it, gladly. Then last night I went to hear my youngest daughter's choir. Afterwards, it once again became apparent to me that my ex-wife wants absolutely nothing to do with me. It has seemed to me, and does more all the time, that she would be happier if I dropped off the face of the earth since she once again conspicuously avoided any interaction at all, even eye contact. It's fine, just odd to me. She remarried well, I think, and seems happy enough otherwise. I ask the kids about her so I have their opinion, anyway. Afterwards, on the way home, I took my chanupa (I told you that dream changed my life) as I had planned beforehand to do and went into a local forested park alone. I walked through the moonlit forest without additional light to the top of the big hill that makes up the bulk of it and prayed, drummed and sang Native American prayer songs alone and loudly. It came to me that I did not know how I was to serve, what my deeper purpose here was and I prayed to know. On the way down the hill I realized that what I want the most, in the wake of not knowing the details of what I want in the future and in the face of global uncertainty, is freedom to do as I feel I should in any instant, to wrap up commitments and go, any time and anywhere. I realize now that I wrote those words yesterday during my planning session as well but had forgotten them. And then this morning, that vision.  

Here is my question. What would happen if I bagged this all? I mean, gave up the ideal of working towards "having things" and just found a way to wander this earth, loving people who have nothing and simply need love? What if I could use my talents writing (and teaching, and loving people- especially those to whom no voice is given in this world) to bring awareness to the few in my circle of influence about the realities of the truly indigent. How would I feel, alone in the dirt like the screaming woman, if no one came to my assistance? More questions: how could it work with my ex-wife and my twelve-year old daughter...how would such an act affect them? Frankly, what about child support? I don't care about a so-called "retirement". I see it as...well, not for me. I am healthy. Why wouldn't I do this, other than the probable giving up of my beloved sailboat dream?

Any thoughts would be welcome.
         

Liftoff (Poem)

Liftoff

Astronaut (in radio voice): Houston, we have a problem…

Houston: Elaborate, please?

Astronaut: I have to share rent,

I barely have enough to eat,

“They” don’t like me,

I haven’t taken a vacation in 5 years,

I can’t afford to change my own oil,

I avoid going out with friends because I can’t afford to pay,

I am in a “bad luck streak”,

I don’t feel good about myself,

I get depressed sometimes,

I feel like I’ve been a failure in my marriages, my career and in life in general...

Houston: Your present situation and observations have no bearing on your final destination. Proceed with countdown.

Astronaut: Thank you, Houston. Proceeding with countdown.  

TEN

I sense I am more powerful and beautiful than that for which I am currently giving myself credit;

NINE

I remember how much I love being around my friends, having fun with my hobbies and being free of worry;

EIGHT

I remember my innate talents - the things I was born to do well - and I remember with fondness the many times in my life I have used them to their fullest;

SEVEN

I begin to do “the small things” like exercising and meditating every day, making and fulfilling my commitments to myself and others, and dismissing negative stories about myself and others from my mind with kindness and compassion;

SIX

I surround myself with Positive like a blanket…and like a flak jacket;

FIVE

I actually enjoy sacrificing some comfort while keeping balance as I let my ideas settle on my stilling soul, like shy butterflies approaching a blossoming flower…

FOUR

I solidify flexible plans that will bring all my loves into my life in a consistent way, and that begin to make old comforters less needed and useful;  

THREE

I laugh at the whole damned process, including myself;

TWO

I put my plans into motion with compassion and wisdom and wonder;

ONE

I give thanks every day for the harvest and for the new challenges that come my way…

LIFTOFF! 

--Eric Marley, 2012

Dissatisfied - Cultural Critique

When I look at my life, I see a pattern of addictions not dissimilar to those I see every day, but that are more apparent. Take, for instance, the man walking down the street with a bulging gut, at least 75 pounds past “obese”. The man most probably has an unhealthy relationship with food. At a minimum he eats the wrong kinds of foods in the wrong quantities. The kind of obesity that he has, however, is not about a donut a week, or even a day. It’s not the donuts that are acting inappropriately. I submit that this man’s underlying problem is the word, “enough”. Now, I am not judging any man in particular, and I know that there are people in the world with health issues such that they are unable to regulate their weight. And if you’re one of those people, I am not talking to you…yet. Let’s leave off this man, and go to another segment of society, the adrenaline junkie. I think this disorder gained popularity with the MTV crowd in the mid 90’s. Suddenly, more speed, X-Games stunts, Jackass antics and crazier daredevil “sports” such as slacklining, free-climbing, flying suits and base-jumping, not to mention ultra-marathoning, extreme water sports, mountain biking and ever-wilder snow sports became standard fare for young people. Suddenly it wasn’t enough for Travis Pastrana to flip his motorcycle in the X-Games, he had to double-flip it to win, at the peril of his life (by his own words). I have known many young people, myself to a lesser extent included, that didn’t feel “alive” unless they were performing yet another death-defying – or serious injury inducing – stunt. Think about that. They / we didn’t feel alive…unless we were doing…something…other than…what we would normally be…doing. In other words, my “non-doing” state is inferior to my “doing” state. This feeling often chased me when I was just spending time with my children, I shamefully admit. What is the message when we as individuals or as a culture are under this burden? It is that this (life, or the current moment) is not enough. We crave more, just like the donut man. And, like the donut man, since we are generally talking about “adults” there is no one to stop us, other than responsibilities, and sometimes not even those. Until we die of a heart attack or lose a spouse or a job (or start one too many wars), the addiction just grows.

I became acquainted with meditation on a general basis in 2008. As I worked into it, I began to see some disturbing trends in my own mind. I began to see that, although I had dedicated my life to what I “knew” was a valid spiritual path, I was constantly dissatisfied, that an answer to my prayers or desires were never enough. I saw that as soon as one prayer or desire was answered, even in the affirmative, I was off to the next desire, sometimes with barely an acknowledgement of the first one. During meditative journeys, I saw my mind from the third person, jumping wildly from one “thing” to the next. I perceived that this mind could never, ever be satisfied, worlds without end. I extrapolated this condition to the world around me and came to the conclusion that everything, from our lust for power (petroleum, electrical, financial, sexual and governmental) to our lust for “the biggest burger” to our lust for violence, extreme games, et al., was a result of a dissatisfied mind; a mind that said “not enough” or “something else”, all the time. I noticed that if I had the self-determination to meditate for only 30 minutes a day, 15 minutes in the am and the pm, I could gain just a little control over that mind and that constant dissatisfaction, merely by noticing that it was there.  It was the importance of this truth to me that helped push me away from my of way of thinking about religion into a new way. If I wasn’t being taught this there, what else really mattered? Suddenly I saw the beauty in small things; raindrops on leaves, people walking to work, a deep blue sky, a withered old tree, a resting dog. I began, just a little, to not need as much stimulation.

Unfortunately, I also learned that this practice was not a cure-all; that I was being held accountable without excuse, for all I thought and did. I saw that if I quelled one “desire” in one area, another just as strong popped up in another. It was like trying to squeeze a lump out of a balloon; no matter where I squeezed, it popped up somewhere else. So if I controlled my temper that day, if (and only if) it had been a struggle, I found myself overeating like a mad dog, unconsciously, just before bed. Or if I meditated in the morning, I would often decide to skip it in the evening and just watch a movie instead, sparing myself the work because it was “not enough” to make me satisfied. I had not, and still have not, learned to be still in every instance- or even very many.

That is where I am today, and I don’t know anyone well that is not in the same boat to one extent or another. I do feel like I have made some progress on this path to satisfaction, to contentment. I can unplug far more easily than I was once able to in situations that would once have pushed me right over some edge. But all too often, I take the way that is easier because I want, because I desire, because I haven’t had “enough” yet. The balloon still bulges, the craving for something other than what I have still tugs.

Now where are those donuts?  Or should I grab my meditation pillow? That is my struggle.   

Committed (Poem)

Committed

I stood alone

With the opportunity laid before me.

I understood it

I comprehended my own situation

And I saw the risk -

The gap

Between the reward

And the moment.

And I, as a cliff diver

Stepped to the edge of the rock;

And I, as a soldier

Kicked in the door;

And I, as a surgeon

Took the scalpel in hand;

And I, as a man in love

Looked into her eyes;

And I, as a surfer

Paddled for the wave;

And I, as an addict

Put the needle back down;

And I, as the keynote speaker

Walked to the stand;

And I, as a peer

Said “no”;

And I, as a patriot

Stood in the assembly;

And I, as a writer

Hit “send”;

And I, as a seeker of a better way

Committed.

--Eric Marley

May 2011

Bang For Our Bux?

Karzai said that his country would back Pakistan if the US were to engage in war with them. Let me say that again...Afghanistan president Karzai said that his country would back Pakistan if the US were to engage in war with them.

Exactly what are we getting for the lives of our young men? Didn't Pat Tillman die over there? Didn't we mourn him? What about the hundreds of other men and women who have died in this conflict, or been otherwise irreparably harmed?

Here's a thought. Get the living hell out of world politics, US; at least militarily. The world is a complex place. Our government wants it's citizenry to believe this is 1942 all over again; the big bad (insert big bad -and possibly once supported by the US - "terrorist organization" or state here) have invaded another country, killed it's own people, farted in our general direction or some other unforgivable sin. Therefore we send our properly propagandized young men over there to - insert Texas drawl - "take care of some biddness" (spit tobacco now...good boy). Once we have defeated the other side, with a minimum of casualties and only a small amount of meaningless "collateral damage" (forbid the press from covering the bombed schools or hospitals or crying mothers), we will march back here while our Commander in Chief flies a jet to the conquered nation to be greeted by hoards of squealing fans and an adoring, cooperative, non-farting new government. Our young men come back to get jobs because, after all, they joined the military to "protect OUR freedoms" and gain an education that is immediately transferable and marketable. At least that's what the nice recruiter told them. (see http://www.veteransbenefitsgibill.com/2011/07/19/veteran-unemployment-rates/; http://www.stltoday.com/business/local/article_ffb4747a-9842-5e9e-890d-30ab51732c4c.html; NOT CNN, MSNBC, FOX, etc.)

Look, I'm not going to pretend that this is anything but a rant. This covers far too many beefs and is barely coherent. But the deal is this: it is, once again, the utmost in arrogance for us to believe in this day and age that there are cut and dried military missions of this scale, other than protecting our own borders against attack. For us to invade another country, even one under siege by it's own despots committing indescribable acts against its own people with the idea that we will replace this ruler with another and that it will be ok, is ridiculous. For us to do it in the name of oil is even worse, and far more common. Are we to turn a blind eye towards such things? Nope. Of course not. But we need to find other ways to support people in these situations, including setting up and funding decent, well-stocked refugee camps in countries bordering the troubled ones, and helping people from there. Is this perfect? Nope. I would LOVE to be able to solve the world's problems, but we are not going to, ever. And in the process, we spend billions, damage the lives of our own and go broke in the process, while our own people stand around unemployed, homeless, in prison and uninsured. We can't do it all. And in the end, we look more like the world's slaves than the world leader, until we are not even that (already happened).

Let's find other ways to assist those who would like to live in a democratic society. Let's stop invading other countries, setting up governments and pretending that this is anything other than a grab for real-estate that has oil under it's sand. Let's instead put those resources to work buying back the technologies that were bought up and buried by big auto-makers and big oil; let's incentivize innovation with regards to fuel types, sources and technology. Let's stop relying on once-ousted rulers - which Karzai was - to be loyal to us while the blood of our young men bleeds into their sand. We can do better. We deserve a better return on our money, and our blood, than this.      

And suddenly, the war ends...

Anyone else see a connection between the Occupy movement and the seemingly sudden declaration by Obama to bring the troops home by the end of the year?

I'm sure it's just a coincidence.

Depth, The Story of a Man (Prose...true story)

Once I experienced a vision wherein I saw a man walking up and down mountains, valleys and plains with a heavy burden on his back. I felt the depth of this man's loneliness on so many levels that I believed (and still do) that it was me in some other plane. The man had no one in the world. If he ever saw another human being it was from a distance. His job was to wander, to live, to survive.

I wrote this poem to illustrate to an extent what I felt.

Depth, The Story of a Man

He sat alone

With his back to the mouth of a cave.

The cave, new to him,

Was in the middle of a cliff

Halfway up the face

Of a rock wall

Inhabited only by wild sheep

And eagles.

It was early evening

In early autumn;

A fire cast a warm glow

Behind him

So that

If human eyes were to look up

From the valley

Far below

They would see

The silhouette of a man

Illuminated by the fires

Of hell.

But human eyes would never see

This man.

The clothes the man wore

Slung across his back

Were the same the elk wore

When it was alive

The teeth the man wore

Around his neck

Were the same the bear wore

When it bared them at the man

For the last time.

There was a sense of Depth

(For that was his name);

Of unending

Space-like

Loneliness? 

Not exactly…

Emptiness?

Not exactly…but closer

Which pervaded his very Being.

The man

Silhouetted by fire

Enshrouded by increasing dark

Smelled the flesh

Of the yearling he had killed

On the way to the cave.

The smell was his company

It made him feel

Not lonely.

It was enough.

And it was not enough.

Under hooded eyes

The man saw the last of the

Evidence

Of the sun

Sucked down greedily

By the mountain on the other side

Of the impossibly deep canyon

Out of which

He had breathlessly climbed.

Somewhere inside of himself

Something wilder than he

Gulped a deep, throaty

Lungful of air

And howled.

But Depth, the man

Was barely cognizant of the anguished howl

Of the thing inside him.

Instead, he removed something

From under his cloak;

It was a piece of cloth

A sash, dyed with blood-

The blood of a human-

And he looked at it.

There had been a woman, once

She had been his match in many ways

She had been greater than he in others.

For She heard things

Before he even knew

They existed;

A bird, a wolf, an oncoming storm…

For instance,

Depth would be walking like he did

On feet wrapped in many layers

To soften his step

With She next to him

Barefoot.

Depth would notice

That he was suddenly alone

And would look for She

With a degree of consternation.

And he would find her

Making a fire

And cutting branches for a shelter

Under a crystalline sky.

At first when this would happen

Depth would stand silently nearby

And frown.

But more than once

The sky opened

And fire flashed across

Great growling, boiling clouds

And water came from all directions

But not so much

In the shelter…

So Depth had been grateful

For her wisdom-

The wisdom of She.

She had said that the Earth and the Sky

Told her things

Many times

That only a silent person

Could ever know.

Depth had often wondered what she meant

Since he seldom spoke

But he never heard

What She heard.

Now She was gone

And his thoughts raged

And tore.

Depth had wandered

For seventy three years

After the passing of She

Before he found the new cave.

He never saw another human being.

He ate roots and raw meat.

His voice descended into growls.

If he used it at all.

The whites of his eyes

Turned red.

His grey hair stood on end.

His scars ached

And multiplied.

The night he found the new cave

He lay down in it

And

Slept

Hard.

When he awoke, it was dark outside

And the fire was low

But it was light in the cave where he was.

In the light was She.

She said nothing

But waited for him

With her arms outstretched.

   

He felt peace for the first time.

Depth’s bones still lay in the new cave.

If you were to find them

You would see the teeth from the bear

And the teeth from the man

And you would find

Somehow preserved

The red sash

That had been dyed with her blood;

The blood

Of She.

--Eric Marley

October 2011

Natives, The Dominant Race, and Now

It occurred to me that there is probably a reason that Native people were to be approached with caution by Old World explorers. I mean, they might kill you, maybe even eat you. That's reason enough. The question is, why would they do either? They are human beings, presumably acquainted with human qualities such as love at least towards one another, compassion, capable of rational thought. So if I, as the captain of a ship anchored offshore, step onto the sand of an unknown beach from my skiff and brown-skinned people appear from the forest... why would I have reason to fear retribution for that act?

Maybe it's just that they are human, so they fear the unknown. OK, so they don't know what the hell the new guy is wearing on his head, why he's so pale, and what he drove to the beach.

"We should kill him and find out what he is and do a little autopsy on him. And then roast him up while the drums pound."  

Fear is no excuse for that kind of behavior, native dudes. Or is it?

Maybe they have things "just so" and don't want to mess with a situation that has served them and this is a potential threat. Still not enough reason, in my opinion. Then again, maybe they've heard that new visitors in the area have carried disease, been violent morally as well as sexually, disrespectful of native mores and religion. They've destroyed lives and livlihoods and environments. Maybe whether or not the new guy lives or dies is literally a matter of life and death, of "him or me/us".

Is that rational? I don't mean to us, I mean to THEM. It depends on their frame of reference, what they know and have experienced, doesn't it? From a human perspective, if they have never heard of a "dominant race" other than themselves as dominant over most animals -often not sharks or pumas; if they are just killing because this is a different "thing that has appeared", I don't know that that is rational, even for primitive people (of course I am not connected with their spirituality, legends and mores, and I've never been a primitive person...well that's up for debate maybe). BUT...the first time they have heard horror stories of what the "white man" has done to neighboring villages, and we all know the stories, suddenly they look like idiots if they DON'T stick the explorer's head on a stick, don't they? I mean, why subject your children and yourselves to that kind of abuse when things are fine the way they are (not to the white guy's standards, but to native ones)?

What does this have to do with what is going on in the world right now?

I'll let you figure it out.

Welcome To My Nightmare...

This is about the stupidest, most random blog you'll ever read. It's just my own thoughts when I get them and have time to write them down. I am doing this on a public forum (potentially), so I can be held accountable philosophically.

I am a radical person in damned near every way. Spiritually, financially (take huge risks that pay off - used to - or not.) and politically and environmentally. I have views that would get me locked up via the Patriot Act, guaranteed. I don't care. I will not be silent. Sometimes I will write a sentence, sometimes a poem, sometimes a rant. This is not for anyone other than myself, but I will let people know it's out there so I can get commentary if people can actually read this stuff.

Good luck.