I make a Startling Discovery: I like to write.
Recently I did a freewriting exercise, which I am posting to the prose section of the site. The topic involved an imaginary scenario, in which, ten years from now, I am at a signing event for my latest book, and someone asks me what prompted me to write some particular thing.

I strayed from the topic a bit, but the results were interesting. I don?t think I have ever really asked myself why I write. Having now asked the question, I was surprised to find out what the answer was.

Go ahead and read the story at the bottom of the page. It is titled, "The Signing". I?ll wait.


Do you think they read it?
I hope so, or else what comes next won?t make near as much sense.



I hope you enjoyed it. Mrs. E. Poet said she thought it was my best work so far. That wasn?t what I sent you to the story for, though. It was the marble/ball-bearing thing.

I have been stupid in my life on many occasions. I have been deluded in many ways over the years of my life. I have lacked self-awareness to the point that I failed to notice simple, fundamental requirements of biology, such as the need to eat, until others around me have had to draw my attention to the fact that I have not lifted my head from my current project for ten or more hours. But this simple truth utterly stunned me. I watched, dumbfounded, as the words fell from my hands and on to the screen. It was as if I had been hiding this knowledge from myself for the past slightly-more-than-a-decade, which is the last time I did any writing on a professional basis.

So, the truth comes out. You realize, I hope, that this is more than you have ever told anyone that reads this site.

That?s not true. I have told three (3) other people.

No, you haven?t. You have told two (2), and one of them is not a regular reader. The third person knows more about you than the other two, but you neglected to mention that you had ever written professionally.

Well, my hand is going to be forced soon, anyway. Now, can I continue?

Oh, yes! Please do! I can?t wait to see where you are going with this.

I really hate it when my inner monologue cops an attitude with me.

If you have read any of my stuff from the past few years, you know that I don?t write for money. Even when I actually made a living at writing, I didn?t do it for the money. (It?s complicated. If you want details, drop me a note and I will go over it.) If that were the case, I imagine I would be a lot thinner. I am also not one to buy into flattery, being rather serious about the whole ?pursuit of humility? thing. So when people have told me that I should look into getting published, or pursuing this on a more lucrative level, I generally dismissed the idea.

However, this changes things. With this realization, I can start writing something more substantial and know, without a doubt, that I am not doing it for either my ego or my wallet, but because it is one of the many things that for which, it seems, God has given me a talent.

A long time ago, when I was in college, I started a novel. I got, if I remember correctly, three chapters into the project before I decided it was too much of a distraction from my musical career. Another thing I remember about the project is that it was absolute drivel. I had so little life experience from which to draw a plot, and so little knowledge of people from which to construct realistic characters, that I cringe at the thought of anyone reading it now. But, then again, I cringe at a lot of things I did at that age. The third thing I remember about that document is that I have a copy of it in a briefcase in my basement. I have no intention of completing that particular story, but I may see if I can wrestle it a bit, to work on my characterization skills, and put a bit in the Prose section.

Regardless, I have decided that it is time to do more writing. I don?t know exactly how, but I do know that it will mean some changes to this site. It may also mean that I have to come out from behind the curtain. If I am going to write seriously, I don?t want someone picking up something from this site, calling it their own, then accusing me of plagiarism if I use one of the characters, situations, or even a stanza of verse, in something else down the road.

In the interim, do stay tuned. Things are, I imagine, going to start getting rather interesting once I make it back to my homeland.

Rain
I stood in the rain last night.

It was rather poetic in and of itself, actually. I was standing in the rain, in the night, in Baghdad. In spite of warnings to the contrary, I was without armour, without helmet, without escort. The rain was cold, and light, but steady. It was, for all practical purposes, a flood. My friends in the Aviation community told us that we could expect as much as 5 cm in one day, which, according to these guys is more than this area usually receives in a year. I wonder what that says about God's opinion of Operation Iraqi Freedom?

I love rain. Rain is the great intensifier. Rain makes hard work all the more difficult. It makes a quiet evening at home all the more peaceful. It makes a dangerous situation all the more dangerous. If one wants pass the time in sport, playing in the rain makes sport more intense (unless you play baseball, in which case rain makes you go home and return to your needlepoint). If you are going to sleep, rain on the roof will make you sleep all the more deeply.

There are those who cancel their activities because of rain. Personally, I extend them. Picnics, trips to the zoological society, and other simple outdoor functions are perfect for rainy days, because the crowds are subdued. Concerts are wonderful in the rain, if proper electrical precautions are made. There is nothing quite like playing for a crowd in the rain, knowing that these, who have gathered in spite of the elements, are the real, hardcore fans, and watching them dance and cheer as the rain falls. When I have the chance to play for a crowd in the rain, I play until they are ready to leave, or the venue owner says we have to shut down.

So here, when the rain falls, soft and cold, I find a way to get outside. It is during these walks, during which I am certain people are questioning my sanity, that I think the most about my home and family. They are always in my thoughts, of course, but the urgency of my work can distract me, and takes the edge off the longing. When I stand in the rain, and all around is what passes for peaceful and still in this war, meaning that I tune out the explosives and small arms fire and listen to the sound of the rainfall, that is when my feelings for my family and my homeland are also intensified. In those moments, the responsibility starts to get heavy, and I start to think I am never going to be finished saving the world. But just before it gets to be too heavy for me to bear, I remember what Mrs. E. Poet told me, as I picked up my duffle and prepared to go out the door. ?We know that you are one of the forces for Good in this world, and where other men have abandoned their families for no reason at all, you go to make this world a better place for us. And when you go to save the world, we send you with the love and support that you need. In that way, we are saving the world, too. So go, save the world, and come back to enjoy this world with your wife and your sons.?

She is a remarkable woman, indeed.

Merry Christmas.
Now GET BACK TO WORK!!!!!
Well, it's over.

Christmas is one of my favorite times of year. I love the weather. I love the music. I love the change in people's attitudes. People are desperate to do things for other people at Christmastime. Yeah, they get a little crazy with the shopping, but at least, for a few moments, they think a little bit less about themselves and a little more about others.

Charities, so I am told, do well this time of year. People throw money into buckets for the good of people that don't have as much.

However, Christmas is different out here. Shopping, naturally, is limited. It's hard to jump in the car and run out to the mall when there isn't a mall. Even harder when the car is an M1 tank or a Blackhawk helicopter. The explosives don't exactly make for a convenient trip, either. We get our gift-giving done for the folks back home, though, either by shopping online or asking people to pick things up for us. We even get a few things for each other.

Decorations abound. Carols are both sung and played. The boxes of gifts and baked items from home have arrived, and are being shared amongst us all. Mass, service, or whatever observance anyone makes of the religious aspects of the season are observed thoroughly. Every effort has been made to ensure that Baghdad has a Merry Christmas.

And therein lies the problem.

You have all, I am sure, been in situations where someone was just trying too hard. Sometimes, things are, for whatever reason, not normal. And there are those who accept that things are not normal and go on. Then there are those who insist on trying to act like everything is normal. Rather like tossing a tablecloth over the meteor that has just come crashing through your roof and now sits smouldering in your living room, so that you can carry on with Uncle Henry's 58th Birthday dinner.

Only this isn't just "not normal". "Not normal" is your cousin Mike bringing his new girlfriend over for Christmas Dinner, when she used to be married to your Cousin Frank. "Not normal" is when Grandma has spent her savings on breast implants and has worn a particularly low-cut dress to Mass to show off her "presents". In Baghdad, people are lobbing explosives at me. People have taken an oath that either I will die, or they will. There are people that believe that their status in Eternity hinges on whether or not they can personally kill me. This goes a little beyond "not normal". This is, if you will pardon the phrase, "$&*(*^&$ NUTS!!!!!"

As much as I love Christmas, and as much as I tried to keep Christmas, in reasonable ways, out here, I found myself hoping for one thing this Christmas. Knowing that I couldn't make it home, my own personal wish, I was suprised to discover, was that some General would walk into the area at midnight after Christmas Day and say, "OK, It is now 26DEC. You sonsabiches have exactly FIVE minutes to get all this crap off my walls and start acting like there are people trying to kill us!"

Again, I want to emphasize how much I love Christmas. I even got to do one of my favorite things this year. I had a meal with a person from the Special Ops Community who had been separated from his people. I was able to help him contact the appropriate people to get a flight back to his area, give him some coffee and snacks to take back with him, and helped him check his email and get in touch with family. Doing something for a stranger is my favorite Christmas activity of all. But, that being said, I am ready to put away the carol books and get back to saving the world, and, quite frankly, my own personal backside.

Christmas Eve
Merry Christmas to all of you (all three of you).

Well, the Australians put on a great show. The Royal Navy showband was the opener. If you ever saw The Commitments, you have an idea of how it went. Think "Australian Soul". Lots of Motown, a great horn section, backup singers, light show, the whole bag of gerbils. It was fortunate that I received a set of good gloves and ear warmers from my Mother in the mail today, as it was pretty cold, and windy, and near a lake. About halfway through the show, we could hear the .50 calibre machine guns on the perimeter, and gunships flew overhead soon after. So much for my "one day of peace on Earth" theory.

There has got to be a better way to save the world.

Tomorrow will be mostly just another work day out here, except fot better food at the dining hall, and the Aussies will repeat their performance. Angry Anderson still has his famous stage presence, and holds a crowd better than any man under 5 feet tall that I have ever seen. He was backed by a group called Kitara, who was a very tight group.

On the way back from the show, I was thinking about my own days in the music business. There are times that I really miss performing. I still write music, and I occasionally perform, but taking the stage with your band, for your show, with an audience that paid their own money to come hear you, that's more addictive, and more satisfying, that just about anything I have experienced.

NOTE: The following is blatant nostalgia, and has nothing to do with Christmas, or Baghdad, and bery little to do with poetry. All readers that have no interest in my past, or my waxing nostalgic, should eject IMMEDIATELY.

Back in the days of my misspent youth, I was extremely serious about my future music career. I attended a School of Performing Arts, I practiced for hours a day, and played any instrument I could grab. I didn't write much, because I hadn't really had any life experience, and didn't really understand the mechanics and science of music yet. But I could sing, and I could play a lot of instruments in a lot of different styles. Additionally, though I was (and obviously still am) rather shy in person, I could perform on stage without choking. Consequently, I fronted more than my share of rock and roll garage bands. There was even a brief period as an adult that I supported my family of four as a musician, which is an accomplishment in itself. You will not find me in your local music store, though, as I managed to keep my name off anything that was recorded. I did work with some fine musicians, though, some of whom have gone on to be respected recording artists, and whose names you would see in your local music stor, or even in your own CD collection.

So why did I get out? It was a priorities thing. I illustrate it thusly. I have spent my entire life in, around, and making music, but I can't dance. When you are they man behind the guitar or the drums or the microphone, you don't get to dance. You don't get a lot of other things that happen on the listening side of music, either, like meeting someone and falling in love, or talking about the impact of the music on your emotions after it is over, or going home from the concert with memories and stories for your friends. When you finish a gig, you pack your gear, go grab a bite with the other guys in the band, and go rest up for the next show. After a while, I found that I wanted something more.

Another problem was the business end. I, like many musicians, love to play, and love to write, and love to feel the reactions of the audience, but I don't love planning marketing of my latest album, or deciding where I will tour based on the promotional value of the venue. I don't like contracts, or copyrights, or intellectual property arrangements. But those things have to be handled, and if you don't handle those things yourself, then you put yourself at the mercy of the kind of people that DO like dealing with those type of things. At worst, you end up losing your shirt, and Michael Jackson owns every song you ever wrote. At best, you lose touch with reality, because other people are doing the things you don't like to do, and you get used to never having to deal with anything you don't like. you have heard enough stories to know what I mean.

So I left the music scene. I still think about it now and again. I also remember a quote from Janice Joplin. She once said, "Every night, I make love to ten thousand people, and then I go to bed alone." That quote, which she said only days before her death, reminds me of the cost I decided I wasn't willing to pay. When I see Mrs. E. Poet, and the little poetlings, I am convinced I made the right choice.

Having said that, I wish you all a Merry Christmas. We in Baghdad will be thinking of you, and even envying you a little. Not a lot, actually, but a bit. I'll discuss that concept a bit more next time.

A Moment, a Deep Breath, and ... German coffee?
Well, when the press conference ended (see below), things got rather busy. Over a week later, I now find time to sit down and write.

I really wish I could tell you more about why we were so busy. Look me up in another 20 years.

In the interim, we are making our preparations for Christmas in the desert. Little plastic faux-evergreens are springing up all over, decorated with whatever the associated organisation can find. My personal favorite is out at an area called Range 54. They have a 60-foot cedar, dug up and transplanted. They had a soldier suspended from a crane hang lights, and it is decorated with pieces of uniforms, body armour, and stuff from home.

The Chaplains, as one would expect, are working overtime. We received a visit from the Archbishop of the Archdiocese for the Military Services. I didn't even know there was an Archdiocese for the Military Services. Those guys think of everything, don't they? Additionally, the American Army has a band out here, and they have broken up into small groups and are playing holiday music. No dreidle songs, unfortunately, but a good mix of hymns and modern secular holiday tunes that the masses seem to enjoy. I think it is the effort, more than anything else, that we appreciate.

So, with the dust settling just a bit, I am taking a minute to have a cup of German coffee (we seem to get most of our non-essential supplies from friends and relatives in Germany. Wenn die deutschen Leute nicht im Krieg sein konnen, konnen sie ruhig den Kaffee fur den Krieg senden.) and putting some thoughts down.

There is a feast scheduled for Christmas Day, which will be a welcome relief from the usual fare. There is an ongoing football tournament, which I anticipate the Australians will take a commanding lead of before the month is out, and someone has organised a league for "touch rugby". I am not sure how one plays touch rugby, but it sounds like a lark. The event to which I look forward, though, is the Christmas Day party being hosted by the Australians. The headline performer is Angry Anderson, which in itself promises a great show. He is being backed by some other groups as well, though. It should be a great morale booster for all.

Well, time is again running short. I'll get back again soon. Hopefully tomorrow I will have a bit of respite and go at greater length.

Ace in the Hole
Earlier today I received the news, along with a large number of Coalition forces, that Saddam Hussein has been captured. He was hiding in a hole in a basement in Tikrit. He appears to have lost quite a bit of weight, looks somewhat worn, has a substantial grey beard, and didn't really put up much of a fight.

Celebratory gunfire has already begun. We expect it to continue through the night and into the next day. We will be wearing helmets whenever we go outdoors, since the celebratory bullets still hurt as much as the hostile kind.

Don't expect anything here that you won't see in the news eventually, but this does bring up an interesting question or two. For one, who runs the tribunal? Knowing the American and British forces and their leaders, they aren't just going to hand him over to The Hague and leave it at that. On the other hand, keeping him in the area is not a good idea. No doubt there will be a military tribunal, likely composed of a cross-section of the Coalition and headed by either Ambassador Bremmer, LG Sanchez, or a member of the ruling council, perhaps Mr. Talibani.

We have broken out the last pound of Starbucks, and are settling in to listen to the press conference. I'll come back to the discussion afterward.

A Quick Note
I am, indeed, still alive. I am also still in Baghdad.

I just hit month number 5 of the 12-hour, seven day work schedule. I can see some light at the end of the tunnel, though. There is every possibility that, if I don't stop a bullet or try to absorb any shrapnel, I will be home early next year.

I posted a new poem today. I was walking back from dinner and was thinking about Mrs. E. Poet, of whom you read very little here. Not that there isn't volumes to write about her. She is truly a remarkable woman. But I have a deep respect for privacy, and I will not violate hers without discussing it with her carefully.

But I digress.

I was thinking about Mrs. E. Poet, and how much I wish I could do more for her. She inspires me to be a better man than I would be otherwise. I rather lack ambition in some ways, which sounds odd coming from someone that claims to save the world for a living. It's hard to explain, but I will bring it up again one day.

As I was walking and thinking, I have no idea why, but I thought, "If she were a rose, I would like to be her sky. I would like to nurture her and help her to grow." That is where the newest poem started.

I don't think I have ever discussed the process of writing here. That is another topic I will touch on soon. for now, though, I am out of time.

Gratitude
Thanksgiving was indeed celebrated in Baghdad, as many of you have no doubt heard.

Interesting concept, that. I have, over the years, become rather enamoured with the idea of a day set aside for the purposes of gratitude. It is true that the day was once a uniquely American celebration. It was a rememberance of the fact that the first European settlers in that wild land did not die out, as they should have, but were instead aided by sympathetic aboriginals.

The celebration seems to have evolved over time, as many do, into a more generic celebration of gratitude as a concept. It retains the religious overtones, to a certain extent, but I have never known anyone to reject the observance of it for that reason.

And so, now that things have settled back into a rhythm here, I have a moment to write, and gratitude is what comes to mind. I have much for which I am grateful. Primarily, I continue to sruvive my most recent business trip. No small feat, that, and I owe a great deal to those I came here to assist. In that way, we take care of each other.

Additionally, I have not failed in my mission. I am grateful to numerous people, on a few different continents, for that. My work requires a great deal of coordinated effort, and I have had to call in the middle of someone's night or weekend on more than one occasion to have one issue or another "handled". I am fairly certain none of those people will be reading this, but I am grateful to them all the same.

My family is a constant source of strength and inspiration. My Faith is, as well. The various mentors I have had helped me to be able to do the work I now pursue. My close friends, though not numerous, have been loyal and comforting. For all of these, I am thankful.

I would be remiss, and a poor host indeed, if I did not mention you, the readers that have encouraged me to write. If not for some of you, the entries here would be even less frequent than they are now. And so I thank you, all half-dozen of you, for the motivation you have given me. As you have shown an interest in what I have to say, for whatever reason, I will do my best not to let you down.

Thank you.

There are times, and then there are Times
Once in a while, the hours and the days build up, and I start to get tired. I get to that point, now and then, where I start thinking of a nice, normal job, or perhaps still saving the world, but in not such an active, people-shooting-at-you and leaving-everyone-you-care-about sort of way. Perhaps I would be a decent teacher of mathematics, or go into social work. Maybe I could hold some public office, or work for an environmental organization.

Then something like this comes along. Please make sure to read down to the bottom. If you are pressed for time, look here first, then get back to the other story later.

I do not remember if I ever met CSM Blankenbecler, but it is possible, as I spent a good amount of time in Killeen, TX, USA, at the military installation on which he served, and some of that time was within the last 8 months. He has the distinction of being the most senior of the enlisted personnel killed here in Iraq. He leaves behind a widow and a daughter still in high school, as well as other adult children. He was 40 years old. Also killed in the attack was PFC Analaura Esparza-Gutierrez, 21.

I hear these reports every day. I hear about them from many countries. Sometimes the weapons are sophisticated, and sometimes it is a man with a sword, or with a rocket launcher on a donkey. And every time I hear the story of another death, another father, or son, or mother, or daughter, or lover, or friend that will never see home again, I have a similar reaction. I am convinced that, if I can do what I do well enough, I can prevent some of these deaths, and someone will be able to go home that might not have otherwise made it out of here alive.

But, as often happens, I ask myself questions.

"So, E., what about you?"

What about me?

Don't you want to get home alive?

That is about the stupidest thing I have been asked all day. Therefore, I know you're up to something. OK, I'll play. Yes, I would like to get home alive, and I think what I am doing will get me through this, too.

And if it doesn't? What is the acceptible trade? How many lives have to be saved to make yours a fair exchange? How many husbands and fathers will need to avoid an untimely and painful death, returning to their wives and children, in order to enable your widow and your children to stand at your graveside and say, "We will miss you, but your death allowed "XX" families to avoid this very moment, so we understand"?




Well?





There are times when I think that I think too much.

A Sound In the Night
The night is dark, as if the world, in mourning for the death of Peace, has taken on sackcloth. The pre-dawn sky is littered with stars, like pinholes of hope piercing the robe of mourning. I have stepped outside for a breath of relatively fresh air before meandering to my tent and cot for a too-brief nap between tilts at the dragons that have populated my days as of late. It is 4:30 am, and in another 3 hours I will be expected to return to battle, refreshed and renewed, while the dragons, never sleeping, breed and multiply overnight.

The night is quiet. Or, rather, the night is quiet if you don?t include the unceasing roar of the generators. It is a quiet much like that of the sea, in that the constant sound, by virtue of its own constancy, silences itself to the mind, until you are only aware of it when it is no longer there. In that way, the generators are like love, or friends, or family, or freedom itself. I am acutely aware of all of these as of late.

I hear a sound.

It is a wailing, and I instantly dismiss it as the cry of a jackal under the sliver of moon. ?He is mourning, too,? I think to myself. ?The combat and the generators have scared away the game, and he must move on, starve, or find his way into our rubbish. I mourn with you, and would that it were otherwise.? I put the thought aside, one of ten thousand images I may one day weave into one story or another poem when the dragons have fallen and the world no longer mourns.

But the sound is persistent, and is soon joined by another voice. I move closer, as if a few steps away from the generators will suddenly bring me outside of their ceaseless roar and I will have clarity. Were I not in a place of rockets and mines, I would swear the sound was a duet, perhaps two friends with wine in their bellies and song in their hearts. Gladdened by each other?s company and emboldened by the vine, they are expressing joie de vivre to counterpoint the jackal?s plaintive cry. Here, though, one would be a very great fool indeed to openly express such verve, as it would solicit the wrath of the Military Police, if not the assiduity of the sniper.

But this is not the song of the drunkard, either. There is an earnest quality to this song. The voices don?t seem to be trying to synchronize. I begin to recognize the call.


?Ash-hadu anna Muhammadar Rasulullah
Hayya alassalah
Hayya alassalah.?


?I testify that Mohammad is the Messenger of God.
Come to prayer. Come to prayer.?

I know, now, that somewhere nearby, there are people gathering to give honor to their God. I am not of their culture, and I do not practice their ways. Were I to walk up to where they are, I would not be welcome. It would be considered a grave insult if I were to be so bold. I do not know if they will be petitioning for my protection, or my destruction. I am certain that, among them, there are some that would rejoice at my death, and a few that would actively participate in it.

And yet I find comfort in the sound, alien to me as it is. There is something within me that echoes the need to cry out to the Almighty. And in spite of the differences in language, and in practice, I feel that, were all men to spend time calling out to God, and perhaps listening as well, the dragons might, indeed, grow quiet at last, and sackcloth of the world might be cast off.

I listen a bit longer, and then make my way through the gravel to my tent and cot. Somehow, even before I sleep, I am feeling renewed. Perhaps it is the hope that one day, if I am smart enough, and strong enough, this place will be at peace, and others may come and hear the call to prayer, as I have tonight. Hope is a strong tonic, indeed.

As I take a last glance at the night sky, it seems the stars are just a little brighter.