The war before The War
Well, I once again find myself with enough time on my hands to do some writing. I hope to knock out a little poetry later today, and maybe start a short story. In the interim, though, I have some 'splainin' to do.

A couple of days ago, I mentioned an conversation I anticipate having with my grandchildren, should I manage to get out of this one alive. My expectation is that one day some little sprout will be on my knee asking me, "Grandaddy E., were you in The War?" My response, as you may recall, was, "No, I wasn't in The War, but I was in the war before The War."

Now this may not be entirely true. It may be that I will also participate in The War. There may be a war between this one and The War. But there are two things of which I am certain: We, as a world, are drawing to a point in history in which a conflict is inevitible, and this current collection of conflicts is not it.

I am almost certain that there will be another chapter in this Global War on Terror. I think that history will look at this conflict, the war in Afghanistan, and the next one or two, as different phases of the same war.

Unfortunately, The War will not, I fear, be over a cause so noble as eliminating terrorism from the world. The lines are currently forming two distinct groups. On one hand, there is Western Society. On the other is Non-Western Society.

Western Society is enamoured with a particular concept of civilisation. It involves a particular code of ethics, and a particular mode of behaviour. There are things which Western Society will tolerate, and things which it will not. It has a code of justice that has a heavy emphasis on making sure innocent people are not wrongly prosecuted. It shows, and expects, a great deal of mercy. It is, for the most part, monotheistic. It consumes a majority of the world's resources, but produces a majority of the world's advancements.

Non-Western Society is a kalidescope of ethos and behaviours. It has a variety of beliefs and dogmas. it is monotheistic, polytheistic, and non-theistic. However, it generally has a code of justice that has a heavy emphasis on non-recidivism. It produces a majority of the world's products, but consumes a lesser amount of resources. And as varied as Non-Western Society is, it has one common bond. It does NOT want to conform to Western standards.

Al Qaeda, Tupac Amaru, Aum Shinrikyo, and a host of other organizations have their various agendas, but none of them are particularly compatible with Western Society. Additionally, the amount of groups is growing.

I'm sure this sounds alarmist, but I believe that hostilities are eventually going to be touched off by one side or the other. And, as unlikely as this may sound, it will probably be the current quest for Peace in the Middle East that gives us the required spark.

There are those in the West who believe that Peace in the Middle East can only come through Democratization of the Arab World. Iraq provides an excellent opportunity for the West to get its foot in the door, in a manner of speaking. Once other copuntries see that Democratization is a good thing, they will begin clamouring for more of it in their own countries. And there you have it, the Road to Jerusalem, paved by Babylon.

Some will see this as Zionist. Others will see it as Imperialist. Few will see it as altruistic. The West tends to overlook the flaws in Democracy, because we believe that the strengths outwiegh the weaknesses. We tend to forget that the Non-West does the same with their various systems.

It will not require any super-charismatic leader to rise from some downtrodden country, uniting the various factions into one massive Army of Doom. No one has to be particularly united at all, or even coordinated, to start off. As a matter of fact, the more diverse and disjointed they are, the harder it will be for the West to defend against it. All it takes is a number of organizations, or nations, deciding that the sting of a thousand hornets can be as deadly as one spear.

And then we will see The War. One faction or the other in this conflict will strike heavily enough to encourage cooperation among the non-Western nations. The impetus could be a successful assault by some smaller nation, or it could be a devastating attack on the host nation of some organisation. It seems likely that the Communist nations (what is left of them), will side against the West. I can't even begin to predict the outcome. I can't even begin to predict the date, although logic indicates that it is likely to be in the next 50 years. I am, of course, open to debate, and perfectly willing to be wrong, so if you have another, more palatable course of events, let me know. I am ever the optimist.

Notes From The Field
NOTE: Very little going on that I can discuss right now. Let's just say I have had a busy day, and leave it at that. However, I realized today that I haven't shared much from my Baghdad journal as of late, and so I offer you this entry, which is titled, "The Truth, and Then Some"


Everything you have heard about this situation is probably true. However, that doesn't mean you have the whole story.

It is true that there are soldiers that want to go home. I think I mentioned that earlier. Actually, that is an understatement. I can say, without reservation, that there is no one I have spoken to so far that has said they would like to stay here.

"What kind of a stupid question is that?" one says when I bring up the topic. "Why would you even ask that?"
"There is no way in Hell I would stay here myself, much less bring my family," says another. "Even if I had my own oil well, I wouldn't stay here."

"I would."

Everyone looks at the one dissenting voice like he just implied that the Pope was a cross-dresser.
"If I had my own oil well? Sure I'd stay here! For about a week out of every year, just to check on my oil well."

Officer, enlisted, civilian, regardless of background or nationality or mission, everyone wants to go back to where they belong. It hums in the background like a generator. It sticks in the back of your thoughts like some kind of radio jingle. It's the 500-pound gorilla. It's DeBergerac's nose. Some people can't help but dwell on it, others avoid the topic, but everyone is aware of it. It is the common thread of life here. And when someone finds out when they are leaving, everyone is glad for them.

Yes, it's true that they are ready to go home.

But there are other things that are true, also. There are people here that turn down the chance to get away for a few days because their team is short handed. There are people that delay their return in order to accomplish the current project. There is even one American soldier that has received two (2) Purple Hearts, awarded to those wounded in combat, in his tour of duty here, but hasn't left because his team is important to him.

Everyone has their own ways of making the situation easier. It's not always something heroic. Sometimes there is a box from home, and everyone has good coffee or Grandmother's cookies. DVD's make the rounds to anyone that has a laptop. People share what they can, keep each other informed of what's going on back home, and try to understand when a buddy gets Tent Fever.

Sometimes the measures are a little more extreme. The Army band tours this country, giving concerts to whomever they can gather. Sometimes they ride in the back of a cargo truck, and the opportunistic naps get interrupted by the holes in the roads. Sometimes they ride in a helicopter, and the naps are interrupted by a door gunner occasionally firing at things they can't see in the night. They play fun music, and try to lighten the load of a few, but even the lighter moments have their edge. It's one thing to hear Darryl Worley sing "Have You Forgotten" over the radio, and another thing entirely to sing it along with these troops after reading a list of this week's killed and wounded.

So there is truth in what you hear, but you don't have the whole story. No one does. The whole story is written on the hearts and minds of the ones who are here, both native and visitor.

It's true that there are soldiers dying here. Every day, we here the news of some attack. Someone threw a rock. Someone threw a grenade. Someone fired a shot. Someone fired a rocket. We got one of them. They got one of us.

There is violence in just about every major district of this country. Sometimes it's against the Americans. Sometimes it's against the British. Sometimes it's against the locals. The reasons are numerous. They want the electricity on. They want the water to work. They want the Americans to go away. They want the things that are in that store over there. They want to take that fuel and sell it across the border. They want you to shut up.
There are a wide variety of reasons to kill people. Not a lot of good reasons, though. And every day, the gains and losses in the battle to restore some semblance of order move across the television screens of the world, and the people in front of the televisions of the world decide that it is unfortunate.

Yes, it's true that people are being killed here.

But there are other things that are true, also. Progress is being made. It isn't as fast as anyone would like, but progress, always either a tortoise or a hare, never gets made at a comfortable speed. Water starts flowing in one area, but not in another until later, but it is beginning to flow. Lights are available in some, but not all, areas of a city, but the darkness is being pushed back. Hospitals are opening up again, after replacing the supplies that were looted and the windows that were broken. Stores are opening. Police are starting to stop criminals. And here, in Baghdad, there are people who will sit in front of their televisions tonight and hear about someone shooting or robbing someone in YOUR city, and they will decide that it is unfortunate.


More to follow

E.

A Yeti, a wallflower, and Mrs. E. Poet
The Playa From the Himalaya, The Yeti, records his observation of a first date. He has a remarkable eye for detail when it comes to human interaction. I sometimes wonder if he has ever considered pursuing a career in the interesting and lucrative world of counter-intelligence, and, if so, would he mind terribly if I hope that he chooses to work for my side.

His future in espionage and snappy prose style aside, I was struck by my first though upon finishing his observations.

Man, I wouldn't be single again for anything.

When I say this, I don't wish to insult my unmarried friends, or my friends that are not in a committed long-term relationship of some other kind. I am only saying that the years of my life before marriage are not ones I look back upon with whistful memories or nostalgia.

I am pretty sure that Mrs. E. Poet would concur, and would be inclined to feel a modicum of relief at my saying so. She, though, is in a better position than anyone to know why I am not good at being single. A large part of it is my particular brain chemistry (for an explanation of that, you have to go waaaaaaaaaay back to the early days of the journal).

Another large protion of the equation is that, as surprising as this may sound coming from an anonymous writer, I am a rather shy person. Performance is different than social or personal interaction, which is why I never had trouble taking the stage as a musician. Cast into a social event, I am like a bottle cast into the sea. There is something interesting on the inside, but you have to retrieve it and get it out. I am not one of those people that has a fear of solitude, and I generally prefer to take meals alone when I am not with my family. Consequently, should I not have been discovered and brought out of my shell at a strategic moment, I would likely be not just unmarried, but the stereotypical bachelor, eating Spam directly from the tin whilst standing at the kitchen sink in my black socks and unmentionables.

Fortunately, though, this is not the case. I am conjoined, spiritually, emotionally, and contractually, to someone whom I admire more than any other person I know. She has many qualities that I wish I could emulate more myself, and the simple fact that she has not only kept hearth and home intact in my absense (6 months now, give or take a few days), but has handled our finances and a few additional difficulties, of which the details are not germaine to this discussion, more effectively than I would have myself.

My particular line of work requires a great deal of patience from her. Suppose your spouse, partner, or other significant person came home from work every night, and they were unable to tell you any details about their workday. Now suppose that this went on for years. She asks how my day was, and I tell her it was fine, or it was frustrating, or it was uneventful. She asks a few questions, and I answer her with a completely unrelated observation, such as, "The day was unseasonably warm for this time of year." She knows that this is an indication that it is time to shift the topic to something else. Would you find this frustrating? She does, too, and yet she accepts it as the nature of my work. It was not, for the record, the line of work I was in before marriage, so it is something she has had to adjust to after years of open communication.

I have a personal custom. When I see people out here that could use a lift, I share some things I keep in my "private collection" of things from home; some particular sweets, or books, or such things that seem to cheer people up. Generally speaking, it lifts my spirits as well. When I am feeling low myself, I talk about Mrs. E. Poet, and our poetlings. When I do, I am reminded of just how fine my life really is.

It's been a long day ...
Today has been one of those frustrating days.

I have spent a month training a small, elite group of skilled people in a rather important task. Today was the day of testing, before I give them my final approval and release them to save the world alongside me. When it came time to demonstrate their newfound skills, they were, to put it mildly, unimpressive.

I have seen them operate, individually and as a team, and I am convinced that they can handle the mission. But they have to get past this one hurdle, this one final exam, before I can let them go with confidence. It was rather like teaching a friend or child to drive, painstakingly instructing them and sitting through all the close calls and slipping clutches until you finally see them reach a point of control. Just before licencing day approaches, you take them to a nice, empty parking lot for one final go at it, on their own, and they immediately throw the bugger in reverse while looking forward, squash the neighbor's cat, and blow a tire.

I have a saying that I use in my line of work to describe people's inattention. There are times when you can't start your car because someone has put sugar in your petrol. There are other times when you can't start your car because you have left the lights on and the battery is dead. And then there are times you can't start your car because you are using your #$%^&^&%#@!*& HOUSE KEYS !!!
Today, however, was the first time I saw someone try to start their car with a cheese sandwich. Of course, what I was training these people in is much more serious than driving a car, and so I am understandably discouraged.

I think I am going to take some asprin and have a nap.

In which we touch on a variety of topics
It has been a hard, busy day. My work has kept me as occupied as I could want to be for the past few days, with little time to write, or to be self-examinatory (note to self: make sure self-examinatory is a real word). However, the past hour has seen things come to a dead halt, in preparation for some upcoming events, and I have time to do both, if I do them at the same time, on the fly, and don't do a lot of proofreading. Therefore, this entry may have a few typos, and is almost guaranteed to ramble.

The first topic is identity. Someone has been trying to trace me. It isn't a big deal. If you really need to know who I am, ask, and I will probably tell you. If you just want to know if I am that guy you knew in grammer school, the answer is most likely "no", even if you went to grammer school with me, as I was not terrible popular. I am a lot less concerned with the whole "secret identity" thing that I was when I started all this. I will write about that soon, but I don't have time to go into it this time. I am suprisingly open to answering just about any question, so fire away.

Second, and most disconcerting to me, is occupational. I found myself asking the following questions, only a few hours ago, and within a few minutes of each other:

1) What other job could I have where I can say I strapped on body armour and had an armed escort to go do what I do?

2) What other job could I have where I don't have to strap on body armour and have an armed escort to go do what I do?

I laid in bed last night, in those minutes after thanking God that I was niether killed, wounded, or captured, nor did I fail in my mission, and before falling into what turned out to be a fitful sleep, and asked myself "the question". People who save the world for a living and have a successful, intact family life are rare indeed, so I have a good combination of adventure and domestic harmony that assures I will not have mid-life crises, but I have studiously avoided asking myself "the question" for years now, until last night.

"Why do you do this?"

My life does not lack for meaning or significance. How could it? Being a man of very little financial ambition (which I consider a monumental blessing), I am in the enviable position of having everything I could possibly want in life, and have contributed to the betterment of the world in ways I can't even tell Mrs. E. Poet, but pretty much assure me that I could go the rest of my life satisfied that I have done my fair share for humanity.

So, having opened the box, I decided I might as well try on the hats.

"What would you have me do instead?"

"Well, you could teach. You are an excellent teacher. You've written your own curricula, and you have a way of communicating with younger people that makes them feel like you treat them, not like children, but human beings that don't know some of the things you do."

"I don't have a teaching certificate. What else have you got?"

"You could go into ministry ..."

"No. Maybe, if every minister on the face of the Earth were consumed by fire from the heavens and the voice of The Almighty boomed from the heavens, 'Take the pulpit, Mr. E.', I would give it some thought, but I would have to ask God for some I.D. first. What else?"

"You could just go get a nice, ordinary job doing what you do, and be satisfied that you've done enough."

I thought about it for a moment. I could live in a house in the country, commute to work, and probably never have to get another set of anthrax shots. The grandkids, years from now, would ask me, "Granddaddy E., were you in the Great War?" I would tell them, "No, but I was in the war before the Great War." (We'll talk about that one later on.)

I didn't think about it long, though, because I asked "the question that follows the question."

"How much is enough?"

I think that is just about the only time I have left my inner monologue speechless. I thought about the people I consider my role models. It's a short list. But all of them, to a man, ended up martyred, or died of natural causes while still in pursuit of their goal. They did all that they could, all their lives, to make the world a better place, and died for it, or with it.

Do I want to be a martyr? Not particularly. I have absolutely no fear of death, and I am not even really all that afraid of suffering, though I don't actively seek either. But how do you decided that you are going to quit trying to save the world? If the world was worth saving in the first place, then it is worth continuing to save.

Someone, whom I hold in high regard, once told me they were taught to never make irrevokable decisions when either tired or hungry. I am glad I do not have to decide this today. As you can see, I can barely even phrase the question in a coherent manner. It only gets worse from here, as I am about to abandon the leisurely 14-hour workday schedule for a more rigourous regimine of working until I can't stand myself, then catching a nap, which usually puts me in a wierd kind of 30-hour-day sleep cycle. However, the question will return, and it will demand an answer.

I'll keep you posted.

Adventures in Social Anthropology
I was reading a poem the other day. Someone was doing a freewriting exercise, and they were talking about younger days, shorter skirts, blonde babes, and beer joints. It was a fun read.

It also reminded me of my own misspent youth, a long time ago, on a completely different planet I refer to as "College". Life there bore no resemblance to life on our own planet, other than the species having the same number of arms, legs, and sensory organs. The creatures on that planet were all slender, and had the most peculiar constitution. They could consume large quanitites of the cheapest alcoholic beverage available. They eat foods that would cause ordinary human beings heartburn, indigestion, massive attacks of gas, and cholesterol level that one would make the blood as thick as motor oil. They subject themselves to sleep deprivation on a weekly basis. And yet not only do they survive, they stay slender.

They did have a few unusual weaknesses, though. Among the most unusual was that they seemed to have this unpleasant reaction, almost like an allergy, to sunlight. The strangest part about it was that the sunlight only seemed to affect them at a particular angle, which was low on the eastern horizon. Because of this, venturing outdoors during early hours was considered a hardship, and there was a general feeling of sympathy for anyone who was put in this position, much like we would feel for someone who needs a root canal.

I lived in a moderately tall building with a number of the aboriginals, on the seventh floor. Through my window, I could see one of their ceremonial mating grounds, a brick structure called "Daddy's Money," which was an apparent reference to their source of income. Ever the inquisitive social anthropologist, I spent numerous evenings observing the mating rituals, and, once they had accepted me as one of them, even tried to participate.

There was a strange beauty to the ritual. The male would put on a costume that consisted of a pair of snug, restrictive leg coverings made of blue denim, with an upper body cover that bore a small insignia of a man engaged in a sports activity on horseback. Upon arrival, the male would immediately begin drinking a mild alcoholic beverage, consuming several as rapidly as possible, and then begin looking for a mate. Apparently one of the indicators of a female being in a mating status was hair color, because the males often gravitated to the females with lighter shades of hair.

The females would wear a small peice of cloth around their waists, although some were known to wear the same restrictive denim leg covers as the males, only even more restrictive. The upper body cover appeared to be designed to enhance the position of the secondary auditory organs, located in the chest, as the males seemed to spend the most time talking directly into the chest area of the females. The females would indicate that the mating ritual was about to begin by obtaining some fortified fruit juice.

Although the precise manner of the ritual vaired from one male to the other, generally the male indicated his interest in begining by obtaining a second fruit juice for one of the females. It took me a while to figure this part out because I was apparently getting them the wrong fruit juice, as there were several evenings that I couldn't get any of the females to accept the beverage so we could go to the next step. Eventually, though, I discovered that the code was to obtain the drink that had the highest cost.

Once the exchange of beverage is complete, the mating dance begins. This is another pert of the ritual that, even to this day, I don't completely understand. Generally one of them would play recorded music in a small room nearby, but occasionally a group would play music with actual instruments. Although they displayed a great deal of excitement when the musicians played, it seemed to disrupt the mating process for the whole evening, because fewer of them actually did the mating dance, and the musicians were the only males that succeeded. The dance itself seemed unique to each, and so I decided to try it as well. Unfortunately, though it amused them to see me try, I was unsuccessful with the mating dance, although some did suggest my version might be acceptible to other species. However, sea monkeys had not, at that time, captured my interest.

I did notice that there were some others that didn't dance, but went through a different ritual, which involved some sort of verbal exchange. For the male, it was an intricate combination of personal boasting and displaying a fervent interest in the activities of the female. The success of the male, it appeared, hinged on being able to speak into the secondary hearing organs without the female realizing it, maintain the conversation about the female activities, and listing a set of accomplishments that would convince the female that he was prepared to begin the actual mating, after an appropriate length of discussion. I tried this, also, and discovered that the length of discussion is absolutely critical to the ritual. When I indicated my readiness to begin too soon, the female indicated that I would have to start the ritual again from the begining. This is indicated by striking the male's face with her open hand. This was done with enthusiasm, and it took me several attempts before I understood this fully.

There was a third mating ritual, which involved the male showing certain females some of the local currency, but that one lacked the mystery of the others, so I didn't give it more than a casual observance, although a number of the males, and some of the females, suggested it would be my best option.

That, unfortunately, was where my observations ended. I tried, one time, to follow a pair of them to observe the next phase of the ritual. I even carried a camera for further documantation. Unfortuantely, I became a participant in an entirely different ritual which appeared to be related to the transition into adulthood, as it involved isolation in a small room and an interview with one of the mature members of the society, dressed in a ceremonial garment.

NOTE: OK, that last part didn't really happen. But is sounded good.

I Can Still Drive 'em Crazy
OK, people, let's review a few important lessons we learned today in regards to driving a Sport Utility Vehicle (SUV) in an Urban Combat Environment (UCE).

1. When arranging a convoy through a UCE, count the number of vehicles, count the number of drivers, and make sure they are equal.

2. When assigning impromptu drivers from the collection of passengers, make sure that the recruited drivers are aware of the safest, most efficient route from point A to point B, or, at miminum, where point B is.

3. If your unarmed civilian says he doesn't know the way to point B, and has not been to point B in a number of months, do NOT have him/her drive the lead position in the convoy.

These are the lessons we learned today. And how do we learn these lessons? That's right, through experience. That is how I ended up on the back streets of downtown Baghdad this afternoon, with nervous, well-armed, trained marksmen keeping a wary eye on tenaments and shop windows, in an attempt to make sure we did not end up being the latest "target of opportunity".

I learned a few personal lessons today, as well.

1. I remember a LOT more about Protective Services Driving than I thought I did. My American friends have a charming phrase they used afterward. Does the term "Drive it like you stole it" ring any bells?

2. There are certain people, who shall remain nameless, from whom I will NEVER AGAIN take driving directions.

3. When a government, justifiably cautions about terrorist activities, puts up unannounced roadblocks, it throws traffic into confusion to the point that people will drive in the opposite direction of the flow of traffic to get back to their workplace from their lunch break.

4. These same people, in spite of the size or condition of the car they are driving, are not intimidated by a large SUV executing a bootleg turn, crossing a concrete median, and attempting to merge into traffic.

Never mind where I was trying to go, or what I was going to accomplish when I got there. I made it, I did it, and I got back to where I started without loss of life, limb, eyesight, or even paint. In transit, though, I did end up on a back alley in a less than friendly area of town.

Several thoughts came to mind, completely of their own accord. If we are intercepted and roadblocked, I have adequate room on the left to execute a bootleg. However, should I find myself being boxed from the front and the rear, and need to ram the interceding car, aim for the trunk, as it generally weighs less and will be easier to move. Try to angle slightly to the right at the last moment, to facilitate spinning said vehicle. In the event of a chase, evade. The average high-speed chase lasts, at best, about three minutes, primarily due to gunfire and accidental crashes. In the event of pursuit, look for the nearest bank, and drive into it. Through the front door and into the lobby. In this particular area, there is an American M-1 tank, with crew, carrying a .50 calibre machine gun, within 1 mile of our present location, which I can reach by doubling back and taking the next right, which will be against the flow of traffic.

I am not a violent man, but I am aware of violence around me. I am aware that, even though Saddam Hussein has been captured, there is a substantial amount of money for which no accounting has been made, and a number of people are still promising to give some of it to anyone that will kill me. I am aware the people have died in this conflict, and that vengance is more often an act of opportunity than of calculation. I am aware that, though I am not a combatant, there are those here that do not care about the Law of Land Warfare. If they kill me, they will not send the money to my wife and sons, nor will they take responsibility for them, and so I have a duty to do whatever is required to get home alive.

Other than that, it was a quiet day. Not much to tell, really. Hopefully, I will have something more interesting to write tomorrow.

Hey, Jealousy
Envy is not an actractive attribute.

It causes people to do some very unatractive things. I have seen people steal, lie, and physically fight out of envy. It is a pecular form of madness, in which we imagine that our lives would be ever so much more satisfying if we simply had some posession, or attribute, or aspect, of someone else's life. There is very little logic involved. As a matter of fact, the object of desire is generally something that would be harmful to the envious one, were it to actually be obtained.

For example, I spoke to a young member of the coalition today. He told me that there are people in his workplace at home that wish they could be here. The mortars, the small arms fire, the explosives at the side of the road, none of that is real to them. Whet they want are the "boasting rights," and the stories to tell at the pub, and the attention of comerades who will whisper among themselves, "Ooh, look at him! He must be very brave, indeed, to have tested his mettle against the dogs of war and come out with such a swagger to his step."

In contrast, there are some out here that envy their associates at home. Their mates back in the homeland sleep in a comfortable bed, and drink whatever beverage they choose, even to excess. They walk the streets without armour, sauntering casually in and out of shops, perhaps buying fish and chips from a vendor on the street, or going to a pizza parlour and a movie afterward.

One of the things I have found most odd is that anyone would envy me, other than that part about being married to Mrs. E. Poet, and having my Poetlings gathered around my feet (when I am not off saving the world). I have a beard, and some military organisations don't allow their members to sport much facial hair. I have the option to wear ordinary clothes, rather than a combat uniform, and generally do so on the weekends. I have worked hard to obtain my level of knowledge, and some governments have found it usefull. On the other hand, I am in a war zone, without so much as a slingshot with which to repel some hostile person, and utterly dependent on the graces of the Coalition for food, shelter, medical treatment, transportation, protection, and various other needs. It seems a poor exchange for the privelege of growing a scraggly beard.

As of late, I have even noticed this madness in myself. I find myself occasionally envious of writers I know, who are seeing some measure of success with their work, although I know full well the sacrifices they have made to get to their currentlevel of success and have chosen not to make those sacrifices myself. I know people that are, to be frank, smarter than me, and I would like to be as smart as they. I know people that are not shy. They express themselves openly, without reservation, for all the world to know. They have no need for masks or pen names.

I even know people that have no compulsion to write.

They are content to watch the news and an occasional television show, perhaps a drama inspired by the life of a talented yet humble chiropractor who races llamas on the weekends and rises to fame and fortune, yet retains his homespun charm. They eat their meals, never thinking to describe the taste, texture, or influence of the choice of beverage on the dining experience, to some complete stranger. They go to work, raise a family, and go bowling on the weekends, and never feel the need to tell anyone what it is like to be them, or to find out if anyone else has the same hopes, fears, or pains that they feel.

In the pursuit of virtue, I try to kill these thoughts before they gain any power over me. I have seen how, unchecked, they can control a life, or even an entire family. But sometimes, when I am not paying attention, and when no one else is around, I take a deep breath, and admit it to myself.

I envy you, who are reading this.

You are not compelled, by forces you don't quite comprehend, to try to save the world. You could quite likely spend the rest of your lives having never put yourself in harms way to get your job done, and be perfectly comfortable with yourself. You can see the injustice of the world, and do small things to help correct it, but not take it as a personal insult when a dictator abuses his people.

In the final analysis, though, I realize that I am who I am, and that there is a reason for that. This could have been someone else's adventure, but for some reason I was the one that needed to be here, at this time, in this place, doing these things with these people. Faith, above all else, enables me to accept what and who I am. Nothing special, mind you. I am, in the final analysis, just some guy. The comfort comes in the belief that there is One who guides the course of human events down to the personal level. I such a Universe, envy is reduced from a deadly obsession to merely an silly, vain habit.

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.