Donald Trump is right to challenge the National Security establishment. Being a true liberal, I find it curious the fake outrage pouring out of DC, the MSM and “official sources within the government” over his questioning of these professional liars. Even if Russian State actors did hack the emails released by Wikileaks, please help me understand the actual damage done compared to the actions of our own FBI and the Clinton campaign itself. It’s not like the petty bullshit in the emails was made up?

Anyway, though I disagree with Trump on most policy, his ability to get under the skin of the elite political class is amusing and may even be healthy in the long-term? Who else with real power has so publically put their record as serial liars on front street? And make no mistake; they are professional liars and master manipulators.

As unlikely as it is, it isn’t out of the realm of possibility to consider some rogue group within the CIA, FBI or NSA guilty of the hacking, then trying to pawn responsibility off on the Russian’s? You might laugh, but if you think that’s impossible, you haven’t been paying attention to history. Just this week it was learned that Dick Nixon scuttles the Johnson peace talks in Vietnam in order to win the presidency. And don’t forget his FBI boss and the incredible nefarious 50 year history within that agency under his kingship.

Oh but this is 2016 not 1968, you say. Don’t be naive. For 15 years the government has been collecting every American’s information, including recording the content of telephone and video chats, metadata, and all internet activity in clear violation of several Constitutional amendments. Literally tens of thousands within the government have known about it without but a very few speaking up. So? Yea.

Donald Trump is correct in questioning their ethics. Period.

 

 

 

 

What can I say about war that hasn’t already been said? My experiences reflect those expressed by writer’s far more talented the me.

Even the greatest writers admit their inability to fully capture the experiences of horror, the crushing fear, the fury, the odors, screams and silence one suffers in between the disturbing peace. Like making love or the taste of fine wine, words on a page only trigger imagination and illicit a dark sympathy. Empathy without experience is nothing more than fantasy.

I do not make these claims in offense. My own empathy is a rope that over time has become a noose. Random moments are capable of producing the most unpredictable triggers. A playful child’s scream might reveal the man, laid bare beneath a shattered wall, his stomach and intestines uncoiled across the huts dirt floor. A door slamming shut behind me and a memory long suppressed plays in a loop just behind my eyes: our medic bagging a severed, yet still camouflaged soldiers leg. The smell of a rabbit and a phantom smell of burning tire and human flesh lingers for days.

We forget so much of what we see. This is true for almost everyone of us. War is no different. We can’t recall, but we never really forget. These shocking visions, buried just below the conscience, erupt into our lives like films about ghosts. They are insidious magic tricks, pictures from the most evil of theaters. None of us are immune, it’s just that some of the afflicted can overcome the inflicted. Count me as not one.

It’s like my best memories have been erased. I’m like a mixtape that’s been over recorded with the voice of the devil himself.

Where do I go from here?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe there is a heaven? Heaven might be the black nothing of vanished memories and endless night? Or what we make it? Anything else, no matter how charming, would certainly include these memories. These short films I live with here in this hell.

This grey would rise, following into that shining city, like pet pollution; a smog that refuses to lift, becoming more dense in that miserable afterlife, I could never end. Hell such as this would be more appropriate, in its eternal pit of serpent and flame.

Behind these eyes are the fires that portend to reflect my pain. We lost you five years and two months ago today. I think about us and try to imagine you helping to douse all that’s enflamed today. It could be little more than a fantasy, you discovering a way through the cracks to save me from myself? I might have lost you anyway? I understand that. But at least the world would be a better place with you remaining in it.

I miss the way people would look at you; stare at you even, so striking, like a beautiful crash, you’d attract angular vision. Even though I tried never to show it and you never said it out loud, you liked the innocent way I could get jealous. Little secrets we couldn’t always hide though we tried. I never really believed I was good enough for you, though you never provided me reason to doubt it.

Sometimes I imagine you’re going to read this and write accordingly. It’s the rock of grace revealing an inner truth. It’s that hope you inspire. It’s that impossible dream reflecting upon a lake in motion.

If you were with us still yet, perhaps, beyond my grip, I’d be discontent. Your soul was my apex of promise, your loss, the final crushing blow. Be well in the darkness, my love, where the past has no future, no present, no hope.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The intention was that I’d move here, the farthest away I could get, to write and discover just how fucked-up I’d become post-Army. In between my virtual travels, my organic life seemed to fall prey to one disaster, then another, causing me to reevaluate my journey, asking in earnest; “was it really the war, or was it just me?” And now, after all these wasted days and sleepless nights, a sharp conclusion struck me square in the face: I’m not alone. Veterans are not alone in suffering. Society en mass seems to have turned on itself? So many people angry and confused. So many good people understanding that so much is wrong, yet unsure or ambivalent to the actual perpetrators? Like fish in the sea who don’t even know that they are wet, we’re turning on each other. Picture the chicken coop full of birds. Just one of them turns up with a speck of blood on the feather and soon, the entire flock is in the midst of a bloody Armageddon to the death.

What I’m trying to say is this: In my struggles, far from home with nowhere else to turn, the systems in place meant to help, even as a veteran, in time, often resembled the chicken coop. The people employed to give a hand, so to speak, often seemed incapable of escaping their own anger. The projection and transference so readily apparent, at times naked, caused me to stumble further. For those in more precarious conditions, the ineptitude and carelessness was, is, and can be inescapable. What now hits me the hardest is the complete indifference of anyone in a position to modify these unprofessional flaws. Anyone taking a rational look from the outside in, beneath the metaphoric carpet, would easily recognize the rot. But here’s the irony: In truth, nobody [very few] gives a flying fuck about homeless veterans…or homeless anybody for that matter. I certainly don’t. I can’t even bring myself to care about me.

This is an obvious point, yet the election of Donald Trump, a truly revolting character and certain disaster as a president, is a reflection of this anger so many feel…and for good reason. The political elite and the institutions they direct, have for 30+ years, stomped on the social security and welfare of nearly everyone else. While they gorged themselves from Wall Street to war profiteering to a zero interest monetary policy, they completely dismissed the victims of that fattening. Turns out there is a limit to this sort of twisted economic principal, or as Bush I put it in a rare moment of truth, “voodoo economics.” The socializing of corporate and financial institutions losses and the free market capitalism of Main Street’s economic pain. That is: we can find the money to save the gambler’s on Wall Street, including massive bonuses and incredible pay packages with taxpayer money, while simultaneously cutting unemployment benefits, food stamps, etc, because, you know, the “deficit.” Turns out, even the ignorant “white working class” and all the other demeaning pejoratives for 99% of the country can understand when they’re being fed bullshit sandwiches.

My point is that this broad anger and frustration seems to be bleeding out and onto fellow 99%er’s. How else can you explain the rank treatment I personally witnessed military veteran’s enduring within programs funded to do the opposite? How else can one justify the lack of compassion for the most in need by those tasked to serve?

I don’t want to share my story, it’s embarrassing. You might think after reading, “you need to tell someone, file a complaint..etc?” I gave up on that. The truth is, it’s a homeless guys word against a group of employees at a private organization who have their own story. The world isn’t fair. They actually made me believe for a while that I was in the wrong. That’s how sick it is, the system. Imagine how those who are really troubled are abused?

Long story short: Far from home, family and friends, I lost my home and nearly everything else to a fire. I entered a local program funded through the VA for homeless vet’s. I worked at this program doing what they call “work therapy” 40 hours a week…no pay of course, I had no discipline reports, no problems, etc. Reluctantly, I began meeting with one of the counselors about my PTSD. The second session, he started holding my hand which I thought was strange and made me uncomfortable. I’m certain he understood this, yet the next week he moved from my hand to my thigh, at which point I got up and left without explanation. The following night at 1AM, the Veteran Case Manager had me come downstairs asking me about a firearm and had I been threatening someone. Of course not. In my things I had a toy pistol which I mentioned. The police were phoned without me knowing. I was escorted to get a few things and told to leave the property. It was -15f. When I was able to return, I was told my property was donated due to policy.

You might think this is a bullshit story? Sure, there are more details but I am not leaving anything out like I was drunk, acting crazy, unliked by any other client, nothing that I can point to regarding my behavior. This was a simple move to get rid of me after a sick advance by a sick employee working in an ultra sick organization. Period. And it worked.

That’s all I say for now. I have made peace with it the best I can.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE HOLIDAY STORM

Posted: December 30, 2016 in Uncategorized

There’s an epic winter storm approaching fast out of the Northern Pacific. The final destination of this great typhoon will be somewhere past, along a track of land I am occupying.

The vicious rains first turned to wet, cement like sleet. As the latitude increases wind will sweep the heavy snowflakes across the land, painting in ice over these peaks of fire.

A storm like this has her own personality. A storm like this reminds us of uncontrollable powers, like a breath from Venus herself. Some unimpeachable power that takes life without declared reasoning…

and just like the sullen peace before the great storm, you were here with us, my love. Then gone.

The ever rising platitudes finally peeked, American style, with this pronouncement from a prominent talking head: “the 9/11 of cyber war.” Excuse me while I wipe the spittle from the corners of my acidic mouth. The 9/11 of huh? Will someone of authority please stand up and ask the loonies to dial it back just a tad? Am I missing something here? 

So far the most sophisticated arm of this Cyber-Charge of the Light Brigade seems to have cracked a Gmail account using a piece of code as old as Gmail itself. You say legit, I say illegitimate, whatever? Why would you ask some other dumbass to check your spam? These are the folks supposedly so much smarter than the Trump Clan? Hardly. The prey circled while the cuddly bear opened up a mean Care Bear Stare and whoopsie…..10s of thousands of Clinton campaign chairman emails woken from hibernation early. Bold move comrade. 

Now, the DNC hack. Seems a lot more sophisticated and targeted, yes. This story about the FBI agent phoning a DNC tech to report the activity pretty much sums up the rest of the damage. But 9/11? Come the fuck on! Out of millions of emails the absolute worst were of the “egg on da face” variety. No criminal shit. Just petty bickering and nonsense. Yes, Bernie was clearly never going to ascend over Hillary. No surprise there. The DNC could use this as a lesson instead of a crutch? Nevertheless, PUTIN, PUTIN, RUSSIA…WIKILEAKS! Reminds me of BENGHAZI, BENGHAZI.

If no one that matters can rise above this trash, the Dem Party has no relevant future on national politics. If the Russian Gov was directly involved in these shenanigans I have to believe many in the MSM have the reading all wrong. I’d say Russia thought Clinton was a lock to win and sent all this trash out in order to undermine our processes. Either way, big win for them. If American’s believe our NSA and CIA aren’t playing similar games, I have an Igloo in Siberia for sale…OH wait.

This is an arena that will become evermore dangerous as rhetoric soars and retaliations compound. We must remember that these spook agencies only leave bread crumbs behind when they WANT you to find the prize…or the flaming dog shit, as it were. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Are you looking up into the great space tonight, my dear? The enormity of the sky above seemed to synchronize our minds in the darkness, alone and together. Is it all just a dream or worse, an intermission before the final act? Whatever might be, or is, I find some comfort at least in the thought, that no matter how far away, we can still look upon that space as one.

Do you recall that day in December? A flight across the entire country just to tell you the truth? All I had to go on were the tiny fragments of our silly conversations. The only way I could find you was to assemble the clues you slipped into these fragile secrets. The big city seemed like it could have swallowed you whole?

Five thousand miles, four cabs rides and three coffee shops later; I saw you standing there. Like an angel fallen from the highest places, my courage caught in my throat. That quick glance you gave me, the pause that followed mid-sentence, the smile.

For a second I wondered, had this been a poor assessment? Would an apology be enough to overcome the distance that immaturity had swollen? The second look in my direction was all I ever wanted to know. From that day forward, till the day we all lost you, I promised to love you like I did that day on the outskirts of Boston, 15 years ago.

Is it the fresh snow or is it the collapse in temperature that follows the winters storm? Whatever it is in this nature all around tonight, you feel closer this evening than in some time. Do you still believe in me? I miss you, of course, but it’s more than that at this moment. It’s like you are smiling at the thought of it all and realizing, all over again, that true love lives on.

It wasn’t like me to just jump on a plane and off my comfortable shelf. Five thousand miles isn’t that far when you consider the distance in between honesty and the truth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s possible, some say, that not so far in the future, we will upload our entirety to a device. In such, some will continue to live on, forever, flashing and speeding upon the face of a microchip; humanity paused, then lost, somewhere within the magnetic gravity of a machines binary certainty.

Man in the machine: the desperate final attempt, a last gasp in tepid futility. prescient in, and above, immortality. The future speeds towards a select few, those worthy enough we’ll somehow judge, to remember forever.

What sort of demented chaos could erupt from the madness of this intranet of ignoble thought? Will the ephemeral be replaced by the digital? Will the past remain in record or will it become of no consequence for the whirling minds of material thought?

Imagine if you might, uploading every craven thought, every glorious memory, every moving picture onto a machine, -modern as it might be- the mass of a Tahoe Snowflake in May. Imagine being one stuck, flowing within the circuits of a server, connected to trillions of snowflakes, a current falling into the undertow. A trillion trillion rivers of formerly existing material thoughts.

Imagine losing the very human ability to move, to dance in space. All while gaining the silicon tools to speed across and into many billions of lifelong memories. Moving upon this ultimate collection of structured memory, you get lost in the branches of a seemingly endless maze of intellect; your body once a gangly hinderance, it now remains of scattered ash and electric dust.

I try imagining you in this machine, my dear. Poured into the machine, but a database, your mind and memories available any moment I’d like? Your voice calming, you relate to me, across the immense gulf of shared memories. Our shared experiences a language of base two.

Just the thought of such madness truly frightens me on this cold night. If this is the future, our memories synapsing forever, our lives now terminally paused; I sit and ponder the thought of a forever, forever, and would rather not wander that internet alone.

Why would anyone want to go on inside a machine?  To live without a life forever? It’s no life. There is no forever.

Universe’s end in an absolute dance of frozen death. 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eternal loss; we were not the first to experience such chronic, cathartic suffering. In the immediate aftermath one drifts like fresh snow, inconsolable and building. The damn days crawl into weeks, months, the forces of gravity, time arrested within the space, slowly diminishing past truths. It’s as if the total mass of my being slowly evaporates.

The burden of the grief, that weight decreasing the further onward we plow. The crushing forces of regret and sorrow wrapped around my heart like a Boa, an evil snake which could never be pardoned, no such reprieve, no such mercy. I could run, but not race. I can fly, but not soar.

Even on this winter’s night, some 10 short years later, the terrible pain lingers, in an acute unrequited love, through a strain that uncolors every fresh beam of light.

You may not know this, but the few years I studied at university, I majored in physics. The laws and rules of science heavily influence my process of rational -or irrational, as it were- thought. After the great scientist and thinker Albert Einstein published his Theory of General Relativity way back in the very early 20th century, a new, confusing way of possibly describing time and space developed: that the past, present and future, everything we know of history and all that we will experience of the future, are all happening right now. That is, our perception of the world we live in is little more than an illusion.

I struggle to envision a truth so antithetical to my perception. What does it mean? What does it say about our primitive understanding of the greater beyond? And in some way, these possibilities stifle my reason and prevent my life’s advancement? The unknown unknowns lend oxygen to that ancient ember of hope, rather than the more comforting belief in heaven and hell; that which strikes upon faith.

That she’s really better off in that next life where it’s written we could be together again. It strikes me square in the face: religion is but a clever tool created by men, that all men could bear the heaviest of loss.

If I’m wrong, so what of it? If I’ve thought wrong and the answer indicts my complete lack of faith, I’ll pay that price in a new Hell I suppose.

Show me how to live in the present with you still present, my love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

If you could send me even the smallest clue, I’d give it my all and everything to hang on and be true. Are you out there somewhere in the aether, some greater dimension? Are you a part of the universe, or have pieces of you shattered and scattered, adrift on a plane without direction or meaning? If all that is left are the tiniest of pieces, then how is it that a complete picture of you dances above, so calmly, so frantic, upon the darkest of night? Are you there, is it you, or a brutal allusion cast upon my tomorrow? I lie asleep; am I only watching nightmares that loop? Are we all endlessly waiting? 

You know, don’t you? You remember the pledge we made, that morning, under a vanishing rainbow? You claimed we could be copies of ourselves for eternity, tattoos upon the skin of our ancestors broken, bleached bones.

Funny, I can still recite so many of our ridiculous vows, even after all this time. Even after your final climb, alone, through the atmosphere. I can’t let them go, like I can’t hold on. So I stand here alone, on this stormy shore, hoping a message will wash up on the land that shakes. It is forever rolling, shaking over the undertow. 

Is this battle I’m waging worse than the wars I fought so far from here? Would you even know me still, under the skin and in spite of these scars that still bleed and ooze? Would you be the one to save me, or would I bleed out, cold and shivering in the understanding shade of your shadow?

Guess I’ll never know? Not guess, not me, my love; Not anymore.

So wherever you might be singing tonight, in sparkling pieces or whole, I pray so hard for your comfort and reduce the rest of my gratitude for a pocket to keep alive, but small.

They say atoms can entangle. Those that have combined, have collided with enough force to connect. It’s a mystery of science, so it seems, the spooky motions in perfect unison over distances equal to the age of the stars. Equal to the distance of infinity. So much we cannot comprehend my dear. My beloved.

These little morsels of atomic mystery and doubt and theory: they burn so hot within me sometimes. I could never completely let you go when so much is still misunderstood. None of us live in this place forever. They can’t keep me here.

Please don’t be angry with me or chastise me… “you fool, quit wasting your time.” Funny thing, there is no time remaining, only space offering the faintest of hopes. You’re still out there, I can really feel it; or at least synapses flash now and then, gritting my teeth, driving me on through the storm.

You’d be proud of my service to duty, of that I am certain. It’s all I ever wanted you know; to be tested and make it through the cauldron and back to you. Alas, I scrambled and toiled and killed and cried and burned and hurt and suffered the eternal longing, only to lose you at the end.

Like a commandment broken, I was atoned of that beyond my control, the ultimate sacrifice, you. That feels so self-centered, does it sound so? Nevertheless, I judge myself responsible for thus, reckoning and pain that creeps along beside me, like the bloody servant of Job.

All I ever wanted was us, and I sacrificed that for the gravest of sin. Two wrongs cannot make it right. There is no other way to live day-to-day with this smell of death upon my hands.

But am I really living? Are you really dead? Are you gone? Maybe this is all upside down and I cannot even see what I truly am? That I’m the one in hell? Are you still at home while I burn in this fire, suffering close to silently, nearer and nearer the final destination I scrape along, prolonging the destiny of ashes cemented in black back when?

If this is hell, this is where I am.  If this is life, where do I begin? If this is death, how will it end?

I can almost taste you, my love. I can almost touch you, touch me. I miss you always. I miss you already.