What scares me

 Found on Tumblr some years ago and just rediscovered.  It was written by a girl identified only as Taylor: 

 "A lot of people ask me what my biggest
fear is, or what scares me most. And I know
they expect an answer like heights, or
closed spaces, or people dressed like
animals, but how do I tell them that when I
was 17 I took a class called 'Relationships
For Life' and I learned that most people fall
out of love for the same reasons they fell in
it. That their lover's once endearing
stubbornness has now become refusal to
compromise and their one-track mind is
now immaturity and their bad habits that
you once adored are now money down the
drain. Their spontaneity becomes recklessness
and irresponsibility and their feet up on your
dash is no longer sexy, but just annoying.
Nothing saddens and scares me like the
thought that I can become ugly to someone
who once thought all the stars were in my
eyes."

That thought scares me too, both that I might become that to him I love or that he might become that to me.  I don't want that to happen.  Dear Lord, I don't.

Doesn't it scare you, too?  How many marriages have foundered on the rocks of tiresomeness? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bridge of Time

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Wedding Vow

by Sharon Olds

I did not stand at the altar, I stood
at the foot of the chancel steps, with my beloved, and the minister stood on the top step
holding the open Bible. The church
was wood, painted ivory inside, no people—God's
stable perfectly cleaned. It was night,
spring—outside, a moat of mud,
and inside, from the rafters, flies
fell onto the open Bible, and the minister
tilted it and brushed them off. We stood
beside each other, crying slightly
with fear and awe. In truth, we had married
that first night, in bed, we had been
married by our bodies, but now we stood
in history—what our bodies had said,
mouth to mouth, we now said publicly,
gathered together, death. We stood
holding each other by the hand, yet I also
stood as if alone, for a moment,
just before the vow, though taken
years before, took. It was a vow
of the present and the future, and yet I felt it
to have some touch on the distant past
or the distant past on it, I felt
the silent, dry, crying ghost of my
parents' marriage there, somewhere
in the bright space—perhaps one of the
plummeting flies, bouncing slightly
as it hit forsaking all others, then was brushed
away. I felt as if I had come
to claim a promise—the sweetness I'd inferred
from their sourness; and at the same time that I had
come, congenitally unworthy, to beg.
And yet, I had been working toward this hour
all my life. And then it was time
to speak—he was offering me, no matter
what, his life. That is all I had to
do, that evening, to accept the gift
I had longed for—to say I had accepted it,
as if being asked if I breathe. Do I take?
I do. I take as he takes—we have been
practicing this. Do you bear this pleasure? I do.

Thinking About War on Veteran's Day

 

War is something every man I have ever known was deeply interested in.
Why?




 

 

 

Calm and full the ocean under the cool dark sky; quiet rocks and the
birds fishing; the night-herons
Have flown home to their wood...while east and west in Europe and
Asia and the islands unimaginable agonies

Consume mankind. Not a few thousand but uncounted millions, not a day
but years, pain, horror, sick hatred;
Famine that dries the children to little bones and huge eyes; high-explosive
that fountains dirt, flesh and bone-splinters.

Sane and intact the seasons pursue their course, autumn slopes to
December, the rains will fall
And the grass flourish, with flowers in it: as if man's world were perfectly
separate from nature's, private and mad.

But that's not true; even the P-38s and the Flying Fortresses are as natural
as horse-flies;
it is only that man, his griefs and rages, are not what they seem to man, not
great and shattering, but really

Too small to produce any disturbance. This is good. This is the sanity, the
mercy. It is true that the murdered
Cities leave marks in the earth for a certain time, like fossil rain-prints in
shale, equally beautiful.

~ Robinson Jeffers



In bombers named for girls, we burned
The cities we had learned about in school
Till our lives wore out; our bodies lay among
The people we had killed and never seen.
When we lasted long enough they gave us medals;
When we died they said, "Our casualties were low."
~ Randall Jarrell

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is not bad. Let them play.
Let the guns bark and the bombing-plane
Speak his prodigious blasphemies.
It is not bad, it is high time,
Stark violence is still the sire of all the world's values.
 

What but the wolf's tooth whittled so fine
the fleet limbs of the antelope?
What but fear winged the birds, and hunger
Jewelled with such eyes the great goshawk's head?
Violence has been the sire of all the world's values.
 

 

Who would remember Helen's face
Lacking the terrible halo of spears?
Who formed Christ but Herod and Caesar,
The cruel and bloody victories of Caesar?
Violence, the bloody sire of all the world's values.
~ Robinson Jeffers

You would think the fury of aerial bombardment
Would rouse God to relent; the infinite spaces
Are still silent. He looks on shock-pried faces.
History, even, does not know what is meant.

You would feel that after so many centuries
God would give man to repent; yet he can still kill
As Cain could, but with multitudinous will,
No farther advanced than in his ancient furies.

Was man made stupid to see his own stupidity?
Is God by definition indifferent, beyond us all?
Is the eternal truth man's fighting soul
Wherein the Beast ravens in its own avidity?
~ Richard Eberhart

 

 Reconciliation
Word over all, beautiful as the sky,
Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be utterly
lost,
That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash
again, and ever again, this soiled world;
For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead,
I look where he lies white-faced and still in the coffin--I drawn near,
Bend down, and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coffin.
~ Walt Whitman

 

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work--
I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?

 

I am the grass.
Let me work.
~ Carl Sandburg

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes you play the game and lose, and that's just how it goes.

 

"I've got 5 contacts in my phone that will never call me again. Friends, colleagues, associates that have all lost their lives in airplanes. I was notified of two of those accidents, including the one that has hit me the hardest, literally as I was getting into an airplane to go fly. It can feel helpless sometimes when you see an accident that was entirely unpreventable. Sometimes you play the game and lose, and that's just how it goes."
~ Some guy

I don't have five contacts on my phone, but I have one.  I still keep it.  I even transfer it when I get a new phone. I'll always have it.  

******

When you wake up in the morning you really don't know what the day will bring. While I was running errands in Gotham City, Jr., the other day, having flown over in the King Air and aced the landing, the wheels chirping on the runway just as the stall warning sounded, and still feeling quite proud of myself about it, I ran into el jefe's friend Jason, and since it was around noon he invited me to lunch and we got seats at the counter of a nearby diner, the only ones available during the lunch rush. 

We both ordered the blue plate special, sliced roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy with a side of peas and a dinner roll. I had coffee black, he had coffee with cream, no sugar. We chatted about this and that as we ate. How're your kids?  They do grow up fast, don't they? How's your mom? That's good.  What's Jeff been up to? Giving you any grief is he? My eldest is working down at Rayfield's. You know the place. He's making some good money. Oh, the wife is fine, she's working on a new quilt with material from some kimonos she found at that thrift store down on -- and so on.

But as we finished up our coffees and waited for the check, the conversation veered. Definitely veered.

"Say," Jason said out of the blue, "I was was scrolling through some amateur rape porn looking for something good --"

I looked at him with an expression a cross between 'excuse me?' and 'say what now?' 

"-- to whack off to and --" 

He caught my expression.

"Sorry to be so blunt, Wanda, but I wanted to explain the circumstances and think it's best to just be direct and to the point."

"Uh...maybe I should get going."

"No, wait.  Hang on a sec. The thing is," and he pulled out his phone and fiddled with it, "I came across this video.  It's really a rocker and I definitely got hard when I saw it.  Here, look --" and he slid his phone over to me with a video playing.

"See what I seen?  You see?  That's you, isn't it?  That's you!"

Not quite comprehending what was going on and what he was babbling about and thinking I sure should have turned down this lunch, and wait till I tell el jefe about this, I looked at the video.

And froze. It was me.  Being gang raped. July 19 of Year One. For real.  Everything rushed back in to my mind. Every detail of every second.  But my expression didn't change. I pushed the phone back to him. "That's not me."

"Yeah, it is, Wanda.  I know you and I know what I seen."

"No.  It's not.  I don't even see a resemblance.  It's just some blonde, and it's probably fake or staged anyway."

"Oh, no, it's real.  This site specializes in videos of real rapes that people send in." 

"I see. Well, it's not me."

Jason scrutinized my face, then looked down at his phone, where the video was still playing, not even on mute, then looked back at me.

"Yeah.  It's you. I don't care what you say. It's you.  What happened anyway? Does Jeff know? Boy, if he doesn't --"

"God damn it, Jase, I told you it wasn't me.  It is not me!  I've had enough of this.  I'm getting out of here."

"Okay, Wanda.  I'm sorry I brought it up but you know I just had to know and you know what, it's really a great video, boner heaven.  I mash one out every time I watch it."

Every time, I thought, as I got off the counter stool. Oh, that's great. Jesus Christ.

"I'll mash another one out thinking about how I showed it to you and you watched it with me."

"I did not watch it with you, damn your soul!"

Other people in the diner had stopped eating to watch us.  The counter server, bill pad in hand, was staring.  "Thanks for the lunch, Jason Bowfield," I said loudly, saying his full name.* "Be sure to leave a big tip!"

And I left, not looking back. I heard him say, "Wait up, Wanda! Don't be --" before the door closed behind me.

When I got outside the air was fresh and crisp and I took a deep breath. I wasn't in the mood to do any more shopping and went directly back to the airport and got in my plane. I sat in the cockpit and realized I was shaking.  I was in no condition to fly.  I got out and walked up and down the ramp, then out past hangers and the FBO office to the parking lot and back to the ramp, then back to the parking lot again, thinking a lot of things. Such a lot of things. After about an hour I was calm enough to get back in the plane and go home.

Once there, I said nothing about the incident to el jefe, Jeff, my husband, other than to say I had run into Jason and had lunch with him and Jeff asked how the old reprobate was doing and I said okay I guess. When we went to bed, Jeff fucked me and I just stared up at the ceiling. When he finished, he asked me if I was okay, I didn't really seem to be into it, and I said that I was just tired and sorry to be a buzzkill. He said, no, no, he should have realized I'd be tired and not bothered me and I said he was never a bother and I always enjoyed his weight on me.

He kissed me, rolled over and went to sleep.  I lay awake staring into the darkness.

So.  You want to know was it really me, don't you?  Yes, it was me.  I was gang raped, the men coming back for seconds, even thirds. Yes, everybody videoed it with their cell phones. My surprise at what was happening, my shock, my fighting back, kicking, being slammed down and held immobile by arms far stronger than mine, wrists and elbows twisted so hard the pain was unbearable, the left wrist broken in a colles intra-articular fracture, the thumb carpometacarpal joint dislocated, complex dislocation of the elbow, other injuries...my clothes ripped off, torn and tossed aside, breasts bitten, legs pinned wide, cocks slammed into ever orifice, men laughing, kibitzing, and grunting as they came, saying things to me and about me, urging themselves on.  

Okay, I know you want to know did I, at some level, enjoy it?  The men jizzed two or three times each.  How about me, did I orgasm? Yes, I did. More than once.  But I did not enjoy it.  I was shamed and humiliated, angered, that that happened.  I did not expect and certainly did not want that to happen.  But my body...I don't know.... It did. Being hurt, in pain, fearing you are going to be murdered, that the last minutes of your life are this horror...and you orgasm.... Maybe it's your body distracting you.

 If you are a man reading this, think if you were grabbed by a bunch of homo creeps, say gym bro types much stronger than you, and they overpowered you and violently sodomized you repeatedly, face-fucked you, and during the course of the ordeal -- and yes, it's an ordeal -- you got an erection and ejaculated, not because you were aroused but simply through the...I don't know, friction...some part of your brain reacting.... And the men raping you saw that and laughed at you -- hey, look, the little punk likes it!  How would you feel about that? Would you be turned on? Or would you be utterly humiliated and hate your body for betraying you?

Did what happened to me affect my life?  In those days, yes. And  I still have a somewhat weak left wrist and elbow.  They ache sometimes, as does my left hip joint. My right knee can be twitchy. But it's my personality to refuse to let the bastards get me down -- they may be able to do it to me physically, but they can't do it to my mind -- That's it? That's the worst you can do to me? Pfft! Can't touch me! I refuse to let you. That was the thrill of a lifetime for you, wasn't it? But it was nothing, less than nothing, for me. You think you have power over me? Not in this world or the next. I am the captain of my soul. Not you. Never you.

The next morning, Jeff asked if I was feeling better than last night and I said yes, and I was, and he fucked me again and I enjoyed him enjoying me.  While we were at, it my mini me came unnoticed into the bedroom and sat down. When we were through she said, "Mom, can I make breakfast this morning? I want to make French toast with cinnamon."

So a normal day was starting and I thought the whole episode was passed.  The sun was shining on a fresh morning and I had things to do.  But, of course, it wasn't over. Jason sent Jeff a copy of the video, with a text saying, "Hey, I found this video of your wife Wanda being gang raped.  I showed it to her yesterday and she says it's not her but I am sure it is. What say you?" 

Jason sent the video in the morning but it wasn't till after supper that Jeff mentioned it. I asked if he had watched it.  He said a few seconds of it.  

"I don't think it's you," he said.  "It sort of looks like you, but I don't think it is. It's not, is it?" He looked closely at me.

"No, it's not," I said.

"I didn't think so. I knew it couldn't be you."

___________________________

*Not his real name, of course. 

 

A thought or two...or three

The other day I bad-mouthed my stateside magnet high school and, thinking about it, one reason I was not fond of it was that it didn't have a football team.  Can you imagine a high school without a football team? I mean, really.

My DoDEA high school had a football team and I was a cheerleader and loved it. Oh, boy, did I.  I had a boyfriend on the team.  Classic Americana, huh?  

So what's the deal with football, anyway?  Well, I think, for one thing, among all the team sports it is the most blatantly an id roar.  Sex and violence.  Crush your enemy (the other team) and get the hot babes (the cheerleaders).  Right out there in the open with everybody watching, knowing deep down what it is, and cheering it on. And, in high school, throw in all the fresh hot hormones of teen time raging through the bodies of those perfect human specimens.  And it's in the fall, echoes of harvest festivals in the homecoming bacchanal with that big bonfire and the couples pairing off in the shadows to, um ... you know ... their ecstatic writhings only half-concealed by the flickering flames, all overseen and approved by the homecoming king and queen, harvest gods straight out of the Golden Bough.

This is my curse: I should be a self-centered bastard out for myself.

  El jefe keeps telling me that I should think about myself rather than always thinking about others first.  He's right, but I can't help it.  It's just the way I am.  It does stress me out, though.  That's why I need to get away and be by myself from time to time.  That helps a lot. I'm not as bad as I used to be. Not even close. Time and experience toughen one up. Especially when you are trying to be accommodating and helpful to someone and you discover they just consider you a pushover. Okay, buster, lesson learned. Over and over again. Now when dealing with outsiders I wear emotional ceramic-plate armor, my mental firearm at Condition One, cocked and locked.  Well, sometimes I do forget.
 

 Ain't she a pretty one?

 I finally got my familiarization training completed for my jolly new King Air 260.  It's got some swell aftermarket upgrades, that, among other things, really enhance its short-field capabilities, climb rate and cruising speed. I would like to take the family to Europe in it next summer -- assuming there still is a Europe then, or at least one that anyone would want to visit. If not there, Alaska, flying above the weather for a change.  Oh, so nice. Will be keeping my eye out for power lever migration.

 

A thought that I have had is that we human beings are the nerve endings of God, the way that He connects with the material world.  That's why He created us, created life in all its splendor and horror.  Pain and boredom, tension, anticipation, hope, disappointment, despair, rage, joy, happiness, sadness, exuberance, lust, envy, jealousy, hatred, love...all of it, all our emotions, the feelings that mean everything to us and that make us who we are...all these are how God senses the physical reality of the universe that He created.

So it's our duty, our obligation to God, to experience everything that we can, all our body is capable of, all the emotions this life lays before us, embrace our physicality and everything it means to be alive.  

Thinking about this, I believe that I have done my share to give God his money's worth, so to speak, when he created me. I was commenting the other day that all that I have done has in the end resulted in nothing.  But I don't think I can really say that, don't think I have a right to say that; saying that is forgetting what it was like at the time I was doing those things, what I thought, how I felt -- in the instant of that then eternal now.

I used my brain and my body to the maximum. I helped unlock secrets of the mind, I have held brutally wounded men in my arms, I have flown faster than the speed of sound a hundred feet off the ground, I have enjoyed the passions of the flesh, I have fallen desperately in love, I have faced bitter disappointment and despair, I have --  

I have had my moment.

Does all this sound like egocentric boasting?  It might be if I were addressing an audience, but I am only talking to myself, reflecting on my life as it once was and now is not.  Today, I have a different role, bestowed on me by God, if you like, or bestowed on myself by my own free will.  That role is to prepare the next generation of life to embrace this world, to be worthy nerve endings of God. I'm thinking, of course, of my children.  I am subordinate to their lives now. My sole purpose is to ready them for their moment in the sun.

“What is this thing called life? I believe
That the earth and the stars too, and the whole glittering universe, and rocks on the mountains have life,
Only we do not call it so--I speak of the life
That oxidizes fats and proteins and carbo-
Hydrates to live on, and from that chemical energy
Makes pleasure and pain, wonder, love, adoration, hatred and terror: how do these things grow
From a chemical reaction?
I think they were here already, I think the rocks
And the earth and the other planets, and the stars and the galaxies
have their various consciousness, all things are conscious;
But the nerves of an animal, the nerves and brain
Bring it to focus; the nerves and brain are like a burning-glass
To concentrate the heat and make it catch fire:
It seems to us martyrs hotter than the blazing hearth
From which it came. So we scream and laugh, clamorous animals
Born howling to die groaning: the old stones in the dooryard
Prefer silence; but those and all things have their own awareness,
As the cells of a man have; they feel and feed and influence each other, each unto all,
Like the cells of a man's body making one being,
They make one being, one consciousness, one life, one God.”
― Robinson Jeffers 

On a lighter note: 

Blondes, A religious poem

Blondes are tempting me day and night.
Blondes in dreams trouble my restless sight.

With silken heads they rampage through my thoughts,
Full-bosomed in their sweaters and their shorts.

Or lie sunbathing on an impossible beach
Naked, aloof, continually out of reach.

 

 On the mind's promenade, above the rocks,
Blondes go sauntering by in gauzy cotton frocks

Or flatter cameras with their negligent poses
While the sunlight all their buxom charms exposes.

While I am eating, smoking, working, talking
Through long romantic gardens they are walking.

Protect me, Lord, from these desires of flesh,
Keep me from evil, in Thy pastures fresh,

So that I may not fall, by lakes or ponds,
Into such sinful thoughts about hot blondes!

~ Gavin Ewart

I sure gave God what he paid for.  My mother, the hot disco babe, did the same and so did my grandmother back in her day when the swing bands were laying down the hot licks and the soldier boys had their pay burning a hole in their pockets. Hey, big spender! But we all settled down to be good wives and mothers, just as our husbands, after sowing their wild oats, became the best of husbands and fathers. And so the generations proceed.