The Mighty Rio Grande Is Bound By Its Bed

 This post is a direct sequel to "The Report of Misery Must Be Full."

 

 

I've been preoccupied with my death for years. People with PTSD usually are. Life can get so painful you can't help but wonder what it's like to die, just as a release valve. The idea that this world is something worth holding onto is a relatively new one to me. It began to sneak up on me when I began dating my wife. After I married her this idea began to invade, in full force. 

I did not take kindly to the intrusion.

I did not want to change.

What if my wife died? What if she left me alone? What would I be left with then? All that work to integrate her and my child into my life.... and if they died I would be even worse off than when I started. How was I supposed to trust that this would be worth it to me? It was a problem I didn't really have much of an answer for.

Well, as God would have it, I was placed on gate guard detail, for six months. Most of the time I was placed on a gate where this was around, far as the eye could see:

Yes, Oklahoma really can get that pretty.

I was sitting in air conditioning, for the most part. I'd sit and read for hours at a time, surrounded by prairie. It was peaceful. I really needed it. I still miss those days, sitting out there, more or less alone. Of course I'd have my music.

The Mighty Rio Grande, by This Will Destroy You, is one of the most important songs in my life. It got me through the horrors I endured in Atchison. And then me playing that song in my head during boot camp got me through there.  And then me listening to the song got me mostly through deployment. It's a song that I had used to attempt to accept the lack of control I had over my life, and to accept that controlling said life would lead to disaster. I had to sit and wait for all of the garbage I was going through to pass, like a virus. 

And then my brain broke on deployment.

And then they sent me home.

But before they sent me home they put me through three psych wards. And I couldn't listen to my song. And if there's anything you should be listening to in the middle of three different psych wards, it's the freaking Mighty Rio Grande! So I sat and pined. One day, in one of the groups, the nurse asked us to say what some of our favorite songs were. She would look them up on Youtube with her phone and play them for us, right there.

Of course I knew what to ask for.

The whole room was filled with peace for five minutes. And then the nurse turned it off. I couldn't blame her, The Mighty Rio Grande is about eleven minutes long! She had to get to other songs. But everyone was different after hearing the song, including the nurse.

But then I'd remember that I got six straight months of being able to listen to it without interruption, out on the prairie, and I would feel calmer.

Because I was so freaking lucky for those six months.

And during that time, I would think about death. And try to contemplate what life would be like without my wife. Like, I really sat and just cracked it out in my head. I knew that, if I was not the first to go, I probably wouldn't last too long after that. No matter what had changed for me during that time, my wife will always be the lens I experience God's mercy through. All the weird things that I write about on this blog? 

Those are when the machine stops working and I can't get summon the willpower to get back to her. 

One smile, one laugh from that woman is enough to make me decide to live another five minutes, just to see it again. Sometimes it burns my soul, but the burn cauterizes whatever's bleeding deep in the unconscious and, as much as it hurts, I know there's a lot more down there that's hurting and needs more of that type of pain.

So what happens if that stops? And if there's more? And I'm tired and old? I realized that I'd want to just die and get it over with. Part of that would be coming back to Oklahoma and sitting under this wonderfully large sky. I'd sit and just be at peace, feel the oppressive sun, smell the prairie, and just take it in. Sit. And just be, once again.

Time for the hard left hook.

What does this have to do with last week's post? 

Everything. 

There's this gaping hole in my soul. Turns out we use mass narratives as part of our identities. And we're designed to do that, that's what religion is for. 

By writing the above I was trying to convince myself that would be enough.

It's not.

You can't just take out the American narrative, one which includes the luxury of being able to pick the cause you're angry about, even if it's not healthy You can't leave a void, nor should you put the wrong type of narrative in. I was hoping, hoping, hoping that by writing the above it would be able to undo my need for the lies of the American narrative. And make no mistake, every single narrative I've found in America is fundamentally wrong. Not one of them passes any litmus test I have. Period. The basis of American narrative (secular humanism) is so fundamentally poor in describing life that anyone who takes it on or who teaches it is doing harm, to themselves and to others.

But at this point I'm not sure that leaving a void, or to forcefully cram in something else, is any better. And from what I can feel it is worse to have a void than a lie. That void hurts even worse than the knowledge of Afghanistan. It hurts so much to not have any collective narrative there's times I just wish the earth would swallow me up and get it over with. There are precious things worse than not being a part of the whole; choosing deliberately not to be in synch with the whole  is one of those few things, at least for one so extroverted as myself.

This is too much. So I tried to unblink it. Maybe, just maybe, just maybe I can unsee it. People do this, right? Everyone else seems "fine", if you count SJW/Alt-right rage culture -they are two sides of the same coin- as fine. Maybe I can just keep my doubts under control with a series of finely cocktailed drugs and stimuli, like everyone else! It works for others, why not me???

Nope. I can't go back. Won't. No thank you. Never, ever, ever again will I knowingly embrace a series of lies that lets me excuse what we excuse. If there is anything I loathe it's the lies that we feed ourselves.

God, nothing new is under the sun, and this song, as wonderful as it is, cannot patch the hole in me that was left from the ripping out of a lie. What I'd built to keep me from running away from my marriage is not enough here. Individualism and hedonism isn't a counter to the need for a collective narrative, it's just a pretty little lie that we use to not look at the narrative we pretend doesn't exist.

Now what?

How does one actually exist in a society so inherently toxic that the individuals in it can't think there is anything better? I don't know a single American who would say our situation is good, but it is a dramatic failure of imagination that most cannot say anything better exists.

But that doesn't answer my question this time, doesn't it?

The Report of Misery Must Be Full

 

God smote Sodom and Gomorrah because their injustices were so deep, so awful, that "the report of misery had been filled". It was time to pay the piper. St. John Chrysostom said that Sodom and Gomorrah was so evil that all God had to do was just stop telling the earth to not destroy them. The Golden Legend states that the earth itself will accuse us of our sins more harshly than anyone, and demand of God the justice long withheld.

I'm not on the ground in Afghanistan, nor have I been in any real battle. I've never been. I never will be, God willing. I am your typical government employee. I sit at a desk, doing tech support for the U.S. military. When COVID hit I had to make sure that first responders had VPN accounts, so they could get into our federal system. I've also been called to help out with tech failures in national emergencies and warzones. I do not say this to boast. Where I sit allows me to see these problems from a more organizational standpoint, is all. When you, the average reader, hear about a hurricane you say "That's awful!" As well you should, for the record.

When I hear about a hurricane I pray to God that everyone's cellphones are working, because if they're not a lot of people can die needlessly.

If we didn't troubleshoot properly and someone dies was it the hurricane that killed those people, or operational incompetence? Can you blame the mugger for actually killing someone, if you didn't do anything to actually help the victim? I mean, obviously the mugger is at fault for wanting to hurt that person in the first place and attempting it, but actually stopping him from accomplishing his goal is a different moral question.

I ask because, in the waning days of the "evacuation" of Afghanistan, I received a call. One of the people who was handling the evacuation of Afghanis who had helped U.S. forces was having technical issues. He was completely  dead in the water. I wish I could have told you that I helped him. God, I wanted to.

But I couldn't. Not wouldn't, because there's a lot of times when I "can't" do something, and what I actually mean is that I shouldn't do something.

No, folks I genuinely couldn't do anything. This would have been a situation where I gladly would have cheated our Godforsaken bureaucracy if I could. There are people who literally would die if this guy couldn't get access to his systems. So I did what I could. I brought folks on to consult. I checked. Quadruple checked. Asked questions I'd normally feel like an idiot for asking, all to avoid what I knew to be the truth: it wasn't enough. A half hour later I was explaining to him why I was helpless. It went along the lines of "The DoD isn't a monolithic entity and the stuff you're trying to access I have no way of accessing. At all. I have no idea who may actually be able to help you, but here are my best guesses. Try these folks."

Turns out he'd been to a few of those folks already. They'd sent him our way. I have no idea why, beyond the obvious incompetence and immunity to reason and logic that pervade most government employees.

He then begged for help. Actually begged. People were dying because he couldn't do his work. But I could do nothing. I tried, tried, tried, tried tried tried tried tried to communicate there was no cheat, no workaround, nothing I had in my toolbox to address his problem.

I finally got him to believe me. Government does that to you; it makes you a cynic of the truth, gets you used to lies and falsehoods and doublespeak.  It took me a hot minute to break through, and by that point I was close to tears. That may have been what did it: my voice, choked with sobs. I was at the end of my rope. And he finally knew it.

He thanked me for my time, and gently told me I was more helpful and had spent more time on his issue than the nine previous people he had been forced to talk to that day, combined. One of my supervisors had given him an idea he was going to try. He thanked us for our time and hung up.

I walked out of that call choking back tears. When I drove home the floodgates opened and I sobbed all the way home. And then entered a world totally apathetic. Folks were arguing about the Texas abortion bill, mask mandates, and more. All of it was chosen by them. They had the luxury to ignore Afghanistan. Their powerlessness didn't lead to the butchering, rape, and indoctrination of a people. They could wring their hands dramatically at the causes fed to them by our soft totalitarian society. Nothing's on the line, not really. No actual choice is present. You may think you know what helplessness feels like. What it feels like to watch helplessly as the innocent suffer.

But do you?

Have you faced a moment where your inability (not apathy, inability!) to act leads to unspeakable tragedy?

I now have. God knows how many didn't make it because of that wasted call to me. It burns in my gut. I wake up in the middle of the night and wonder about the people I couldn't help. I can't help but remember these Afghanis in my happiest moments with my family, in my dreams, when I eat, when I sit down to type on this blog, when I'm playing games, when I shit, when I argue with my wife, when I listen to music, etc etc etc etc ETCETERA. The light my family and friends give me is fuel to this fire; because of the goodness shown to me I can never forget. The happier I become the more I must remember.

When I ask the next question, do not think I ask it happily. I am a citizen of the United States, this will always be my country. I once swore an oath to defend the United States. I consider that oath to be eternally binding, even if I am released from it. I will always be American, even if I fly to the ends of the earth.

So if you take the next question as treasonous that's your own idiocy. Probably should look into that problem.

How long, Lord? 

How long until you smite the sinners from the land? Which I just so happen to be a part of? And belong to?

How long?

The Wide Window

 

Two things can come from fear: anger or discretion.

To be angry is to wish to destroy the object of your fear. It is not inherently unhealthy to be angry. Anger gives you power, and power is a necessity in this horribly sad world.  But sometimes individuals forget why they become angry: they enjoy the anger as its thing, for its own sake. We commonly call this falling in love with anger rage. And it frequently comes about because someone has had to be angry for so long they've forgotten what it's like to live without it, and forgiving real life for not being as thrilling as anger is very difficult and sad.

To be discrete is to realize, with a sinking and sometimes helpless feeling, that you cannot face the thing you think a risk. So you withdraw, trying to find a way to live without the thing that you held dear that was threatened. Like anger, that feeling that accompanies discretion can be overwhelming, nevermind addictive. You and I usually know it as cowardice.  While I don't know many people who like rage, I don't know of anyone who isn't disgusted by cowardice. It pulls you inward, away from everyone and everything, forcing your mind to go into overtime to justify your behavior.

But there is a way out of both horrible traps: relationship and mourning. If you can find people you can share your grief with then the threat of being consumed is made much less.

This is a book about cowardice. And what it can do to people who are sidelined by it. Reading it I found myself disgusted by Aunt Josephine's actions. How could I not be? I don't need to be addicted to rage to find her actions repulsive. Humans like a good fight; we like blood. It's as simple as that. And the idea of not spilling it to right wrongs is a hard one to take in, but there's a nobility, a strength, a deliberateness to pacificism that can take even greatest war-dog off guard. Well, assuming it's genuine of course. 

Don't we always wonder: is someone who practices discretion to the point of non-violence secretly a coward?

I know I do.

Aunt Josephine was once a woman of great discretion, or I hope she was. Because what I found in this book filled me with a level of disgust I can't adequately explain. She knew the children were in trouble and sold them out! As a parent I felt flashes of indignation that were similar to a volcano. How could she abandon her charges like that?? How could someone lose themselves that much?

But what room do I have to talk?

When I thought I'd lost the woman I'd eventually marry I became addicted to rage. It was rage or grieve, at least in my thought process. I was a coward: I chose rage. Anything is easier than grieving. During my teenaged years and early twenties it took people on average a year to actually get to know me. They had to get past all the tics, all the built-in walls of spite and deliberate emotional traps, designed to get anyone and everyone away from me.

The worst part was that none of this was purposeful. It's amazing what we come think of as normal.

But my refusal to grieve about ripped me apart.

So I know why I'm disgusted: looking at Aunt Josephine, I find myself looking into a darkened mirror. Would I sell out children entrusted to my care? No, but I tried to abandon my siblings, stunting their own grieving process, leaving them to figure out their own baggage from our time in "The Warzone". The stuff they had to deal alone that they shouldn't have to is impossible to undersell. No, I couldn't answer those questions, my parents completely dropped the ball here. But I could have grieved and questioned with them. I left them to questions of theodicy no one at the age of four should have been grappling with, not alone, not to mention the other two older siblings. I could have been helpless with them.

I ran. And raged.

I shouldn't be so hard on Aunt Josephine. Probably shouldn't be so hard on myself, either. 

But talk of forgiveness certainly is hard to swallow when the consequences are etched into the eyes of your siblings, into their laughter (how much lighter it used to be, all around! I've forgotten much, but not that), and into the silences in your conversations. Forgive a horror so enormous that we hardly notice it anymore?  

How? 

How do you forgive the air you breathe for poisoning you? How do you forgive soundwaves for bringing you the cries of the siblings you forced yourself to ignore? Light, for burning images in your brain you'd gladly drink the rest of your life away to forget? It seems absurd, impossible.

But not forgiving is the coward's way out. The air must be forgiven, the light must be released from guilt I imputed it, soundwaves for bringing me the sounds I'd give almost anything to forget. Otherwise we go back to cowardice and rage.

I know my drug.

I reject it. With all my being. Now and forever.

I'm sad Aunt Josephine switched drugs.

Dear Sam

I remember you like it was yesterday.

At thirteen I left my childhood neighborhood, which my therapist dubbed "The Warzone". It was a violent and wretched place; my siblings and I couldn't so much as walk down the street without being attacked. I found myself on my wife's family's property; thirty three acres of woods surrounded the trailer I lived in. It was quiet. I could leave my house without being heckled and attacked by three to five kids, all turned and twisted by their parents.

But the woods are free of that sort of nonsense. There aren't people out to beat you to a pulp for opening your door. Being outside can actually be relaxing. Silence isn't the calm before the storm, it's actually just silence. Sitting down and leaning against a tree isn't an invitation for attackers, but a meditative experience. And seeing people isn't the start of a fight, but a chance to wave and then continue on with not doing anything.

I'd wake up, realize I didn't want to see anyone, and go out. Nowhere in particular, just out.  I'd never really experienced a freedom quite like this. I didn't have to have my guard up. Well, mostly. My mom was in the middle of another rough patch, my brother was driving me crazy, my sister was driving my brother crazy... not a good time. And that trailer was tiny. My situation had improved; at least I could go outside and hide now!

So I'd just go out and be by myself. I'd no wish to see anyone, by and large. I was free from people, why would I want to see them most of the time? I'd grown to hate people, as a collective. I still do, finding that the same principles that governed those kids are stronger in society, with just the right amount of self-deception and cowardice to cover it up. 

Notice I didn't say that was healthy.

This particular time I was by the creek on the hill. This was the first time that, looking at the beauty of the world, I felt so hollow I wanted to kill myself. What was in me was not like what was in those woods. I wanted it dead. It'd occurred to me that I did not want to be the way I was. But, unlike most people, I knew I could do nothing to change it. I was what I was. The myth that you can change yourself is pervasive, so sweetly deceptive, so comforting, and all the worse when you realize that to change yourself is to destroy yourself. Wheat and tares must grow together until the harvest.

Sorry, but saying that you just learn to manage is hollow bullshit. It's another sweet little lie we teach ourselves.

I grasped all of this at thirteen, sitting in the perfection of the woods. I wanted change. I knew that meant I wanted death. I yearned for it, needed it, and found myself begging for it.

And there you came, trotting up. You were always so calm. You took one look at me and sauntered over, placing your head in my lap, brown eyes looking up at me with that same wise, accepting, loving glance you had for everyone. 

I threw you off. "No, go away! Fuck off!" I found myself exploding at you. I'm still ashamed of it, honestly. I went berserk. "Can't you find someone else to annoy? Anyone? Go! Fuck off! I don't want anyone out here! I don't want myself out here, so why would I want you???" You didn't move, didn't even blink. You were watching me, accepting the verbal abuse without complaint. That made me angrier, of course. "FUCK. OFF. YOU STUPID. DOG." My voice rang through the woods.

You were so disappointed. So was I.

You came back in your slow and deliberate way, gently threading through the underbrush. I kept yelling. A part of me knew this was the death I yearned for, and now that I was facing it I knew I was scared of it. All humans are frightened of death, of change. Especially if it's the kind that comes from a friend. You came closer. So did Death. Harvest time was here, and I felt very stingy all of a sudden. I yelled all the louder, trying to drive you off.

And then your head was in my lap and you heaved a sigh, looked up at me, and closed your eyes.

I sat there a moment. "Stupid fucking dog," I said in a hollow voice. Something had changed, had died. You squeezed your shut eyes and nuzzled in deeper. I leaned against the tree and found myself petting you. "You're fucking annoying, you know that?" You opened your eyes, shot me a reproachful, yet gentle look and then shut them again. We sat there awhile. You didn't move a muscle, you just stood there, head in my lap. We must have been there at least twenty minutes. I kept looking around, enjoying the woods, and you didn't open your eyes for awhile. 

I was starting to get stiff. I stirred and you got up. You smiled at me. I found myself smiling back. You stood still, waiting to see what I would do. I started heading back to the house. I hadn't eaten before leaving the house and all of a sudden felt hungry. You walked back with me, your deliberate pace keeping even with mine. Our greyhound Haugen came out and the two of you walked up to each other, Haugen's bounding steps darting around your plodding footpads.

I went inside to chaos.

Over those months you were somehow always there when I needed you. I don't know how you managed it, given that there were three other dogs on the property, including your sweetheart Lily. But you were always there, walking up when I wanted to be alone but really shouldn't have been. Sometimes I'd try to get you to go away, but it always ended the same way, and in time I learned to accept the snuggles.

I think I may have missed you the most when I moved away, my wife aside. To this day there are moments when I look around and realize I could really stand to see your small black frame padding into view, head always up, eyes always showing a contentment and wisdom I've seen in no other creature. And I've met living saints. I know what they look like. There's an acceptance, a peace, to them that is quiet but powerful. I know the joyful sorrow, I know the look of the Crucified Ones. You outstripped them all.

I miss you Sam. Until recently I'd no idea how much. But no one else could have shown me what you did. I know you affected my wife similarly, not to mention everyone else you came in contact with. There's this small circle of humans that were permanently made better people because you were you. I'd no idea that anyone could be so loyal. I wouldn't have had that concept if you hadn't been there. Period.

There's a perpetual debate: do animals, since they're not humans, go to Heaven? Considering that most humans aren't even a quarter as kind as you I'd say it's an absurd question, one broached by people who have no concept of goodness at all. You, Sam, are there, waiting for my wife and I. No saint could contend with you, and I think they'd be the first to say it. Gone are your aches and pains; you'll have your tail back, that'll be weird to see! The pain will be gone, but the wisdom, the love, in those eyes of yours will be infinitely stronger.

I fully anticipate my last test will be if I can follow you through the Pearly Gates. Please, Sam, lead the way! I know you'll probably be a bit bashful about it, but I am your student; that last test will be necessary. But I know I will follow, somehow. Any world where you cannot be present is an incoherent world, a world that I do not wish to be in. God is many things, but incoherent is not one of them.

So yes, I will see you again. 

May we someday roam the Real Forest, that one that all forests are pale imitations of, go clambering through creeks, and look at the True Light filtering through the leaves that glow brighter than jewels. Without the shadows may we sit in that bejeweled Light, free of all care.

You were somehow in that Real World while with us. You saw me as I was and accepted it, and thus killed it. True friends in this world are kind torturers, and thank God, He gave me the best friend I could have asked for in that summer of peace. You will show me all the things that you could always see, introduce me to a World I have always ached for but, until then, would have been too bitter to know. 

We will be Home. Finally.

Until then, my friend, my mentor. Until then.