Frank is Emptiness

 

 

January 31st, 2019

I was driving home a little while ago when I heard a song on the stereo that was written by…me. That is truly a weird sensation. Karin and I have an ipod with over fifteen hundred songs on it. That is what we listen to when we are in the car. A couple of the songs on it are from me, or at least the lyrics are from me. I worked on the songs with Randy Vanvlaenderen, a close friend and an excellent blues guitarist.

I haven’t written any lyrics for a few years. Perhaps that is due to a lack of inspiration, or sheer laziness. I am good with words, but I can’t make music. Well, maybe I could if I worked at it. It’s been easier working with Randy. His whole life is music, and I envy him because of it. He can turn my words into song, and that is an amazing gift.

I am going waaaay out of my comfort zone now. I can’t describe the songs to you. You have to listen to them. So, I have to go beyond words, and use current technology to bring the recordings to you. I hate doing that. However, I will write down the lyrics for you.

There are three songs. They are all several years old.

“PTSD” is a song for my son, Hans. He fought in Iraq, and that changed everything. This song is modeled on “Father and Son” from Cat Stevens. It is the only song where I actually participate in the recording.

“Kiss My Rebel Ass” is a tune about racism and barbecue and southern culture, and it is also about Hans. I mention Ernie in the song. Ernie was a close friend who died of cancer, and I miss him every day. The song is not PC. Not at all.

“A Brand New Buddha” is about Zen. It is also completely blasphemous. The cool thing is that Zen practitioners won’t track you down and kill you for being a smart ass.

The lyrics:

Kiss My Rebel Ass

Son drove his truck, all shiny and black,
Exhaust rumbling out of the back.
Eight-foot whips to use his CB,
Great machine if gas is for free.

The truck looked like a big, black whale.
I saw his sticker on the tail.
Stars and bars, kind of crude and crass,
Words said, “Kiss my rebel ass.”

Son loves barbecue, spicy sweet.
Down South you always find that treat.
We Yankees don’t have it so much.
We just don’t have time or the touch.

Where could I find my boy this meal?
I’ll ask Ernie; he knows the deal.

Ernie said, “Frankie, go to Speed Queen!”
“It’s all down home, meat nice and lean.”
“Speed Queen? Ain’t that down in the Hood?”
“Hell yeah Frankie, food there’s damn good!”

Son was at home, that was good luck.
I told him, “Son, let’s take your truck.”
“Wait”, he said, and swallowed his pride.
“I’m not stupid, We’ll take your ride.”

12th and Walnut; it’s kind of rough.
We weren’t staying long, just long enough.
“Son, you think that they got some beer?”
“Dad, we’re the only white men here.”

I went inside, ordered some pork.
Meat so tender, it melts on your fork.
Son left to smoke, gone in a flash.
Lady said, “Brother, we only take cash.”

Carried out a big plate of tin.
Smelt so tangy; sweeter than sin.
Son smiled crooked, breathed in the meat.
“Dad, so what are you gonna eat?”

Boy went back to his Lone Star home.
Didn’t stay long. He just had to roam.
It was fun, but all things must pass.
Texas can kiss his rebel ass.

 

A Brand New Buddha
Box arrived from some kind of store.
It happened back a month or more.
Inside was something bright and bold.
It was a Buddha made of gold!

Chorus

Strike the moktak! Sing and shout!
Everybody come and gather ’bout.
Slap the chugpi, chant the sutras!
We got us a brand new Buddha!

Up on the altar sat Kwan Yin.
Taking her down, that seemed a sin.
Couldn’t decide where she should rest,
Guess she can keep the closet blessed.

Got no emptiness. Got no form.
Got us a Buddha gold and warm.
That boy smiles so shiny and bright.
Bet his grin glows late in the night.

No attachments here. None of that.
Cushions are fine, so is a mat.
We sit quiet both night and day.
Just don’t take our Buddha away!

Burn the incense and ring the bell!
Chant those sutras we know so well!
This dharma can’t be bought or sold.
We got a Buddha made of gold!

PTSD

Father: My boy joined up ’bout four years back.
Army sent him over to Iraq.
I didn’t want him to go to war.
He’s here now, but not like before.

Son: My old man. He can’t understand.
He didn’t see the blood or the sand.
He didn’t hear the shouts or the cries.
Don’t look at me with those sad eyes.

Father: What does he feel? What does he think?
That boy just sits there; smokes and drinks.
He won’t talk. He won’t even try.
Just looks at me with empty eyes.

Son: What should I tell? What can I say?
I was ten thousand miles away!
He wasn’t with me. He wasn’t there.
What did he know? What did he care?

Father: Son, I did care. I prayed every day.
I wanted you home safe some way.
Tell me what happened over in Iraq.
Tell me how I can get you back.

Son: Dad, I went some place you can’t go.
What all happened, hell I don’t know.
It’s not simple. Not white or black.
Bye, Dad. I can’t ever come back.

 

Maybe the songs will mean something to you. Maybe not.

Should I write more songs with Randy?

PTSD

Kiss My Rebel Ass

Brand New Buddha

 

 

 

 

January 26th, 2019

Michael is a young novice at our church, St. Rita’s in Racine. He is in training to become an Augustinian priest. He’s a tall, twenty-seven year old, with a very red beard. He comes from Long Island, New York, so he has some experience with winter weather. He certainly has seen more of it than the other novice, Enrique, who was from the Dominican Republic. Enrique was bundled up like an Eskimo as soon the temperature dropped below freezing.

Enrique left St. Rita near the end of December. Michael has remained with us. The weather in December was remarkably mild. Michael got cocky. He said,

“So this is the infamous Wisconsin winter? It’s not so bad.”

My response: “Just wait.”

The fact is that Wisconsin winters are fickle. Some years the cold and snow start right at Thanksgiving. During some years (like this season), Decembers are so warm that there is no white Christmas. But there is always a reckoning. That occurs usually around the last week of January. That’s when we get hit with a monster snowstorm, and that is when the temperatures drop below zero, and they stay there for a while.

I worked for a trucking company for twenty-eight years. I spent most of those years running the early morning dock operation. The loading dock at a trucking company has a roof, but is not really enclosed. There were 179 doors on our dock and they were all open. Essentially, we worked in an outdoor environment. Snow blew across the dock, and the forklift wheels ground it into ice. Gusts of wind blew paperwork around. Whatever the outside temperature was, that was our room temperature. I remember pre-dawn walks on the dock where I could actually see a difference in the air quality. It was so cold that the air seemed thicker, almost fluid. In the intense cold nothing worked. Forklifts and trucks wouldn’t start. People and equipment moved slowly and painfully. A guy ran me over with his forklift during the winter in 2009. The best part of  that experience was going to the hospital so that I could be warm again.

I am convinced that hell is a cold place.

Just as an aside, our son, Stefan, had a teacher named Ann. Ann was in many ways a remarkable woman. In her youth, she worked for a year in Antarctica. She drove the shuttle truck from the helipad to the research facility. Ann told me once that every member of the team at the facility had to go outside at least once a day, regardless of the darkness and the cold. They had to go out, even if it was only for five minutes. Apparently, this rule was in effect to prevent cabin fever and potential homicides. People would dress appropriately, brave the elements, and then rush back into the building before they died. Ann used this experience when she taught at the Waldorf School. The kids in Stefan’s class always went out for recess. Always.

It is now 3:39 AM. I just took my daughter’s dog outside. There is a blizzard out there. Shocky and I decided to return indoors rather quickly. According to the weather report, there will be eight to twelve inches of fresh snow on the ground before this storm ends. After that the temperature will drop like a rock. The day after tomorrow is predicted to have a high temperature of minus thirteen degrees. That is a just a little warmer than the surface of Mars.

Michael, enjoy.

 

 

 

 

 

January 21st, 2019

St. Francis of Assisi Church sits on the corner of Brown Street and Vel Phillips Avenue. Vel Phillips Avenue was, until recently, called 4th Street. Vel Phillips was a noted local civil rights activist, along with being an alderperson and judge in Milwaukee. She also served as the Secretary of State for Wisconsin. Phillips died last year, and this street (which is located in her neighborhood) was given her name.

St. Francis parish is in the Brewer’s Hill area of Milwaukee, just a bit to the northwest of downtown. It’s a working class, black neighborhood that is gradually becoming gentrified. The parish is run by Capuchin priests, who are part of a Franciscan order in the Roman Catholic Church. Capuchins (and Franciscans in general) are deeply concerned with the poor, the excluded, and the unloved. This means that they ally themselves with other people who work to help the marginalized in society. This means that work for social justice. This means that they are political.

The Capuchins would probably agree with this quote from Gandhi:

“Those who say religion has nothing to do with politics do not know what religion is.”

I say this because, for the last eighteen years, the priests at St Francis have allowed Peace Action of Wisconsin to use the church for its annual commemoration of the birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.  Peace Action is not a religious group. However, many people of faith work with Peace Action. I know. I work with them, and there are people who accuse me of being a person of faith. In any case, Peace Action held its memorial service today, inside the warmth of the church, while the cold and snow of the Wisconsin winter held sway outside.  I have been to this service several times over the years, and my one consistent memory is of cold and snow.

Karin and I arrived at today’s service a few minutes late. It wasn’t a big deal. People straggled into the church long after we showed up. A young, black woman handed us a program as we entered the door. There were musicians playing some introductory music when we took out seats. The group gathered in the church was biracial; an even split between white and black. The congregation was rather grey (in hair color). Maybe a lot of the young folk had to work, so it was mostly older people sitting in the pews.

After we got comfortable, a couple of my friends from Voces de la Frontera came inside and sat a couple rows in front of us (Voces is an immigrant rights organization where I have volunteered for a long time). This was about the time that we were all singing “Lift Every Voice and Sing” (the Black National Anthem). It’s a good song. I found it inspiring, and I don’t inspire easily. After the song ended, I went up to greet Mario and Christine from Voces.

These sorts of services for Dr. King have a pattern to them. There is usually a general greeting. Then the MC will call out people who may have had personal relationships with Martin Luther King. Based on the fact that King died in 1968, there aren’t many of these folks left. However, some still live, and they remember, and we are grateful that they do.

While this was going on, Mario came back to our row, and he sidled up next to me. He asked quietly,

“You been arrested?”

I found his question confusing at first. Yes, I have been arrested for civil disobedience (CD), but I thought he was asking if I wanted to get busted again. I told him,

“Hey, I have to take care of somebody who is on probation. Karin and I are her only life line. I can’t go to jail right now.”

Mario hurried to answer, “No, no, no. I meant ‘have you been arrested in a protest?’ ”

“Yeah.”

Mario went on, “Would you like to stand up with these women from Voces to get recognized for doing that?”

“I got busted, but it wasn’t for anything I did with Voces.”

Mario went on, “Yeah, I know, but you have been with Voces for so long. It would count for us.”

It didn’t feel right somehow. I went to jail for CD in Nevada in 2017 while I protesting against drone warfare. That doesn’t have much of anything to do with immigration rights. Also, even after two years, I don’t know why I did that action. Was it because I was fighting for social justice? Was it because I felt intense loyalty to another guy at the demonstration? Was it because I’m just a fucking idiot?

I told Mario, “I don’t think so.”

Mario said softly, “It’s okay. It’s your decision.” Then he went back to his seat.

I talked to Karin about it.

“Mario wants me to stand up when these other people from Voces stand. They were all arrested.”

Karin asked me, “Do you want to do that?”

“No, not really.”

She looked at me firmly and said,

“Then don’t.”

End of subject.

At this time, a young, black man, DiMonte Henning, started reading from King’s sermon at the Riverside Church in New York City in 1967.

DiMonte recited King’s words: ”

The truth of these words is beyond doubt, but the mission to which they call us is a most difficult one. Even when pressed by the demands of inner truth, men do not easily assume the task of opposing their government’s policy, especially in time of war. Nor does the human spirit move without great difficulty against all the apathy of conformist thought within one’s own bosom and in the surrounding world. Moreover, when the issues at hand seem as perplexing as they often do in the case of this dreadful conflict, we are always on the verge of being mesmerized by uncertainty; but we must move on.

And some of us who have already begun to break the silence of the night have found that the calling to speak is often a vocation of agony, but we must speak. We must speak with all the humility that is appropriate to our limited vision, but we must speak. And we must rejoice as well, for surely this is the first time in our nation’s history that a significant number of its religious leaders have chosen to move beyond the prophesying of smooth patriotism to the high grounds of a firm dissent based upon the mandates of conscience and the reading of history. Perhaps a new spirit is rising among us. If it is, let us trace its movements and pray that our own inner being may be sensitive to its guidance, for we are deeply in need of a new way beyond the darkness that seems so close around us.”

It’s hard to listen to those words. It’s hard to know that what I have done is so little. Sometimes I feel like I’m just playing. It feels like I haven’t sacrificed hardly anything.

George Martin, a leader at Peace Action, got up to the microphone. He recognized all those who had risked arrest and imprisonment for justice. When somebody from the congregation stood up, we all said, “Thank you”. I didn’t stand up. Maybe I should have. I don’t know. Honestly, it didn’t feel right. I’m just a guy.

There were other speakers. Joyce Ellwanger, a long time activist, spoke about her actions to protest at the School of the Americas in Georgia. She did six months in federal prison for her efforts. After her came a young man, Solo Littlejohn, who has been busted repeatedly for his fight to get a $15 minimum wage. He said this:

“As a person of color, I didn’t like getting arrested. I felt scared. But, if had not been for Dr. King and his fight, it would have been much worse for me and for others.”

Right on.

There was some music after Solo spoke. The musicians sang “What’s going on?” from Marvin Gaye. Then we all sang “We Shall Overcome”.

I guess I am just a sentimental fool. That song made me cry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 20th, 2019

The Capital Times in Madison, Wisconsin, posted this letter from me a few hours ago.

“Back in the early 1980s, I was stationed in what was then West Germany, courtesy of the U.S. Army. While I was there, I made a trip to Berlin. At that time Berlin was a divided city with a real wall, a wall much more serious than the wall Trump imagines that he can build on the border with Mexico.

In Berlin, there was a museum at Checkpoint Charlie. The museum illustrated all of the ingenious ways that people had gotten past the wall to escape to the West. No matter how hard the East Germans tried to keep people from crossing the border, some always found a way to do it.

Trump’s wall will not keep many people out. The wall will keep out some immigrants, but not all. People will still find a way to enter the United States. These people will be cleverest and the most desperate. Maybe these are the people that Trump really wants to come to our country. Maybe he actually wants to admit only the most ruthless. In any case, the wall won’t work as advertised. In the end the Berlin Wall fell. It was an abject failure. Even if we waste the money to build Trump’s wall, it will still fail, and it will fall.”

January 17th, 2019

The Subaru is slowly dying.

This is not really a surprise, but it is disappointing. I knew the car was a beater when I bought it, but it’s been more trouble than I ever expected it would be. It would be easier for me if the car had regular, chronic problems, but its issues are idiosyncratic. At random intervals the car will stall out, or fail to start at all. The windshield wipers work whenever they feel like working, which is usually not when it’s raining or snowing. Every time I get into the Subaru is like betting at a casino. It’s always a crap shoot as to whether I am actually going to leave the driveway. I hate this car.

And yet…

It’s a stick shift.

I have a sentimental and irrational love of standard transmissions. Perhaps it is a function of my age. I don’t know. All I know is that I like to drive stick shifts.

This goes back a long, long time. Back in 1981, I was assigned to an Army unit in what was then West Germany. I needed a vehicle to get around, and I found, to my dismay, that there were almost no cars with an automatic transmission in all of Germany. Every car was a stick shift. My choices were either to walk to work, or to learn how to drive a stick. I reluctantly learned how to drive a stick. It was a struggle at first.

The first car that I bought in Germany was a used Ford Taunus. It was a European version of some kind of a Ford. I’m not sure what its equivalent in America was. It was a two-door and it was a four-speed. I paid $700 in cash for the vehicle, and that was all it was worth. It was useful for me in that it allowed me to burn out a clutch with no regrets. It prepared me for my next car.

In 1982 I bought a BMW 320i. That car was sweet. It truly was. I loved that car. I suppose that most men have a car of their dreams. That BMW was mine. It was a four-banger, but it was designed to run on the autobahn. That car could move. I remember driving through the Spessart mountains at 90 mph, when I was dating Karin. The BMW had no problem at all at that speed. I seldom drove faster then 90 mph. My reactions always seemed a bit too slow if I was cruising at a speed higher than that. Also, at speeds of 120 mph of more, the car tended to float, and that meant involuntary lane changes. I like to drive fast, but I also like to drive in control.

I had the BMW for twelve years. Karin and I drove that car throughout Germany. We also took it through Austria, and what was then Yugoslavia. We brought the car to the United States, and we went everywhere with it. There are very few parts of this country that we did not visit with that BMW.

Things change. The BMW aged. It’s transmission failed on us. I had the tranny rebuilt, and I tried to keep the car as long as I could. Then the transmission failed again. That was in 1994. At that point, I sold the car to a Mexican who lived near Mitchell Street in Milwaukee. I remember when he gave it a test drive, he told me,

“Man, this car, it shifts really hard.”

I told, “Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m selling it.”

Now, twenty-five years later, my two sons bitterly complain to me about my decision to sell the Beemer. Both of them tell me,

“You should have kept it! I could have rebuilt the tranny and put in a new engine!”

Honestly, that car would be worth a lot now, and one of the boys would have a truly cool ride. But life got in the way. Karin and I had three little kids and we needed a reliable car. The BMW was no longer reliable.

The next step was to buy a Nissan Sentra. That was a five-speed. The Sentra was a good car. We drove it long and hard. I finally sold it to my brother, Marc, who lived in Texas. He and his family needed a decent family car, and Karin and I needed to get a minivan. I drove it down to him on Labor Day weekend of 1997. That was the last time I saw him alive. He died the following February when he had a freak accident in his Mazda.

I had another beater at this time. It was a Mercury Lynx. It was also a stick shift, and it was not terribly reliable. I remember driving it during the winter to pick up Hans and one of his classmates at the Waldorf School of Milwaukee back in the mid 90’s. That afternoon there was a sudden blizzard. It was hideous. The streets were littered with abandoned vehicles. A ride that normally took thirty minutes lasted for six hours. Keep in mind that this was back in the days before cell phones, so Karin (and the mother of Hans’ classmate) had no idea what was going on with us.

At one point we were at the filling station on St. Paul Street in the Third Ward. The battery died and I had to get a jump from another vehicle. It was snowing like crazy and the wind was brutal. As I tried to jump the battery, I put the car into neutral with the parking brake on. I told Hans, who was maybe seven or eight years at the time, to keep his foot on the gas once the car was running. He did. He revved that car up all the way to the red line. The Lynx was just screaming. I told Hans to let off the gas pedal a bit.

He laughed.

Karin and I had minivans for long while after that. We had a Nissan for a while, and then a Honda Odyssey. Minivans do not come with standard transmissions. They just don’t. So, there was a period when I didn’t know what to do with my left foot or my right hand. It was boring.

Eventually, after endless miles, the Odyssey gave up its ghost, and we bought a Honda Fit. It was a snazzy little car, but it was also an automatic. Being the Sports edition, the car had little paddles on the steering wheel that kind of simulated the feel of driving a stick. It wasn’t a good simulation.

About eight years ago, our daughter got a used Honda Civic. It was a five speed. She did not know at the time how to drive a stick. I tried to teach her, but she eventually told me to go away so she learn on her own. The truth is that it is impossible to teach a person how to drive a stick. They have to feel the clutch and listen to the engine rpm’s. Sometimes they also have to smell the burnt clutch. It is one of those things that can only be learned by actually doing it.

We kept the Fit for ten years and two hundred thousand miles. We gave it up in 2017. We drive all of our cars into the dirt. Karin and I feel cheated if we can’t get at least 200K out of a vehicle. We should be on a commercial for Honda.

Seeing as we only buy a car once in a decade, shopping for a vehicle is a traumatic experience. I hate looking for a car. Mostly, I hate it when people lie to me, and that is what happens when we shop for a car. Fortunately, Stefan is car savvy, and he located a new Toyota Corolla for us.

It was a six-speed. Yes.

The Toyota is a nice ride. It handles well at over 100 mph. I won’t go into detail about how we know that.

However, I will relate the following story. This occurred in the spring of 2017.

I was giving rides to three Syrian refugees. I took them back and forth to their ESL classes on Mondays and Wednesdays.

One day I drove them around in the brand new Toyota Corolla that Karin and I bought. We finally got rid of the 2007 Honda Fit with the 259K miles on it. The new car had a six speed stick. It took me a few minutes to get used to driving it. Briefly, there was the pungent odor of burnt clutch. At least I didn’t stall it out, or roll back when I stopped on a hill.

The old Syrian sitting next to me liked the car. He kept smiling and making arm motions like he was shifting gears. I told him in my broken Arabic, “Zoujaty tuhib as-sarya al-jadida.” (“My wife likes the new car”.) He laughed a bit. I told him that it had a stick shift.

Nahoor smiled and said, “Steeck sheeft! Automatic?!”

“La ma automatic.” (“Not an automatic.”).

“Steeck Sheeft?”

“Na’am (Yes), Stick shift.”

“Guud. Steeck sheeft.”

We both smiled.

 

 

 

 

 

January 16th, 2019

I met a young man named Kyle. Kyle is not an unusual name, especially for the generation that came into the world at the end of the 1980’s. I am referring to the first wave of the millennials. It seems like most of the boys born in that time period were named Kyle or Jacob or Joshua. Our son, Hans, was born in 1987. His name is unusual for his generation, at least in this country. If I had a nickel for every “Hans” I know, well…I guess I would have a nickel. Kyle and Hans would not seem to have much in common, but they do.

I met Kyle last night in the psych ward of the VA hospital. I sat with him after I put out popcorn and fruit for the patients in the ward. As usual, I had come to the VA with a couple other people to hang out with the vets for a while. I’ve been visiting the folks in the psych ward for about two years now, and I have learned a few things. The most important thing I have learned is that these people are just like me, or perhaps I am just like them, depending on your perspective. The fact is that we have very similar histories and very similar struggles. It is not unusual for some of the patients to assume that I am also there for treatment, and maybe I should be.

Kyle and I struck up a conversation quickly. He was sitting at a table with an older vet, who was of my generation or maybe Vietnam vintage. The three of us talked together for the entire duration of my visit.  The discussion flowed from one topic to the next, and it felt very natural and easy.

Kyle is an Army vet, just like Hans. Kyle served three combat tours in Iraq and he is still paying the price for those deployments, just like Hans is still paying for the six months he spent in Iraq back in 2011. Kyle is a well-built, good-looking man, but he has an ugly scar on his forehead, apparently from a wound that healed badly. He has has other scars on his body from bullet wounds (he showed them to me). Hans has scars too. The visible scars are from the wounds that healed. The wounds on their souls are still raw and bleeding.

I asked Kyle how long he has been in the ward. I remembered seeing him there a week ago.

He told me, “Yeah, I’ve been here a little over a week. Tomorrow I’m going into the “dom” (domiciliary, i.e. halfway house).”

I asked him, “Are you excited about that?”

“Hell yeah. Tomorrow I get to see my my kids for the first time in five and a half years.”

I paused for a moment. “Five and a half years?”

“Yeah. I’ve been a mess since I came back from Iraq. I didn’t want my kids to see me as an asshole. I wanted them to see me clean.”

I mentioned that my son, Hans, and his fiancee just had a baby boy. I told Kyle that Gabi is a very strong woman and that she understands Hans well. She has actually read the book that I wrote about Hans and the war. I remarked that she doesn’t take any shit at all from her man.

He laughed and said, “She shouldn’t take any shit.” Then he said ruefully, “I wish that I had found a woman that strong.”

He went on, “All the time I was in Iraq or at Fort Hood, my wife was here in Wisconsin. She got her masters degree. She divorced me as soon as I got back from the war. I can laugh about it now, but it hurt. She’s had the kids all this time.”

“What went wrong?’

“Hard drugs. Heroin.”

“That’s some bad shit.”

“I know. I needed to get straight before I was with my my kids.”

Both Hans and Kyle were stationed at Fort Hood. As far as I can tell, they both did the same sort of work. I told Kyle about how Hans went on patrols, and how he spent a lot of time clearing buildings and kicking in doors.

Kyle asked, “What unit was he in?”

I shrugged and said, “I’m not sure. I know that he was Armored Cavalry.”

“Was he a scout?”

I shook my head, “I don’t know. He was trained as a tanker, but they used him as Infantry in Iraq.”

Kyle nodded. “He was probably a scout. He was probably 1st Cav Division. Did he wear the stetson and the spurs?”

“I don’t know about that. All I know is that Hans was Cav.”

Kyle started remembering. “We didn’t do what your son did, you know, with kicking in doors and shit. If we had a HVT (high value target) in a building, we would use the IR (infrared) spotter to mark the place with a figure eight pattern, and then the Apaches (attack helicopters) would see the IR and use their missiles to blow the whole house away.”

I talked about how Hans handles his PTSD. I told them about how Hans rides his Harley to get some peace of mind. I told them that Hans calls us at home once or twice a week, just to talk. Hans talks and I listen.

The older vet asked me, “Do you give him advice?”

I shook my head. “No. I have no ideas for Hans. None. He has to figure out all this shit.”

The old man nodded. “Good.”

We talked about jail. Each of us has been in jail, and somebody I love has spent a lot of time in the slammer. It was a strange bonding moment. We traded stories.

The older man said, “They say that the jails in Kenosha, Racine, and Milwaukee are the worst.”

I agreed with him. I also said that every county jail was like its own little kingdom.

Kyle nodded. He has had experience. We all have.

It was time to go home. That caught me by surprise. The time had gone by so quickly.

I got up and shook Kyle’s hand. We both held on to each other tightly. I wished him well. He looked me in the eye and wished me well too. I felt close to him.

Kyle walked away. I went over to the older vet. We shook hands. He winced a little as he told me that his hand was broken, and that he had just had the cast removed that day.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

The old man shook his head, and said,

“No. I’m a Marine.”

 

 

 

 

January 15, 2019

“To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.”
― William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

This morning Father David gave the homily at Mass. Somehow, he derived from the Gospel of Mark that Jesus had the ability to “clearly see what was in front of him”. The idea was that Jesus could heal others because he simply recognized what needed to be done.

That sounded very Zen. Apparently, both Zen and Catholicism emphasize the value of a clear mind. In Zen this is sometimes referred to as a “beginner’s mind”, a mind that is free of the opinions and attachments that distort a person’s ability to perceive the world.

The only person I currently know with a beginner’s mind would be Weston, our three-week-old grandson. He has very few attachments at this point in his life. All he wants is warmth, love, food, and a clean diaper. To him everything in the world is new. Everything is interesting. Weston’s world is filled with wonder and awe.

Quite often, my world is not like that. This is strange because Weston and I both live in the same physical universe. Why is his world fascinating, and mine is sometimes tedious? The reason could be that Weston sees things as they are. He basically has no past, and he can’t imagine a future, so that little boy is totally in the moment. On the other hand, I have a long history on earth, and I have spent many years planning for an uncertain future. It is difficult for me to be here in the now.

Usually, something extraordinary has to happen for an adult to focus on the present moment. That could be gazing at the beauty of the Grand Canyon, or holding a newborn baby, or maybe getting run over by a forklift. I have had all three of those experiences, and each of them brought me immediately into the present. There is nothing like having your leg crushed by an eight thousand pound machine to cut through any extraneous prejudices. Reality suddenly becomes crystal clear.

Moments of clarity don’t always require a shock to the system. Sometimes they can be induced by meditation. Sometimes these epiphanies just happen. I was in the grocery store last week, rushing through the crowd to find some ingredients to bake a quiche. Then I stopped and looked around me. I was amazed by everything. I was fascinated by all the different kinds of vegetables. I was suddenly interested in all the other people that were shopping around me. The colors and sounds seemed brighter and more intense. The sensation didn’t last long, but it happened. For a brief time I was truly aware.

I’m an introvert, so it is easy for me to get lost in the labyrinth of my thoughts. I have to make an effort to look outside of myself. While I walked home from church today, I studied the bare trees (the oaks tend to hang on to some of their leaves). I listened to the hum and the crackle of the high tension wires carrying electricity from the power plant. I felt the cold west wind on my face. I smelled the faint scent of frying grease from a nearby McDonald’s. I noticed the broken shards of plastic on the shoulder of the road, probably from a long forgotten traffic accident. None of these things were really that important, but they exist. They were real to me.

I was aware.

 

 

 

 

January 9th, 2019

“God is a concept
By which we measure
Our pain
I’ll say it again
God is a concept
By which we measure
Our pain

I don’t believe in magic
I don’t believe in I-Ching
I don’t believe in Bible
I don’t believe in tarot
I don’t believe in Hitler
I don’t believe in Jesus
I don’t believe in Kennedy
I don’t believe in Buddha
I don’t believe in mantra
I don’t believe in Gita
I don’t believe in yoga
I don’t believe in kings
I don’t believe in Elvis
I don’t believe in Zimmerman
I don’t believe in Beatles
I just believe in me.”

“God” by John Lennon

I friend from the synagogue gave me a copy of “The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying” by Sogyal Rinpoche. The author writes extensively about the importance of having a spiritual master. He quotes the Buddha as saying,

“Of all the buddhas who have ever attained enlightenment, not a single one of them accomplished this without relying on a master, and of all the thousand buddhas that will appear in this eon, none of them will attain enlightenment without relying on a master.”

Sogyal Rinpoche goes on to say that, if a person’s karma has been sufficiently purified over the course of thousands of lifetimes, he or she will find a master (I think he means the word “master” in a gender-neutral way). This master will be an outer teacher that reflects the inner teacher of the disciple.

I have to assume that my karma is still pretty nasty, because I haven’t found a master that matches the job description. Maybe I have met a master, but I didn’t recognize him or her as such. True spiritual guides seem to be scarce. Or maybe a person just has to be open and ready to accept the teachings of a master. I know that I am way too skeptical to completely buy into any program that a guru would have to offer.

Sogyal Rinpoche also talks about the problem of doubt. He is adamant that doubt keeps a person from gaining enlightenment. His words almost make him sound like an Evangelical pastor. He suggests that a person should possess “noble doubt”,  which seems to be a lot like “faith”. A person with noble doubt seeks the truth, and is not overly skeptical. But, like Pontius Pilate said, “What is truth?” Apparently, a person need a master to find the truth, and that person needs to trust that master.

Therein lies the problem, at least for me. It is hard for me to trust a master. The author notes that Buddhism isn’t the only path that emphasizes the master/disciple relationship. All of the world’s great spiritual traditions focus on that connection, on that deep bond. Twelve Step groups do that too. Twenty-seven years ago, I had a sponsor, who was supposed to be a master of sorts. The guy abandoned me when I was vulnerable and desperate for help and guidance. I have never completely trusted a master since then. The experience with that sponsor has perhaps blinded me in a way. Maybe now I can’t even see a master if he is standing in front of me. I don’t know.

Over the years, I’ve met plenty of people who might in fact have been true spiritual guides: rabbis, priests, Zen masters, tribal elders, shamans. I have learned things from all of these people, but none of them seemed to be the “one”. I’ve also met spiritual guides who were homeless guys, pysch ward patients, refugees, and ex-prisoners. I learned a lot from them too. Once again, none of them seemed to be “my master”. Maybe I don’t need a particular person to be my master. Maybe I can learn from all sorts of people at different times. I don’t know.

I’ll keep searching.

 

 

 

 

 

January 8th, 2019

We stopped at the Kenosha Transit building on 39th Avenue. She needed a bus pass. The young woman does not currently have a drivers license, and she is unlikely to have one in the near future. She can walk to a number of places, but she will probably need other options once she gets a job. She lives in an apartment near the lake, but most of the new businesses are located several miles away, close to the freeway.  I can drive her some of the time, but she needs regular access to other means of transportation. In Kenosha, that means taking the bus.

I don’t know how efficient the bus system is in Kenosha. In Milwaukee County, where I live, the bus system is slow, but adequate. The problem in the urbanized portion of southeastern Wisconsin is that the various municipal public transit systems do not cooperate. I can drive from our house in Oak Creek to Kenosha in forty-five minutes. For this young woman to get from Kenosha to our house by bus would take several hours. There is no regional public transportation operation. It’s a balkanized collection of transit systems that never connect over county lines. “You can’t get there from here” pretty much sums it up. It almost seems like the local public transit systems are designed to encourage the use of private vehicles. In short, if you can’t drive, you’re screwed.

We went into the Kenosha Transit office. It was almost empty. A woman (the only person in the office) greeted us. We asked to buy a monthly bus pass. The woman from Kenosha Transit said that she would be glad to sell us one. I pulled out my debit card.

The woman looked at me uncomfortably and said,

“We can’t take cards. We can only accept cash or checks.”

Really? This is the 21st Century. Almost everybody on the planet takes a credit and/or debit card. Not only is public transportation inconvenient, but it is apparently difficult to purchase. By sheer coincidence, I had $60 in cash on me, which is the price of a monthly bus pass. If I hadn’t had that money available, then the young woman with me would not have the pass she needs. This is not a good way to do business.

We got her pass, and then we went back to my less-than-reliable Subaru (the car stalls out at inconvenient moments, and the wipers work intermittently). The Transit facility has an tightly packed parking lot, and there was also a truck making a delivery there while I was attempting to back out of my parking space. I started to back up, and then I noticed a shuttle van backing up toward me. I stopped. I could see that the other driver could not see me. He backed up slowly and inexorably toward my beater.

I blurted out, “Goddamit!”

The young woman in the passenger seat yelled,

“BEEP THE HORN! Hurry, beep the horn!”

Crunch.

The driver of the van hit me. We could feel the sickening motion of the Subaru that said, “Oh fuck…”

I got out of the car, as did the van driver. The beauty of driving a beater is that it doesn’t matter if it gets dinged. The other driver looked at his van and at my vehicle. I made it clear to him that I didn’t care. He was very relieved to hear that. He wanted to avoid an incident at all costs. His job probably depended on that. He was all for pretending that nothing ever happened.

The young woman in the Subaru seemed tense. After the van driver pulled away, I backed out, and I made toward the exit of the parking lot. I took a moment to beep the horn.

The girl rolled her eyes and said,

“Well, it’s a little late for that NOW! I would have leaned on that horn!”

She shook her head wearily, and gave me a brief smile.

We both laughed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 6th, 2019

“This is a letter to my father
Cuz when my mother gave birth to me that man was gone
I didn’t mean to be a bother
Just Looking for guidance Why did he have to leave me all alone
This is a letter to my father
Cuz when my mother gave birth to me that man was gone
Would I have gone any farther?
To many father figures but none of them lasted that long
This has been my life”

from DroRaps

Hans called last night. He just wanted to talk for a while. We don’t really converse. He talks, and I listen. I’m good with that. I could never spill my guts to my dad, so it’s okay with me when Hans rambles on about whatever is bothering him. It’s good for him to vent. It’s good for me to listen.

At first he talked about the work that he needs to do on his car, because he almost always starts the call on that topic. Hans has a number of cars that need fixing, and he doesn’t really have the time or money to repair any of them. Maybe it’s a redneck thing: you have five vehicles, and four of them are stationary with the hoods open. One car runs, and the others are eventually hidden by the tall grass.

After a while, we got to talking about Hans’ new son, Weston. I asked Hans,

“So how’s he doing?”

Hans drawled, “Well, Weston’s all right. Gabi and I have been trying to get him to stay awake a little more during the day.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve been trying to spend time with him. You know, the other guys at work, they wanted to know why I didn’t come back right away after the birth. Those guys, when they had kids, they were back on the job the day after the baby showed up.”

“You needed to be with Gabi and Weston.”

“Yeah, I know. I mean I could have been making money, pumping concrete, but money ain’t everything. Yeah, I got bills to pay, but the bills aren’t the most important thing.”

“You’re right.”

“Dad, I mean that’s why I ain’t gone back to the oil fields. I want to be with Weston.”

“You should be with Weston.”

“I’ve been thinking that when I get vacation, you know, when Weston is a bit older, then I’ll take off a day now and then, and just surprise him by picking him up from school. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“I want to make it special.”

“Hans, you don’t have to make it special. You just need to be there for Weston. It doesn’t need to be anything fancy. Just be there for him.”

“Well, and I got crazy hours. I got bills to pay.”

“I know, Hans. I am very familiar with that.”

“I got to be away sometimes.”

“I know you do, Hans.”

“I mean, I want to be with Weston, but sometimes I can’t be there.”

“I know, Hans. I know.”

Hans laughed.

He said, “I was trying to get Weston to take a little nap. I was playing this soothing classical music. That didn’t help at all. So, I went to the other end of the spectrum.”

I asked him, “Death metal?”

He replied, “No, stuff like Dr. Dre and Ice Cube.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah, Weston fell asleep right away. I think it was the thump of bass that relaxed him. Gabi was pissed that I played that music for Weston. I figured that he was going to hear it someday anyway, so why not now?”

“What did Mom (Karin) say about it?”

Hans laughed again. “She didn’t like that at all.”

Hans is going to be a good dad.