Distant Battles

There is a battle for power going on in the east.  Men in blue and gray.  Seduced by glory and the faint purple dream of gold and long-weaving tales that could twist and pull in even the most modest of girls. 
In the east the men fight, not just each other but the bugs and the cold that reaches in under their worn-out ratty wool blankets. 
Each one stinks and is darkened with grease and drops of blackened blood.  All blankets are futile attempts to stop cold or bleeding.  The rations are paltry; the young men, babyfaced and pale, hold the balled up blankets to their cavernous stomachs to blot out the noises of hunger, they press them tighter to drown out the needling pain. Older recruits warned of the hunger. It would crawl inside and start to eat and gnaw from the inside, hollowing out fingers and toes first, it would soon find the plentiful reserves of thick, purple organs. 
Just outside the camps made of canvas and dirt are the muskets and hastily made trenches, the mis-read maps that will lead to so many fallen lives on coming autumn days.
Out there in the fields and meadows and under the old trees they lay. Sometimes thousands in a week, sometimes hundreds in an hour. Too many to carry home, too many to bury in the soil and say a little prayer. They will have to be found by god, buried in snow and picked at by the animals of shadows. They will end up in the woods and meadows, spread out bit by bit by tiny squirrels and swallows.
Those gunshots are not even a faint ding on the horizon out in the yellow land of the west. This is the wasteland and the battle hymns and marches fall, losing their way between sand and stone.
In the desert and the old dusty towns there are other games to play. Gray and blue are just some of the colors, none are the desert dwellers' concern.  The wasteland is full of games, big and small and meaningless, depending on the player. Each rider and beast moves towards gold or glory or woman or the rare gem of purpose at the bottom of a deep flowing river, the great golden treasure that calls from the heart of an ever receding sea.

Giant

The giant barks.
I bark back.
There is only one way for a giant to act. I know this.
I have read it in story rhymes,
so many stories, so many rhymes.
Then I finally encounter one, I am offended by what I see.

The giant barks, sitting on all fours. 
His sneakers chewed up and smelling of bile.
Where has this creature come from?
Not even the swamp down by Knott’s old road house could have produced such a dank creature.

This is not what I wanted to see this early in the morning.  Out for a morning stroll, thinking about a good breakfast, some sausage and black coffee, maybe a smile from Bettie. I wake from nightmares with visions like this, but to see it barking out on Upper West Tollridge like the full moon was out, like transformation is upon him- I must do something.

The giant barks and I bark back.  I release my savage dog.  The wild rascal I have tamed inside.  My skin starts to burn with the boil of hate.
Soon, the night is black, smelling of old rotten things and dark, still waters that have not moved in centuries.  I took him by surprise, myself, covered in the scent of fish, of old and new cigars.

When the giant barked, I barked back.

Training The Dragon

Did you know there was a dragon inside? I can see him through your eyes, while the green folds of your eyes flex and point, watching me with blunted teeth and heat so intense it has turned to ice.
Did you know there was a dragon? Angry in its cage? Angry in the skin that looks so different from green scales and long gray claws, different than the life it knew as a flying beast. But the rage is there, bottled into an even smaller vessel, so thin and long and hairless. So smooth.
Did you know it was there? Breathing your air like a parasite? Eating your food, transforming your thoughts into fire and coal.
I have looked, and in certain lights, certain mirrors, I see the dragon. Steam streams from my flared nose, its Semitic length perfect for this orange and blue life. I move slightly, just a little turn, and see the green in these otherwise brown eyes. Flecks of fire and rage. But only in certain lights, certain mirrors. I forget about the dragon, the beast that moves with every shake of my arm, every click of my tongue. It fills me from the inside, keeping my breasts pert, my stomach round.
Did you know it was there? Have you seen me in the gray light of dawn? Through tempered blinds? Through the lens my eyes hide?

It is there, waiting, breathing, spitting fire.

Did you know?

Did you know?

Each beast carries a rider, though I’m not sure who moves who. My arm is not my own. And when it roars, when the cage opens, the iron doors releasing the full fury of a pent-up beast, my toes move without direction. My tongue carries me to the worlds I hoped to never see again. I watch from above, riding the back of this black dragon, watching the dark city burn. Sporadic fires and fleeing screams. Horror, laughter, redemption. Are they my thoughts? Are they his? Who rides who?

Can I tame this beast? Train this dragon?

In the right light, in front of the right mirror, I see the dragon’s eyes. I feel the flames of heat moving in my chest, the moment before the explosion. And I remember. My training, my practice, my sword.

One deep breath….Veeeehhhhhhhhh

I hold my breath….Kaahhhhhhhhhhh

I release the breath….Daaayyyyy

I repeat.

Every sound in the room is ignored. I cannot hear who’s talking, what’s playing. There are no thoughts, not if I’m doing it right. Not if I have the sword in my hand and the beast on its belly.

One deep breath….Veeeehhhhhhhhh

I hold my breath….Kaahhhhhhhhhhh

I release the breath….Daaayyyyy

I repeat.

It is strong. It is old. It is me…entwined within the fabric of my eyes and ears and lifetimes of habit. We are coiled like snakes, lovers without boundaries and eyes.

In the right light, in front of the right mirror, I see the dragon’s eyes. I feel the flames of heat moving in my chest, the moment before the explosion.

One deep breath….Veeeehhhhhhhhh

I hold my breath….Kaahhhhhhhhhhh

I release the breath….Daaayyyyy

I repeat.
And as I repeat, I train the dragon.
My dragon.
Me.

The Other Na'vi

We see the Other,
and they are blue.

And we see the Other,
but they are us.

They are blue and disguised
only slightly
by another planet and another language,
Disguised just slightly
in the guise of fiction.

But we see the Other.

We are the Other,
The Na’vi,
the blue people.
Where war is fought over land
Were precious resources
are the cause for blood and struggle and mothers’ tears
The world, right beyond the window
is bombed and shelled,
it is taken with guns and threats
it is taken by the hands of zealots.
And it is taken,
by those with another language,
by those with other plans
and other dreams.

And though this theater is dark,
and though this is disguised by fiction,
by a big budget and special effects
and James Cameron
and a movie marquee that reads
AVATAR
in big black letters,
and though I still have the money for popcorn
and the children spit
sunflower seeds on the ground
with rhythmic authority,
we still see the Other.
We see us.

We are blue.
We are big eared.
We are the dispossessed.

We are the Na’vi
after the land is stolen,
after the water has run dry and the olive trees have been butchered
and our brothers have been sent to their jails.
We are the Na’vi after 60 years of repression,
after blood, after constant war,
after the grasp has tightened and tightened,
ever so slowly
and now I just cannot breathe.

And I write,
and I see,
and I talk.
I see this fiction,
and I see this true story.
I see me,
my brothers,
my sisters,
all wishing for the land we once farmed and knew.
I see what we want behind rows of tanks, bullets and armor.

We are the Palestinians,
the Na’vi,
the real beyond the fiction.
One side of the fragmented stone,
just one of many who have lost their trees and ancestors and whispers.
We have lost it all
for our resources,
for soil and water and fruits,
for an ideology that can smother even the sharpest eyes.
This is a world of blind men and mute women.
If only we could fly,
If I could ride the dragon of the sky
and defeat those who come with their single minded plans,
but this is not fiction,
this is not a film.
The small have been defeated,
though we march through the forests of failure,
wearing blue and marching towards the fences that create our prison.
Watch us, as you have watched the Other.
The world is a million theater screens,
and the lives behind them drip with real blood,
and taste of sweat
and scream with the nightmare of living,
the nightmare that our lives have become.

We are the Na’vi,
the Palestinians
the Other.

The Climb

The question came in little gasps of breathy exertion:
“How…. much… longer…. is this….. going…. to take?”
He could barely get the words out, his body felt like lead, his breathing was so heavy, it muted the sound of his feet on the worn mountain path. Sweat covered his vaguely wrinkled forehead, the red shirt he wore had long since turned into a damp rag clinging to his shoulders. His heart pulsed, sending huge waves of blood through him, like dams about to burst. His heart was like a drum, pounding, pounding…
With each step, the muscles in his legs seemed just a moment away from ripping. It was pain, more pure than he ever remembered. He kept moving, as though tied to some sort of invisible rope that kept one foot following the other, endless, repetitive movement. He told himself that he couldn’t take it much longer, with each step he repeated the same thought within like a mantram. He imagined himself falling over, pushed too hard and for too long, soon the end would come.
There was a small laugh, it came a few feet ahead of him and traveled lightly on the wind till it found his ears.
“The path is the path. There is no end.”
Another light laugh followed, somehow finding its way to him over the sound of his heart and breathing and heavy footsteps.
His body reacted to the answer. He felt a sudden coldness, though he saw no wind moving the tree tops. Everything ended. There must be some mountain peak somewhere in the distance, there must be a point to the climb, something that they were trying to get to, something he was supposed to see.
Maybe a shrine? An old mountain hermit? A cave with paintings hidden within? Wasn’t there a point to this? There had to be an end, a place where he could rest his back against a tree and fill himself with slow deep breaths for hours and let his heart rest and his shirt dry.
“But I… can’t take…. much more of this,” his voice sounded desperate, “the… climb…. is almost… vertical… from as far…as I can tell… I’m… going to… fall… over… soon!”
Again the small laugh, almost like a bell, so light, filled with such melody. He didn’t feel offended when he heard it, it was not mocking or harsh, it felt like the sound of a child, innocent and open.
“Don’t worry, you’re fine. One step. Then another. Then you will need to take another. Feel the chain that binds us together and keep breathing. Keep moving.”
For a moment he felt nothing, no pain, no heavy breathing that burned his throat, just a calmness that seemed white and smelled of flowers.
“ahhhhh,” he moaned. A ripping pain in his legs consumed everything. He looked at the tall pine trees on either side of the path. He envied them. He wished he could stand still, adding his shape to their ranks. Just a moment of stillness, a moment to let a cool breeze wash over him and wipe away the rivers of sweat. He wanted to scream and turn around. He wanted to walk downhill, anywhere but up. Down to where he could find a car or a ride or a drink of water, perhaps a ham sandwich. He wanted to close his eyes and take a nap, to let his body rest and recover from this incredible strain. He wanted to do anything but this, but he felt the chain, he felt it wrapped around his heart, and he put one foot in front of the other, following the sound of bell-like laughter.
“Keep coming, the path continues this way.”

The Quest

The quest for rightness. The quest to accumulate. It is the currency of power. The sun, the explosion, the internal censor within that seeks explosion.
We drop bombs out of rightness. Invade out of certainty. All the while, one part of the brain needs to believe. Lie after lie. Everything is absorbed like nutrients for the unconscious. We will believe anything, we are selfish. We are singular machines with the desire only to survive. This is what believes the lies. This is what understands superiority, this is what takes the fallacies of what is given. We invade. The world explodes. Machines die. How certain must one be to take gun and leave for war? How certain must someone be to arrest and shoot another?
We come, with the certainty of the sun. Never dying. Never ending. Any questions are burned up with the heat of the fire and with the burning core of delusion. The illusion is a circle, complete and impenetrable. The flag is our eye, the colors of our blindness. We quest after your blood, your resources, the trees, the air in which you breathe. We are the takers, the accumulators. We need more. Always more. We expand with your contraction, grow as you pale. Your exhale is our inhalation, our sprout, one more explosion, one more kernel of power.
Understanding is perfect, simple, believable. Force comes from the sky, from the point of a gun, from the threat of extinction. Power comes with your death, with your blood, with the repeating lie. Accumulation is our need. To grow and grow and grow. There will never be enough, not for this machine, not for this force, not for this great striving.
This is what we know. This is the west. This is the need to travel forward.
Our sun, beautiful sun, give us more so that we can take!
Power comes with the explosion, with another blast of force. The flag is the symbol of our desire. The beating wind the far-off sound of a war drum. The exploding fire our rapid hearts. Your death is our growth. Your release is our expansion.
Energy. The building. The transfer. The movement to and from.
This is our quest. We know it by other names, but this is what we seek. Like quick rapid fire…the lines move, the words change, the actions turn like dancers. New people, new lines, a new game. But the quest is always the same, we are the accumulators.
We seek your energy.
We seek your blood.