...Chop wood, carry water...

A Little Island Hopping

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 20:43:00 +0000

Last week we did a little scouting for business opportunities. We started on Lana'i and ended up on Oahu. We got some good ideas, and some rest and saw some beautiful places.

View of the Fourseasons at Manele Bay from the beach. There are great rates available for kama'aina (locals). It's off season, and a still a bit slow.

Maui on the left, and Kaho'olawe on the right. On a clear day, you can see Hawaii Island behind Kaho'olawe.

View from the sitting room.

The sitting room. The entire resort has a Chinese theme.

One of the many murals depicting a traditional Chinese wedding.

Up country at Kolele

Up country again.

Fourseasons at Kolele

Lana'i City. Sounds, looks and smells like a little Colorado town.

We had forgotten how much croquet sucks. Apparently others had not, as the courts were all vacant. I almost scored a sextuple peel, but when I missed I went back to taking pictures.

Growing on a Banyon Tree.

An aircraft hanger on Ford Island abandoned after the December 7, 1941 attack and showing damage caused by the explosion of the USS Arizona (blown out windows).

The original control tower on Ford Island.

That'll carry a lot of Twinkies...

Post Ironman workout

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 05:33:00 +0000

I spent the 2009 Ironman World Championships standing on the sidelines with my camera (for about an hour) waiting for a Pullet Surprise moment. Didn't get a one, even with over 200 shots taken. The next day at our local gym, I thought about racism and politics.

Our gym has a bank of tv's with the sound off, but CC on, in front of the elliptical machines, stationary bikes and stare-masters. This particular day, I was watching Fox News because that was on one of the monitors. The other monitors had Oprah, and a "Secret lives of women" episode about prostitution that I really wanted to watch, but didn't because...well, I didn't. On Fox news, BTW, I don't watch news channels anymore. They all seem like my Ma's opera when I was young: Lots of screeching, so you know there must be something important going on, but it's too much trouble to figure it all out. Ditto with internet news sources which seem to be all blogs.

Anyway, these three white guys, and one white woman were talking about how some people think that criticism of Obama is racist. At least twice, the talking heads said "I don't care if he's green, or purple..." another said "I don't care if he is mauve or puse..." They also said, repeatedly, "I don't have a racist bone in my body..." Was it Shakespeare that said "Methinks he doth protest too much?"

I was struck that none said: "I don't care if he's black or brown..." they just used Barney colors. Does that mean they DO care if he's black or brown? And further, I do have a racist bone in my body. I have my guard up when I meet an older white male...the difference is, I recognize my prejudices and don't let them get in the way of personal interactions...they just warn me a little...

Dunno where I'm going with all this.

Kona Ironman 2009, Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 22:24:00 +0000

It's that time of year again; the Ironman World Championship. This is the week when the village and most of Ali'i Drive slows to a crawl or shuts down completely due to bicycles riding three abreast and runners swerving into traffic to avoid a stick or pebble on the shoulder.

I enjoy this race. I like all the hoopla and the hype, enjoy seeing the elite athletes training on the roads, and I'm a runner and cyclist myself. But even I find myself growing increasingly annoyed by the slow pace on Ali'i Drive.

Yesterday evening while returning from my walk with Jack and Saylor at End of the World, I heard a horn blare (a rarity here) and screeching tires. Ahead of me an athlete had suddenly swerved her bike into the street, nearly getting hit. As I passed her, I slowed and told her how close she came to dying, not so much because of the car and the serve, but because she did that in front of ME. (My reader will remember that I seem to attract fatal accidents).

Maybe I'll try to post some photos, it's fun to see the transformation of Kailua from a sleepy village to the host of an international event. On the other hand, it's dang hot, and who needs traffic and crowds?

For the Non-Facebook crowd

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 04:13:00 +0000

Andrea was written up by the Girls By Design crew. Here's what they say about the site:

"THIS SITE IS THE FIRST STEP FOR KRISTIN KREUK AND KENDRA VOTH TOWARDS CREATING A PLACE WHERE TEEN GIRLS CAN COME TOGETHER TO EXPLORE, EXPRESS, CREATE AND REALIZE THEIR POTENTIAL TOGETHER."

I don't think they mean to shout.

Click Here for the Article

Rant Alert

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 19:36:00 +0000

Today is Tioli's last day open to the public. As I walked around the shop turning on lights and fans, I thought back to the first days of setting up shop and opening for business. We had something special here, but times have changed enough that we've been left in the dust.

Even when we opened almost five years ago, we were a dinosaur, an anchronism. We were a shoppe like those of olde where you went as much to socialize and hear the news as you did to buy. We bartered products for food, we extended credit, we gave away pens and toy gliders. We carried Slinkys and jigsaw puzzles for crying out loud. About all we didn't do was allow folks to spit on the floor.

On Sunday we got together with a couple we met through the shop. They said they had a business opportunity for us. They were overwhelmed, they said, with their internet business and needed someone to help. Sarah and I thought it was related to their sales of fine art giclees and originals. They showed up at the restaurant all spiffed up in mainland-style business attire. I figured they had just come from church, but learned soon enough that they hadn't.

They went through a long presentation involving a canned speech and visuals. They talked about how Amazon makes their money, and how the internet is on the cusp of revolutionizing small businesses. My heart sunk more and more with each moment, and Sarah's rage waxed with each moment. I finally realized that it was just another multi-level marketing scheme like Pre-paid Legal or Amway.

I tried to pin them down to the bottom line. "I'm out of work," I said. "I need an income. How much can we expect to make for our 20 hours per week investment?" They had their answer but it was so wacky that it took me several minutes to believe it. You don't MAKE money in this scheme, you SAVE money, and the money you SAVE is your income. You pay your $55.00 a month, and that lets you buy wholesale from hundreds of businesses and choose from millions of products that you already use, from clothing to paper towels. As you recruit other marks, your discount percentage grows.

We said this was not for us. Sarah said buying online is what helped to sink our business (which is definately true). We said this was so far from our committment and desire to be a part of and contribute to our community that it would be a soul-sucking thing. Further, without an income it doesn't matter how much we might save, because we aren't going to be able to spend on clothing and digital cameras and a flat screen tv.

I felt betrayed by these folks, ambushed, like I feel around Mormons and Jehovah's Witlesses and like my marks must have felt when I was involved in Evangelism Explosion way back when. I was disappointed, too, that they didn't understand what Tioli's was about, and by extension what we were about.

It reminded me of the friends I wrote about awhile back. Like the couple in the older story, the couple we met on Sunday started in a very patronizing manner. They didn't find about their target audience, they didn't try to find out our background or business philosophy, they assumed that since we're white and in business for ourselves we must be conservative republicans, religious, and only interested in making as much money as we can, traveling as far as we can, and buying as much stuff as we can.

The couple Sunday started by commending me for my willingness to talk about our financial troubles, and my apparent egolessness (HA! ask Sarah about that one). I don't remember where I was going with that, and I don't care anymore.

End Rant Alert.

Les Paul

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 00:47:00 +0000

My all time favorite guitar is the Gibson Les Paul Standard, about a 1957 vintage. The instrument is named after the inventor of the electric guitar and many of the multi-track recording techniques we use on a daily basis today. Les Paul died today at 94.

Here are a couple videos, one of Les Paul and Chet Atkins doing a blues number. And the other of Eddie VanHalen. Skip a bit of the Van Halen video till you get to the end. All the wacko sounds and shredding that we take for granted were made possible by LP.

Ready for Some Weather Drama

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 02:15:00 +0000

But maybe not THIS much.

Looks like Byron and Tosha might miss the fun...

Transitions

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 22:16:00 +0000

So Byron moved off island yesterday for college. I saw him off on a jet plane in the early morning rain. When I got home later that day after a long day at the shop I sat on my bed and looked at a recently rediscovered photo of Byron and Andrea all dolled up and ready for some event or other. Byron must have been about six years old. He wears dress pants and a white shirt with a nice sport jacket over top. His hands are behind his back and he has one foot forward slightly in a classic model's pose.

Just that, I guess. Tonight I feel like a sad song.

Another Gordonism

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 02:17:00 +0000

Along the vein of Rebar Emporium, Gordon wanted to open a Christian fishing supply store called Master Bait and Tackle. After a quick Google, I see it's been done in Florida, but I think Gordon thought of it first.

Word's Getting Out

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 01:36:00 +0000

About our closing. We're getting a fair number of people coming in that we've never seen before. Inevitably their first words are "Are you having a big sale?" It got so bad yesterday that Mrs. T drew a nice picture of a vulture and put circle with a line through it over top. The classic "no...whatever" sign. She then posted the sign on the entry door. Not that anybody notices.

Speaking of vultures, If your friend is already dead and being eaten by vultures, I think it's okay to feed some bits of your friend to one of the vultures, to teach him to do some tricks. But only if you're serious about adopting the vulture. I dunno. What do you think? (Jack Handy).

Conservative Values

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 19:34:00 +0000

I have a couple conservative friends (both old white guys) who got me thinking the other day. We'll call them Bob and Marion (because that's what their mothers named them).

Bob and I were talking about the potential threat of a missle attack from North Korea against the Hawaiian Islands over the July 4th Weekend. I was expressing gratitude that the Navy was moving a large radar system and anti-missle defense system into place near Pearl Harbor. He thought that was outrageous and suggested instead that we deploy our nuclear (nu-cue-lahr) submarines off the coast of Japan and nuke North Korea before they had the chance to launch. He said Obama is showing weakness by not confronting the North Koreans directly. Ditto for Iran, he said.

My conversation with Marion was similar. We were discussing the demise of our businesses and our need to find other work and living arrangements. He said he would like to walk into congress and...he mimed throwing grenades and firing a machine gun.

A third conversation took place with a very rich customer. She said that she thought the recession was going to continue for another year and that we were not yet in the worst of it. I asked if she could foretell the future, and she said no. I asked why be gloomy, then? Being negative is no more "realistic," than being positive. She grudgingly agreed.

(Digression Alert) My brother recently wrote me the following: "Just finished the book "The new Christians," lent by our pastor on "Emergent churches." Hokey name, but SOME interesting stuff therein. There is a group --fairly conservative theologically, but TRYING hard not to be cynical." (End Digression Alert).

These three conversations got me thinking about conservative values. I've heard many statements like these. Are negativity, cynicism, and especially violence conservative values? Can having a positive, faith-filled, attitude be contagious and actually help us out of our present difficulties? And why am I starting to sound like Carrie Bradshaw?

Clarity of Night

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 19:56:00 +0000

Most of my life I've awakened in the wee hours of the night. Usually around 2:00 AM. I've learned not to worry about not sleeping. I often worry about other things, of course, but I know I can do well on very little sleep for a day or two. Last night in the wee hours, I remembered a favorite poem of mine that I posted on another blog a while ago. I thought I'd post it here, because I want to. So here's

Clarity of Night.

Awake again in the
muddle of the night.
Cold.
Ease out of bed.
Stoke the fire with
winter's last pinon.
Thermostat clicks and
wakes the baby.
I give her to her mother and
wait,
then change her and
stand at the window with
her on my shoulder,
her breath on my neck.

Outside late spring snow
falls in the
glow of a lamp,
the flakes mix with
sparks from the sap
filled pine log on the fire.
The up and down
confused.
Deepening drifts
silence the generator that
guards the night, and
pile high on the fence posts and
tree limbs.
One flake too much and
the branch bends
low sheds the
weight
springs back.

I will the dawn
away.
By force of mind,
forbid the glow in the
East from gaining a foothold on
Whirling Mountain.
My daughter stirs,
seeks deeper warmth.
I hear her breath in my ear.

Awake again at two AM.
Reach up with my foot to
silence the
fan that cools the night.
I walk through the quiet
house and onto the
lanai. I face the
sleeping jungle,
Surf crashes at Banyans.
My daughter comes up beside me and
I'm momentarily
embarrassed,
outside, as I am, in my boxers in the
middle of the night.

We stand together
watching the reflection of the
rising moon on the
Royal Palm, the Plumeria, the Kiawe.
Somewhere a Rain Dove calls
just once then falls silent.

She speaks of Yale and
Italy and
Friends she's left
behind.
Silence.
The woo-oo-oo-oo of the dove again.

As my daughter
moves to go
back to her bed, I
give her
a kiss. Then turn
back to the
jungle.

For a very long time I feel her breath
in my ear and
will the dawn away.

Tioli's Stimulus Bailout

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 02:40:00 +0000

So here's a good one: We recently filled out a very complex application listing all sorts of financial and business information in anticipation of talking to a government official about a stimulus-related, no interest loan or grant. Well after quite a wait, today was our big interview. Mrs. T went in with high hopes but all she got were marketing ideas and the name of a good bankruptcy attorney.

Apparently we didn't qualify...

We're going to open shop tomorrow, and all next week, and all next month. We'll get through this just by choppin' the wood, and carryin' the water and showing up every day. But at the moment it's hard not to be a little bitter.

Further Thoughts on the Phrase "Life is Hard."

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 20:29:00 +0000

I usually compose my blogs when I'm riding my bike. Half the time I forget what I was going to say by the time I get around to blogging, but this one has been sticking with me for a while. That's because our words have such power that I want to be careful what I say to myself.

Mrs. Tioli says "I'm feeling unhappy," when I might say "Life is hard." I think that is a much healthier and positive way to think about circumstances. For instance, I could say life is hard right now for several reasons:

--We don't have as much money as we'd like to have, or that we've had in the past.

--Our business is in a rocky place right now because of the slump in the economy.

--We're getting daily calls from creditors, and we're taking the first steps toward bankruptcy.

--We're feeling the stress in our backs and other health concerns.

--Our son is going off to college and we can't support him financially as well as we'd like.

--Our son is going off to college and we'll miss him.

--Our son is experiencing numbness in his upper body and has hand tremors.

--Our other son is in rehab, and while that's a positive step, there is still much healing to be done.

So life is hard. Not much I can do about it. If I say that to my friend he might respond "That's nothing, my wife died of breast cancer less than a year ago, I'm living on my own, sans children, for the first time in many years, I don't have a job and the market is tight..." In other words, "Life is Hard" is relative.

If, however, I say to my friend "I'm unhappy," the first thing he'll say to me is "About what?" The second thing he'll say, after I've complained a bit, is "You're unhappy, what are you going to do about it?" The difference, though subtle, is profound in my thinking: "Life is hard," makes me a victim needing saving. "I'm unhappy," puts the responsibility for change back on me, where it belongs.

De Duva

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 22:37:00 +0000

If you have 14 minutes to spare, check out the attached video. It's a parody of the films of Ingmar Bergman, the great Swedish film maker. I first saw this short at a film festival at ASU. I and my friends didn't realize at first that this wasn't an actual Bergman film. Most of the scenes in the spoof refer to images or themes in Bergman films.

Make sure you listen to the soundtrack, and don't just read the subtitles. Half the fun is the language. Also, look for a very young Madeline Kahn in her first film role. Her "Swedish" word for cigar is a favorite of mine. Listen closely.

Pictures From Byron's 2009 Graduation

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 21:02:00 +0000

Tosha

Byron

About 20% of the crowd.

Student Body President Leading the Class Song.

The KHS Waveriders doing the wave.

I don't think I've ever seen such a pure joy in the faces of graduates. And I've seen many, many graduations.

Singing the class song. Instead of choosing some sappy song from the hit parade, the class of 2009 wrote their own.

On the field afterwords you have to hold signs high to be able to find the graduate you're there for. This sign is for Cheryl, Ron's date at prom.

Leis!

More Leis!

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 18:49:00 +0000

Yesterday, Sunday, we had the lowest daily income in the history of Tioli's. We didn't make enough to pay the daily utility bill, which isn't all that much for a warehouse our size.

I came in to work today, instead of taking a day off. I'm curious about what will happen. I remember feeling the same way when Ma died. I was curious, what would this be like? Is it the end of the world?

And yet, we just might make it, because we don't know what else to do other than show up every day.

Life is Hard

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Sat, 30 May 2009 23:49:00 +0000

I've been hearing a lot of folks saying and writing that life is hard, or life is tough. I've been wondering about that. Hard compared to what? Dying? I suppose so, dying is easy, people do it every day. Heck even old people can die. So, hard compared to what? Then it hit me. Life is only hard when it doesn't compare favorably to my expectations.

I think and hope that once circumstances are favorable, that they won't ever change. That's not very healthy, because things are going to change. I think and hope that life will work out according to my hopes and dreams. That's not very healthy either. Healthy I guess, is living the now. Planning the future as best we can. Dealing with the past as we have need. But really just living this moment, because this moment is all we have.

So I'm not saying "life is hard" anymore.

Creep Factor, Oh...About 12.

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Wed, 27 May 2009 23:30:00 +0000

My Brother Jeff suggested I check out a painting he came across recently. I Googled "Jesus Spanking" in anticipation of finding an image of Max Ernst's surrealist work, "The Blessed Virgin Chastising the Infant Jesus."

Google had many suggestions for me, of course, and I culled a couple examples for your enjoyment.

Max Ernst.
Jesus' halo has fallen to the ground, but Mary's is still firmly planted. I wonder about the three voyeurs, and the red top that Mary's wearing.

I remember reading something like this as a kid, I thought at the time that some missionary-type ought to tell those naughty babies in Darfur and Ethiopia that they don't have to suffer, they just have to repent.

Experiments with a New Camera, Part Two

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Wed, 27 May 2009 22:51:00 +0000

Lilikoi, or Passion Fruit on Ha'o Street Trail, Kaloko.

Yellow Plumeria in our backyard.

Pink Plumeria in our backyard.

A grasshopper at Bridgehouse Nursery.

Guest Blogger

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 21:54:00 +0000

Ron won a creative writing contest, short story division, with the following story. The ending is a surprise, but not in the way I expected. One of the marks of a good story, I guess.

White Sandy Beaches

The linen sheets were white as snow, enveloping me like a cocoon. But a small part of me knew that this time I would not be able to break out and fly away. There was no wind to grace my wings, save for the stale air stirred around by the ceiling fan above my solitary bed. The steady creaking of the gears in the fan was enough to drive me up the wall, had I the energy to move. The window was closed, and the blinds were shut, and an eerie darkness crept through the small hospital ward. There was no escape. I was a bird with its wings clipped, or maybe I was just getting too old to use them to their full extent. Sweat dripped down my brow and I cursed the enclosed space I was trapped in. I needed fresh air, and I hated lying there, knowing my last few breaths of oxygen would be of the recycled air that had been floating still for the past twenty-four hours.

I heard footsteps behind the closed door. Maybe it’s the nurse coming to check on me, I thought. Go away. I closed my eyes, wishing to slip away into another reality, into a dream. Perhaps I could sink into a vacation where I was on a beautiful island in the Pacific, with white sandy beaches and water so clear it blended in with the indigo sky. Anywhere but here…

The footsteps were growing louder and moving more rapidly toward the door. I clenched my sheets in annoyance. Why can’t they just leave me in peace?

BOOM! The door banged open, revealing behind it a battered and charred hallway, blackened with ash. A soldier in a torn and bloody uniform clambered into the room, a red gash protruding from his right cheek down to his chin. Blood seeped from the wound, and he spit the crimson liquid and watched it splash upon the dusty wooden floor.

“Odell! Leave him, you’re not doing him any good!” He shouted. He glanced back to the door, as if expecting to see Hitler himself marching through the frame.

My eyes shifted downward and rested upon a pale face staring blankly through me with white glassy eyes. I felt tears spill from my bloodshot eyes, falling like the first few drops of a rain storm. I let go of the dead man’s tunic, which I had previously been clutching for dear life. My hands were red with blood, and I wiped them upon my pants with an astonished cry. I didn’t want to leave him. He was at boot camp with me, and had served as an excellent companion henceforth.

I could never get used to the idea of death, no matter how many times it stared me straight in the face. Life seemed way too fragile, and every life seemed too insignificant if it could just be put out like the small flame of a candle. Nothing seemed worth fighting for if we all end up meeting the same demise. Everyone dies alone, nobody can accompany us into the void.

“Odell! This place is gonna collapse. Let’s get the hell out!” I snapped back to reality, and unwillingly lifted my eyes away from the blank stare of Jimmy Conor, my brother in arms. I rose from the floor, and gazed again at my crimson palms. The meager meal I had consumed that morning churned loosely in my stomach. I wretched violently, but gathered myself, and reached for the arms of the fallen soldier at my feet.

“Dammit! Why do you always have to do this, man?” Asked Fallon, as he walked swiftly towards the corpse and bent down to grab the legs. “Hurry up, and be careful on the stairs.” We heaved the body up and made for the hallway. I could hear shouting in the distance, and gun shots echoing between the buildings in the street below. It was slow work because of the added weight of our guns, ammunition, and supplies, but we eventually made it down the stairs, and into the courtyard outside.

“Put him over there” I said grimly, nodding my head toward the side of a house where other corpses were strewn. We lugged the body to our designated location, and lied him down gently next to a lieutenant of about 35 years of age. Just another ripple in a sea of the dead…

I turned my back, trying not to dwell on the sight of my dead friends. Dead. Corpses seemed like just empty shells, crude mockeries of a human form. A good person might have lived behind its dead eyes, but it’s like you barely recognize him. The essence of what made him noble, honorable, a leader, a friend, was no longer there. I felt hot tears burn in my eyes, and I blinked, letting them spill down my face, their wake washing away the dirt and grime from my skin. I straightened my helmet, and turned back to Adam Fallon, who was searching the dead for dog tags.

Corporal Fallon was a replacement, who had replaced James McRoy on D-Day minus 4. There wasn’t much to tell about his appearance. He had black hair, standard military regulation cut, and green eyes that had quickly diminished to two dark haunted spheres sunken into a ghostly face. He was sensible, and reliable, but never made for good conversation or a mood lightener.

He took a cigarette from his pocket and struck a match with a trembling hand. At that moment a crash sounded from the building we had just evacuated, and the roof gave way. A thick, brown curtain of dust blocked the wrecked house and its surroundings from view as Fallon and I stared astonished at our previous location. Either God or pure luck was with us that day.

Out of unspoken consent, we did not discuss the soldiers and civilians who died on that fateful red evening. We trudged our way back to where the rest of our company was camped, and did our best to keep our minds from being overwhelmed by the ghosts of our former comrades by reading adventure novels and writing letters home. Every time I wrote the words “My Dear Natalie” on the worn page of my notebook, I could not help but fathom the thought that it might be the last time I would write them. Whatever daunting thoughts swam through my head however, I would write the letters as if I would see my beloved the very next day, as if I was merely on a vacation with some relatives, walking down white sandy beaches, wishing she was by my side.

*

I awoke the next morning, and cleared the sleep from my eyes with cold water from a battered clay pitcher. I rose from my cot, and stepped outside the tent, gazing wondrously at the ravaged and torn landscape before me. The French town was in complete ruins. Ash was strewn on the charred ground like dirt in the Sahara. It was difficult to discern which was a pile of rubble, and which was a ruined building.

I coughed as I inhaled ash, quickly turned my head out of the wind and shielded my dirty face with my hand. It didn’t matter if you smoked cigarettes or not, your lungs would eventually turn to blackened sacks of smoke. It wasn’t natural.

“Ahhh…beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!” I turned around and saw the leader of my platoon emerging from a tent. “Nothing beats a sunrise in France!”

I smiled, and turned my head back towards the east, admiring the bright yellow sun emerging from the distant hills. Purple and orange clouds gathered around the luminous sphere, enveloping it, but not blocking the immense rays. I was glad that even amidst all the chaos of war, that I could still appreciate beauty. The fact that it still even existed sent a grain of hope into my heart.

“June 12th, 1944. D-day plus…umm..”

“Six, sir.” I answered.

“Well, how ‘bout it?” It was a rhetorical question. I nodded slowly, still gazing eastward, trying to clear my mind of any impending doom, whether it be the thoughts of the past or future. “Pack up. We move out at 0700.”

“Yes sir.” I replied. The lieutenant walked back towards the command tent, where soldiers were bustling about like ants in a colony, all gathering ammunition and other necessities. First Lieutenant Dol Adams was my platoon leader. He led myself, and six others to victory in every battle since we had landed in Normandy; only two. He was an outstanding leader, whom all the men trusted. He was sarcastic and humorous, but could be intimidating if he wanted to be. He was a great man to have right at your side in the middle of a fight. He would charge as fast as he could, shouting swear words and egging us on, while still keeping a cool head and making sure we all got out alive. I didn’t think I would have made it half way up the beach if it wasn’t for him.

I walked back to my tent and gathered the rest of my belongings: an extra canteen, my compass, which was a gift from my father, and a small, rectangular, picture frame that seemed to tarnish the beauty of the picture inside. The picture was of me and my Natalie, my beloved, and betrothed. We were sitting on a tire swing in the front of my house; a moment of pure happiness and joy frozen in time. The frame was slowly falling apart and the picture was slowly fading, like the stars at dawn. I put it inside my pocket, and closed my eyes for a bit longer than a standard blink. How I longed to be near her once again.

I pushed my fiancé to the back of my mind (as difficult as that was), and walked out into the smoky, summer air.

“Morning Sunshine!” First Sergeant Jason Worth came marching up to me, his M1 Garand semi-automatic resting on his shoulder, and helmet lopsided on his head. He was unshaven, and would have normally been apprehended for his scruffiness, but under the conditions, our superiors didn’t really care. He had a thick Cuban cigar in his mouth, and the wispy gray smoke that protruded from it created a ghostly mask that covered his scarred face. “Did you get Conor outa that building yesterday?” He asked in his thick southern accent.

“Yeah, me and Fallon carried him out.” I answered, grimly.

“Good…Yeah, that’s good, man.” He stated. “He at least can rest without some building crushin’ him now. Hey man, you don’t look so good. Did you see Anson yesterday?” Richard Anson was our corpsman, our medic.

I shook my head. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small round mirror, which he lifted in front of my face. I had not seen my reflection since before D-day. My face looked darker because of the smoke and ash constantly bombarding my skin every day, and my eyes seemed as if they would be bloodshot for the next five years. I also looked older, I could see it in my eyes; two glassy spheres, deeper and darker than I ever remember them being. A dark purple bruise covered my left eye, and a violent, red gash ran from my chin across the lower part of my cheek. I had not even felt it before. Emotional pain had far outstripped physical pain.

“You should probably get that checked out, man.” Suggested Worth, putting the mirror back in his pocket. I ran my fingers along the gash cautiously.

“Nah, it feels fine. Must not be that major. We’ll have more time later anyway.” I replied. “And man, why do you have a mirror?”

He was just about to respond, when a loud explosion sounded from the southern end of the camp. We instinctively ran towards the disturbance, Worth running slightly ahead of me, machine gun rounds bouncing on his bag. I straightened my helmet over my short black hair, and fastened it securely. A bunker was fifty feet ahead of us. We rushed toward it and dove head-first, landing on our knees and elbows. I leaned my back against the wall of the man-made trench, and loaded ammo into my gun. There were about twenty other soldiers scattered along the trench, all loading their guns and yelling into radios.

“What the hell is going on?!” I yelled at a soldier near by, who was kissing a silver cross necklace.

“Mortars!” He shouted.

I cursed our luck. “I thought these bastards gave up for now.” Gunfire erupted from beyond the trench and I saw dirt and mud spray over our heads.

“We can’t flank them?” Yelled Worth, peeking his head above the wall. I saw a small round object soar twenty feet to my left and land on the ground next to two soldiers, bouncing menacingly. I watched as if it were in slow motion.

“FIRE IN THE-!!!”

BOOM!!!

Now everything was in slow motion. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t smell, I couldn’t move. All I could hear was a loud ringing in my ears, and my heart throbbing like a bass drum being pounded double time. I could feel the blood rushing through my veins as I slowly opened my eyes. Corpses were strewn around me, a disembodied arm lay limply at my feet. I wanted to yell, but no air fueled my lungs. And then suddenly, out of the carnage, a white light began to grow, faint at first, but then brighter and brighter as it got closer to me.

I was dead. I knew it. The face and body emerging from the light could not be real. Surely, she was an angel, sent to walk me through the golden gates. She had the most beautiful face I had ever seen, or ever would see. Startling blue eyes, all-knowing, wise, and piercing, long brown wavy hair that flowed like water past her shoulders. She was not naked, but she was not clad in any discernable articles of clothing.

I raised a trembling hand to feel her skin, to see if it was real. The closer my hand got to her perfect face, the more she backed away. She beckoned, and confused, I followed. She began to glide swiftly out of the trench and I trotted obediently behind her. I felt pressure in my chest and a wetness spreading across my torso. I looked down and saw crimson liquid soaking my tunic, two bullet holes seemed to emerge from the red.

I did not feel the pain. I could still move, and move I did, ever closer to the angel, to my beloved, my betrothed, my Natalie…

*

The creaking of the fan was beginning to get even more monotonous as I lie there, smelling the stale air of a hospital, the smell I despised so much. A soft beeping had joined the creaking of the ceiling fan, and I looked around at the monitor to the left of my bed. The beeping was repeating slower than the creaking, and I gazed observantly at the thin red line that rose and fell over and over again. It began to slow more rapidly, and I could feel my lungs slowly getting tired. I inhaled and exhaled, noticing how much energy it took.

*

I followed aimlessly, guided by the light, by her beauty. She was getting further and further away. Soon, I would not be able to reach her. What would I do then? How would I survive?
Then, as sudden as she had come, she disappeared. I cried out in despair, and fell to my knees. Pain tore through my body as the bullets’ impact took effect. No… I thought. I cannot die. Not now… Natalie’s face was still etched vividly in my mind. Not now…

*

People were gathered around my bed, panicking people garbed in white, with white masks, and white eyes. Their loud voices were muffled to me, and from their midst appeared my angel. My angel, out of the darkness, my Natalie. She was as beautiful as ever. Twenty-one, and infinite in youth. She had the eyes I had more recently come to know before she died; the eyes of a seventy-five year old woman, wise and strong as an ancient tree.

I missed you. I said to her.

I have never left you. She replied.

I could hear the beeping of the monitor growing fainter and fainter, and Natalie took my pale, wrinkled hand in hers. Warmth spread through my body like hot chocolate on a cold winter night.

Welcome home… She whispered. I saw the wedding ring on her finger that had never left since our wedding day. She pulled me out of the bed, and we walked out of the room. I was not breathing anymore. Breathing wasn’t important. The only thing that was important was my love for her.

I could feel sand between my toes, and hear the waves crashing on the beach. Maybe… I thought, as I gazed affectionately at my wife. Maybe death…is not so bad.

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 17:58:00 +0000

Last night, on the spur of the moment, we went up to our friends Jim and Ann's for supper. I was not in the mood to socialize, having had the dinner from hell just the week before with relatives and being a bit depressed (or grieving) over the decline of the shop, economically. As is usually the case with situations like this, the evening was just what was needed..

I like to try to steer the conversation around to things of a more spiritual nature when we're getting to know new friends. I'm curious what underpins a person's life philosophegusly-wise. It's a lot of fun to see the different ways people deal with the central issues of living which I've distilled into "dealing with the past; not worrying about the future; living abundantly now." (That's another blog, I guess).

We come from very different backgrounds, Jim, Ann, Sarah and me. It was fascinating to see how choices we made in life years ago brought us together at this place and time. We found that we can speak the same language, and communicate without drawing blank stares or arguments from the listener. For instance when I was relating how I discovered the Tao de Ching at exactly the right point in my continuing spiritual quest, Ann actually got chills. I've been there before too. We also share a love for the desert, for gardening, for music and guitars, for dogs.

Anyway, more later, maybe. I'm including a picture they took of Sting wearing a beanie that Sarah knitted for him. Cool picture, I think.

Funny Stuff

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 19:55:00 +0000

Funny stuff from my nephew Travis' home page.

Playing With a New Camera

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 23:20:00 +0000

I traded an airplane model to a buddy of mine for a Nikon D200 camera and a Nikon 28-105mm lens. Fun to be able to barter. Here are the first pictures from the new set-up. I think I'm going to like it once I figure it out.

The sun was already down, and I thought it was way too dark to take a picture. I messed with the White Balance and "ISO" settings and am pleased with the light.

"Now?"

"Heh, heh...you heard that?"

It's a flower.

Well Bless Your Heart

noreply@blogger.com (Soul Level) — Sat, 21 Mar 2009 00:17:00 +0000

A note on my friend Rick's home page made me think about the phrase I hear fairly often, though not as much as I used to: "Bless your heart..."

As in: "Well bless your heart, that must have been terrible!"

"She's as smart as a bag of hammers, bless her heart."

Or yet again,

"Your mother is a whore that sleeps around, bless your heart." (Well, maybe not that one).

This one for sure, though:

Little Davy: "I am six years old." (Holds up four fingers) .

Aunt Vae: "Oh honey, bless your heart, but that's only four fingers."

Little Davy tries again: "I am six years old." (This time holds up the same four fingers and four more on the other hand)

Aunt Vae: "Child....Bless you and your momma's heart."