Fall and new changes

Fall is a great time to take stock and try new things. Changes coming to the blog soon!

Bloated Beach Bugger Murder Chapter 3

Ned's patience was wearing about as thin as Mona's old flannel nightgown that she wore when she paraded around the streets after 10:00 p.m. She used to spend her mornings flinging her wares and her bitterness until she decided that the party only got started late at night. Mona's flannel nightgowns had to be at least forty years old and did nothing to conceal the two flour sacks that sagged all the way down to her knees. Plus you couldn't help but see her great big fat ass; but how the hell could you miss something as wide as a cement-mixer and as white and as pasty as a bag of alabaster?

"I never saw this guy before. He does not look as though he's from around here." Ned ignored Percy's frothy phlegm ringed disapproval as another cigarette burned its life away. Percy's non-smoking stuff was getting to be a real pain, and all that stuff about second-hand smoke was pure bullshit as far was Ned was concerned.

"Yeah, he looks like he is from far off place, you know (no I don't know you stupid clod Ned fumed) and it's like, you know, he just dropped outta the sky or something. It's interesting though as to what would bring him to these here parts (what parts, private parts you fool?) because he looks like he is, you know, some exotic guy." Percy berated his grandchildren for speaking poorly but privately he envied the way that they never say they go, and that like word sure has its uses.

Ned wanted to stuff the dead guy's left man boob into Percy's big fat yap. Why can't Percy ever say anything worth listening to? What was that old saying again that if you are a complete idiot, then shut the fuck up? Well, that's the way it should be.

Percy's phlegm needed to find an escape hatch. While he spat and gagged and retched, Ned's stomach started doing the herky-jerky. This disgusting fool might even end up spitting on the dead guy! Strange, why was Ned feeling the need to protect this dead guy? This poor fat bastard looked about as pathetic as the soggy seaweed. Probably some stupid drunk that fell off a boat in the middle of the night; no doubt the toxicology report would come back with proof of some vile mixture of rotgut that crippled what little brain cells this guy had.

"Ah, ah ah ah! Much better to get those hair balls out!" Percy's face had transformed into a putrid shade of purple-red that was slowly beginning to recede back to pale and pompous Percy. "So are you gonna call, you know, someone about this? I mean, it's like, someone should come out and deal with this properly since it's not like, you know, you can do this kind of stuff anymore."

Damn that Percy and his uppity playing with himself brand of self-righteous arrogance. Ned's smoking increased in need, as though this was the last thing he would ever wrap his lips around.

Just like the dead guy, and that odd ring around his mouth.

to be continued...

Across the Chasm - Kde Domuv Muj?

This is the original English version of an earlier Czech translation posting that is long overdue and sorely under appreciated. tes/rm

Jarek felt that at last he would plug up the void that had left him feeling hallow. He was finally heading back to Prague for the first time since he had left for London at the age of thirteen. He could practically smell the freshly baked rohliky as the plane landed at Ruzene. After all of this time he was going to reclaim his Czechness; he was going home.

So why was there that prickle of doubt that jolted his heart? His head told him that home was back in London. But what about that saying about home being where your heart is? Right now his heart beat with immense anticipation of grabbing onto everything he could and cramming the void full of patriotism and belonging. Yes, that’s right he reminded himself as we strode through the doors and out into the misty autumn rain. My heart is here and now is the time for me to catch up with it.
Jarek loved the automatic correct pronunciation of his name unlike the bastardized versions he endured in London until he painstakingly delivered his Czech language lesson. Still they never got it right and ferociously mangled his name. Here he would be recognized as a native son.

The taxi cab ride felt as though a small tear had been made in his carefully woven homecoming plans. Jarek’s cheeks grew hotter with rage and embarrassment when the driver simply shrugged as his passenger’s excitement. What was the meaning of that lilting sneer behind the ‘how nice for you’ comment? Even more upsetting was when the driver looked at Jarek and muttered ‘ne rozumim’ or ‘I don’t understand your gibberish.’ Jarek wondered just where these drivers learned their Czech and decided it was more than likely off of a bathroom wall. This driver looked the part of a Czech, but Jarek had to admit that those words hurled in his direction by the driver did not have the purity and sweetness he remembered as a child. Arriving at Narodni Trida, Jarek ignored the driver’s cursing about not being given a tip.

Walking along the busy street Jarek looked around, jerking his head in all directions, taking in as much as he could. Things looked the same in many ways but there were very subtle changes. Shop windows beckoned at him just like back in London and the queues no longer snaked their way wearily out the doors. A cacophony of languages surrounded his ears and had he closed his eyes for a second he could very well be walking around Piccadilly Circus.

As he made his way along the packed street, he had the horrifying feeling of slowly becoming invisible. A couple of cousins were to meet him right at the foot of Vaclavske Namesti and while they joyously recognized their long lost cousin, their disdainful looks were more like what you would expect to see if they had been eyeing a very suspicious foreigner. Jarek discovered again that his carefully preserved Czech had fallen hopelessly out of date with the cool new jargon that barely resembled what he at least thought he remembered. It was almost like being one of the many foreign tourists trying to communicate with these two, save for Jarek not having to resort to incessant smiling and pointing.

Over the next few days things were increasingly difficult for Jarek as he maneuvered his way through the cultural maze. Someone must have not only moved the streets but changed the flow of social values. Perhaps this is what his father had meant when during 1968 the Prague citizens foiled the Soviet soldiers by mixing up all the street signs. Very clever. It kept the undesirables from gaining access, at least for a while, into the heart of Prague and the hearts of Czechs.

When had he crossed that line from us to them? What rendered him a virtual undesirable? Had he not been born and raised here during his formative years? He was just as Czech as they were yet he could not shake the emptiness that echoed throughout his body. His daily invisible walks took him to everyplace he could think of to recapture his past but ever time he reached out his objectives disappeared into the dim haze of the past that Prague kept shrouded within its indifference towards human history.

The inward pressure continued its strangulation on Jarek’s heart with every step on his path. It was impossible to find the catalyst that would release the dam holding back all of those emotions. Every scent and every sound transported him back to over thirty years ago where he would linger for a time with the soul of the young boy that appeared to be himself. Next he would be thrust cruelly back to the present. His travels allowed for no leisurely stops along the way, no chance to connect the past with the present. The gaping hole of time prevented Jarek from making the smooth connections in his life. He felt bone weary with each enormous leap from one period to the other across a widening chasm where hundreds of taxi drivers mocked Jarek at every leap. Their grins that they once kept furtively hidden under their moustaches were released into public displays of scorn for this interloper.

Later that night, Jarek ran crashing through his dreams and crashing through the barriers to freedom. Hearing the popping of gunfire in the background mingled with the snarling and snapping of rabidly bloodthirsty dogs, Jarek raced through the thick dense woods. Only a few more steps and we’re in Austria, but he continued running until his legs burned with exhaustion. He gasped his first breaths of freedom as his mother, brother, and sister fell to the ground. The air was fresh and lacked the heavy oppression that squeezed your lungs like a giant boa constrictor wrapped around Prague. There was no time to think about that small piece of him that he left behind. If he had given it any thought Jarek would have assumed he would be a complete and whole self.

Once in England, life became an exhilarating blur of discovery and shifting social constructs. Shedding the dull grey coating of Prague that had dulled the senses and crushed the soul, Jarek blended into this new world like an eager chameleon seeing colour for the fist time. He tucked away some distant memories of his homeland, not sure when he might ever unpack them. Every now and then he was reminded that he was still Czech, even if only a part-time one, when issues popped up dealing with his awkward name that sputtered on the tips of Anglophones tongues. He started to craft his Czech language lesson but dared not admit to himself that it was more to assert a piece of cleverness with the barbed wire words his classmates did not understand.
Waking up with a jolt he was bathed in a cold sweat that ran in rivulets down his neck. Running over toward the window, he hoped to take in the fresh air to cool him off. The twinkling lights of Prague looked like thousands of deadly lanterns beckoning so many unsuspecting moths; moths that darted around searching for a foothold. The lights were the bonnets of so many taxi cabs with doors wide open to lure in the moths and snatch them off the streets. The sinister taxi drivers snared their prizes by promising to drive their passengers across that enormous chasm to safely tie up the loose ends of life.

Laughing and taunting their passengers, the drivers made it clear that those who had left were to suffer the fate of forever carrying a chasm of the soul. Anyone foolish enough to think they could go back and fill up that gaping hole to satisfy the gnawing emptiness only proved that this make work project only dug the holes; there was no way to fill them.

Worse yet was the sight of the other side of the chasm. It was the life left behind that in actuality died on the day of departure. There was no way to be able to resuscitate it and pick up from where one left off. Jarek pictured the taxi pulling up to the other side to the point where he could almost reach out and grab hold of the edge. But the more he clawed the more his grip tore into the flimsy matter and eroded more of the edge away. The sights and sounds and smells he desperately longed to touch were yanked further and further out of his reach while the driver shifted the gear box and tore away from the possibility of ever making the leap across the chasm.

Jarek started to cry and felt the tears splash around and echo in his heart. The homecoming had been the moment he had lived for during so many years away. If only I could go back he insisted then I will be able to reconcile my two selves into one who is whole. Now all he could taste was the bitter sweetness of the journey that did nothing to fill the gap but actually managed to widen it, preventing him from reaching his completeness.
The tri-colour flag flapped on the building across the street as it hung in a vertical position that reminded one of how the women hung their rugs out the window to shake the dust off. What was that flag shaking off? Jarek felt the deep chill run through his body as he backed away from the window and wondered if he was being shaken from the fabric of his upbringing. This was no longer home and where he lived now was a terrific stopping zone but not a real home. Meanwhile his heart bounced around that miserable chasm searching for refuge.

Kde domov muj? Where is my home and is it far across that chasm that I cannot hope to cross? Jarek sighed as he dug into his pockets and discovered he would never have enough fare to pay the taxi driver.

Bivouac Bedtime Stories - Walk a Mile in Their Boots

Never judge the soldier until you have marched a mile in a pair of his or her combat boots. Walk a mile in a soldier’s dusty pair of combat boots and understand the real meaning of loyalty and bravery.

The soldier has seen a lot: the realities of war that are nothing like the movies, the buddies who lent support and strength, the small victories as a society rebuilds, and the casualties that are to numerous to adequately process. The most unfortunate thing about the soldier’s experiences is that they are virtually impossible to transcribe accurately to those on the civilian side. But to walk a mile in the dusty combat boots of a soldier is to see some of the best and worst of mankind in its unflinching rawness. It is to challenge yourself in the ultimate limits of physical, mental and emotional stress and endurance when you think you can’t go on.

Despite the hours spent rehearsing and reenacting tactical maneuvers, there is nothing that compares to the unfathomable reality that awaits the soldier. The unknown manifests itself far beyond anything remotely resembling personal experience. Yet the soldier must draw upon every ounce of reserve and other little more than raw nerve in order to survive the predictability of the unpredictable situation. No amount of planning can fully prepare a soldier, but it is the inner resolve that allows the soldier to carry on, especially when things appear most futile.

Life can often throw numerous circumstances at us for which we have received little if any training. Just like the soldier, we don’t usually have the luxury of hiding out somewhere hoping things that we find uncomfortable will simply go away. We have to plant our feet squarely and carefully plot out our tactical maneuvers. Just when we think we have it all figured out, our situation changes without any warning. We are forced to regroup and rethink our strategy. In the end, we push ourselves beyond the limits we never even believed existed, or were possible to overcome. We push on. We soldier on.

The soldier must do the same but under conditions that give new meaning to the well worn clichés “life and death situation” and “team player.” In a typical work situation there are creative ways to shirk off duties and failure to pull one’s weight carries minimal consequences. But the soldier must put forth effective strength one hundred percent of the time and be the ultimate team player; the lives of every other soldier in the unit depend on it. Driven by a sense of duty and honor, pride in their country and belief in the social values system, a soldier will push aside fear in order to carry out what needs to be done. Their unit and their values they are all fighting for depend on it.

Walking a mile in the dusty combat boots of a soldier demonstrates firsthand lessons of loyalty, perseverance, strength and discipline. It is to view the world with a slightly wary eye but also a spirit of optimism; a belief that the better aspects of mankind can overcome the negative.