In the comments to my invitation to ask questions Charles first offered an observation from Iraq, and then posed his query:

I read your stories. Even with all the intermittent shelling, we have an internet cafe nearby where most of us soldiers go to cruise the internet cafe when we’re not under cover.

I’m told, by chaplains and other “knowledgeable people”, that we are in ancient Mesopotamia, with mounds nearby that were once cities named Ur and Sumer and Babylon. These cities are supposed to date back 3500 years or so. They tell me that this is where “it” all began, whatever “it” was. Civilization, I guess.

Zarqawi dumped a headless body nearby and several Iraqi NG wannabes just got their heads blown off just for being with us. Not a good legacy for the first civilized nation.

I wonder why, after all the tragedy and humiliation you have been through, why you did not try to end your own life.

I dealt with the suicide question in depth in this post. In condensed form my reply is that I have simply never lost hope to the degree that I would ever think of ending my own life in anything more than a speculative manner.

Why maintain hope in the face of all I have seen and experienced? Over long centuries I have seen mankind crawl up out of ignorance and fear, following a path that certainly does not lack for horrific setbacks and lapses, but does indeed seem to lead inexorably towards something better. This gives me hope, which easily supplants any notion of despair that might drive me towards self-destruction.

I also take heart in the very things that you mentioned above. Not that there are murders and shelling and danger, but that there are determined and capable warriors in place whose purpose is to put a stop to the chaos. Those Iraqi National Guard trainees- they understood the danger they faced just by choosing to step forward. They stepped forward regardless, for they are a civilized and devoted people, willing to stand to in the face of a fanatical and bestial foe. Even after decades under the yoke of a tyrant, they understood the necessity of taking matters in to their own hands, they placed their lives on the line, and those lives were taken, just as so many others were before. Doubtless more shall queue in line to replace them, for the Iraqis may be unhappy with the state of affairs, they may even resent the presence of foreign troops, but they understand that failure is unthinkable.

I take hope in the actions of your people this past week. Presented with a stark choice, couched in the most extreme terms, they chose to persevere. Like those Iraqi men, your people understand the dangers; they comprehend the consequences of failure and rejected those whose resolve was less than firm. I take hope in the realization that despite the enormous emotional and ideological fractures revealed in your recent election your nation has once again shown the world that those who lose elections in the United States do not set cities aflame, nor are they rounded up for imprisonment. Those who come up short in the American political drama simply step back, pick up the pieces and begin to prepare for the next election. I sometimes wonder if your people can comprehend the profound statement that makes?

I take hope from you and your people. I am an unabashed fan of Western Civilization in general, and the American Experiment in particular. I see your people as the best, brightest hope for mankind. That this sounds hyperbolic does not make it any less so. What other nation would send her soldiers on a mission such as yours? The United States stood upon the ramparts of Europe for fifty years, willingly subjected herself to the threat of nuclear annihilation, all to preserve the liberal societies of Western Europe from the abhorrent tyranny of Soviet socialism. Furthermore, despite the fractious relationships with some powers of Europe, she would unhesitatingly do so again. Your people truly are the guarantors of peace and civilization in the modern world. That some do not appreciate this, or even feel threatened by it is natural- the weak fear the powerful, for in the past the powerful were always to be feared.

The world is changing. Civilization has changed profoundly since the long past days of those ancient cities you named. Look at yourself and your comrades and consider what those ancient Kings would have thought. Strip away the technology, the weaponry and consider that should you confront them with sword and shield they could still have no true understanding of you, for the ideas, the ethos that brought you to that place would be incomprehensible to them. They had more in common with Saddam Hussein than with The United States, or Great Britain, or Australia, or Poland, or Spain. The notion that a people would send soldiers to such a far off land and spend blood and treasure in the cause of freedom rather than the expansion of power would be so very far from their realm of understanding as to be nonsense at best, madness at worst.

Consider that you have come from one of the youngest, most liberal and liberated nations on Earth to bring freedom to the Cradle of Civilization. Forgive me if I appear strident, for these thoughts must be stated with emphatic clarity. You and your fellows, your comrades and allies- you are the Sword, Arm and Shield of Civilization. That cannot fail to bring hope to my heart.

Thank-you, Charles. Thank-you for your service, and for the hope you bring.

Godspeed,

Zsallia

Posted on November 8th, 2004
Filed under: Philosophy | 1 Comment »

Ask me a question.

Yes, this is a sly attempt at determining if anyone actually stays to read what I put here. Indulge me.

Update: Questions and answers will be shown in the extended entry, once I get to them.

7-November-2004, more answers, such as they are.
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Posted on October 31st, 2004
Filed under: Miscellany | 10 Comments »

It was an exercise in futility, but one willingly undertaken. Half a day spent in the air, trying not to think of the vast, blue expanse of the sea far below, then another day adjusting, waiting for the appointed day, and the appointed time.

The caf? was warm and relaxed, offering an excellent view of the square. It would have been simple to let my mind wander as it so often does in such places, but I had made a promise so my beverage of choice was coffee as I kept my silent watch upon the flowing crowds, seeking that familiar face, or distinctive walk. The day passed in its natural way, punctuated by the occasional attempted pickup declined with grace and a smile until dusk settled in.

I was surprised to feel a pang of such disappointment that it engendered a terrible longing within me. I had so wished to believe, my so-very-rational dismissal of the possibility suddenly riven and scattered upon the winds of emotion. The overwhelming urge to try again, to give him another day, another week, frightened me. It was madness to contemplate such a thing, yet I found myself in my hotel room, rescheduling my flight. Two more days. I had waited a century, what was two more days?

Those two days cost me dearly in terms of frayed nerves, self-doubt and self-recrimination. I felt foolish returning to that caf?, yet the thought of simply leaving… to call this episode finally closed was not something I could do. I despise such weakness in myself, wallowing in indecision, but there I was.

As the final hours passed I forced rationality upon myself. There had never been a chance. He had humored me as I had him. Such an insightful man, but those in his profession usually are, even today. I allowed myself to think of those days, traveling with a small circus as his assistant. He was not a magician, lord no:

“A magician produces doves from his sleeves and pulls rabbits from hats. I, my dear, am an Illusionist!”

He had seen something in me that intrigued him, and in our final year together I had told him in an offhand way of my unusual circumstance. Like any rational person he assumed I was lying, or deluded, or both. Yet he had played along and there had been a certain connection between us those final months before I moved on. He promised he would learn my secret and join me here in one hundred years. I had promised to be here.

I kept my promise. That he would be unable to keep his had been a foregone conclusion. That knowledge was cold comfort to me now.

As I gathered my things, preparing to leave, someone caught my eye- a woman, perhaps forty years old. She had been in the caf? every evening, arriving perhaps an hour before I departed each night. She deliberately made eye contact with me and she smiled, then rose from her table and approached me. She was handsome, her face a study in delicate beauty and aristocratic grace, with wide set eyes of grey framed in blonde hair going gracefully silver. I returned her smile.

“Forgive my intrusion, but you do look so very sad,” she said, her voice soft and warm, her French flavored with the accent of a Londoner.

“Oh, it really is nothing. Rather foolish of me, to be honest. My name is Genevieve.”

“Elizabeth,” she replied, taking a seat at my table, “I really must apologize- I have been watching you for the past two nights…” and she laid her right hand atop mine.

At least I would not spend my last night in Paris alone.

Posted on October 25th, 2004
Filed under: Immortality, Regrets, The Present | Comments Off on Rendezvous

The McAllister House is alternately a flurry of activity and a place of nearly serene quiet and solitude. Since completion of the major renovations those quiet moments have increased dramatically to the point I find them disturbing. This place should not be so empty, so lacking in life and purpose.

I find myself asking: have I made a mistake?

Throughout my life I have avoided such moments as this, so to find myself here, within these familiar walls, surrounded by names and people who carry the unmistakable bearing of their ancestors, it is unnerving at times and more so those nights I find myself alone. I desire so very much to be here though my presence awakens thoughts and memories of that which was and is now gone. Something holds me here beyond the ties of the past.

I have no family in this place. The house is large even by modern standards- thirty-two rooms including nine bedrooms and attached dressing rooms, two parlor rooms, a large library, gentlemen’s smoking room, a spacious study, and then the two dining rooms- one of which doubles as a ballroom. It had been such an imposing and pretentious structure for its time and place, but it had been filled with family, three generations in the year before my Jeremy left me, and there had been a working farm growing wheat, feed corn and producing dairy for the community. It was alive.

I have my visitors, mostly Edna, but others stop by from time to time. I have developed a reputation as a soft touch for worthy causes so there is no shortage of people calling. During the day there is a cook on staff, and of course my stable hands tending the horses. Thee days a week the housekeeping service comes. It is not enough to bring the flavor of home to this space. It is still just another place I spend time, larger than my apartment and so rather disconcerting.

My only constant companion here is George, the houseman. Part butler, part manager he arranges the affairs of the house, seeing to it the kitchen is stocked, minor maintenance issues are addressed and the assorted comings and goings of the housekeepers and landscapers and whatnot all take place with a minimum of interference. He is a good soul, a tall, gangly black man with more salt than pepper to his hair and the silky warmth of Mississippi in his soft voice. Fifty years old he lost thirty of those years to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, penance for a drunken bar fight that left one man dead and another maimed. I encountered him in Philadelphia when his parole officer backed in to my car in a parking garage. As my driver and the parole officer exchanged papers, George and I exchanged pleasantries. Two days later that same parole officer was shocked and mightily relieved to see her problematic client suddenly gainfully employed with a place to call home.

I suppose he is but another of those wounded souls towards whom I gravitate so readily.

As the holidays approach Edna has been urging me to host the family for the occasion. It is a truly splendid idea and the notion of this home filled with people, children, conversation and laughter is quite appealing. I have the notion to contact the far-flung members of the family and see if I can manage to bring all of them here for that week. Edna would so enjoy that…

It is such a happy scene. Why can I not shake the dread of what would follow? That this place would again fall silent… it nearly moves me to tears contemplating such a thing. How has solitude become loneliness in such a short time? Solitude that was once my best defense- the fa?ades I wore so easily to keep others engaged in the fictitious entities I became for them are suddenly pale and lifeless. The desire to be shut of them is so very powerful yet I know in my heart it is still too dangerous. The time has not come for that.

I am very patient. Patience teaches me to wait for events to develop. It does not counsel that I should enjoy the wait.

Posted on October 18th, 2004
Filed under: The Present | Comments Off on Home

My latest ramblings can be found at Dean’s World.

Posted on October 11th, 2004
Filed under: Politics | Comments Off on More Ruminations On America And Politics

I ran across a quiz at Pointy Ears (who for reasons unknown slipped from my blogroll when I restarted this site). I generally dismiss such things for they are quite simplistic; however, given my last topic I found the result amusing in a coincidental way.
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Posted on September 28th, 2004
Filed under: Miscellany | 2 Comments »

I am a creature of habit. By that I mean to say I am one given to dealing with similar situations in similar ways. For some this is a reasonable methodology, yielding adequate results; for others it is a recipe for failure, particularly in the light of Man’s general unwillingness to abandon cherished notions even in the face of incontrovertible evidence that his methodology is flawed. I rest assured that any reader encountering the previous statement is somewhat acquainted with examples of both extremes. In light of this, there is a habit of mine that I am beginning to suspect may be sabotaging my efforts both with this journal and with my larger and much less public efforts to date: I avoid becoming attached to people.

This has an obvious purpose and has become such an automatic thing that I hardly notice it any longer. I have stumbled from time to time, with mixed results; however, over the vast majority of my existence it has been a necessary and reliable modus operandi. Only now, it seems to be standing opposite my desires with regards to this journal in particular, and my life in what we shall call the Real World.

I recently delved in to politics here. I detest politics, but the topic allows me to withdraw in to an analytical stance relatively devoid of emotional input. I distance myself from those who might read and perhaps be inclined to comment upon whatever notion I choose to put forth. Discussions of politics and matters philosophical are safe. They lack intimacy, as they do not require any hint of emotional involvement in the topic at hand. They offer no real insight in to who I am and how I truly feel about the world, any person, or myself.

I retreat in to politics and philosophy in this journal whenever I become uneasy with the revelations about myself. Writing of my past and present is too closely akin to intimate discourse. It is as a confession between friends or lovers and when indulged in too freely it renders me incapable of continuing. I divert myself, plunging in to topics I am not truly inclined to discuss in any depth. On the rare occasions when those topics garner an inordinate level of notice they, too, become unsafe for me, but not at the level I feel regarding my more personal revelations.

The conundrum is thus: I write that I may be known even if only to those few who deign to peruse my scribbling, but allowing myself to be open in even the minimal way I have terrifies me so that I instinctively pull away. Smatterings of short bits regarding my life are followed by a retreat in to the minutiae of topics cold and arcane.

Recognizing this is so would seem to be the first step towards correcting it; however, I am loath to make so rash a move.

Posted on September 26th, 2004
Filed under: The Present | 6 Comments »

It was dark and cool, but not cold- spring had finally driven off the worst of the chill and the night air was refreshing, the air wafting over the fields and the barn, redolent with life. The moon had set and at its departure the heavens had opened up in a riotous explosion of color. I stood transfixed by the barn, gazing up at the blazing stars spread across the sky… and felt loneliness clutch about my heart as a vise. I used to love to lie awake at night and gaze up at the mysterious night sky. When had that stopped for me? How long ago… no, surely not that long, but it had to be a century or more.

What had taken from me the joy and mystery of contemplating the night sky? I remembered the fear and excitement long ago when the heavens had burst forth with a new light and the monks had called all the people to prayer as the brilliant portent of evil tidings hung in the sky for a month or more before finally fading back in to the velvet canopy of the night sky. Until then I had seen the stars as much like myself, cold and unchanging. It had been liberating to see that they could become brilliant and unpredictable, even if only for a short while. I had seen throughout my life the comings of comets. I did not understand them, I did not know why they were as they were, and that pleased me. Why had I lost that?

The small house was dark and quiet; Robert and his grandchildren slept soundly, the dogs undisturbed by my being out, having grown accustomed to my strange ways. I had a good home, a man who gave me not love, but some companionship, and a place to call mine for a span of years. He was a conscientious man, my Robert Girard, devoted to his family, and now to his young bride. He was fond of me, but more than that he needed me, and that was good to feel. It was nearly enough to… but I thrust that down, deep inside me, for those thoughts and desires could bring naught but agony and madness. As good as he was, as much comfort I found ensconced in his house and his family, he was but a man and already old. His back was straight and his eyes clear but the thief of time stole up upon him as it did all the people and things I was foolish enough to feel any attachment to.

The stars were cold in the sky, their light beautiful, but devoid of warmth. Like me. There was such ice in my breast it weighed upon my heart. It had been so long, so many centuries since that day I watched a proud man die at the behest of a cruel and bloodthirsty ethos… no, I could not bear to think of that again. Not his death, nor the horror I became in the aftermath.

It was too late. Pain welled up in me as a sharp aching in my heart as I fought for control of myself. I would not weep, I refused to, but even as I spoke these words to myself I felt hot tears running down my cheeks, my sight blurred as my emotions turned treasonous to my will and sought their escape. Trembling I leaned back against the barn while the burning fear and grief passed from my lips as quiet sobs until finally I could put them down, the pressure having eased somewhat with their escape.

“Is it so terrible, being with me, that you steal away behind the barn at night to weep?”

Startled I turned to see Robert’s silhouette, an inky blackness against the night, and I ran to him, threw my arms about him and clutched myself tightly there as fresh tremors, more immediate in their provenance, shook my body. His thick limbs encircled me, strong and sure, and I buried my face in his chest, the aura of him filling my lungs, the taste of hard labor, the smoke from the fire that warmed our tiny house, even the traces of our love making. I drew in great draughts of it, my tears soaking the rough shirt he wore. I heaved a last sigh, will finally triumphant over grief, and forced myself to stop shaking.

“It is not you, Robert, not at all,” I said, my voice returning. “I told you when we met, I am… complicated.”

His hand came up and he slipped a finger under my chin, turning my face up so I gazed in to his shadowed face.

“All women are complicated, my Monique. You more than most.” Then without another word he walked me back to our house as I turned my face again to the stars.

I so hungered to adore them as I had, but not at the price of revisiting that dark and painful place in my soul. My roots were here in the now, for as long as I could bear it. Let the dead past lie in its grave…

Posted on September 20th, 2004
Filed under: The Past | Comments Off on AD 1345, More Or Less

Diogenes is both eloquent and poignant. I could not have done more than he has done.

Posted on September 18th, 2004
Filed under: Philosophy | 3 Comments »

I nearly decided not to comment upon my day of Jury Duty last week, as it was singularly uneventful. I was selected twice and excused twice, once for no apparent reason and the second time following voir dire. All in all it was rather what I had expected it to be. There was minor disappointment at not being seated for a jury; however, that is likely for the best given the circumstances. I would have found it quite difficult to ignore my own impressions of the defendants in favor of deciding the case on the facts presented
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Posted on September 7th, 2004
Filed under: Uncategorized | 7 Comments »