Sunday, February 26, 2006
Monday, February 20, 2006
So, I had some (safe) adventures and saw some great sites, but took no pics, as I ran out of batteries and they were nowhere to be found. I'd gone everywhere that I'm allowed to go, no AAA batteries. I found some at a bazzaar, but they were rechargeable, and promptly died. I was upset. I went to another bazaar on Sunday, and finally found AAA'a, and I also got some movies, including a 5 movie bruce lee collection for, 3 bucks. That's 60 cents a pop. I also got 2 sean penn collections, the complete Mr. Bean, and crash/havoc/cursed/the skeleton key. Of those, I've only watched crash and havoc, everyone has seen crash, yeah, I loved it. Pass on havoc. It reminded me very much of 'black and white' (1999), because it also stars Bijou Phillips as a rich white girl trying to be down w/ the homies, doing drugs and being criminally promiscous. I wish I didn't watch it. Anne Hathaway was great, but I don't like to watch people conduct themselves filthily. What I watch and listen to goes into my heart, and it's what comes out as a representation of my character when under duress. I don't have time to 'be one of the guys' and say dirty, disgusting things about women and be a pig. I'd rather be thought of as anti-social or weird and spend my time reading, studying, writing, drawing, whatever, than make perverse, objectifying comments about the Russian Women's Olympic Curling team, who count Minors amongst their ranks. I don't wanna play the game. By the game, I don't mean curling, but I should add that I also do not want to play that game. Eff curling.....
I do have this picture, please disregard the date.
I do have this picture, please disregard the date.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Last night I was inspired, so I wrote 4 poems. Here they are:
LOOKING AT A PICTURE OF MY FATHER
He is young. He is wearing black, plastic-framed glasses and a military uniform.
He is the color of sand
In the small sepia rectangle, and not the glistening, tamarind-brown man I know,
Darkened by shame and regret and years driving sailors and drunkards
And businessmen with hollow bones like birds in his taxicab.
I smell the soap we used to wash his car on Sundays and Wednesdays. I feel
The automotive polish caked beneath my 8 year-old
Fingernails.
I taste the sorrow he plays on his trumpet, Chet Baker and Art Blakey. I hear
Celia Cruz trill “AZUCARRRR!!!”on the radio as we sail in his great ship, the Cruising White Cadillac, windows down on our way to a Saturday afternoon game of chess at the park
That he will let me win.
Looking at a picture of my father, I see a 24 year old Filipino in a war zone not
Terribly far from the ancestral Mother land with blurry Spanish tongues and Catholic
Lip service and in the South; Muslim hearts and history written with balisong that he has never visited.
Looking at a picture of my Father, I see myself.
RECONCILLIATION
His voice is different, my brother Matthew.
He’s picked up the high-pitched nasal twang of Hilo since we’ve last spoken, many years ago. My niece is in school now, he tells me.
His voice is different, my brother Matthew.
He’s picked up the sigh of resignation to a life of calloused hands as a heavy-equipment
Operator, pouring concrete, his brilliant engineer mind, for carpetbaggers apportioning parcels of the sacred Hawaiian Kingdom wrested from loving storytelling hands 200 years ago by alleged friends.
He’d gotten in a car accident, the last minute a vision of our dead Grandmother telling him to slow down, there is a hillside ahead, he tells me. He also tells me how the firemen that pulled him unscathed from the twisted carcass of Japanese aluminum and so much broken glass, they say he should not be alive.
His voice is different, my brother Matthew.
He’s left behind the gangbanging that seemed to steal his hope for a future,
And with it the tattoos he wears like mirrored maps that show where he has been, and with it, the guns and knives, and the simmering fear that he will kill me in my sleep if I ask too many questions.
His voice is different, my brother Matthew, because he has become a man.
OATH
I swear to speak of injustice always.
I swear to let my words stand as defiant proud gleaming pillars in the slums we are resigned to.
I swear to write songs full of accusing questions and checks and balances
which I will scream with drum machines and hissing blooping computers and sequenced heavy metal guitars at dive bars and birthday parties.
I swear to weaponize sex and laughter, because we are beautiful, and we know the score, and we are all we have, we circle of brave Sisters and Brothers the World calls poets.
For an Owl
In moving to Texas from Nevada
I have left behind the
Small Owl that visited me
at night.
I had seen him, unafraid of
Me, 2 feet away perched on
a water fountain, knowing me.
In the 3 a.m. dewy grass,
refusing to squint, bathed in the
artificial nuclear sunrise of my headlights.
On my toolbox at work,
Reminding me that I neither own
the tools nor control the means
of production, but it be below me to let this
anarcho-socialist ideal keep
me from excelling in my
craftsmanship. My Grandmother
would call you ‘Spirit Animal”,
but I will call you Tiare,
after my friend who would ask profound
questions with her wet eyes about my stupid,
half-cocked teenaged ideas that I did
not have answers for, who has given
me mannerisms and cynicism and
Is the only person to have ever
lovingly called me faggot.
LOOKING AT A PICTURE OF MY FATHER
He is young. He is wearing black, plastic-framed glasses and a military uniform.
He is the color of sand
In the small sepia rectangle, and not the glistening, tamarind-brown man I know,
Darkened by shame and regret and years driving sailors and drunkards
And businessmen with hollow bones like birds in his taxicab.
I smell the soap we used to wash his car on Sundays and Wednesdays. I feel
The automotive polish caked beneath my 8 year-old
Fingernails.
I taste the sorrow he plays on his trumpet, Chet Baker and Art Blakey. I hear
Celia Cruz trill “AZUCARRRR!!!”on the radio as we sail in his great ship, the Cruising White Cadillac, windows down on our way to a Saturday afternoon game of chess at the park
That he will let me win.
Looking at a picture of my father, I see a 24 year old Filipino in a war zone not
Terribly far from the ancestral Mother land with blurry Spanish tongues and Catholic
Lip service and in the South; Muslim hearts and history written with balisong that he has never visited.
Looking at a picture of my Father, I see myself.
RECONCILLIATION
His voice is different, my brother Matthew.
He’s picked up the high-pitched nasal twang of Hilo since we’ve last spoken, many years ago. My niece is in school now, he tells me.
His voice is different, my brother Matthew.
He’s picked up the sigh of resignation to a life of calloused hands as a heavy-equipment
Operator, pouring concrete, his brilliant engineer mind, for carpetbaggers apportioning parcels of the sacred Hawaiian Kingdom wrested from loving storytelling hands 200 years ago by alleged friends.
He’d gotten in a car accident, the last minute a vision of our dead Grandmother telling him to slow down, there is a hillside ahead, he tells me. He also tells me how the firemen that pulled him unscathed from the twisted carcass of Japanese aluminum and so much broken glass, they say he should not be alive.
His voice is different, my brother Matthew.
He’s left behind the gangbanging that seemed to steal his hope for a future,
And with it the tattoos he wears like mirrored maps that show where he has been, and with it, the guns and knives, and the simmering fear that he will kill me in my sleep if I ask too many questions.
His voice is different, my brother Matthew, because he has become a man.
OATH
I swear to speak of injustice always.
I swear to let my words stand as defiant proud gleaming pillars in the slums we are resigned to.
I swear to write songs full of accusing questions and checks and balances
which I will scream with drum machines and hissing blooping computers and sequenced heavy metal guitars at dive bars and birthday parties.
I swear to weaponize sex and laughter, because we are beautiful, and we know the score, and we are all we have, we circle of brave Sisters and Brothers the World calls poets.
For an Owl
In moving to Texas from Nevada
I have left behind the
Small Owl that visited me
at night.
I had seen him, unafraid of
Me, 2 feet away perched on
a water fountain, knowing me.
In the 3 a.m. dewy grass,
refusing to squint, bathed in the
artificial nuclear sunrise of my headlights.
On my toolbox at work,
Reminding me that I neither own
the tools nor control the means
of production, but it be below me to let this
anarcho-socialist ideal keep
me from excelling in my
craftsmanship. My Grandmother
would call you ‘Spirit Animal”,
but I will call you Tiare,
after my friend who would ask profound
questions with her wet eyes about my stupid,
half-cocked teenaged ideas that I did
not have answers for, who has given
me mannerisms and cynicism and
Is the only person to have ever
lovingly called me faggot.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Hitchin’ a ride
I rode in an up-armoured HUMVEE today, to go shopping at another base. Earlier in the day we’d suffered a fusillade of mortars, but they gladly missed their marks. I was fast asleep, roused by pounding on the door. “GET UP, GET YOUR GEAR ON, MORTAR ATTACK, THIS IS NOT AN EXERCISE”. Quick! Put on your trousers. Body armour, grab it, put it on, just the Velcro, don’t worry about the snaps, you can fix that in the shelter. There isn’t a warning siren, why isn’t there a warning siren? There’s supposed to be a siren. Glasses…nevermind. You don’t need them. Where’s your helmet?Where’syourhelmetwhere’syourhelmetwhere’syourhelmet!? Ok. Boots. We ever discussed this, what do you do? Just follow everyone else, don’t forget your gun. Loaded magazines,30 rounds each. Run to the shelter. Zigzag pattern. Sit in the corner. You’rs in a puddle, but that’s ok. Head count. Mike’s here, Fred, him too. Jack and Ben, check. Roommates all accounted for. Go tell the Captain, your in charge of them. It’s fine. Everything is fine. You have to piss. “ALL CLEAR!” You can piss now.
So, shopping. I needed my helmet, rifle, and vest. The vest is heavy and uncompromisingly rigid; it causes middle-back pain, right where humans can’t touch themselves.
On the road,. The HUMMER is filthy, and the gun rack is broken, so I lap it like an experienced combatant. “Hey, Fred, take a picture of me’, but my batteries die. Signs along the way say ominous things like “NO STOPPING OR STANDING,DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED,THIS AREA PATROLLED BY MILITARY WORKING DOGS, DO NOT APPROACH TOWER, DO NOT APPROACH WALL”. Mp3 player plays
Botch and Trial, feeling Seattleish.
We’re here. It’s really muddy in the parking lot. I wander through racks and aisles of crap in a dusty, large tent. I don’t need or want any of this stuff. Stupid action movies, crappy CDs, Maxim magazine and it’s clones, “Who’s your Baghdaddy” shirts with a drawing of some white meathead on it. Playing cards, assault gloves, knives, chewing tobacco, beef jerky, unlubricated condoms, bobby pins, romance novels, all of this, and I buy nothing. I refuse too. I’ll not allow social and geographic isolation or boredom or lack of familiarity or catharsis or cartoons or catnaps or coffee shoppes or canoodling force me to use what little money I have as an opiate.
Rolling back, there is a roundabout that was once painted azure, with a broken fountain in the center and a sideways rusted out wrought-iron light post in it. I’m certain that at one time it was beautiful.
We arrive home in a dense grey haze. “What’s up, Bill?” “Hey Dave, we got hit again. 500 ft that way.” “How long ago?” “2 minutes. Let’s go to chow.” “Ok. Any word if the power will be out in the barracks will be out again tonight?” “It will. Oh, and the water is unpotable, don’t drink it or brush your teeth with it. Oh, and don’t eat the fruit or veggies in the chow hall.” “What am I supposed to eat?” “Got any clif bars left?” “Yeah, 1.” “There ya go. Bon a petit.”
They caught them, our long distance assailants. There’s an article in the paper about it. That night Mike and I were going to the gym. It was leg night. We saw a bunch of Special Forces guys gearing up, they were some rough looking fellows. They killed the insurgents under cover of night. I’d buy them each a beer; if it weren’t illegal for American service members to consume or possess alcohol in most Arab countries. But it’s not illegal for Danes, Finns, Portuguese, Spanish, British, Italians, Romanians, Fijians, Aussies, or Japanese folks.
I rode in an up-armoured HUMVEE today, to go shopping at another base. Earlier in the day we’d suffered a fusillade of mortars, but they gladly missed their marks. I was fast asleep, roused by pounding on the door. “GET UP, GET YOUR GEAR ON, MORTAR ATTACK, THIS IS NOT AN EXERCISE”. Quick! Put on your trousers. Body armour, grab it, put it on, just the Velcro, don’t worry about the snaps, you can fix that in the shelter. There isn’t a warning siren, why isn’t there a warning siren? There’s supposed to be a siren. Glasses…nevermind. You don’t need them. Where’s your helmet?Where’syourhelmetwhere’syourhelmetwhere’syourhelmet!? Ok. Boots. We ever discussed this, what do you do? Just follow everyone else, don’t forget your gun. Loaded magazines,30 rounds each. Run to the shelter. Zigzag pattern. Sit in the corner. You’rs in a puddle, but that’s ok. Head count. Mike’s here, Fred, him too. Jack and Ben, check. Roommates all accounted for. Go tell the Captain, your in charge of them. It’s fine. Everything is fine. You have to piss. “ALL CLEAR!” You can piss now.
So, shopping. I needed my helmet, rifle, and vest. The vest is heavy and uncompromisingly rigid; it causes middle-back pain, right where humans can’t touch themselves.
On the road,. The HUMMER is filthy, and the gun rack is broken, so I lap it like an experienced combatant. “Hey, Fred, take a picture of me’, but my batteries die. Signs along the way say ominous things like “NO STOPPING OR STANDING,DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED,THIS AREA PATROLLED BY MILITARY WORKING DOGS, DO NOT APPROACH TOWER, DO NOT APPROACH WALL”. Mp3 player plays
Botch and Trial, feeling Seattleish.
We’re here. It’s really muddy in the parking lot. I wander through racks and aisles of crap in a dusty, large tent. I don’t need or want any of this stuff. Stupid action movies, crappy CDs, Maxim magazine and it’s clones, “Who’s your Baghdaddy” shirts with a drawing of some white meathead on it. Playing cards, assault gloves, knives, chewing tobacco, beef jerky, unlubricated condoms, bobby pins, romance novels, all of this, and I buy nothing. I refuse too. I’ll not allow social and geographic isolation or boredom or lack of familiarity or catharsis or cartoons or catnaps or coffee shoppes or canoodling force me to use what little money I have as an opiate.
Rolling back, there is a roundabout that was once painted azure, with a broken fountain in the center and a sideways rusted out wrought-iron light post in it. I’m certain that at one time it was beautiful.
We arrive home in a dense grey haze. “What’s up, Bill?” “Hey Dave, we got hit again. 500 ft that way.” “How long ago?” “2 minutes. Let’s go to chow.” “Ok. Any word if the power will be out in the barracks will be out again tonight?” “It will. Oh, and the water is unpotable, don’t drink it or brush your teeth with it. Oh, and don’t eat the fruit or veggies in the chow hall.” “What am I supposed to eat?” “Got any clif bars left?” “Yeah, 1.” “There ya go. Bon a petit.”
They caught them, our long distance assailants. There’s an article in the paper about it. That night Mike and I were going to the gym. It was leg night. We saw a bunch of Special Forces guys gearing up, they were some rough looking fellows. They killed the insurgents under cover of night. I’d buy them each a beer; if it weren’t illegal for American service members to consume or possess alcohol in most Arab countries. But it’s not illegal for Danes, Finns, Portuguese, Spanish, British, Italians, Romanians, Fijians, Aussies, or Japanese folks.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
American: “You should get glasses like Dave, you get many women”
Iraqi: “What kind of women?”
American: “All kinds, dude- Russians, Canadians, Indians, Mexicans- all women!”
Iraqi: “with these glasses I have I catch this man”
*starts holding the hand of another Iraqi*
Later……
Iraqi: “Mr. Dave… *pulls out notebook* how many women you catch with glasses?”
Mortars sound like this “Zooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom! PRKASHBOOM!” Trust me. I've heard quite a few.
But, all is well, or at least getting better. I've had a cold for 3 weeks that I've finally beat thanks to the power of nutrition and working out with a gigantic Puerto Rican bodybuilder.
Yesterday, however, I had a problem. I was waiting for a bus to take me to eat at the DFAC (ARMY talk for cafeteria) and I had to pee. Our toilets are broken, so you have to use this bidet booty sprayer to fill up the tank to flush, but the knob flew off and hit me in the knee, then water sprayed at crotch lever and drenched mehead to toe. I tried to screw the knob and valve back in, but that just made the water spray the celing. I walked out, dripping wet, glasses with water droplets, M16 wet, and said "Hold the bus, I gotta go change". There was about 30 people there. That sucked so much. THen the power was out so i couldn't shower or read or anything except go to a picnic table and listen to sordid, debauched tales of deviant misadventure in Thailand.
Iraqi: “What kind of women?”
American: “All kinds, dude- Russians, Canadians, Indians, Mexicans- all women!”
Iraqi: “with these glasses I have I catch this man”
*starts holding the hand of another Iraqi*
Later……
Iraqi: “Mr. Dave… *pulls out notebook* how many women you catch with glasses?”
Mortars sound like this “Zooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom! PRKASHBOOM!” Trust me. I've heard quite a few.
But, all is well, or at least getting better. I've had a cold for 3 weeks that I've finally beat thanks to the power of nutrition and working out with a gigantic Puerto Rican bodybuilder.
Yesterday, however, I had a problem. I was waiting for a bus to take me to eat at the DFAC (ARMY talk for cafeteria) and I had to pee. Our toilets are broken, so you have to use this bidet booty sprayer to fill up the tank to flush, but the knob flew off and hit me in the knee, then water sprayed at crotch lever and drenched mehead to toe. I tried to screw the knob and valve back in, but that just made the water spray the celing. I walked out, dripping wet, glasses with water droplets, M16 wet, and said "Hold the bus, I gotta go change". There was about 30 people there. That sucked so much. THen the power was out so i couldn't shower or read or anything except go to a picnic table and listen to sordid, debauched tales of deviant misadventure in Thailand.
I've been unable to update for many reasons, but here goes. I flew out of Abilene,
TX last Monday to Dallas. This was the first of many legs of my as of yet unfinished journey.
I dozed off on the crappy little plane, later jostled awake by turbulence,
the tiny aircraft's lone flight attendant, Kim happened to be beside me in the aisle.
She fell on me with an appropriate "OH SHIT!", showering me with empty soda cans,
and I felt certain that I would at that moment die, consumed by a fireball.
Next, Dallas to Marylad. Uneventful.
Maryland to Germany- long layover, then seated between a Major and a
Lieutenant Colonel that did not want to share armrests, but the LtCol was a nice enough
Japanese fellow from Kailua-Kona, Big Island, so we chatted a bit. I watched the severely
edited "batman begins' through odd headphones that were not electronic, but black rubber
tubing that conveyed sound much like a stethoscope.. The hiss and treble caused percussive pain
in my tender ears.
GERMANY- couldn't leave he airport. We flew in over the Rhine, but it was dark. We flew over
Ireland's famed white cliffs of Dover, but it was dark.
Germany- Bahrain We were served these really effing good vegan chocolate cream cookies.
Flew over a huge mountain range at daybreak, but I have no clue as to which one.
It was amazing, and none of the pictures came out.
photo= wingtip, sunset over indian ocean
Bahrain= blah blah who cares, I was there for an hour.
I arrived in Qatar, I was there for a week on an ultra-extended layover.
I slept on a cot in a cafeteria and showered twice the whole time.
Arrived in Iraq at night, helmet and body armor on, kind of afraid,
but more tired. There was a severe sandstorm that got all up in my eyes,
the sand in Iraq is not the same as Hawaii beach sand, it's realy fine
like sweet n low crystals, and when pushed by surging winds are very painful to the skin.
I was in Nasiriyah for a week, and met my 2 students. They spent alot of time online looking
at pictures of Shania Twain. They like me.
After talking on the phone to Mary, I was told that I was going to Baghdad in 40 minutes.Fun Stuff.
I've been here for a few days, and there were funny stories and whatnot, but cuz I didn't blog daily,
I forgot/ don't care anymore. But, I did hear an explosion today.
xxooxxoo, D
TX last Monday to Dallas. This was the first of many legs of my as of yet unfinished journey.
I dozed off on the crappy little plane, later jostled awake by turbulence,
the tiny aircraft's lone flight attendant, Kim happened to be beside me in the aisle.
She fell on me with an appropriate "OH SHIT!", showering me with empty soda cans,
and I felt certain that I would at that moment die, consumed by a fireball.
Next, Dallas to Marylad. Uneventful.
Maryland to Germany- long layover, then seated between a Major and a
Lieutenant Colonel that did not want to share armrests, but the LtCol was a nice enough
Japanese fellow from Kailua-Kona, Big Island, so we chatted a bit. I watched the severely
edited "batman begins' through odd headphones that were not electronic, but black rubber
tubing that conveyed sound much like a stethoscope.. The hiss and treble caused percussive pain
in my tender ears.
GERMANY- couldn't leave he airport. We flew in over the Rhine, but it was dark. We flew over
Ireland's famed white cliffs of Dover, but it was dark.
Germany- Bahrain We were served these really effing good vegan chocolate cream cookies.
Flew over a huge mountain range at daybreak, but I have no clue as to which one.
It was amazing, and none of the pictures came out.
photo= wingtip, sunset over indian ocean
Bahrain= blah blah who cares, I was there for an hour.
I arrived in Qatar, I was there for a week on an ultra-extended layover.
I slept on a cot in a cafeteria and showered twice the whole time.
Arrived in Iraq at night, helmet and body armor on, kind of afraid,
but more tired. There was a severe sandstorm that got all up in my eyes,
the sand in Iraq is not the same as Hawaii beach sand, it's realy fine
like sweet n low crystals, and when pushed by surging winds are very painful to the skin.
I was in Nasiriyah for a week, and met my 2 students. They spent alot of time online looking
at pictures of Shania Twain. They like me.
After talking on the phone to Mary, I was told that I was going to Baghdad in 40 minutes.Fun Stuff.
I've been here for a few days, and there were funny stories and whatnot, but cuz I didn't blog daily,
I forgot/ don't care anymore. But, I did hear an explosion today.
xxooxxoo, D