Letters From The Inside
Just a number,
I sip coffee in a sheltered corner. Life bustles around me. People rush to and from work, families, appointments, dates, and emergencies; the buzz of human life in the air. I can tell no one speaks my language or understands the intricacies of my homeland. I’m away... far away. It’s been too long, maybe not this trip, but all together. I’ve only just arrived and it feels like it's been too long.
Rain and snow come down together. Everything is gray-blue and wet. The sky is layered, clouds slide this way and that with more shades of gray; all colluding to not let the sun through. People tuck their hats down, quicken their pace, slip up umbrellas, and jump into cabs. No one notices me. Is my family thinking of me? No, surely it’s past midnight on the other side now. I’m stuck in time, between two worlds, neither of which appreciates my presence nor my task. I’m here. So I tell myself it needs to be done. I know it'll get done. And that’ll have to be enough.
This is the last one I say, like always. Until next time. I could walk away. Would anyone notice? How long until my replacement shows up? Would it be before or after my family is notified? The mission always comes first. I brush my waist to make sure my weapon is there, sometimes I forget. It’s time to go to work. I flip my hood up and step out into the chaos. These are easy now, not like they used to be. Is the job important? No. Not particularly, but it needs to get done. I can half-ass it, but I won’t. It’s not our way. And they know it.
The call to prayer,
The call to prayer rings out from parapets across town. Inside a small room our bodies cling together in the dim morning light. The air is stale and flat. Damaged souls locked in embrace, savouring a moment's respite from daily suffering. The pain, the hurting, the struggle; an intimate break from burden. A working girl in a middle eastern city, and a strung out operator.
Her head rests against my bare skin. Cream coloured blinds filter early light from the room's solitary window. My nerves vibrate as they finish a ride from alcohol and cocaine. We hold each other with the slightest pull, for some unseen force might rip us back into the current of our lives. Protecting each other from imaginary demons, sharing a moment, and each having our own. Damaged and broken from lives unseen by most. We each know the other holds something inside, but will never know the other's story. We don’t speak any language in common except the most basic, human one. Both of us are lost, vulnerable, tattooed, and scarred. We share without any words, it feels like we stop the rotation of the earth.
Her chest rises and falls. Smooth and warm; she smells of vanilla and cigarettes. My eyes are wet. She feels sheltered and calm while embracing my body. I’ve given her a break from the nightly routine, and she provides intimacy and peace. I think about my years of war in the middle east. The blood, the pain, the heat, and the boredom. Am I running from my life or towards the calling? My emotions never match my surroundings. Why do I feel more comfortable with a Persian whore with whom I can't communicate than with anyone else in my life?
Africa; the coast,
Salty sea breezes push us down raggedly paved roads on skateboards. Laughing and swinging in the sun. We slide and cascade towards sea side bars for midday drinks. Peddlers and homeless reach out and ask for something, anything. The air is cool and warm at once. Comfy beach seats. Mojitos, beers, seafood, maybe something else? Weak joints, lip gloss, stories from home. Friends, more friends, everyone’s friends here.
She’s sun-burnt, bleach blonde, high on life; the largest smile I’ve ever seen. Busted knees and wrists from the surf and the skate. What to talk about? The journey, the wave, the life. Skinny dips under palms, tip toeing to apartments, grasping and reaching, we’re exposed. Smells of banana boat, coconut oil, more joints, and salty sweat. I’m a rock, she’s the water. Solid and soft. I’m here for work but doing none, and she, the opposite. YouTube videos in white washed rooms with a breeze, sex and smoke– Saturday is everyday.
Can you keep a secret? Is there a future here? I’m always the one who has to leave, but what if I stay? Things progress; after-parties, cocaine, menage-a-trois? We dance along a crest. It’s a wave that's captivated us all, we know it’ll crash but that’s okay, it’s why we’re here, to catch the waves of life. What’s the point if we don’t try and stand up and ride a few? Sure, danger and misfortune await us, but there’s nothing worse than waiting and missing the ride. Accept the pull, the rush of the wave, fuck it feels good. But we know the crash'll come. She always does.
And here she is. The break has busted. My head is jammed in the airplane window. I look down at breaking waves, the seaside bars, the smells, the shouts, and the bustle. It’s over. It’s still there but it’s over for you. Just like the waves. Yours has come and gone, it’s time to pack it in. You know there was never any other way but still the pit in your stomach feels like a puncture you can never heal. Can you heal it? Should you? Let’s turn back this time. Fuck it.
Iraq,
My second home. I know the ins and outs but still it doesn't feel right. The chaos, the heat, the angst, the religion. The juxtaposition is too much. We fight back. Closed off camps, slices of Americana; movies, booze, guns, and dirt bikes. The latest temporary invader waiting to realise it’s futile. Fighting against authorities and the enemy we’re stuck in the middle. Midnight raids and mountain top missions are followed by gambling, guns, and girls.
There's a foreigner, not like me. She's from the east, not the west. A beauty that’s unknown to the owner. Taken for granted, her intellect and sexuality. We eat sweets, smoke hookah, and savour desert sunsets from the back of my truck. How long can we make this last? One more day, one more afternoon. There’s always an end but we never saw it coming. Breakfasts at bustling bazaars; car horns blare, the call to prayer keeps us honest– time is always marching on.
In a single night I rush in the door of a terrorist, and then into the bedroom of my lover. I spend the whole day thinking about it, and then when it finally comes, my heart is racing. Can I do it, will it be alright? All of this stress, the planning, the feeling, the fidgeting, and fighting… is for the girl, not the bad guy. Is this normal? Surely not. One goes by in a blaze of familiarity and boredom, the other; anticipation, electricity, foreign languages, and friction. I spend most of my life with guys, guns, grit, and death. No wonder I'm alive when I'm with her.
Ukraine,
Soggy and wet, snow and slush. There’s comfy cafes and restaurants. Sidewalk bars and confectioneries. She wears a long length down coat, they all do. We haven't seen blue sky for weeks. Vodka and cappuccinos warm us for the nights. Air raid sirens blast daily. Power outages, water shortages, everyone climbs stairs or runs down them to shelters. Melancholy chats: Dostoevsky, war, death, and Russia; why, for how long? Nothing changes. It’s always.
Brushing together we walk through busy streets and underground passages. Pausing to kiss and warm our bodies on the other. Full lips taste like hand-rolled cigarettes and mulled wine. There’s shouts on the streets, homeless, vagrants, war-weary, widows, soldiers. She’s a young worldly girl, seen and done too much for her age. Back alley bars; one drink, two drinks– four. We dash into communist era buildings. Up the stairs, down the halls, and into dark rooms. Alcohol, candles, smokes, sex, and sadistic sarcasm– it’s cold.
I fight to keep sane. What’s the point? What’s the mission? Are we in this war or not? Pleas for the world to help all over. Sandbags and defensives dot the city. The enemy's death toll goes up daily. It seems to help. Kamikaze drones and cruise missiles are always there, always coming. Some make it, some don’t. Push on, push on, rebuild rebuild. Attack, attack. Secret reports of the grey? Are the good guys good? Are the bad guys bad? What should we do? What can we do? I fight for space, warmth, connection, and love. What’s left out there anymore anyway?
For Granted,
We take things for granted. Sometimes they're obvious, sometimes they're not. Take the force of attraction. When it connects two people, they feel a draw, a life pulling force, they have a narrowed vision; eyes only for one. But they know this can change. That they can change it. That one can lose that magnetic feeling. Or decide to shift it to another. There's always another out there. Somewhere, somehow, and some-when, if only they can find them. They never fully settle. And so they take this feeling for granted. Never knowing how beautiful it can be.
I know of another force, a more special one. One that few feel. It's the last longing grasp of a woman and a man as he goes off to war; a stolen embrace from secret lovers, hidden from their faithful's; or the bittersweet goodbye of those who've fallen for the ones who can't be, they're temporary, they're doomed from the start. Strong borders keep these ones apart. Familial borders, religious borders, or real ones. These unlucky few don't want the somewhere's or the some-when's. What they want is more impossible. They want to change the world, they want to stop the clocks.
This, a dance as old as life. And these unlucky ones will push on to fight a battle most will never know. The feeling of holding someone for which you know it'll be the last, despite not wanting it. Hands grasped, squeezing, veins full, nerves shaking, breaths stuttering. We are doomed. But we have lived. The fire and flame that exist on this edge of life bring us to the extreme-- to feel this flame also means we'll get burnt. We've lived the cliche: the highest of highs, and the lowest of lows. Floating like clouds, beautiful thoughts that distract whole days, and rushing excitements we cannot describe. Followed by screaming pain, the unanswerable tears, and rock bottom silence. And so, are we scared fools? Or have we lived a full measure? Tasting ecstasy and misery, we never take things for granted.
The eye of the storm,
Inside the storm, chaos, commotion, darkness, and death reign. But in the eye, it's quiet. We get calm, a centering, and a feel of belonging. Does time tick on in the eye? It feels constant. A temporary grasp on peace and connection. Holding on tight and not letting go, for when we do, we know we'll get ripped back into the flurry. Together we're the eye, alone- lost in the fray.
We've been lost and found. Again and again. And this time, found together. Sharing more than most. It feels like beauty looks. How long can it last? The winds always pick up. We could push through. We could be the ones. Can we make it out alive? It feels like a last chance.
It's picking up now. We stand and brace. Side eyed glances, candlelight contemplation's, melancholy honesty, sarcasm, and sex. These are the walls we use to protect from the storm. It won't stop coming, but we never give up, never, never.
FNV,
Two decades in the army and I have the same epaulette as someone with a handful of mo' time and a keen attitude. I've humped my gear on the Registan desert, crunched through Hindu-Kush snow, parachuted over Iraq, patrolled through sub-Saharan Africa, and spent time in the Oblasts. I remember doing security for lying bureaucrats, being used as a political pawn, drugs, sex, incompetent officers, oven-baked firefights, and carrying fallen brothers. Briefing ambassadors, chai and hand shovelled lamb-rice with Afghani officers, drunkenly breaking contact with local police forces, the shit that stays on the X, failed hostage rescues, and watching grown men cry.
In one year I take 17 flights: I see topless rooftop parties in California, explosions that keep me awake for the night, mass graves, desert stars from the back of a pick-up truck, and the Prime Minister. I can't keep my feet on the ground, I can't keep my mind off the ferris wheel. The new guys want to get after it. The old guys want to forget it. There's no middle ground, that's for the others. We're at the front. No glory, no break. No special treatment, everyone's the same remember? Deeds not words. So let's go, it's time for more deeds.
There are only two options. We snap or we disintegrate. Old wolves get pushed out of the pack one way or another. The new guys are different, but that's what they've always said. Will it change for them?
No, I don’t think so, good luck my friends.
