As we pull in to the search area, the dust from the gravel kicks up and everything becomes obscured. Time slows down during the clearing process, and I can pretend I’m anywhere else in the world, other than stuck in this hellhole. During these brief respites, I always picture myself somewhere tropical, getting blown -usually by my wife, but not always. Dreaming ain’t cheating, right? Oh, well.

Just as quickly as it started, the dustcloud dissipates and the glamourous skyline of Eagle Base can once again be seen. The sad part is that, as much as I can’t stand being here, this view always brings a smile to my face. It may suck being here, but it does have a calming presence in this chaotic situation that is Iraq. These motherfuckers would have to work real hard to blow my ass up in here.

As our vehicle is being cleared, I notice the monkeys begin to gather around their window. They point and smile in our direction, and are generally acting like bigger assholes than usual. God, I hate you pricks. I almost hope we get attacked, because you douchebags will be the first to go. No great loss.

As soon as they finally clear us, I motion for the driver to move out. “What the hell was that, Sergeant? They were acting like idiots”, the gunner asks me a few yards down the road.

“Don’t know, and I could honestly care less.” My shoulder shrug and scowl add the emphasis to the point. I tell the driver to drop me off in front of my hooch, because I damn sure am not dragging all my shit back across the post from the motor poll. He pulls up in front of the rancher-style building, and I debark the vehicle. I’ve been gone so long that I nearly walk into someone else’s place. Man, I really gotta put something on the door so I know where the fuck I live. Something like Mac’s scalp.

As I shuffle down two doors with all my bags in tow, a windstorm blasts me out of nowhere, pounding me in the face. The grit of the sand fills my mouth and I spit a huge clump of dirt out. Goddamn, I am so fucking tired of eating dust…81 days and a wake up…81 days and a wake up…

I drop the bags, and pull out my keys. I hesitate opening the door, wondering to myself what kind of mess Mac will have left for me this time. I sigh mightily, and turn the knob, knowing it won’t be pretty.

Perhaps a song struck you while on a first date, and that went on to become “Our Song”. Maybe there is a tune you feel most describes your state of mind. This is what this compendium is meant to do. Provide a piece of music that maybe you’ve heard, maybe you haven’t, that gives an additional glimpse into the mindset behind the scene. I enjoy vast amounts of music, and feel that it is part of the soundtrack to life, so therefore I am going to foist songs that are in my head out on to you, the viewing public.

I will simply refer to the list as the iterations. I won’t add any sidenotes. The music stands on its own.

Iteration 1) Jeff Buckley—–Last Goodbye
Iteration 2) Pantera———–5 Minutes Alone

I’m up like a shot from my sleep at the sound of the explosion. My hands instantly leap to my head, to making sure it’s still intact. Not sure why. Must have had a bad dream. Good God, another-

SPLAT!!!! The vehicle comes to a hard stop, and I can’t brace myself before bouncing my head off the windshield.

“HOLY FUCK!” The driver’s face turned ashen as my eyes caught his. He’s nearing hysterics and pointing at the hood. A huge hunk of something has landed there and it is smoldering. From the look of things, it was char-broiled. The smell of burned flesh instantly fills the Humm-Vee and it’s causing the driver to gag. What looked to be an arm and part of a torso was still smoking on the hood. I re-adjust my Kevlar and turn back to the gunner, grabbing his leg. “What the fuck was that and where did it come from?”

The gunner, a young, black kid, out of Baltimore he had told me during the trip, points off in the direction we were headed. “Car bomb, sergeant, right around the next corner!”

I turn back forward. We clear the corner and begin our turn on to the street where the explosion took place. I have viewed this scene too many times now, and it never gets easier to see.

The hulk of burning metal in the middle of the street was what used to be a car. The occupant’s remains are strewn about the area haphazardly. The ground is scorched black in a circular pattern several feet around the spot where the explosion took place. The storefronts in the area all have their windows blownout, due to either this one, or a previous suicide bomb. Several locals are scattering to the four winds, screaming and crying from shock and/or injury. I hear a siren wailing off in the distance, bringing with it a police force full of fear and incompetence.

Once we hit the street, all eyes turn towards us, wondering why we are here, praying we have come to help, despising us because we are who we are. The looks of horror and pain as we get closer to a group of indigents flash by like a re-run of the only show in town. These people’s daily suffering is immeasurable. If only there was something…

I hear the gunner rack the .50 Cal, as his turret spins free, allowing him to track any threat and address it aggressively. I already know where that barrel is pointing. He ducks his body down, still scanning the area. “Should we stop, Sergeant?”

As he asked this, my mind slips back to an earlier mission when this question was asked, only at that time I had been the inquisitor. Had it really been that long ago? I’ve been in this fucking country for almost 18 months. Jesus Christ. Fucking Iraq will never be stabilized. These bastards will continue to set traps to kill each other, and US soldiers. The allegiances we have with the religious, and therefore political, leaders are nebulous at best. They are rabid dogs who just want to control their alley, and could give a fuck for the rest of the country. We pretend to care, but use them like toys that we just discard when we are done with them.

“Sergeant!”

My mind is wondering again. I can’t afford this right now. Already fell asleep during this trip. That little slip could have gotten these boys, and more importantly me, killed, and now I’m hesitating. It’s happening more and more now. Gotta pull it together.

The gunner’s hand grips my shoulder,yanking me back into the here and now. “Sergeant! Did you hear me?”

“Did you see what happened?”, I yell back at him. He squats down in the turret so that he can see me better. I can see the panic over every inch of his face. The sweat is pouring off his brow.

“No, but-”, he begins to say.

I fire right back at him, perhaps going a bit overboard. “BUT WHAT?! We don’t stop on this mission, and we sure as hell don’t get involved. Fuck ‘em, anyway! They wanna blow themselves up, more power to ‘em.” I could see shock come over his face at my callousness. Hopefully, he can develop it himself. It’s the only way to stay alive in this shithole. “I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired and hungry, and I want to get back to post. Let the locals handle their own. They gotta start somewhere.” Before I see the inevitable anger at me come over him, I turn my attention to the driver, another fresh face who will probably end up in a pine box. His eyes are as big as saucers.

“Charlie Mike!” I put some bass in it to snap him out of whatever dream state he is in. He looks at me and his eyes show a new awareness, perhaps he realizes he’s not going to die today.

“Roger, Sergeant!” He steps on the gas and puts distance between us and that scene.

The few moments it takes to pass through the area seem to take a thousand years. What I assume to be friends and family of the dearly departed Haji begin to congregate on the street in a scence right out of a movie. Women rending garments,children wailing, and the men stare at us with knives in their eyes as we drive by.

As much as I like to believe I am a progressive person, in that we need to build rapport and trust with these people, I would love to just toss a grenade right into the middle of them. Anything that would get me the fuck out of this country. It’s always so Goddamn ho, and these bullshit missions. It’s not even about fighting terror at all. Shit, we’re the-

My thoughts are cut short as the Iraqi police scream by us headed for the scene. Their siren blaring and guns drawn. I am sure that someone else will die there today. Who gives a damn. At least I can see the post from here. Almost home.

I see land ahead. It’s been there, just out of reach, for some time. I just can’t get any closer and I can not keep going anymore. I see salvation, but no matter how hard I try, I just can’t make it. I have been battered sensless while adrift in this stormy sea. The next wave that comes, will be the last.

My eyes begin to tear. I hear it swelling the instant before the wave hits me. The sheer force that hits disorients me, and I’m not sure which way is up, as I plunge under. I struggle to find my way back to the surface, but soon realize that it is useless. Darkness is creeping in around the edges, as the air I gulped begins to wane. I let go of everything and slip away into the backwaters of my mind…

I remember precisely the day that I realized that God is dead, that God doesn’t exist, that God was simply a human construct. He was just a bigger version of the boogeyman, made to keep fear instilled in men’s hearts so they would succumb to society’s wishes. It was the same day that I learned that man is nothing more than a beast without hope of redemption.

That day, my Grandmother, a God-fearing woman who attended church with the fervor of a revival-style baptist, was killed. Actually, she wasn’t just killed, she was utterly destroyed, leaving behind a hole that tore through all of us that knew her.

She was on her way to a church bake sale they were having for the homeless. She had made half a gross of Snickerdoodles for the charity event. The reason I recall this is that I was there when she made them. I tried to take a few behind her back, but like all Grandmas, she had eyes in the back of her head. The wooden spoon flashed through the air, connected with my knuckles, and the pain exploded through me.

“Jesus Christ!”

Being a man of 13 worldly years, I had heard and said this many times, just never around anyone it should not have been used in front of. It was the first and last time I would swear in front of that woman.

“Don’t you take the Lord’s name in vain in this house, boy!”

CRACK!!!!! went the spoon on the other hand. The pain ripped through me once more.

“Those cookies are for the church! Don’t steal from God. That shows up in the ledger when you meet St. Peter.” Her eyes narrowed as she said this, staring right into my soul. Tears welled up in my eyes.

I tore out of the room so mad at her I could spit nails, but I did not want to start an argument, mainly because I knew I had no chance. I had watched her dismantle both my grandfather and my father for years without even breaking stride from preparing a meal. She would cut you with her tongue worse than any blade. She wasn’t a mean person, but she used guilt like a weapon, and she was a master.

I went to the bathroom and ran cold water over the two red welts rising up on my knuckles. All the respect and guilt pounded into me over the years wouldn’t let me go back out and scream at her. The only thing I could think to do was storm out of the bathroom as fast as I could, grab my sister, and head for home.

“STOP!” Her voice boomed out and froze us both in our tracks. “Come back here.”

We both slowly turned away from the door and proceeded back to the kitchen. I did not want to make eye contact with her, but she hooked her finger up under my chin and brought me face to face with her. The look of anger tinged with pity is burned into me head forever. Then she did the unexpected. She reached over to the rack and picked up the two biggest cookies and wrapped them in napkins, then handed one to each of us.

“I want you both to take one of these with you, not that you deserve them, you especially,” my eyes lowered back down, “but I want you to have and enjoy them. They’ll keep you warm on the walk home.”

She the hugged my sister tight, kissed her cheek gently, and told her to wait outside, because she wanted to talk to me for a moment. I watched my sister close the door behind herself and our eyes met. A huge smile stretched across her face, and even though she made no sound, I could her her stupid sing-song voice chiming out ‘Ha-ha, you’re in trou-ble.’

As I stood the balefully in front of my grandmother listening to her speech I’ve heard in my head about a thousand times, all I can now see is the flashing of lights and the muffled tears of everyone around me. Her mouth continues to form the words I can no longer hear, while the chatter of police band radios blast out scattershot information.

Can’t… I-I’m trying…I’m standing outside the house of my Grandmother’s friend now. She had gone to pick her friend up for the bake sale.

This hurts too much

Then What occured next was the death of many things, the least of which was my faith in an all powerful force for good for justice.

Sadie, her friend, was not waiting outside to be picked up when she arrived. My graThe victim parked the vehicle and proceeded to the door, whereupon she found the entrance to the domicile ajar, the police reports would later say. Mrs. Parker dialed emergency on her cell phone device and entered the residence.

According to blood splatter analysis, she would have arrived in the dining room where she most likely surprised the assailant. The blood patterns showed that the first wound, a non-lethal abdominal slash, was most likely caused by her startling the assailant. She was then thrown on to the table they devised from the 911 tape.

The reports then go on to descibe how the animal…tore

Tore her apart. Mine and my sister’s childhood, along with the feeling of safety that this God (HA!) fearing community had carried for years, were smashed into a thousand pieces. This woman, a leader in that community, was taken away so callously- so viciously!- that everyone’s faith was torn to the ground. My Grandfather died spiritually with his wife that day. Physically, he followed her to the here and after a short eight weeks later. The doctor said it was heart failure. In more than one way, he was correct.

I’m not sure why this memory is flooding my head right now. I’m in the middle of a dream. Can you think about things while you dream, or are they just part of the dream? My thoughts are cut short on this because as I sit here in my house that is just off-post from the military instillation I am stationed at, I look outside and see that Armageddon has come to Earth. Everything is destroyed, wiped out by some unknown cataclysm. I’d say it was the Hand of God, but I don’t believe in that anymore, not since that day.

The roof of my house is on fire. The wind has kicked up and is tearing it from it’s moorings. I can hear the boards and beams groan as they are twisted violently thsi way and that. I stand up from the table and look around. My wife and child are gone, and now I can’t remember the last time I saw them. I am glad though, that they aren’t here to witness the end of the world with me.

I walk out the front door just as the roof gives way and is sucked up into the funnel cloud that was pulling on it. It used to be such a joke seeing the picture of the bum carrying the sign, “The end is nigh.” Now it was all I could picture, and there was no humor in it.

The sky turns a brilliant purple as a streak of lightning fired across the horizon. What looks like a ghostly hand begins to part the clouds. A primordial fear takes hold of me, paralyzing me so that I can’t look away. The magnitude of what is occuring is beginning to dawn on me. I am, quite literally, about to meet my maker.

The Hand rends the sky in two, unleashing energy of which the colors I can’t describe.

I pull my sidearm out of it’s holster and take aim.

The Face of God breaks through the clouds.

I had always thought as a child, from all the stories I had heard, that when a man would see the Almighty he would go into genuflection and histrionics. He would lose total self-control and beg for forgiveness for all sin. It seemed inevitable for a creation of God, one made in His own image, by recognizing it’s creator and the absolute majesty of the Throne, that he would instantly bow and grovel. Guess I was wrong.

The hammer slammed home and I watched as the round jumped from the barrel in that parabolic arc, and flew like a fat bumblebee towards the target. The next round followed right behind it in an orderly fashion. The bullets continued to rip through the air heading towards the Supreme One. His face belies the fact that he is stunned that anything so insignifigant as a man would attack him in such an egregious manner.

My body seizes up and I am no longer under my own control. God’s Eyes show his utter contempt for me as I feel my arm begin to bend, bringing the weapon’s muzzle up to my temple. I can smell the flesh begin to sear from the white hot metal. The smell mixes with the gunpowder and creates a nauseating aroma.

The smile that creeps on to His Lips would probably bring one to mine if I still had any control over my functions. My finger begins to constrict around the trigger, and, mercifully, my eyes are allowed to close.

KRA-KOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!

The world we live in is rapidly destabilizing more by the day. We live in an age that has no sympathy for anyone or anything. Our supreme being has abdicated and fled the throne, or worse, in the face of the insurrection against him. There is one multi-verse that is interconnected with varying states of consciousness. Wending one’s way through can become an ardous task at best.

Our reality is just a small fraction of the main. To travel the veins of existence a entity must achieve different states of consciousness. What is about to transpire over the next several posts will be the stepping stones leading to the full story of Backwaters. This is the tale I have been wanting to tell for sometime, and now, it will finally begin. The posts will be long and may not make sense at times. I do not apologize for this. I have high hopes for this saga and I hope you enjoy it, dear reader.

Please extinguish all cigarettes, take your seats, and shut off all cell phones. Bring down the house lights. The show… is about to begin.

People will tell me I am being cruel. Perhaps, but wouldn’t you actually be impressed if they fucking rocked? Why can’t I wish for something that just might be spiritually uplifting to someone. Of course, they would be made fun of, but for fuck’s sake, they would be getting paid and could tell the haters to eat shit til they’re full.

I think they would be rad. I would definitely listen to the Fucktards. Doesnt matter if its ironic. They still would sell me an album. And that, my friends, is the bottom line, isn’t it.

Goddamn, dude! When Jenny wears those slacks, her fucking meat pocket sticks out like somebody beat it with an oar. Get pants that fit, bitch!

The bus is a mode of travel that was has become outmoded, at least to people of some means. The absence of what is still technically the majority race in my fellow travelers speaks to this. This group is not going to show up in a Norman Rockwell painting any time soon. We are society’s forgotten. People too poor to know any better, we still use travel from a bygone era.

A confluence of better roads, personal transportation, an absolute need to be on one’s own schedule, all topped off with disposable income, has made bus travel the ugly duckling of public transport. Simply due to not knowing any better, I ended up traveling the bus route. Will be updating as the trip unravels.

There is no such thing as a life-changing event; a life is simply that, a life. Quality of life is what is changed. Status Quo is altered, for better or worse. It maybe something horrible that affects you in a profound way. Perhaps a member of the family, or someone of importance to you passes away, and this gives you pause to contemplate their life as well as yours. Thankfully, this has not affected me in the recent past, as I hope for you as well. We all know death is inevitable, but to dwell on it for too long can have lasting adverse consequences.

I’m not wanting to discuss healthy grieving in this post, it was just an example. I actually had a positive change over the past few weeks that has captured my focus, hence the dearth of posts. I haven’t had a truly positive force enter my life in quite sometime. When it hit me, it caused me to think about my own state of mind and somewhat retreat from the day-to-day hulabaloo, or bullshit for you sailors out there.

Let me start from somwhere in the middle and hopefully you can catch up as I drop crumbs throughout the tale. Its a story about a girl, but in the end, aren’t they all?

The day I met her, I had recently had a string of somewhat decent luck going. Things were going fine both at work, and at home. No major volitility, and most days, that’s enough to keep me sated. Not-too-bad kinds of days eventually become what passes as good days, and the bar lowers. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, it’s just accepting things as they are. But lightning does strike occasionally and 1.21 Jigga-watts blows through you.

I was already in an intoxicated state and I dislike meeting people in that way, but it was unavoidable as my brother had dragged me to meet her. He had been friends with her all through school, and had spoken about her once or twice, saying I should meet her. I was not really looking to meet anyone, but he said he was buying, and I am young and impressionable, quite easily led astray by peer pressure.

I don’t know if I have ever made a better decision while under the influence, but if I did, I cannot recall it. The conversation flowed immediately. I knew with in twenty minutes of talking to her she was the most interesting person I had talked to in ages. Sharp wit puntuated her statements. Extremely attractive, she had a certain cool about her, and was scary smart. I am usually not the least bit intimidated by smarts, and it still is the case, but I wouldn’t challenge her to a game of Clue. She’d mop the floor with me.

I don’t remember most of the conversation, she and my brother were discussing minutiae of school as we are apt to do when reconnecting with an old friend. I tried not to watch her, but my eyes were immediately locked in by hers. Time flew by as she would look my way more and more as the minutes became hours. Those dazzling eyes held me fast. They were the color of storm clouds passing over a river. I can’t offer better description, due to the fact I am still mesmerized by them and their depth.

As the evening closed, we took her back to her home. She was telling a story about a previous evening in which some guy had been hitting on her, and had asked for her number. Chickenshit that I am, I get rattled by this, decide descretion is the better part of valor, and don’t ask for her number, even though I am dying to. She goes inside, leaving me to rave about her to myself and brother for the whole ride home.

“Why didn’t you ask for her number, dumbass?”

My brother asked the question. We both knew the answer.

I am gunshy when it comes to relationships. When you get hurt, or worse hurt someone else, you begin to unconciously avoid situations. Put up walls that keep people out, so that you don’t have to get overly involved. It’s part of life. We all construct these. So, I waited. I stewed. I really wanted to see her again, but wasn’t sure if I should just stay in my box, my routine. Breaking out of it is so hard.

Eventually, I asked him for her number about a day later, and didn’t know what to do when it came across the wire. I was the dog that finally caught the car I had been chasing. What the hell do I do now?

Well, I struck up the nerve to send her a text. Couldn’t even call. Total Wussbag. It at least gave me a chance to make an entrance. I never would have guessed she would actually respond. Back it came, agreeing to meet with me for a drink.

Panic all of the sudden hit. I really need to stop flying by the seat of my pants. Now, I had to come up with a game plan. How the hell do I trick her into thinking I am at least half way interesting?

Somehow I did it with Platitudes. It is what it is. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life. Well there you go. Boring trite statements that hold no weight. I’ve bandied them about in conversation for years, saying them at times that make them feel like they are deep.

I failed with them completely and she called me on it. These sayings can not carry conversation at all with someone who realizes them for the bullshit they are. When you have to dig down inside and present thoughts you’ve had stored away due to their complexity and the passion you feel towards them, it allows you to communicate with that other person on dangerous footing. It also leads to sharing of yourself in ways you forgot existed.

We eventually wound up at my apartment where the dance continued on into the early morning. Two people sharing conversation and discovering kindred spirits. In the wee hours, I walked her to her car, and I think she was going to shake my hand when-BLAM!-I realized I had taken her face in my hands and kissed her. It was everything I wanted, and nothing I didn’t.

I got to spend other days with her the rest of the week, but now she is back in the city, returned for the fall. She was here and gone all too quickly, and I didn’t even get to really comprehend all that has transpired. It was the briefest of time spent with her, but a more truly wonderful, inspiring moment I can’t remember. We are still talking and I am going down to see her in a few days. The calendar is moving soooooo slowly. Soon though, I will get to spend time with her again. I understand this post seems like it was written by a smitten fool. Guess what, it was.

Smitten with her, with life, with my own being. I feel interested in the outside world again, not just on getting through it. This is the only chance I get, and to make it better is finally my first priority again. These are strange days, indeed. I might just get that next book I’ve been threatening done. Stay tuned.

Their sound would harken back to Joy Division, but then again what Emo doesn’t claim this? The lyrics would be something akin to Picasso’s Blue Period. Referencing a vagina as an event horizon will do that. They of course would shun the current look of skinny jeans and a swooping part. They would wear really skinny jeans and hoodies.

The first album cover would show the band comparing small cuttings, hence the eponymous name, “Small Cuttings”. Oh, you clever bastards. They would definitely be one of the epic bands of the 20teens, due to being over-exposed on i-Carly, DeGrassi Jr High: The Next Generation, and anything Drake Bell is in. Claiming artistic integrity, they would turn down an invitation to appear on the Jo Bros show, but would watch the show and cry, due to the despair they feel for the coffin thei life has become.

The MDF would tour with Paramore, but eventually the lead singer would commit suicide due to having heard the song “Emergency” in acoustic one too many times. The rest of the band would go their seperate ways, only to be reunited some time in the next decade for a VH1 special.