DERAILMENT

 

Recent news carried a story about a tragic train derailment in Montana. I think about that story now, sitting here at my computer, my mouth offering words that show up on the screen in the notepad that is currently working.

Out of the blue it appears I have lost some functionality with voice commands and may not be able to find assistance for almost an hour to right the ship and get back in control of moving the mouse around my screen and many of the other basic functions I rely on to accomplish my work list for the next short while. It's a derailment.

For the last few moments I've thought through what might be causing the change in how the computer is responding to me. Thus far I have theorized that a disagreement occurs between a new update of the operating system and one of the applications I rely on for voice control and dictation. Nevertheless, the derailment is real and solutions are beyond my grasp currently without the support I need. It's probably fixable, just not right now.

I have considered trying a few things, but fear most a complete lockup of the system which would leave me unable to do anything for the next 50 minutes. I'm not sure I'm willing to gamble with that right now so I've chosen to do some writing here in this pad instead.

Sitting in a train, floating speedily along the surface of the earth can sometimes give someone a false sense of what is really happening to them. Gazing out the window at the surrounding landscape, maybe even sipping morning coffee on your trip, one never thinks about the very competent engineer keeping things on track, all of the trains nuts and bolts connected to locomote in unison, the tracks integrity, with all in perfect balance and measure to keep the movement seamless and safe.

Passengers like us are contingent beings who understand should anything cause the train to stop or be thrown from its course we are no longer passengers but people sitting still (or tragically hurled aloft to plead God's mercies.)

So what about passengers here on earth, everyday human beings who from the outside appeared to just be floating along the surface of the earth, gazers and doers making their way along? As long as we are able and given air to breathe, we take it in and let it out over and over again, or else… Of course, it is no different with drinks or with food, with physical locomotion and daily interaction with fellow human beings. These are good reminders that can help us to be grateful for all of the ways our needs are met day in and day out in whatever way you currently believe that is happening for you and your family and friends.

For me, right now, and maybe just now for the next 20 minutes that I have left until my help arrives, my soul has been drawn to others and to my self who may experience derailment, perhaps routinely or even as a way of life [on the rail, off the rail] that has nothing to do with their choices or how they perform as a passenger. They have been born disabled, intended for travel.

Book 3, Eclipse 13

From there the sleek unit teamed 10 to 15 miles deeper into the wooded hills of the Silava where they found Riga, a fairly populated region and also where the nations university was seated.

Although things had been quiet there for a few days, some shelling had started right around the edges of Radviliskis. They received word to catch up with a commando team already in route from the USS Eisenhower to meet with two other UN teams already in the area who had established a sort of camp base.

While there each had a cot to the corner of which he had tacked a black and white photo of an old flame and her dog. From where he lay it seemed a snapshot from paradise. Now who's waiting for who, he thought?

Despite the brutal pace they kept from day to day his body struggled with tremendous bouts of fatigue. A few thought he had underestimated the concussive powers of the blast much earlier and thought he should return to the medic. 

On this particular morning alarms rang out early and were numerous, first around their tent and then the entire encampment. He could hear the steam breaks firing up, the deep throated supply trucks revving engines. Already they were being filled by a new assembly line which appeared to be Navy or Marines and nearly finished in their task.

Word at the mess hall told of 300,000 new Russian troops who were at the ready and that others were being drafted. Putin had delivered a speech on Soviet national broadcasting in which he had made a point of declaring his readiness, if necessary, to the use nuclear weapons.

My God – he said. What does he think he's accomplishing? My God!

Just then, as he looked into a more thorough report and finished his coffee, the Sgt. took him aside and asked him to see the medic.

I'm good, no really I am. It's just headaches and I'm better than I was three days ago, that's for sure.

The Sgt. shook his head – Let yourself heal, we need you out there.

Book 3, Eclipse 12

 5:30 AM Gotland Island

The belly of the massive transport glides from a distance without sound, leaving only a behemoth wake that rattles the local docks with much clattering amidst the dithering of waves and gul-chatter.

They could be plastic soldiers. They are 20 in number and dark against the purple sky. They are, of course, brothers and fathers and sons. They are American, they are Czech, they are French, they are Ukrainian.

They had been selected from a number of volunteers who had made their way to Ukraine to join the fight shortly after Putin's invasion. Not only had these today made the cut for the first delivery, but they were hand selected by multinational leadership to fulfill any missions viewed "outside the purview" of traditional engagement.

Each new they now operated at a status that would place them beyond the protection of their nation of origin. They moved as one machine of several parts. Soon the plane was removed as a dark dream and each disappeared into the town in three groups.

The team leader of the northernmost group was clearly out front. He would move ahead 15 to 30 yards, check for a secured parameter and then signal the others to move ahead. Each group commenced from the docks after the same pattern and would meet up to find two oversize pontoons loaded with weaponry and room for the troops.

Within only moments each of the groups maneuvers in syncopated bug-like starts and stops safely across to the pontoon boats.  The brine of the ocean fills the fog as the boats soundlessly leave the shoreline.

Just two days previous the island had been taken over secretly by Russian shoulders. This days initiative simply presented a quiet opportunity to return the goods that had been taken.

Although six had been killed in the original Russian invasion, silencers were fixed and only two men were targeted for this offensive.  Upon its completion, Serge Hepscrov and the more notable assassin Kyle Smaleski would be neutralized. Led by these two, intelligence specialists indicated that nearly the entire neighborhood of families throughout the fishing village, the elderly and several children had been mowed down and left to die in a mass grave with very little of it ever being reported internationally.

9:45 AM Palanga, Lithuania

They sit in someone's living room with tea and biscuits, the family retriever happily panting and weaving a maze between their legs.

There are too many people in the room. Aromas enter from the kitchen of sausages and fresh bread.

You did well then…? Piece of cake. We're all in one piece. Couldn't really ask for too much more.

He hears phrases in the room that is quickly becoming too warm for his comfort. All he ever sees anymore is the man's face. A little girl makes her way around the living room with a balloon.

Who the hell brings a child? The thoughts nearly shoot like flame from his mouth.

It was a clean shot. It was the right thing to do. He was supposed to feel proud. Being a member of Green team put him in the right place at the right time, that was all.

He didn't want any more attention or accolades, he wanted in fact to disappear.

In fact, he really never took seriously the possibility that the man in the tourniquet would die from his bleeding. Now being the one selected for taking the shot that took down Smaleski only kept him in the spotlight.

They toasted him at the fireside "the American boy." He was only glad to have a few days of leave, to sleep and get refocused.

He wanted nothing but silence. Soundless peace.

Book 3, Eclipse 11

It had been rumored that the American president would be stopping in Odessa as a show of support to Ukrainian troops who had been defending the key trade city after nearly a month's bombardment wherein Russia had targeted several civilian complexes including a shopping mall and several condominiums.

He had fallen into a coma, he remembered only that he had attended to a man's tourniquet and that several hours later as he sat grieving news of the man's passing he could only see his face reaching out to offer his cigarettes, the man's face and then the white light and that was all until the nurse helped him come to nearly 3 days later at the hospital with six or seven others who'd been eventually been brought along behind them.

He ate like a wild animal. He drank wine in large gulps.

Better take it easy there mister, handing him a bundle of grapes… Little bits at a time will be better.

Did you make these pork dumplings? He asks. No, she says.

Delicious.

I did not make them but I will pass on a good word to the kitchen from our American heroes. Feeling better?

He sleeps another two or three hours, shedding them away as minutes and feeling again the surprise at being woken, as though the more natural thing would always be the sleeping.

He got down to the mess hall for the strong coffee and read through his orders for their next tour. He would be paragliding onto Gotland Island where three brigades were congealed to form another arms unit that was intended to snake back through to the fight at the front near Palanga, Lithuania.

Just before finishing the plate with a smear of biscuit someone approached. It was the Sergeant of the Czech troops who many called "Bull " who had led them in during the first tour. His English was also surprisingly poor.

It was clear he had been looking for him and was happy to catch him before leaving the mess hall.

In placing his hand and fixing his gaze for just a moment it became clear the man intended condolences, a shared grief. By now many in their numbers had figured out how many hours he had sat vigil with the poor man in the tourniquet. They recognized the distinction of his willingness to stay as long as he did given his injury.

You are good man, he said.

We will kill these sons of bitches.

Book 3, Eclipse 10

He sits with the wounded man.

The elderly person speaks only Czech, reveals that he is older only after taking off his hat carefully so as to not reopen the gash beside his left eye.

Just hours before the two of them fought side-by-side. Now he sits fading in and out of consciousness. The two sit side-by-side on the couch back at one of the safehouses.

Sons of bitches – he repeats this over and over, rattling through pneumonia. The only words he learned in English upon meeting the small group of "bandits" (so named by their European counterparts, Czech and Ukrainian.) He drove the truck that was filled with automatic weapons and thousands of rounds of ammunition.

After the mine exploded, hurling the truck to its side and then down a muddied embankment, it had taken a few of them some time to find him and get him to a vehicle and out of sight before being shot at.

He tightens the wounded man's tourniquet hoping they can save the leg. He cusses and apologizes. There's nothing else to be done but to groan with him.

They all drink heavily. The men outside smoke cigarettes and spit into puddles as the rain pours down the ruddy streets. Bombs fall in the distance. How can they still hear them so far from the decimated cities?

They hear the man inside, his anguish.

Sons of bitches.

Book 3: Eclipse 9

 Whenever you can you should try to never waste time. Yes, it is precious.

I remind myself of this after feeling frustration at a lengthy interruption of one of my purposes.

As early as I'm able I will awaken to the moment as a gift of 60 seconds, I bow down and enter into it renewed.

Growling.

Call to mind someone whose behavior you would like to see change.

They should never have done that!

More growling?

Are we bloodthirsty creatures by nature or might we be capable of a more patterned life-giving way throughout our lives? Have we the capacity to learn our way as a species out of violence? And into harmonious community from one hemisphere to the other?

It was a perfect morning for him to reflect upon things like this, it having been as quiet as it was now. Eggs and toast, juice and coffee and then to the notebook where he would give himself reflection time before heading out in the Honda for afternoon rides. He wore his Cubs hat and was looking forward to opening day against Milwaukee. The Sox were also going to look pretty good this year again.

The globe was getting smaller and smaller for him. Of course, he dreamt of his military missions back in the Czech Republic, it was right over there. He did everything that he wanted on his mission as you will soon hear but for now theological questions drew him in more deeply.

Without doing too much labeling or assuming, he kindled an inspiration to keep questions like this in front of himself and others along with the course of day-to-day flow.

He remembered the practice called Transforming Enemy Images:

Upon being triggered by what someone says or does, what thoughts erupt and flood the mind? Write an exhaustive list.

What emotions are present? Can you name them? Check your list.

Can you connect to a deep and human longing underlying the upset? Name it. Claim it as your own longing. 

These are a few of the steps he used to teach at the seminary.

Conflict happens, person-to-person and tribe to tribe. How does it all operate? Why such a constant throughout human history? 

What makes harmony? What breaks harmony? How do we envision, how do we visualize the widest and broadest of our shared experience, how do we hold one enormous WORLD before ourselves…? How do we see all the people at once, and take in as much of the whole of the earth with its mammoth oceans and towering continents and prairie lands and deserts?

With its treaties… With its bombs…? 

I create… I destroy… I imagine. We are such beings who can imagine and singularly give shape to what comes into being. To create is to actively imagine first and foremost, I look ahead, I futurize. I invite my full presence and a loving willingness to witness.

I understand there are thousands of Ukrainian civilians who are now being held in "filtration camps" – we all cry out WE SEE YOU!


More growling. A voice is heard. It is vicious: They will die remembering us. We will be there among their last thoughts on earth.

Book 3: Eclipse 8

 καταστρέφω

Katastrepho

I destroy. I am a being who makes catastrophe!

These unthinkably heavy crates filled with killing mechanisms are intended to harm hundreds, to maim human beings with intention and full malice of forethought. We bring them, we aim them and we fire them in order to destroy, to throw your flesh apart and scatter you to the earth.

We do it, yes, of course… Believing God will bless these tragic necessities of human cruelty. We do it believing that one good punch will set them straight… We do it because we are present and able to stop the enemy who invades.

The man sits writing in his spiral notebook by the window at the coffee shop smoking cigarettes. Each word is a gunshot. He writes all day long. His thoughts become actions. 

I create, I destroy. 

Because they target shopping malls and we've seen the children dead.  Because more and more comes to light as humanitarian corridors, so-called, are opened and the Russian military fills buses with hundreds of civilians, allowing them to make their way to freedom in Slovakia and Poland. That is, until the trap is set fully.

Having built sufficient trust, hundreds more are piled into buses to escape the carnage; the elderly, the disabled carried in for the difficult trip from bomb shelter to who knows where. They are all suddenly informed they are arrested. They are now hostages.

The man drinks his coffee and let's his stomach burn and burn. The pages of the notebook will not turn fast enough. He must write in his own blood somehow. No one will ever read this – don't ever think that… Propaganda from within. He will not cease… He hears himself talking out loud to himself "nope, never going to happen…" If I breathe I will be writing something… Someplace, somewhere…

I will write for the disabled person urinating freely out there somewhere in there God damned bus. He is not the only one.