Archive for December, 2007

It is a season for friends to gather and push away thoughts that grieve them, if only for a while. It is the time of mulled wine and cake, rusty-toned winter ales, and steaming cups of coffee as you walk the yard at dawn. The farm fields lie fallow and empty, but for the occasional crow probing a damp furrow; likewise now is the time for my mind to rest itself before springing into the New Year.

So, I leave you for three weeks. I will go sticky my fingers with icing cookies instead of frothing my mind with news story gore. I will answer email, but damned little else. Soon enough, as music plays, Solstice bells will ring on the calendar as well as in my head……blessings of the season, however you see it as holy!  Instead of a written post, every day until I leave for a trip, you can expect a holiday photo!  Merry, merry!

Usually, each month around the time of the New Moon, I check the totals for the dead in Iraq and Afghanistan and update my strands of beads out on the monument stone at the heart of the Labyrinth.  Somehow, this month, it got away from me and it was only tonight, lying sleepless, that I recalled I had somehow neglected this task.

Once realizing that, sleep really was impossible.  So, up and to the computer, of course.  I last added beads on Nov 7th….putting on a strand of 200 bringing it to a round number of 4800.  This is to the nearest full hundred dead in Afghanistan and Iraq–Americans and other Coalition members.  Tonight, reading the counts, I found I was one hundred behind again.

In Iraq, that number is 4,194 coalition deaths — 3,889 Americans, two Australians, 173 Britons, 13 Bulgarians, one Czech, seven Danes, two Dutch, two Estonians, one Fijian, one Hungarian, 33 Italians, one Kazakh, one Korean, three Latvian, 22 Poles, three Romanians, five Salvadorans, four Slovaks, 11 Spaniards, two Thai and 18 Ukrainians. And in Afghanistan,  have been 731 coalition deaths — 464 Americans, four Australians, 86 Britons, 73 Canadians, one Czech, seven Danes, 12 Dutch, two Estonians, one Finn, 12 French, 22 Germans, 10 Italians, three Norwegians, one Pole, two Portuguese, five Romanians, one South Korean, 23 Spaniards,  and two Swedes killed.  Or, such is the count at the CNN sites—one wonders about the accuracy, since my lists include men whose names are not on those lists at all.  But insufficient as those lists may be—it is sufficient to plunge me into gloom as I pull out the box of beads.

I am almost out of beads again, I find myself using the large and especially bright beads that I normally use for every tenth or twentieth bead—to help myself keep count.  But they are all I have left, and in December, I will not be going near the large mall where the mineral and bead shop is located.  So, the strand has ten shiny red and green glass beads, then ten snowy white irregular mineral chunks as thick as my little finger….then a decade of green shell, more of the white ones, and a hands worth of beautiful glass beads the color of a clear winter sky and so forth to an even hundred.  A full half look like irregular snow balls veined with gray road grit, the mineral name of these escapes my sleep-starved memory.  But it seems right that December’s strand is a wealth of the largest and brightest beads, somehow.

Surely that hundred represents the best and brightest to the families that lost them in the month wherein most of the Western world expects sugarplums and laughter to candle-light, not caskets and tears in the rain? I tie off the thick tough fishing line that is my string and hang the ready strand on a peg in the family room. At first light tomorrow, out it will go to the rain-soaked winter Walk.

The ducks will be freed for their morning browse across the stones, they all will stand and look at me, as I stand at the monument, with that peculiar ducky sideways glance and they will hunt beetles and slugs at its base when I walk away—no doubt wondering duckily, what I found so interesting about a bunch of cold inedible beads.  The ducks have that in common with most of America perhaps?

I was surprised to get an email today from the lady who helps write a small town paper a few miles from here.  She visited us in July and wrote about the Labyrinth Memorial; oddly, I thought the story had never been published since she had asked if she could publish our phone number.There were no calls at all….not a single one.  So I thought the story had been rejected.  But no, the email had a copy, it was printed.

I asked myself why I felt so terribly rejected that not a single reader called to ask if they could visit, chiding myself for ego to think my little walk was so important.  But then, stringing those heavy, bright beads tonight at midnight, I realized it is not that I feel rejected at all.  I feel the dead that I count and list and name aloud out there are rejected.  America seems to find the idea of those dead men and women as unpalatable as the ducks find the stone and glass beads.  Nobody wants to notice, nobody wants to lift those strands of beads and look at them—-each bead a man or woman.  Each bead a son, a brother, husband, father, mother, sister, wife, daughter.  Each bit sparkling in the winter sun is a lover or friend lost and gone forever and it will be years before America builds them something with the names visible to  all. My poor stone and its necklaces of grief and longing seem so broken and sad an effort—and so alone in the cold December night.

But then, that at least should be in good company, every man and woman still in Afghanistan or Iraq on this cold December night surely feels that same loneliness, don’t you think?

There have been fewer walks of the Labyrinth recently.  Fewer American deaths.  I am relieved……..I think.

Does this mean, as Fox News and other broadcasters of such ilk would tell me, that the “Surge” has been a success?  Well, having more men on the ground was always something needed there—but my personal take is the numbers needed were not supplied by that so-called surge.  And the surge, frankly was met by a combination of things: more bombings and just waiting for them all to leave when America got tired of the effort.  Does that mean I believe the GOP and their friends are right and we should stop protesting and bitching about this war?  Not at all…redouble efforts, SAVE our men and women by getting them out of that hellhole as fast as possible.

So, why fewer deaths if the Surge didn’t work?  A couple things, or so I theorize.  First, I think a lot of guys and their wise older sergeants know they are not going to accomplish the pacification of the mess that is Iraq.  So out on patrol some of them go…they find a nice secure lot and park.  They stay there, they check in by radio…they avoid contact, they avoid patrolling those damned IED loaded roads—and they stay alive.  Second, there is some evidence that the bomb makers may be running out of stuff to work with; mind you they are rapidly learning tricks like the Tim McVey fertilizer bomb.  Busy little Iraqi Mc Givers making bombs with whatever is under the kitchen sink, or so the news would have us believe.

Either way, fewer names is a good thing.  No names would be a better thing.  But that is where the fear comes in—I know this lull won’t last.  And death isn’t the only issue, of course.  Many thousands of Americans are returning wounded and shell shocked into states that may effectively render them disabled for decades to come.  And yet, and here is what I want you to know: surveys are saying that for purposes of the next big election “the war is over”….that Americans don’t really consider it an issue.

Make it an issue, folks.  Please, make it an issue.  America’s infrastructure is tottering, Americans are dying and being maimed in that damned war, the planet is getting heated up to try tossing all our dumb asses into the drink and we need to refocus our efforts.  None of that focus deserves to go to Iraq!  Tell everyone this IS an issue with you.  Support the troops—bring them home and make the VA take GOOD care of them for a change.

I am not certain that is the right title for this one, but what the fuck, my brain is stunned into some sort of “tell me this isn’t fucking real” apathy. Unfortunately, this shit is all too real. I cannot believe these pricks did this.

And there I go again, not telling anyone what has deadened my senses and made me want to go running for the whiskey bottle in nine in the morning.

Well, readers, it is the season and all, Christmas, Hanukah, Solstice and so on. Everyone is pumping out ornaments, some nice, but most fucking tacky and ugly, reminding me of something my ex-wife would buy. Bitch. Anyhow, some people have decided to go above and fucking beyond, shattering the ‘tacky’ meter into a thousand, screaming pieces.

This ornament, produced by MissPoppy.com, was brought to my attention this morning. I must say, people, never even dreamed of something like this. I mean, I am one sick bastard and all, and rare is the occasion where I hold my tongue, and I routinely fail to acknowledge that sometimes I steamroll acceptable levels of abuse and obscenities. But I never created this abhorrent, vile, disgusting, grotesque, homicidally tacky ornament.

Yeah. Not much you can say to that, is there? Just kind of leaves your mind doing that whole thousand-yard stare, doesn’t it?

A fetus, holding an M-16 and carrying a ruck. My gods that is just tooooooooooo fucking precious! I mean, just look at that shiny fucking head and itty-bitty feet, just itching to bring bloody democracy to all the godless, commislamofascist heathen sons of whores around the world! Yes, we all stare at our newest savior! And conveniently, it comes in a ‘brown’ model too. I guess yellow and red fetus’ (feti maybe? I dunno…) don’t get to save humanity from ultimate doom at the hands of Satan’s minions. That sucks. My apologies to over half of the worlds population, you don’t get to do shit! Must be because we have not successfully saved your heathenistic, terroristical, blaspheming asses yet! But worry not! The Fetal Corps is coming to save the day and spread the word of Christ! Lucky you.

Fuck me sideways. Can these rightwing fucksticks get any fucking more obscene? I mean really! A goddamn fetus with a rifle…who the fuck thinks of this shit? But just in case you are interested, the developers of this charming ornament are working on a ‘Pirate’ model. Check back soon if you are interested in bringing salvation to the whales. Assholes.

Out.

Shocked and fucking awed,
The Pickled Jester

(Editor Note: Labrys is sincerely hoping that the miss poppy site is a parody site…tho’ apparently you CAN buy the objects pictured.  I don’t think it is serious, but it frightens me that the very idea is loose in my world.)

Just a wee rant here. The CIA destoyed tapes of the oh-so-proper interrogations because they feared their agents being “identified”? Give me a break; they destroyed them to hide Americans acting like unpaid movie extras in a bad WWII film. You know the guys..the ones in the sinister, if very good looking, black uniforms? The Gestapo sorts led by the ratty looking Himmler?

Well, America has Hayden instead. He isn’t quite as ratty looking, but his face has the same sort of shiny fanatic appeal as the main Gestapo guy in the Indian Jones Raiders of the Lost Ark film. So…apologies to Johnny Cash, but his song “Personal Jesus” lent itself so well that I started humming it while reading the article….and seeing Hayden’s black clad picture. My son twisted the tune for me, the Pickled Jester that he is!

Our Own Personal Himmler

“Hello, I’m Michael Hayden…”

Our own, personal, Himmler,
Someone to hear you scream,
Someone who torments.

Our own, personal, Himmler,
Someone to hear you scream,
Someone who’s watching.

Feeling pain,
and their all around,
flesh and bone,
with waterboards,
Tell the truth,
I’ll make you drown.

Take a tape,
Put me to the test,
A foot on your chest,
You need to confess,
Else Himmler will deliver,
You know I’m an oppressor.

Lie down and find pain.
Lie down and find pain.

Our own, personal, Himmler,
Someone to hear you scream,
Someone to torture.

Feeling pain,
and their all around,
flesh and bone,
with waterboards,
Tell the truth,
I’ll make you drown.

Lie down and find pain.
Lie down and find pain.
Lie down and find pain.

http://pickledjester.com/wp/2007/12/07/our-own-personal-himmler/

Every weekday, I walk my son’s dog. My son can’t do so because of his wrecked medical discharge quality knee issues. So, off we go each day when it is light enough to see where we step—and that is a good thing, because just at yard-edge of the crotchety neighbor lies a dead opossum. It has been there for about a month now and it is good that it is cold weather time, or the stench would likely make us gag. Instead, it has become a somewhat gruesome experiment in decay…watching the mortal remains of this mama possum slowly return to the earth. And yes, she was a mama….as the pouch of America’s only marsupial mammal decayed and tore, you could see three tiny bodies within. That was a hard morning for me.

What has this to do with my Labyrinth and the men and women dying and being wounded in Iraq? Well, I am not quite sure, but I know that the heart of the real topic of this post has married itself to that sad gray and pink blot at roadside.

American service members are committing suicide at increasingly high numbers. Their families are devastated and friends frustrated by the apparent disregard from the military. Well, not to be too harsh and evil-mouthed, but the ones who succeeded and died might be the fortunate ones in some ways.

Last week, the Army began an attempted prosecution of a young lieutenant who tried to kill herself. The charge sheet is lengthy in accusation; besides trying to kill herself she is said to have endangered another officer ,and in addition, her supervisor (whom she had serious issues with before–and she was not alone in finding this officer condemnatory, sexist, and abrasive) had a long list of complaints about her. In spite of seven years of good service, service that in fact was credited with holding her unit together and getting the mission accomplished; this man really wanted her to get the full court press of military justice. It is uncertain whether she will be court martialed, just yet. But the wolves are in full cry. Oh, did I mention that the would be prosecutor’s name is Wolfe?

The case has all the drama of good television movies—angry doctors snapping that they are not playing legal games; and stating that the young officer had suffered a psychotic break and was insane at the time of the incident. She ordered the other soldiers out of her room, fired a shot into the ceiling and then shot herself in the abdomen– ripping up her spleen, liver, a lung and other organs.

Her breakdown occurred in the aftermath of Saddamn Hussein’s execution—she was in charge of a medical clinic at Abu Ghraib, you see, and a wild riot (gee, where was the news on THAT?) broke out there when Hussein was taken. In the aftermath, her sexist boss again confronted and berated her and her crew. That was the last straw, apparently.

The Army officer pressing for court martial has warned her lawyers that he doesn’t want to hear any “psychobabble defense” and has stated that her mental issues were being used as an excuse for “criminal behavior.” Now, what the hell does that mean? That she is taking advantage of having a break down to get even by…what, ending her own life? The prosecutor compared her to John Hinckley, the man who shot Reagan—and I am very much not getting that particular stretch of imaginative allegory.

The Army’s surgeon general has said that Lt. Whiteside has a “demonstratably severe depression” and believes she needs treatment, not punishment. She considered resigning her commission, though that would deprive her of benefits and any further treatment. But she has decided to stay in the Army and fight even if brought to court by men who apparently wish to punish any soldier who breaks under the pressures, particularly women, it seems. Another young woman in treatment at Walter Reed was abruptly discharged before her treatment was over; she hung herself a short time later. This was what made the embattled Lieutenant decide to fight.

And that is what brings us back to rotten possums, you see. The mentally battered and broken soldiers of the war, who do not have visible scars and holes are as invisible as that poor possum to most of the car traffic on the road. And since these stories are largely invisible in the news, they don’t “stink to high heaven” enough to attract attention—kind of like my winter-rotting possum. Like PFC Samantha Owen-Ewing, who hung herself in despair and depression, that possum was not valued much while alive—the driver that hit it likely didn’t even slow down. Nor did the military slow its rush to toss out a young woman who was now naught to the military but a financial liability. They don’t want to merely toss away Lt. Whiteside…they want to beat her to legal death first and imprison her to teach other young officers and women that it is unforgivable to be human and breakable. They want to not only stigmatize mental illness in the military, but treat it as criminal behavior.

That possum isn’t the only thing rotten in this story. War is never pretty like on movie screens, it is filled not only with the bits of individual courage and grit the film world is fond of, but with incredible cruelty and horror. Most of us are fond of assuming that that cruelty and horror is reserved for the enemy. But that is not true—a lot of it is falling on our returning “heroes” when the military and the warmongers in the Administration can’t find them useful on the battlefield any more.

Story at: http://tinyurl.com/2ztc9f