He felt funny watching all the bodies being loaded onto the trucks and him without a scratch, and he felt funny again when he stepped off the boat back at home and a kid who got his leg blown off and pissed his pants down in the trench praying o god to please let him live got the girls and the cameras and the reporters and him without a scratch, walking alone down the dark streets and felt funny watching people moving about around him and not needing to kill any of them any more, and wondering what he was going to do now, because the only thing he could do was kill any more, and he hadn't a scratch on him and he saw a big man pass by him and he saw the right spot where a bayonett would lay him lifeless without a noise, his huge arms useless and cold but it would pass, wouldn't it?

He went to a bar where no one knew him and drank to the health of war, and war heros everywhere who hadn't a scratch to their name and when the bar closed he left back into the cold street and when the knife went into his back he knew it was all wrong, that it should have gone in higher and when they took his wallet and searched him over he let them, thinking of all the krauts he'd done the same to, and almost laughed to himself because it really was funny and when they'd gone he did laugh a little and rolled over onto his face so he could feel the cold cement on his cheeks and nose just once.

(read Steve's hero tale)

II

I threw the last shovelful of dirt onto the grave and then wiped my brow with my sleeve. Joe walked around it carefully and planted a crude wooden cross at the head of it.
"Lets put some flowers on it," I said.
We found some small wildflowers but they looked too bright and gay for such an occasion and we threw them into the river instead.
"You want to say a prayer?" he asked me.
"Go ahead"
We both bowed.
"Dear Lord," he started, and then paused and took off his hat. "Um, Dear Lord," he tried again, but stopped again for a moment's refelction. "Don't know much about him, except that he's dead, huh?" he said, now talking to me.
"I found some papers in his pocket. He was thirty-two. That's all I know."
"Okay. Dear Lord, you know that he was only thirty-two but you saw fit to take him. I mean I guess you did. Yeah. So anyways, I hope you can let him rest in peace here, until you come again to raise us all. That's it."
"Amen." I said.
Joe put his hat back on and we stood there for a little longer with our own thoughts.
"Getting dark," I said at last.
"Lets go."
We left him under the willow that was his last friend in life.
(read Steve's graveside tale)

I

Before his death that afternoon of all things he thought the most beautiful was the sweeping, arching, dancing branches of a weeping willow that he could see from where he lay, and what he could not see of it he imagined to look very wise and sleepy, not weeping at all but ready for whatever happened, knowing the end, and grasping it and loving it and cherishing it for ever and ever as long as god lent him breath amen.

I'm going for a hattrick here with the Complaining About Family Posts. Expect commemorative coin collection sometime next year.

I got a book called Restraint of the Beasts from John this Christmas, and I finished reading it when said family was over this week, snatching bits and pieces of its dark, morbid, hilarious goodness in the rare moments when I was alone for five minutes. Today I entered my room to find my cousin casually flipping through it. Immediately alarms exploded inside my head, due to the steady reoccurance of the word "fuck" in the book. As casually as was possible under the circs, I suggested that we finish the puzzle we'd been working on. God only knows what he read, but he's gone now, they are all gone, and I have survived. Apparently Jesus cares after all.

Many may wonder why I would so loathe family coming over this chistmas. Let the following dialogue enlighten you.


My cousin walked into the room as I started up the Xbox.
"What are you doing?"
"Playing Lord of the Rings."
"What kind of game is it?"
"A fighting game."
He watched for awhile as I gleefully hacked away at the oncoming orc hordes.
"That might be doing things to your brain that you don't even know about."
"I'm not going to live my life in fear, man," I said distractedly.
"That isn't fear."
I chortled
"I'm serious."
"I'm not taking you very seriously."
"I see it has already begun."
I chortled again, more cynically.

My thought is bent less on blog these days, and more on other things, thither and yon, mayhaps more important, or, on the other hand, mayhaps not. Time will tell, they say, the ones whom time tells things to, but so far it hasn't been me, or I've just not been listening. I'm not a very good listener.

My cousins arrive tomorrow sometime, probably in the evening, and they'll be staying for three or four days and if you think that I'm at all happy about this you'd be very wrong. That felt pretty good so I'll say it again. My cousins arrive tomorrow and it makes me cross.

Pass around the eggnog one more time.

God gets His jollies off of getting my hopes up for being able to go to Oregon, and then stopping it all. Also I'm not going to Bolivia, but I think that was Satan's jolly.

Yeah, after a gruelling weekend with John, I'm back. Just like Ahnold.

I feel really strange today. Maybe its the lack of sleep or the beer last night, though I only had one, or maybe its because I'm alone again.

Shopping for the birthday of the baby Jesus is alright sometimes, but usually only at EB Games. For myself.

Beth is the Goddess of Blog. Everyone go sacrifice virgin cheetos to her on the altar of Blog, in thankfulness of showing me this layout. And the Trogdor comes in the niiiiiiiight!

Some people feel sorry for themselves a lot, and then mistake it for having deep introspective and always very profound thoughts, that make them think that they are morbid people, when really they aren't truly morbid, only selfishly morbid and depressed. This is a result of them thinking they are worth something, when really they aren't because nobody is. Life is a gift, not a prize, and anything more than that is far more than anyone deserves. How do I know this? It's just a hunch, actually.

I found out that I can go to both camp and Bolivia, only I'd miss three or so days of camp. The bonus to this would be that I'd rather go to Bolivia than Thailand, and also that my faux-cousin Charissa might be going. At least she said she might if I did. The downside to this is that I'd probably miss synod, meaning that I wouldn't be able to hang out with someone I was going to possibly hang out with there. All in all it looks like another episode of Decision Time With Dave, which gets high ratings on FOX for its laughable outcome and witty procrastination.

From where I stand (sit) it looks like I might be able to go to Oregon for winter retreat at the end of the month and see friends and have good times. GW Fisher will be giving messages, which would be totally awesome. It would almost make up for me missing the wedding, exept that I won't be able to see as many people most likely, unless I was in Tacoma over sunday, which I hope would work, only we're having relatives over for Christmas and I'd have to leave while they're here. That would be really hilarious, actually. I mean, I'd laugh pretty hard. And I'd stay with the Lensches before and after the retreat, and possibly even for Charissa's birthday.

I was reading Hemingway and in one of this sort of drafts for a nevelette sort of thing that he never finished about a writer, although all of them really are about writers. Really they're all about him. It was the very last one in the book of complete short stories, actually, that I got for my birthday this year from John. Anyways, he's telling his girl about how he lost all of the stuff he'd written when he was younger. And he's getting drunk, and he isn't really sure he loves her, and he doesn't really want to tell her about it, but he does because she wants to hear about it because she loves him, and she's getting a little drunk too. I don't know what I was coming to. I guess it was just so awesome the way it was all said and done, and its a really interesting scenario. Sometimes it scares me how well I relate to him. Hell, it scares me how I'm always relating to him. But I guess if everyone didn't relate to him he wouldn't be so popular even still. Look at this, I'm starting to write like him. Good thing I'm done that book and I can read something else now.