Nice report, Curtis. Whenever I've see a soldier in uniform eating at a restaurant, I do this ego thang. Here's what I do: I say, "I'm totally against the Iraq war, but I'm 100% for you. Any military person in Iraq has someone aiming a gun at them all the time, and to just show up there is bravery beyond anything I've ever done in my life. And may I buy your dinner, cuz you're giving me and my country such deeply honorable service?"
They all say, No," sheepishly usually, saying, "I've got money," but I say, "Look, this is for me, not you. I really need this symbol of support for our troops." They smile and are a bit uncomfortable, but I lay down the money on the table and say, "If you can't use the money, I'm sure you know someone who can. Pass it forward." And I turn and leave. Oh, shame on me, but it feels good and I can't stop it. These poor kids who get themselves into the military for all the wrong reasons just break my heart when they slog through their commitments. They've got something I know not of. Edg --- In [email protected], "curtisdeltablues" <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote: > > Excellent report from my life-identity theft hijacker! So many > fantastic details. I can't match the sensory richness in my own post, > so I will take it in another direction but still under the heading of > "keep'n it real". > > I had a long day playing music outside on the boardwalk in Old Town > yesterday. Today is more gorgeous so I am my way out again this > morning. It was 6 hours of interacting with people from all over the > world who flock to this charming spot on the Potomac. I could > describe the kid's enthusiasm or even just focus on the smirky chicks > strolling by with their Sita-like sidelong glances... > > But all the experiences of the day got trumped at the last minute. > Having played so long, and sung without a mike, my whole body was done > done done as I packed up. My fingers start to lock up (I have a long > ice down ritual after performing so long to preserve my hands for the > next day), my voice is slightly raspy, my lips are raw from harmonica > runs, and my diaphragm and intercostal muscles are spent from pushing > my voice and harp above the ambient noise. This causes a deep but > satisfying fatigue inside. My body is done, spent at the core. Only > the mental and emotional high of the day's performances carry me home. > > These details are necessary to understand why I felt some trepidation > when I was approached, after putting away my guitar and starting to > break down my drum set, by a slightly intoxicated young man with a > high and tight haircut. I had already stopped responding to the > people walking by asking "where's the music?" as if I hadn't been > cranking it out for 6 hours already and was just slacking on my "job". > He started with "sir", (when did I become a "sir"? I forget when it > started but by now it is all I hear from men his age!) It also gave > me the military heads-up because they are usually unfailingly polite > to their "elders". (I'm not dropping the quotes till my head is all > gray dammit) > > It all ran together just like this: "Sir, I know you are going home > but I just spent the evening with my girlfriend who I love more than > anything in the world and we are going off to Iraq in two months and > is there any way you can play us a love song I only have $20 left > because we just ate at a fancy restaurant and it would mean so much > for us to be able to dance to a love song I come from Tennessee and > her name is Michelle and I love her more than anything in this world > could you maybe please play us one song sir so we can dance together > tonight... > > Picks were back on, harp was on the rack, steel guitar was ringing > from my slide as I launched into a tune from Blind Willie Mctell. Two > young couples (all four were being deployed.), danced in front of me > and blatantly made out, clutching each other as if they were going off > to war and might never see each other again. (oh yeah, they were all > actually going off to war and might never see each other again) I > was singing lyrics like " All these big stars are falling, my baby > gone for 10 long days, I reach for the pillow, where my baby used to > lay" "I know my bulldog, baby when I hear him bark, I know my woman > when I feel her in the dark, oh I know you baby" At some point in the > song they were lost to any lyrics, whispering in each others ears > between soul kisses oblivious to the small crowd forming, watching. > My slide and harp took over where words failed and the moon was big > over the Potomac. (Ok, I'm not a poet but I'm telling you the moon was > big over the Potomac) As they danced the men would often pick their > lovers up off the ground, they were sturdy dudes and swing them > around, never losing balance or giving even a moment's doubt that they > would stumble even with the drinking. I kept wondering if they would > come back home safely as I played. I re-ran all those shows I have > seen on what happens to a man or woman whose vehicle hits an IED with > the inadequate amour we give them. I couldn't help the catastrophic > images from flashing in my mind as I played and watched their > innocence in motion. > > After the song ended they all shook my hand and thanked me looking me > in the eyes (more "sirs"). As I thanked them for their service to our > country and said that we owe all our freedom to men and women like > them, the words turned to ashes in my mouth. Because I sincerely > believe that our country has betrayed these young people. Their lives > should not be so causally spent to try to try to keep one sect of > Islam from blowing up another sect of Islam because the Shia believe > that the Prophet Muhammad's family should have taken over after his > death, and the Sunnis believe that the successor should be elected. > (which is how it went down) > > So they went off into the night and I was left with these thoughts and > feelings. I will never play that song again without thinking of these > young people and wondering if any of the four will be reaching for the > pillow where there baby used to lay after they return. > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > --- In [email protected], TurquoiseB <no_reply@> wrote: > > > > A day in Heaven tends to start with a chocolate a la > > taza (essentially a dark chocolate pudding so thick > > that the spoon stands up in it) and churros from > > Churrateria Charlie's. Mmmmm...filling and full of > > all those essential vitamins and nutrients that one > > can only get from organic food sources like chocolate > > and donuts. :-) > > > > I am told by locals that this breakfast is essentially > > a type of rehabilitation for the body and the soul, > > occasioned by too much late-night partying the night > > before. Because the bars and nightclubs stay open so > > late, many are stopping in here for their rehab breakfast > > before even going home. Very different from French culture, > > and that's a good thing; change is good. > > > > So what can I tell you about the north of Spain, having > > been here only a few days? Well, not much. Blondes are > > rare, and most of the lighter hair colors you see obviously > > came out of a bottle. But that's Ok with me, because I was > > never a big fan of blondes other than the natural Scandi- > > navian sort anyway. The younger women here tend to be more > > attractive than the older ones; a big contrast to France. > > Another contrast is that Spanish culture is lived more on > > the streets and in cafes than is French culture (if you can > > believe that), and that suits me just fine, because a large > > part of my life is spent in cafes. Also, you tend to hear > > more languages spoken around you here than in France -- > > the most frequent being Catalan, the next Spanish, then > > French, then English, and then a smattering of Dutch, > > Swedish, German, Basque, Japanese, and whatever. > > > > I guess the most interesting thing, from a spiritual point > > of view (FFL *is* a spiritual group and this is a post > > about Heaven, after all) is the change that has taken > > place in Spain since I was last here. That was when I > > was 15, when Spain was in the heights (or depths, as it > > turns out) of the Franco era. My memories of Spain from > > that time center around the color black. The streets > > were full of women and men dressed completely in black, > > and with faces that made you wonder whether a smile had > > ever been allowed to dance across those faces. Back in > > 1960, there were an equal number of Guardia Civil storm > > troopers on the streets, equally dressed in black from > > head to toe, their faces exhibiting the same lifelong > > smilelessness, their well-pressed outfits accessorized > > by the seemingly obligatory machine gun. Not a happy > > place. Based on that early experience, I've never been > > exactly tempted to return. > > > > Until recently, that is, when friends I trust spent some > > time down here and came back raving about the place and its > > people. So I had to check it out, and am pleased to report > > that all of that Franco-era stuff has been relegated to the > > same dark corner of history that they swept the Inquisition > > into when *its* time was past. > > > > The people are -- on the whole -- happy, outgoing, and > > exceedingly friendly, FAR more friendly to strangers than > > their French counterparts 200 kilometers to the north. > > Just judging from posters on the walls, there is a strong > > interest here in yoga, meditation, and Things New Age, > > again a striking contrast to France. > > > > The air quality in Barcelona limited my stay there to a > > couple of cough-filled days. The architecture is wonderful, > > as is the liveliness of the culture, but man!...I've seen > > and breathed cleaner air in Los Angeles. So I've gravitated > > to Sitges, a beach town about half an hour south by commuter > > train or car. All the difference in the world. The constant > > ocean breeze keeps the air clean, and I'm told that this > > particular town had a rep for being full of outlaws and > > artistic types even back in the repressive Franco era, > > which to me is a really telling indication of the general > > "vibe" of the place and the nature of its "power-placeness." > > > > The most spiritual thing I've seen here so far? Well, that > > was this morning. It was raining for a short while and, as > > I was walking along the beach, I came across an old man who > > was obviously Down On His Luck, sleeping in the middle of > > the sidewalk, getting wet. As I walked past, two modern > > Guardia Civil troopers, dressed in *non*-black baggy uniforms > > (baggy uniforms are important -- one of Uncle Tantra's laws > > of the universe is that you simply cannot be a Fascist in a > > baggy uniform; you need sharp creases and jack boots to be > > a good Fascist) walked up to him, woke him, and helped him > > to the shelter of a nearby tree, where he wouldn't get so > > wet. Then they said "Bon Dia" to him in Catalan, and left. > > > > Then I logged into Fairfield Life and found a couple of > > people still clinging to their idealized notions of what > > the caste system is all about and how fair and essentially > > highly evolved it is. Big contrast, spiritually. For me, > > that subject (the Hindu caste system) is now as closed > > as a subject can be...I want nothing more to do with > > discussing it, or with the people who feel that they > > can somehow come up with a justification for it. May > > they have as happy and fulfilling a life as their > > state of attention allows them to have. > > > > Me, I'm going to spend my Sunday sitting in cafes and > > writing and enjoying the sun now peeking out of the clouds > > and the dark-haired beauties walking by. For some people, > > this may not seem a terribly spiritual pastime or lifestyle. > > But for me, it's basically Heaven. You can wait for the > > Heaven On Earth that Maharishi promises if you want, or > > for some promised better life in the suburbs of Bramaloka > > when you die, but that stuff just doesn't float my boat. > > When it comes to Heaven, I like mine Here And Now. > > >
