The View from the Edge
"You shall be known by the quality of your anger, the depth of
your consciousness, the extent of your understanding, and the
manner of your dying."
anonymous
Having spent the last several months in various hospitals, I was
now being in-processed for custodial convalescence with a mix of
my fellows, some amputee, some paralyzed, some deaf or blind. The
administrator arrived and awaited our attention, then announced
in a harsh tone: "Don't even think about committing suicide! Most
people fuck it up ... so if you think you're screwed-up now, just
imagine what you'll be like then!" And with that fine welcome
home, boys speech echoing inside, most of us wondered just
how stupid we'd been by expecting to recover, to rebuild, to
resume living. I resolved not to make the war and its aftermath
an obstacle to beginning a new life. I promised myself not to
become a permanent casualty of combat, a one episode character in
an unsuccessful novel, a victim of other people's attitudes. Too
many friends and comrades had died for me not to avail myself of
the world's beautiful variety. I never considered my essential
difference from almost everyone around me, but every time I
checked back into the commo-net, I learned of more lost jobs,
lost families, and lost dreams. Even though we tried to
substitute it, it seemed that our common peak experience
would remain the war. Some wouldn't relent, and others sought
diversions ... some were stalked by violence, and others drank
themselves to death. All of us had seemingly lost perspective;
and our civilian counterparts were so capricious and frivolous
that they never acquired any perspective at all. The indifferent
and preoccupied world never made a systematic place for my
uniqueness, never wanted my talents and skills, never recognized
my potential or achievements, because all they ever saw was a
protruding nail, an unaligned component, a misfit constituent. My
life was ruined by my blatant difference, and the world's panoply
was trite by comparison with wartime fundamentals. The promises
were never fulfilled. The edge of emptiness had more appeal than
social concerns. The precipice debouching into the void was more
interesting than civilization's vacillations. The vortex of
suicide beckons, and it's more salutary than all of humanity's
distracting trivia. I meditate on the cutting edge, with no hope
of ultimate redemption, and no belief in cardinal harmony. It's
only a matter of time before the fatal bullet fired long ago and
far away finally and utterly impacts.
"My shoes are gone; my clothes are almost gone. I'm weary. I'm
sick, I'm hungry. My family has been killed or scattered, and may
be now wandering helpless and unprotected in a strange country.
And I have suffered all of this for my country. I love my
country. I would die ... yes, I would die willingly because I
love my country. But if this war is ever over, I'll be damned if
I ever love another country!"
soldier's view
by Pan Perdu
... who is a former soldier and VA counselor; this work has been
excerpted from Fragmentations, a book in progress.
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