Memorial Day

Remember me this day.

Remember where I stood upon the sand

The forests, the shattered rock.

Hear the whizzing sounds,

the crashing, thrashing explosions.

Remember the taste of blood,

The cries of men, brothers, sisters in arms.

Remember me, that I was here,

Young, full of dreams and aspirations

just like you.

To give one's life for freedom

for humanity, is the ultimate sacrifice.

War was my calling, but peace my goal,

right or wrong in peace or battle.

So remember us, 

ghosts upon this ocean of time.

Those who gave their lives

So you might live.

France, Part 17 - Mont St.Michel

To travel to France, is to travel to the center of one of the greatest pushes against the forces of evil in human history.  When my parents came there years before, they’d relegated themselves just to Paris, but when we planned our next trip, I insisted on Normandy.  

We were arriving on the cusp of the 70^th anniversary, but this only made things all the more important for me.  I wanted to see the beaches, to walk the cemeteries, to visit the museums.   I needed to stand where giants stood, and where darkness fled before the dawn.

Our journey into Normandy began with a two to three hour drive to Mount Saint Michel, the last lonely outpost of the fairytale part of our journey.  Our first glimpse from the car was quite a sight, a single jut of rock out on the sea with towering spires and town clustered against the jagged cliffs.   From afar, Mont Saint Michel seems like something out of Lord of the Rings, like Gondor.

It sits there on this piece of stone, with a castle at the top, and walls and buildings clustered around.  It is the proverbial fairytale city when you see it.  We stopped and got out, taking in the mount and the seascape that separated us from it.  Contrary to popular belief, it is not an island most of the time, but separated from the land by a “shallow” finger of sand and gravel road.  When the tide is out, one can feasibly walk there – we took a free but very crowded bus from the visitor center.

I could have skipped the town of Mont Saint Michele altogether.  If the bus was packed, the area of the “castle town” was even more so.  I call it a castle town because it basically is.  The monastery at the top as a great fortress of spires and stone overlooking narrow winding streets of even more narrow wooden houses, shops and stores.  The area is meant to invoke that medieval feel, with a gate and a drawbridge, but that feeling immediately vanishes from the visitor as they stand beneath the stone archways.

The way to the top is lined on both sides by what I could best describe as a very unappealing assortment of stores selling curios, fake swords, crystal spheres, plastic dragons and other very cheap looking curios or souvenirs.  What museums they have are wax ones “dungeons” and the like, and even the stores selling food are unappealing – we passed one with an oozing icee maker and churros.  On the whole, it had all the appeal of Disneyland without the charm, and all the crowds of that magic kingdom packed into one tenth of the space. 

We walked a gauntlet of tourists who were too busy inspecting all the knick-knacks.  It’s unfortunate that the town has chosen to do this, but I suppose it’s of necessity.  I would have preferred to see an actual working town, not a tourist trap – which is what the island has become.  The real jewel is the monastery at the top.  It rises from the rock, which juts from the sea, with its tallest spire topped by a bronze statue of Michael the archangel.  At his feet is a dragon, and Michael brandishes sword and shield to drive it back.

The museum was packed, and we had to weave our way amid the crowds and tour groups.  At one point we lost mom as one group of Korean folks cut in behind me and I had to wait agonizingly on the other end worried that she’d not find us.  It is very easy to get turned around up there, but the views were spectacular.   We could see from the land in the east to the Normandy coast in the north.   Inside there were big cavernous rooms, and once you saw one you pretty much saw all of them.   One particular highlight was a room with fireplaces large enough to stand in – which everyone did including us. 

Main Church

Cloister

One of the large halls

Giant Fireplace

Smaller hall

Michael the Archangel

On the whole we were left disappointed as we jostled and elbowed our way back through the gauntlet to the car.  I turned to my father and said, “I think next time I’ll just enjoy the view from here.”   Both he and mom agreed.  The view from afar was far more impressive than the reality.   Thankfully it served as a turning point to something far more spectacular and sobering – the Normandy coast itself.

The Genius of George Orwell

I fully admit that when I first read George Orwell's "1984" I hated it with a passion.  It was the spring of my sophomore or junior year of high school and my English teacher, Mr. Lara, had us read the book.  Lara was a genius, in fact I would dare to say my three favorite teachers in high school knew how to provoke thought better than many of my college professors.  When Lara read the book, he had this smooth tone, this Hawaiian style that went with his nature that is very much the opposite of the book.  

Thinking back on his reading now, I can think with fond memories, but at the time I hated the book not for his tone of voice but the subject matter.  I hated the tone of the book, it was dark and depressing and it held no hope or restoration of such hope as I'd seen in almost every other book to that point.  In fact, its very much the opposite of Orwell's other famous dystopian book, "Animal Farm" where there is at least a semblance of happy ending.  

Later, I read it again and the book stuck with me, but not for the reasons many people think.  Most will point to the authoritarian image, the semblance to our own time where government seeks to invade into every facet of private life.  One side or the other politically will point to the book and say, "see they did this."  Its not hard to see the resemblance when we trade our freedom for security as Orwell's book predicts.  Most people miss the bigger point of the book, as I did.

The book isn't as much a warning to me, as it is a story of humanity.  It is the story of a loss of love, of humanity, over any sense of security, self or purpose.  We want to become Big Brother for the sheer power over others.  Big Brother is a symbol of something which represents that final surrender of humanity to state or political ideal, a dependence to the point where we give up all we are in the vain hope of recovering what we just gave up.  Why would someone not want that of themselves?  Why would we not want to love Big Brother if he is us?

Reading the book, I would challenge others to see beyond the obvious tropes that anyone can point to and find your own lesson.  It is only then that the true story of 1984 can blossom and the better ending be written by those of us who can tear down that picture of Big Brother from ourselves.  

What is Death?

One of the earliest themes I struggled with as a writer was Death.   I became a writer first to create a certain immortality for myself.  I thought that while I might not last, my words could and thus my memory, who I was and what I did would linger on.   Death was an early enigma taken in the shape of my Grandfather Howard who passed away very suddenly when I was around five.  Until that point, I had no concept of such a thing, that life was fleeing, passing ever so swiftly by.   After that point, Death became a question, a certainty, that I sought to either avoid or understand - never between.

It wasn't until I was older that I began to grasp a different concept of death, and while I am still young, I still think sometimes of it in my thoughts and words.  One of my first forays to dealing with it was an old legend of a Phantom Train that carried the dead to the other side.   This Phantom Express was not some dark creature with cloak and scythe, it was a presence that possessed this train and simply did its duty.  When young children accidentally climbed aboard with their father, it took pity and let them go, and in turn, helped the father realize that he'd hung on for too long to the soul of his departed wife.

I think my favorite personification of death comes from the "Book Thief", wherein Death is the narrator.   He speaks of himself saying that he is haunted by humans.  He is gentle and kind, as much a part of life as the living.  Given his story and the story of the book takes place in World War II, Death is very busy, but the subject of him of that war is treated with a certain reverence that softens the persona. 

“His soul sat up. It met me. Those kinds of souls always do - the best ones. The ones who rise up and say "I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come." Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places.” 

I think this is the Death that is real and I would like to think that beyond the pale mists of Death is another world more beautiful than our own.  Perhaps it is Heaven, perhaps it is somewhere else, but those we love wait there for our reunion.  I would like to think and hope that someday I will see those faces again, but there's a long life to live. 

As Death said in the Book Theif, "“Even death has a heart.” 

---

It came, like soft shadows.
Gentle as the cloud,
Breath cold, a winter's chill.

Softly it stepped, 
Eyes like stars,
To touch the skin
To grasp the heart.

Where did it lie,
This soul so gentle?
To whom does it belong?

None can say, 
For he cannot speak himself.
Known to all, yet none
have seen his face.

Only the passing soul,
grasped in gentle fingers,
gone beyond
into the veil of the unknown