Death-date!

AD 2029, September 2, 2029—St. Paul, Minnesota
(From a dream)

I was at a shopping mall, a number of guests jumped into my car that one had to put herself in the back part of the hatchback area because all the other spaces or sitting areas were taken. I drove a ways, asked if we should go to a nightclub-restaurant, I wanted a sandwich, and I kind of felt everyone else wanted to dance and drink, and perhaps were hungry also. Somehow we got off course, and I got onto a one-way street, and thereafter, I got onto one after the other one-way streets, as if it was a suicide in the makings; therefore I felt I had to park the car to see how to get around this situation, and now I was with only one other person, that was in the car, the rest must of remained in the car waiting, or something (in dreams you don’t always get every detail, some are smudged by your subconscious, too hard to breath into your reality banks), and as we went through this walled section of houses, likened to a maze (I got the sensation I was the mouse caught in it), my so called friend spotted a stairway over beyond a ways—but a wall was blocking me from it and I’d have to go around that wall to get to it, but it was my way out…and I saw him climb it from a distance, then he disappeared. It was a narrow stone stairway (and a man told me to be careful as he went inside his abode—, be careful because there were many robbers about this area; at any rate, I was at a dead-end); then as I turn about, walked a few feet, perhaps twenty feet, straight ahead, I headed down a flight of steps down the stairway to go around the wall, to climb those stairs to where I figured was the way out of here, I had noticed one person approaching me, and as I went down a few more stairs to get on over to the other side of the wall, the man started coming up those very same stairs in front of me; at the same time, the fellow I saw before who told me to be careful, he was blocking the back side of the stairs, he even stepped down a few stairs—I suppose to insure I didn’t escape, but as I mentioned before there was no escape, it was a dead-end, now myself being in the middle—between these two characters, they both went inside their jacket pockets to pull something out (something I never saw) —the one in front of me, and the one in back of me, as I had looked over my shoulder for an instant, were both in the process of pulling that something out, at the same time I pulled out my 36-revolver out of its sheath, pointing it inside my jacket, as if it might be a finger, extending my jacket outward, told them two guys to halt, back off I had a gun (and still I had not seen what that something was they were about to pull out), but they didn’t believe me and each came a foot or two closer almost on top of me, and I shot a hole through my jacket, and the one in front of me dropped to his knees, the other one came down upon me—near on top of me but not quite, not sure what he had time to do to me (but I kind of felt he did something, tried something, in dreams sometimes the subconscious produces blind spots, blocks out the messy parts, tries to wipe them clean from your memory banks, fills them up with nothingness, or something less, or a little more, but nothing the conscious mind cannot endure, it is mankind’s safety valve you might say) but I shot a hole through him also, in his stomach, and he fell back.
I am not sure what the one in back of me did—as I find myself repeating myself, he did although have time to stab me, and perhaps he did, and perchance I died there, thereafter, and then the date came about in my mind, or out from within my dream mind—as if it was a flag waving in the dust, in consequence, the death-date appeared: 9-2-2029; if you’re asking how do I know it is a death-date, well, that’s a good question: because a voice said it was, because it appeared out of that blind spot I mentioned before, because that is the only thing my mind would accept, or my conscious would accept from my subconscious to replace reality for my mindful awareness, if that all makes sense (and sometimes in dreams nothing makes sense, and sometimes everything is a warning, or an unwrapping of events to be, or Mr. Death playing games, or Mr. Demon producing nightmares, but this was of course not a nightmare, and sometimes in dreams, they are desires, wishes and fears all rolled up on top of one another, on one stage to be played out, or perhaps cutups—who is to say?).
And the guests in my car, now that I think of it, were strangers, simple strangers, no more than that, not one familiar face; perhaps their objective was to keep me company on my last ride or last hurrah, and the one who disappeared, perhaps escaped knowing he better, I mean, maybe he was part of the dramatic, dreamatic, screenplay. And for the curious minded soul (like me), how did I end up on so many one-way streets to where I couldn’t turn the car around. So Death, set up a trap, provided the means to entrap me, and brought me to my dooms date, —but why, another good question?
I asked him, and he said “I ran out of chains!” (But I got the oddest feeling, or call it a sensation, he wanted to add (but didn’t for personal reasons): you’re a feisty one, and won’t come willingly, have to tire you out someway first. In any case, if there is any truth to this, and I doubt it, I have another 20-years to live, and that’s a bargain anyway you look at it. )

No: 479 ((9-25-2009) (from a dream))

“Weep!”

(Soldier boys of the 21st Century)


She was weeping, her mouth trembling, trying to talk, but her body was shutting down, she reached across the kitchen table, her hand moving slowly, her hand, other hand, pulled back the reaching hand that was trembling, trying to serve her younger boy some greens, her hand seemingly locked onto the ladle (with its masculine handle), she looked up, caught his eye—gazed at the photograph beyond and above the boy’s head, on the refrigerator, both boys looked similar—although the boy in the photograph was three years older, the American flag behind him, three colored ribbons on his chest, a heap of people saw it, neighbors, visitors—a heap of people she knew, but he died in the war for those who never had seen him, for those who would never have recognized him—anywhere, anyplace, at any given time, and her voice sounded unfamiliar, unlike her real voice, like it never had sounded before to her younger boy; then her husband thought— ‘That voice ought not to have sounding like that, it’s a dying voice, one that is giving up.’
“I know,” said the husband, “for our country, he died for our country!”
“This country, your country, his country (pointing at the boy)—mine, it’s all wrecked, impure, cracked, shattered, damaged by all those godforsaken war-worms, long before he was even born (looking at the husband and then turning to look at the boy),” she savagely remarked. “Oh yes, the forefathers (she continued) I haven’t forgotten them, those heroes we read about in grandchild, who fought and died for it, us, this country, you and me, so we could produce a litter for the next generation to fight and die for the following generation to do the same, now all they can say in their dirt hole is that they fought for an illusion, it was an illusion, we lost, I lost my boy, he never had time to form a dream, so he died for their illusion, in the interest of oil, glory of his comrades, for organized labor, foreign trade—he died for all the things he never knew about.”
“Yes, dear!” said her husband, “weep if you must.” and tears rolled down her cheeks as she poured the coffee for him.
“Yes, oh yes I weep for a mislead country, for the politicians and demagogues that have mislead us all, who mislead our soldiers boys, I pray for them all that know no shame, or grief, or guilt. You men are incapable of guilt or shame in war; you call it bravery, principle and sacrifice.”
“It will take time,” said her husband.
“When?” she answered, “and what is worth saving?”
Then her hands calmed—so her young boy noticed, and he sat up, erect, with pistol like eyes, hanging-slack eyebrows, he was fifteen-years old, and for a minute looking at his brother’s picture, his mother’s face, he thought. She laid her hands on the table, leaned over to him—took her handkerchief from her breast, “That’s right,” she said to the boy, “This one’s for you, I weep for you, not for the dead, I wept for your brother the day he left for war, and the day he died. I don’t weep for your father and I, we are old—I weep for you!”
She was still holding the handkerchief, forgetting she was holding it, “You have a chance now to learn, to find out why, before you go to war. I can’t tell you why because I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps it’s a man thing, because none of us women can figure it out. We just weep and grieve, then try to let go, but we never do, I think this is our job, and once done, the next one goes off to war. But your brother, he knew why—! Tell me before you go off and get yourself dead—why?”

No: 479 (9-26-2009)

Culture Must Conquer the Globe (Globalism)

“How important is it to learn another language and culture…?” MC

Culture Must Conquer the Globe (Globalism)

By

Dr. Dennis L. Siluk Ed.D.


Definition:

Culture, the sum of attitudes, customs, and beliefs that distinguishes one group of people from another, transmitted, through language, material objects, ritual, institutions, and art, from one generation to the next.

Also, culture also refers to refined music, art, and literature; one who is well versed in these subjects is considered “cultured.”

Also culture is language use, tool making, and conscious regulation of sex, essential
features that distinguish humans from other animals.




The Article

Culture. — How important is culture and learning another language, and why? If we are to protect the world and its resources, and other essentials, we must first decide at what point we will oppose those who wish to stop the movement of world cultures, in what is called Globalism.

The quality in a person or society comes to blossom out of the concern for what is regarded as excellence in the arts, letters, manners, scholarly pursuits, it shows to the world at large, a particular form or stage of that civilization, its past, present, its potential future. Also it shows its developmental behaviors and beliefs—the world is turning towards globalization, and everyone is watching everyone.
Already the world has moved boldly into this interconnecting web that is circling the globe (the internet and global interests pushing it along), and this new global-culture has penetrated politically, electronically, into every cultural aspect of mankind (an example, you have old culture using new cultural cellphones in the Andes).
The sum total of our ways of living among one another, remains in cultural groups of human beings worldwide, this new culture will be transmitted to the next generation. This in itself is reason enough, most essential that we all look at other cultures, their customs, ways of life, traditions, language; learn at least in part, another’s culture, so we can communicate with them better.
The world is in need of oil, water, food, and other essentials, without attacking one another, forcing one another to use their defenses to get what they need—for without global reasoning, another country will try anything short of war to get what they want (and sometimes war), again this demands we know their culture, their language.
This new culture that is forming around old cultures, interconnecting with the whole world, like the internet, carries new patterns, traits, and products, and will be and is, considered an expression of this period, for the world population, this is the culture of Globalism…and because of this new world order, the world is becoming increasingly perilous, and knowing other languages is a must for the 21st Century student and leader, in any country, to lead his or her country: call it enlightenment, resulting from training or education.

The only way to move forward in this new global-connecting world is to conquer it, make a peace with it, and have a true working agreement with it. Now is the time to prepare in order to be able to take advantage of the confused situation that might arise in it, we are in essence, all successfully invading one another’s country, and the better we are prepared culturally, the better we stand among the many. In Peru, today—the youth will have to make hard and heavy decisions that are necessary for her to move forward, that her people will count on. The quest to the Peruvian reader reading this article is: “Can she count on any of you?”


No: 479 (Magazine article-story for: Colegio Ingenieria; Huancayo, Peru) written 9-26-2009 © by Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.

The Trooper

(Under an Ash White Sky, 1878)

Part One of Two

The Trooper

(Prologue :) The battle had ended, and he was one, if not the only trooper left, of a regiment, part of the horse soldiers, of Troop G, no one knew if he simply escaped from the valley, wondered off before the massacre, or after, or during; no one knew much except his name, rank, and where they found his dead body, so all I can do is tell you the end of the story…as close as I can, and give you as much detail as anyone could, some parts are conjecture, for upon his death bed he moaned them out…!

The heat was so intense it could not hide beyond the clouds; it soaked right through them, over the head of Corporal Armstrong Bridger, a cavalryman. The air had grown soapy and salty, gray to black, depending on where you stood in the valley or above it. He sweltered as the ash white sky sank lower, he had not reached the edge of the bluffs, skeptical he looked about, he was but one soldier left out of Troop G., maybe out of the regiment? It was all questionable in his mind. Everyone he knew and rode with—soldier to soldier, shoulder to shoulder, was dead. It had seemed to him, he had been on the plains for weeks, with the general and the major, and then just the major and his assigned troops, riding to and fro, looking for Indians. His eyesight now was poor, but he saw no Indians, thereabouts, below the bluffs, some phonies, ‘Yes, phonies’ he told himself, ‘just regular phonies, strays perhaps,’ but no Indians. In the far distance, he saw smoke, lodge smoke, thus he knew they were there, but far-off.
The battle had been over a few days prior to this—so he calculated, but wasn’t sure of anything. He was riding bareback, and somewhere along the plains he had tossed off his saddle, and cloths, other than the blue uniform he wore, now raggedy and spotted with blood; had you asked him where he tossed those items, his best recollection would have been: the ravine.
It was near noon now; he was too weary to go any further. Too spent, he believed the phonies were part of a larger herd now, and felt it was unnecessary to hide any longer; the foe had vanished back to where they came from, thank goodness. Therefore, with what little grub he had, he lunched (he had caught a prairie squirrel). What he didn’t know, or see was that the phonies he saw belonged to a few restless Indians, and they, like him, had been resting and feasting after the great battle, in the valley, and allowed the phonies to roam the ravine unattended. And in the process, they spotted the saddle and cloths of the trooper.

The ash dark sky burnt white with heat, vertical heat which soaked into every living thing, near there. Consequently, the young corporal found loose branches, and leaves, pulled some other ones off of the surrounding trees, and built a shelter from the heat, like a tent of sorts. There he fell to sleep, as a heat haze descended, tinged with ash-blues.


“All right, all right!” he mumbled aloud in his semi sleep mode, “I’ll get up!”
The voice spoke in a different tongue, but he understood it.
“Take your time,” the voice said now, in simple English, as if it had adjusted quickly to his mother tongue.
“There are enough ahead of you.” the voice remarked.
The area was treeless not like it had been when he fell to sleep, taken shelter, and he thought on this a moment. His buckskin boots were off. Then some voice, the same voice as before, sounded, “Make room for Armstrong Bridger, left into the line!” At which time a long line of men standing, opened up, spread out, moved forward.
Meanwhile, the trooper was getting back up, onto his feet, at the same time looking at the line, looking over his shoulder, hearing Indian voices, there were three squabbling Indians—it appeared they were having a power struggle over who would get this and that, and he was the package they were fighting over, and one held his scalp in his hands.
Then he heard that so called familiar voice again, say—above the roar of the men in line— men with murky high voices, screeching like souls in torment, “Make room for the trooper!”

No: 470 (9-19-2009)



Part Two of Two

Firing Line
(Based on actual events)

There had been a moment in the forward thrust of the troops; one unhappy trooper swiftly went forward on his mount into obscurity, never to be seen again. Major Reno paid little attention to the soldier, but he was noticed nonetheless, he was from G Troop, his Springfield (rifle) lay across his saddle—he had acted as if he was tired of it all, weeks and weeks in the plains, without killing Indians, but now Indians had been spotted and he rode into the nest of them, fearless, or stupid.
The other troops were being surrounded thereafter, on the plains, although there were a few large trees for safety, nonetheless, the Sioux Indians where shooting bullets everywhichway—mounted on ponies, crisscrossing, sweeping through the bushes and foliage, thereabouts; also Indians had attacked the nearby ravine, the river, and were on the cliffs looking down into the valley, and some were in the valley, four-thousand of them were mounting a deadly war, and this was the onset…

No: 472 (9-20-2009)

Under a Blue Sky (In English and Spanish)

English Version

Under a Blue Sky
(Remembering Mother)

Certainly there is no hurting like the hurting of a deceased mother and those who have hurted long enough and hard enough will never hurt quite as much again, thereafter. You will endure a variety of things with determination, but one’s interest seldom holds because the hurting thing, that ordinary thing, life is a bit horizontal, flat as would be ice-cream, once the taste buds have melted off your tongue. After a mother dies, food tastes like swimming pool water in your mouth, like oil around your lips, and you often smell as you feel brittle, toasted like bread, and when you eat it, it never quite tastes as it should (not for a very long time anyhow).
You can only learn about this taste of death by coming into contact with it, the taste doesn’t go away late at night, and drinking alcohol doesn’t help, nor water, the taste of those old love buds, of having mother back and around; after a week, a month, a year, even after six-years—sometimes you lose track of the time, but in memory you will begin to function again, things regenerate inside of you, one does not know how or why, they just do, under a blue sky, things we had once experience, learned, a long time ago with that person. We are only sad because we miss them, doing those things with them again, and knowing we never will.
A hurting daughter or son, one that was a companion to their mother, if the hurting is not enough for grieving, and s/he is not satisfied with God’s plan, be careful, an elephant may hit you right where you least expect it, so turn quick before that happens.
Frankly, I don’t see the pain going completely away, you face it the same way so and so faced it, all those others before you. I think of it some times as if mother went on a marvelous trip, into a far-off unknown country I’ve yet to visit, a place that is out of sight of earth, where trains, planes, boats and cars can’t reach, where they don’t hurt anymore, and in a season or two, I’ll be there also, and that oily taste on my lips will vanish.
So now I’m still hurt—not as much of course—but I go on writing and horseback riding, perhaps do some fishing—things I’ve always done, that make me happy, and will continue to, until I get worn out and die like mother. The thrill of life comes back when I am standing under a blue sky, and I know mother is resting with all the good fish, in heaven.


No: 469 ((9-19-2009)(written in memory of mothers in general, inspired by an old lady I once met, whom died a year ago: Lia Soledad Ouino Caseres…; also dedicated to my mother who was born September 28, 1920, and died July 1, 2003.))

Spanish Version


Bajo un Cielo Azul
(Recordando a mi madre)

Ciertamente no hay dolor como el dolor perder a una madre, y aquellos que han herido muy duro y por mucho tiempo, nunca herirán tanto de nuevo, después de esto. Tú resistirás una variedad de cosas con determinación, pero casi nunca mantendrás el interés en uno debido a la cosa que hiere, esa cosa ordinaria; la vida es un poco horizontal, llana como sería un helado una vez que el sabor se ha esfumado de tu boca. Después que una madre muere, la comida sabe como agua de piscina en tu boca, como aceite alrededor de tus labios que tú frecuentemente lo hueles mientras te sientes frágil, tostado como un pan, y cuando lo comes éste, nunca sabe a lo que debería (de todos modos, no por mucho tiempo)
Tú sólo puedes conocer del sabor de la muerte al entrar en contacto con ésta, el sabor no desaparece en la noche, y la bebida de alcohol no ayuda, ni tampoco el agua; tú aún lo sientes después de una semana, un mes, un año, incluso después de seis años—a veces tú pierdes la cuenta del tiempo; pero en memoria tú empezarás a funcionar de nuevo, las cosas se regeneran dentro de ti, uno no sabe cómo o por qué, ellos sólo lo hacen, debajo de un cielo azul, las cosas que una vez experimentamos, aprendimos, mucho tiempo atrás con esa persona. Nosotros sólo estamos tristes debido a que los extrañamos, extrañamos hacer las cosas con ellos de nuevo, y sabiendo que nunca lo volveremos a hacer.
Si a una hija o un hijo adolorido, uno que fue un compañero de su madre, el dolor no es suficientemente para consolarlo, y ella o él no están satisfechos con el plan de Dios, ¡cuidado! un elefante puede golpearlos justo allí donde menos lo esperan, por eso vuélvanse rápido antes de que esto pase.
Francamente, yo no veo que el dolor se vaya completamente, tú lo enfrentas de la misma forma que fulano o mengano lo enfrentaron, todos aquellos antes que tú. Pienso en esto a veces como si mi madre fue en un viaje maravilloso, a un país lejano, desconocido, que aun no he visitado, un lugar que está fuera de la vista terrenal, donde los trenes, aviones, botes o carros no pueden llegar, donde ellos no sufren nunca más, y en una estación o más, allí estaré yo también, y aquel sabor de aceite en mis labios se esfumará.
Así que ahora todavía estoy dolido—no tanto por supuesto—pero me dedico a escribir y a montar caballos, talvez voy de pesca un poco—cosas que siempre las hice, que me hacen feliz, y lo continuaré haciendo hasta que me canse y muera como mi madre. La emoción de la vida vuelve cuando estoy bajo un cielo azul, y sé que mi madre está descansando con todos los peces buenos, en el cielo.

No: 469 ((19-Septiembre-2009) (escrito en memoria a las madres en general, inspirado en una señora que una vez conocí, quien murió un año atrás: Lia Soledad Quino Caseres…; también dedicado a mi madre quien nació el 28 de Septiembre de 1920 y murió el 1ro. de Julio del 2003.))

A Near Brush with Death

(One night, one morning in Vietnam, ‘71)

So I’ve heard, a bullet, rocket or shell that hits you, you never hear it upon impact. The reason being, all is over, said and done, and if not you are usually unconscious.
But I personally—for myself anyhow, somewhat disagree; I heard every rocket that hit our ammo dump, that evening until morning. Each incoming rocket came with a whistling sound, like a siren in low key, that never reached a roar status until it hit something, like our water tank, or five-ton tuck, or simply the guard shack, or dirt—then crash, and a shower of debris, and broken boards along with this and that, and scraps of metal flying all about, hunks of burning metal soaring by my face, I had seen and heard it all, had I been hit, whose to say what then, you’re dead, and the dead don’t talk, explain, or even question.
And then right after the impact, you listen for the next one to come, if it comes, even if it does not come, you’re waiting for it nonetheless. In such cases of incoming rockets, or shells, there is little to no fighting going on around you—believe it or not, every one around you is racing for some kind of cover, jumping, hiding, digging holes in the ground to cover their heads, sides of their bodies, laying flat and soundless on embankments—as your mind and body remain in a state of alert, high alter—or you freeze or panic (I’ve seen all such cases).
Ammo dumps are not shelled all that often, less often than you’d expect, they are kept usually pretty far behind the main lines of fire, some months there were no shelling at all.
There was one soldier killed that evening, by a rocket, in the ammo dump next to ours. That night and the following morning, it was a long and enduring brush with death; rockets came in half the night, and half the morning. Everyone starting to grin nervously, I saw a few officers there, low ranking, none beyond captain, I didn’t see any like majors to generals, you never do nowadays, or in my day, not like it used to be. Not sure how they got all their Vietnam Medals, I would guess they ordered some Battalion, or Brigade, clerk to type them up for them.

No: 467 (9-16-2009) Based on actual events.

The Night in Saigon

I had stared at the plane. Barely lit, it seemed anchored on the runway, at the U. S. Military Air Base in Saigon. Though I had been in Vietnam for a year, I hadn’t yet got used to being an inhabitant, although I felt like one. In the countries that surrounded us and all their cities seldom did they produce much illumination at night—that is, all through the night. In many homes a lantern was lit low, or a candle in the darkness, it was feared once lit, that the Vietcong (VC) might select this moment in time to plague their city or home, with an outbreak of violence, it was more to be feared than Berlin’s so called Iron Curtain. I had come from twentieth-century America, to fight a war in this 18th century half lit country.
This plane was a passenger jet: it was being loaded. I knew it was going to fly the next day, I heard in the evening. In the unsympathetic gleam of the near stripped star lit night, crates of things were being loaded onto the jet, brought into its hold. Along with baggage, duffle bags for over 240-military personnel. The jet was being made ready to take off—like the Titanic, in the day of the unknown iceberg, back in 1912, that would hit the ship later on, and sink her. Every plane that left Saigon in those later months of 1971, was bombarded with incoming rockets from the so called enemy, some planes never made it off the runway, others got hit in the air, and had to make a crash landing; others, crashed into the sea, before they got to Japan for refueling, because of damage in taking off; these things somehow were silenced by the military—to a certain degree anyway.
Prior to this day, they, the Vietcong, and America had engulfed Cambodia, the boarders of Thailand, parts of China (for we had received over 4000-warnings from China’s government to stop penetrating its boarders), the whole South China Sea, all the cities in South Vietnam, Hanoi, in the North, and then some, all had gone under into a war mode status (it was the way we fought wars back then, instead of confronting Russia directly or China, we fought conventionally in their backyards, by proxy through other harmless countries), and Saigon was the way out—nothing was safe for hundreds of miles around it, to include the coast, Saigon was the last hope for escaping to find justice, freedom, and tolerance, a home, and livelihood. This was the door to America. If you couldn’t get to it, you were doomed, if not condemned to a bloody onslaught, from all sides, within it. For deep in the jungles were internment camps, held by the enemy, where homesick Americans were imprisoned and withering away. And as predicted in time of war, there was a fear among our troops and alias—of ending up there, for once there, the individual, the human part of him no longer existed, and not even a passport was sacred for escaping—had a prisoner been a civilian.
That evening, the evening before I would leave Saigon and Vietnam forever, I had gone to a nightclub to drink, gamble, and just simply do whatever suited me, good or bad. My military ID card permitted me to walk about Saigon and the military air base freely. The plane secured on the runway was one of three planes to take off the following day: one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and mine in the evening. And all three were filled to capacity. A few of my fellow Americans decided to give up their tickets and wanted to stay in Vietnam, it was based on drugs I assume, an absurd idea, for even if the Vietcong won the war, or even if we won the war, it would have taken near a miracle to get a flight out of there in the near future. The troop level was at one point 500,000, now it was down to 205,000, and we were withdrawing slowly, and to get a seat on a plane if you were not on the roster was by faith alone.
I had lost a few dollars that evening gambling, and a few more dollars spent on drinks, and I was interested in this one certain woman, about my age, she wore a short silky dress that seemed to stick to her ever curve, and lovely as a peacock. We drank a few drinks together, she worked on the airbase, and asked if I wanted to go to her house for the evening, but I knew I had to be back—lest they, the military think I deserted. And God forbid they get such a notion, so I declined the offer—regrettably.

The following night I found myself pacing aimlessly about, it was 4:00 a.m., and we were going to try to take off early before the VC, detected us. I began to stare at the plane from my window, it overlooked the runway. I thought, and took no further notice of it: I bet they are all out there, the VC, surrounding the airbase, in the tall grass, with mortars, or rockets—I kind of even felt they were watching this very building. A soldier that has been in some kind of battle, any kind where rockets or bullets are flying all about, never loses his fear or alertness that it could happen again (once back home, in America, every time I heard the backfire of a big semi truck, I jumped into a safety zone, on the street, I dived into the gutters, held my hands over my head, said aloud, and at times to myself—‘In coming!’ only to find I had an odd looking audience peering down at me).
So it is safe to say, I never completely slept in Vietnam, not even in Saigon. I turned away from the window, as if I was a man, civilian, who had no reason to fear, but I did.
A moment later I heard the voice of an officer—I was a corporal. It was behind me. A few of the other soldiers in my room had drunk themselves to sleep, at 2:00 a.m., and were like butterflies stone-still in their cocoons.
Now the officer was beside me, he was a little taller than I, said:
“Tell your men corporal, if they want to go home, be ready in fifteen-minutes sharp, we’re loading ahead of time.”
I didn’t say a word, just nodded my head ‘Okay.” I’m not a Sergeant, I told myself, and it’s not my job to shake them or command them to get ready, I simply said, in a loud voice, “Do you want to go to America, if so you better get up, we’re leaving in fifteen-minutes!” A few of the soldiers asked “You say fifteen-minutes?” But I never answered back, I did not reply.


I looked at all the soldiers, and a few civilians on the plane, they looked disbelievingly. I knew, of course, that soldiers in our situation could go bananas, that is a bit local, should this plane not take off quick or on time, or if possible before schedule, because everyone knew the VC was out there ready to do what they do best, rocket us. And the element of surprise would be over quickly.
After five-minutes on the plane, and everyone with their seatbelts on, the solitude was becoming unbearable. And the rockets started coming in. An attack was imminent, in the makings. The world of the soldiers on board that had become an empty space, filled the void with threats, near death threats if the pilot did not take off, I think he was frozen to the helm.
Perhaps there was no need to threaten the pilot, but a hundred voices were doing so, and no officers dare to stop the stampede of voices, and I dare not say what they said; then the engines started, and that was a positive gesture. Then the plane started rolling down the runway, and the rockets came in more—one right after the other, closer and closer to the plane, and voices were yelling “Get this damn thing airborne!”
Then some brave officer tried to tell the troops to calm down, and fifty voice shouted “Sit your ass down or else!” And he did.
“Alright, all right!” a voice said over the speakers (it was the captain flying this tugboat of a passenger jet), “We’re airborne, and on our way home boy!”
And we all gave the pilot a ‘Hurrah!’ I guess you could say we had a very short, love-hate relationship with him.
When we landed in Japan for refueling, we had heard, through the grapevine, one of the prior flights, either the morning or afternoon flight, had crashed (I didn’t know for certain which one it was, but it was one or the other), lost 240-soldiers in the deep. Nothing else was ever heard on the matter, that’s all, nothing else, until the following morning, when we had landed at Fort Lewis Washington, there was a blurb of news that came out of the media, about the loss of life.

No: 471 ((9-20-2009) (emr))

The Book Report

One of the purposes of a writer is to create, construct, and produce something better (from morning to night), until— somewhere along the line, you say: that’s it, I can’t do better, or this is my masterpiece, or I’m simple out of steam and can’t write anymore or it doesn’t pay, or I lost interest in it. I was never cut out to be a writer in the first place ((for such people they have suffered foolishly and gladly, so it would seem, or they simple had great energy for the short distance, and wishes to be a lazy dog now) (a simple matter of being a deportee you might say, which is perhaps best, because they never hired out to be a patriot, nor really had a knack for writing in the first place, just go pay your taxes)). For me it is a pleasure to be with a good writer, better than being with generals or presidents, etc., we can add politicians in general to the list, and actors—the last two are the same, all unimportant in the long scheme of things to me. Then the task of writing becomes of no outcome.
For example, George Sterling, the San Francisco Poet, of the 1920s committed suicide, because he admitted to the above statement, yes indeed he laid aside his life, as did Sylva Plath, and Ann Saxon, they had come to the zenith of their writing of poetry, and looked at what was ahead, and perhaps, what they did in the past, said—it’s all mediocrity now, perchance we can put Hemingway into this category with the long novels, and the famous writer of “In Cold Blood,” because Mr. Capote, never wrote anything worthwhile thereafter, so it has been said, yet I liked his short stories better than his longer novels or novelettes. Erich Maria Remarque, wrote a number of long novels, all great, he knew what he was doing when he did it, and he did it well, and long, throughout his life. And he enjoyed his celebrity. E.E. Commings wrote one good book, turned to poetry, and wrote one good poem, and should have returned to writing novels, he was better at it.
Most writes, but not all, hope the next book is one grain better than their last, some writers could careless, they write strictly for the quick reader, and then toss the book in file thirteen—and if they don’t, the reader does, right where the rubbish goes, and the publisher laughs all the way to the bank. They’re not writing for posterity, or God or even the devil, they know they write trash, and with no style, they acknowledge they wrote for the present way of life, which stops them from ever creating anything better, they have many enjoyable nights, but nobody ever can tell them honestly, “I’d like to reread that book again, page to page, shoulder to shoulder,” if they can even find it on the shelves after a month or two. They are a hindrance to the good writers, characterless, like the characters in their novels (books) —the usual ponies, of Hollywood. Although this area is complicated, in the long run they lose the goat and the rope.
Some folks—readers, in particular readers, and especially movie makers who read books and manuscripts, and screenplays, and plays, and rewrite them, even many newspaper reporters, the media in general, condemn having a good writer putting their best into their form, they call it foolishness nowadays—the dead don’t see their work in print, so those things that may have lasted way beyond a person’s life time, such work that could have been, should have been, never will be, was never undertaken, God forgive them.

There are some books that no matter what page you turn to, it will never turn pale or stale, and will always have its own following.
Even rereading a good book, every month or year, or decade for some folks, is gratifying, short and snappy for the reader, you know when you open that book turn its pages the work that was done in it was part of the man or woman’s obituary, he or she died a little so it could be produced. The book is inspiring, satisfying. In essence, the book has immortality. This so called book I am talking about, while people die around it, it continues to breath and live, like the pillars in Greece.
At this point, it might be worthwhile mentioning Mary Renault, she wrote about everyday life in ancient Greece, and I’ve yet to read anything better in novel form.
It is nice to make the New York Times book review list (it only takes a certain following to make it, it is called selling; trash is put on the list on a regularly bases as well as fairly good reading books but it is no way to rate a book reasonably). Let me also add to this list, the Bram Stoker Awards, the National Book Awards, the Nobel Prize for Literature, and the Pulitzer Prizes, all shine with folly and contempt.

On another note, not everybody needs to write poetry, or the long book, or the short story, you experiment, like you do with everything else in life, you try this and that, until you find out what you do best. William Faulkner I think wrote better short stories than he did long novels and he didn’t know it; Robert E. Howard wrote long novels but to me his poetry was far better. Edgar Rice Burroughs wrote what he wrote best, long, plain novels of blood thirsty warriors; and Brum Stoker’s arduous novels of mystic, are a great read, most all of them. And then you got those great short story writers, such as Hawthorn, and O Henry. But you also get your mixture, those who can write anything, and everything, or a number of things, again like Hawthorn, and I suppose I can add Mark Twain also into this everything category, although he would not be on the top of my list. And then you got the terrible certain things, such writers write, whom should never skip into certain categories, such as Hemingway was by no means a poet, nor was Faulkner in my eyes, paler than dead ghosts.

No: 468 (9-17-2009)

Sons of the Old Men

“A good name is better than precious ointments…” Ch.7, Vs 1 (Ecc)



It was in time past, that names carried great weight with them. For we were a people (in those far–off days, in many of the lands throughout the world) who paid much attention to our old men, gave them much honor; youth even in my day—sixty some years ago was especially careful to preserve good character of their old men, for their names sake (in particular in the United States where I grew up with a Russian-Polish family, and even in the seventies, in Europe, where I lived for four years).
Such men have won wars, ruled countries, as well as households, and raised children, reserving and preserving their character and name within their sons from reproach.
These are of course the sons of the old men, whom are old men now, whom without a good name to leave their children and their country, felt empty (this emptiness is near nonexistent in our youth today).
In many of the social orders today (societies throughout the world), and especially in Peru, where I have a second home, although Peru is a warm society in general, a man’s word is no more than a broken branch from a tree, not to be given much notice, or valued. Matter-of-fact, it is to the contrary, looked upon as stupid, and if confronted to be made accountable for ones behavior, it is taken as an insult.

No: 473 (9-20-2009)

Grodno

[The Milk bottle and the Tailor—1901]


He did not know it was a restaurant at first, he was only eight-years old, it was 1901, and his father had taken him to Grodno, a small town close to the boarder of Poland in Russia. But he’d not forget walking through those doors the first time, and his father outwardly being known by all the patrons there. All saying:
“Hi, Yulie, how’s it going?” just nice old fashion greetings, that’s all it was, but they make for lasting memories. It was his first trip to Grodno, and as I mentioned, his first in the restaurant for that matter.
Most of the folks in the restaurant were having soup, a few with a bottle of vodka hidden under their coats, pouring it into their coffee. Mostly they were older men, a few business types, no children; Anatolee was the only child he could see. His Papa pulled out a cigar, and like a few of the others in the eatery, filled it up with smoke. The tables had very solid looking wood to them—hard oak, but his papa didn’t sit at the table, he pulled out a stool for himself and one for Tony, and Tony imitated his father as they both sat down, he putting his elbows on the long stretched out wooden bar.
“Milk and pie for the kid,” Tony’s father told the person behind the bar (in Russian), as the barkeep told the waitress down a ways from the bar, “And for me, just coffee with a shot of vodka on the side, that’ll do.”
Tony noticed the waitress pull the milk from under the counter out, it was warm milk in a bottle; it was how they drank it normally. Then she took the top off and poured it in a glass, and cut the pie in sections, giving him no more or less than the other pieces, pulling out a fork, and then delivered it to the barkeep, and onto the boy. Yulie had already gotten his coffee and vodka.
All of a sudden approached a short fat little man, half balled, cigar in his mouth,
“So Yulie, is this the youngest, the one you told me about, the tailor to be?”
“Sure is Ivan,” said Yulie with a smile, and then introduced his son to him properly. Anatolee was a bit taken back, he didn’t know he was going to be a tailor someday. He thought what a good surprise, ‘Papa was thinking of me.’

It was a trying time for the country, a revolutionary spirit was in the air, and work was not plentiful, and a trade was the best way to insure the boy could make a living and Anatolee would practice at this trade in years to come.
This day would remain in Anatolee’s head all his life for some reason it had taught him if anything, that one had to look at long term goals, instead of short term gains; that is to say, one must not grab, but rather plan.


Note: A Chapter Extract from the story “From the Baltic” written July, 2006, extracted reedited for inclusion, 9-2009.
Anatolee, Tony and Anton, is all to be considered the same person.

The Old Fur Tailor

((Eastside of St. Paul, Minnesota, 1966) (a light into my world))


When he saw me coming in through the door, onto the porch of our boarding house (more on the order of a duplex), the ninety-three year old man, thin as a bean, a retired fur tailor looked up and then reached over to greet me, as often he did in those few months I lived there.
“Get me a beer,” he said. I went upstairs to the refrigerator in the hallway where I kept my one case of beer, where I put several bottles in the refrigerator to cool for when I got home from work, I worked at the South Saint Paul Stockyards back then, my room was across from the refrigerator, and I brought the old man one beer downstairs, his apartment was on the first floor, unable to do much walking, it was convenient. He already had an opener in his hands and slid the opener quickly on top of the beer cap to open it.
“I got some change,” said the old man, wishing to pay for the beer.
“Beer, it’s just beer, don’t worry about paying for it,” I said, I was just nineteen years old, but could buy bear at any liquor store around, and made good money at the stockyards, and a case of beer was only three-dollars, less than an hours wages.
He drank the beer down fast, sucked up all the cold suds.
“What’s the matter?” said the old man to me. I didn’t answer him right away, just watched him enjoying the beer, and I had one also in my hands, it was a hot summer’s day.
“It’s very cold,” the old man said with a smile. The bottle had frost on it.
I reached over and took the empty bottle, and brought him another one.
“Thanks,” said the old man, and went to rest in his room. And I brought the bottle back upstairs to its container. I had told the old timer, before he had left, “You know where the beer is, if you get thirsty just take one,” thinking he was too old to climb those steps anyhow.
“Beer,” I said, “he’s like me, he likes a good beer,” and I got ready to meet a lady friend of mine.


It was a month later, I came home walking up those same steps to the entrance, and looked to see who was waving their hands, almost wildly on the porch, and it was the old man. He wore old worn out trousers, and even in the heat, he wore a sweater, and a plaid shirt under that. His face was pale, it was always pale and thin, but he looked a bit under the weather this day, it was extremely hot. He had a beer in his hands. As I got onto the porch, he was about to say something, and I said, “Sure,” hesitated a moment, then added, “Its fine you took a beer,” and he shut up quickly.
“Thank you,” he said, “it was a hell of a hike up those stairs, so I took three beers so I’d not have to make a second or third trip.”
I noticed he had snickers on, making his voyage up those twenty-stairs a bit lighter. Then I got thinking: that’s were my beer has been disappearing to, I had to buy two cases the past week, it was disappearing faster than I could count, I had thought, Sandy, who came over to my room to visit me now and then—before I’d arrive home from work, was drinking it and I said nothing, and here the old man—who was now smacking his lips tight onto the top of the bottle of beer, had taken liberties. Although dignified about it, he was a little old thief in disguise, but I could do nothing but laugh about it, and swear that if he had enough gumption to climb those stairs, I wasn’t going to be the one to stop him from a few beers in the middle of summer. And the damn thing is, he knew it, and I could hear him all the way down the stairs from my room singing, “Ho! Ho! Ho! …and a bottle of bear!”

No: 274 (9-21-2009)

Death by Thirst

((The Sea of Japan, 1999) (incident, 1973))


(Presumed, day one, two and three) “I can’t swallow very well; my salivary glands are starting to dry up; I’ve been under the sweltering sun for hours, unaccountable hour’s now. My body is being cooled by the constant cold water tossed over me at pretty many regular intervals. The sound of the smashing waves continually is having its affect on me, sound effects—drumming through my ears, my whole body. The wooden raft I am on is swinging back and forth, like a tugboat in a storm, but there is no storm, similar to a wrestler throwing me everywhichway. There is no way to get dry, no rain to drink. I know I have perhaps five days of life in me.
(Presumed, day, four and five) “The sun still is blazing, the winds being pushed, rolling waves, sharks; I think sharks and sturgeon and hourly prayers. I lay tight against the wood on the raft; my legs hang over the opposite end, near touching the water.
“I am firmly convinced I am doomed. There is no use to put out a great effort; I need my strength to endure. I cannot control the drift of the logged platform.
“I ate some raw fish, but still on this fifth day, I’ve had no water, I am hoping to get a bird to eat. (Later, separated from the other writings)

“Th en I di ed…!”


The question arises how did I come about this account?
When the so called sailor was found drifting (if indeed he was a sailor who’s to say) he had written in ink all over his body—hour after hour—what wasn’t smudged was documented by the Japanese officials, they were all astonished to find a journal written on a human body. And then it was pieced together. It would appear; even under good weather it didn’t help the poor soul, found adrift in the Japanese Sea.
While visiting Japanese friends, near Tokyo, in September, of 1999, I fell upon this story, that supposedly took place in 1973, prior to the end of the Vietnam War; and it was assumed there was a link to that…


No: 476 (9-22-2009)

What is Man the Better? Ecc VI: 11

“I think your books are wonderful and would really like to encourage my readers to experience what you are offering them.”

Gail M. Weber ((Owner, ‘Tosca’ A Minnesota Cultural Magazine) (August 8, 2009))

What is Man the Better? Ecc VI: 11

(A comprehensive portable library of new writings by the author, to include the novelette
and romance: “A Leaf and a Rose”)


By Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D. (Vol: III)
Andean Scholar, and Three Times Poet Laureate



An Old Photo
(For Shawn, Cody and Zaneta)

I was looking at an old photo today, one of all my three children mixed in with me… (at a park, in St. Paul, Minnesota, way back when, during one summer picnic event, I would guess) a voice inside my head, told me I was going to go to sleep pretty soon, for a very long time, and when I woke up, perhaps, we’d all be reunited (if at all they’d like that, and if we were in the same dimension), so it was best I write, write this, write it now, today. I was looking at this old photo you see, as I mentioned before, Cody to my right—his hand reaching up and over my shoulder, laying soft and gentle, and Shawn to my left—his hand holding onto mine, solid and firm, and Zaneta in the middle, her hands to her sides, like a little wooden soldier— myself, behind her. I thought as I looked deep into the faces of the photo: they were all mine back then—all mine for a little while, all there was of me, was in them, and then some. Yet, somehow it all faded so quickly—seemingly, faster than a clap of an eye. Shawn’s face, had a smile nearly reaching ear to ear; Cody’s grin was a happy one, hands in his pocket, trying to be cool at eleven or twelve; and Zaneta, half and half (her, I could never tell), a smile with a grin, perhaps she had swallowed a goldfish, and was laughing? And the closer I looked, and the longer I looked, the more I saw all three of them, that they had my thinking and glaring eyes—eyes that could never lie. I guess that’s something.


No: 2666 (9-13-2009) “In with vanity, and out with darkness…seeing there be many things in life that cause vanity (or pride) under the sun…what is man the better?” ((Taken out of scripture, and context, and rewritten to the author’s liking.)(Ecc))

The Demons of Ed Gein

A Short Story of a Madman

(Based on actual events the author experienced)





Part I: My Story


The character of Ed Gin was a deep significance to my babysitter, and in a monologue of openness and immediacy she achieved a poignant description of his covert life to me, essential to the whole brutality of his doings, to include his lack of humanity, and his bamboozling those around him, in some kind of display of joviality, his lack of compassion penetrated my pores, stained the surface of my skin. To Elisabeth La Rose, her lady friend was of sound mind, quick, and optimistic, the same as she described her friend Ed, whom would come to visit her somewhat regularly, but sparsely.
This was a time the Midwestern cities became filled with fear, during the mid to late fifties, because of a landslide of slayings by some madman. This was the Eisenhower Days, the first age after World War Two, and the Korean Conflict, the Cold War was in the makings, and the once reserved, courageous, and proud period, was diminishing. It was a time, unspeakable and remote, for Minnesota and Wisconsin. The depth in time to which this story reaches back is unforgettable, and was conveyed in the newspapers, on the radio and television, to no end.
I remember well the richness of those younger days, and in particular how Mrs. La Rose dropped me and my brother and her boy Jerome off at school, St. Louis School, in the center of the city of St. Paul. When she came to pick me up, and her son Jerome, from school this one late afternoon, in which she would drive me home usually, she was nearly in tears, speaking her thought aloud in her bewilderment. When she explained what the matter was, the essence of the subject, what had happened, a spell of youth was broken inside of me, and I was but ten-years old at the time. Evil was born, forever—and it was, and it would remain so.
I thought; I stammered inside my body, mechanically —as now my memory reaches back. She said, “Caroline was friends to Ed Gin, you know, the one they captured, who killed all those women, and she didn’t even know it was him doing the killings,” so she declared to me. All I really knew was those words she was speaking belonged to this iron madman, from hell that was all over the media. But then she added something to her monologue, and he become permanently personified as equal to the devil himself to me, “Ed would bring steaks down to Caroline, wrapped in brown paper—quite neatly, off and on, he had for the past year and a half done this, and she said they were delicious steaks, and two days ago she found out…” and Mrs. La Rose hesitated, paused, looked at me as to see if I was mentally prepared for the rest of her monologue, saying:
“…and she found out how he got them. She’d ate them, those steaks, had some left in her refrigerator, and the police officers took them as evidence, I expect for evidence, and she found out they were human protein (meat), and now she’s in the hospital near delirious.”
The misfortune of his life cannot be—by no means figured out solely in the rendering of his character or nature, or morbid fiber, for he was condemned to live trapped inside his own body and mind, cursed, brought captive before his own demons. But for the slayings of all those women, all those families that had to endure suffer, that was the real misfortune; and to a ten-year old boy, with far less power to understand, it was a compellingly realistic picture, an event that would never be forgotten.



Part II: Ed’s Story


The Real Edward Gein


The story untold within the above story (my story, Part I), I shall tell it in brief now, Ed’s Story. Edward Gein was born 1906, he died 1984, at the age of 78-years old. He remained in a mental hospital for 37-years. He lived in a farmhouse near the town of Plainfield, in Central Wisconsin (population 680 at the time). He has been alleged to have killed 15-women. On one cold weekend, in November of 1957, Mr. Gein was captured, and his woodshed checked out and there was found body parts of women, along with one woman who was gutted like a deer, hanging from a rafter by chains. Inside the farmhouse—moments prior to his capture, he was in the process of cooking on the stove human flesh. His lampshades were made of human skin, as was his furniture. He had nine skin faced masks; in certain rooms there were human bones found.
In addition to being a murderer, he robbed graveyards for bodies—female bodies; he was reared by his mother to despise if not hate, women. And so we see in a way, he was experimenting with female organs and body parts, even shrunken heads.
Like the famous movie “Psycho,” of 1959, Ed Gein, had a similar mother-son relationship (Ed’s mother had died in 1945, his father prior to that and his one and only brother, in a fire).
He, Ed Gein, was considered by his neighbors as a little man, a bit odd but harmless and simple, even timid, a farmer on a two-hundred acre farm, who kept a very dark house, when observed from a distance.
Shortly after his capture, his farmhouse went ablaze, arson was expected, and when brought to his attention, he remarked in so many words: it was perhaps for the better.


No: 464 (Part one written: 9-11-2009/ part two written 9-12-2009)

Flies in the Ammo Shack

(A Vietnam War story about Flies, 1971)


It was a hot afternoon in the ammo dump, inside the ammo shack—consisting of two rooms, walls made out of plywood, floors or inlays of long wooden boards—flat timber for the most part, you could see through their cracks, placed crooked alongside one another; also the shack was a smite lopsided, almost wobbly, and very broken. Planted on four by four beams underneath the floorboards, about a half foot high, amongst the soft white sand that surrounded it, giving a playground for the lizards to engage in recreation, unnoticed.
I carried a semi old ‘Stars and Strips,’ magazine with me when I had to go to the ammo shack (where us soldiers did our paperwork for allocations and distributing of ammunition to the convoys arriving from several locations within the vicinity.
I carried that old ‘Stars and Strips,’ magazine for a month, until a new one came out, and used it to swish away flies. They were everywhere in the ammo shack—we were infested with them, with their buzzing around as if we were invaders: fat and thin bellied files; some dark others light shads of dark, long and short winged flies, biting your hands and face, and ears, behind your neck, swarming around you, sneaking up your shirt sleeves, diving into your eyes as if they were small punishing missiles, trained by the Vietcong to annoy you.—me, us!
There were dead or dying flies, also walking flies on all the three desks within the two rooms of the shack, filling the atmosphere with putrid debris, aiming towards one’s mouth, but quite content if they missed, and simply landed on your lips. They contaminated everything, clinging, and climbing, and even some crawling, in their fastest gait possible, especially the big fat bellied ones, they’d try to get away but I’d swat them, unfortunately leaving a dumpy-bloody mess, I really tried to simply scare them away, but like I said before—or implied, they were already brained washed and ready to sacrifice their lives for the cause.
I waited patiently those long hot days for the sun to go down, so I could get the hell out of there and get back to base camp and get drunk, and forget those nasty pests!


No: 465/ 9-13-2009

First Glimpses of Asteroid-2019

(Earth bound)

[A Vision and a Reality]


As our scientists probe the heavens, it has been quietly discovered, an asteroid is in the direct path of earth, and the asteroid will hit earth awkwardly on its surface, and will bring a momentarily quiet, like an atomic explosion four-thousand times that of Hiroshima. This insurgent will cause a panic worldwide. Even the late Carl Sagan, had forecasted something along these lines for future-times. But I wish to share with you, as I have done in the pass, my vision on this asteroid bound for earth, and its reality.
In my vision, I saw white beaches turn black; gray stone structures, buildings and bridges cast into waterways; shipping canals, cities and towns along the coast tossed into the sea, curling against rocky headlands, bluffs, and cliffs; Midwestern towns and fields, trains and fishing boats, factories belching smoke. Cargo laying dormant all about, in every direction—in an uncountable number of cities, looking against the sand and scorched waters, as sea creatures float, bloated dying if not dead, such as the whale, as they approach the beach to die. Smokestacks silenced. There will be few if any, rich, flat, dark-green fields to look at, but the few I saw were spotted; even the rice marshes and the mountain chains all tossed upside down as if someone had them all in the palm of their hands and turned it them about. And the earth rattled like a ramshackle bus.
There was no celebrating of victory over this irregular enemy. Nor will the soldier be walking abreast, arms linked, singing, shouting, holding hands, taking their wild celebrations, as in past wars. No more pleasure boats with couples packed, jammed, standing in lines like the old days of fiestas, than of war, or peace. It will be a time of little for the living, food, meat especially, it will be rationed, I saw all this, and butcher shops being closed, no lines formed outside, because they were empty inside. The sky was dark through miles of orange, heavy and strong dust, and winds, no weddings, little sleep, people walking through the dust, watching the heavens for lights…

(In 1984, I saw all this in one of my sixty visions, somewhat recorded in the book, “The Last Trumpet…” This asteroid was zooming through two great bodies in space, possible Earth’s moon, and Earth itself; as a result causing friction on earth, a movement in earth’s crust, causing the poles to move. And so for the most part, I have to agree with Mr. Sagan, but I must add something to this picture. I do not believe it will be total destruction as he would have forecast, and I believe he firmly trusted would prevail. Let me go on with my description, and vision)

At the front of all this, a noise came as a heavy grunt (sorry but it is the best I can conjure up for the sound); and there was a great and gray wisp of smoke to mark the insurgent position and first impact, thereafter came the high inrushing, and ripping sounds, where many cities and their streets and homes within these cities, full of people, came head and body first, in front of these flying stones and debris, came with a sudden flash as if the world, its global electronic system crashed like granite-dust, a roaring crash, echoing like a chain of jets shelling from one side of my ear to the other, and it killed old women returning home from the markets, heaping these people like cloths high into the air, only to drift like kites, and drop into small huddles back on earth, in black heaps everywhere, and everybody looked detached from one another that remained standing, living, walking, many had been whirling against walls and houses.

Such cities as Washington D.C., New York City, the coast of Florida, San Francisco, Paris, the whole of Egypt, among other locations all under duress…people, all kinds of people in squares, laying dead like old and torn bundles of clothing, nothing but dust and rubble, fragments. Motor cars that were in motion on streets had stopped suddenly, others swerved and drivers staggered out to find safety elsewhere. Many women, with their scalps hanging down over their eyes that had been walking down the sidewalks window-shopping; old men with their hands against their faces, blood dripping down and over their chins.
The tallest buildings were bombarded with wreckage, as if being shelled; landmarks likewise.
When it was over, I closed my eyes to rest, then went back for observations as if to see what the new world looked like, and it looked like a ruined house, only a few minutes away on all sides of me by foot. I could if I dare, pinpoint it in the Bible: perhaps Revelation, chapter 6, would be the biblical equivalent to the scientific Sagan concept, or close to it.

I believe this asteroid will be available for watching, with the naked eye, between 2016 and 2019. I will probably be long gone, I’m 61, years old now, and although these years are not far-off, I am not in the best of health. But fear not, I never saw that it ended the world, as Sagan would place it under his scientific data—I think he stretched it a bit far. Yes even behind the crumbly dug trenches in Florida that I saw, and men lying paralyzed, and the ammonic red rain, this dark blue spot in the heavens will not disappear so simply. Even below the sunken roads I saw flames, burning yellow, black oily smoke rising, explosion after explosion, tanks in motion, tanks passing through Washington D.C., machine guns and rifle fire in Florida, when I stopped to turn around seeing many foot soldiers, it all passed, as if waiting on the world for tomorrow’s action.

Notes: Written sometime in 2005, and rejected by publishers because of its negative and dooms day reality. The contents of this article have been proven to be highly possible. Rewritten July 7, 2006 (from a vision), second revision September, 2006, third revision September 2009.

The Iron Fisted Knight

(Of Hohenloh and Heilbronn along the Neckar River)


The Spirit of Goetz

Goetz von Berlichingen was not any run of the mill German knight—by far, but neither was he one of chivalry. Yet on the one hand, he became known as Germany’s red-bearded medieval Robin Hood, sort of, and by reputation, ‘The iron-fisted knight.’ Born AD 1480, died 1562, at the age of 82-years old, who fought in the Bavarian war of 1504, and lost his hand to a cannonball that smashed into his sword and drove it through the armor of his hand an arm, but with some creativity, and a skilled armoire, who designed him an artificial hand our of armor, he was back in business, robbing and stilling and battling with whomever he could along the Neckar River, where he purchased Hornberg Castle in 1517, and used it as a base for his raids. If he should lay claim to any fame, let it be as it should be written with an inscription that reads, at Hornberg, where he died in 1562: ‘Here lies Germany’s most notorious, infamous warmongering knight!’ But in actuality and in a Latin inscription it reads in part: “Goetz, the magnanimous hero, rests here in the depths of the grave. Among the honorable ones, his name was always mentioned. For with great valor, he found bloody battles….” The Battles and the Mob Of his victorious mob, the raiders Goetz led, along the Neckar and, within the valley, unchallenged, and considerable more earthly than spiritual, most of his followers like him, had been convinced that the popes and cardinals on his day, and before them were no more than thieves, that the wealth of the Roman church, be it in Germany or Rome, or elsewhere was no more than a theft from the nations and a scandal to the world at large, they seized all movably valuables, to include works of art, relics, and so forth. If there was any proclaimed religious icon, it was Luther, by the Lutherans, whom were also among the mob and invaders, and whom had very little use for Luther per se. From village to village, this mob rushed on through the streets killing indiscriminately any man, woman or child that crossed their paths. Their blood thirst nearly aroused the whole valley. They pillaged every church, monastery they could find. Mothers and fathers, saw their sons slain, daughters raped, houses burned, there was no safety, helpless prey. But it must be said; he appealed to the rich men of the countryside, and was hired more than once, to battle their enemies. This robber baron made his area of assaults his personal Sodom and Gomorra. Those who defied him, priest alike were buried alive, nuns and respectable woman were violated, and some carried off to promiscuous brutality in the various shelters of the mob. Women assaulted before the eyes of their husbands or fathers; young women after being rapped drowned themselves in the Neckar River. The Fight(Landshut, fifty-miles east of Munich) Goetz was making his fight—at the age of twenty-three, in the Barbarian War of 1504, during the siege of Landshut (an ancient castle and palace), there he was among the castle’s enemy, and he saw it, thought it would be an easy victory, and at that very moment he had no choice except this battle be one, and he picked it as a testing ground for glory to see how he’d fare in the middle of battle, how his mind would adjust, in fight or flight. He galloped as close as he could to the castle, avoiding the battering ram ferocity of the ongoing siege which now had left their marks on the ragged stones of the lofty castle, and on the frescoed walls of the palace. The battering ram was of course, on his side of the battle ground, his comrade’s artillery. The sword heavy in his hand, the horse laboring, his armor banging against the other, and the horse halting as Goetz watched the firing of the cannonballs from the castle down onto his comrades below those lofty walls of granite and stone. It all gave him time to get his position, his place. And then, just as quick as a clap of an eye, a cannonball smashed into his sword, and drove it though the armor of his hand and arm, he had breathed with difficulty as he fell off his horse, in a slow, jerking, staggering manner onto the battlefield, splattering the inside of his fist, and arm from the pulsing projectile, Goetz had let go of the horses bridle, the reins over his shoulder, he pulled himself up—one handed, as hard as he could, with crossbows shooting arrows everywhichway from the castle’s walls. The zing of the crossbow was not to be silent for a long spell yet. And then, holding his horse by the mane, the horse got shot quickly by an arrow, expertly and un-kindheartedly just where he needed to be, to fall and die by Goetz’s side. There he fell, head forward down to fill an empty space between Goetz and the walls of Landshut. Still the battering ram clattering, and all this time there was a chill in the back of Goetz’s spine, from not knowing what was coming next—over his shoulder, his head, his other arm, perhaps in the belly, or knees. Goetz von Berlichingen was thinking: battle, war, the fight, this high and chill he was feeling throughout his body, it was all shaped like the breast of a young girl, just like a cone of fury—to be felt, loved and then to be put aside and another one sought after. He looked very carefully around the dead horse, and he did not feel weak as he thought he might, and there was quick hammering of firing all about him, and he did not feel the shrivel or fear of battle, only the excitement, he could not be killed this way, it would be by old age, he told himself. He was one of the very few who could kill with a rush, and never thaw out from its excitement. There were bodies all about, shadows of bodies he could not clearly see, there was no live ground around him, he stood alone. He looked at the battle before him, the dead, then said within his thought, ‘They were all brave, even the enemy, but they were all stupid people, they died,’ so he thought more on the subject, ‘…in time to come, they will have sense enough never to fight us again.’ (But deep in his soul he really meant ‘In future times they will fear me.’) Death was the normal thing in war, in battle, in a fight, he knew this, that people would die, but he lived, as open in battle as anyone could be, his arm and fist smashed like grapes made into wine, and he feared death no more.

No: 463 (9-10-2009)

Turnbuckle

((A Link used to tighten two parts) (Augsburg, Germany, 1970))


The American—the young soldier—wore no familiar military garb. His cloths were plain, civilian type, western style for the most part—such as a simple plaid shirt, dark trousers seemingly fitted, with shinny easy shoes, the kind the military used when they wore what they called their ‘Dress Greens’. Nonetheless, even without looking at his shoes, he somehow stuck out as not being a German citizen, by two observing American military police, his elbows leaning on the bar. He was not tall, nor short. His face was handsome and strong looking; he was twenty-two years old, from the Midwest of the United States. One of the American military policemen, who faced him could not see his whole body, he was being covered by a portion of the bar—inside a nightclub in Augsburg, Germany (the fall of 1970), that was off-limits to American GI’s. He was quietly drinking, and in contrast with the thin-jawed policeman, short legs, he looked like a masquerading GI. When he asked for another beer, the two German policemen escorting the two American Military MP’s all noticed he spoke fairly well German. But the thin-jawed MP, a Buck Sergeant, with a rose colored face, and greenish eyes, Irish like the young American doing the drinking, unmistakable and skewed in his observations, the Buck Sergeant approached the chap, “What’s your name soldier?” asked the sergeant, to the American. Then after eye contact and a moment of silence, he added, “What’s the trouble—forget your name?”
The sergeant’s companion, the corporal said, “Maybe he’s not an American, and you better let the German police take care of him!”
“I know he is!” said the Sergeant. He spoke lightly, as not to disturbed the people around him. There was no physical stain in the voice of the American when he said in German, he didn’t understand—sounding more helpless than scared.
“We’re American MP’s!” said the Corporal to the American at the bar, and again, the American did not answer.
The German police made an effort then. And when the German police spoke the young American pulled himself together focusing his eyes on all four of them. He swayed a tinge at the bar, and with his right hand he made a salute, with a flickering smile to the MP’s.
“Cheers, what’s the problem?” he said in English.
“You,” the sergeant said.
“Ah, me, what offence is this?” remarked the American GI, whom was only a private; now looking at the German policemen.
“Come with us across the street our lieutenant will want to speak to you?”
Once in the headquarters of the German police station, which shared it with the US Military Police, the private was sat in a chair, and questioned.
“Oh,” said the lieutenant quite angered, “you portray to be a German citizen, when you are an American Soldier (the Captain of the German police had received a phone during the questioning of the private, in the same room).”
“Ah,” said the private, “I see.” But he was half drunk, and it was clear he didn’t see, and didn’t believe what he was hearing, because it sounded like he was a traitor to his own country, if not embarrassed of it. For him he just wanted a drink and good time, and seemed to have been simply waiting for someone.
“I’m not sure about you private,” the lieutenant said. “Maybe your kind doesn’t care what they say to get a drink, but I’ve fought for America, in Vietnam, and you may have to someday.”
The German Captain said something to the lieutenant in German, something about the young soldier waiting for his rich girlfriend—German Jew, and in the process was arrested, and maybe the lieutenant could make an exception, because she could cause waves. The lieutenant didn’t like the German Police interfering, but he didn’t want to create or cause any friction, especially outside of the precinct, the police zone that the Captain was in charge of, lest he get not assistance thereafter.
“You seem to be an average intellect soldier, with perhaps extraordinary courage, this perhaps can compensate for your stupid act of denying your heritage, for want of this fact; but in any other case similar to this, the result would be heavier, so I will call it an underprovided misunderstanding, and let it go as that. But many of my friends have died for that American flag you march under, don’t ever deny it again. And whoever your friend is, let her know, we’ve been lenient.”
Again the private tried to pull himself together; he had been quiet for the most part, cheerfully quiet, and courteous. And you could say a bit confounded on what was actually taking place.
“There’s a car, green car waiting outside the station!” the Sergeant that brought in the private said savagely to him.
“What’s that?” the private asked. Then the Sergeant saluted the lieutenant, said as the private was swaying, as he stood up, “a green car sir, is waiting for the private, the Captain is talking to the lady inside the car!”
“Likely about nothing,” said the lieutenant still a little annoyed, but knowing it was more than that. The other German police officer, the one standing in the same room, also a lieutenant, said with a little resistance, “He wouldn’t call it anything!” The American MP Lieutenant forgetting the Captain’s lieutenant understood English as well as he understood German.
“What’s going on here?” asked the American lieutenant.
“You’re talking about one of our German Police Officers, one who takes pride in his job and country—like you my friend.” The American lieutenant paused for a moment, perhaps thinking, (his knees crossed), as if he was arguing with himself about whether he ought to get up from his pontiff chair or not.


No: 461 (9-6-2009)

“I think your books are wonderful and would really like to encourage my readers to experience what you are offering them.”

Gail M. Weber ((Owner, ‘Tosca’ A Minnesota Cultural Magazine) (August 8, 2009))


The Devil Gets the Best

(An Extract complete from the forth coming book: “The Galleries at Babel”)

A Short Play in One Act, and Three Scenes


By Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.
Three Times Poet Laureate



The Council of the Continental University, Los Andes University, the UNCP University, the Journalist Professional Association and Cultural Center of Peru congratulates and recognizes

The Roman Empire under Trajan, 117 AD

A Short History of the times: it was a time, Arabs could travel from Tripoli to Tangier without ever moving from the shade of olive trees to comfort them; a time when towns and cities sprung up everywhere; a time of great architecture, and when literature found new voices. An era when the beauty of Rome sparkled from England, throughout Italy, and pert near all of Europe for the most part, along with parts of Africa, and Asia—; where forums, temples, aqueducts, and theaters reached the Roman world side to side, and revealed its wealth. A time of economic security, order, discipline—where in a short period thereafter, it would allow decay, chaos and negligence to ruin the roads, reservoirs, and canals. Ephesus was a first rate city, in Asia Minor, and was the city where a number of the apostles went, especially, John, who took care of Mary, mother of Christ, and had a brick house built on the hill top within the city’s walls; where the Ephesians built long and winding marble corridors, which all seemed to lead to the marble façade of its towering library……and this is where our story takes place



ACT ONE • SCENE ONE


It is eleven-thirty in the evening, it is dark out except for a few lit torches scattered sporadically along the corridor which leads to the library at Ephesus, which is made out of marble. There is a large marble engraved sign on the archway next to the library, dedicated to the Emperor of Rome, Augustus (spelled improperly on the arch), that reads his name, but they are not there, they are all walking down the corridor; two girls with two Roman Soldiers, walking down the passageway to the library; the four are a little cock-eyed. The two soldiers are in uniform, they pass statues and accommodations for priests and soldiers, and temporary housing, small temples like sanctuaries along the corridor, many pillars. One of the girls stop and look at a marble refuge, she hears a mumbling voice, almost seductive…


1st Roman Soldier. Let’s keep going. The night’s getting late, and I got to inspect the guards in the morning.

Girl. I heard a voice in there, it sounded familiar.

(The other soldier and girl have gone on down the corridor towards the library)

1st Roman Soldier. Why should you care whose in there?

Girl. Well, I do care, let’s take a look.

1st Roman Soldier. So it appears I got a noisy one. The hell with it, I got better things to do with you than fool around someone else’s private affairs—inside whatever this structure is: a room or house or haven.

Girl. You are an ass!

1st Roman Soldier. That’s not so bad, I’ve been called worse.

(He stands still, puts his hand over his mouth, as if thinking what next to say, shakily not wanting to sober up, yet not wanting to fall over)

Have I ever been nice? I mean you know who I am, what I do?

Girl. I don’t care what you do when you’re not with me, all you Roman soldiers are appalling when you’re drunk, and rude when you’re aren’t. All I wanted was to see who was in there. If that’s too much to ask the heck with it, let’s just keep on moving to the dumb library so you can do whatever your heart desires, there inside, if we can get inside, you say you are a commander, I suppose we can then.

1st Roman Soldier. Okay, okay you win; I’ll look inside and see. But I’ll tell you plain, a woman brings two moments of happiness to a man: one when she makes love to him, the other, when she gets up out of bed, and leaves him to have peace and quiet.

(The girl smiles, a very big and bright looking smile, with a light chuckle, as if to say—well, I got my way)

Girl. I wish I had a marble sanctuary like this one; I’ll buy me one someday.



CURTAIN


ACT ONE • SCENE TWO



Curtain rises at once on Scene II. Inside the room that is really a shelter for a statue of Dionysus, something of a sanctuary you might say, there is a cot, behind the statue inside the shrine, and there is a small table by the cot; a priest by the name of Demetrius is sitting on it, with a female named Lydia next to him, and he is talking about trade with Cayster and Maeander, along with religion and art, whatever the conversation is, you hear just gobbledygook for the most part, perhaps not making out anything that makes sense, if one was observant, it almost looks like a show put on for an audience. The woman is expensively gowned. Beside the bed is a lit candle which is glowing brightly. Lydia is a lovely tall brunette girl sitting on the edge of the cot. Behind her, and him, is a little square window, you can see the stars through it. There is a map on the wall made of leather, it has a drawing of the whole area on it, and all the corridors of marble in particular, leading to the library—and a devilish looking symbol. The Roman Soldier (Theodorus) is standing looking at them both, in particular Lydia, who only looks up from an ancient scroll she has on her lap—whom one might think she was reading it, but whose to say, she looks up slightly that is, as if she is disturbed from being bothered, says in a very refined voice:

Lydia (she notices the Roman Soldier is of a high rank). Sir, if there is something you wish, or want, please state what it is, other than that, please let us to our business, and do not disturb us any longer.

(The man, whose name is Theodorus, goes on looking at the two)

And please stop staring, it is most bothersome.

(Theodorus continues to look at her alone now)(The priest is short and thin; almost lame looking, if not nearly deformed, and somewhat disagreeable—uglier than a dead rat)

Lydia. Are you part of the sentry? (No answer is given by Theodorus)

((Theodorus, over six feet tall, two-hundred pounds, with a rough looking beard, now produces a ruthless, yet joker like look on his face, as if he was insulted, but neither the girl nor the man show any fear, or for that matter, reprisal.

Girl. Let’s go look for Bupalus, I’m ambidextrous and I never miss my aim with either hand, and we have things to do at the library.

1st Roman Soldier. (Speaking to Lydia) What names do you go by?

Lydia. Many, but Lydia will do!


(With no retort he remains in a near trance, as if almost overtaken by her beauty and aching to have her. His mind full of folly and thought, you can see it in his self-possession and continence)


Lydia (her eyes, ever-changing as if into fire and water). It is distaining to expound my conclusions in intelligible words to a regular soldier.

Demetrius. (Speaking passionately) I assure you sir, we were not doing anything awful in this sanctuary, I am a philosopher and poet, as well as priest, and I am Lydia’s teacher, and I teach many of the arts.

1st Roman Soldier. (Still staring at Lydia) So you do!

Demetrius. Perhaps we should move to the Temple of Artemis, it is more private there, Lydia?

Lydia. We should and we should not. Here our universe is vaster, becoming, more of a variety, change is from a condition of inferno, this soldier is of the many, and he lives in the very heart of the inferno, fire flickers restlessly inside of him. You Demetrius are the filling of life and good spirits.

1st Roman Soldier. What kind of dull jokes are these? I’m bored Lydia bitch.

Lydia. Don’t call me names, to entertain your whore; you do not know the dangers in doing so.

1st Roman Soldier. Do you understand anything that’s going to happen here, or what is happening here?

Lydia. No, I only understand a little bit about the universe, but not half as much as Demetrius; you as fire, are dreadful and a puzzle to me why you remain here—can you not sense the danger?

Demetrius. He is like volcanic soil making his island, wanting it to become a garden of orchards and vines; in essence, he wants to make love to you. He is conspiring with his dead-self, to recapture power you seemingly have taken away from him, as a man. But if he touches you, the rain of one who is stronger than Zeus will descend upon him, and from the high heaven.

1st Roman Soldier. My God is not Zeus, perhaps Neptune will swallow Zeus up, or his slave the Tiamat, and your god whom is you say, more powerful than Zeus.

Demetrius. Perhaps I will swallow them both, and Lydia you.

Girl. (In a trembling voice) I want to make love to you; I don’t think all this is very sensible, really, let’s get out of here.

(But Lydia’s beauty was near paralyzing, and he didn’t want to move—and he doesn’t move, lest he lose his opportunity…)

1st Roman Soldier. No! I wish to stay here. It’s amusing, and so much livelier than simply having sex. And you are acting like a child.

Demetrius. Is this the best medicine among Greek and Roman, to take what does not belong to you by force because no one can stop you, nor punish you?

1st Roman Soldier. Is that not what Plato, your philosophical god told you man is made of?

Demetrius. I see you are learned somewhat, but you must not yield your heart to anguish—save yourself and be gone.

Girl. But he seldom does. I wish you’d come (She starts to move towards the door to leave, her face is showing fear)

(There is a knock at the door)

I think our friends are here, looking for us, darling.


(The other Roman Soldier, subordinate to, hears voices inside the small refuge, and walks in; he is of a lesser rank, and a little plump, short, he speaks extraordinary well though.)


1st Roman Soldier. Oh, I see it’s you.

2nd Roman Soldier. How’re you doing, all right I hope? I was just down at the library, came back to see if you have any little thing of any kind or sort you don’t want in your way. So is everything all right, your friends here are looking most comfortable?

1st Roman Soldier. Difficult to say in front of this lady of the arts, Lydia.

Demetrius. For grief will profit you no whit, my Roman friend, this is the last warning.

2nd Roman Soldier. (Speaking to Theadorus) I see you are up against a bright philosopher. They have the words, and wit, but not the sword, at such trying moments like this, my friend: his wit and words are like ice; they melt quickly, and leave a mess. Put him to the sword, and take his Sappho bitch, ring her up on a wooden cross.

Lydia. He will not!

2nd Roman Soldier. Then I will.

(Lydia, she unhooks her silk gown, and lets it fall to the marble floor, she blows out the candle, and it is now dark, very dark—even the moon’s shadows cover the moon to darken the refuge, and the light outside the structure seems to be darkened somehow, as if a wind is covering it with a veil)

Lydia. I’m coming.

2nd Roman Soldier. I greatly prefer you come for both of us, before I pull out my sword.

(There is a sound in the darkness of a cat)

CURTAIN


ACT ONE • SCENE THREE



Curtain rises at once on Scene III. Inside the refuge, through the small back window one can see the moon, it is as if lurking, having seemingly leaping shadows about it, watching shadows as if Lydia herself had an audience, the moon even appears to have cold breath. There is a door between them, to the frame of the sanctuary, it is open now, and one can see shadows—by the reflection of a torch outside the door that was meant to light up the corridor. In the bed is Demetrius, he is near static standing on the bed watching everything, through the window comes sounds and voices, haunting voices from afar, there is a struggle going on inside the refuge on the floor…


(There is a purring of a large cat in the dark within the refuge, it seems to have lightening speed)


2nd Roman Soldier. It’s horrifying, she’s on her hands and knees, she has paws, long talons, she’s crawling like a cat trying to gnaw at me, scratch me, maybe eat me—may the gods forbid (he cries)

1st Roman Soldier. I’m worse off than you, she bit me in the leg I’m bleeding, it’s numb, I can’t feel it completely—maybe she took a hunk out of it… She’s unbelievable; she’s turned into a cat like thing, a dreadful, she-devil. (And you can hear bones crack, as if teeth had broken them)

(The cat-woman, Lydia, is seemingly and constantly hungry—you can see a long thick tongue hanging out of her mouth, unable to understand the lack of food; the beautiful has turned into a yellow eyed beast, vexed to her finger tips, and then the candle is lit by Demetrius—as if he is missing something and wants to see all, the Girl is gone, and the two soldiers are eaten alive, nearly to their bones, shredded as if rats had pulled out their insides and eaten them hollow. Of course they are dead now. You see this as light appears in the refuge, as if Demetrius lights up the place himself by turning on the moon’s light—yet he simply looks toward the moon, out the little square window)


Demetrius. (Speaking to Lydia, calmly; she is found naked sitting on the cot) What is on your mind?

Lydia. Always a little something.

Demetrius. Don’t worry, I have it all set.

Lydia. You be careful, Demetrius, if you bury them, do it far-away, there are two whores that know what took place here, and people believe you are a priest.

Demetrius. (In a low near-joking voice) He fell in love just by looking at you. Your body and appearance, it was like sweet wine, and honey to him, and we stung him, for his curiosity—like a bee. We need simply go back to Pergamun, where my earthly throne-seat remains. Foolish are they to think Zeus and Neptune could have power over me, or even quote such feeble minded philosophers and poets like: Socrates, Plato, Sappho, as if they are impressive to me—the mischievous sprite, the evil force. If anything I am saddened they could not see the façade to who I am—for I am the Great Adversary in person, I was a bright star in the heavens once, I was the chosen one among the heavens by the Almighty Himself, out of all the angelic forces. I do realize it was to the misfortune of the Roman Soldier to have walked into our little bee hive, although nearly planned, if not he, then someone else would have, and the Girl likewise, but by some odd and unconscious omen she snuck away, I was able to sway her at first, her mind was open for it, and here she met the most famous ecstatic evil spirit on earth—she has a story to tell—if she only knew how to tell it, I do wish to meet her again though, perhaps more knowingly, than unknowingly.


. ((Thus, he—in modern terms: Lucifer himself, and his courtesan drachma, Lydia, whom can transform and shape-change at will, and loves warm blood of which is simply an extra treat, knew the Roman Soldier needed to provoked, both of them, before they could act with vengeance, and all turned out quit well for them, they were both very pleased.)


CURTAIN


Notes on the Play: “The Corridors at Ephesus” or “The Devil Gets the Best,” written out, throughout the day, August, 29, 2009, in Huancayo, Peru, and revised and edited August 30, 2009. The play is produced here in full. The drawing, by the author, of which he has named: “The She-devil and the Serpent” was inspired by a painting the author saw done by Zu Xin Yang , in the Yang Yang, gallery in Roseville, Minnesota, 1999.



“Take my yoke upon you and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall fine rest unto your souls.” Matt. XI. Line: 29

Taken from the bible (the author purchased, in 1991), the writing dated 1846, to Amelia Hutchinson,
from her ever affectionate mother…


Copyright © August, 2009 by Dennis L. Siluk
All rights reserved. No part of this play maybe be reproduced in any form except by permission of the original copyright holder, Dennis l. Siluk (First appearing in a chapbook of 500-copies)
The Play may be modified to accommodate the theater,
actors and resources available