Thursday, March 24, 2005

Calling all angels.

Top of the morning gents,

I've been reviewing my correspondences with you chaps,and I owe you an apology.

I think I've been pushing you too hard. Ya see, reviewing my use of harsh language from past lifetimes, I think I'm a bit heavy handed with you boys.

It's easy for me to sit here in my computer lab typing manically far removed from those that truly want help.

The theoretical world of complex concepts and confusing time lines is still exactly that; manipulating and molding esoteric notions to intentionally obfuscate the devil in my details.

I chatted with the Chief on Tuesday and David Craig on Wednesday in an effort to shake loose material from our experiences to write about.

The Chief insisted I continue writing with Mr. Craig reiterating his suggestion, but focusing on healing my pals that have gun oil on their hands, and blood on
their uniforms. For some of us; the other way around.

Old man Craig insisted there's good reason for my intellectual log jam and advised I take a look at the dates we'll see our next full moons: Good Friday,
March 25 and on Passover, April 24th.

You already know I'm a dummy, so I replied BFD (big fucking deal). I ought not use such shitty language in my chats with him, cuz I upset him.

He paused, after I said I was sorry, then proceeded to describe a group of folks only connected by these complicated lectures, diatribes, and sermons.

Mr. Craig knows each and every one of you. No shit.

From our lengthy philosophical conversations and his intimidating insight, he has built a benevolent profile for all of you. He describes you guys as blessed angels.

This stumped me, cuz I tend to elaborate on your violent histories and involvement with your truly; criminal, lifesaving, sharp shooting, information mining and retrieval, and keeping me company.

No shit. He asserts that besides this dumb shit, we're all loners.

Mr. Craig went on to lecture that due to mutual childhood trauma, we all aren't very well equipped in maintaining long-term relationships and healthy friendships. He didn’t have to list the number ofdivorces and broken hearts you killers tow behind you.


Fuck. I thought I was the only loser that kept running away to remote villages all over the Northern Hemisphere. Running away from friends, family, and loved ones out of shame, anger, and fear of hurting them due to uncontrollable violence.

David claims I married my wife for the same reasons he married his; gals that understand your predisposition to tackle challenges that you fear most. He claims
we're all like the Man From La Mancha jousting windmills all by himself, we're usually all by ourselves fighting without back up and outnumbered.

Eskimo gals understand fighting alone and don't fret busted skulls, broken hands, or near mortal injury, they're already used to it.

He fetched examples from way back where he'd witnessed horrible events whereupon each and every one of us could've used a shoulder to cry on, but refused.
Isolation requires practice, and all of you are pretty fucking good at it.

Mr. Craig asked me to encourage you boys to take a moment and perform self-examinations each day. No funny fuckers, not a breast or testicular squeeze and
pinch, he wants you to see your own rusty halo or broken wings.

Every morning take a few minutes, look in the mirror, and try to see what David sees in all of you. The self-image you see is likely far less wonderful than
the image he has of you. There's something virtuous inside you lads concealed and lurking just beyond your peripheral vision, but there just the same.

Mr. Craig may be getting old, but he ain't dead yet.

He still says prayers for us all every night before bed, cuz he knows most of us work graveyard shift so he blesses his best mates every night, in case he doesn't wake. Also, in case we don't live through our shift to see another sunrise.

After caring for his deceased son and wife, he discovered he never took much time to care for his crew, or himself. So he's putting in overtime praying for our safety, health, and good aim.

He claims yer all angels. David firmly believes this adhoc crew of killers has coalesced because of divine intervention. If there was a fort or clubhouse for
all you gents, David believes there'd be a sign above the entrance with the words, "Calling all Angels."

I scoffed and joked that none of us are very religious, and that we especially don't walk around talking with one another about it. He said that's a sure sign. Folks that keep their own council are already aware of their unique and special relationships with each other, and with their creator.


Godless sons of fucks would never volunteer for Search and Rescue, drive ambulance, or gain constabulary employment. Godless sons of fucks especially avoid
volunteer and vigilante work terminating activities otherwise accepted by their whole community; child abuse and neglect, drug and alcohol sales, and
operating late night rescue missions for beaten and battered women and children.

That pretty much includes all of you. Where the fuck does this guy think he gets off?

Actions speak louder than words. And all you sons of birches have hearts of gold, and would lock up yer brakes if you saw a lost soul on the highway. Each one of you would also use whatever means necessary to protect your loved ones. Amen?

I have a lot of trouble with the world I live in. I see far too much self-inflicted horrors here on the reservation, and I believe my actions will never add
up to a hill of beans. Every monster we cage is replaced by another 3 in seconds, so why the fuck are we working so hard? Alaskan children are doomed to be
pickled, beaten, and raped. The momentum is gaining on us.

I've become much like you lads; bitter, resentful, and jaded. Ain't no good ever gonna come from a bunch of stupid humans, no matter the skin, hair, or eye color.


I’m blessed with yer acquaintance and recognition, and will continue my surveillance works and daily reports to you killers. Besides, it’s an order from the Chief.

It looks like it’s up to us; we have to keep up the faith (and the fight) regardless. (I stole that one from Westlake)

Nobody knows your troubles with God.

'Cept Mr. Craig, and the Chief.


Karl.

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