October 10: Face of the Moon, PTSD, Middle of the Night

The guards told the Americans to form in ranks of four, which they did.  Then they had them march back to the hog barn which had been their home.  Its walls still stood, but its windows and roof were gone, and there was nothing inside but ashes and dollops of melted glass.  It was realized then that there was no food or water, and that the survivors, if they were going to continue to survive, were going to have to climb over curve after curve on the face of the moon.

Which they did.

This is Billy in the aftermath of the bombing of Dresden.  The city has been completely annihilated by American and British planes.  Fire has consumed everything.  The streets and buildings and people.  Billy and his fellow prisoners of war are practically the only survivors walking upright and unharmed.  They are the lucky ones.

Of course, most people who survive this kind of experience suffer, to a greater or lesser degree, some kind of post traumatic stress.  Vonnegut did.  I think Slaughterhouse was his attempt to exorcise what he saw in Dresden.  As a prisoner of war, Vonnegut spent the weeks following the bombing climbing into the basements of wrecked buildings to retrieve corpses.  The corpses were put in piles and burned.  That'll fuck up anybody for the rest of their lives.  Or make them into really fantastic writers.

I have been pretty lucky in my life.  I haven't really experienced anything that would cause me to suffer PTSD.  Sure, in the weeks following my sister's death, I kept seeing and hearing her all over the place.  I saw her walking across the parking lot when I was at work.  I heard her voice as I drove home at night.  I don't think that really qualifies as PTSD.  I was haunted for quite a while, that's for sure.

However, several years ago, a guy broke into my house in the middle of the night.  I found him standing in the dark in my kitchen.  I said, "Hello?"  And he said, "I was looking for a friend."  When I reached for the light, he bolted out of the back door. 

For weeks after that night, I couldn't go to sleep without triple checking all the doors and windows of the house to make sure they were locked and bolted.  I still do that every night.  I look in the back seat of my car before I open my door.  In the middle of the night, if I have to go to the bathroom, I can feel my heart start beating a little faster. 

That's nothing, though. compared to military veterans who come home from war.  Police officers and firefighters who risk their lives.  Survivors of violent crimes like rape or assault.  These people are true heroes who suffer on a daily basis because of their horrible life experiences. 

My own experiences give me just a little bit of insight into the struggle of PTSD.  It's debilitating, makes you relive the worst times of your life over and over and over and over.  Like Billy Pilgrim unstuck in time.

Tonight, Saint Marty is thankful for anybody who suffers from PTSD.  They are brave people, each and ever day of their lives.

August 13: Michael David Madonick, "Iris," King Kong, Terrible Darkness, Adventures of Stickman

Iris

by:  Michael David Madonick

About the lip
there is an edge.  More
to the point, an edginess,
not so nervous as to be
construed as shy, but an
inclination, nevertheless,
toward the ascetic.  The clam
belly's undulant scallop, or
Jessica Lange that instant before
Kong came raging
through the wood.  Tied up
in beauty and in rope, it never
wants to give what it seems
to show.  And he, however
soft his hairy hand, is bound
by her music, to fall
asleep, then
dead.

Yes, I'm changing things up a little bit.  I wanted to start with Mike Madonick's poem, simply because it sort of captures the kind of day I've had.  The poem is about being on the edge.  The trees of the jungle trembling, hiding the giant ape about to burst through.  The lip of the flower hiding something pink and beautiful.  Or deadly.

Tonight, I went to the funeral home to make some preliminary arrangements for my sister's funeral.  It wasn't half as difficult as I anticipated.  The two sisters who accompanied me actually stuck to the plan we decided upon last night.  There wasn't bickering, raised voices, or name calling.  It took about 45 minutes.

Back at my parents' house, our parish priest came.  Father Larry brought a stole used by Frederic Baraga, first bishop of Marquette, who died in 1868.  Bishop Baraga is on the road to sainthood.  Currently, he has been given the title "Venerable," which is the first step toward canonization.

Father Larry wrapped Bishop Baraga's stole around my sister's head and chest.  We prayed over her.  Every person in the room (12 in all) laid hands on her.  Then Father Larry anointed her with chrism.  Finally, we recited a rosary. When I looked over at my dad, he was weeping.  It broke my heart to see him.

It was strange to go from planning my sister's funeral to praying for her recovery.  Like in Mike Madonick's poem, I feel like something's approaching.  Something huge.  But I can't see it in the trees.  It might be a miracle--my sister sitting up in her bed and saying that she's hungry.  Or it might be death--a phone ringing in the middle of the night in a dark room.

Ives and Annie experience something similar the night that their son dies:

As they happily walked to the subway, they were looking forward to spending a lot of time together at home during the holiday, in the company of family and friends.  Ives and Annie had stopped to peer into a window display of French linen when, just like that, a terrible darkness entered them, and they could not move and stood looking at one another stupidly, on the crowded and busy sidewalk.

Ives and Annie have no idea what the darkness means.  One minute, they're doing a little Christmas window shopping.  The next, they're filled with inexplicable dread.  Something big is approaching, and the trees are shaking.

Saint Marty is praying for a miracle, but he's preparing for something darker.  Heavier. 
King Kong-sized.

Adventures of STICKMAN