The war of the Vietnam PTSD vet...

my uncle bernard was a ptsd vet from the vietnam war.

he was damaged from too much bloodshed, alot of substances and two crazy indian boys;

who were trapped in the city looking for a field to run or a wood to walk.

His voice all low and mean; with a sad look in his eye; like a one hundred yard stare;

his sperm all agent orange and what not;

maybe why my unknown brother has deformities and such;

like thalydamide and arsenic creating an aberration of flesh.

I sit in the driver side of my truck looking over at my little brother,

all fetal alcohol and dying, with a scar above his right eye from one to

many throws against the walls by uncle bernard

and the form it takes...like a petroglyph of a wawaskeshi

in mid leap; the reminder of uncles rage, a reminder of

uncles insecurity as a man etched in flesh and tissue;

and how my uncle died a prisoner of war...

a prisoner to his own fear and doubts about himself as a spiritual man;

a prisoner of being a slave to something he didn't understand when he was forced

to go....forced to be a killer or he himself go to juvenille home.

How it was so much easier to threaten and beat his brothers kids;

or beat his woman; my mother; by punching her in the mouth

till the blood and teeth come out of her mouth and on the floor

and sends us kids screaming to the next room...where we hide till he passes out...

or he gets sorry and takes us to buy candy; lemonheads at the store.

i remember too many times coming to visit in later years where he was all drunk up

and passed out on the toilet and me with my mairjuana buzz and long long hair would come and

pull him off the toilet to go to bed; mom having long given up on him; content to let him sleep on the john.

i remember looking at him with wonder and pity; wanting to know what it was that drove the man so deep inside the soldier;

like being a light that has been ON for so long he forgot how to turn OFF and just enjoy life.

and one day he got too hot...and...

mom said he stood up in the middle of the night and gave one big loud moan and collapsed in the bedroom...

a grand mall siezure and then an instant heart death....she tried to talk to him but he wasnt listening...then she yelled

at him to get up and he was not listening.

he was already doing what he done as a child so well...running...toward something new and free...

maybe his heart broke from trying too long to escape as a man...

instead of surrendering to his fear and being a child once again.

I talk to my brother now today; he has too much beer in his body

and he is crying, shaking, sleepy eyed and weak.

telling about the army and the psych hospitals; how he hears voices and wants to kill himself.

I say to him that the enemies that did this to you

are not here in this room and he opens his eyes a little wider;

he is cognizant for a minute;

and says "i need help...i cant stop my mind from thinking"

and then he goes away.

I look into his eyes and see my uncles hundred year stare again..

another victim of urbanization and militarization of the spirit...

and how that; coupled with fear and doubt

are the little killers that hold him (and others we know) prisoners of war.

my uncle was a ptsd vietnam vet. he has walked to the western door...and it is I who am still fighting the war.

thriving smokehouse economy

part of this therapy is sitting alone.

It is seeing torsos and hindquarters of meat cut up and marinated in a briny brine of the briniest brine that you can find...to be left in the corner like a bad child having committed the most heinous of crimes and uttered "geez...." as a profanity against our lord and savior Jesus Christ and all the sanctimony of sunday dinner! I mean GEEZ!! Give me fucking break.

The sacrifice of flesh as a symbol of faith is not profound or alien as it is a symbol of mortality. I posted a ditty on my facebook page:

"here we see the very real and practical application of meat as a sculptural material!! Notice the texture of the meat that has been rubbed in Muskrat Coffee- (available at www.muskratcoffeeco.com) and its contrast with the teryaki apple smoked hindquarter. The artist use of space in this piece indicates a presence that is minimal and yet firm; a kind of PURE foundation of primal desire and native Injunuity...the choice for display in the middle of the woods is an apparent and obvious homage to his forefathers and ancestral roots of being one with the land and in a fashion that denotes comfort and nobility. The use of photography to portray this moment presents us with a paradox of spirit and interpretation:is the scene beautiful in itself and does the relegating of this space to a two dimensional view detract from its significance...or is it merely the reinvention of how we connect as people to the objects of mortality? Does the objectification of what was once living flesh cross the bounds to sacrilege? And if so, how do we view the sacrifice of flesh in worship? we wonder. we live. we love."

not a chance.

It is the blurring of sacrifice versus natural law. It is the law of the jungle and the frat boy mentality of might makes right (as i heard Mr. Churchhill say). There are some that go willingly and others that are ordered to go. When the call comes; it is not for all. For others we go willingly.

We go willingly to the smokehouse to hang the hindquarters of naked flesh to the fires of dissent and anarchy. We light the fires of change as all things are born of fire; to rise and burn with all the grace of an old shaman in his final hours, only to die and dream those old fires. And in the smoke comes the change that is needed and required. It is the change of self and thought. One sentimental journey of imagination and destiny that has made me walk 1400 miles in the boots of my ancestors to arrive. And in arriving at the halls of nobility and destiny, a carpet of green dreams and cedar smoke haunted me. It bent the message. It bent the message to a point that the message broke...and in you allowing it to break, we became hostages to something as horrible and vicious as any war or oven fire or nails in hands and feet or crown of thorns.

we became hostages to ourselves.

and i woke up.

I woke to find that the world around me that had comforted for so long had been a prefabricated dream. I left the security of anonymity and ignorance and found some seeds of truth. I found prisoners of conscience right under the top layer of soil, looking to breathe free and grow. I found some semblance of value in recognizing my place in the history of my people. Not a martyr. not a martyr. not a martyr. just Marty...to not die for my people but live.

to free the seeds of doubts for so many and plant some hope in the hearts of others...but to be firm in resolve that there is war and with it comes casualties.

and in the silence you can hear them scream...when your sitting alone.

by the smokehouse.