In the past, New Years eve has traditionally been a time for light hearted partying and giving my girl a big kiss as the countdown begins. This year I am alone, though, because my girl went to the beach. I only have the dogs and a bottle of good old Mad Raven wine to keep me company. This year as I reflect upon the past as well as the present I am sitting here at my desk thinking INCOMING! (you know, that word that gets shouted when a mortar goes off in the compound and everybody dives in their hidey hole?) This year as I look into my crystal ball all I can get from it is a feeling of dread.
Why is that? Am I just getting too old to enjoy myself anymore? No, not really, at 76 I am still in great shape, still dropping trees, chopping firewood and building stuff. I FEEL great . . . it’s this nagging survival instinct of mine that’s driving me crazy. It’s like being in the middle of a coal dark, jungle night. It’s uneasy . . . queasy . . . and not knowing which way to take flight.
Something is going on folks and it’s right on the other side of the horizon. I know it because my instinct is rarely wrong when it rings this loud. Creedence Clearwater sang about a Bad Moon Rising, but then it was just a song. . . now I believe it is a not so future happening.
I haven’t always felt this way, believe me. I’m an old peace and love hippy for Christ’s sake. That philosophy is about as positive as one could get. We were going to end the war and change the world. Tim Leary and the other pied pipers of the day had us convinced that all we had to do was drop out, stay stoned, and love the night away. Well, guess what . . . we tried and the night never died.
Before the hippy days, as a returning vet I knew the world was in chaos and much of it was caused by America, but my attitude was . . . Que Sera, Sera, what will be will be . . . I just needed to make sure I got what was mine, and through the years I did fairly good at it.
Then along came 911
That morning as I was getting ready for work I watched in horrified anger as the second plane hit the towers. Later I rejoiced when Bush went after Saddam . . . double so when I heard my old brigade was leading the charge by making a night parachute drop into northern Iraq. And those Americans who talked about the Towers being a set up? They deserved to be deported.
I felt that way for quite some time . . . but slowly I began to realize that something was not quite kosher about the whole deal. The crime scene was immediately cleaned up . . . why? How did that huge jet plane get into that little round hole in the pentagon? Why wasn’t it on the tape? Why were all the cameras turned off?
The discrepancies built up, one after the other, until they flooded all the patriotism out of my brain and filled it with doubt. I began to study the entire sequences of all the events, carefully and on my own. Conspiracy theorism was not my large suit, I thought those people who wrote that stuff were fiction inspired crackpots and nothing more. I went for the middle ground, I researched and read guys who were educated . . . engineers, architects, etc. People who were on the scene, that gave an interview and suddenly disappeared.
Today, after so many years of research from so many reliable professionals at least half the population believes there was some not-so-funny goings on at the time, and me? . . . I am convinced without any doubt whatsoever that 911 was a staged event.
But then again, this essay is not about proving 911 pro or con . . . it’s about about what 911 has led up to. Because that is what we are experiencing in real time right now.
I remember a guy saying a few weeks after the whole thing went down and people were beginning to question it. “Watch and see what happens to the country after 911 . . . how much we change . . . in what direction . . . how severe have our freedoms been attacked or downright take away in the name of security.
And I will add to that . . . just drop all preconceived ideas and take a look around for yourself and make up your own mind. I don’t really care what you do because I know it is hard work and it takes a bit of time to do it . . . and who has time these days to do anything other than support our own person and take care of our own stuff? Like the young lady tells me the other day, “who cares? I’m too busy to worry about that kind of stuff!”
That’s why I fear, not for myself as I’m an old man halfway down the escape hatch, but for these kids who are so oblivious to the facts on the ground . . . who, as long as their iphones still work, really don’t give a shit as to what is taking place around them and have no desire to do anything about it. . . .
So, this new Years eve I won’t be partying, and I won’t be preaching or praying. I’m gonna drink my bottle of Mad Raven, play my guitar until I pass out on the couch. . . . although I might utter a small hope that I don’t have another episode of this recurring dream:
In the freezing rain
Among the insane
There is no pain
There is no gain.
The thrill of the fight
The rush while in flight,
Away we go . . . into the night.
Wanting to scream
But it’s not easy to scream
In this fucked up dream.
Where the bullets are slow
And my barrel is bent.
And my target
Will never stay down.
In the rain
Among the crying, among the dying
Watching war go round.
Again-and again-and again.