And her he comes, out of the past, with all the power of border radio jamming over the frontiers, that sound from around nineteen eighty, no, it will do no good to say it unless you were there; you wouldn’t have the ears, you see, for the way it worked was among us, our small extended tribe gone to school or institutionalized across the state and ( Read more... )

 On the track of CPT P. Went over to a subordinate headquarters. Ran into Mr. J, who was smoking with the corporals in the ward room.   "And here we have, Mr. Hussein," he greeted me,  "Jack of all trades and observant gentelman." A colonel I hadn't seen in some time slapped me on the back and said hello. We shared coffe and caught up. Djibouti, ( Read more... )

 They're the same kind of notebooks Daniel Pearl favored. I've written about them before. 192-page, 90 g paper, quadrille ruled. Bought a brace of them in Lille three years ago. His wife, Marianne, wrote about his notebooks. Once, were you to search his name and ''Super Conquerant" you would come directly upon mine. The ebb and flow of the internet ( Read more... )

 And in the interval. They are still going out with their duffle bags. Chad, Djbouti, Afghanistan. Handshakes with Master Sergeants. Watched a bit of Wibledon with outgoing CPT C. He's slotted into being an aide-de-camp in the south. I hope he hasn't forgotten his tennis racquets.

The old spy was not well. "Suis triste," in fact. And that is when I ( Read more... )

We stood formation for forty minutes while the chief of staff read out the career of Col. De C. He has finally packed his desk as so many others have. I said good-bye in classic army fasion to my friend, Master Sergeant D, who is heading off to run security at an African embassy. Standing formation means not locking your knees. It is curious, but ( Read more... )

Walking backwards on lle de la cité in Paris, reciting a poem I had written that summer. There is somewhere a photo of me. You cannot tell that I am walking backwards. This is a secret between you me and everybody. The poem was about homecoming, about having the courage and strength to shake every scorpion from the tree before bedding down ( Read more... )

Col. C's beret was still warm when I lifted it off the step. I brought it up with me and left it with the cheif of staff, my friend Colonel G. It didn't seem right to leave it with the duty officer as I know that Col. C will be greatly annoyed at this happenstance ( Read more... )

Surprised the old spy at his crossword. The guard didn't bother that my laissez-passer had been torn in two. I saw no one in the stairway. Someone had taken down the old WW2 carbine that adorned the wall of the wardroom. I'm not sure if I was imagining things but even the heat had been turned down. Need I say it rained? The colors were up so ( Read more... )

It seems I now have a coffee cup. It says something like  "Shit Happens," which is difficult to express in French. I suppose that's why Master Sergeant G gave it to me. It is mine, so much as anything can be mine. Everything that is written in English is slowly becoming my domain. I really must not insist too much in the present climate. Even so, I ( Read more... )

The general comes down the stair with an entourage. Hussein is coming up the stair. The colonels come down ahead. You have to look them in the eye because they do you. Hair slicked back. My decoration in my lapel. Hussein was glad to have asked the sergeant at the security gate if there were any hanging threads. "Turn around," said the ( Read more... )