Nothin'

"So, let me get this straight: the company is going to make an employment decision based on information handed over from a foreign intelligence organization, with unknown, possibly illegal provenance?" - Tim.

Turns out that the U.S. Military already did. And, yes. They probably will. Remarkable.

In the meantime: nothin'. Radio silence.

Building from scratch

I used to memorize poetry when I was very young and performing Shakespeare on the stage. I tend to remember the verses in strange moments. Sometimes, a line strikes me as apropos and I am stunned. St. Vincent Millay was one: "There are a hundred places where I fear to go, so with his memory they brim..." And then, when I cannot sleep because I have nightmares of Sjors and my heart races, I feel Teasedale at my fingertips, "You are the rarest soul I ever knew: lover of beauty, Knightliest and best". But he wasn't the Knightliest and best unless you count the Knightly actions of the famous betrayers of that order: Sir Brian De Bois Guilbert or Lancelot. But he was the rarest soul I ever knew, and he was a lover of beauty and he read historical tomes like they were a pornography addiction.  So that attribution is accurate.

But Kipling has my vote these days:
"If  you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools
Or see the things you gave your life to broken
And stoop, and build 'em up with worn out tools..."

 "If" was geared towards manhood but this distillation makes me think that there must be a linkage between false testimony and the loss of life's work. Under what circumstances do people give false testimony? For personal gain? To destroy someone else? Possibly both. What sort of people do this? What sort of people have this done to them?  Clearly only people who have something they are passionate about - else why would they 'give their life' to it?

I have spent days and weeks with my worn out tools, hammering away at projects and programs that will survive (Inshallah!) in spite of this nasty period of lies. I fucking hate what they did to me; I hate that Sjors lied about me; but I try not to think about it. I'm too busy adjusting the bolts and referring to my blueprints.

Quarterly analysis

Three months since Sjors betrayed me to save himself.
I find I am not angry at him. I am so sad. I am disappointed.
Of all the things to worry about; I worry about the state of his eternal soul.
It seems ridiculous, given the circumstance.

I am still so harmed by him. By MIVD. The people I was helping are harmed.
I am trying to mitigate.

I wonder why I should give a shit for this man who, for all intents and purposes, has caused more damage in my life than I have ever known. I do not intend to ever contact him again. I do not look for  signs of him through friends or web searches. He is gone. Finished.

But then there is this troubling concept of what it means to be a soul mate.

Suppose we are our brother's keeper? Suppose we are close to one or two souls on this planet who made the journey with us. And we said, 'I love you. I will find you. I will remind you who you are. And I will fight for your integrity- even if it costs me.'

Because, ultimately, what is there worth fighting for if not the souls, minds, and bodies of the people we love?

There is nothing I can do to fight for him anymore. He has removed all options. So I think. And I sometimes talk to possible god about him. This is all I have.

Writing about Africa

My parents and friends keep urging me to do this. I've spent plenty of time on the continent and I love so many countries and people. But I can't write about it. I don't feel that I can do it justice.
To me, Africa is not the cliche I was raised on. When the charities are raising money to fund their huge administrative overheads, they have to make sure that Africans look as pathetic as possible. You shouldn't see well-adjusted, interesting, complex, evolved, educated Africans on a charity drive [I watched an African spoof commercial once that proposed the collection and distribution of unused African radiators to the poor freezing people in Norway. I laughed my ass off].

But all we see are the stereotypes and I don't know if I have the perception or prose to fight them. Award winning Kenyan author, Binyavanga Wainaina, talked about this far better than I can in his cutting essay, "how to write about Africa".

http://textandcommunity.gmu.edu/2009/resources/how-write.pdf

Cockroach

When I was getting my undergraduate degree in physics, I did a summer internship at Brigham Young University. I selected my mentor based entirely on the affinity I felt for him - and I then spent several weeks knocking my head over FORTRAN code to analyze quantum mechanical systems. I don't think I ever fully understood what was going on but I liked the professor and it was interesting. 

My friend, Jamie, was not so fortunate. She found herself in the laboratory of a scientist named Steve. Steve's lack of scientific competence was only matched by his lack of scientific creativity. Consider the experiment he was conducting: for an entire summer, Jamie had to kill grasshoppers. To measure their weight before and after death. To see if the grasshoppers had souls. I'm not kidding. 

This didn't strike me as terribly bizarre until years later when I considered that, perhaps, I had dreamed the entire thing. But, no. It was true. It actually happened. 

It came as no surprise to me that Steve later lost his job at BYU. Not for the grasshoppers (BYU is a religious institution and would have been very pleased to report the mass of souls.) He lost his job because his complete lack of scientific rigor and common sense was revealed when he started to generate 9/11 conspiracy theories .

Now, there is no excuse for Steve's behavior regarding the 9/11 theories but I consider that Steve may have been looking at the wrong critters when it came to the soul-thingy. 

There is an enormous, bad-ass cockroach in my apartment tonight. Don't know where it came from - but it is HUGE. And it flies. When this bad boy slams into a wall to hang on there and wiggle its antennae and its creepy, multi-jointed legs, it is a nasty, BIG noise. I'm telling you: I can feel his evil, nasty, poop-filled soul. It feels like there's another person in this apartment with me. I have a towel sealing off the door so the damned thing doesn't climb on my face at night. Tomorrow: I buy roach bait. If anyone wants to bring a scale, we'll find out how much its soul weighs. 

Analysis

God, I miss it.
I got data yesterday. Sent from the Ghana Navy.
So I spent the entire day analyzing it.
Some people meditate.
I think that this is a similar part of the brain: like a prayer, almost. Analysis is for me: complete focus. Now its 1AM and I don't even remember where the last 12 hours went. Something to do with chocolate marzipan Rittersport and a swiggy made from kale, pomegranate, and acai puree. I also tend to bite the ends of my hair off.

And the sun set and I didn't leave the desk. My knee hurts where it folds underneath me.

And then I loaded the analysis onto an e-mail message and returned it to Ghana. I don't get paid for this. I do it because it matters.

Don't forget that: I was doing things that mattered when you stopped me.

The SAMP execution in Ghana finishes tomorrow. Eve's been trying to run it. I can't imagine the difficulty she's had, trying to put it together without analytical support. She's had my slides; my work. But it can't have been easy. And it is difficult to know what was lost.

More collateral damage for a decision that Sjors made years ago. Did you know that your lies would cost so many people so much?

Well, I did analysis anyway. And now they have something. It isn't much - and I have no way to follow-through for them - but its the best I can do under these circumstances. At least I'm awesome at this. :)

Released

It is a strange thing to be betrayed.

There has been an emotional process to this. I have felt, at different times, shock, anger, sorrow, denial, grief, and outrage. I rarely stay on one emotion for long.

But the interesting thing is this: because the betrayal was so complete - so thorough - it has released me from all obligation. And this is the emotion that has come to dominate: relief and release.

Any obligation or need I felt to protect and help Sjors, I no longer feel. I kept my side of the promise - I was the stand for him. I fought for him and hurt for him and did every last thing that I could. In the end, he denied everything. And then he sold me out. My obligation to him is finished.

Any obligation I felt to assist the Dutch with their missions, I no longer feel (How's that assessment of African Winds going, by-the-way? The irony is profound. You do realize I was helping you out on something that mattered a lot to your leadership. Right? And I was doing it because I cared and genuinely wanted to help. Now...the assessment plan is: what, exactly? Question for you: do they make you feel like ass-clowns behind closed doors? Did you get spanked? God, I hope so!)

Any obligation or need I felt to protect the Command and their programs, I no longer feel. I can take my programs and ideas and the efforts I gave to them, and keep them here with me. I don't have to spend out my life and energy to fuel their machine.

As the people here drag their feet, I feel less and less obligation to them, as well. I am increasingly suspicious that they are looking for ways to get rid of me without lasting legal impact. I had intended to direct my resources to helping them out of their financial nightmare and gin up business for them. But I find myself released from my obligation to them, as well. If, at the end of the day, they don't have the courage to do the right thing, why the hell would I want to do anything for them?

In a sense, I am released to leave all this bullshit behind me. I don't ever have to look back.

So, I bought a bike. I work on my ideas. I write papers and create plans to build real capability in Africa.

So, I'll have a nice bike ride on an autumn day in Virginia on my BRAND NEW DUTCH BICYCLE.

And, to the douche-bags at MIVD: I hope you get body lice and tooth decay. May your body odor retain the stink of pickled herring, making you repugnant to your wives who subsequently look for younger men to cuckold you. May your hemorrhoids burn and your varicose veins itch. May you have uncontrollable flatulence that causes you painful embarrassment in important meetings. May you become lactose intolerant so that you can't eat the fantastic Dutch cheese that I love. May you become myopic and knock-kneed. May you live ordinary, boring, unremarkable, intolerably bureaucratic nightmares till the end of your days. May you have geriatric chicken-pox and hair-loss and halitosis. May your metabolisms slow to the pace of a snail. May you have bizarre body hair and become fat and be unable to maintain an erection. I release you to your own incompetence, small-mindedness, short-sightedness, and boorish stupidity.

Did I say "release"? What I meant was: you will no longer bother me. But I think I will continue to irritate you for a very long time.

Armed Forces Day

I had lunch today with a friend of mine, a Foreign Area Officer who used to be stationed in a U.S. Embassy in Africa. It was a grand time - we talked about our respective efforts and how we wanted to get back into the operational/tactical world. We discussed some of my ideas for building capacity. She wants to be involved (which is GREAT, because I want to have her involved).

Then she invited me to be her date on Friday night.

Saturday is the Netherland's Armed Forces Day and there will be a celebration at the Dutch Embassy. Would I like to come?

I almost choked on my diet coke and chicken curry.

If this was some godawful movie - if it was a book instead of my life, I would have to put on a clinging dress, killer stilettos, and sip wine with the Dutch military and politicians, emphasizing (once again) that I'm the adult in the relationship, and perfectly capable of providing good value and good company in spite of the evil maneuvering and lies of the MIVD crowd.

But this is not a movie. I can't imagine the embarrassment for my friend if my name was on some "black list" and I was ejected.

I can't believe that these douchebags have maligned me so completely. I cannot believe that they have lied so thoroughly. I've worked closely with the Dutch. They've supported my programs and I have supported theirs. I was a by-name-request to support their plans for African Winds. And now I can't even make an appearance at a cocktail party without being worried that they will fuck with me.

The strange synchronicity of this situation has not been lost on me. Why the Dutch? Why not the French? Couldn't we sip Cabernet and eat Fois Gras at the French Embassy? I could practice my French and be irritated about Colonialization.

Fucking MIVD. I hope you have a great Armed Forces Day and choke on your Stroopwaffels.

Birmingham

My flight out was at noon but I woke up early with Anne and the girls so I could spend time with them before school.
I’d promised Chrissy I’d make a fruit smoothie with the blender we’d selected from Bed Bath & Beyond last night (we chose the “Ninja” blender because “I’m a Ninja” is 9-year-old Chrissy’s catch phrase.) We used fresh pineapple, orange, greek yogurt, avocado, blueberries, and flax seeds.
Midway through the process, Chrissy stopped, and looked stricken.

“You aren’t leaving until later,” she said. “But I don’t get to see you because I’m going to school.”

“I know,” I said. Her eyes filled with tears.

“You won’t be home when I get back.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” I said. I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and pulled her in.
Later, as Anne drove her off to school, Chrissy collapsed in tears so I stood outside the front door and danced like a crazy person in my Wonder-Woman Pajamas, waggling my bum at her until she laughed.

Yesterday, I cleaned Chrissy’s room while she was at school. I sorted books and papers and toys, picked up trash and folded clothes. The floor next to her bed was crammed with all of her favorite things: art supplies, favorite toys, and stuffed animals. My fingers found the hard edge of a picture frame. I sat on the bed when I saw the picture: a photo of Abbe’s parents fifteen years ago, when they were very young and still loved each other.

The divorce started a year ago Sunday. Anne called me and asked if I would pay for the lawyer. 

I’ve spent the weekend in Birmingham, Alabama, getting re-acquainted with children who are beginning to stretch and settle into what will be their adult forms. Their feet are already in adult sizes: like puppies who have to grow into their paws. They are so beautiful. So fragile.

It was Rachael’s fourteenth birthday on Sunday: the one-year anniversary of the fight that precipitated her parent’s divorce. That night, after a day of celebrations, she’d stayed awake to savor the feeling. So she was awake when she heard the fighting.

I wanted to be sure she had something else to focus on. We had a good time – good parties. I bought a strawberry cake with her name in pink frosting.  Anne and Jane and I took the girls to a Thai restaurant and Rachael had her favorite chicken fried rice. For presents, I gave her clothes and luggage and teenage makeup and personal products with benzoyl peroxide to fight the acne. We watched, “Pitch Perfect” and sang along. All in all, I think she liked it.

Throughout the day I couldn’t help but see how vulnerable she was. Cool kid, but uncertain in her own skin. Inexperienced in the cruelty and unfairness of small-minded people. Yesterday, I watched her cry when she learned that the evil, vindictive drunk who runs the theater department at her school had excluded her from the next Shakespeare production.

I have an extensive vocabulary in curse words. I usually refrain in front of the girls. But I unleashed.

I want to bulldoze them all before the bastards can hurt these tender souls. 

I spend so much time in hard places, becoming hard and fighting whatever bastards the world presents. Is it necessary that we become jaded? I don’t believe in the goodness of people. I believe in their selfishness and cruelty. I look at these beautiful, vulnerable creatures and I wish I could shield them. 

Assault

Last night, I went to dinner with man named Michael.

We shared a dish of Lobster Mac & Cheese. I had a glass of wine. He had a cocktail that was colored orange and tasted like medicine. He held my hand. We went back to my empty apartment.

The walls are painted now (courtesy of G's efforts with me last weekend) but I have no furniture. I have a yoga mat on the floor. I have a shower curtain and bath mat. I have soap.

Michael was kind and gentle. I didn't have to dissuade him. Didn't have to protect myself. I didn't have to feign interest and get rid of him carefully without hurting his feelings. His manhood.

He did not try to take what other men have assumed was theirs. He didn't pressure me. Didn't take his pants off.

The last physical contact I had was sexual assault a month ago. I didn't report it.

K was a government contractor. He knew my colleagues and friends. I was trying to get my programs started again. He had offered to make connections for me. I was under attack by the Dutch bastards and I had lost my programs and work. I needed to find alternatives.

If I reported him, I risked having K talk trash about me in my work environment. I couldn't afford another fight. I have lost everything to lies. I have lost everything to malicious stupidity. I can't fight on so many fronts.

When you live and work in a man's world, you see men behave badly. You protect yourself and, when you are attacked (and you will be attacked), you risk inviting scrutiny and punishment when you call out. People will say, "what did you do? You shouldn't have let him think you were interested. You shouldn't have given mixed signals"

As though I'm responsible for someone else's fantasy.

You get angry with yourself for not being more careful, for not protecting yourself better. I am angry with myself. I am angry that I cannot trust anyone to protect me and my reputation if I report.

Last night, Michael didn't try to take, and I wasn't ready to give. When I saw that he wasn't going to hurt me, all of the pain of K's attack surged up in me.

I can't stop crying.