During symmetry breaking there is less order and more chaos, and the fundamental characteristics of the universe are radically altered

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Holiday in the sun


It's hot in Florida. Christmas was nearly 90 degrees Fahrenheit and 90% humidity. At night Corinne and I walk through the neighborhoods, stretching our legs in the relative cool. In the evenings, she and I awaken. We are night creatures, slow and stunned during the early daylight hours, and exultant when the world becomes quiet and still. Its only during these nighttime conversations that Corinne really talks. We talk about our family, our friends, our past decisions and our future ideas.

Last night, I asked her about Kimball, about how they met and fell in love. Kimball is about seventeen years her senior and they have two little girls together. I know the story, of course, the broad brush-strokes. But not from her perspective.
"It wasn't like you and Sjors, if that's what you mean," she said, initially defensive. "We didn't fall in love the first time we saw each other."
"Most love stories aren't," I agreed. "And I have no room to judge other types of love. It isn't as though my story has turned out particularly well."
I tried again.
"He was your TA for Physical Chemistry," I said. "Did you know you liked him?"
"I liked him, but not like that," she said. "He was a really good instructor, and funny. I liked his class. When it was over, I gave him a card. It was a Christmas card, and had some joke about agriculture or something. A couple of weeks later we saw each other in the Chemistry building. He asked me to go to an art exhibit with him."
She was going out with someone else at the time, a guy named Tim. Tim was her age and, like her, a martial artist. The two black-belt athletes would spar.
"Of course things were really bad then," she said. I know. We don't need to discuss this part. It was a terrible time for our family. I still don't know how we made it out. We're broken and stitched together and perpetually in pain, but we're out.
"One day, when we were sparring, there was something about the physical contact that made me respond emotionally. I'm not an emotional person so it was really weird. I just started crying. Tim was really sweet to me."
She dropped this description, returned to discussing Kimball.
"I needed support. I needed to feel normal. Kimball didn't seem to notice the awful things happening in our family. He just kept coming around," she said. "You know how he is. He was just...Kimball. We would go hiking or biking. He helped me get away."
When did she fall in love with Kimball?
"He said he loved me first," she says. "Two or three months after we started dating, he said he loved me."
"What did you think?" I said. "Did you love him?"
"Not yet," she replied thoughtfully. "I was the robot queen. I couldn't feel anything."
"What did you say to him when he told you?"
"I said thank you."
When did she know she loved him?
"I'd been accepted into graduate school at ASU," she said. "Mom and I drove down there, moved me into an apartment. I talked her into staying another day while I took the entrance exams. There were two sets of exams - one in the morning and one in the afternoon. I took the morning exams but it felt so wrong. I couldn't stop crying. It had never happened to me before. My body just wouldn't stop crying. I missed Kimball. It felt wrong to leave him. So I talked to mom."
"What did she say?"
"You know mom. She's pretty good at giving support once you've made a decision, but you know she's not very helpful when you're trying to make a decision. She said, 'if he was going to marry you, he would have done it already.'"
"Yeah, really helpful. But you came back."
"I came back. I packed up my things and drove back home. I didn't tell the University where I was going. I just didn't show up for the afternoon exams. They filed a missing-person report on me."
I watched her as she talked. She was tired. There is a perpetual tired-to-the-bone look about her these days. She even refers to her mothering style as "Zombie mother".  Is this fatigue, I wonder? Or something deeper? Is our old companion, depression, lurking in her mind?

The moon hovered high above the horizon during our walks. I watched it wane in the days before I left. I wish I could help. I wish there was something I could do.


A moment ago I felt a brief surge of something bright. I'm not sure what it was, a ray of sunlight in the soul, an exhalation of some spirit muse. I've been so heavy and mentally lethargic, its difficult to see my way to any sort of purpose. I've been trying to read Feynman's lectures on physics to get me caught up before my next job. I've been trying to read Quantum Mechanics, the news. Anything to get my brain stimulated. But there seem to have been dead patches for so long its difficult to understand why.

Saturday, December 26, 2015

Christmas

Up late last night assembling a toy kitchen for the nieces. Corinne and I finished around 0100 and went for a long walk in the moonlight through the Florida dark. It's warm here. Mist rose up and cloaked the world. The moon was bright.

Girls lost their shit when they saw the toy. Spent the day "cooking".
 Love the doodlers. It's good to spend time with them.

Merry Christmas, my love. Of course you were in my heart today.

Solstice

Leuprolide Acetate. Its commercial name is "Lupron".  From the Latin lupinus. Of the wolf. Rapacious. Ravenous. I inject myself twice each day. Morning and night. The name is fitting since the liquid bites. I hold ice to my stomach for nearly an hour afterwards and the burning never quite leaves. It is also fitting because hunger drives me to do this: a gnawing pain that has not left for years and which roars into life when I see in my periphery any reminder of what I once hoped for.

Tonight I see a full moon from my bedroom window. The lemon tree in Corinne's yard is heavy with fruit.

It was winter solstice when my cycle began. A propitious beginning. Ahead of schedule. I thought I had another week. I did not. So we sprang into action again. This time, I'm thousands of miles away from the clinic, so we made other arrangements. Yesterday I drove to Winter Park and paid up-front for the blood-work and tests. The tenderness from the last surgery hasn't yet left, and the shots will make me swell like a balloon but I'm ready for this. Ready to urge my body to produce its own fruit. I only know how deeply this affects me when I'm on the phone with my doctor's office, begging her to authorize my insurance company to pay a small fraction of the cost I've already put down. I've taken on debt, cashed out my retirement account for this small hope.

Saw the launch and careful descent of the Space X rocket with Corinne and the Doodlers. Such heat and energy! Excited about physics in a way I'd nearly forgotten. I want to ride one of those.

Monday, December 21, 2015

Transit

In the past week I've traveled quite a lot. So much time spent in airports, taxis, airplanes. It's a strange experience being in-between. I'm not one thing or another: not where I was, not where I need to be.  This has been the past several months for me. Maybe its been the past several years. I feel like a quantum particle: in between states. A superposition of possibilities. I can't be what I was meant to be, so what will I become instead?

I e-mailed Edward on Sinter Klaas. Gave him everything I've worked on for the past two years; every secret hope. Is it any surprise that his silence has become a burden? An additional sorrow?

The doctors have offered to try again - and not charge me a second time. It's an unusual and generous offer. One I couldn't have predicted or hoped for. I find a way to afford the medication and they'll include everything else. So, of course I'm going to try. Do I feel more trepidation this time? Yes. And I understand also the price I will pay physically, and this makes me anxious. But I'm grateful for the chance.

I'm able to see Corinne again. She picked me up at the airport last night. Today I spent time with her and the girls and Kimball, her husband. I have difficulty connecting with the girls right now. I won't read anything into this. It's just a matter of time, I'm sure.



Friday, December 18, 2015

Lisboa

 There was little flexibility on the timing of the interview. No flexibility, actually. When I asked them to move to the right a little to accommodate my surgery, they said, "No. Move your surgery." To be fair - I didn't tell them it was surgery. I called it a "medical procedure". But still - not particularly friendly or accomodating. This meant I was traveling before the anesthesia was completely out of my system and my body was still swollen with hormones and inflammation. I hardly recognized myself and my clothes didn't fit properly.
 
I fasted during most of the flight. Drank only water. I wanted to clear as much trouble from my system as possible, so I shut down my digestion. Let the body's own housekeeping service take care of business.
 

I arrived in Lisbon on Sunday night. Taxi to the hotel. It was raining. No problem - I'd brought my rain jacket. I skipped dinner and went for a long walk instead. Three miles to the city center and then back in the rain. It felt good to be back in Europe. The cobbled streets and the gently decaying buildings reminded me of Naples. I felt suddenly warm with homesickness. Glad to walk away from the years of trying to make the business run. Ate a yogurt I'd gotten from the Paris airport to stop the gnawing feeling before I went to bed.

At 4:45 I was awake again and anxiously waiting for the breakfast bar to open.  Felt glad to take down the complete spectrum of indulgences after the long break from food. Donned my running gear and made my first mistake of the trip: I went for a 3 mile jog.

I didn't think it would be a bad idea to get the body moving. But I was in pain during my shower and dressing. Flat-ironed my hair and, uncharacteristically nervous about the day, made it to the lobby well before the 0915 pickup.  

 There were four other candidates for the position. Waiting in the lobby. All men. All older. Canadian, Frenchman, and two Brits. I lack any desire to unsettle other people or play psychological games so I was friendly. Maybe the skirt and heeled shoes were enough to unsettle without any additional effort on my part. Everyone seemed as nervous as I felt. I wonder how badly these men wanted the position. We drove together in a van to the base. Checked documents. Assigned badges.

The test was three hours. Logic games. Numerical and statistical problem-solving using spreadsheets. Qualitative data summaries. Presentation preparations. I hated every second of the damned thing. I don’t like people looking at me and there’s no surer way to be looked at than to take a test. In the end, I think I did fairly well. Maybe better than the other candidates because I know my way around statistics.
 

I’d hoped to meet John during this trip but an e-mail coordination revealed that he was back in the Netherlands. Pity. I like the man. It would have been nice to catch up. I would have liked to meet his wife and children.

Without John to keep me company, I spent time with the other candidates – we went to lunch in a square close to the oceanfront. Bowl of mussels in tomato sauce with bread. Spent the rest of the day wandering around the city with one of the British candidates. Bookstores, souvenir shops, churches, bars, and Christmas markets where we bought gifts for our families. Not a lot of art in the form of paintings, but plenty of ceramic tile: depictions of sardines and swallows. Dinner at a local restaurant where they found my favorite Naples fish (Orata in Italian, Dorado in Portuguese, and Sea Bream in English). Charcoal grilled it to a lovely heat, drenched in olive oil, salt and lemon, and I was in gastronomical heaven.

But my other pain had only increased with the activity. By bedtime, I was hurting. Awakened at 4AM wondering if I’d screwed something up and should go to the hospital. Decided against it. Who knew what the health care system looked like here? How long would it take to be seen? Would it distract me from my interview? Meditated. Tried to sleep in. My interview wasn’t till 2 PM.

Took a taxi to the base. I was early out of fear of lateness. Spent an hour at the officers’ club: not quite on par with those I’ve seen in Africa. But there was a lovely climbing tree growing up the back side. The air was still cool, but warm enough to sit outside with a sweater. I drank water, chamomile tea, and meditated, feeling the breeze brush across my skin and the distracting pain in my abdomen. Then it was time and I walked to the building.

Five men in a large room. All but one in uniform. I relaxed. I know this audience. I am comfortable here. They had questions. Rehearsed questions – for each candidate. I was the last of the day. I decided to make them look at my ideas, not my person. I talked about Freeman Dyson, Iraq, Operation Resolute Support in Afghanistan, about the Boyd Cycle, functions of combat, and the Capability Geodesic. They had set aside 45 minutes for the interview. They were tired, wanted to go home, but they stayed in the room and I entertained them with my ideas for an additional 30 minutes. Who knows what will happen next? I think they will offer me the job.

Back to town to finish some shopping. Hotel, pack bags, called my doctor, and then took a taxi to the emergency room of the local hospital: Hospital di Santa Maria. Tour of the Portuguese health care system. It was difficult, chaotic, the building wasn’t new. But people were kind to me and competent and, tests performed, only asked for 135 Euros.  

I was bleeding, said the English-speaking doctor. Nothing was twisted inside, but the surgery and my subsequent activity had caused internal bruising. That was the pain. Nothing to worry about. I could fly.

It was 2AM by the time I returned to the hotel. Slept for 2 hours before I had to leave for the airport and return home. 


Wednesday, December 9, 2015

Statistics

I have two. On the left side. 1.6 and 1.8 cm respectively. I knew what this meant when I saw it on the screen. The statistics aren't good. Ten would be good. But nothing has moved or changed in days and they don't know why. For all the good statistics on the right, none of them will work.

Left is derided in many cultures in the world. Sinistre in Italian. Gauche in French. Counter-clockwise. Widdershins. Associated with the devil in Christian history; associated with the female in Ancient myth. Closest to the heart.

I have two. Statistics aren't good but I only need one to work. And with two, there's an intimacy. I never liked crowds anyway. I name them Mycroft and Sherlock.

Thursday, December 3, 2015

Small progressions

Phone call this morning woke me up. After another late night writing I'd planned to sleep in a bit. But things have started moving more quickly and I have to answer questions on the other side of the world and track responses, and talk with the doctors.
Staggered into the kitchen for some coffee and my four-year-old nephew, Dean, spotted me. That boy is liquid sunshine for me in the mornings. Today he snuggled on my lap and opened the toy I left for him under the tree.
Worked for a few more hours then my sister-in-law gave me my shots at noon.Then off to lunch with San. It's one more week until the anniversary of Michael's death and she's feeling a bit rough.
Don agreed to meet me at the laboratory. We haven't spoken in years so I wasn't sure if he'd agree to my project. But we talked for two hours and he came around. There's the prospect of getting his pulse program and data synthesis programs up and running again. And I need them. He's one of the smarter scientists I've met.
Dinner with the boys and their parents.
Only a small bit of exercise at the gym this evening. I should have run this morning - or gone for a long walk. But damned if the cold doesn't turn me into a wimp. I don't even think about bicycling in it.
Of all the coincidences, December 8 next week is the feast of the immaculate conception.

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Birthday of Self-Awareness.

Bike ride today. Not a good route. Surface streets, traffic, hill-climbs and no good way back. Winter moving in. But at least I rode. Score one for mental health.

It's Hans' birthday...right now. November 10. Birthday Book once told me it was the "Birthday of Self Awareness". Well, they got that one right. Happy birthday, beautiful soul. I can't write to you directly because you don't want to hear from me. But here's one person who wants good things for you.

Sjors' birthday two weeks ago threw me for a loop. Think about him, too. If I recall my Birthday Book, his was the "Birthday of the Meticulous Planner". Huh.

Got up early to spend a few minutes with the boys before they went to school. Make them pancakes if there's time, cereal if there isn't. They like me better, trust me more, than they did before. They are either lovely children or complete wild animals. Depends on the moment.

Went to the lab. Began to make arrangements for research. Feels good to start the process.


Sunday, November 1, 2015

Halloween. Blue sister.

Drunk.
More alcohol than I drink.
More than I like to drink.
Rum and diet coke - and then another.
Because Lee hands them to me.
And if she is drinking, wants me to drink, I will be here.
Because I will not leave her alone ever again.

I paint the costumes. Blue swirls. Pictish warrior. Because we are warriors, she and I. We've fought back our demons, shoved them in corners. We are alive in spite of the prognosis.

I sit on the dark patio with her friends. So youthful.
It's strange, being here with all this youth. I don't belong - although they are too drunk to realize it.
I feel perverse, with the years separating us, looking on hungrily. Admiration. Desire for their strength, sense of invincibility, immortality.

I listen to her laugh. Tell jokes.
She is as lively as she's ever been.

I worry about the alcohol. Drugs. I don't see the drugs but I worry they're there still. I worry about a future truncated, curtailed. This is what I always worry about with her: that the future shrinks instead of expands. So caught up in the making-ends-meet now, the present pain, and never considering or knowing the infinite possibilities.

Then, afterwards, stumble home in the dark together.
Arm curled around her shoulder.

She talks about us. I was twelve when she was born.
Fifteen when I became her surrogate mother. Protector, though I didn't understand she needed protecting.

She still needs protecting. From her own tendency towards nihilism and self-obliteration, self-hatred, her expectation or hope that this dash across a dark street, motorcycle ride without a helmet, will make the decision for her. She hates herself because that was all she ever knew - growing up constrained and abused - and because the things she's done reinforced her self-loathing. I know this particular brand of despair and it terrifies me.

As I talk to god about her, I feel helpless. If all her darkness and pain came suddenly onto my shoulders, crashing into my own, it would certainly take me to the edge of a cliff. If there is god, then take it from her. If there are miracles, let them be miraculous healing. Miraculous living. Beautiful future. If you are god, be god. Be enough to absorb and consume the pain.





Thursday, October 15, 2015

Time with Dad

Morning bike rides with dad up the desert trails, tan-grey sand, yellow flowers frosting the scrubbrush and the silver sage lit by the sun. My first day here, jumping to 4,500 ft elevation from my comfortable sea-level, he took me on an 800 foot bicycle climb to the Mormon Temple. Its a sacred place for him and he wants it to be sacred for me, too - wants desperately for the "spirit" to speak to me. I've felt the singing of the spirit before, but not here. I see the boxy building with its brutal spire and golden angel as a sign of strangely personal and invasive oppression. Its claws and hooks burrow deep through years of logic and rational thought, seeking out the tender, irrational indoctrination of childhood. It has its nettling hooks deep into my father. The god is not, as its bishops and elders preach, a god of love. This deity demands guilt, teaches us to be ashamed of some vague and terrible inner failing over which we can only grovel and apologize and never be fully absolved. When we disagree with the dogma, we must pray to have our sinful rational thought purged and replaced with faith.Not the god I like or worship. I have to be careful not to inadvertently direct my prayers to him.

I've spent the past few days in the high mountains of Wyoming - another jump in elevation: this time to 9,000 feet. The last time I was here was the year I finished grad school when mom and I drove up to Yellowstone. It looks much the same as it did then; strange contrast when my internal landscape has changed so completely. The trees have mostly lost their leaves, but the snow hasn't fallen. Its cold and bracing. At night the temperature dropped ten degrees below freezing.
Dad drove up to winterize the cabin. I went with him. So of course we hiked the trails around Cottonwood lake, and then drove past Smoot, Afton, Thayne, the Snake River, Hoback Junction and Jackson Hole, to arrive at the Teton National Park. Beautiful. We set up camp near Signal mountain.
 We hiked through the remaining daylight around Jenny lake, then back to the tent as the temperature dropped. The stars came out in their billions.
With dad, camping is always a tricky proposition: he rarely comes prepared, and he doesn't find rules to be worth following. I've inherited key portions of this character but in me it manifests as a healthy skepticism for authority and rule-questioning. But I recognize the value of many rules. Here is one:
There are bear boxes: large steel containers cemented to the ground at each campsite to store food. There are black bears here, and Grizzlies. A sign on the table reads, "Bears are attracted to odors and packages. Keep all food and toiletries in the bear box when not in use."
Of course I remember every news story of a bear attack between Utah, Idaho and Wyoming: bears attacking hikers to get at toothpaste tubes - or the two teenage boys killed in Spanish Fork because one of them was stupid enough to bring candy in the tent.
We eat foil packs and, breath frosting in the dark night, prepare to put our things away and go to bed.
"Lets get this loaded in the bear box," I say.
"Bear boxes are gross," says dad.
"Yes," I say. "But they keep the bears out."
"We'll put the food in the car," says dad. "That will be my bear box."
More fighting. There are good reasons not to use the car. We don't want to train the bears that human vehicles are receptacles for snacks. But dad won't budge. He's not going to use the bear box.
I'm careful to keep odors out of the tent. Toothpaste goes into the Tupperware container I brought for the purpose. And face lotion. Even that has a fragrance that might attract bears. All of these I store in our "bear box".
Its a cold night. Well below freezing. The ground is hard and unforgiving. Nothing we brought seems quite adequate to keep us warm. The best we hope for is to keep the important bits toasty and let our legs and rear ends become quietly frigid. I use the chemical hand warmers I brought along. Stick them onto wool socks to keep my toes warm. Give some to Dad, as well. He's skeptical at first, but later calls them a "lifesaver".
In the morning, light coming into the tent, I wake and sit, look around me. There, at my feet, at the end of dad's sleeping bag, is a plastic bag: full of candy bars and loose chocolate pieces: Whoppers and Junior Mints and Toblerone. Dad brought the chocolate bag into the tent for safe keeping. There's really nothing I can say to this.
Back in Star Valley, we clean the cabin, winterize it, and go out back to shoot dad's 22 and Colt, using targets and cans, and the hillside to absorb our stray bullets. This has been a ritual since childhood and probably the reason I wasn't a bad shot when Rogier taught me how to aim a 9MM handgun. Breathe in, out, squeeze the trigger between heartbeats. My aim is still pretty good. Competitive with dad.
Back in Draper Utah this morning. Ready to spend time away from dad. Love the guy. But done for now. I need time alone. He's an extrovert, doesn't understand the need for solitude. So I'm careful with his feelings. Or at least I think I am. I need to get okay in my head again.

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

The strength of love

The next step takes me...into nothing. I'm not afraid. I should be fearful, but it feels too familiar to me. Like this is the start of the next verse to a song I learned long ago. I've forgotten the words but the refrain cycles back again and I pick up where I left off. There's something here about death and rebirth. There is something here about the constancy of pain and the triumph of love. I place one foot ahead of the other and follow the next bright patch.

It was a shining day; shift from the cold and rainy weather wherein I made my slippery and onerous move. It felt like a gift and I embraced it to me. I feel looked after; cared for. Somewhere, in the folded dimensions of space and time where angels linger and flash into existence, someone's looking after me. I've felt it for months now. I talk to god and somehow the nature and form of this being is less relevant than the I AM spoken to Moses. We set the metrics for identity but god is unconstrained by our three-dimensional space and one-directional time. He may linger with us in our plodding path but out of compassion, not necessity. I ask I AM to look after Sjors, but god says he's got it, and I believe god.
"Please," I begin. "I want...more than anything...please..." Not able to finish, the longing in my heart: the memory of bright beautiful eyes and trembling hands, the quick mind and the love. The person I keep in tact and whole in my heart.
"I know," god says."I know."
God loves him too.

I met J for coffee this morning. He didn't make the original appointment, so I called him, drove to his neighborhood. I wanted to see him before I left. It felt important. He hadn't shaved or showered. He pulled out business cards of astronauts and company presidents and plopped them on the table casually as he sorted through his wallet. He wanted me to see. But I don't care anymore. At one time I may have had ambition for its own sake, but I doubt it. Everything I've wanted and fought for, I've lost. I listened to him talk. He talked about being good at anger and letting it go. This is what I've had to do, as well.

Eve and I went to lunch. I picked her up at the office that used to be mine. I have no connection to the place anymore, only gratitude that they've accepted Eve so readily. We ate and chatted, and I drove her back.

I went to the Holocaust Memorial Museum then. So many years here and I haven't gone in although I've bicycled past hundreds of times. I felt I could bear it today. And I needed to see. I needed to know. I understand more now than I did before. It hurts more now than it did before, knowing we are like that. The destruction of ideas, the bullying and threats, and the thousands of people who followed orders to torture and kill: physicians who murdered 70,000 disabled and mentally ill people in the first years of the war, the expulsion of "unwanted" people, the ghettos, the ship of refugees turned away from America's shores only to die in camps, the industrialized wholesale killing of people; the individual cruelties and complicity of average people; Allies unwilling or un-ready to go to Poland's aid, unwilling to bomb the gas chambers in Auschwitz. When I was younger I saw the videos and pictures and they seemed unreal to me. Today, I saw my friends and family and myself. Starving, tortured, murdered. Its far too real now. I've seen complicity and cowardice from people in my life. How many steps are we removed from such a thing happening today?

I walked to the Botanical gardens then, felt the vegetable, leafy coolness of the place. Rubbed the leaves of the mint and lemon verbena plants and breathed in their fragrances. I sat on a bench and listened to the sounds of water and rustling leaves. Outside, I meditated in the setting sun.


Eve, Shelly, Joy and I met for dinner tonight. I looked at them each in turn and they looked back with such love and sorrow. They love me and I love them. I've had pain in my life but feel the soothing knowledge that I'm loved and so fortunate in my friendships. The love of friends has saved me when I was at my saddest. The love of friends and family and my love of them has carried me through difficult times. That love carries me now. Strangely, my love for Sjors also carries me.

There was a poem by William Wordsworth that struck me decades ago: called Michael. It was about a shepherd who lost his son. Wordsworth wrote: "There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable which else would overset the brain, or break the heart."



Monday, September 28, 2015

Move

There was a lunar eclipse tonight but I couldn't see it because of the cloud cover. A lunar eclipse of a harvest moon that I glimpsed only infrequently during the drive. 
I arrived back here three hours ago.

Eve and Shelly drove with me the seven hours to PA to bring boxes and furniture to be stored at Eve's place there. It isn't the complete set, but its definitely a start. I feel so lucky to have loving and loyal friends who make such a sacrifice to help me.

As Shelly and I unloaded the boxes yesterday night, I looked at the self-made labels in black ink. "Blankets, black coat, book ends." Most things I packed into boxes earlier this month. I've missed the books the most. Empty bookshelves remind me of missing friends. I saw the box labeled, "String Theory, C.S. Lewis, Scientist biographies" and it gave me a pang. 

In the house, Eve cooked pasta, sausage, and sauteed vegetables. We ate, talked, and the night settled in around us. I thought about my text on String Theory. What if I needed it? The thought was ridiculous (when would I need String Theory?) but it wouldn't leave me alone. I needed to climb the hill to the carriage house, find the box and the book. At last, as the conversation lulled, I announced my intention, put on my shoes, and using my cell-phone flashlight, went outside. 

I felt a sense of urgency as I tore into the box. Here a biography of Oppenheimer;  there was L'Engle's "Two Part Invention" and a stack of C.S. Lewis. At last, "String Theory". As I lifted the book, I saw my copy of a Cosmology book. Maybe I needed that, too? I took it, tucked it under my arm. I shuffled through the other books. I should really bring some C.S. Lewis with me  wherever I go next. 

The stack in my arms became absurd. How could I possibly justify bringing these books back with me  in the truck after we'd made such an effort to bring these here? Maybe I should put Cosmology back? What had it taught me anyway? What would I be missing?
I thumbed through the pages of equations. In the center of the book, there was a small white card with writing on it. Notes or equations? No. Thin writing in ballpoint: "My Sjors. December 23, 2010".
My hands began to shake. My heart raced. I knew what this was. A snowy night in Paris. A long wait for the train at the Gare du Nord train station. When he arrived, ebulliant as ever, grabbing my frozen fingers in his and kissing me on the lips, I thought my heart would burst.
At the subway entrance, he pulled me into a photo booth, pulled me onto his lap, put in his coins, and we laughed from the sheer joy of being together again.
In those two small pictures there is a glimpse of all the hope and love and happiness two people could ever wish to have. Finding them here, after all these years when I thought they were gone forever. It feels like a gift. I can't get enough of them. I take them out, see his face. Wish I could step back into the photograph and into his arms again where I was meant to be.


3:38AM.  
Its dark outside. In the next room, Eve is asleep. I feel a love and longing for Sjors and, as it always does, this resonant ache echoes through my body, keeps me awake. I do what I always do when this happens: I pray for him. Please god keep him safe. You love him too. But the thought of him doesn't leave me and I wonder how he is. I see him in my mind, the man with the bright eyes and love, and I'm caught between the memory of his love and the recollection of his anger. If I saw him tomorrow, which man would I meet? Please, Sjors. Please still exist. Please come for me. 

Monday, September 21, 2015

Corinne's house

Hot in Florida - reminds me of a cool day in Port Gentil Gabon. I've tried to run here, but its a slog through a pressure-cooker and it melts me. At night, when it cools off, I try again. I'll have to figure out how to deal with the heat, fire-ants, mosquitoes, gators, and brackish water if this is where I end up. I have no idea how Corinne has made it work so well. I doff my cap to her.

I''m glad to see Corinne. I always miss her when I stay away too long. She's a kind and generous and clever person - and also practical in her approach to life. I live in the borderlands between the practical and the possible, so I find her philosophy to be helpful and grounding. She teaches a freshman chemistry course that usually confounds students - but her excellent abilities have made it one of the most successful courses offered by the university.

It was Corinne's birthday yesterday. Her husband said, "I don't think she really likes presents. So I'll give her a card." Seriously? Dude. I know she loves him but that's a really douche-y move. I have no significant-other but my girlfriends do a darn-sight more than that. Yesterday I let him dictate the terms of the birthday celebration - we took the doodlers on a 10 mile bicycle ride and had no cake or presents. Today, I dictated the birthday celebrations: bought a bouquet of roses and an intimate card for him to give her, bought decorations, cooked dinner and made a birthday cake. I think Corinne's too tired to care which direction the party goes.

The Doodlers warmed up to me right away. Serious little Marie with her thoughtful expression, and mischievous Gracie. Now, they smile when they see me, run to me with arms upraised, sing silly songs with me, and giggle when I tease them.



Sunday, September 20, 2015

You can stop now

Why keep coming here? Every time I post something I see you there, looking at it. Why? Why do you still give a shit? How could this still matter to you at all?

I've lost the man I loved and the future and children I longed to have with him; the work that mattered so much to me; I've lost my job and income, and you've harmed my reputation so I can't get another job. I've given up my lease because I'm out of money, and I don't have a clue where I'll go or how I'll live. What can you possibly learn by coming here? Why does it still matter to you?  Whoever you are from MIVD who looks at these, understand that you're doing something very wrong and very sad. It doesn't matter anymore. You won. Please leave me alone.

Glimpsing behind

I found some videos I made long ago. This was February 2009 - just before my 31st birthday. I was on board the USS Nashville during its West African deployment. This was my first time to Africa - and my first time spending so many days aboard a Navy vessel. I'd been dating Hans for three months and was in love with him. I felt encouraged about the world and was excited to interact with it. It feels like a lifetime ago. I don't even recognize the person I was then.

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

A difficult day

Today was a bit rough. What makes the difference between a difficult day and one that's tolerable? I don't know. Maybe it's the cooler weather moving in, and the shorter days. Last night, my bicycle ride was ridiculous: I moved so slowly! Today there was a melancholy and hopelessness that leeched my initiative and left me sitting still with a bitter aftertaste on my tongue.

I know that I'm leaving this work in capable hands and this knowledge should propel me to create products to pass down. But I hate the feeling of losing things once again. The last betrayal was so thorough and so terrible it flavors my expectations of people. I expect weakness, I expect laziness and falseness. I must remember that there are brave people in the world: people who are kind and caring and courageous. I have friends who are brave.

I've stopped eating in the mornings. My experiments with fasting and prayer have evolved into this: daily 16-hour fasting. Between 9PM and 1PM the following day. I don't know that it brings me to greater spiritual awareness, but it does remind me that I'm alive. Here in this moment. My stomach aching and my legs weak.

Sunday, September 13, 2015

Paperwork

Eric once tried to convince me that I should retain complete ownership of my company - that I didn't owe anything to anyone and that most business "partners" will inevitably turn on you or damage your interests. Why, he wondered, would I give over any part of my work and my company - half, in fact - to Eve?
Of course the business hasn't made money and I explained this to him. But it would make money, he insisted. At some point, there would be a profit and I would be foolish to give half of it away.

How could I explain to him that I trusted Eve as much as I would ever trust anyone in the world? Most people will never understand what it is to tread water at the edge of an abyss and to feel a friend reaching with both hands through the darkness, trying to pull you back. 
There was once a hot July afternoon, lying by Lago Miseno with Eve, as I prayed that the morning-after pill had not destroyed what it was meant to destroy. She lay quietly beside me on the dock, listening to the lapping water, feeling my panic and pain and trying to calm me. 
"There's a chance," she said. "There's always a chance." 
A month later, when the conference in Tanzania and my work had drawn to a close,  I stood in my hotel room and cried and shook. 
"It's dark," I told her. "I don't know why I can't get over the pain. I worry I'm slipping into depression."
"It isn't depression," she reassured. "Its grief and it all has to come out. You don't know the volume of the grief so it will just take some time for it to all come out."
A month later, on the beach in Boa Vista, when I looked at her and lied, "I'm just going to go for a run. Go ahead to the hotel without me." 
I saw the concern in her face, and I felt guilty, knowing what I intended. How much did that stop me, knowing she would have to see the result? 
Later that winter, when the depression was so deep and impenetrable, she took me with her family on a Christmas trip to Venice and we walked together along the dark streets of Murano, carrying candles in paper bags after the Midnight Mass. The wind blew my candle out. Irrationally, I panicked. It felt keenly apropos. What did it mean that my light was gone? 
"Here," said Eve, giving me her candle. "Use mine to relight it."
Then we accidentally lit both bags on fire and nearly burned down the neighborhood and laughed so hard we could hardly breathe. 

There are a thousand moments that comprise our friendship and in moments like this, when I find myself, once again, being forced to walk away from everything I've built, I give it all to her with open hands. She's carried me more times than I care to count - why wouldn't I trust her to carry this? The rest is just paperwork.

Friday, September 11, 2015

On the Flying Trapeze

Joy wanted to go to Trapeze school for her birthday. So we went together. She's terrified of heights and I thought for a few minutes that I should also be frightened but, as I climbed the ladder to the 23 foot platform, I remembered climbing the ladders on board the HNLMS Rotterdam and I thought, "what the hell? What is there to be afraid of? This is going to be awesome." That day on the Rotterdam still ranks as one of my favorite days in my life.
Then there was the time in Senegal when I climbed up into the Baobab trees - my favorite trees on earth, and walked between them on a wire. What a moment! What a memory!

There's a moment, right after I jump into the nothing that I think, "Oh shit. What have I done? I'm committed now." But there isn't anything to be done. It's just gravity, and holding onto the swing, and feeling the ground rush up. 
I would rather risk falling into nothing than never knowing what it is to live. 
 




Saturday, September 5, 2015

Very tired now

Eric just left. I'm glad he came over, spent some time, went to a completely unimpressive movie with me tonight, ate too much popcorn and candy. It cheered me.

Today was the physical crash after a week of manual labor, emotional stress and problem-solving. The weather didn't make it any easier: it was hot and oppressive. Not the honest bright heat of a mid-summer afternoon: the throes of a dying star. I had difficulty making myself move through it.

In the morning I wrote a report and sent it to the people at my work. Then I showered, dressed, and got downtown to talk to the tax people. Its something I've dreaded and needed to do for months. Its been top of my list. The result was far clearer and less difficult than I'd feared.

At the Navy Memorial, I lay on the hot granite, next to the rushing water, and meditated,

I read "Jip en Janneke" on the trainride home. I don't want to lose the language skills I've gained. The new semester of classes starts this week but I won't be there. If I leave, it will be fairly soon and I shouldn't lock myself in for another six months. I'll just have to continue learning on my own.



Friday, September 4, 2015

Alright then

Phone call at 0700. Don't recognize the number. Salesperson. I'm up. Make coffee. Oatmeal. Shower.
Drive to McLean. Have the conversation with my boss.

Now I don't have a job.

Trying to sell all my furniture now. Can't afford to keep it and store it. Too poor to give it away for free as I might have done once.

Thursday, September 3, 2015

Closing out

I scheduled the meeting for tomorrow AM - so of course I can't sleep. I know what I'm going to say but that doesn't make it any easier. Anticipating a sad or difficult conversation is sometimes worse than actually having it.

If this ugly thing hadn't happened, I would say that things at work are going well. I gave a "brown bag" discussion about the research today and the team seems enthusiastic to move ahead. People are talking about next steps and my boss is looking to nominate our entire office for an award based on my analysis. No kidding. But I feel the fragility of this. Everyone's pleasure with me would dissolve if this ugly thing becomes an issue. My old employer has a lot of sway in this office and this could get much uglier before it gets better.

The truth is: having this shit on my record is bad for business. It's bad for the company I own. It's bad for the company I work for. If I stay and this becomes an "issue" I put other people's livelihoods at risk. I can't do that. I can't just wait around for things to get ugly. Its better that I bow out now - train my replacement.

I worked out at the gym after work. Lifted weights and stretched. I'm glad I've been training so hard - I need to feel my strength.

I moved two loads of boxes yesterday - and another load tonight. Tomorrow I'll get an estimate on total moving costs so I don't have to finish this all on my own. I'm mentally gone already.

I'm looking forward to seeing Corinne and the young doodlers. Gracie's started looking like a little girl instead of a baby - and the Z-bird is walking around with her sweet baby stumbles. I haven't seen them since Christmas and I need to spend time with them, get to know them.


Tuesday, September 1, 2015

Vlinder

I had to leave the office yesterday. Several times. My autonomic nervous system was charging full ahead again. This, after I did a meditation in the morning and yoga stretches before morning coffee. At least I know now how to deal with the racing heart, the pressured feeling behind my eyes, the waves of nausea at the back of my neck, the heavy sticky dread in my gut. I left the office, found a quiet street, and meditated. 

On my way back to the office I found this Monarch butterfly. It was so beautiful and unique and surprising. Bright orange against the blurred white background. I don't recall the last time I've seen a Monarch. 







Monday, August 31, 2015

Riding towards calm

Yesterday was frenetic. All cylinders firing and no focus. There are so many things on my brain right now and a corresponding tendency to let my racing heart, and the tightening in my chest dictate my emotions and decisions. But I don't want to do that. I want to make the best decisions - not the ones that are driven by desire or expediency.

I sold the wooden wardrobe from Italy to some guy named Dave on Craigslist. It was the last hold-out for my Apartment storage cage. Now the darned thing is empty and I can stop paying the rental fee.

I didn't want to get caught in the same trap of mindlessness today - so I got on the bicycle and road to Bethesda for a sushi lunch. Afterwards sat on a bench and did a 24 minute seated meditation. This turned out to be important. My racing heart eventually slowed, and the breathing became more regular.

I biked to Georgetown then, and waited for Shelley to join me. Salad, fish, Pinot Grigio, then home again.


Saturday, August 29, 2015

boxes

I spent the day moving things. Rented a storage unit, bought boxes and tape, and started dumping things into boxes. Lots of lifting. Lots of climbing. Physically exhausted now. Took the car back to Shelley but was too tired to bring my bicycle for a ride back. Walked to the metro. walked home. Must sleep.

Friday, August 28, 2015

Moving on

Up early this morning to take Shelly to the train station. She spent the night in my apartment because the ceiling in her bedroom is being patched. I'm glad she was here. Some of my old fears are back and I need the company.

There were entire months in 2012 when I worried someone might try to harm me, when I kept a go-bag tucked under my desk with 1,500 Euro, a toothbrush, and a passport, when I stashed my electronics in the closets of friends and in the lock boxes on the base so my evidence wouldn't suddenly disappear from my home. I don't know that the boys from MIVD would have actually physically harmed me, but I don't know that they wouldn't have. I always waited for the day when I might be snatched from the street, and I knew that I would kick and punch and scratch and bite and get some piece of someone under my nails and in my mouth. Now I have another rogue element: a person in my old company who has the long memory and bad intention to fuck with my accesses years later. What motivated this sudden maliciousness? Why wait all this time, and then malign my reputation?

It could be a matter of routine: someone getting promoted needed to make sure all the loose ends were tied up, so they shot a hole in my reputation to limit my ability to come after them with a lawsuit. Or, it could be a single individual with a grudge, irritated that I didn't agree to their characterization of me, irritated to see the image I project on LinkedIN: successful and well-respected. If it is the latter, then I have more to worry about than this single stealth attack. Someone has some personal grudge and they're going to harm me if they can.

Without any justification for the statement, I'll say it feels "female" to me. With the exception of MIVD (or other cowards), men will generally fight you to your face. You'll each get in a few punches, shake hands and walk away. I tend to be more "male" that way - a direct confrontation. In contrast, this feels sneaky to me. Because I can't guess the motivations, I can't plan for their TTPs. I've had to take a few precautions to make it more difficult to fuck with me. I hate that I have to do this. 

This will not be a short process - clearing my name. I won't find resolution any time soon. I've filed the appropriate paperwork to begin to seek help, so I need to stay mentally healthy while the machine grinds on. This has been difficult. The knowledge of how this recent action will affect my life feels like someone is sitting on my chest. I go for long walks, lift weights, ride my bicycle, talk with friends, and meditate. Anything to stay physically and mentally well.

I ran a few errands today - divested myself of some books at the book bank, mailed some DVDs and clothes to my sisters, I picked up boxes and I'll start packing up my things -taking them to storage. I can't afford to stay here anymore. I've spent all my money and can't stay and perpetually play catch-up. In the best case scenario, I get back to zero. That's no way to live. There are too many things I want to do, too many projects to be part of and fix, I'm not going to waste my time on the things that don't matter. I've tried to recover things that were lost, and I couldn't do that. I'm finished here. When I wrote to E last month, the clock began to tick down for me. That was the most important in a series of realizations. And now I know I'm done. I need to leave. I'm not supposed to be here anymore.

Stuff doesn't matter so much to me. I'm going to get rid of as much as I can. Whatever I do next, I can live a spartan life. Hell, I wanted to live in a tent in the desert with a bunch of dudes fighting bad guys - so I'm probably fine with an intermediate solution: something that is tidy and small and that lets me do something interesting in the work hours.

My friend Maggie is expecting her first child in a week. I'll be able to meet the new little guy, maybe spend time at her house, helping her get settled in. I want my friends and family to be okay and comfortable and to have good relationships with their children. I wish that being around their children wasn't so difficult for me. I wish that part of my soul didn't have such a ragged wound in it. Maybe some day it will heal.





Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Prayer for S

May you be safe from harm.
May you be free of suffering.
May you be healed, where healing is needed.
May you experience peace.

I love you.

Monday, August 24, 2015

Sunlight and Bicycle ride

I needed to be on the bicycle by 0900 this morning to meet Joy for coffee downtown at 1000. At 0400 when I was still not sleeping, I thought, "crumb. I'm never going to be able to wake up in time." But anxiety is the best alarm clock.
In my sleep I stacked and sorted and dreamed up universes where there was never a privacy invasion, where Sjors and I were left alone, where I did not now have to fight the 32nd-order-effects resulting from that malicious genesis. I dreamed about my former employer and wondered why they would make such an effort to attack my reputation and ability to work now. It seems nonsensical from a business perspective. What could have roused such malevolence? I think my crime was my lack of penitence. I refused to adhere to their archetype of a repentant sinner. I'd done nothing wrong. I was not ashamed. I refused to wear the "A" stitched on my shirt. I will not repent for loving someone. I will not repent for defending myself against a criminal attack.
I woke unassisted at 0748. My heart was pounding so loudly I could hear it. The arteries in my neck throbbed painfully.
Joy found a nice cafe where there were chocolate almond croissants and beautiful cappuccinos. We chatted, then strolled to Logan circle where we talked some more and did a 10 minute breathing meditation together.
Meditation calms me, brings me back to the present.

Sunday, August 23, 2015

Difficult and dark

It isn't really surprising that today was a difficult one. I could have predicted it: after yesterday's mad rush to find answers - to learn how deep the damage goes, and to identify its nature.

I didn't want to have to fight again. I've never wanted to fight. I only wanted to be left in peace. But here I am, once again, fists raised. This is no way to live, tensed for another battle. But what's the alternative? Give up on ever having a meaningful career? No. I must fight.

Last night was a bad one. I was up at 3AM, pacing the apartment like a caged animal. I'm trying to breathe because this is important. There is a perpetual disagreement between my old coping mechanisms (ruminating, running, bicycling like a maniac, researching, and producing) and the skills I've recently acquired: mindfulness, and meditation. With the exception of a 4AM meditation in order to sleep again, I'm afraid my old coping mechanisms won the day.

Today I got out of the house as quickly as possible. I got into the sunlight and strolled. I went to Whole Foods and got bread, milk, eggs and spinach.

I filed a report tonight. I should have done it months ago - but I wanted to leave well enough alone.

Thursday, August 20, 2015

Chapter Twelve: Analysis


Before the boys from the MIVD invaded my life, I assumed covert intelligence operations were necessary for national (and international) security.  Throughout my interactions with Sjors and during my correspondence with Mac and his group, I presumed their work was necessary. I even considered the MIVD’s invasion of my privacy as justified if they truly thought I was a security threat. In fact, I often felt irritated because I thought the group wasn’t doing their job competently. If these men were part of the team designated to protect us from the next terrorist attack, I sure as hell didn’t want them to be amateurs. In the words of Dr. Anneke Sibyl: “If I can see you doing it, you aren’t doing it right.”
As I review the narrative in these pages, I’ve begun to question this assumption. So I ask now: does the United States and its allies have the right intelligence organizations and practices necessary to identify and counter existing and emergent threats to national and international security?
I address this analysis at the United States and its allies.
There’s no question the nature of the threat has changed.  In the past two decades, the Cold War dynamic has given way to asymmetric threats arising from non-state actors. Small groups with limited resources, united in ideology or criminal enterprise, have wielded devastating disproportionate effect on civilian populations and superior militaries.  Al Qaeda, AQIM, Al Shabaab, Boko Haram, and ISIS/ISIL (or DAESH) are a few organizations whose names we know from their barbaric attacks on civilian “soft” targets, their fanatical dedication to impose extremist ideology on the rest of the world, and their frighteningly effective terror campaigns.
The success of these organizations reflects their use of what is known in military circles as fourth generation warfare. That is, the battleground is broad and dispersed, with no distinction between “civilian” and “military” targets. Such groups use existing technology to recruit, directly attack Western culture, and conduct highly sophisticated psychological warfare campaigns and terror operations.  To counter this fourth generation threat, intelligence agencies must gain timely and actionable information about the plans and personnel within these groups, while countering the ideological campaigns which promote and support their activities. This requires a high level of dynamism and reach, and a singular urgency because failure of intelligence means loss of life.
Unfortunately, practices of intelligence organizations often have unintended negative consequences, or “blowback” which expose the U.S. and its allies to increased instability, international hostility, and terrorism. Revelations about large scale meta-data collection by the NSA have resulted in loss of public trust and support. Drone strikes have resulted in civilian casualties, terror, and psychological harm, spawning a new generation of people who distrust us and are, therefore, less sympathetic to our efforts and more likely to harbor our enemies; imprisonment has radicalized and networked people who would not otherwise be a threat; the morally repugnant CIA torture program has damaged lives and cost the U.S. the moral high ground; spy programs in “friendly” countries have cost the U.S. the trust and support of our allies.  These second- and third- order effects of covert operations are particularly dangerous because they undermine our ability to succeed against terror groups. We require the support and collaborative efforts of global partners and we require the trust and self-reporting of societies and groups that would otherwise harbor or breed terrorists. 
I argue that the existing intelligence programs are ineffective in identifying and countering the threat, not because they receive insufficient support and advocacy from lawmakers but because, even in their best and most optimum functioning, they cannot be expected to adequately address the threat. Indeed, they aren’t designed to do so.
Our current intelligence organizations and methods were forged in the paradigms of the Cold War. In the state-versus-state model, each group has a disincentive to escalate (since escalation would result in deadly consequences for both), and there is a central power who can choose to disregard or take offense from covert actions, control blowback from covert operations, and with whom we can negotiate. An unsteady, “cold” equilibrium may be reached with our opponent. The current paradigm has no such controls. Our enemies have no national interest and no disincentive to escalate; there is no “truce” that can be reached because the ideology of our enemies requires our complete destruction. Terrorists are embedded parasitically in local populations which they use for sustenance and human shields, and they leverage fear, hostility, and superstition to radicalize indigenous populations. A traditional war of attrition isn’t possible in this paradigm since collateral damage from our covert action and attacks are used by terrorists as political motivation to foment hostility towards the West and perpetually replenish their ranks. 
In spite of this altered human terrain and the severity of the unintended consequences of our actions, we seem reluctant to reexamine our assumptions about using methods that were developed in a different era for a different enemy.  Instead, we feel an increased urgency and a corresponding willingness to bend the rules or trammel individual liberties. We “double down” on our intelligence investment. After all, what’s the alternative?  How can we fight an expanding and dynamic enemy without a proportional investment in intelligence personnel and technology?
Consider that the investments in intelligence operations should be qualitatively different than those required during the Cold War. In the Cold War, intelligence value was proportional to technological improvements. Spy planes and satellites and signals interception could give valuable information.  But our enemies now are more subtle and defeat our technology using simplistic, even primitive methods.  They operate in complex human, sociological, cultural landscapes: environments that don’t loan themselves well to technological solutions.  Even the largest and best-funded and technologically enabled intelligence service will never be able to be in all places, understanding local context and countering all threats. We can certainly manipulate or buy information or supporters to obtain greater coverage. But instrumentalist relationships as fostered by intelligence operators are not long-lived and will inevitably turn with shifting political winds or when a higher bidder comes along.
What we need for long-term protection, access, and information are genuine relationships and collaborations. We want partners we can trust to look out for our interests, understand local human terrain well-enough to identify and subvert threats, and proactively protect us, even when we don’t know to ask for it. Unfortunately, practitioners of intelligence operations are trained to lie and deceive as a matter of course. If we want true trust partnerships with allies, these are not the men to create them.
In reconstructing the events in this book, I was struck by the bizarre contrast between the philosophy and practices of the MIVD and those of the U.S. military capacity building mission, APS.
From its inception, APS was designed as a “Transparent” mission.  Ship deployment schedules were unclassified, and military “partners” from dozens of countries were encouraged to collaborate on an internet-based communications portal. Staffs were comprised of mixed European, African, South-American, and U.S. personnel. At its largest, the APS mission included multiple international naval ships and training efforts. The objective of the mission was to “improve the capacity” of local maritime institutions. There’s some evidence that this occurred. But, more important than this, APS provided an excuse for like-minded personnel in worldwide militaries to meet, work together, and build personal relationships, collaborations, and lines of communication.
Unlike covert operations which are founded in deception and which promote instrumentalist relationships, the transparency of missions like APS foster trusting and lasting relationships. Naomi and I understood this in Dakar in 2013 as we realized our best chance for security in the event of an attack against our hotel rested with our trusted Senegalese military partners. I haven’t been involved in the APS mission since I left Naples in the summer of 2013, but the relationships and collaborations continue and I’ve watched as our African and European partners identify enemies and fight battles that would otherwise come to our doorstep. I receive calls and messages from African Partners who share the “ground truth” of their situations with me, including Cameroonian Special forces operators fighting Boko Haram in Northern Cameroon. I suspect that the quality of actionable intelligence would be improved if operators didn’t feel compelled to somehow trick it out of the unsuspecting rubes; if relationships with our partners were frank and open and collaborative, rather than coercive or secret.
Relationship building has traditionally been seen as the role of the Department of State. But the Department of State is a diplomatic, not operational, entity. Real, actionable, relationships are created when the relationship is mutually beneficial to all operators. Therefore I suggest that there needs to be a new breed of intelligence operators – men and women who are trained in transparency, rather than deception, who work openly and frankly to build long-term relationships and collaborations with their counterparts in foreign militaries and law enforcement organizations.
There is still a role for “traditional” covert action as practiced by civilian organizations such as the CIA, and military organizations such as the MIVD. In the asymmetric battlefield, there is a need to infiltrate terrorist organizations and target bad actors. This requires deception and ethically ambiguous action. But widespread use or misuse of intelligence capabilities should be sharply reined in – not only because such practices are unethical but because they are often ineffective in the current threat environment, or even counter-productive to our security.
The MIVD’s illegal intrusive actions in my life were frightening because of the insouciance of the practitioners. These men were accustomed to deception and invasion and felt no hesitation in deploying their methods and techniques against someone who obviously posed no real threat. This was specifically in violation of Article 13 of the Dutch constitution which protects the right of privacy (specifically, the privacy of correspondence and the privacy of telephone). I was appalled by the casual manner of the manipulation and coercive tactics used against Sjors, and the damage and invasion of my personal life and career. 
According to ethicist Dr. David Perry, proponents of Intelligence operations suggest that the role of intelligence officers in countering grave external threats is thought to excuse them from certain ordinary moral constraints. It offends my sensibilities to know that the actions of the MIVD which had such devastating personal and professional impact cannot be justified under any claim of necessity. In fact, my role in assisting the Dutch military in their capacity building mission, African Winds, a mission that served Dutch interests, was cut short because of the illegal and pointless interference by the MIVD.

In this analysis, I’ve avoided talking about Sjors because our experiences represent a greater truth that needs to be told. I will talk about him now. There are no words to describe what it meant to lose him. I don’t know what became of Sjors, but not a day passes that he is not on my mind. Time hasn’t diminished the peculiar way he lives in my heart. The pain I feel is not only because I miss him, but because I hate what his organization did to him.
The Sjors I came to know was an intelligent, driven, patriotic, and remarkable man. Intellectually curious and ethically evolved, he came from a heritage of men and women who sabotaged Nazi endeavors, and smuggled and supported the displaced and the threatened. His intention in joining the MIVD was a noble one.  So, how was it that he was twisted and manipulated and used? Why did his organization deploy coercive methods against him, driving him to fear for his children? The practices of intelligence organizations generally include an element of coercion when it comes to agents or targets. It’s bizarre, tragic, and ironic that they deployed these tactics on one of their own.
My concern about the disproportionate emphasis we place on clandestine and covert intelligence operations, and the massive latitude we give these groups, is that they are not as effective as we expect them to be in securing our objective. Surely, these groups and their practices deserve another dispassionate look before we accept the traditional assumptions. At the very least, our criticism should be roused when the procedures of national covert intelligence organizations harm its practitioners or endanger or undermine the purpose they claim to serve. 


not a victim

I received some upsetting news this evening: MIVD's lie is the gift that keeps on giving. There's a "red flag"in an important database - and it blocks me from a job that I would otherwise get.

I feel strangely calm as I pull the thread on this latest piece of particular nastiness. This isn't the first time I've been slimed, and it wont be the last.

Last summer, when I began to write my after-action report on the events involving MIVD's illegal privacy invasion, I didn't realize how valuable this record would be. It's important for historical records, for legal records, and for personal peace of mind. I have a calm confidence that I've done nothing wrong. This is an important truth to know.

Victimization occurs when the target begins to internalize and believe that he/she somehow deserved or earned an abuse or attack. From a psychological perspective this makes sense because we wish to believe we have some control over our fates. When that control is taken away, we create a paradigm where we haven't lost control. "Its my fault because I didn't do such-and-fro carefully enough." "I deserved this."

But I know that this was not of my doing. This was not my choice. Bad things happened to me, but I did not ask for them. And I didn't behave badly. I will not be your victim.


Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Job interviews

I've sent out dozens of applications and now the interviews begin. I don't know where I'll go next, what I'll be. But it feels good to be moving on to the next thing. This slow trod, trying to recover the work that mattered to me: it may be over soon.

Tuesday, August 11, 2015

Decision

Another day at the office. Another set of mindless meetings. I'm half-asleep in my life now. I don't even half-try. I can't muster the will to care.
Went to the Marine base after work per my usual, ran, lifted weights. My brother called me as I drove home.
"You don't have to stay," he said. "You can leave anytime you want. You have an outrageously bizarre resume. If you could do whatever you wanted, what would you do?"
I thought back to my time aboard the Rotterdam, climbing ropes and shooting weapons with the Frogmen. I thought about working with Pcat, supporting operations. If I could have done it, I would have gone with them in a heartbeat.
"I would be operational," I told him. "I don't care where in the world. I would be operational, provide real-time analytical support to the tip of the spear."
"Then do it," he said.
Okay. I'm ready.

Its now been two years since MIVD took everything away and I haven't been able to regain even a centimeter. I've spent every dime trying to get the business started, trying to support operations in Africa, and haven't gotten anywhere. I'm in tremendous debt. I can't spend another winter here. I only came here because I thought I could regain ground. But I've lost everything and keep losing. I have to cut my losses. I have to leave. I have to get out of here.

I thought maybe I could build a normal life. But between the business failure and my inability to attach romantically (which I now understand) I can't expect that will ever happen. I will not ever be married. I will not ever have children. Sjors is gone. He isn't coming back. I will be alone. I understand that now. If I can't be normal, if I can't have what normal people have, then I need to go someplace where my life has meaning. I need to go where my life matters. It doesn't matter here, and I can't spend another winter in this place. I need to get out before the days start to shorten and the cold moves in.

Eve has a job, so she isn't relying on me anymore. That was my last real hang-up. I've started to reach out to my contacts. I'll find something as quickly as I can. I'll put everything in storage. Then I'm out.


Sunday, August 9, 2015

A realization

It was 3AM before I went to bed last night. 4:30 before I could sleep. I've spent a very busy week and couldn't even tell  you what I did. I've been out of the house more than ever. Late at night: downtown walking around, visiting sites, having drinks with strangers, staying out until the bars and restaurants closed. I told myself, "This is healthy. This is what normal people do. Aren't you supposed to go out and do things?"
I stayed out all night Thursday. Friday. Saturday nights. At a bar, I met a nice looking man in his thirties. Considered trying to date him. That he is completely inappropriate (e,g, immature, an alcoholic, and fucking his foul-mouthed work partner) didn't dissuade me. I was driven by an agitated, cold, and detached energy.On Friday night I had midnight pizzas with three people I'd only just met. Last night, I walked city streets until I was exhausted and my feet were blistered.  At home, I tried to work on my laptop. I flitted from one task to the next. I lay in bed last night, restless, unable to sleep. 

Finally I tried a formal meditation. Focused on my breathing. As I became present, as the calm took over, a piece of the puzzle fell into place for me. I finally understood. 

This roving about; the walking; the aimless visits; the late night conversations with strangers and agitated, unsatisfying phonecalls with friends; studying languages; applying late night for jobs in far-flung places; looking for postings in Afghanistan and Iraq; this is what despair looks like for me. 

Two weeks ago, for the first time in years, I began to truly and sincerely hope again. I've never been able to stop believing that Sjors' soul is companion to mine: an unmovable faith that is tethered to faith in god because nothing I've ever known or experienced has felt so right and true.  So when I had a powerful dream about a child and woke with a calm inclination to reach out to E, I felt this was perhaps inspired by god. This belief was reinforced when E actually started reading my blog and continued for three days. He was only the second invited person to ever visit this site. Marie reads my words here - and so, uninvited, does MIVD. I felt so nervous about sharing the link with him. I could never have expected or demanded that he come. It was so comforting and validating to know that he did. Some untouched and tender faith was gently urged to life. If god had inspired this, maybe there was some higher purpose. Maybe it was possible and right to hope. 

I began to pray again. For E. For Sjors. I began to fast because I was raised to believe that fasting and prayer is somehow more potent to god: the humility an expression of faith. As I did for years, longing for Sjors, needing him more than I needed breath, I begged god to bless him, to inspire him and soften his heart toward me. 

I checked blog statistics. If E told Sjors about it, he would surely send him the link. If Sjors was receptive to me, if he read my words, he would remember me, remember who he was with me. The man I knew might be brought back to life. God, I prayed for a resurrection. One week ago I had dinner and drinks with Shelley, told her about my unreasonable faith, and felt calm and loved and hopeful and happy for the first time in years. 

But there was nothing. I bicycled hard on Friday, Saturday and Sunday to push away the worry. I wondered what E had thought about me when he read my years of personal thoughts. How might my writings come across to another person? Had he despised me? Maybe he didn't share my blog with Sjors because he agreed there was something wrong with me. Then, I thought: maybe he didn't share my blog because he knows Sjors loathes me. 

I imagined what it was to be Sjors right now. I remembered the way he blamed me for his professional losses. I remembered the darkness in his face at the train station in Amsterdam Centraal. I remembered the months of ugly messages. How was it reasonable to hope that this angry man would ever transform back into the vibrant, loving, kind person who had loved me? I never understood how he had become lost to me. After years of trying I was never able to bring him back. How reasonable was it to hope now? Flickering faith turned to despair. 

I understand now why I have been angry at every man I've been with: why I despise them for not being Sjors. I seek them out, let them touch me, laugh at their jokes, and move with them in the dark. I tell myself I'm moving on, that this action is a hope for the future, but this is a lie. Rather, these actions arise as an expression of a deep and profound despair. I despair that the man who is my soul's mate is lost to me forever. This was the despair that brought me to the beach in Boa Vista, took me to the roof in Yaounde. The blackness of my depression has only been the subtlest reflection of the horror and realization that I am damned. What is hell besides separation from the people you love most dearly and knowledge of their misery? 

Today, this self-knowledge stops me. I will not consider the reasonableness of my faith. I will not calculate the probability that what I wish will ever be restored. I will not put a time limit on an outcome. Love is improbable. God is improbable. This was never a calculation. 



Thursday, July 23, 2015

Restless mind

At Shelly's apartment. I crashed here last night because dinner with her friend lasted too long and I have an early wake-up for work. Made more sense to get rest and get up early. Of course this is much too early. I was up at 3AM, heart racing. Lay in bed for a long time, trying not to wake her. Practiced meditation techniques to pull my mind out of anxiety but it drifted back. Surrendered at 4 and came into the living room. Pulled out my laptop,  sat on the floor, draped myself in a blanket, and here I am.

Its been a while since I've put anything down here. There's been something on my mind since MB's visit, coming more clearly into focus every day. I've avoided the formal meditations, worried about these truths that would come drifting up from the deep when I calmed my mind. Yesterday, after class, I sat with Joy and we talked about it.

I hesitate as I write this, knowing that anything I put here will be taken by my MIVD watchers. This isn't the correct forum for such thoughts.

I will write this, however: I love Sjors. I love you, Sjors, as clearly as that first day I saw you. When I was with you, I felt complete. I felt there was some beautiful truth to the world and that I'd found it: discovering gravity or special relativity or seeing the sun for the first time. I knew then that I never wanted to forget this truth. I may never know again what it is to be loved by you; I may have returned to darkness, but I don't want to ever believe that this is the way its supposed to be. I never want to look at the flickers of pale light in the shadows and say "this is all there ever really was. I should make my peace with this. I should find a way to be at home here." I'm not at home here. This is exile. Home is where you are.

I'm surrounded by life: people married and having children, and I know I'm excluded from those things because, in order to participate, I would have to forget what I know or pretend it isn't true. I would have to forget that I love you. I can't do this. I've tried. After all these years the truth hasn't faded. When I'm with another man I hate him for not being you. And I hate myself for trying to move past the truth. I didn't stop breathing on that night in Boa Vista but every breath since has felt like a cowardice. I knew then that life without you would be clockwork. I stayed, but part of me swam out to sea that night and did not return.

You may not love me, but I love you. This is truth for me.