“Remember, my son, you are three persons in one,“ admonished my mentor, as I stewed over whether to take his life or forfeit mine.

Squeezing the trigger, I stood and watched as round after round peeled away layer after layer of meat ’n’ bone from the side of his face, like a butcher’s knife, before he slumped to the ground in slow motion. Seeing the others run for cover, I realized that not one of these poor peasant farmers was armed.

Looking down, as I stood over the dead man’s body, I watched in awe, as his mutilated face transformed itself into mine, then yours, and back into mine, from whence it transfigured itself into a crucified Christ’s before settling upon my dead brother’s. Closing the eye that was left, after I’d looked into it, I recalled a fight I’d had with my brother, many moons ago. Having been coaxed, by my stepfather, into putting on the boxing gloves to settle an old score with Scott, whom I’d overcome then, as easily as I had, a few moments ago, with a show of superior strength, I recalled a vow I’d made as he lay on the floor, writhing in the pain of defeat. Upon realizing that all men are my brothers, I swore I’d never fight again.

Until now, I had done remarkably well in keeping that vow. When, a year or so later, I was confronted by one of the neighborhood toughs, on my own turf, I talked my way out of a fight and into a mutual respect for the other that lasted through high school. Having stood up to the real enemy, Brute Force, and overcome the beast, for months afterwards, I was looked down on, by the rest of my family, as a coward. Though, in the eyes of my soul, I was seen as the real hero, that day. And in spite of the hurt I felt, over their response to my handling of the incident, I was encouraged by my soul to continue to pursue more peaceful solutions to the problems that confronted mankind.

Turning to the incident at hand, I broke down crying as I waited for the dead man’s people to come back for him. Looking down at the uniform I was wearing, I cursed this bloody day and the man this naughty boy had become, for my face had, indeed, grown long with shame.

At some point in the song, I found my self standing in a field of the most luscious strawberries I’d ever seen. Wary of the sudden craving, that’d come over me, to jump in and wallow around in the berries, rubbing them all over my naked body as I ate whatever I wanted, I backed off with the realization that man does not live by images alone, “but on every word that comes forth from the mouth of God“. Mt. 4:4.

Then the magician, who’d been standing behind this fantasy, waiting for me to choose, took me down to the very kore of my being, or source of all fantasy, and placed me before the most voluptuous woman I’d ever seen, saying to me, “If you are a true son of God, then throw your self upon her; for it is written,
’You will not die;
For God knows,
That when you partake of this fruit,
Your eyes will be opened,
And you will be like God’.“ Gen. 3:4–5.

“It is also written,“ I said to him, “that ’you shall not commit adultery, for anyone who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart’.“ Mt. 5:27–28.

Again, the magician took me down to the very kore of my being and showed me every sensuous fantasy he could drum up, whereupon he said to me, “All these will I fulfill for you, if only you let me trick, er, I mean, treat you to the delights of your imagination.“

“Away with you, Satan!“ I finally insisted, “for it is written,
’Indulge not the fantasies of Instinct
But rather the way of the soul,
For it is she who must be obeyed
If you are to be overcome’.“

“In what book is that written?“ the magician demanded to know.

“Why, right here on this page from the story of my life,“ I pithily replied, whereupon he disappeared, leaving me sitting there with a brief glimpse into the strange workings of my soul.

“Is that the only way you’ll ever understand what I’m tryin’ to tell you?“ I fired back in my frustration with his stiff-neckedness.

Having shut him up, for the moment, I grew depressed at the thought that even my best friend was a Neanderthal.

“Like a chip off the old block, eh?“ did my shadow remind me.

“Aw, shut up,“ I shouted back across the void. “I’m gettin’ so goddamn sick ’n’ tired of hearin’ about evolution, that I could puke. Why me? Why am I the only one who ever sees this shit? Huh?“

“I can’t hear you,“ I shouted back, after a brief pause in which I received no other response from my shadow than dead silence.

“I’m sorry, Marty,“ I finally said, “for havin’ taken my frustrations out on you. I’m just a little depressed today, that’s all.“

“This f—-n’ hole’s enough to depress anyone,“ rejoined Marty.

“That’s just it, Marty,“ I exclaimed. “It’s not the place. It’s you and I who’re out of sync. And I feel as if I’m the only one who sees that.“

“I see it,“ he proclaimed.

“You see only what ya wanna see, Marty,“ I rebutted, “whatever demands little or no change on your part.“

“I’m not you, Dury,“ insisted Marty. “And I never will be.“

“You’re more like me, Marty,“ I added, “than you’ll ever admit. You’re just as stubborn as I am. Only you resist change instead of resisting what refuses to change. You’re all talk ’n’ no action, Marty. In spite of that, ya got spunk—one thing I’ve always liked about ya.

“Boy, am I thirsty,“ I concluded. “Ya wanna get somethin’ to drink?“

“Sounds good,“ he exclaimed as we headed for the exchange.

“Ya know, Dury,“ Marty finally admitted, “while I sometimes, really like what ya have to say, I have a hard time figurin’ out how the hell you’d ever live out some of the shit ya come up with.“

“Yeah, Marty,“ I stated quite frankly, “so do I. But I know one thing for sure—I can’t live like this, either.“

With that, we both fell silent.

“Ya know, Marty,“ I exclaimed, as I looked out over the bay to grasp hold of a thought before it disappeared, “we’re just as stupid as the Spanish were.“

“How’s that?“ he asked.

“Just as the Spaniards, who had colonized these islands, fell for the fallacy of the phallus, so have we,“ I responded. “We haven’t learned a thing from the last two hundred years of the history of man’s mistakes.“

“What d’ya mean?“ he asked again.

“We still believe in using brute force to get what we want,“ I replied, “whether it’s ours to have or not. Like a bunch of wild animals, do we allow ourselves to get all puffed up and bent out of shape at the slightest provocation of our egos. In our inability to make soul without forcing ourselves upon her, we lose our heads instead of using them.“

“I pity the poor bloke who takes a poke at me,“ interjected Marty, “cause I’ll kick the motherf—-r’s face in.“

“Ya see, Marty,“ I exclaimed, “that’s exactly what I mean. Instead of relying on the force of truth, we immediately turn to brute force. We respond instinctively to the differences which rise up between us, for the sake of consciousness, to protect from death that part of us which needs to die, in the first place. In our stubborn refusal to evolve into full human beings, we hold onto a dead way of life and protect it with the old instinctive responses of our animal ancestors.“

“There ain’t no motherf—-r, I’d ever let push me around,“ insisted Marty, “I’d die fightin’, fore I’d let that happen.“

“Don’t ya see, Marty,“ I persisted, “that’s the fallacy—you’d die fightin’ for the wrong cause, to protect a way of life that shoulda died out long ago, for the dinosaur’s way of life, we’re currently leading, was doomed long before you were ever a consideration.

“And even though you ’n’ I don’t always see things, eye to eye,“ I proclaimed, “we’re more alike than either one of us is willing to admit. Why else would we’ve become such good friends, if I were not in you, as you are in me. We’ve been tossed together, like the flip sides of the same coin, that we might learn from each other how much better it is to use our heads than our tails to get across the same point.

“In our disagreement with each other,“ I concluded, “we coulda duked it out. You, being the stronger, coulda decked me, kicked me in the face, and left me lyin’ there half-dead. But you didn’t. Nor did I raise a hand to strike you. Why? Don’t ya see, Marty, it’s because we’re sayin’ the same damn thing, only in a different language. While you were pounding my head into the ground with expressions of brute force, I wriggled free of a like response, only to sneak up behind ya with a verbal assault that has sent ya into a tailspin. Havin’ taken the wind out of your sails, I have mentally accomplished what you had set out to physically impose upon me. I’ve defeated the real enemy, who uses the language of the body to confuse us, in our inability to translate into words what we’re truly feeling.“

When stripped of her masculine persona—symbolized by the presence of the military and the huge old Spanish cannon that protruded from her body like a phallus that’d been rendered impotent—Subic Bay exhibited all the hidden beauty of the female pudendum. To many, she was the biggest little whorehouse in all the South Pacific. Defiled, long ago, by Spanish troops, she unwittingly fell victim to a life of prostitution. Unable to resist the lure of easy money, she continued to whore herself out to the troops of the new, up-and-coming young pimp on the block, named Uncle Sam, after he ran her old boss and his rival, El Cid, out of the territory, in a big shoot-out during the summer of 1898. Although it would be a long time before she got up enough nerve to send Uncle Sam packing, she used him just as much as he did her, for there was definitely no love lost between the two, when they parted company after the eruption of an unresolvable squabble over money.

Dear Butch,

I guess by now you’re thoroughly convinced that I’m dead ’n’ buried. Really, I’m still around and kicking. Only, I think the mail has been getting held up lately. I got your package yesterday, and was so thrilled, I could hardly do anything else but stand around and grin. You know, I got scared just thinking about the ring, for the day before I received your package, I had talked about buying another ring. For I had lost my class ring, not too long ago. I’d worn a ring for so long, it felt funny going without one. Then I received your package, and could’ve sworn you’d read my mind, which, by the way, gave me the creepiest feeling. I’m so-o-o glad you bought it for me, cause you have a lot better taste than I do. Why it’s so beautiful, Butch, I couldn’t have asked for anything prettier. Talk about a perfect fit! I don’t know how you did it, for it fits as if it were actually made for me. How do you manage to make everything so perfect? All I can say is thank you very much. And just to show you how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me, I’m going to bake you one of the best tasting fruit cakes you’ve ever eaten, my secret recipe, a cake I only make about once a year because of all the ingredients that go into it, and the length of time it takes to bake it. I know you’re gonna like it.

That’s about it for now, other than to tell you that “My Song“ is strung across my room. It was such a wonderful way to send the ring, that I’d hate to think how long it took you to make it. And it was wonderful to receive, too. Thank you.

Take care of yourself now. And remember, I’m in there rooting for you. Only, I don’t know if that’s a help or a hindrance, even though I’m trying to be helpful.

Love,
Mary

I loved her more than anything else in the world. While her letters were, in large part, what kept me going, I see now how much they held me back too, as they had a very calming effect on me. For a week or so after I received one, I tended to act out less against the Navy which only made life with my soul so unbearable that, by week’s end, I was ready to do anything she asked, even if it meant getting into trouble again. In my confusion yet, over the image to which I ultimately owed allegiance, I wavered back ’n’ forth between the two, to side with whoever captured what I was feeling. And because of Mary’s recurrent relapses into hyperthyroidism at the mere mention of my getting into trouble with the Navy, I avoided telling her anything of that nature until the following summer, when I could no longer toe the line for either her or the Navy.

“Well done, my son!“ exclaimed my mentor, from across the void.

“Trust,“ he pleaded with heartfelt sincerity. “I make offer, no can refuse—no take American money, to end of day. What say?“

While we weren’t sure what to believe after our last experience, Greg and I both agreed that we had nothing to lose since we did not have to pay him until the end of the day.

“Trust,“ he reiterated with a nod, this time.

“Okay,“ Greg finally agreed.

With a grin that extended from ear to ear, he rushed to open the door of his cab, and bade us to have a seat. Only after he, himself, had gotten into the cab, did he ask us where we wanted to go.

As we struggled to communicate to our cabby, the desire we both shared to purchase a nice gift for that special someone back home, he pointed to the ring on his finger. “Eh?“ inquired our cabby.

“Jewelry!“ I exclaimed, in answer to the charade our hearts had played on us.

“Yes!“ rejoined Greg. “What an excellent idea!“

So did our cabby, with the unanimous approval of his fare, take off for parts unknown.

Suddenly, it struck me how much Life is like a game of charades, in which we’re forced to find the Word hidden within Her images, both real and imaginary, to avoid giving flesh to His nemesis, Instinct. In our inability to interpret the language of the body, are we driven to act instinctively, to live out what we see rather than what we hear. For we’ve never been taught how to listen to ourselves or seek the counsel of our own faculties. Lured by the attractiveness of Life’s images, we let the multitude, rather than the One Voice, interpret them for us, preferring to live as our animal ancestors have always lived, under the tyranny of Instinct. In our failure to realize that She must be obeyed, one way or the other, are we forced to live out the charade instead of the truth.

As I refocused my attention onto a more visible band of the spectrum of consciousness, I found my self getting out of the cab, with Greg, in front of a small jewelry store. Inside, I quickly honed in on a gold ring upon which was mounted a star sapphire. Trying it on my baby finger, I just knew it would fit Mary. When I asked the shopkeeper how much it cost, I balked at first.

“Twenty dollars,“ he finally said, “no lower.“

“That’s a bargain,“ piped up Greg. “You could never buy the same ring at that price, back in the States.“

“You think not?“ I asked, hesitatingly.

“I know,“ added Greg, “for gold’s much higher back in the States.“

“All right,“ I muttered as I reached into my pocket for the money. “I’ll take it.“

“I sure wish I could be there,“ I rambled on, “to see the expression on her face when she tears into this package and feasts her eyes on a ring—it’ll blow her mind.“

Greg just smiled, as if to say he agreed. Having selected a beautiful gold necklace for his wife, he proceeded to pay for it.

Just as quickly as my attention had been captured by these few stray thoughts, was it captivated by the sound of the rock ’n’ roll music that’d broken through, as this lonesome freight came screeching to a halt at Greg’s insistence.

“That sounds like the Beatles!“ exclaimed Greg, amateur musician and avid Beatles’ fan that he was. As we drew closer to the source of the music, a record shop up the street, he surmised that we were hearing, for the first time, songs from a new album they had released while we had been at sea, cut off from any news of what’d been happening around the rest of the world.

Once we were inside the shop, Greg quickly solved the mystery as he honed in on the new album, like a homing pigeon, and snatched it up in his claws. “Fancy this,“ he exclaimed, “finding the Beatles’ latest album in Japan, of all places.“ As soon as we’d all had a good laugh, he turned around and bought the darn thing.

On the way back to the ship, we made another stop, this time at my insistence, for I really wanted to buy something more than the silly little patch I’d gotten Mary, to let her know how much I loved her.

“Look!“ I exclaimed as I emerged from a small shop, to the acclaim of Greg and Harold as I held high the silk blouse I’d bought Mary.

“Say,“ I blurted out as they took off without me, “if we wanna eat supper back onboard the ship, we’d better get goin’. Besides, I can’t be late for my date with the master-at-arms; or my ass’ll be grass.“

While the work was still very menial, I noticed a slight change in my taskmasters. As they got to know me, I was no longer given the meanest and nastiest work they could muster up. When they stuck around to keep an eye on me, which was very seldom, I’d engage them in a bit of conversation. And I found that even those, who still treated me so callously, had a heart I could touch if they let me. For the most part, I was left alone, unsupervised, to do however much I felt like doing, so long as I put in two hours of my time.