Steve B. Howard's Blog, page 161

Headspace is great!

Headspace is great!

Yeah, I always try and tweet good stories too.

Yeah, I always try and tweet good stories too. I’ve noticed a lot of times other Medium members that I follow on Twitter will retweet the stories and get it even more exposure.

Thanks again Heath. Kind and encouraging comments like yours is what keeps me putting pen to paper.

Thanks again Heath. Kind and encouraging comments like yours is what keeps me putting pen to paper.

I wish I could say I know what I’m doing when it comes to clapping, but I don’t think anyone…

I wish I could say I know what I’m doing when it comes to clapping, but I don’t think anyone completely understands it. Seven just seemed like a fair number based on how many stories I clap for each month.

The Lucky 7’s: How and Why I Clap the Way I Do

“Green wall with white and green numbered mail boxes outside on 45th Street” by Jerry Kiesewetter on Unsplash

7 claps. That’s all you get from me. Not because I’m a stingy. Not because I don’t like your writing. And definitely not because I don’t understand and appreciate the amount of effort you put into writing it. The main reason is because the weird and wonderful wacky algorithms, or more accurately, my complete lack of understanding of how the claps for cash thing works.

I do know that since I’m a member every time I clap for a locked story a the writer gets some money. Or fraction of some money. Or a electronic signal that some point gets converted into money. And possibly a goat sacrifice, I don’t know. And I also know that I clap for a lot of writer’s locked stories each month. I assume those writers get paid. How much? I have no freaking idea. Maybe someone out there with a 200 IQ who speaks fluent binary knows, but I don’t.

“A robot named Pepper holding an iPad” by Alex Knight on Unsplash

So seven seems like a safe number. Nice for unintentional alliteration too. There are times when I’d love to drop 50 clap bombs all day long, but then I think, “Why dilute the love?” 7 feels right. It feels lucky. A 1 or 10 might slip through now and again, but 7 is what I shoot for.

Thanks for reading it and commenting.

Thanks for reading it and commenting. I appreciate it. I’ve been writing a lot of haibun about the stories my dad told me about his experiences during the Vietnam War. He passed away in 1997, so I only have my memories to go on which is unfortunate since it is a poor substitute for actual stories he told me. But, I do enjoy writing them.

My Friend the Buddha at Four Years Old

Steve B Howard 2018

I can feel them pulling on me. One pulls from the ground and the other pulls from the sky. I don’t know why they are in my backyard. The one in the ground wants me very much. The one in the sky wants me too, but he is worried. I think that maybe they are God and the devil. I don’t know why they are fighting over me.

The grass in my backyard is very green. I keep walking and looking at the grass. I’m a little scared. But now I hear another voice. This one is nicer than the other two. He tells me to walk in the middle. I listen to him and the other two voices go away. I ask this new voice if he wants to play with me at the swing set. He laughs, but not mean, like he thinks I’m funny.

There aren’t any kids at the playground today, but I’m not lonely. My new friend is still with me. Even though he is only in my head. I like the red paint on the swing set. It looks like a fire truck. I see a big spider web on the swing set and get scared. I ask my new friend if I should kill the spider before it bites me. He says no because the spider is a part of me, sort of like my brother. I don’t understand, so I keep swinging. I ask my new friend where he lives. He tells me he lives everywhere, but right now he lives inside me. I don’t understand this either. I tell my friend I think he is funny. He laughs.

I go over to the big muddle and look at myself in the water. My friend isn’t talking now, but I know he is watching me. I have to be careful because I can go near the water, but I can’t get wet. My Mommy would be mad if I did. I ask my friend if he wants to eat dinner at my house, but this time he doesn’t answer. He’s gone now.

Part 2

The memory is just a tendril on the cusp of conscious thought. But a vague outline of importance has remained with me for twenty-eight years concerning this memory. Were there truly two entities vying for my soul? Or was it just some subconscious fear emerging from a slightly narcissistic four year old child’s mind, who still believed the world revolved around his own center?

I do remember distinctly pressure from two opposing forces. And I remember two voices, both of them male, and a strong desire emanating from them. I believed them to be God and the devil competing for my physical form. I do not think the notion of having an eternal soul had confused me yet at that early age, so I assumed they would take me in my current physical state.

The grass behind the apartments where I lived was very green. I‘m sure with a simple dark green crayon and a blank piece of paper I could have captured the essence of the thick green grass with a few enthusiastic downward strokes. From simple play would come the understanding of the grass and its connection to myself.

Then there was a third voice. This voice knew me. I felt no pressure from it, only kindness. It spoke to me of finding the center. Like a mother explaining to a child, only with a masculine voice. I remember asking the voice as a child would ask a playmate if it wished to follow me to the playground. The voice laughed the most gentle laugh of pure joy I have ever heard. The playground was deserted, but I was not alone. The voice embraced me like the warm blanket of friendship. The bright red paint of the swing set caught my attention and I began swinging. I saw a thick spider web and became frightened. At that age I still believed spiders were evil creatures that sucked the blood of all unsuspecting people. I asked the voice if I should kill it, to protect us. The voice said the spider was a part of me, like a brother. I didn’t understand at the time and told the voice so. I asked as a child friend where the voice lived. It told me it lived everywhere and inside of me. I told it I did not understand and I thought it was funny. I remember the gentle laughter again.

I got off the swing set and searched for my reflection in a dirty brown mud puddle. I called out for my friend in my mind but it did not answer, but I still felt its presence watching over me. The threat of mud stains made think of my Mother, and how unhappy she would be if I became dirty. With one final request for the voice to join me for dinner I realized my friend was gone.

What did it mean? The memory has never left me and I often contemplated its meaning. In high school I discovered Freud and Jung and decided the two voices must have been the remnants from an overheard argument between my parents that manifested itself as a struggle between God and Satan. But the third voice remained a puzzle. I thought maybe it was my Ego trying to negotiate between my Id and Super Ego, but that did not seem possible at that young of an age. According to Freud, my Ego should not have been developed enough to intervene.

Several years ago, I discovered Buddhism. Buddha spoke of the Middle Way. I believe this is what the third voice meant by finding the center.

The Buddha also spoke of eternal joy upon reaching enlightenment. I believe he meant the eternal joy a child feels when seeing the simple wonder of beautiful green grass. And the joy of being completely alone at the playground and yet having an invisible friend to discuss all the things that occupy a four- year olds enlightened mind.

The voice has never returned, at least not to my conscious thoughts. But I still catch shadows of its echoes in half remembered dreams. And in those places good and evil are only modest ideologies, and reality is the perfect experience of a child.

My Friend the Buddha at Four Years Old was originally published in The Junction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Just in Case

CCO

I remember a lot of your “just in case” stories from the war. Sitting just outside of the cockpit on the C-7 Caribou rather than in the co-pilot’s seat so you could aim the .12 gauge at the row of ARVN sitting there just in case they tried to stuff a live grenade between the seats before they left the plane.

And when you would land on the makeshift dirt runways in the jungle the Caribou would slow down to 25 mph, but never stop, just in case, even as you pushed the ARVNs out the ass end of the plane. A prop blast to so spin the plane around at the end of the runway and zoom, back in to the air as fast as possible. “Fuck ’em if they don’t get outta the way,” the pilot from the Bronx always yelled as the C-7 roared back into the sky.

On the .50 Caliber you would spray the jungle behind you ripping to shreds everything that got caught in your deadly hosing before the plane cleared the massive Dipterocarp trees at the end of the runway. Suppressing potential fire from the Viet Cong or ARVN units gone bad was an absolutely necessary just in case.

The “just in case” that really got to you though were the hand grenades stuffed in beer mugs and packed in crates webbed securely to the deck that lined the back end of the cargo hold. You and the pilot would spend an hour before each flight pulling the pins, holding the levers tight, and jamming the grenades into the beer mugs. The snug interior of the mugs would prevent the grenades from exploding until they were tossed out the back of the plane by you to break and explode in some unsuspecting village that might have otherwise shot your plane to hell as you flew over.

shrapnel and napalm
reach the jungle towns
long before Coca Cola

Just in Case was originally published in Literally Literary on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Honest Affection

Photo by Joshua Earle on Unsplash

We fight.
Everyone does.
Without occasional
struggle there’s no
story.

But there’s enough days
like the ones Mr. Reed sang
about to keep us coming
back.

We’ll reap what we sow and
smile broadly into the
hurricanes.

Honest Affection was originally published in Publishous on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Great poem!

Great poem! And I liked the picture of Ryoan-ji Temple in Kyoto. I’ve been there a few time. Very beautiful and peaceful place.