Ares, Imperialism, My Friend, Nationalism, PTSD, Recruiting, Sean Patrick Kenel, Suicide, Thirty Years Old, Torment, Torture, Tyler Giradello: 03/07/1989-11/11/2019, Tyler Girardello, Veterans, Veterans Day, War
I rise and write most days in my quest to deliver daily to Calliope, the Greek muse of writing. November eleventh I awoke in the wee-ist of hours and began composing. Veterans Day I created my poem All The Rage, a poem of Hell on Earth as brought to us by we savage humans.
At 12:11 a.m. EDT my Veterans Day poem One-Hundred-One, which I had completed and scheduled for release earlier in the week, posted. I usually post at 3:14 a.m. but chose twelve-eleven Ante Meridiem for One-Hundred-One as this was as close to 11/11 as I could achieve and still have my poem up early in the day from my location of GMT-4.
One-Hundred-One, this year’s version of my annual lament over kowtowing to Ares, the insistence that War is righteous, that our celebrating Veterans is holy work, that God is with us as we battle, are notions with which I am greatly at odds. (Thank you, veterans for your service. My hope is to forge a world where you are not summarily summoned, slaughtered and forgotten.)
Though I’d finished and posted my Veterans Day repine, chaos, Nationalism, propaganda, power, intolerance, hatred, Imperialism, death, war, pestilence and famine were ferociously galloping through my brain, a circumstance that lead me to write an oblique diatribe against our savage race’s favorite pastime, war. All The Rage complete, I placed it in the “publication” queue.
Early in the evening of Veterans Day our twenty-six year-old son called from 650 miles south to tell us that another friend, his fourth in just over a year, had killed himself. Tyler, the thirty-year-old friend whose company we had enjoyed, the man whose dog we had watched when he had traveled and with whom we had participated in Tampa’s version of the Savage Race, a veteran of war struggling to find peace, had, despite love, encouragement and support, lost his way, lost his battle and, around 3:00 a.m., ended his own life with a noose. Son Sean was devastated.
I record most of my writing and post the recordings on Facebook and YouTube. Learning that I wrote All The Rage while Tyler was taking his own life convinced me that his spirit had instructed me to write what I did and in my introductory preamble to posting the poem I added that I wrote All The Rage for Tyler, a statement that I had convinced myself was true. It wasn’t of course.
As I wrote in the three o’clock hour I did not know that Tyler was taking his own life. His spirit did not visit me. In fact, the timing turned out to not be concurrent. Tyler had extinguished his life while I lay sleeping. I created the spirit of Tyler entering me as it left his body to comfort me, to give me solace over his senseless, desperate, sad act. I retroactively created a ghost, a myth, a lie to bring me comfort.
As we do with all war as we heap body upon body to Ares’ holocaust.