Below the Fold

Surplus Survival

The turbulent progression has given way to the inevitable post-war depression. Lost souls wandering around in ragged uniforms, looking for any suggestion of victory. Promises and boundaries all covered up by the big bang theory that came crashing down -- revealing more than a few limits to our humanity.

So much for allegiance. These things take time -- have a way of making the lost assurances come to grips. Are we arriving tonight? Or has the train already left the station?...some time long ago. Taking longing looks down the tracks. Sheltered by the coming storm. Messages coming over the short wave -- ordering long abandoned offensives, making brave declarations of sunny days to come, running over the latest ration allowances...a false-hope check list that can still raise an eyebrow among the air-raid brigade but only instills creepy chills in our battle-weary missionary souls.

The front lines were drawn with precision force. By instinctively calibrated instruments bent on ensuring the greatest of all possible conflict -- taken to the spectrum of extremes...if only to stake the most mundane claim to history. And we all went along for the ride. Doing our bit for the big effort. Answering the call with disdained regard for our personal safety.

Left now to your own collection of devices. Searching the horizon for a form of compliance...an ounce of meaning in all the means-to-an-end crossfire rhetoric. Human targets that wore out their welcome some time during those well-covered peace talks. Pawning shiny medals at newly sprung up corner markets. Scaring up a few bucks...if only to secure a warm bed for the night...to rest your head and hunker down for a few hours of nightmare-laden sleep.

Making it up as you go along. That's what you were trained to do. Back in those free-for-all new recruit days. Yeah, forget all those classical maneuvers you learned at the academy, they have no place out here in this cleverly evolving world. Gotta go with your gut. Instill some of that raw insurgence. Wave off consequence with the same off-hand display that has become so common and heroic among our higher ranks.

Retrenching out along the edge of marginal existence. Harnessing all our beleaguered maxims and leafing through gathered souvenirs. Instruction manuals written by highly questionable experts in the various fields of hand-to-hand interaction. Token artifacts of precarious, institutional misapprehension -- make-shift knockoffs and piece-meal mementos. All designed to give your average history buff a little taste of the action. Wondering how you're going get these cheap imitations state-side. Wondering why you'd begin to bother.

But memory, in its most vulnerable state, must be preserved... must be captured and put behind glass and on corner shelves. If only in regard for the many who never had a chance to lose their way. Sitting so proud, for all to bear witness. That's what those lesson plans were there to instill -- chalk marks of this grand game of hop-scotch. Lying in wait all these years for you to come along and kick up a bit of dust.

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