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I'm like, old, man. Born in '55 and spent half my youth feeling like I was staring down the barrel of a gun (the draft). Every week there were more atrocities reported, death and destruction on the TV news, and the Berkeley Barb carried full-front-page photos of burning monks or blown out brains or fleeing civilians and the Hueys raining death on an exquisitely beautiful country.
My friend Wolfgang Stuhlert drank himself to death at age 39, never able to forget his experience as a door gunner in one of those helis..."After awhile, he said in his sad, drunken reverie, "they just started looking like a bunch of bugs."
"But still the branches are wire
And thunder is the pounding mortar,
Still I close my eyes and see the girl
Running from her village, napalm
Stuck to her dress like jelly,
Her hands reaching for the no one
Who waits in waves of heat before her."
Bruce Weigl - Song of Napalm
Peace, Paix, Pace
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