My Ingersol Rand representative
seems to be
born to drive

“I’ll gain success
by making friends
with numbers,”
exclaimed in a backslide

sure a bit rough around the edges
and often high on LSD
air tools look more splendid
displayed in meaty catalogs

greasy prints, overalled
hauling backwards now
wailing down Granville
dodging cabs
playing chicken with buses
pylons flying
a mob soon gathers

(tbc)

Comfortably lonely, cabin porch
hard back book
foggy overslept hard back chair

backpack hangs on
a wooden peg
empty
but for deja vu

trembling hands
loosening clothes
fingers slipping
underside the clasp

coarse canvas dream
and well oiled leather boots
with high arches
moving away from here

even before painting
the rooms onto a circus tent
the tall poles cantilevered
and kids with summer suntan lines
on open feet

saguaro sunset scenery
flash by in a clackety-thwack 16mm print
Grandpa coughing, me
jotting down unessentials,
collecting pottery along the way

the movement is key i recollect
while stopping still and
tucking my boots
under a hearty mantle
of foreboding calm

the space between
night and light
when bats dive like
fiery planes

battles over borders
foggy lines on faded maps
drawn by someone else
away for reasons
forgotton, arbitrary
false

rusting wreckage
overgrown by by jungle vines
reclaiming tools of sadness
seeking a final vestige of dignity
from deathly, slow grip

woodpeckers clamoring
waking bats firebombing
until sunrise

–
Lk Crescent 2004

One way these tracks
run directly into the elevator
then somehow into Mt. Hood

turning east
stopped by a wooden fence
with a dam behind
Columbia daunted
but roiling

stunted but strong yet
regressed to measures, velocity
and potential
the water spreads thinner then gold
every fiefdom wants its piece to bridge,
tame and dam

rocks and measurements
observe the folly
silt builds behind
water cools ahead
moving
beyond memories
of what wasn’t left behind
of drowned villages
and artifacts uncovered
entombed and enshrined
only the tugboats come close

barge drifting
silos wait
trains slip past
Columbia slows

Trying to say
kind words,
“surely room for all”
waiting on the 15 Cambie
amidst dig and cover
moving one truck
at a time
one sinkhole

the battle-ax reserves judgment
“she jumped the line”
and continues,
“and people may be left behind!”
in fresh tarred reflected heat

Wonder and gaze to avoid the disagreement
She chortles,
“You must never wait here -
before now”

noting the stop moves most days
edging around impending tunnels
i aim to say,
“i’ve stood at each stop twice -
each day” recalling drizzle, sun and hail
but missed the chance
when we all fit aboard

standing up already
prepared for something
classified as an unlikely event

“in the unlikley event” suggesting a guffaw
in less official communication …

an owl might
watch even if
nothing to see but
ripples, clouds
& forgotten identity

Coastal Starlight
2 hours late
dropped into darkness
late after waiting

i could wait until tomorrow
but i’m ready to leave today

Nine dollars for small bottle
of California merlot
drinking into blackness
cabin eerie tranquil
knowing the commotion
inches below

in love with the girl at the deli

buying 100 grams at a time
to peek under
her cap

pigtails poking
as running the slicer
ordered it shaved
to take more time

hiding to shyaway her eyes
so i can’t read her mind

i change my route
from time to time
to think about
the neighbourhoods

switched Cambie 15
for Main Number 3
or Fraser if i don’t mind
cutting across Kingsway

skirted schoolgirls Xavier-bound
headphones sweater
in rows

downtown exchanges
spake in broken halts
sometime gleaming
often rain
occasionally sleet, hail or ice

noble bus driver (probably steve or curtis)
said he might
scoop me up when running down
the catch up hill since they roll a minute or two earlier now

might be later he says
cause it might be slow
doesn’t ask me for a pass
7:54 on 29th and
st. andrew’s and the rainy
mountain side greenbough morning

yourself at the solid bottom of the grandest canyon
stark faced with the most ancient of conveniences

meandering up permitted
towards
groundswell 100degreeday waterfall afternoon

on the briefest flat of the trail

and I’ve seen the best minds of my generation
sequestered in cubicles
rained on at bus stops
shook down chained to chainlink
arrested as imbeciles
in front of trucks

snuck into basements calling pharmacies
bartering for satchels
complicated crafts to conceal the energy and guile
i’ve seen them lost in mountain valleys to finda wilderness with
payment box, vending machines and another inspection
for your protection

get found into
catacombs, from the pulpit he pontifys
a litany of assigned refinements
conceived to temper and curb

intellectualism is akin to unemployment
academia the enclave of those fundable or cynical
wait, stand, line-up and learn move along already
i’ve told you what’s wrong

doesn’t mean ‘free’ to roam
not the liberty to pursue
happiness

{TBC}

It’s been snowing here all fucking day. Only about 3″ but it is
really heavy. Just got through shoveling the walks. Where is Spring?
Ellen is a chicken whisperer.

{by Ed}

Across cobbled rainy road i am alone in the vancouver night i draw closer one is a cardboard cutout of clint eastwood in a spaghetti western kit - poncho - flat wide brim - wide brimmed hat

Another a sculpture, weathered and supported, attached to the building in some manner.  HIs get-up is classic hollywood western - stetson, chaps, boots with painted spurs.  The whole sculptured man’s paint chips, rotting, revealing the manner of plaster or such he is constructed of.  The creases of jeans and bend of elbow of checkered shirt, chipped and eroded as water drizzles settles in the crook and meets the fringe of the leather vest.

The 3rd stands naturally - somewhat slouched - the belly is larger, the shirt more like a sweater - the hat more expressive with a oft-colored trim setting out against the streams of light drifting through the mannequins, saddle, sawhorses, slogans and such not in the window. the middle one draws on a cigarette and exhales.

As for me, moving across a intersected choice of six options.  Alternatives, and me loose , easy and baked, drift slightly south into irish heather - steadying, make way to conservatory room, far back.  White painted bricks along one wall save for standard beer mirrors - Guinness, Kilkenny, Harp, Bass so on … Rest of room is irons and glass - the floor rough, raw alley cobble, old as the city - red-bricked and sloping here and there.  the window behind me is cracked open but all are drafty, wooden and blue or green and all would be open in summerly times - now meditative dripping - needed cool air now.  Perhaps one may enter direct from the mews - popping in to the midst of music or drafts from the courtyard behind after leaving lover or friend with a wave to disappear - I imagine the proper hat to wear. I am not sure.  Long benches, wooden and freshly painted a blue which i want to call charlotte or to match a shirt i had in third grade if i can find the slide.  tables are tiny with smaller stool as though expecting tiny folk.

Pipes and gas lamps confuse which is in and outside.  As most times, i order a dark beer.   Then a cocktail on the menu with absinthe.  I ask as though aloof and tired with woolen coat, clunky leather shows, stitches fresh and hide pebbled, corduroys salvaged from a bad dream.  I’ve earned a moment.  The fellow with perfectly trimmed sideburns and uncommon tan brings cocktail. “Cheers!” he offers incidentally or instinctively.

Hi-ball glass w/ straw.  Elvis Costello sings then Joni Mitchell, the Van Morrison.  I don’t use the straw, drink from the rim, sweet, liquor pungent and smooth - I set it on the strongbow coaster.  2 couples and a table of 3 women all of all talking quickly and personally - i hear indiscretions, incidents and sentiments, apart from the miscellania.

I must be invisible again.

Last one out
close the door
to my heart

The Janitor hums, sweeping the last of the hallway flotsam info a dust pan, tippinginto the trash barrel with wheels, apparatus to hold spray bottles holding fading solutions, rags, extra trash bags and brooms.  Checks the double glass doors leadingoutside to the courtyard where people eat lunch and flirt on sunny days.  Dark now, crispy leaves skate along benches, colliding with ashtrays and disappearing in tostairwells. Beyond the wooded area, late delivery truck downshifts, aching the sigh of a man lonely for a hundred years.  Shuffling the hall, turning off each light inturn, flickering while closing each door.  Supplies into closet, change smock for jacket and scarf.  Squinting into the tiny mirror attached to the towel rack, hesmoothes hair and puts on a driving cap with half ear flaps folded up and walks outside.  In the shadow, someone somewhat familiar waits for him.

Leaning figure
Gracious in silhouette, leaning
Against grey primer fender

Delicious dreams
I mumble in my sleep
no memory

Fever - coming on stronger now. Gaining now for three days, delirious fits andsleepless tossing, frantic at random hours. Mind you, body never shivers, mind flashes burning pictures of moments. Some I remember might be called a dream but for the anguish. Too real for a nightmare, the pain, the fever, the malaise gains vigor with each grating snapshot. The unfamiliar seeps with fear, I don’t know howit will end. Each episode so far ends with me waking called waking only in that my eyes crack enough to register light or dark. I twist, fall back into the soaked feather bed drifting, one moment racing a woodencar down bumpy hill, children holler in cub scout knickers, proud with badges, another moment running hard, leaping onto pillars fleeing a unknown enemy ormaybe moving towards one, leaping higher columns tumble into oblivion, my feet slip, slide falling, falling next floating in a long abandoned warlord’s damp stronghold dungeon, somewhere atop a Teutonic hill slope, the moon shows the shackles through window slits. Warm and next a campfire warming feet and drinking from a flask as I mumble - fading eyes see nothing but white robes walking by from time to time.

Memories sequestered
Releasing now
As tea steam

Clear drops
on muddled windows
muddled thoughts

Saskatoon, snow drifts over wheat fields, kids skating in toques, playing shinyhockey until mom calls them to eat St. Jacob’s soup and thick heels of sourdough bread. “I got this yeast starter when your pa and I married,” she says to no child inparticular. Driving home, the road straight in snow chasm, walls pushed high by plows. Wipersscrapping, Am radio crackles minor league hockey scores, exclaiming local boys traveling by bus all night to play in Red Deer, Medicine Hat, Fort St. William, John, Albert or James, Moosejaw, 100 Mile House or maybe Moncton, New Brunswick for the Memorial Cup.  Acclaimed for dedication, perseverance, valor; intangibles - heart, character - playing in rinks named for citizens, soldiers and towns.

Rolling east
O’er muddled roads
Grinding towards remembrance

Room close dark
dark, listening - white noise
and windchimes

From my perch, survey the still life before me - a didgeridoo leaning against a wormwood bookcase, 4 thick shelves made from free form curly maple looking like slabs of bacon, books stacked horizontally for easy reading of titles on spines; Ulysses, Siddhartha, Tolstoy, Salinger, Dr. Seuss, a stack about Everest, old Edmund Hillary grinning under shaggy beard and leather edged goggles. BhagavadGita, with dead,bald smiling, reincarnated onto the dust leaf resting, leaning next to Don Quixote, heavy in four volumes with hand-cut pages, raised ink, tissue protects the engravings.A collection (complete) of TinTin the intrepid reporter (Belgian I think), his dog Snowy and ornery ole Cap’n Haddock. More adventure than John McPhee, him traipsing from Alaska to Bangladesh - lonely freighter pulling out of dark harbors, a thousand iron feet long tended by six - maybe eight scattered souls. A Russian Matryoshka doll - endless stream of smaller beings, a lighter from Belikin - the state brewery of Belize, a metal Sierra Club cup, engraved with highest peak in Nevada and a date so long ago that I look at a photo to remember - me, head in clouds, wearing a sweater I forgot I ever wore. Picture is snowy, the tin cup stained withheat, left holding coins from here and there, a yo-yo, and buttons fallen off of trousers.

Room collecting stories
To tell you
Some other time

My Declaration

As for me, I choose to forge my own place in history, to determine by own ends rather than subject my precious life for the exclusive use of any man – monarch or otherwise. Without my freedom to be what, and who, I choose, I have lost all!  No matter how insignificant my life’s work, at the least my life is of my own choosing and my labors, at my own volition.  My action, my loves, my thoughts will determine my life’s significance, and I will not surrender to fate’s whims.  I alone will live this life and this value I will not compromise.

Henri Lafleur, Russia 1812

November 27, 1812
Near Berezin Bridge, Russia

My sweet Genevieve,

It has been a journey of horrific proportions since I last was able to chance a letter.

The cold is equaled only by the depravity of desperate humans in its numbing pain. And yesterday, my friend Maurice joined the untold thousands of dead - scattered, abandoned aside the muddy cart path, deep-rutted in the frozen earth.  Littered with wreckage - dead horses, men frozen solid, eyes gaping, boots taken.  Many stumble barefoot roasting frostbitten toes by their final fire.  Pillages of war dumped - no weight or relic worthy of any carrying. Golden candle sticks, Persian rugs - objects of decadence, objects of art, holy relics - deserted now.

One must survive by wits and cunning and in that, my dear Maurice helped me along so much.  He appeared one morning (though there is little difference between day & night – just walking and not-walking), with a sturdy walking cane for me!  He was the one who coaxed me each dreadful day as we trudge into uncertain horizons.  Oh the peace he feels now, free of this madness!

As I sit looking down from the hilltop, watching as thousands fall dead - by bullet, by Cossack sword, or pushed into the icy river with the mob pushing across.  For me, there is little chance of me making my way across the bridge, not alone, not without help from my friend.

Surely when the officers have crossed, the bridge will be destroyed like so many broken dreams - leaving the Russians and French separated as we began.  I will not rush to death, rather for me, I will have the courage to determine my own fate to stride purposefully and resolutely, free of heart, clean of conscience, ruling only my sovereign self.

For you - for the days we missed together & the years in which we‘ll never part - I will find a way to survive. For the thousands of dead faces I have seen, and for Maurice, I renounce this war but pledge that I will not let this tragic madness defeat me.

My dear Genevieve, look for me in the spring, my return will be later than hoped.

With love, freedom and conviction, Henri

Oct. 20, 1812
Leaving Moscow

Cher Genevieve,

I write with haste (tucked under a rug for a tarp) so I can send this note straight by messenger to you in Paris.  We, since yesterday, have been ordered into retreat and as such are retracing (I assume) our route and trust only to hope that we survive.  When it became clear we would not stay over winter in Moscow, the looting, pillaging & other monstrosities in the name of spoils erupted as these scavengers made away with every shiny trifle they could seize from anyone weaker – no matter their standing.   I loathe the disgusting manner of how we humans can treat each other when exposed to the harsh certainty that death has eluded you so far and your chances may be up soon.

I will spare you details but will assure you of my preparedness I have made.  I managed to cobble together the best pair of boots I could manage.  I made two pairs giving one set to Maurice who obtained scraps of luxurious fur which I carefully sewed inside.  The soles are double thickness and, in mine I placed some felt to prop and protect my limping leg somewhat.  The outside leather is sealed with candle wax, I scuffed the leather to hide the quality lest some drunkard attempt to steal them - though it would require great force for me to surrender my boots - without which would mean certain peril in these treacherous conditions.  I also have a warm coat (the heaviest I could find) and a supply of candles and dry tinder.

Now my sweet, please do not concern yourself unduly, but in seeing the savagery of death around me for so many months & knowing the inhospitable lands ahead, I must tell you two things and request one of you, in event I am unable to return.

To you, please know that no one has ever been loved more by anyone than I love you. You are fantastically adored & amazingly admired.  You stir the very nature of my soul & fulfill me as a man and as a person.  If I do not return to sit with you on the veranda drinking wine in the afternoon, please allow yourself to find someone else to spend glorious days with.  Please do not settle!  Any suitor must be worthy and aware of your refinements, intelligent and vigorous spirit.

For me, please bind these letters and store them somewhere safe in hopes that one day my discourse may help another generation avoid such madness.

Forever yours,  Henri

Oct. 11, 1812
Moscow, Russian France

Cher Genevieve,

Again I write to you in haste after too long a month.  The situation found here in Moscow has worsened greatly and we continue to live as a captives rather than conquerors.  I have scant reason to hope, but if only to hang onto my senses and precious sanity which as abandoned so many here.  The ‘Grand Armie’ looting, destroying, pillaging – decimated and surrendered to their basest, barest traits.  Greed and fear rule this city of ashes, destroyed as a desperate hope for some, but fueled by the debauchery of ours.  More than shaming themselves, they risk the common ability for survival as these winds & clouds grow in strength each day.

The Russians’ Alexander continues to ignore N.’s letters of surrender, etc.  How can he be blamed in mistrusting N.’s advances since the public scorn he felt after since Tilsit and now the surrender of Moscow?  Meanwhile, N. issues decrees to mitigate the suffering of the stragglers left here who aren’t already shot or starved.  Promises of kindness & benefit to any that come out of hiding & bring their vegetables or butter to market.  What!  Would anyone bring their labors to benefit a usurper of their lands?  To them, he is no liberator or revolutionary.  To them, he is not a brilliant general & able to fair administrator - he is a tyrant to them & to others, many of which serve in his army.

Save for famine or plague, there is no greater evil than occupation by an enemy, no matter how well mannered, jovial, cordial or able the enemy is.  To spread a revolution or reform must be accomplished as a friend & with openness, sincerity and not at the sacrifice of so many lives.  So many thousands of lives around me, reduced to animals smashing greedily into each cellar, reducing grandeur into rubble.  The discipline is gone - Napoleon does not command these hoarders.  They are controlled only by their overwhelming desires for self-preservation regardless of means.

I however my love am determined to survive.  I am cautiously preparing for the inevitable cold as I await a chance to simply live in peace again - but I fear there is no escape if not soon.

Anxiously, Henri

Sept. 30, 1812
Moscow, French Russia

Cher Genevieve, As you probably know, we are ensconced in Moscow, or what is left of it.  The city of domes sits in a sooty wet pile of ash and destruction.  I am still stunned at the results of the campaign and can only dream of seeing you again.

I pass the days avoiding disturbances and fending for my health and safety along with Maurice who continues to surprise me with his quick mind even more than his capable skills.  People of all kinds are attracted to him and he seems to possess a natural ability towards leadership and decision making.  He listens and makes choices that seem to please everyone without ever compromising his own judgement or ethics.  He appears rough and his first comments upon meeting are usually terse and offhand - even insulting - yet somehow he draws people in.  They want to know him.  For me, he is a fortune.  He gives me much needed grounding and a touchstone for the realities of this ordeal.  He indulges my conversation – despite my lofty ideals or the idealistic chatter – and challenges my thinking with his point of view, the voice of the ‘common man.’  For one to think he can understand a social quandary in solitary state is foolish assumption. M’s conversation helps me understand a contrary viewpoint – and to better collect my own reasoning so to express myself clearly.

But the most remarkable feature about Maurice is his refusal to take advantage of his skills & erstwhile power or influence, or at least in my presence.  In this campaign I have seen so many drunk on power – earned or assumed – and wallowing in self-importance. The privileges of ranks and class, while abolished by the civil code, seem to live on in this military realm like some glue holding the masses together.  The men gravitate towards the natural leaders – not the assigned ones – the brave lead, the appointed give orders and pontificate as to who distinguished himself the most, or best.  But I do wonder if any are immune from the majestic influence of power to corrupt as I see even the most earnest submit to the easy treachery of opportunity.  Is any man so uncommon that they can resist the temptation to manipulate? To wield their sword of power so often that at last they expose their great weakness?  To go to the well one more time only to come up dry at the moment of greatest need?  At what point does every man surrender himself into decadence? Succumb to injustice - turning pettiness into grounds for war?  At what point does one move from liberator to tyrant?

I hesitate to say what I see happening here as such admittance will steal my last hopes.

Fondly, Henri

Sept 11, 1812
Near Fily, outside of Moscow

Oh my sweet Genevieve,

This dangerous wager with lives and spoils continues and the revulsion in me festers. After the hideous cruelty at Borodino, the army has reached a fever pitch as momentum pulls us to Moscow like a stormy outgoing tide - the deeper we move into Russia, the farther away I am from return to you.  Oh why did we not stop in Smolensk of at the Neiman and call upon the strongest from each side to fight to decide the victor!  Of course this folly of being strongest and ‘most right’ fills the armies (both I assume) or else their would be no reason to fight.  It goes beyond the love of motherland, a love of victory, to a desire of belonging to something strong as though belonging to something ‘right’ as a vindication of one’s existence and ability.  The reward for them is not the institutions that bring order, culture & equality to a land, but rather the thirst for the revelry that follows a battle.

The dead are quickly forgotten, and understandably so, as is respect and decency in the thick & moist aftermath of battle – they (the fallen) are forgotten in the pillage, the rape, the murder & these spoils of our war which entice the most hitherto most-principled man - officer or soldier.  Yet no thought is given to the humans their actions affect.  The shock and rage that will burrow in each witness – each victim – as these allegedly civilized men loose themselves in pandemonium.

These decent French men - who at home may walk a mile to help a friend or bounce the most delicate baby on a knee while laughing - loose all thought of kindness, mercy, or respect for life.  The villagers’ lives or livelihoods are sacrificed simply because they were brave enough to abandon their homes to fire, or even stay and defend their small tract against a foreign country.   For me, if I loose my kindness towards others, I shall be dead myself.

Though I sit here cold and alone, I am free.   I can look at another person in the eyes and know, despite my army’s power over them, I do not feel a conqueror and I will not harm them for they have done nothing to me.  I am embarrassed of my nation, gluttonous on victory as we approach Moscow - the domes of cathedrals gleaming like a secret.  What joy is being an uninvited guest, forcing a way in after killing thousands? I for my own self reject this violence if for no reason other than empathy for the thousands who flee even now into the night - the children & the old, lame, sick, insane.  Even the sanest and most brutal of enemy soldiers does not deserve my wrath but my help ~ which I am rather helpless to give.  I did give my coat to a wounded young man I found in the woods.  He was shaking violently, his muddy clothing torn from explosion - I covered him with my wool coat before running to get a doctor or a litter.  When I returned, my coat was stolen (as were his boots), and I was derided for my efforts by the staff as the boy was Russian.

Fervently, Henri

September 8, 1812
Borodino, Russia

Cher Genevieve,

Comment ca va?  For me, I am well as I could expect after the carnage I’ve witnessed the past weeks, but yesterday, the battle went on as waves of men met death as a flood, a race to escape this uncertainty.  We continued further into Russia, the villages burned by the time we arrive, the looters scavenge like stray dogs.  We meet no one they isn’t killed or dying already.  The Grand Army (of almost 600,000) of just a few weeks ago bears little resemblance to the haggard troops marching today.  Each of these small skirmishes cost of a few thousand lives, each night’s bivouac costs dozens more with disease or succumbing to injury.  So many troops disappear I don’t believe anyone really knows if their absence is desertion, sickness or lost in battle.  This rhythm of death exploded yesterday and today each side has the audacity to claim victory.  What vile victory do they claim when 40,000 Russians lay dead?  Corpses yet to be collected, already rotting and mutilated - they fought, then they retreated towards Moscow.  Some say we shouldn’t chase further in the heart of Russia.  I am inclined to agree but my reasons are selfishly personal rather than strategic.  What good is a fight when 20,000 of my own French compatriots died in scant hours today?

‘My’ Army is half the size to the most optimistic eyes, but you; you are still so far away. I wonder what you are doing this moment?  What will you do today, tomorrow?  I see you going to your classes at the University - the mahogany wisps of your short-cropped hair catching sun as you move past the bright cafes, waving to a friend.  I don’t dare think of life at home much, the people, the places.  Too much is so painful.  Just, and only, of you.

“This separation somehow will make our life better and love stronger,” I tell myself, though each day makes a bigger task to convince myself.  Despite the constant rhythm of death, the soldiers keep up a remarkable spirit of obedience to the campaign.  Indeed there is little doubt of the reasons for the invasion discussed (though murmurs of dissatisfaction more often arise about the rations!), nor the wisdom of Napoleon’s motives. N. knows his regiments like children; he rides the lines greeting old soldiers like school chums.  Part friend, part father, counseling, supporting with gilded words of honor at home - the rewards of victory, the respect & awe of the world, the supplication of the Russians, the praise in family.  “I was at the battle at Borodino of Shervadino,” “I defeated the monarchs.”  I’ve no regard for those who rule due to wealth & greed stockpiling wealth over generations while the laborers of the country are relegated to poverty and scorn.  These same farmers who now populate the infantry & are dying by hundreds and thousands.  Beggars before but now equal – though, in that they are the poorest, only somewhat equal.  But the democracy I dream of, benefits those most who understand it least, those who feel it the most, and are the very origins of democracy. Plato the Greek says, “democracy emerges when the poor win, kill or exile their opponents & give the rest civil rights and opportunities of office.”  Of these uneducated, ‘salt of France,’ Plato says “the mass of the people who earn their own living, take little interest in politics & aren’t very well off.  They are the largest class in a democracy and once assembled are supreme.  I don’t mean disrespect when speaking of their lack of education.  Indeed they are the impetus for change & the choke against democracy turning into tyranny.

For my part, I don’t want to fight for freedom; I simply want to be free to be.  While it seems all men at war would feel the abhorrence of fighting, the routine of waiting for orders & following orders provides a comfortable routine that appeals to a primal instinct in some soldiers.  You can tell the one who live for the love of the fight.  The confident exuberance they carry themselves with.  The same as anyone might when going into an arena in which they know they can dominate.  But I do not wish to be them nor do they wish to be me.  I am here with the aim of returning safely to greedily savor the life in the New France, strolling with you, hand in hand, your cheek curling against my shoulder.  You soul unguarded, sharing your secrets. I want to live in a republic where we don’t have time for war because we are too occupied celebrating love, spreading charity for kindness sake, creating music, making the cities beautiful & countryside spotted with healthy farms.  Liberty to speak, to choose your vocation, religion & attain any station in life are the hallmarks of democracy.

I am not so naive to think that greed will not creep in to undermine the benefits of all for the advancement of a few.  It is clear that some humans will always proceed at a quicker pace, accumulating wealth & subsequent powers through skill, cunning, or random chance, or alas, from ill-gotten means from robbing to corruption - but a rule of law based on the will of the people is the best remedy I’ve heard.  The challenge is how to effectuate a democracy without bloodshed?  How to bring revolution without drawing sword & summoning cannon, sacrificing the dreams & limbs of thousands or millions. How to organize peasants & merchants with the collective interest leading the way over greed?  Is it the job of our Army to bring this curriculum to a sovereign dominion?

Though I hold the ideals of the revolution in a lofty place, I would suggest that a republic refines & demonstrates a sublime model as a beacon and a lesson rather than delivering precepts by force.  Such action is tyranny & corruption of the ethos of equality & liberty.

Should I feel guilty that I do not wish to fight?  That I wish to bring change in a peaceful manner?  Is it greedy that I desire these simple things?  How is it that a hot bath or a cup of buttermilk is more important to me than the annexation of yet another country?  Do I care more about ‘us’ then I care about the Poles, the Prussians, the Austrians, Russians, Italians?  Must well all be homogenized to instill peace?  Are we building tolerance & mutual dependence by installing Frenchmen to serve as administrators to be scorned by the people they are charged to lead?

When I think of freedom, I do not think of the groaning, bloody bodies strewn across a moist valley.  No, I think of quiet mornings, tea outdoors, I think of 3 milk goats, a small vineyard.  I dream of a small family of children who will never taste war but instead only joy & respect for the republic they live in.  I imagine a hog each year, named but butchered for bacon through the winter.  I imagine walks in the hills, a picnic lunch next to a field of cornflowers.  Head to head, walking slowly together, the comfort of companionship.  Rousseau says ‘Friendship, confidence, intimacy, tranquility of mind, how delicious are your seasonings!’

Like Jean Jacques, and most any other, I have always felt & declared that is impossible to describe true enjoyment.  I feel I may find the words when at last I see you, your twinkling eyes and hair pushed back loosely waiting for me – the passage of time lost as I find you as I left you.  Vibrant, triumphant & fond of me just for being me – and ‘we’ being able to be ‘us’ - alone and together.  I will send this now as we are heading east tomorrow.

J’aime toi, Henri

August 12, 1812
Smolensk, Russia

C. Genevieve,

Frightful days!  We pursued the Russians as far as Smolensk where I witnessed a horrific sight, one hitherto unimaginable to my eyes or mind.

The sudden burst of activity coming closer, more focused, & our expressions turning maniacal with fear, resolve, and dare said - bloodlust.  Oh the killing!  While I expected (and thought I had steeled myself for), the battles, and the last week since crossing the River, I’ve seen several incidents, I under estimated we human’s ability for waste and intolerable agony.  The brutality stunned me raw and left an empty sickness, both physically and mentally.  My basic human sensibilities are overwhelmed by how humans can ever consider, no matter the feud, to resolve to kill enough others to force submission and an acceptance of terms - a lifetime of dominance, no matter the form?

While the valley was wide, in the early morning when the troops thundered down and artillery resonated from hilltops and redoubts, the wide valley filled with bodies like milk poured from a pitcher.  The dying!  The dying is not gallant, nor precise.  Bodies slashed, skewered and pummeled into capitulation, laid to suffer in muddy earth, hoping for horse hooves or errant cannonballs to end their writhing.

In the end the stills & quiet penetrated only by groans of these suffered through the day, the serious murmur of medics sorting bodies into ones that are left to die, and those carried by litter to live a little longer.  No injury is small or slight.  For most there is no surgery, those that are operated are fortunate to survive the cleavers and blinding pain of repair.

The dead lay everywhere like a mess to clean tomorrow, organs chopped like horsemeat, flesh oozing into revulsion.  Lives flooding into nonexistence with a flash of metal.  Each one, a life completed before a happy end.  I should not presume other’s sense of happiness but I contend that duty or honor is not a fair exchange for a life lost on a battlefield.  No prestige is high enough a price.  I resolve to be care with my every step and return to you whole in body and mind.

Yours completely, Henri

July 28, 1812
Near Drissa, Russia

Cher Genevieve,

Last night, at the fire with Eugenio, I asked, “Where will the battle be?”  The air was anxiously quiet, - crackling fire and restless horses louder than still air.

“Here,” he said.  “It cannot be here, this is two peaceful a place for so many to die,” I thought.  I was wrong.

They call them small battles but I see now the method of war and am awake to the pain and embarrassed by the honor of countries who care so little for their sons that they would ever subject them to this reckless risk of death.  This action, while merely counted numbers of units to a general or king, mean the everything for the counted, their families, their children ~ they and we are all victims.

Such waste is unforgivable; a moral travesty and make mockery of our (alleged) ability to reason as civilized humans.

I fear the killing and the dying, I do not want to kill and go so far as to say I am incoherent as to why anyone would - save for the immediate attack to one’s family or self. I fear that in this expansionist campaign, we may loose our freedoms - both mentally and politically, if even are able to save our lives.

Continually yours, H.

June 24, 1812
Bivouacked near the Neiman River, border of Prussia and Russia

Mon Sweet Genevieve,

At last I have a chance to drop you a note which will have a chance to find you.  I am fortunate in that I am able to gain a few favors for delivery that would be unavailable to most.  The news does seem to travel fast in general.  Indeed, a lame horseman can travel faster than this huge mass of humanity.  We have met with the rest of the Army and Napoleon himself has arrived.  He ensures everyone know that he is here & here to lead. He rides the ranks as we camp making final preparations to go into Russia.

Once we cross the Neiman into Russia, I expect the day-to-day of traveling and repairing boots will change, I just don’t know how.  Though this is the military, I don’t carry a gun despite teasing from Maurice, Eugenio and the others.

Honestly, I think they (the guns) are more for a show of power and makes them feel that they are in-stead with the other fighting men despite that we are in a non-combative role.  “Self preservation,” they said, but honestly