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Work 4 Peace,Hold All Life Sacred,Eliminate Violence! I am on my mobile version of the door-to-door, going town-to-town holding readings/gatherings/discussions of my book "But What Can I Do?" This is my often neglected blog mostly about my travels since 9/11 as I engage in dialogue and actions. It is steaming with my opinions, insights, analyses toward that end of holding all life sacred, dismantling the empire and eliminating violence while creating the society we want ALL to thrive in

Sunday, December 05, 2010


The water pump sticks like it does when my water tanks are low on water. I wonder if I have enough water to spend a few days here. I have a new 'friend' Jesus who lives in town, maybe he has an outdoor faucet for drinking water. We’ll see.

There are many street lights up and down this 2 lane street I am parked on. They are not on the ocean side and there is a small median between both lanes but none-the-less, I could do without so much light shining into my casa.

I will sleep in the bottom bunk because it is darker there, dark really. I still don’t want to shut the door but I will have to soon.

After my walk, I sit on the tiny cement wall beyond the small brick red tile sidewalk in front of my truck and watch the finale of the sun set. When it is too dark to see much, I come into the truck, leaving the outer door open, and write a little.

Soon I turn off my light and just sit inside watching and listening to the ocean thru my screen door. And feeling so glad to be here.

I hear a vehicle, a truck perhaps, pull up and men’s voices. I realize I can put the curtains up, to block the street lamps and the men’s view. I see them a couple of car lengths in front of my truck. Then I return to sitting.

Suddenly I see a soldier walk by my view of the ocean – in full discordant u.s. marine dress, squeaky boots and long, machine gun-looking rifle. He does not look right or left so I do not say anything.

Soon another soldier comes from the same direction, this time walking out onto the beach in front of me. I’m sure he is dying to turn around and soon he nonchalantly does, ambling back. I do not think he can see into my truck since I’ve closed the curtains.

After a couple more walk back and forth, another soldier, most likely the one in command, comes close to my door with a stern frown and peers inside. I say “hola” from my seat deep inside my truck and his frown deepens into a question mark as he moves closer. But still he cannot see me.

I feel sorry for these soldiers, if they are trying to control drug violence. They are also trying to encourage tourists, which I am. But they are not sure if I’m a tourist or a truck carrying mega drugs – or money for mega drugs more likely. I almost get up and talk with them.

But having a conversation with soldiers in the dark when few people are around is not something I cherish. In fact, I am practicing in my head how to shut my door politely and say “let us talk in the morning” “pueden hablan manaña en la manaña?”  in case they approach me.

I creep into my lower bunk, the darkest one, and lay down fully clothed, willing myself to wait one hour – awake – before peeking out my window. I’m kicking myself for not closing and locking my door earlier, then I would not have this problem.

I hear what I think is soldiers pulling off, although the surf is so loud it is not possible to hear much but the absence of presence.

In 45 minutes of hearing only the ocean, I get up, peek out the window seeing no one too close, get out and close the door!


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