Fukushima Angel: Why I am here at Ma’iingan (Wolf) Camp

September 4, 2017

6:55 PM

Just outside Culver, Minnesota

Here is where the truth comes out, I am carbon, oxygen, nitrogen, and sulfur (with trace metals) in guise of a man who is lazy and likes to write poetry. Easily gets lost in social media, and shallow distractions around the city: open microphones, bars, dances, and clubs. Let’s get to the why, at least as best as I can tell. It all started eight years ago, right after I finished graduate school at the University of California, Berkeley. It was 2009, and Wall Street had just crashed, and she was beautiful, brilliant, sexy, and white. I was handsome, bright (not brilliant), moody, and white, but not from the South. I crashed into what I would later call The Ground of Being, she did not. Maybe she had done that before in her youth, or maybe she was not genetically inclined as such. Either way, she used to say of me, “If a cat had kittens in the oven you wouldn’t call them biscuits would you?” Alluding to the carpetbagger nature of my Atlanta upbringing. Mother, a daughter of New England blue blood, and father, a son of a Turkish farmer turned imam, it was doomed from the start. Everyone says at the outset of a partnership, “how precious, so loving, so cute!”

This is not love in the true sense. A rabbi appeared on my Facebook yesterday saying, “Most love today is fish love. What I want. What can I get from her/him? Will this fit in my schedule, work plan, or lifestyle? Does he/she sexually please me? On, and on, it goes...” What do I blame for my failed marriage? After eight years, it’s one thing, speed. She and I did love each other very much, but there was a lapse. Manifold lapses, in language, patience, and in capacity to love. It comes down to one event as to how all this evolved into me being here writing you dear reader some kind of schizophrenic narrative sketch to explain. A Turkish jet shot down a Russian jet over disputed Syrian-Turkish airspace on November 24, 2015 and I wrote on her Facebook page the following poem:

The Descent of Man

And then there was Light, E = mc^2 was revealed by the Sun,

M = E/c^2 was employed by man to wage war after Trinity,

Albert Einstein must have been of black and white human natures,

It is harder to crack a prejudice than an atom,

Mountains do not do politics,

Today, we are creating deserts,

Tomorrow, we will build the mountains peacefully,

I do not know how the Third World War will be fought,

But I can tell you what they will use in the Fourth — rocks!

The rock of Abraham, Kaaba (inorganic matter — black stone),

Will out live all Life, organic matter, on earth,

The Sun will enter a state of decline, a nova,

And all matter in the Solar System will be reunited as One,

Time will pass, and the finite creation will return to the

Infinite Absolute Void of God,

Thus completing the cycle of creation.

She, if you have not figured out by now is not the same person from segment to segment in this work. She is nameless, more of a half that I seek out out of perceived lack, desperately at times from the pain and suffering in my body and head. She is a feminine force, someone with different and complementary features to mine, mentally, physically, spiritually. She in Fukushima, the Fukushima Angel, is a dream. A fantasy, a fictional woman with no real form as of yet, either in my life or on earth, perhaps. That’s the mystery, we as people, man or woman, often start out our adult life seeking for this long lost half of ourselves. We do so in precarious, and often clumsy ways. We marry our high school sweetheart, before knowing who he really is. He might turn out to be a frog prince, an uncut diamond, a street bum, or something in between. We struggle, often in vain to please, please, please.

Like with her, she was logical, so I thought if I wrote a poem with equations and emailed it to her several years after our separation she might begin to get “it.” What do I mean by “it?” I don’t really know, perhaps the absurdity of life? Perhaps the tragedy of failed attempts to connect passed layers of armor to a heart, mind, and soul of pristine beauty and grace. She is always stunning, and ravishingly beautiful at first, the ones I always seem to fall for. The ones that smile back, the ones that dance with passion, the ones that talk for hours into the night twirling their hair in bashfulness, on and on…. These are the ones that take me down the rabbit hole, I don’t know how to balance that equation yet. One side of my being-in-the-world, Western, materially strong but somehow spiritually deprived, alienated from God by and large. That side is not unlike some kind of Roman master builder in the Bible, a Howard Roark in Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead or a Donald Trump, classic yang energy. Another side is more subtle, Near Eastern, materially deprived but able to live on prayer alone, in touch with God, awaiting death at any moment.

What’s to build when there’s God everywhere, in the sand, the very earth you walk on. In the sky when you look up, and in the water when you drink or bathe. What’s to see here other than a split nature. How could she have known? It seemed so easy from my eyes to be her, just escape Southern poverty, get a tenured track job in Mathematics and fly. Have children, settle down, and get a nice husband that would be a good partner to shop at Whole Foods with. To have made it, at least in the eyes of many. I had all that as a child, and home was hell. It was split like the wood I split everyday for the sacred fire at Ma’iingen Camp. One axe blow, two pieces of wood to burn in the fire to carry the energy of the spirits up to heaven. To provide thermal convection energy to lift the cedar and sage fumes upwards to the heavens, carrying prayers to spirits, Gods, Goddesses I used to laugh at, not taking their existence seriously.

I do not need Jung anymore to provide a bridge between the Western mind and the spirit world, I get “it.” The spiritual world is real, is one part of a Medicine Wheel with a circular perspective on the center, Being. The mystery of Being has for the most part been forgotten. Why are we here? What is the point of all this? Why should I live at all? In a failed attempt to explain this existential angst to her I wrote to her another poem:

Ghost in the Shell

Mobile armored riot police,

Who are you, white man,

White woman, who wears,

A clean shirt and shirt,

Drives a nice car,

Lives in a nice house,

Somewhere in 30345,

Do you own a house,

Have kids to wipe the snot,

Off as they cry, over spilled,

White milk, white milk,

Spoiled and old, curdled,

Pasteurized, safe, fenced,

Clean, no germs, store,

Bought with green,

Green is the color,

Of my pain, my heart,

Bleeds green, red blood,

Damascus, my love,

You gave me something,

That day, 9/9/2009,

The memories of graphs,

On my door, weight loss,

Anorexia, bulimia, vomit,

I have to be the best,

I have to make it to MIT,

Son, you are a machine,

Son of mountains, poem,

You are a chemist, art,

Is worthless, chase money,

White milk, white milk,

It is good for you, clean,

Safe, those folks on,

Tha’ otha’ side, in that,

Otha side, that dark side,

That black side, that,

Place where Briarcliff,

Flows into that Moreland,

That place where the music,

Is loud and real, where,

The pain is real, and,

Tha’ problems are big,

Bullets fly fast, and life,

Is short, that trap, trap,

White milk is safe,

Drink it son and you,

Will be okay, white,

As snow, on the bluff,

Until Bernie Madoff,

Does his shit and inverts,

Tha’ dollar sign,

Upside down cash money,

That day is the day,

White milk turns black,

Up becomes down,

Left becomes right,

Violence of silence,

Becomes more painful,

Than a bullet in the brain,

Or a knife up the wrist,

Cut up right, cut up left,

Slit your jugular left and right,

And let that blood flow,

Let the river flow,

Turn the white milk,

Black obsidian, dark,

As the Kaaba is hard,

Rock, Kaya, who is,

The meaning of that?

Who am I?

Why does this sign,

Turn upside down,

Polarity reversal,

Singularity, hard,

And fast, future,

Trap lords, white,

Trap lords, black,

Green money,

Night vision green,

The color of money,

The color of my blood,

No more red,

Colors bleed,

As an artist is,

Grows from,

The ashes,

of those,

Cold,

Atoms.

Again, the response from her and her and her was the same, “He’s manic. It’s more psychosis again, I am scared. Are you safe?” “No.” “Okay, I will take you to the hospital.” It would always end up the same, I would loose my job, my home, my friends. I would be this close to her, and then fall to the Ground of Being, harder and harder each time. To the point where eventually I wanted blood, mine as much as others. I wanted to burn down the entire world, I blamed everything and everyone in microscopic ways. It was not that I was violent, though I could be ruthlessly angry, it was that I did not have patience to sit in one place long enough to listen and hear the subtle and quite voices that speak from the absence. The only thing I am sure of these days is that political entities are statistical assemblies of human beings responding to basic instinctive drives, shaped by environmental influences that are by and large invisible to Western logic and science. What we attribute as Westerners to “Spirits” or “Divine Entities” are things that we don’t understand, so we hide. We hide in materials, in objects, in anything to distract us from the cold, hard truth that life is empty. Alan Watts quotes the man who stepped out of an early space capsule. “When asked about the nature of God he said, ‘She’s black.’” I had seen her in the evaporated fuselage of that Russian jet somehow anticipating a nuclear exchange. Of course I wrote her a poem as some kind of scream for help before I was vaporized to atoms:

Headed South: Still Crying for Water

“The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.”

— Psalm 51:17

“DAMASCUS 00005399 004 OF 004 is a rare occurrence, our DATT was convoked by Syrian Military Intelligence in May of 2006 to protest what the Syrians believed were US efforts to provide military training and equipment to the Kurds in Syria…”

— Wikileaks Cable

Anyone who thinks must think of the next war as they would of suicide,

On an airplane, grounded, ready for takeoff,

Merlot blood, mind dissociated from body,

Damascus, drunk with your love, flowing,

Blood river, child appears by my side,

She will be my companion on this flight,

Mother waits at home, headed South,

Home from the land of 10,000 lakes,

This week, the fire lit, white and black collision,

A cumulonimbus cloud on the horizon,

In the distance, molecular vibrations rising,

Heat, up, up we go into the future,

Carbon, captured, stored, burned, smokestack century,

Flooding the air with a blanket, heater, warmer,

Electric blanket, wrapped around earth,

My mind drifts back,

You do not want to fly off into space do you?

Into the air, or into the black hole,

Into the air, wings flowing fast, lift,

Yes, it is take off time and it is time to accelerate,

Into the future, runway of the soul,

It is night after all and the crescent moon is veiled,

Hidden by those storm clouds,

Lightening and thunder ahead,

Colliding water particles, static collision,

Static electricity, violent electromagnetic chaos,

Electronic vibration, thermodynamic amplifier,

Wires around earth, the internet, an iron maiden,

Orange amplifier, accelerating, heating,

Islamic jihad, Judeo-Christian crusade,

Sublating (negating/overcoming) each other in my travel companions blood,

My blood, human blood, shed for what?

Allah? God? Adonai?

Amplifier of Gaia’s warming shell,

Atmospheric container, we are changing,

Taxiing to the runway, flaps down,

A rush of color to the heart comes,

Golden, ethereal blue,

Gaia’s magnetic core,

My heart in resonance, mother and son,

Star specks of white on black,

Day and night melt into one,

Speed, accelerating, faster, faster, faster,

Accelerating into the sky,

We go, a soul is meant to fly,

Leaving body and drifting to heaven,

Or descending to hell, thrown by the past.

Jesus, where you at bro’ we need you now?

Tha’ block is hot!

I eventually gave up the fight, I went with it. I posted the following to my Linkedin, today’s way of making “Facebook official” a relationship. In this case the declaration was a statement of intent to purse a relationship with destiny and fate:

Poet: Data, Climate Change, the West, and the Islamic World

-Dr. William Kaya Erbil

I make money any way I can to finish a book of poetry on climate change, the West, and the Islamic World. Been working on this book for eight years. Features a raw and gritty personal story of mental illness. The book explores themes around religion, and tries to place a framework around the current War on Terror/global Islamic fundamentalist jihad. Relates technology and weapons of war to their basic scientific origin, digging deeper to find their mythological sources. Ending with a 500 year time travel journey to illuminate the public on the Islamic origin of Copernicus’s discovery, Arabic language semantics are explored to ask why the West gained a 500 year dominance. Back to 2017, faced with the existential dilemma of climate changed induced geopolitical apocalypse I will compare Islamic finance to Western capitalism and prove it to be superior as a framework for modern ecological economic. All these poems point back to the fight between Ishmael and Isaac. They both will realize that perhaps Ruth or Mary were the ones we should have written more about.

That is how I declared war on speed, the perceived demon that destroyed my marriage and career. The rest of this narrative will tell the story of how I resolve that conflict without moving to a small hut in the woods and “Throwing my life away.” This is really a story about “Thoreauing my life away.” It’s about the day after giving up, after stumbling around for eight years, and meeting a small ragtag band of similar souls all after one thing. They tricked those in the movement with statements about saving the trees, water, and earth. What we all want is life, a happy life. We don’t have money, we have each other. We have earth, and the things that have been and will be around a lot longer than the cities, buildings, and technological implements of Western military-industrial society. Let it be know now, this is not a real war. It’s a cosmic war, between two civilizations, pick any two. The civilization of David, and the civilization of Goliath. The mouse versus the tyrannosaurs rex. Kali, Goddess of Destruction and Renewal, has come and gone in my life, as it will in yours. It’s just a matter of time. Please don’t pay attention to details, this is not really about anything, I am just passing the time by a fire. I am listening to the wind blow in the trees, and her chop wood. He’s fetching water, and she’s preparing cigarettes from loose tobacco. It’s all just another day in Ma’iingan Camp, and we’re just fine.