Dear Mr. President by Gabe Hudson

Author:Gabe Hudson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9780307425461
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2007-12-18T05:00:00+00:00

Notes from a Bunker Along Highway 8

I know this is going to sound corny, at least to all the angry, cynical people in the world, but they can go to hell, because in the midst of everything that has happened with this screwy-ass war, yoga, and the deep concentration that I attain through yoga, has pretty much saved my life. I am probably a little addicted to it, but Dithers says that I’m a complete fruitcake, and that yoga is not going to save my butt from getting caught and thrown in the brig. Dithers says it’s my queer dad that is the reason I like yoga so much. Just recently Dithers said, “G.D., you know they’re going to find us. You know Captain has men on us right now. It’s just a matter of time. And when they find us, I’m going to be laughing my ass off at you.”

I was crouched in the Wide Galaxy pose with my eyes closed, and pretended not to hear him.

“I know you hear me, G.D.”

The Wide Galaxy is my favorite pose. It’s the pose I like to finish with at the end of a sequence. I raise my palms to the sky, which is really just the concrete ceiling of this bunker, allowing “my hands to become my eyes,” and victoriously breathe in 1-2-3-hold, and exhale 1-2-3-4-hold, and after fifteen minutes in the Wide Galaxy, my mind is right up into the void, and I feel truly shocked with bliss, grateful for the existence of every single atom in the universe.

“Hey, G.D. Hey, Zen Master. If you’re looking for love, I’m your man. Come and get me.”

I opened my eyes, blinked, and strolled over to the far end of the bunker, and, with my e-tool, banged on the wood slats of Dithers’s cage very hard. The chimps erupted into a chorus of screeches and started shaking the slats of their cages, which pretty much sealed the deal for me: getting my head up into the void was obviously out of the question now. So, choosing to ignore Dithers’s laughter, I ambled down the hall and flung back the hatch and hoisted myself out of the bunker. I went for a walk in the cool desert night, where I mentally reprimanded myself for letting Dithers get the best of me.

But I should explain: I am not by nature a violent man, not anymore anyway. I believe in the sanctity of all people. And now my only allegiance is to Life, that golden kaleidoscope which turns always in circles, riddled as it is with its patchworked bits of magic and mystery and beauty. Here in my underground bunker, which is where I am writing this from, and which was abandoned by Iraqi soldiers well before I ever arrived on the scene, I salute Life every day to the fullest, and beyond the steel hatch of the bunker and moving fifty yards south, lies Highway 8, which is the main road that runs from Basra to Baghdad.

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