I did not write about Kosova.

Maybe I was romantisizing my trauma, savouring something concretely bad. I am not Vietmnam vet, not a soldier, not a war hero (oxymoron). I apologized for it, actually. I did fly to Prague to inch my way southwest, to join a war, to fight for peace (what an idea!), to save the world... Bullshit.
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To save myself. Sorry for the cliché. For the sake of happiness.
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I read "Night," by Ellie Wiesel, see, and it was about pain. I looked in the mirror and as always then, found nothing I could like or love. Nothing I could even tolerates. In his story and it is HIS story, no one is beautiful, no one has hand sized waists and DD breasts. No one wears Gap or Old Navy or Dickies. No one wears anything. No one has a waist. No one has breasts with which to nurse, nor children anymore, to need breasts for. But I am plush and flushed with health and he is walking death and he would bury his father to live.
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To spend his life talking about death. Mass graves. Massacres. A child that hung on a rope to light to die.
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In my suburban house inside by supple flesh I spend my life wishing. Wishing until wishing is foolish and then death sounds like an end when I don't think too hard. How did he stay alive? I mean, WHY? What made him want to? What made him want to live so hard?
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This is a disclaimer, a prelogue to my running after a war. Humans were dying, not MY specific race of human. Not the Irish/English/Norwegian/Canadian/Americans. We are plump and plenty in large empty houses with college educations. Great grandpa’s with African murder on their conscience. Greatgreatgrandpa’s with Cherokee blood weighing heavy they bend like their canes when they walk. [American, and Cherokee is the only name I can think of. I will call you Americans, since you were, and I am the white child of immigrants, some of whom were murderers. Miseducated. I failed American History but they taught us about rich senators, not people, not The People, the brown and white people. I’ve never seen a red person, but I am close to pink, in shades and shades of humiliation for my fathers].
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I went to put my self into perspective, live days without a mirror, live days without the time for vanity, and without vanity, I am not ugly. Days not without beauty. Albania was the most beautiful place I have been in. Keep your eyes up though and off the ground, there's trash in the street. And in the rivers, but the water is bluer than eyes. Don't drink it. And if you do, get some medicine from the Italian Caribineri. They’re like police-militia, walk around in Speedo’s drinking wine. The Belgians and the Italians and the Americans, they came quick and puled out limp and left the country emptier than before.