[Mb-hair] Why I Cry

[Michael Butler]

Hi,
Lyle sent this and I thought I might share it with you.
Michael

Michael,
 
I have been meaning to write this for you. Versa, told me that I should
because it is a part of knowledge and lasting friendship.
 
Why I Cry!
 
Many years ago when we were together, with your visits while we were on the
road, then later, no matter what function, dinners or late at night; you
remember, I would cry. Sure, it was loneliness, but it came on with just the
right mix of music, alcohol, smoke, and company. Why I cried? I did not know
why then, I just stared to cry. I felt embarrassed at times because I could
not control it and I thought I had only embarrassed those that were in
company.

 
Years and months later, and more today than ever, I still cry-I thought I
had a problem.
 
There is a story in Hawaiian folklore that speaks of a God called Ka'ne. His
treasure is the water, hence the name, 'the healing water's of Ka¹ne. Upon
arriving in Hawai'i after HAIR disbanded, December 24th, 1972 and staying
with you for a short spell in Rising Glen, I went through chaos, my personal
primal screams, and started on a spiritual transformation that had lasted
some seven years. This transformation continues today where I find myself
drawn closer to my writing¹s on business subjects, soon to start and develop
my personal story.
 
During this transformation, my family and I had unusual spiritual encounters
on the Big Island of Hawai¹i. We saw many things. Spiritual manifestations,
that when shared with the Park Services on the Big Island during a volcanic
eruption, we were told, Pe¹le has many faces and we are all in anticipation
because she promises a great show!
 
My crying did not stop even when I found the perfect woman and family of
three boys. The Healing Waters of Ka'ne came mostly at inopportune times.
While singing at concerts with my autoharp, being alone, or with people.
 
During the VietNam era, I served in the airforce from 1962 to 1968. When I
received my honorable discharge papers I hung around Boise, Idaho for a year
or so singing in a nightclub called the Stardust lounge. My Mom, had called
me and asked me what I was doing there in Idaho-"won't you come home?", she
asked. She sent an airline ticket.
 
I started to ride a Harley motor cycle, my younger brother, just back from
serving in the 101st Airborne, rode a Triumph right beside me. He had his
friends that were also Vietnam vets. Mostly we were silent, listening to our
engines and the roar of the mufflers was just good enough then. My riding
gear consisted of my class 'A' dress uniform, a swastika over my heart, and
a real German chromed helmet. We all suffered from a silent rage.
 
During my time in the airforce, I was a heating system specialist-taking
care of oil fired boilers on the flight line and family housing during
winter months. On the flight line lived the pilots' ready to go up in the
B-52's at minutes notice, arriving in Guam hours later, then on to VietNam.
 
A sergeant approached me and wanted me to help him form an honor guard for
the base. He had heard that I was good at calling out commands and cadence.
I joined his group and lent my expertise, later realizing that we together,
had formed an extraordinary drill team. Our main function besides marching
in parades in places like Parma, Twin Falls, Kellogg, Boise, Mountain Home,
was to bury the war¹s returning dead.
 
The correct method of folding the American Flag was practiced repeatedly. We
would take turns presenting the flag to widows, children, and kin. It
appeared that after several burials throughout the course of several months
that ran into a year, before my term of enlistment was up, many fellow honor
guard airmen started to hand-off the task to present the flag to me. I did
it squarely, with honor, and dignity. I listened to the bugler playing his
faraway notes after the shock of twenty-one guns blasted the silence,
shattering the families last hope of dignity, where intimacy was sacred, now
all was reviled, and the weeping, and knashing of teeth-the wails of
torment, no one should see over and over again.
 
During the coming days and months the frequency of burials and parades
escalated. I was now twenty-one years old; came in when I was seventeen. I
have not visited this place in my mind until 1969 when I was chosen to play
'Claude' in the Hawaiian production of HAIR. Later, we found that a theater
was not available on the island of O'ahu because of community
protests-mostly by the Japanese community. A home eventually was secured for
us in Las Vegas.
 
Several scenes in HAIR, were sacred -spiritual in nature that had the power
then just as it does today, to manage to find its way deep inside and
conjure up those burial images and places traveled before; these were well
kept secrets. Now waiting and demanding to reveal themselves; their rightful
place lying down beside me as 'Claude' lay dead on stage. No, it wasn't
simple. Images came during the Vietcong songs, walking across the stage
coming for my friends, and just the right amount of movement, I made the
images disappear. They managed to come back heavy, during Mercury and Venus
tours. Then finally, when I had learned how to cry by just letting it
happen-it stopped!
 
To this day- I still cry, the images are gone; I cry over silly things, like
injustices, rain forests destroyed, indigenous peoples slaughtered and
babies neglected. I run with rage at incompetence, and conscious neglect,
cheating, arrogance and puffed up egos, and yet I am only human, still
trying to connect with my Gods to turn righteous anger into works of
miracles.
 
The sad part about all of this is that I have never served in a battle zone.
The compassionate nature of the spirit through feelings and imagery is
enough for comprehension. I owe a debt to our fallen heroes, spirits who
commune, and thousands upon thousands of  'children of the rainbow' who have
suffered and continue to suffer in agony without the light of day, never
experiencing lasting joy.
 
Peace my friend,
 
Lyle K'ang
(c)GrowingUpBrown.com