The 555 Collective has partnered with the Cheyenne Center for Creativity, a regional arts organization, to present What is War? , a call for art created by veterans of combat that communicates the impact of war on their humanity. This is the first step in establishing a museum devoted to the memories of veterans, to be placed in the center of the nation, a destination that will serve as a translator of war-time experiences for the civilian public, and a memorial to the mental sacrifice made by veterans.

60 Minutes ran a segment on super memory, or whatever they call it, this past Sunday. I used to call memory “the glue that holds the soul together”. Without it, we are not our-self. Or so it would seem. This kid on the 60 Minutes thing, who remembered everything in vivid detail – mind you, that also includes the bad memories.

Our mind sways on a wind battered plateau 1000 feet above the middle of the ocean.

That being said, let’s jump right in. This is how memory works, in 3 basic stages, Sensory, Short Term, and Long Term:

A register exists for each sensory capacity – imagine what goes on in your brain as you walk through a crowded downtown sidewalk – light reflects off of individual faces, enters your eyeball, triggers the optic nerve, information is carried to your visual cortex, your brain processes and synthesizes, executes pattern recognition exercises, runs data through any number of schematic structures…

The register holds all this data together (each face you encounter) for about one second. This is enough time for other processes in your brain to determine if any one face (or any other picture sent to your occipital lobe by the optic nerve) is important enough (or novel enough) to cause you to expend anymore of your brain’s most precious resource – something we call Attention.

This is stage one, Sensory Memory. The mind sits atop this aforementioned plateau, whipped by sights, sounds, odors, tastes, and tactile sensations each millisecond. If the mind decides that anyone piece of sensory data is crucial, it grabs it and holds on – if it determines that any information it encounters is trivial (for lack of a better word), the data slips from our grasp and sinks into the ocean, lost forever.

Stage Two – Short Term Memory. Our mind determines a piece of information is critical, and expends a little more energy. Attention. That’s all it takes to transfer data from stage 1 to stage 2 – pay attention to something. Short Term Memory is also referred to as Working Memory, because, intuitively enough, one is allowed to work with information once it enters the second stage. You can toss it about in your head, apply actual conscious processes to it - as opposed to the instinctive, reflexive automations that occur with our raw senses.

Atop the plateau, there is a limited amount of square footage for us to work. Sensory information is sort of commuted into individual units – picture each unit as a box – and then imagine short term memory as the process of arranging and managing these boxes, trying to keep them from blowing off the plateau in the wind, trying to find space for each successive box, deciding which boxes are expendable, or simply allowing the demands of our environment to determine this for us.

Psychologists test short term memory with simple tasks, like giving you a list of numbers or words that they ask you to regurgitate, or something along those lines. This usually occurs in a controlled environment (a quiet office) that allows you to gather the boxes, arrange them, and the identify each in its place, under a metaphorically sunny sky, unhindered by violent wind gusts, or other distractions the world can sometimes throw our way.

Now, the key to understanding Short Term Memory is that, for the vast majority of humans, we have a limited amount of space with which to work. And we don’t normally work within a quiet room. Unless we’re a monk. Or a deaf person. But unless we fall into one of those categories, the reality of our existence shoves box after box after box onto our plateau, the wind is always howling, this pisses us off (in the present moment), boxes from our long term memory (stage 3) are falling on our head (memories of the past), we can somewhat discern what we think are shouts of help from what appears to be the lights on a sinking ship somewhere out in the distant water (anticipation of the future), and due to the fact that this is all considered normal, we for some reason, manufacture a motivation and method to cope with the anxiety that arises out of these basic parameters of human consciousness.

On the very edge of the plateau, sits the bottom rung of a ladder that ascends into the sky, penetrating a golden trimmed cloud atop which has been built a giant warehouse they call Long Term Memory. A little known fact amongst humans, is that on the eve of our 3rd birthday, we are transported in dream to a brightly lit room within the HQ of Matrix Control. Inside this room we are presented with a group of Memory Gnomes, and asked by a benign yet disconcerting being to choose which gnome we shall take with us back to our plateau, where he shall serve as the courier of boxes, up and down, to and from, our cognitive plateau and the warehouse of Long Term Memory.

(My phrenologist told me all about the gnome, so I’m pretty sure this is hard science.)

If we possess any amount of wisdom at 3-years old, we choose a young gnome, with strong arms and legs and a pleasant disposition. For the duty of the Memory Gnome (sometimes referred to as the Hippocampus), for the duration of our mind’s proper functioning, is to, every 60-90 seconds, climb down this ladder, collect the boxes that are organized and properly labeled, carry them back up the ladder to the warehouse, log them, categorize them, and then store them in the correct section of this massive shelter.

The Memory Gnome is also expected to retrieve these boxes at our demand – to find dust covered, flimsy, deteriorated boxes, hiding under 578 other boxes filled with sloshing liquids, jagged textures, cookies, mason jars containing the smell of burnt polyester, the taste of a soggy French fry, a portrait of a scowling parent, and a dead baby bird. Somehow, most likely due to magic, the gnome’s warehouse never becomes full, and he never completely loses track of any one, individual box.

There exist assorted disorders that basically firebomb and incinerate the ladder that stretches from the plateau to the warehouse. Sometimes the gnome gets drunk. Sometimes he gets tired and moves a little slow, or just can’t seem to find the box you’re requesting at that very moment. Sometimes he throws boxes down at you for no reason, who knows why. Sometimes, when a person is older, the gnome dies, or breaks his hip, and you, my friend, are shit out of luck.

Some of us, our selves, spend quite a bit of time trying to burn down the warehouse, or save up enough cash to put a hit on the gnome. Some of us apply our attention to activities and topics we hope will distract our selves, like arranging the boxes on the plateau in perfect symmetry at all times. Some of us levitate cross-legged above the plateau as boxes come and go as they please. Some of us build castles made of sand around our plateau, perhaps all of us do that, in some way.

And this all fine and good. Supposedly. Until your mind encounters trauma.

The above is a picture of dummies thrown haphazardly into a dumpster. I splashed a little red ink onto it with photoshop. What was your brain’s initial response to the information presented in that picture? What would your brain do if it encountered a real pile of real dead bodies tossed onto the side of the road, mutilated and ripped apart, rotting under the hot sun, abandoned with utter disrespect and callousness towards the former humanity that once inhabited all that flesh?

Take the example of an army medic treating a soldier who’s had his legs shredded and his abdomen torn open by an IED. What are the medic’s senses sending to the plateau? Pictures of intestines, dirt, blood, camouflage, and a tortured face. Sounds of shouting, screaming, and sloshing organs. The feel of intestines and tissue. The smell of bile, blood, sweat, urine, feces, and smoke. The taste of cloth, paper, plastic, salt, and probably blood.

If during routine experiences, all the medic has to do in order to transfer these senses to Short Term Memory is pay attention, what happens to traumatic information? We don’t pay attention to trauma. It pays attention to us. Any sense of control we thought we had over our environment – the idea of ourselves as the honored recipient and organizer of a logical progression of information about the world - is to blown to hell.

The blood and the bile and the screaming take over all activity on the plateau. The wind ceases to blow, and the ocean water recedes into some unknown cranny of the universe. The sun is blotted out by a cloud of contaminated ash, and down the ladder comes a Memory Gnome with bloodshot eyes, a box of matches, and a backpack filled with duct tape. Thus begins the great adventure they call Posttraumatic Stress Disorder.

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If not for the specific experiences stored in my warehouse of memories, that compose the compilation of events I often refer to as “My Life”, I think I would be a little cynical and tired of hearing about combat PTSD. There’s something insidious and opportunistic about the way corporations, politicians, and assorted loudmouths have jumped on the Veteran Bandwagon. How many veterans actually refer to themselves as heroes or warriors? (maybe they do, what the hell do I know. Those terms just seem like something we thrust on veterans for our own sake.)

But, because I, personally, have lived “My Life”, I happen to know that there is no greater form of mental suffering than that caused by trauma. PTSD, and its assorted cousins of psychological pain (the trauma family tree of disorders) are akin to a virus that attacks the very content of our DNA, unraveling the complex codes that create our Self, our faces becoming featureless blurs, limbs twisting and atrophying, personalities becoming nothing more than an alternation between complete absence and rage.

Sort of like a zombie.

PTSD is a philosophical disease that loosens the glue of our soul, our mind, our Self. It is an acid that burns away at our memory of the past, our understanding of the present moment, and our anticipation of the future. PTSD is of course, very complex, but at the same time, quite simple when you grasp the process of memory – and the evidence of its extraordinary potency is found within one, undeniably damning question about current events –

Why are so many man and women once determined by the United States military to meet the mental and physical requirements to be issued an automatic weapon, with all the rights and privileges inherent in that bestowal, Why are these individuals killing themselves in such record numbers on a daily basis?





The most normal response to witnessing the horrors of war is embodied by the constellation of symptoms described by PTSD. In the ignorance of our past, shell-shocked soldiers were viewed as weak and inherently susceptible to psychological disorder. BUT, consider the possibility that it is intelligence and respect for the sanctity of human life that would cause a person to return from war with a hitch in his mental get-along. Why? Because my life is worth no more than yours. Suffering and tragedy is an assault to the significance of all human consciousness. The merit of every individual’s existence is cheapened by the absurdity of war. When a person learns this firsthand, suicide can seem pretty logical. That might sound insane to many of us, because we have no memories of combat. And therein lies the crux of the problem for veterans. We will never fully understand, and it’s too dangerous for them to try and explain. _________________________________________________________________________________ Looking at a map of the United States, the town of St. Francis, Kansas is kind of like, right in the center of the thing. Not too far from the Amsterdam of the Rockies, but just far enough to provide its inhabitants with a sense of sanctuary and liberation. By liberation, I mean the dizzying, frightening type of existential freedom that will either drive you back to big city (eventually), or make you want to stay here as long as possible. I say as long as possible, and not forever, because quaint, little towns like St. Francis might not be around forever. That’s not good for the nation as a whole. A “real and permanent good” can be done for the country if places like St. Francis are to be reinvigorated, and recognized for the role they serve in creating the diversity and quality of life enjoyed in the United States. I just signed a rent-to-own contract for an old church in St. Francis. The building will become the headquarters of the 555 Collective, which will house a museum devoted to the memories of combat veterans – a destination that will serve as a translator of war-time experiences for the civilian public, as well as a library, and a place for the harried to find a little peace and perspective. The first step towards establishing this museum is already in motion. The 555 has partnered with the Cheyenne Center for Creativity, a regional arts organization, to present What is War?, a call for art created by veterans of combat that communicates the impact of war on their humanity. Any medium of art will be considered, from veterans with any level of artistic experience. We are also asking for written works (any type) that will be presented alongside the visual art. What is War?, the art show, will open on Memorial Day 2014. The entire town of St. Francis is available as a venue – a park that surrounds the courthouse can host sculptures, main street can serve this purpose as well, while Quincy Gallery (the space occupied by CC4C) will house one of the main exhibitions, and so will the space inside the 555 headquarters. The most effective pieces from What is War? will serve as the foundation of the permanent exhibition that will become the aforementioned museum. I'm having some difficulty deciding on how to end this article, so here's a poem that sums it all up better than I seem to be able to at this time.

A Blessing For a Friend on the Arrival of Illness

By John O’Donohue

Now is the time of dark invitation

beyond a frontier that you did not expect.

Abruptly your old life seems distant.

You barely noticed how each day opened

a path through fields never questioned

yet expected deep down to hold treasure.



Now your time on earth becomes full of threat.

Before your eyes your future shrinks.

You lived absorbed in the day to day so continuous

with everything around you that you could forget

you were separate.



Now this dark companion has come between you.

Distances have opened in your eyes.

You feel that against your will

A stranger has married your heart.

Nothing before has made you feel so isolated

and lost.



When the reverberations of shock subside in you,

may grace come to restore you to balance.

May it shape a new space in your heart

to embrace this illness as a teacher

who has come to open your life to new worlds.

May you find in yourself a courageous hospitality

towards what is difficult, painful and unknown.



May you use this illness as a lantern

to illuminate the new qualities that will emerge in you.

May your fragile harvesting of this slow light help you

release whatever has become false in you.

May you trust this light to clear a path

through all the fog of old unease and anxiety

until you feel a rising within you,

a tranquility profound enough to call the storm to stillness.



May you find the wisdom to listen to your illness,

ask it why it came,

why it chose your friendship,

where it wants to take you,

what it wants you to know,

what quality of space it wants to create in you,

what you need to learn to become more fully yourself,

that your presence may shine in the world.



May you keep faith with your body,

learning to see it as a holy sanctuary

which can bring this night wound

gradually towards the healing and freedom of dawn.

*the title of this article is my favorite line from J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye.