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Contemplating the Memphis Belle
A short exploration of the space between the fact and fiction of B-17s, Friends, Families, Model Building and Carpet Bombing
Collateral Damage.
I haven't spoken to Billy Bud in years. I don't want to. For one thing I don't do that shit any more. For another, the last time we met, he asked me yet another question to which he already knew the answer. I just looked at him and said, "Don't you know?" We never talked after that.

Billy never did answer my question, "Where do the bullets go?" No one ever has. Mostly, if they care to listen at all, people wonder why I ask about the bullets and not the bombs? Or sometimes they just look at me and say, "Don't you know?"

I do know where the bullets go. So do you. They go into that space between things. Like the space between fact and fiction, between love, hate and indifference, the space between friends and enemies and the one in between friends. The bullets streak between right and wrong, patriot and murderer and fall uncomfortably into the space between the end of words and the first fist.

So I don't talk about this stuff any more. The topic has become home to rabid, rage dogs. Ones I'd prefer to leave sleeping. When I hear myself asking questions to which I already know the answer, I remind myself that the tendency is simply part of my collateral damage.
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