Moon Dust

As our plane banked over Kuwait City in the middle of the night I was surprised to see so many sleak and stylish skyrises. A touch of Las Vegas neon and Toronto crispness. Big money here. A lot of oil apparently. We deboarded the plane and loaded a bus headed for Camp Beuring. When my boot hit the ground a cloud of dust rose and was swept away by the wind. "Moon dust," somebody said. Sombody who knows all too well what a year in the desert can mean for a soldier.

For me, the desert is perhaps the most beautiful landscape. In its harsh and hostile countenance there are hidden treasures...the beauty in the discovery of which is double-fold for how well it is burried and how well it's alure is isolated against a stark backdrop once uncovered. A sunset here hypnotizes the observer into a melting state of mysteriously deep appreciation. And a slow and hypnotic sunset here absorbs and reminds a soul just how far away tomorrow can be, and how ripe the night is for his purposed undertaking.

I Dub Thee 'Little Boy Blue'

Of all the things the Army will not let me to tell you, let me tell you, I will dig for the substance and rename the surface. Like the clink of a treasure hunter's shovel upon metal at the bottom of his hole in the sand, so might my fingers connect with the keys to send waves of mystery resonating through and beyond my grasp.... We are perpetually waiting on "the word." The Boss has plans for our future and we are all poised for action.

In this climate, Recess is not just outdoor fun and games but a lesson in the cruelty of the elements and the consequent necessity of hydration. Little Boy Blue and his hungry squad prepare for battle with an invocation of holy testosterone and heavy drinking: the elixir of life... H2O. This country drinks your sweat to wash down the urban rubble served for dinner. We are all seated at the table in anticipation....

The Abhorred Shears

A little more than two months of infantry garrison with a unit infamous for raising hell and national publicity and what's left of my intentions is a skeleton of ideological naivete. Whatever honorable notions of service and duty I might have been loosely functioning under have steadily, with each passing celebratory weekend, been stripped down to the bare bones. We've tipped our glasses to our departure and dipped more than a heel in our depravity. Leaping headlong at lascivious impulses and streatching out our hides to be seared in the flames of fleeting indulgences.... I am left to believe that my service will be one of penence.

Alas! What boots it with incessant care
To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse,
Were it not better don as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of Noble mind)
To scorn delights, and live laborious days;
But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears,
And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise,
Phœbus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witness of all judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.


From Lycidas by John Milton

faith in the fire

I'm throwing these words like a fistful of gravel. Without aim or intention. I don't want to hurt anyone, but for each stone there is a memory. And lately, my memories are more like wishes... moments of beauty cemented in time. A fistful of love and no target.

The distance between a memory and a dream is as far as you are from yourself. Sometimes I wonder how life can get better. All I have is a rough sketch of what I want to happen and that rough sketch is no more than kindling.

soup on a plate

I just realized that I'm standing on a trap door...you know, the type that opens beneath you when your belligerence before the court has pushed the right buttons. When you truly feel the weight of your impending exit and embrace it like the sting of a winter wind when you left your fleece behind in spite of better reason. It's on you. Embrace that. For whatever reason, I am free to spew architectural bull shit like urban sprawl...to serve up soup on a plate.

There is a very safe place where everyone is sleeping and I am alone and free, enraptured in a world of limitless beauty and possibility. I could step out into the starry night and follow a nameless logging road up the mountain and into the pines to find myself in a clearing searching the valley below like an aimless gust. How long are my arms? What is my reach? Not enough to touch my dreaming family.

Maybe I could convince myself that I have to wake up tomorrow at 5:00 a.m. I'll set my alarm even though I have tomorrow off. When I hear it beeping like, "wake up, wake up, wake up little slave," I'll open my eyes just long enough to realize that I've successfully fooled myself and then savor the moment I turn it off and roll over to burry my face in the pillow and dissolve into exctasies.

a line in the sand

As my existence here in Germany stabilizes and I settle into my new skin (digital camouflage), my civilian self still surfaces like hungry little fish at dusk to feed on what bits of nourishing life might alight on the water. My starving little personal-space-fish rushes from the murky depths and rises to devour a single unsuspecting and indifferent hour of aloneness in the laundry room to read and be still. Another lonely and kind fish weaves in and out of the roots of a tree flourishing above the undercut and nibbles on the moss of a few rare and edifying conversations. A school of memory fish move as one and glimmer and reflect the long rays of another sun rising and setting in my dreams of the past and visions of the future.

All in all, I am still here, though at times divided against myself. A line is being drawn in the sand by a uniformed soldier challenging a warrior of the spirit to simply take a step and join forces...to move forward as one with an uncompromising purpose: Seek the will of God and destroy the false being within by His power.

Bird On The Wire

Like a bird on the wire,
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.
Like a worm on a hook,
Like a knight from some old fashioned book
I have saved all my ribbons for thee.
If i, if I have been unkind,
I hope that you can just let it go by.
If i, if I have been untrue
I hope you know it was never to you.

Like a baby, stillborn,
Like a beast with his horn
I have torn everyone who reached out for me.
But I swear by this song
And by all that I have done wrong
I will make it all up to thee.
I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch,
He said to me, you must not ask for so much.
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door,
She cried to me, hey, why not ask for more?

Oh like a bird on the wire,
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.

~Leonard Cohen

just a song

From the mountain side my view of the grassy valley opens like the curtain of some monumental premiere. The late afternoon sun makes reservations with the horizon and casts out yawning rays of reception. As I make my way down the gentle slope, maneuvering here and there with some ingenuity around boulder outcroppings and aspen groves, I catch glimpses of a cabin nestled neatly against the wood line on the other side, sitting like a mother hen on her brood. By some intuition I know you are there expecting my long-awaited return.

As I approach, travel-weary and sweeping the tall grass with my fingertips, I can hear the distinct sound of a record playing. I can see you there, so beautiful and mystified, standing in the doorway... I tell myself that it's too perfect to be true and liven my stride to the melody of Artie Shaw & Helena Forrest singing "Deep Purple."

vaccine

I woke up this morning to the heaviest sky Germany has to offer, and a PT test to boot. We ran a few miles, changed into ACU's then headed to the motor pool for a task force formation where we were addressed by the battalion colonel. I now know just when we will board a desert-bound airliner and just where it will be taking us. I wish I could bend your ear and whisper, but really, how often does a guy get to say, "Sorry, it's classified."

Formation was followed by the standard few hours of thumb-twiddling outside the company CP waiting for the word. We then made our way willy nilly to the medical clinic where we were all herded around and eventually injected with Anthrax, Smallpox and the flu. I felt like the Incredible Hulk, when he was injected with the government's top secret serum...but without the spasms and super hero side effects. And now that its had a chance to settle into my system I feel like something more akin to hammered dog shit.

We were informed that if our localized smallpox infection (aka: leaprosy) was not properly bandaged and tended to, the angry rotting flesh could spread to the rest of the arm and anything that comes into contact with it and could potentially infect our clothing, sheets, roomate and the rest of the world so keep it wrapped up and clean. Roger. Good times had by all.... Not to mention the off duty football game which took place immediately following our release. Two hours of half drunken, full contact, all American past time in the mud and rain under the lights. What a life. God bless my brothers in arms.

among the ranks

The connexes full of our company's miscellaneous gear and sensitive items are all sealed and ready to be shipped ahead of us to Iraq. But until they ship they have to be guarded 24/7...which is were I was this fine night from 21:00 to 01:00. My shift was shared with Specialist S____, my squad's designated marksman and oldest soldier at the ripe old age of 43, and Sergeant W____ who lives in the room next to me and is 22.

Rank is a funny thing to deal with for me. Being a very independent 26 years old and only a private first class puts me in a peculiar position. Some of the E-5 sergeants in my platoon are 3 to 5 years younger as my superior NCO's. It's a dichotomy of consciousness and propriety that keeps me on my toes. For all of my life experience hitherto I am but an infant in the ways of the Army and Infantry in particular.

On guard Sergeant W____ and I covered everything from WW I to Jack Kerouac to Star Wars to Radiohead to his mother's involvement in the organization of large scale war protests. As we smoked and sipped Monsters and paced to stay warm we swapped stories and shot the shit, waiting to be relieved. But come Monday morning I'll be the private at parade rest saying, "Roger Sergeant," when he addresses me. In the Army there is a very defined time and place for everything. The sooner one learns to discern the difference the sooner he finds his place among the ranks and begins to blend in.

Where I Began

For some unfortunate reason I've always been predisposed to focus in retrospect on what amounts in my memory to a path of destruction. The collateral damage of selfish motives and recklessness is piled so high in my wake that I've lost sight of where I even began. It's almost paralyzing to stand before a wall of what was and what was never said in rushes of vanity and fear. The love that at times swelled in my heart and enraptured me was rarely carried out by actions or words. I too often failed to share what was so graciously given to me.

The last week I spent at home with my father he spent most of his time sitting quietly in his chair or sleeping in his bed. Though as optimistic as always his spirit was reaching beyond us. I gave him shoulder and back massages a couple times a day which for the moment seemed to relieve his mind of the pain in his body. His son taking care of him. My mind was in Germany and filled with dreams of life in the Army.

I've made a habit of leaving home for extended periods of time to try my hand at some new life over the horizon and then returning home to recuperate. My father and I were well practiced at goodbyes. He would fight a few tears like a defeated lion deceiving himself and I, the adventurous and bold young son would end the hug and be gone. How vividly I can see him watching me drive away.

The morning I left for Germany and the Army he embraced me in such a way that I was instantly the infant he held in his arms the day I was born. I felt the most complete security and perfect love a man is capable of embodying. And my cradled soul knew it would be the last time he would hold me. In that moment he emptied himself into a culmination of love and strength for me and everything God created through him. And I remembered where I began.

Night Vision

As I knelt there waiting for Alfa team to signal us forward I broke noise and light discipline to snap this pic of Specialist N____ through my NODs. This was just a brief exercise in tactical squad movement at night with, obviously, the advantage of night optics. The funny thing is that your depth perception is altered when looking through them and even though they reveal small obstacles and movement with great clarity your vision is so tunneled that its more like looking into a crystal ball containing your immediate future.

What I like to do, if there's enough natural light (a clear starry night) is just let my NODs hang from my neck and allow my eyes to adjust to the night. Maybe its because I grew up playing in the woods, getting lost and finding my way back, trying to sneak up on my sisters and their friends as they played in their little scrub oak forts, but I seem to be able to move with far more awareness unencumbered by the device. Now, granted, they are useful when you need to pull security and pay attention to hand and arm signals from leaders and such, but as far as simply moving unnoticed through the forest at night, I'd put my money and my heart on my own two orbs. Plus, its pretty damn comical to watch everybody else staring at their feet and moving as if they were on thin ice in the middle of a lake.

Beauty

My heart pumps in desperation to find a reason to rejoice, or, if all else fails, to flail in wild abandon in search of some eternal prize. On the verge of losing face on Saturday night in the midst of finished faces up and down the barracks hallway.... No adventure tonight but hanging with a few NCO's in a cramped room shooting the shit. I reach from the depths to meet their stares with my own unique experience. The beauty I've known out-weighed the horrors of combat...at least tonight.

keep trying

Sometimes you just have to throw a few words out there on the table like dice. Could add up to something of interest or value...I guess its just another exercise in risk and discovery. But what do I have to risk? I could put comfort and convenience on the line and see what happens. A year in Iraq could produce some fruit.

Heaven knows, the initial excitment of simply being a soldier in the infantry and wearing the uniform has aquired a much grittier texture since basic training...like sandpaper. Getting smoother hurts.... Or maybe I'm just being reduced to my core properties. You know, bare bones. I can say what I mean but the meaning has been seared. In the military personality is like the ashes of a forrest fire: a person's being is reduced to their most sacred sensitivities, compelled by an obsession with inevitability to manifest themselves in humor, sorrow and anger...and often in that order too. Mostly humor though.........

What a bunch of bull shit. Seriously. We hava a 4 mile battalion run tomorrow for which we have to be up at 4:30 a.m. and here I am trying so hard to write something meaningful because I think somebody out there will read it and care. Agonizing and egotistical. I need to find that place where expression is free and careless and truly cathartic. That's the only reason I should be writing here anyway.

Part of me is really pissed off at myself for writing to say something. To write well and witty and insightful bull shit. I want to put words together in a way that leads somewhere...but more like a deserted road to anywhere.

puppies and fairies

Me and my emotions are trying to make a long distance relationship work...but you know how that goes. I might notice some good vibe that would have sent a warm and fuzzy to my joy bubble but I don't hear about it till my emotions get back from lunch. Then its too late. Like, my emotions might have a baby or a cow or something and I won't know until its all grown up and feeding itself and everything. I mean, who wants to hear about some kid who can feed itself.

Or maybe my emotions are all relegated to a pressurized safe-deposit box, and you know the worm at the bottom of a bottle of mescal or taquila, if you will...well, that worm can be like a key to this box, except when you open it its kind of like one of those snakes in a can of peanuts that scares the shit out of you then makes you laugh at yourself cause you're such a dumb-ass for falling for the oldest trick in the book...the only thing is that its like the kind of trick that you play on yourself and pretend like you don't remember that that damn snake is in there, you just drank a few beers and wanted some deliciously salty peanuts.

But, you know, its ok to be nuts in the Army. The only crazy guys are the normal ones anyway. We can all feed ourselves and nobody really wants to hear about it. Take last night, for instance. Me and my roomate, PFC Pierce, stayed up till 5 a.m. drinking wine and talking about his imaginary friends Faith and the nameless one who he actually talks to and about how fairies are real and mostly present with animals, especially dogs. We are both fierce dog-lovers and agreed that if we witness some shit-bag grunt shooting stray dogs down-range we will cut his feet off and feed them to any orphaned puppies.

Pierce is half Irish half Japanese, so I call him "Cracker Jap" but only I can call him that because we can talk about religion together and I actually listen to his stories about written destiny and fairies and because I came up with the name in the first place. You can seriously watch a bottle of Crown Royal empty itself in front of him and never see him lift a finger, but all of a sudden he'll be levetating in front of the tv surrendering his soul to the vaccumous void of Halo or World of Warcraft. He's a quiet beast with a mysteriously troubled soul. But I trust him and we get along.

Welcome to the Infantry

Welcome to Germany and the valley of the shadow of death. Keep a photo of your soul safe in your wallet and don't ask the wrong questions. Don't suck any dick and don't pay too much for the same. Your pride and purpose will be scraped from the sole of a size 10 1/2 combat boot until you've done your part down-range. The forsaken and fatherless will fulfill the duty of the fat and faithless multitudes whining and dining back at the house. So tip that bottle from the brim to the dregs and break a leg for the sexiest diamond blinding your mind's eye because you will never dance with her again. Kiss it, kiss it, kiss it and blow it away.

Praise the Lord and pass the snakes. Pick up your vocabulary, raise it above your head and drop-kick that mother fucker into eternity. Standby. Here it comes like the prodigal son to sweep you off your feet and remind you of everything that landed your ass in Graceland. They call it the Triangle of Death, where each morning is indeed a spine-tingling novelty. Sustain. Keep the peace and walk the line.

sanity

I've just realized that maintaining a center of balance in the midst of a maniacle, military environment could prove to be a rather challenging discipline. Lately, remembering to look inside and take stock sneaks up on my consciousness like a theif in the night. So, as I play mother weaving through oblivious faces picking up errant, half-drunk cans and bottles I am reminded of the importance of listening to the voice that keeps me on my toes, alert and willing. Hungry for healthy food. Always moving forward. Doing what must be done at the present moment.

my release point

Have you ever stood beneath a starry sky, drunk and lonely, and asked yourself why you erased all the contacts from your cell phone? Is it possible for an individual to manufacture a moment of pure, unadulterated isolation and still grow? Only in the sense, I'm convinced, that the lesson is one hurled from a totally unexpected angle....

One time I was trying to teach my youngest sister how to properly throw a frisbee...not just any frisbee, but a driver. Now, for all of you disc golfers out there in happy-land, you know that the driver is the thickest and heaviest in your ridiculously unnecessary arsenal of discs. Anyway, like any good brother, I demonstrated for my sister the proper form and the critical release point and follow-thru and then stood back and told her to give it a whirl.

There is no doubt in my mind that she had every intention of executing my instructions perfectly, however, as her hand passed the critical release point with the disc still in her fingers, and as I pondered my choice of positioning next to her, it became very clear to me what some unfortunate pioneer might have felt at the hands of an Indian warrior as he peeled the scalp from his skull. Sharp and beautiful.

As I fell to my knees cursing like an unrepentant convict, I noticed how terrified she was and how much more I was concerned for myself than for my sister. Sad to think about now, but even after the wounds healed I never tried to teach her again.

An American Dream

Television is the anesthesia of our culture. My only question is this: For what surgical procedure are we being prepared? If my system wasn't abuzz with that very nearly-numb sensation I might feel some ominous burden of impending doom. But I'm happy to just crash, feeling blessed to have found my bed...just as I left it, still warm, quilt outstretched calling me back into the folds of its promise...: Don't worry, you won't feel a thing.

you try too hard

I read that last entry and it sounded like some agonizing hogwash. Idealistic and dumb. The truth is that I'm anxious as hell and just looking forward to falling in with a real platoon in the regular army. Basic was basic. End of story. Anyone can spin a tale and stretch out the pain of BCT to fit their ego, but its all a bunch of drama and bullshit. A mental game and, ultimately, a technicality. Suffice it to say that our company's motto was, in fact, "Play The Game." I mean, are you serious? But I guess if you can pass your final APFT you're pretty much fit for battle, seeing as how hagi probably can't do 50 sit-ups in 2 minutes, let alone run a blistering 9 minute mile.

I suppose those who do miraculously slip through the retention quota cracks are in for a pretty rude awakening. Hopefully their units will chew em up and spit em out before they have a go at the two-way live fire and freeze like a freaking pop up target. I've got a few shitbags in mind and will keep you posted on their progress...since we'll more than likely be in the same damn unit.

Anyway, that feels a little better. Almost like I thought about pulling my proverbial freaking finger out the proverbial freaking damn (I substituted "freaking" for fucking because fucking is too freaking offensive and would no doubt send a measage to my subconscious to tell everyone to fuck off...which would just be so rude).

and it begins

My fundamental survival instincts and my more, lets say, evolved desires mingle in my gut like water and oil. How does one exist in a modern military of "smart" weapons, computerized combat and instant media when the black and white romance of WWII reels in the heart throbbing with visions of sacrifice and victory...growing like waves of revelation curling the limits of your consciousness and cresting at the pinnacle of resolve..? Nostalgia is a very powerful force.

You think, now that's what it's all about...the ultimate sacrifice. Answering the call of duty. Beckoned by the moral necessity to throw some lead down-range at any psychopath sneaking around with a world-domination agenda. Simply taking action.

But what called me to join the U.S. Infantry in this the year of 2008? Sounds like the year some sci-fi writer pulled out of a hat in 1952 to set his apocalyptic fantasy. It is a strange place to find one's self. I enlisted simply because I could not imagine looking back on a life without some kind of military experience. I don't need to kill hagi or some crazy thing like that; I just needed to get off my ass and be a part of something a little bigger than myself. Besides, I figure I can be a better cause for good patrolling the streets of Iraq than patrolling the bars at home. And selfishly, a part of me craves to feel the sting of battle...but more on that later.

Any American with half a heart who has enjoyed some degree of ease and comfort, or tasted the fruit of anther's labor should also feel a tinge of conscience to serve someone in return. As my father and my grandfather both wore the uniform and distinguished themselves in the Army, it was a natural, though belated decision to make.

To me, the infantry embodies the quintessential military experience. The front line. The brotherhood. Testing and stretching the soul. The infantry is the blood and guts of the U.S. Military. My life was looking more and more like stagnant pond water by the day and my heart began to beat in shame of its owner. I'd had enough.

This is just the beginning. I'm off to Germany in one week. This is where the symphony in my soul will either evolve into harmonies divine or sit in silence and wonder why the conductor snapped his baton and dove into the throng of head-bangers.

OK

OK. This is a journal. For all intents and purposes, my outlet. So, my apologies if I begin to rant or speak in tongues or mumble and curse at myself. This pixilated real estate is subject to the development of sundry self and social observations, vagrant poetry, and, more likely, as the spirit moves, the vaguely coherent ravings of a once wine-soaked vagabond, now U.S. Infantry soldier and a surprised and often ungrateful recipient of the sangre de Cristo.