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.