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.