Something Human

For the lack of a better idea, I'm writing about having nothing to write about. Nothing is coming to mind. The Army. Yes. It's the Army's fault. All that vast, untamed wilderness where my mind once galloped and thrived has been populated and polluted by military non-sense. If nothing else, I've learned just how perishable cognitive powers are.

Given enough time in an environment of considerable social isolation (two years on a military base in the Bavarian boonies and one year in a god-forsaken war zone) while being subjected on a daily basis to desensitization training, one can wake up and wonder what happened to his identity. Lost like a set of keys to a car you don't even remember parking.

Then something human happens. You meet a girl. And she sees what you thought was lost. She sees who you want to be and there you are, living and breathing, occupying your body again. Awkward to feel again, painful and so suddenly shocking like regaining consciousness at the wheel just in time to swerve from the ledge of a cliff. Something to write about.

Why do we know that Mt. McKinley grows one millimeter per year? Should I be concerned, or amazed or something? Should I have a hard-on to be a member of the race that knows everything there is to know about the Earth? Is technological advancement and scientific discovery some kind of pissing contest amongst self-ordained Adams? Why must every millimeter of existence fall under arbitrary categorization? How can I experience this life free from the death of unadulterated meaning? Is not Truth nameless?

Curiosity Killed The Cat * Satisfaction Brought It Back

So, after returning from a one year tour in Iraq with the United States Army Infantry and being an exceptionally poor correspondent (especially to myself), I am cozy-warm in my mother's home once again, the Christmas buzz dissipating like a morning fog to reveal the end of a decade and, for me, the end of an era. The space between the kid who just couldn't help himself and had to touch the butterfly's wings and the man who could serenade a cocoon has seen a boom in construction.

The idea of modern warfare (in terms of the technology employed and the agenda's pursued) never sat well with me. Long before I actually enlisted, it made my stomach churn to even indulge in fleeting glimpses of myself as a soldier in today's military. But I managed to fortify my will against my better judgment and in a flash impetuous self-destruction I hoisted a rag of Army colors that was frayed only at the fringes with threads of "duty, honor, loyalty" etc. and flailed lifeless in the wake of my desperate escape. Now, having come dangerously close myself to becoming what is so wrong with the military, I feel a deep sense of gratitude to have come out on the other side unscathed (at least physically) and to have another shot at an authentic and conscientious existence.

So, after being blessed by a reunion at home with my loving loved ones and, consequently, a reunion with my own soul, in the spirit of true freedom I'm raising the colors of a new year, a new decade, a new era, and I think most importantly, a new day.

Off The Shelf

On this night all things fall off of the shelf and gather in me to conspire. In a whirlpool of flailing voices and flaring nostrils I am spinning willingly toward a red-lined reaction. I am a combustible combo of intuition and inertia. We tell war stories to stay close and drink wine to stay warm. Is this really happening? Were we in that barren land for 11 months, sharp as a razors, heavy as a hammers?

Here we are again, so distant from who we thought we were and so close to becoming the echo of an explosion. A flash, concussion, smoke and mangled debris scattered throughout the memories of the past, reaching like a fog into the ruins of an ancient burial ground, overgrown already with weeds of indifference. Silence will tell.

...and that

I don't have the time or equalibrium required to even attempt a personal analysis of this whole mess of a shit pile under which I've found myself not feeling, not comprehending, not caring. No, for that I'm waiting for a soft and unsuspecting night of drunken reflection....until then, it aint no thing.

Hard times for nice guys

I recently (as of ten or fifteen minutes ago when one of my three roommates filled our cozy quarters with the most potent of gases, the internet crashed, I tripped on a wire heading out the door that I would be breaking in a rush of distemper, etc...) realized that one year is ample time to develope some bad habits; I mean, really blaze a path where there once was only an occasionally traveled game trail. In a moment of critical mass melt down, a flurry of obsenities followed me to the explaination provided by a fellow fumer... Iguess I went to the "pit." The pit is that place somewhere between your big and little intestinal fortitude where, in the face of promised adversity you curl up into a little ball, set the alarm (in this case, October 29th, 2009 a.m. (when we are schedualed to reenter the blossoming land of the living)) and comence Operation Functionally Catatonic/Enduring Emotional Unavailability. Needless to say, these days of realization are of a rather volitile nature...I believe the term is "hair trigger." More to come with the patience that I will no doubt need to begin cultivating.

wake up