Three and ten years ago our nation was stricken a terrible blow; one that altered the course of the world. Not since the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor has a singular event so shaped and forever changed the world. Today some among us ask what power has she left? For thirteen years the United States has exhausted every resource at its disposal to oppose those who reveled in the travesty of September eleventh. I will not claim justness in the actions that occurred since that fateful day; but I will claim justice in spirit upon which it was delivered. With a swiftness the United States crashed into the Middle East setting a blaze one of the largest and most transformative events in the region since before the fall of the Ottoman Empire. Today these events are still transpiring and from their ashes has risen a new power; one that is decidedly set against not just our way of life, but the very fabric of our humanity.
The world, and some at home question the willingness or capability of the United States to answer the call to arms. Some have gone as far as to say that she is now quietly ignored like a child at the adults table. It would be slapdash to forget that for over a hundred years the United States has answered these calls in support of any friend and to oppose any foe. Though the trumpets of the doubtful, and the commentary of the nay-sayers rings loud across the airwaves and on our television sets, it is the quiet call that we miss from around the globe asking for our support. From those in the pacific-rim struggling though natural disasters to the trapped souls on the sides of mountains in Iraq; their voices share stories that make you proud to see the Stars and Stripes fly above every school and courthouse across the land. We as a service and a nation have answered MacAurthur’s daring call to bring hope to places where hope is forlorn.
With some haste we pulled away from the fire that is spreading across the Arabian Peninsula and with measured patience we are wadding back into the same storm. To those who look across the seas at us, be reminded that the reach of the United States has no limits. And for those at home, never forget that soft power is nothing more than the amplification of real power; of which we still have plenty. Let no one doubt the resolve of the American People for the men that I have met and have had the honor of calling friends, brothers, comrades-at-arms have paid a ransom to the boat man and yet still stand tall and sure when they speak clearly just five words. “Here I am, send me.”
On this modern-minted-hollowed day just thirteen years ago the New York skyline—a testament to the world’s future—was scarred horrifically by men misguided by the desire to uphold an identity that is as false as the world has ever seen before. These men and their faiths under appreciated the resolve of a nation and a people. They were and are unable to grasp what it means to be free, to be American, to be part of the world’s humanity. And though I will not dare try and tell you what it means to be an American. What I will share is what it is not; it is not a nation that will sit by and watch others suffer, nor is it a nation that will forget that fateful morning and what it means to have glimpsed the fear that others live in continually.
The United States, to her credit, has yet to rip the poem from the base of the Statue of Liberty, her towering presence still screams out hope and steadfastness to the weak, wretched and huddled masses yearning to breathe free. And from these people, the Americans, no challenge has been un-met, no obstacle not overcome, no goal not reached; so to shall it be today. That when she decides she has seen enough of this travesty they call The Islamic State, the United States as she has time and time before, will reach her colossal hands across the world and smite those who would see her ideals burned to ashes. With a vengeance our young men and women will storm across the world armed with the most powerful weapon in the United States arsenal; righteousness.
I am alone on a boat, locked into my own private island; swift brown water to separate me from the rest of those who would claim my time and attention. Lost among the metallic chimes of the marina and consumed by the problems of a confusing electrical system of a boat. Hoping that the red in the mirror is the start of a tan rather than a burn, hoping that the new electronics package are plug and play. For years I have claimed the hoping is not a method; yet, i seem to be quite reliant on it every day here beneath the costal stars.
The stars are everywhere, and yet nowhere at once, as they dance across the night sky ducking behind the curtains of clouds the drift over head. I swing from my hammock stretched out underneath the boom starring up at the sky, and wondering the familiar musing of whom else is also starring up at the same stars. From the deserts of Iraq to the coast of Carolina I have taken comfort, as our forefathers have, from the constellations above.
The first day is always the worst, as you try to hang on to your worldly attachments—messaging, emailing, and sending pictures of what you find to be sublime. It is even hard to sleep on the boat the first night, your body rejects the calming of your mind, rejects the simplicity from which it find pleasure. By the second day, your mind and body begin to embrace the new reality, one in which the ocean breeze is barely strong enough to stave off the sweat of humidity. As my mind rejects the complexity of life in shore i cant help but to find myself contemplating a life of tough work along the waterways of the coast. Days spent bent in toil under the sun, and nights relaxing in waterfront taverns.
Tomorrow I will push away from the bonds of hard ground and sail out into the blue. Pushing only far enough to strain the boat, like stretching before a long race; hoping to find where it will hurt before you injure yourself. The will push Morgan’s Folly into the wind and feel her strain under the weight of the wind and the tides. I will bend her to my will and take to sea like the adventures of old. Searching for my lost treasures. I will find them in the plow of the waves, I will find them in the grain of the hull, and creak of the rigging. I will bend with the boat to the wind and cut the waves with her bow. Tomorrow I will be free, even if it just for a moment. Afterwards I will reward myself with music and scotch as all adventures must, so that I might have a forum to tell these tails of the sea.
Like Alexander and Pompey before me,
I go searching for a guide.
The stones of Delphi sits silent as I am forced to face the future,
Delphi opens wide her ancient chasm of pythian vapors,
she deafens me with her silence.
I hear only the drop of a tear in which holds my reflection.
Would Alexander be as calm, I think not.
No woman stands before me for my Neronian revenge.
In the ruins of Apollo’s dragon, its stony broken teeth raised to the sky.
Oh, Delphi how you sit silent!
I gather the strings of fate up into my hands.
Oh, how way leads onto way.
And I pull tighter on the meridians attached to my own ends.
Searching for my own Ipseity.
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
I close my eyes and try and remember the day I committed suicide. What was once fresh and easily distinguishable has blurred to another random sentence in the book that is my life. How can one person be both the victim and victimizer? How tight are the bonds that hold humanity together? For my simple act made me the aggressor towards others who deemed my life forfeit for their own comfort.
Though there are as my types and reasons for suicide as there are the multitudes on the earth. This but the silent majority, the ones that shock us when their story ends in ash, have a narrative that is as tragic in its ending as it is in its typicality.
Many years ago, before consciousness, something must have happened, something must have been done, or said. Maybe it was you, maybe your parents, or maybe even the world. But with such lessons, at such age, there is no recovery. Failed lessons become reinforced; and way leads onto way. Without realization you are forever marked. You are so young when you realize that something is wrong; that something is not functioning right within your body. You move forward unable to share this feeling with others because you can barely describe it yourself. By the time you are able to recognize that the buzzing noise that relentlessly drowns out every other feeling is pain, pain that threatens to drown you, it is too late. You immediately look up and out to all of those who pass by daily. For so long you just assumed it was natural, that it was normal to feel this way. Its when you choose to look for it in others that you become scared. All of the other children look back absent of the pain you wish you could share; and you just can’t understand why they do not feel the way you do. Their happiness seems to span the constant tic-tic-tic of the clock, and yours is only for the moment, lost as soon as it is found. How is this possible, what could possibly be wrong with you.
Deep unsettling despair descends upon you, and now instead of being suffocated you are drowning. Looking around you see no one else struggling and you go out of your way to hide it. And every night you pray to your gods and family that it will end tomorrow, that tomorrow will be the day that you wake up and your body works correctly; to be like everyone else. It is these early years that you dream of being normal, that you dream of being like those who seem to have it so easy. This is before the scarring, this is while you are still teaching yourself how to be strong in the face of all that is clearly wrong. Each night you convince yourself that it will be better. You can only lie to yourself for so long and then it changes, you convince yourself each night that you are strong enough to endure. Yes, right here is where the world fails to take notice. It is this moment, this change, that the outside worlds of influence, leadership, love and concern cease to be the defining factors in you life. Self motivation prevails, and with this self induced strength comes a pride. Though the pain only deepens, and the waters pull you under with more strength, you now accept it as a part of who you are, for as much as you want it to be different you demand the pain as a part of your very identity.
Somewhere in this struggle you will attempt to match the outside world with the one on the inside. Most will hurt themselves in a futile attempt to make what is felt rational. If I am hurt, then I should feel pain; but, the pain will stay and the hurt will go away. This mantra will be repeated again and again with similar ends. They will cut at themselves for the momentary relief, and the scars left will only serve to remind them of how much it still hurts. Others will commit to their most base objectives in an effort to relieve this pain even for a moment. Sexually, artistically, athletically, all will find something that will take the pain away for just a breath, and they will fight harder and harder to have it taken away time and time again. This internal motivation allows them to achieve so much, yet they can enjoy almost none of it. They are lost among the success and failures with no concept of how to determine right from wrong as their souls feel only torment. Every night, going to bed, fighting against the urge to make the pain go away. For now they know that it will never leave them. If they are lucky, the pain is shed, gone, like a frustrating cold that just up and disappears one day. But, for the rest, it never leaves. They deaden themselves towards the rest of the world and step boldly forward, knowing only defeat in the arms of victories.
These mortals are little swayed by encouragement or retort at this point in their lives. They have survived so much more than any of us could imagine, and are not afraid to balance that against your tiny words, your lifeless hugs. Neither then should you make the mistake as to believe that you can encourage them to this end. No amount of conversation, or lack thereof, will push or pull these individuals to their desired ends. You can only at this point set the stage for the final execution of a lifelong dream. These men and women who have done great things end up leaving this earth in a heart shattering event that leaves them condemned by their religions, stripped of their accomplishments by their peers, and a forever sense of shamed by their own blood. In what world do you think you have the ability to change what they know to be true when they decide that they have had enough. In what world do you think your condemnation, or threats of striping away their institutional awards, will change their choice that night as they sit alone.
At what point does their suffering outweigh our perceived obligations that they owe to the living? A selfish act you call it, I ask you why? Is it in consideration for others? What amount of pain must I endure before I can let loose those bonds of humanity. Why must they owe us such?
Know that not all men are created equally, nor are all daemons faced the same. The stories of childhood were never written to let us know that dragons lived, but rather to give us the hope that we can slay these beasts of our minds. As we award medals to those whom have served faithfully, and then demand their return when they take their life, are we not the damned. I ask no man to live his life for the sake of mine, I will not live my life for the sake of another; and therefore will not condemn a man that knows his own damnation. He wears those scars openly for us to bear witness to and leaves a shattering quake behind him as he lays open a truth that we are still afraid of what we do not understand. I do not condone the choice of suicide, but I will stand tall and honor the man that lived his life to the end of his choosing.
Rest in peace; Captain Fallensbee and all those like him who have met his fate. To name a few others that were living success for us while paying a price we could not understand and they could not bear; Ludwig Bolzmann, Admiral Jeremy Boorda, CSM Lewis, Sam Gillespie, Ernest Hemingway, Megan Meier, Sylvia Plath, Roy Raymond, Hunter S.Thompson… and the untold masses that have impacted our lives at the sake of their own.
A chance coincidence, a delayed flight, a brief encounter…
I was sitting in a small cantina across from Gate A23 in a random Airport, in a random City, as I crossed the country one more time. I sat at a table of four, not paying attention to my boss and his staff while they discussed the mundane and over appreciated. My mind had wondered to the musings of the world and the delay in the flight. As my gaze lowered from the ceiling my eyes passed over a woman, slightly leaning against the wall, looking up at the same board that I had been. Calm and powerful, a greek statue or a Jacques-luis David –perfect and ephemeral beauty– with eyes that displayed little emotion; yet, the statuesque pose was enough to trap my fascination.
Ironic that she is a quarter mexican as I sat in a faux mexican restaurant. Ironic that she was alone and I was pretending to be alone. I wanted to know more, I had to see her, I had to have her in a way that comes and goes so fast across the mind of those that are romantics. I left to walk it off, to move on, to find my fascinations elsewhere. When I returned, she was still there, oblivious to me, or so it would seem. The flights were delayed again, and then canceled, and as if by divine appreciation for my needs she lined up behind my party of four for the airline help desk. As all adolescents do, I acted out until she noticed. Working hard for her to smile, to shed her indifference. Slowly but surely my antics were noticed and she smiled, oh if that had only been enough. If nothing more had happened, I would have been secure in the small victory of bringing warmth and a smile to a beautiful, fascinating, stranger. We left for the baggage claim, knowing that it was over, without regrets, without remorse, I could smile.
She stood there, as if she was waiting for me, at the baggage claim. I couldn’t resist, I had to say hi, I had to know if she was staying at the same hotel as us. The words came out so quick, I volunteered our ride to wait for her and her bags. My mind was racing, I was trying to be ‘cool,’ to be calm, to be in control. The ten minutes in the van, the awkward looks at the check-in counter and the twenty minutes in my room should have put things back into perspective. When I walked past her to dinner, she turned and looked at me from the hotel bar. So we talked, we worked around some assurance policy that we would be able to meet up. I could see it in her eyes, only then as I wrote down my number, the whole night played out before me as we looked at each other. I knew that she would wait for me in the hotel bar. I suffered through a working dinner, waiting for the text ensuring me that she was till there. Leaving behind my responsibilities and any sense of accountability I said good night to my coworkers and went to her. She had been patient, nursing a drink, waiting for me, texting me.
I sat next to you, and steadied my hand that wanted to reach out and touch you. We forced ourselves to settle into the rights and passage of the conventional. A protocol of small talk and drinks when we both knew that we were passing time. Waiting for it to be more appropriate than what it was, or what it would ever be. We fended off would be interlopers, I would wait them out. Or at least in one case, piss them off so much that they would leave. I wanted you to need me, so I talked. We worked slowly through the night, forcing ourselves not to make it obvious, to be social with everyone while all I wanted was you. As the hours went by I could see you looking up at me, ever so slightly changing the dynamic, your face marked with hints of desire. And it was then that I watched the vultures of our minds circle, because without you, right then, the world would have lost meaning. In efforts to hide our true intent we walked, room to room, from singular moments to singular moments of passion; desperately trying to ignore their addition. Finally we stopped moving. We stopped thinking, we stopped being individuals, we were young again, insecure, curious, clumsy, and entwined.
The hours would pass and the sun would be working its way to the horizon when we parted company, one final embrace one final look. The world was different somehow, not dramatically so, only slightly, in only a way that this woman and I would know. With uncertainty we looked at each other from across the room in the same airport from the day before. Casual glances, afraid that any interaction would give it all away, that the whole world that we damned would know. Fear, fear of a future that we would deny, knowing that the seed could not grow, yet somehow, I have found myself writing these words. Smiling, content, happy with the night; a night I would do again, I would work for and hold in appreciation of the subtleties of a romantic tryst found on a cold desert night.
I have no doubt at all the Devil grins,
As seas of ink I spatter.
Ye gods, forgive my ‘literary’ sins –
The other kind don’t matter.
I watched in pure enjoyment as my thumbnail slid behind her jaw bone. My wrist pushed up against her chin and I could see the confused look on her face as her knees dug deeper into the black bench. Her eyes on me, if she was trying to decide how much she enjoyed my hand around her throat. The confused look turned to joy as I my heart rate rose and my breathing shallowed. It was noticeable over the music in the room, with its heavy beats that were drowning out everything else. Her naked hips moved with the sounds and her chest heaved up and down in front of my face. We were surround by others, other who were enjoying the sight of this woman straddling me, pushing with all of her might to satisfy her hidden desire and my not so hidden intent. Others, in this crowed room of naked bodies and desperate men, did not find this to be as enjoyable, and quicker than my inebriated mind could grasp I was lifted up, I think on my own, though it could have been with the help of the suited six foot, fourteen shaved headed bouncer.
“We do not put our hands on the girl!” with such authority, and clarity, I had no choice but to respond with “yes sir.” The girl grabbed his arm with both of hers begging for leniency and gentleness, I am sure with the expectation that my pocket book would extend past closing at this high-end strip club in Denver. “I want my lawyer” came from somewhere inside of me, and like magic he was there. “Pierre, whats happening?” “Kim, they want me to leave…. Cant touch the girls… Why do I have a french name… Hand around her throat…. He touched me…” Kim threw his five foot six frame between us and said we would leave on our own volition. And we were out in the fresh air, breathing deep the cool Colorado breeze. We made it a block before he started laughing, and another before I stopped talking about seeing the girl in an hour.
It was a week later over a couple of beers that I was educated in the differences between choking and strangling. I am surprised to this day how much worse it sounds to say “I was strangling a girl,” rather than “I was choking a stripper.” Semantics, but more than potato or tomato, there is a visceral abhorrence to the idea of strangling; where as we are all more comfortable with the sexual connotations that exist with the word choke. I now spend time going word to word that we use interchangeably looking for another such dichotomy. In reality, it was not the pronunciational difference such as the tomato or potato comment but rather an inherent misunderstanding of the definition. If words are to have meanings, and de facto making them important, it is just as important that we know what those meanings are. To write the way our for fathers would have wanted us, or even to meet the standards of Christopher Hitchens would require a significant better understanding of our own vernacular.
During our small chances of lucid conversation between the laughter, we were able to piece together a night where this story is but just one small part of the amazement that the team from the small corporation Captains, Inc. – a fake company we created, to hide our jobs and to completely separate the night from our daily reality– were able to walk away.
Twelve hours prior to me being forcibly removed –sorry, I left on my own according to Kim– from the night club; we were laughing at my luck with women. Something that clearly would not change with the night. This was followed by the creation of a small consulting firm designed to help with movie productions, specifically that weekend in Denver. A chance to possess a persona in which we could slough off accountability and obligations. I found that my french name came from the restaurant that we dinned in. Here we only spoke french, well in reality only one of us spoke french, the rest would make nasally guttural sounds. “Ughh ugh,” and “Pierre, Jean, and Francis” were shouted back and forth in toasts to our good luck. The wait staff was disappointed in our lack of french skills as Francis ordered for us and apologized for us, flirted for us, and eventually helped us leave before we caused more harm than good. Then it was my turn. We moved to a night club in Larimer Square and were escorted to a table where bottles of vodka stood waiting.
Our rock star status was solidified as the women begged to spend time with the jacket laden crew and their free flowing booze. Dancing was followed by dancing, which can only lead to making out. Making out can only lead to making out inappropriately. Our venture at this club was coming to an end as the manager was chastising our server for her friendliness and the other tables were inviting us back to their condo for after hours. Lights came on, bets were lost and won, booze was imbibed and given away and we were happy when we were walked down stairs to the waiting limo.
Walking backwards, I passed through the black curtain that separated a small room from the hallway and was unceremoniously pushed down into a chair. The chair was more of short bench spanning from black wall to black wall. The girl that was doing the pushing was also doing the smiling. A sly grin, not hiding the suggestions that it held as I braced myself with both hands on the bench. The conversation was short, and witty, though the banter was quickly lost as my eyes, hypnotized by her movements, focused on the girl in front of me. Like an indian snake charmer I was sat immobile and mesmerized. Slowly, as I began to relax, I smiled. Another song is played, and the act begins again. There was something in my relaxation, something in my look, that infuriated her, she recognized my esoteric disappointment. She couldn’t take being pushed to the back of my mind, she need it to be about her, about the money I was giving her. She was tired of being just another girl, tired of it being just another guy with more cash than they should be allowed to walk around with. With a rising sense of desperation, her sharp nails dug deeper in to my shoulders and her mouth pushed against my face. My response was fast and immediate when she sunk her teeth into my neck. With my hands around her, I grabbed her, pushed her, tried to bend her into me. Her breathing was loud and rhythmic, the music was louder and two more songs went by. We found each other smiling, not in love, or of joy but rather the smile that comes after exhaling deep, the release of all excess and indelicate emotions – of satisfaction. I found my hand around her neck, and her hand on my wrist, her body on top of mine, moving ever so…
Given our proclivity for women, booze, and inappropriateness we managed to find our way to the late night strip club. There is a story of a camel who carried straw, and it would seem that one strand of straw broke his back. As you can see the wheels were coming of this train and the wreck was going to spread from the front steps of a strip club’s back door to the hotels fifth floor. We were seven deep, five originals (with french names) and two additional women when we struggled to convince the man at the back door of the club to let us in. With missing IDs and credit cards we still managed to get us into this sprawling palace of erotic fun. I can not speak for my friends at this point, in fact as the story goes some immediately turned around to leave, only to be left wondering floor to floor in the hotel threatening the lives of all residents who tried to get in their way.
Lights, women, cages, music, and the allure of private rooms had Kim going back to the ATM machine with a frequency that could ruin your credit and mine. I myself was immediately infatuated with this innocent looking girl who grabbed my by the hand. “Can I dance with you?” My defenses were still strong, and I passed at the opportunity. Checking on Kim and the others I made my rounds. Convincing friends not to use the ATM machine, not to get separated, not to lose their room keys. It was not to much longer that I had given up on trying to put the wheels back on the train, or taking straw off the camel and I jumped head first into the river, placed my debit card into the machine, and was carried down stream by a vigorous dark haired figure, until I too ran ashore.
Happy 30th Birthday to friends of whom I am not worthy, whose time is too valuable for the likes of me and my antics. To them I offer this epic night, where this is just one of many stories that would have you crying, and the teller blushing.
“So, just like everyone else? Thats what is bothering you, isn’t it? The fact that you have to experience the same things as the rest of us, the masses.”
An interesting point made in a conversation about a personal situation in my life. I had just finished telling my friend that its “not my style,” and “thats not how I normally am,” or even “that is just not me, I don’t make those mistakes, I don’t allow those responses.” She sat across from me and pointed out the obvious. I don’t like to be lumped into the greater masses of humanity. I don’t. As we all tell each other and mostly ourselves that we are special and different, I am walking down the back end of one of the most common mistakes that can be found, it is a shame I guess that it took me thirty years to make it (or more importantly to learn from it.)
They say that to fall in love is the demonstration of our humanity. Or, maybe they don’t, and I just came up with that. I have lived my life as a realist with the desire of a romantic. Staring at the skies, dreaming away the here-and-now for a distant future. Yet I have always grounded myself in the reality of the moment; the shifting landscape of my life and my instability. My world around a card table, with the deck open and the cards laid bare; in a rash and desperate gamble I went “all in.” Was it a bluff, God, yes it might have been. For I have no idea what would have happened if I had won this hand. But, even as I pushed my chips forward I knew the outcome. Deep down, where my rational and disciplined mind still churned away, angry and pissed that it was being ignored and pushed to the side, yelled out “bloody hell, what a fucking mess.” It is this aspect that my friend was trying to tell me makes us human. That our desires will overpower our most basic survival mechanisms. That logic and reason can be lost to the temptation of passion. That we are willing to ignore all of our other senses to hide the most basic truths around us. That I could be blind to such transgressions that would make the relationship almost untenable no matter how the cards fell.
We look out across the world and our senses are bombarded by the graphic displays of love, romance, fairy-tails, heartache… It is on our TVs, played out in movies, and dominate the music we listen to. Yet, avoidance of these logical failures is almost impossible as our basic needs drive us towards relationships, and companionship. No, I did not want to be like one of the many, I wanted to be strong, different, rational and still in control. And as my control slipped and my desperation climbed, I could feel my dignity slowly slip out between my fingers. Dignity; that is the hardest part about this. I wish I had quit the situation a day earlier, a week earlier, a month earlier; but I couldn’t. I held onto what we all do in trying times, hope. Misplaced, unreturned, and torturous for a man who has stated time and time again that hope is not a method.
Clearly by this point I have given you enough to understand what the general situation must be in this relationship. Well, what was a relationship, for the ultimate in todays modern, hip-generation of closure is the de-friending of someone on Facebook, thank you Mark Zuckerburg. So we moved full circle from where we never made it official, meaning no Facebook status, to officially over, because we are no longer Facebook friends. Such is life, such is life, God I hate those words, I hate the prospect that the loss of my dignity, the time spent thinking over each word said, each action taken, or each word not said, could end up being nothing more than a personal lesson to take forward with me to the next. I have hurt others, but I have always been honest; and now I have been hurt, though this is the only time that you will read it, or hear me say it. I am stronger than that, just as each of you are. She was not honest in her dealings with me, and gave me a false sense of hope and security. A girl, no more than a child playing at adulthood, could not fathom what was going on around her. And I forced her to make a decision in the face of my honesty, one that should could not make for weeks (or without her parents,) until finally she said no, “stop pushing–please.”
Am I like the rest of you? Clearly. Have I ever been different, no. No, in the sense that humanity shares more similarities than differences. No, in the idea that as I travel around the world and discover that every culture shares ideas, values and dreams. I am one of the rest, though maybe more stubborn at times. The concept that my uniqueness is unique in and of itself is an allusion. For if each fingerprint is different, if each grove is unique, then are we not all the picture of the 1960’s Berkley students sitting on the wall -demonstrating their individuality by all looking the same? In the shadow of our electronic personas maybe we have created (engineered) an even more separate account of who we are, allowing for the differences in time, location and ability to give us space to shape who and what we want to be; forever changing the nature of truth and how we share truths or how we create a uniqueness. In the end the truth is that you move on, you learn, adapt, accept, and maybe even grieve (I am sure this sounds more like an AA meeting now than a blog.) for a moment, though I have always claimed to be different, separate, alone; for just a moment, I was a stereotype, a cliche’, a story so old that never needs retelling because of its ubiquitous nature. For those weeks, days, hours and minutes I was as all star-crossed lost souls are; hurt, weak, and shameful in the shedding of my pride to win a prize that was never mine.
So another day forward, one less minute spent on a problem that was solved two weeks ago. Another day forward, and one less minute.
A letter, one that i was recently reminded of….
In the dark room, with the slight smell of scotch so gently wafting towards my nose, I lay awake and see your face. Your porcelain skin framed in copper hair, that pulls straight and down just past your shoulders, thin lips pressed together in thought, that have already been completed. Your penetrating gaze that is looking to me for resolution. Then, with the certainty that I did not have, you reached forward grasping at my face pulling me towards you. Mouth to mouth in front of a crowd of random bar goers in Southern Pines, you had made a choice that I had wanted to make for months. Fleeting our these moments, fleeting are too the feelings that these moments draw.
Bunted up against the protective masks worn by woman in a mans workplace, layered with a uniform of war and disparage, I looked at you and saw the steel resolve that you place so comfortably in front. Then on, all I wanted to see was what else you could possibly have, where in that wisp of body could be anything else other than the iron core that was on display. Well, what I found I liked, and what I liked, I ended up desiring. I remember clearly when that happened, the moment, when I gasped and thought shit, I am going to get into trouble, not just from the palace guards, but from you, from the fact that without control I would have tried to have you then and there. When you raced to some poor secretarial desk on the second floor, and climbed one or two steps to get to the desk, you turned and looked at me with a smile that was one of a child. It was free, and unhindered, no longer weighed down by a mask of iron that allows you safe passage through the days, it was you. From there I was patient while I watched you throw your voice across the great room, enjoying the echo of your own sound. I stared in wonder at the woman that was before me, so fragile and tender, so filled with life, and I demanded more. In a land of extremes, in a world where possibility and reality must be given equal time and thought, it is those few moments where the desert fades away and the minarets soulful wail is quieted, where the world narrows to just the front seat of a Ford, and then expands again in the eyes of a woman who sat across from me. As my desire built, and my heart rate rose, I continued to stare at you while I drove. I was lost and needed your touch to bring me back. I put the truck into park and when I reached out to grab your arm, to show that the indifference on my face was my mask, you jumped out of the truck and raced to your room. Such was the end, that I remember. The weeks went on and the hours turned to days as our interactions became nothing more than the remarks on short emails and comments on a social web site.
Flying home and taking stock all that I had gained or lost, I was reminded of the experiences that we shared, though they were few, they were real. The random phone calls gave me hope, taught me that there might be something more to this, that at least you to had thought of the possibilities. Then my arrival to Fort Bragg and seeing your smile when I walked into your work, I knew that there was a chance. Now as I lay here on my bed, I recognize how insecure you make me feel when I do not hear from you, when your words are anything but inviting. I am not asking for anything to change nor am I asking for more than what I have already asked for, I am trying to explain what I see when I close my eyes at night when I have had a long day, when I have felt tired, when I realize the adult in me deserves happiness. I know where you have said you are, I know where you have said you are going and what you claim to want. Knowing that your own mask easily hides the same emotions that you so easily claim I do not have, with no intention of asking for anything, just this once, I have found that the chance for embarrassment from these petty words is worth the risk of sharing how another person has managed to touch me in a world of indifference.
I am alone, with my thoughts, with myself, with all that separates me from everyone else. Do you want my thoughts, would you like to hear my voice that screams out in my mind. Because I do not, I wish for silence, for peace, for the waiting arms of someone that can bridge the gaps in my existence. The noise is too much as I wonder around my room, the buildings and the camps. I drink not to dull the pain of the body but rather to temper the noise of the soul. My mind is folded and tucked under the warmth of a blanket provided by the scotch in the steel camp mug. What is the difference you ask? Well the folding chair at the end of the flight line sits in sand. The moon, crescent shaped, spreads is orange glow across the dusty night sky. Again, I find myself drifting to a future that cannot exist, or rather that I have not found a way to make possible. The ideas come so fast, the thoughts almost drowning my reality until the helicopters come and drown out my own mind. Twin engines push hard against this Thanksgiving night’s sky, with a thump-thump-thump the bird descends with a slight reflection from the neon lights of the pad. The chair is comfortable, the night is cool, and the world is as it should be, or rather how I have made it; through my choices. Though I am the farthest one could be from the coast of the outer banks, on a boat, with my feet propped up and book in hand, it is how I feel at this exact moment. The view is different but for that slight moment, that glimpse of a euphoric high is mine. And as quick as a breath, it is gone. The roar of the engines brings me back to the reality of the northern belt of Baghdad. The sand that has drifted up and over me is enough for me to stand. To grab the camp mug and to turn my back to everything and every thought, I turn my back to my own existence for the long walk home for the night. It is only when I turn around that I am lost, it is only as I fold up my chair and deny myself the pleasantries of belonging to one or the other that hurts. The first step is slow and painful. The next is strong and sure, I am back and am returning to what I know. To a team that I live with, to an army that I am a part of, to humanity from which I was raised, I walk. The walk will cleanse these thoughts, the scotch will bring a smile to my face, and the bed will give me rest until tomorrow. A day without significance, without reminders, without un-kept promises.
The sun wakes me up; with a grumpy, groggy groan, I push my arms free of the sleep that has locked them into place. The cap goes to the ground and I scratch my head with both hands until the dirt of the last day is free from the shaggy blonde. I place a canteen of water on the embers and wait for it to boil as I wash my face and hands. I put the flask away and make coffee in the canteen. I am aware of where I am at, as well as where I want to be in the next few hours. The summit is close, as I knew it was last night. I am still not sure why I just didn’t go to the top, but then again I am sure that something distracted me. My thoughts run through the marathon of what transpired inside my own head from the night before. No shit, a map helps, no shit, that compasses will point north (for the most part) and no shit, I will make the summit in less than a few hours.
Where I am at, and where I am going, or am I where it thought I would be, are interesting diversions from a few much more simpler questions. Namely, am I where I should be? The simple answer to that question is, yes, I am exactly where I should be. With ease and grace, I go thought the motions of being in the wood line, of living off of nothing. There is confidence in my movements, and where there is none, I will fake it until I have earned it. I have done the same for my occupation for the last decade that it is natural to act with confidence before it has been earned by time and trials.
Where else could I be, well I dream daily of all of the places I could be. This morning and the cup of coffee in my hand are no different; I have visions of the oceans, of cities, of a life with more stability. And these dreams and visions are nice, I have reason to believe the grass is greener on the other side. I have the same reasons to believe this that others use to attend mass. So I keep dreaming, and imaging all of the other things that I could want. Yet when I am in a stack and the door is in front of me, and it is my voice that I hear in the head set “Breach, Breach, Breach,” followed by the concussion of the flex charge, I know. When my Team Sergeant turns and looks in my eyes and gives me a thumbs up, I know. When I am covered in dirt and sweat, and I have dropped my kit and am sitting at a computer typing out the reports and my Junior Charlie brings me a beer, I know. I know that I am exactly where I should be at this moment and time.
Maybe when I was ten, or fifteen or a freshman in college I might have thought that I would be somewhere else, that I would be in a power suit and married. That with my family is where I would spend my thirtieth birthday. That maybe I would be mature enough to have forgiven those whom have trespassed against me. That I would be stable, that I could be looked upon as a model citizen of this nation, a rule follower that left his personal revolution behind in his mid twenties. That, however is just not where I am at, and I would not trade any of those things for the life that I have lived. Regrets are as hot and as painful as the burning coals that burnt my hand pulling boiling water from the flames.
I have regrets and I still have dreams, I have those that I wish would apologize to me, and those that I should forgive. Yet a quirky mix of stubbornness, laziness, and anger have kept me from these things. I know this much and about this much only, I have moved past the point of being able to lay out a plan, or create a map, I cannot change who I am now today. Those choices are gone. I cannot wake up tomorrow and say today I will be a fireman and a husband, or a banker and a father. I must live with the reality that I am soldier, that I am a rule breaker, that I have faults, and that I am alone for most of my time.
I know as well that each day is mine to make, and though I belong where I find myself, I have the ability to change directions, to make a new course, that I can slowly move towards new ends. Though, the very nature of the person that I am, the values that I hold dear, will bind me toward certain ends. That the obligations of my past must and will direct the course of my immediate future. The path is before me and the pines keep me on course, the water will quench my thirst, and my legs will push me up the hill. All of this is possible and is happening, though I am not physically trapped upon the trail, the trail is taking me where I am headed. The path has been chosen over the course of a thousand moments. And I am here and in the now as I place my hands on the rocks, pulling me up towards the pinnacle.
As I stand upon the top of the peak, I look around and smile. As I have said, the ocean would be nice, the money of being a banker would be comfortable, the companionship of a woman would be soothing, yet here I am, exhilarated and exhausted. I am where I thought I would be just a few short days ago when I decided to climb this mountain. The pressure and stress, the exertion that I have placed into any moment must be so much as to clear my head and allow me to live in the sublime seconds. I am where I belong; more importantly, I am where I have paid the price to be. I am who I am, not who I wished that I would be, nor who I dreamt I would become, I am more, I am real. As I sit down on the rocks and pull my water from my bag, I know that I have become something that I am proud of, that I am where I am proud to be. It is these moments that alleviate all of the anguish and pain of my failings, of being alone late at night, of not being who and what I thought, of all my faults, and for a brief moment that I will chase after to find again, I am at peace.