Cold Morning

Again I find myself alone, watching the falling snow from my window. With out even the capability to reach and touch it, hold hit, and feel it melt against my skin. I open the window, and stand bare before the cool sharp breeze that breaks through the stale air of the room. I am alone. John Dunn wrote clearly what he thought but his logic was fowled by the irresistible flaw of some divine connection. Oh, I believe, the connection ever so much as he does, yet mine is dramatically less personal. You can be separate from the whole, look at my shining example. Everything that I have touched has slipped past my grasp and has moved on. There are no consolation letters written for those who just cannot seem to grasp what is out in front of them. This feeble and flawed desire to see what is next, what is greener, and constant need to push harder and harder against life. I have pushed and pushed, and I see myself in others that have pushed their youth into old age. They survived a self-imposed harshness leaving either a bitter broken man hunched under the weight of his own failings, or the wise, experienced character that everyone looks too with interest and intrigue. Yet, I see it, beneath the surface, that the very man that all others marvel at goes home and is alone. He has earned his place by pushing hard against life to come out the other side with the most incredible stories. The most wondrous adventures. How many stories will I collect until I realize that the answers I have found are to the wrong questions. How many lives must I lead before I find the one that can fulfill me as a person. I see what I will become, and yet part of me respects who they are. Part of me desires to be that person. Is this an enjoyment of self punishment or just the enjoyment of the idea, and the rest is just self fulfillment. The clock rolls to four A.M. and I am up in front of a computer in contemplation. Do not be confused, I am not saying that life is easier for everyone else, in fact most days others would look to me and say that I moved more gracefully through the day than others. That I have experienced less friction. What they don’t recognize is the direction of the grain that they are moving with. That the friction that kills lays on another level. Oh, if I could just name the rub. So this morning I press my hands against the chill glass and give my heart to those who have lived.

Arlington

Oh how fate plays tricks on even the most reverent of us all. Without warning, a day that should have had the sharp crisp feel of winter to it suddenly warmed up, yet graying the sky in such a way as to leave you with the impression that neither day nor night was fast approaching. I have driven fifteen minutes to visit my friend. I have not seen him in some time and felt the need today. I stopped by the convenient mart and grabbed a small gift for him. In this overcast warming day snow tried to flee as fast as possible, laying bare rows and rows of white stones. It is a short walk from where I parked over a single rise and part way down a slope. The first time I came here, I memorized how many stones past a certain tree laid my friend. But now, it is almost on instinct that I look for a small Government Issue stone. Short and white I kneel before it. For the most part I am alone today and those others moving through the thin layer of snow and ice are being quiet. They do not seem to have the purpose that I have in my walk. Pulling from my bag a small flower that I hastily bought from the store and pull a bottle of Canadian Club that I brought from home. Laying the flower down I sipped my whiskey and as the sharp painful taste bit me the memories came flooding back. Images etched in time forever engraved on me. Trying as hard as I could to control my emotions with the waves of images; I close my eyes and clench my fist around the neck of the bottle. Another drink. This time the emotions surged through my body though no tears would come. None had come for years. Something much worse than tears, the reworking of the days events, looking for changes that could have been made, differences that should have happened. Each critical moment that could have changed the outcome of that days tragic events rolls through my mind. Painful and sharp the bitter taste in my mouth as I recognize all of the things that could have been done differently. What was I supposed to do, I was helpless. How was I supposed to change it, how was I supposed to make It different? Would it be better to have it been someone else or would it have been better if it was me? Another helping of whisky, and another; distant whisperings float down to where I am, others are starting to stair. They know why I am here and give me room. I push aside the memories, I am being too hard on myself or not hard enough. Either way it does not mater. The events took place so long ago that the world has moved on as I have. Except on those frost bitten days that I think back to the smiles and laughter that my friend and I shared for some lonely months in a desolate land.

Legion Lost

I am just another of the Legion Lost, my future sealed in the stones of the Fates, cast in their indifference to my pleasure. I smile at the thought of such haphazardness in which I feel my life has taken, knowing that the choices have all been mine. Knowing that if I did not tire of the things that are, and stopped the wanting of the strange and new. Then the world would be exactly as I design. Yet I do not fit in, and I cannot stay still. The ocean calls, the mountains beckon, and the skies scream their welcome. I must go, I must continue on. With a more and more frantic pace I reach forward as youth leaves me behind. Oh, how life has been a good joke on me. Oh; I am, one of the Legion Lost.

I am just another of the Legion Lost, my course is set and the fates have cast their stones. The glory of battle will be the last of my dreams as i dream no more. At war with more than my nations enemies i have killed in the name of countries and faiths. I have been the profits own sword from which he has wielded me forth in a fiery vengeance; not seen since the days of David. Well let it be known that the uncrowned king is still at large. His ego and dominance still in shrined in the ideals of Charlemagne and Caesar. Come hear my tales of camp, and i will fill your cup with blood and rage. The great tribes of the past chant out their eerie beats accompanied by their ghostly wails. Only the dead have seen the end of war and strife and only the living desire to see it.

Welcome to DC

A life of disordered thoughts in backlash from that of a disordered mind. Oh, how the Buddhist priests in New York are screaming, their lessons slowly erased from my mind as i struggle to move against the rising surf. Fear, frustration, anger, the natural progression from passive to aggressive in response. Each stage taking a clear measure of my capabilities and thoughts. The worlds own disorder has finally permeated through what i had unfortunately assumed was an impenetrable wall of self justification and purpose.

The DC area has taken its toll on my intellectual faculties. Knowing as a fact, of both education and experience, that the decisions made within the belt-way have direct impact on the rest of the world; unfortunately left me blind to the decision making process itself. Now living with in the confines of the center of world politics in both study and application; i find myself more afraid now than i did when pursuing military aims in foreign lands. 'Leader of the Free World' is my most favorite title placed on the Executive Branch's head. The implications of what this mean are so astounding that the world should have thought long and hard before this became vernacular, and before we unassumingly accepted. Titles and definitions, phrases and statements, legal and political, professional language is a necessity in the world at large to ensure the quality of goods. We should have known that a title explicitly implies compliance and acceptance of the role. So here is the rub, a nation based on laws, formed and executed by the dictates of the Constitution, has no strict or loose interpretation, implied or enumerated dictates of how to fulfill this new found roll. In fact the basic framework of a state for, of, and by the people was designed to never allow the fulfillment of this roll. Checks and balances and the idea that we just wanted to be left alone to trade with whom ever choose, laid the groundwork for an executive branch with almost no capabilities to lead the whole of the country let alone a host of nations.

This rant of governmental capabilities is my lesson learned as i now get a front row seat in watching the fall from grace of the American Statesmen, the politicization of the military, the end game justification in political maneuvering. At first i became afraid finding that this was the process that has sacrificed numerous lives on the alter of national interests, an alter that i stepped up to more than once and rested my hands upon. From fear, to frustration that there was no way that i could impact this process in a manner that would change anything more different than a butterfly landing on a tank. Frustration turning to anger in the realization that the best course is to maintain my position as an executer of policy, that our wrongs are the lesser of wrongs; even though i will loose my soul when i am no longer able to explain to others why i have laid another body upon our self built alter. Anger that the argument of the bureaucrats, will become mine, that the game must be played until you can make a difference. That to leave may do more harm than good, that my obligations have trapped me to this irreverent course. Anger of having to chew on pride, under the name 'good faith;' anger at the disappointment i feel to those whom the people of America have elected to lead them, not just to pander to them. Anger, that the voices that are heard are in no position to comment, and the voices that are hidden from the masses are the ones that should be discussed and listened to attentively.

So, i sit again at night in front of a computer, reading the emails from friends around the globe. They talk in clear, black and white statements of successes and failures according to measurements. Then they discuss in theory reasons and options, capabilities and intentions, reaching out to those who might posses an insight that will help them take another step forward. Theirs is a life that is content with the execution of policy, with out the entangling process of making the policy. For them and me, it is not the policy or justification, but how we get to the justification, the process. And here in this city of marble monuments dedicated to those whom have lead the unleadable through every hardship imaginable, i have found a body of politic incapable of leading.

Chasm

Sitting, waiting, unengaged, hoping for that moment that pure attentiveness will awaken with in me, setting free those lost souls that are stretched out behind me in a sea of misery that defines the mediocrity of life in choice. Defining what is the nature of life, and why does it always seem to echo across a chasm that has stretched too far out of my reach. The bridges are all gone and a man in size and shape only sits on the far side, contemplating the voices that shout resoundingly through his mind to stand, walk, run, blindly towards the undefined here and now. To only press towards today, and leave the past with the future. It is not so much that the answers are not there, carved into mountains of granite and clay to marvel at in completion. The true and real challenge being that the questions are not there waiting for you, placed down by some cosmic divinity; rather you are left to hear the echo’s of his laughter as you struggle to comprehend this true mistake of human nature.

The chasm widens the future catches back up to you bringing the past in tow. You cannot escape any of the moments that come crashing down on you. Silent screams fill your lungs as you buckle under the weight of choice. Free will forever rationalized behind obligation and place. Again your mind screams back against the flood. Stand! It yells, quoting Whitman, demanding from you the manuscript of your epitaph. Stand! Tall and blind. Stand, arms stretched out trying to bridge the very chasm that you have stared out across. Stand! And rage against the natural laws of earth.

What more can be asked of you, turn this small insignificant form of human quality into a man. Into a person, of perception and depth, of understanding. There are no more spaces unexplored as those precious few move away from the masses of ghosts waiting to suckle off of your own intentions. Walk with the confidence awarded to the few who have finally found today and allowed for the past and future to wait patiently for you to visit them. Finding all the answers right in front of you only because you choose to ask the right questions. There are no contradictions in life, you must always reevaluate your premise…

Sunset (July 2005)

What the hell is a BLOG, and who the hell am I writing it for. I have no one that actually reads this crap and in all honesty that is what this is going to be, crap. I am writing for my own amusement, on to a computer web page done out of complete boredom. Hey who knows, as my friend commented, it might get me laid. Hahah, anyways so, this is my first BLOG and I want to talk about the ocean because it is the farthest thing from life here in Iraq. I would give anything to see the ocean rise and fall with the crash of the tide. Feel the rhythmic power of the surf and feel the wind sweep across the waves, leaving behind the tell tail sparkles of a gust gone by. Feel the surge of the boat under you as the wind fills the sails with a sharp crack, lifting the hull from the water, and plaining across the bright blue liquid glass. The sharp taste of sea spray slapping you in the face, as you hike out on the rail trying to maintain control of the wind and the boat, steering toward some predetermined point in front of you. Feeling the sudden shift in the winds, making the corrections to the sails with the skill and efficiency of a professional, almost feeling the whims of the water and the wind driving your boat faster and faster along the line. Oh what I would give to be there now! Barefoot walking the beach, with a drink in hand, with friends, waiting for the steel drums to start playing for the nightly Sunset Festival, the party that is special every night. Oh to see the stars dance above the ocean again, putting your self to bed with the warmth of Rum. Waking in the arms of a beautiful girl, with the brightest smile that will wake you with warmth that no amount of coffee could compete with. So maybe it is a fantasy, well its my fantasy and when I get back from this desolate place that has taken friends from me with out reason, I will forget an entire year, in a bottle of rum on the beach starring out at the moon and stars.

Girls (November 2005)

To say I have no clue would be an absolute lie, after 20 some odd years I know exactly what I look for in a woman, the hard part is to put it to pen. Fun and excited, free and stable, a strong sense of independence, a brain to match the look, a self-made concept of virtue and honor, classy with a wild side, and the strength to smile against all odds. Not asking for much, eh. Well there is an easier list to make, the one of issues that has turned me away from a person. Whether it was because they were too clingy or needy, or to bitter and angry, or tried to turn me into a personal project of salvation, they taught me to recognize the small things that would be for sure a deal breaker. haha. Am I supposed to include physical features like our profile collects, well I am athletic I would like an athletic person; well there is the statement of the day.

Peace at last, drained (July 2005)

The big move is at hand; a full year spent in a god-forsaken stretch of land beside the Euphrates River is at an end. I can see every street and house, corner and shop, school and mosque in my mind from Fallluja to Ramadi. I can picture with the clarity of reality the men moving with their heads down against the rising sand and the women in groups moving down the streets in a hurried motion that in the untied states would show a purpose but here it is in subjugation. There is no life left on the streets where I have walked. Each family living day-to-day listening to the tanks and soldiers racing back and forth across their lands. Business as usual until the first roadside bomb, leaving wounded locals and hurt soldiers, followed by the main tank rounds impacting on structures to week from the wind and the sand to support themselves, collapsing on the street. Every face in the street knows what evil lies in wait at the bend of the road, every man knows where the attack will come from but they are dead. There is no life left so no will to fight, or to help. They are just existing in the loosest sense of the word. My friends and I have walked each street looking for the face of someone that still breaths the air of life. We have found such precious jewels in the beige sand blown backdrop. That is what they are jewels, precious children of war. They are the ones that you fight for everyday; they are the ones that in one smile will make you forget the bombs, RPG’s, and the assholes shooting at you. There have only been two types of dreams I have had about this place, the ones the revolve around the future of bright children who will grow up in the darkness of this world, with out education, without freedom. With only the will to live each day. This strip of land will have American boots leaving prints in the mud for years to come, but alas they will no longer be my concern, I am going back to the world of the living, where everyone is breathing deep the joys of this earth. For the United States is clearly blessed and I want to drink my fill.

Running

We find our selves running and running in no particular direction. The steady and rhythmic sound of shoes slapping the asphalt, remind us us of every blow. The world spins almost as if we were pushing it with our own feet against the road. Where are we going? A question I have asked repeatedly in my quarter century of life. Well for some of us we will just keep running. Most of us will walk through life along the paths in the woods or the concrete of sidewalks lining third avenue, while some of us will run the roads or down Frost’s trail that clearly diverged, none of us knowing where we are going, just racing to see who can get there faster. Well if it is the moments in life that we are supposed to enjoy then why run at all, why not just stop, quit, go on strike, anything but continue to push the earth along its next rotation. Well I don’t know if this is realistic or not, most likely the earth will continue to spin, and each of use will undoubtedly get up from whatever grassy field we stopped at to enjoy the sun of a cool autumn afternoon and continue on our way. Each step bringing us back to the pain of life. How many stops are we allotted, what is the ratio of good to bad moments that allow us to be happy, I have met those who are perpetually happy, for I am such a man, and the question is why, what happened to allow this to be, it is much easier to understand their opposites, those who are consistently depressed and angry. They are everywhere and tell all everything. They refuse to stop at all for fear that the stopping will be worse than their dreary march. Well I believe that each day we make our own fate, and that our decisions in life determine our own moments and that no mater how bad they can be they are your moments and you made them, so run along to the next field and find a new set of enjoyments and create your positive spirit that will allow you to walk unafraid along the road that you have chosen, who knows maybe we will bump into each other.

Soon, but not yet.... (September 2005)

So the song another one bites the dust comes to mind even though it is so not fair to anyone. I have lost another friend, another brother, another lost soul, another kid trying to earn himself a place in a world that doesn’t deal kindly with the undereducated. The soldiers of today are the smartest of the uneducated and they are also the ones that are dying the fastest. How was I supposed to know, how was I supposed to care and live. You cant, you lose focus and you lose perspective and you leave each day with each night and wake to find the new light just as bright and strong. Or you let the day own the night and the sun will eventually stop moving around and the moons and stars will abandon you to your self-desolation. Where will it end? Were does it begin? These I am sure are questions asked a hundred times in as many languages, many days wasted in the hot sun that beats its tireless hammer against all who dare cross this cursed country. The beauty is there in its own quiet way yet always slowed and hunted by the relentless power of the sun. So where are the answers to these questions, Virgil never found them and neither did Homer. They just tried to relay to us the immortality that others try to grasp when they are given these situations. There is no fitting tribute or memorial other than the words, ‘he is my friend.’ There is no greater glory or greatness reserved for his soul except for the shallow phrase, ‘we shall endure and continue.’ There is only the absolute truth that comes with the absolute end. My friend has found peace, and is finally at rest, for his great verse that he has added to the cosmic song is finally at an end.

I am coming, don’t wait for me, for I will be along shortly, my friend, my brother……

Shakespearian Tragedy (October 2005)

The hardest day of my life.

I was standing still next to a small set of bleachers with my hands behind my back, watching a crowd of people, in the cool clear Colorado morning, approach in anguish, stone slabs that are engraved with simple names.

Through the crowd, a grief stricken mother doing everything in her power to maintain her composure just until she can be alone again, pushed her small daughter forward. The little girl slightly confused about what is going on, having just a limited understanding of the of the elaborate ceremony and its importance, yet even in the small child’s eyes there is the glimmer of understanding that this is solemn occasion. She is basking in the glow of the attention given by all that see her, for they see the star in the greatest tragedy they know. Playing with the golden curls of hair that her mother had spent hours working on in the morning, she smiles and wonders why every one else is smiling with just their mouths and not their eyes. With her mother’s hand on her back and a yellow rose in her right hand she breaks free of the crowd and stares at a rock slab jutting out the grass, she knows this is not natural and that someone must have placed it there. Then seeing the names on the polished stone she attempts to read what is written, however the sounds do not make sense and the abbreviations that are laid out in front of the confusing sounds are unreadable at best. In a confused look back at her mother, who is remaining strong and impassive, she is told to lay the rose at the base of the stone. When she turns back to the slab and bends over to put the rose down as only a child can do, by bending the knees, squatting and looking up all at once, she notices one word that she can read. Her name. Right there with all the other confusing words close to the bottom is her name. Then terror comes across her face as the rising storm of grief washes over her, she knows that it is not her name but the name of her Dad that someone has etched into the slab of rock before her. Breaking the rose, she spins back to her mother screaming. Even to this child with no more than five years behind her she knows that she is looking at the lasting tribute to her dead father. And the understanding that he is never coming home sinks in for the second time in her young life. With barely shedding a tear and sucking in a deep breath she forces her daughter to complete the task and lay the rose at the base of the stone with everyone else’s.

Standing next to the mother is a smartly dressed Lieutenant. Barely 25 years old and only a child in the eyes of the woman that he is escorting. His tears shed months ago for the loss of his comrade, his Platoon Sergeant, his mentor and friend, and none are coming today because he must be strong for the wife and child of his fallen brother. His composure is solid as he stands there in his uniform. He helps get the mother daughter combination through the crowd, with some anticipation he too wants to see the slab and ensure that his friend’s life is marked on the rock for all to see and know. Being strong and compassionate is easy in uniform, the shiny buttons and tabs and badges give you a false sense of security and an added strength. It is not until he watched the little girls face light up with final understanding of what the meaning and reason of this whole elaborate game she had been playing all day was. At the moment the girl spun he could see the look in her eyes and it brought him to his knee and unleashed emotions that had been buried for over ten months.

I stood no more than ten feet away from this Shakespearean tragedy, watching the final tribute of a family that I did not know except from stories and smiles, and the tinny pictures that my friend loved to show to all of us that were so new to life and love. I watched as my friend had to endure the pain of escorting the family to the monument, as well as watch the crowd of people grief stricken and sad. All I felt was complete sorrow toped with a not so health proportion of anger. The contemplation of the sacrifice made by men for other men, is too much for anyone to truly appreciate until they have seen it in person. That man whose name is forever etched as a hero in the a marble slab on the west entrance to Fort Carson Colorado, would probably tell you he would do it all over again knowing the outcome.

“Greater love hath no man that this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” John 15:13

Cold

I am so lost.. Buried emotions clawing their way to the surface through self imposed barricades and walls while I watch the snow swirling around in the fridged cold that frosts up against my windows. Family, friends, all disappearing in a mass of whiteness that can blind the very heart from the emotions that it should bring. The season of good cheer and tidings, the celebrations of a man that died over two thousand years ago, all lost on me. I must be blind, for no man can walk this alone in a world with so many people. How many years of self-imposed conditioning did it take to imprison myself with these blinders? How can one drink from the river of life and never taste the joy of the living. I look around me at the local pub for some small reflection of my life and yet I find none, it is as if I am merely a spectator in the great cosmic play. Yet there is a serene beauty that comes with this detachment, the serenity of the snow as it falls slowly to my out stretched hand, glistening and pure. There is impartialness to my judgment of absolutes that can only come with this conditioned detachment. Where is the great awaking promised to me by my forefathers. Where is greatness and heroics of a person’s interaction with the world. Where does the sea end and the land begin. As I stumble through this life of mine I have recently been left with the eerie feeling of being separated in the woods at night from the man in front of me, and knowing that I should run blindly forward in hopes of catching him, yet instead I just stand their and let the night close in around me knowing that to run is dangerous.

New Years (December 2005)

Another chapter complete another verse finished and a new page freshly opened waiting for the crisp flow of ink onto its parched and ancient pages. What great adventures the pages wait for. In my own existence there is nothing but opportunities and possibilities, slowly narrowed by the choices and responsibilities of our yesterday. What blind serenity waits for me at the next bend, alas I know better, the serenity that I speak of is just like the New Year, always in the future, and just beyond my grasp. At least the sharp taste of wine that fills my glass is within my reach, the dinner that I have created tastes like success in my own gullet.

Why is it only the hollowness that seems to fill me? What paradox exists with the fact that emptiness is the life that I have embraced. With what would seem a success already, I seem to have found that I am missing everything. I am reaching an age that if greatness is what I desire, to be elevated from the successful mediocrity to something of substantial power, I must act now, the decision point is at hand. What is next on my list of things to do, where should I go from here? My future is left to the imagination and as always the life that I have barely clung onto for a quarter century is lacking the sweet taste of fulfillment.

As I find my own peace just beyond my grasp I have realized the hardened truth, a truth I have chewed on time and time again, that I will always feel this way, that it is a predisposition that will leave me alone and wrestles for the rest of my life. Continually chocking back the tears that as of late have surfaced so fast and so often. Left with only my thoughts and ramblings.

Frustration (January 2006)

The perfection of man is there in our hands yet we refuse to see it. We are blind to the basic necessities of life. There is no great flaw there is only great regret in not understanding that even if there was a great and powerful being, a god, then why would he give us a goal so far above possibility that we never even come close. No, that is not the case, he showed us with examples that you can be flawed and yet perfect our definition of perfect is skewed by years of fundamental misunderstandings contrived and pushed on us like some drug to keep us in subjection to those who would have you beg for your very existence. They themselves unable to embody their own principles, they relentless refuse to give up their moral high ground under the false pretenses that their understanding of the universe is infinitely more clear than yours. This my friends is the same line of thought that the heroin dealer peddles to his clients. The greatness of humanity is not found in god, yet the opposite is more to be true and that god is found in the greatness of humanity. The highest ideal is that of Man, for in our short and frail existence all the possibilities exist for one to raise themselves to the highest ideal, to perfection. Perfection needs a new definition, it should not be based on a two thousand year old model that tried to show us that it is not the high priest who have dedicated their whole lives and all of their existence to the perfection of gods laws as written in the Torah, for they are not good enough, yet they are the best that society had to offer. So clearly we are so far removed from perfection that hope only lies in the begging of forgiveness, this is the same fucked up view peddled on all of us in society that refuse to take our own actions into our own hands and claim ownership and responsibility for choices that are made. Yet we forget to see that where the same man that destroyed the temple alters went to a fisherman and said you are perfect the way you are, travel and spread my message. He said the weak will inherit the earth. These are the statements of a man trying hard to redefine perfection. That is because perfection can be found in the man and not the ideals, in his actions, not his words, and we should embrace once again the greatness of our ownership of the kingdom of heaven in Humanity.

Response to a letter (March 2006)

The rhyme of a rolling stone.......

There are some that are just meant to wonder, theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, and they dont know how to rest, ..... so they break the hearts of kith and kin, and they roam the world at will, forced to be alone in a choice that doesnt quite seem of their own choosing. The legions lost wait for your soul to collect the years of torment it took to wonder that far. And all that is left is the quiet mantra of "one day, someday i will be complete"

Oh, how i have heard this tale before, yet i will listen every time knowing that each cord pulled, and each sound echoed will be revibrated across my very being. So sit back i say, relax i say, know that you are tossing in a sea that has no friends and remember that at least you are willing to make the choices that others will never attempt, as they sit comfortable in port waiting for the right time and winds. Just lift your head and smile for their is no greater philosophy than to bluff, and grin.