Irony vs. Karma

Today I woke to find that my favorite comedian had killed himself, Irony. The man responsible for the continual reminder of the direct relevance of the most common events, placing them into a useable perspective, the quintessential guide to understanding our own misunderstanding and the importance of little things the bother us the most. This man found that his own life was too hard and too much, too something to live and shot himself. Irony, the man responsible for keeping me from such a dramatic end decided that suck starting a pistol was the ultimate joke. Karma, would have been if he had shot me.

This particular incident had a much greater impact that originally thought. It forced me to evaluate two very different definitions that affect all of our lives. Even if you don’t buy into Karma, then change the word to fate, or god’s justice, whatever ill will you receive for actions of your past will work for me. Irony: the girl you want to date and marry is the girl that you best friend or dad just slept with. Karma that girl is your daughter. Irony: an Irish man getting crushed by a monstrous luck of the Irish sign. Karma, the sign lands on you. Clearly such a dramatic difference that I have found; that Irony is when the negative action happens near you, providing you with some insight into a glaring contradiction in life, where as Karma, you are the contradiction in life, and the negative action happens directly too you. Well as most are, I am racking up both negative and positive karma daily, though most days lately it would seem negative will win out in the end, leaving me to imagine how will it come back to me. With a little more uncertainty I travel each day evaluating and preparing for when I will get mine. I try to smile at least at one more person a day, say one more nice thing, help one more old lady across the street because what is my Irony is clearly someone else’s Karma. And I don’t need my new boat to sink to the bottom of the Chesapeake anytime soon.

Dreams

The deep blue water rises up and out of the ocean reaching for the sky in white foam only to be smashed back to earth by one of the few constants in the world, gravity. This rolling thunder crashes through the barrier and into the shore in a deafening roar. The sandy beaches smooth and soft from the pounding, poke-a-doted with footprints, some two by two, others in some random dance of the playful. Broad-leafed trees pushed back from the water leaning towards the ocean and sky as if bowing in acknowledgement of their weakness in the face of such awesome power. It is no wonder that when your mind sprints from where it is at, in hopes of redemption, most people find it on some beach in a tropical paradise. Those that work and suffer at the hands of others, the feeling of no control, the constant response to the whims of others or the necessities of life, long for the imaginary freedom that must exist in some base tropic existence. The fallacy is plain to see if you are willing to look, but most aren't.

So I too have trapped myself into the belief that the carefree existence is freedom; from the past and future, from needs and wants, and from loneliness. The irony is that the dream comes in single servings. So in response to a childhood dream of adventure still yet to be tamed I have set out in the first phase of some great sailing voyage yet to be. I have pushed a Sabre 28 through the shallow surf of the Chesapeake bay, starting to learn the skills necessary for bigger and grander adventure. With hope and patience I set out on the bay with the fall of the night clouds, and all the light of a moon and stars, I will my future on the sky and the winds.

The currents pull me in every direction; with limited patience it is amazing I have had any success at all. The great adventures to be had, the stories to be written, the academics to be studied, and the painting to be created all lie gathering dust on the shelves as my life stretches onward in a not so healthy mix of procrastination and military service. It is amazing to think that all men before they are soldiers dream of the battlefield, the comradeship, and hardships that will give them the title of Soldier. Yet; the irony is complete that from day one of basic to the cold nights on the Falluja peninsula we lie awake at night dreaming of all the other things in life we would rather be doing. In those cold nights, wiping the dust from our eyes and equipment, in whispers we talk about buying sailboats and cruising across oceans, or climbing mountains with a few friends.

These stories are the real dreams so fragile that they can only be told in whispers while lying still. They are as different for each soldier as possible and are all accepted, these are the stories told after the loud posturing and machismo subsides. The older among us talk about family and make futures for their children that are explained in detail. A younger man will talk of his new bride at home in infinite detail that would make him a poet if he was able. Some, the true loners with no solid grasp of the world describe the mountain range that they will conquer, where as I chose the sea to be my great glory. Maybe that is what it is, the attempt to find some glory in the dream of our youth, as we realize that war will not bring the glory that we had anticipated forcing us to find something else. Or maybe that reality of the situation requires such an escape that we create battles that are less real and more serene. In the end I do not know, but what I fail to understand as of yet, is the overwhelming feeling of not having accomplished anything, though I have meet more and more of my goals, I still feel as if the time is slipping away and I have almost nothing to show for it. I am not alone in these feeling, more and more professional soldiers with experience feel this way as well, that heir trade is so far removed from normalcy that they have nothing to show for their time.

Others around us try and remind us that it is just not so, that our stories are their favorite to hear, that they are envious of us, yet it is a hard fact to believe. How many times have I wished to have had the travels and successes of my friends? How many times have they looked back at me as if I had insulted their existence by wanting to shed mine to assume theirs. Their faces only remind me that as much as I have felt inadequate I would not change the life I have lived, the places I have been, or the people that I have known.

Boat Buying

What do I say to a world that has meant me no harm, or has it? The question still remains, what do I say? My own being cast before your judgment, and laid bare before your standards of perfection. Who are you? Whom do I refer when I say you? For some days it has been my own judgment and self-evaluation that has hurt the worst and then I remember my values are based off of You. What am I to do, thank god that I fall with in the acceptable norms that define the reality of life within the United States. So far from the mean of the world we live in a self-destructive paradise that makes us soft. Well I have taken the first step, I have done what I have demanded of myself for years and have bought a boat. Maybe now I can prepare for what is the eventuality that I have shared with anyone that would listen. I will go out to sea; I will let the ocean breath fresh life into my tired body and hope into my soul. Then in the not to distant future I will give myself to the ocean and let her claim me as her prize.

St. Elmo's

The small coffee shop sits on the corner of two small streets in an out of the way neighborhood called Del Ray, in Alexandria, Virginia. This coffee bar holds your usual collection of college students, elderly, and the outdoors-eco-kids that seem to always be displaced from Colorado. The constant sound of keys dancing on a laptop, the conversation’s politically loaded and rising in intensity, fill the air with the ambiance that you drive ten minutes out of the way for. Occasionally looking up you watch this twenty something woman-slash-girl, clearly marked as an American in her soft skin and gentle face of a life lived in the relative comfort of the States. She is setting up a small stand and mike, her guitar rests in the corner. The room waits in some anticipation for what must be another aspiring artist low paying Sunday gig. Oh, how wrong we were to place such insignificance in her. Pages turn in my book with the slight wisps and another paragraph of notes flow from my pen before the music starts. I am not even sure when it started but glancing up I saw her, eyes closed hunched over an instrument that was nearly as big as she was, power flowing from the rhythmic movements of her arm, chased by the softness of a voice that seemed to call out to the crowd for recognition. I look back down and continue through another page or two, and notice that some of the sounds that I had traveled for have stopped. Keyboards are silent; the conversations one at a time have stopped. My eyes again return to the woman, the softness of her voice echoed with the fierceness of the guitar she sings a story. The room is a washed in the rhythm that she he is making with the force of her very being. The past disappears, as years of conditioning and memories created by trauma and repetition are lost as we find ourselves entrapped in the cleansing of our very souls. For that is what the absent of a past or future feels like, the instant erasing of all possibilities leaving you there in that moment free to feel and explore the very sounds that are now echoing through the audience. We cannot move, we cannot think, we are just in jubilee. Her eyes open and the spell is broken, the music slows and stops, reality sets back in, she is human. She pushes back up her long sleeve t-shirt and runs her hand threw her short dark hair, the gentle slapping of her flip-flop on the stool even stops, she smiles and thanks the crowd.

The room returns to normal and the keyboards start to tap, and the conversations start up again, slowly with some hesitation. Everyone in the room knows that they were mistaken in their judgment of this women, though none have yet to realize the full impact of what just happened, it would come hours later, for most, when they were quietly preparing for bed and searching for the peace of mind that helps with sleep, when they will recognize the pure tranquility they had found for those few precious moments in the coffee shop in Del Ray that evening. No one had the chance to properly thank her.

I should not post this

I have found that the demons that I once thought conquered are still there waiting for me to slip. The same dark nights that used to haunt my nights are finally returning to haunt my days. Where has the resolve, the strength, the steadfastness that was my very trademark gone. Where will the life choices take me.

Haha almost eight months to the day I wrote a passage about a girl. Well I think it is about time to write another. This one is so different from anything I have tried before, and I am not sure what to do. I am just not sure. And it hurts to know that she might be absolutely sure and it is me that is screwing with her. The peace of the mountain air descends from the slopes down to my very balcony, breathing deep. Where will it go. So the girl, well for the first time in my life I am calm while I am around the girl, but the price I pay is domesticity, I am now staying in and running out of things to do as she does not share with me the same desires for drugs, sex, and rock and roll, a horribly missed used quote but the only way to describe her complete lack of a desire for a night life at all. (I write this knowing how shallow it sounds, but it is just the outward display of some inherent difference, the difference being some level of content that i am incapable of sharing.) Leaving me with the sense of missing out, of an incompleteness, yet at the same time when I am around her I do not desire any of those things that in the past would have had me moving so fast. I desire to go back to war, I desire to have an impact on the world or at least to have greater control and power than what I have now. I must harness all the energies that I have to continue down those paths, and how do you ask another to join you on paths that are and must be completely yours alone.

What scares me the most is that I will miss an opportunity for happiness and completeness because of my very fears. Because of all the training and conditioning that I have set in place just to survive will not allow me to feel the nessesary emotions that it will take to keep her. I am not quite certain which way it will end up but in the end I will be forced to make the decition and act it out in a manner that will be weak and childish to the nth degree.

Eulogy for Polo

I thought it would be different now; I thought it wouldn’t hurt as much. Half way around the globe men and women are pursuing our nations national interests, and implementing policy with a rifle. They are tired, worn, and most would rather be here; yet with a consistency that should make you cry, they will never leave, or quite. They are tough in ways that most will never truly understand.

Many psychologists would agree that distance and time can fix most things, as well as lessen the impact of almost any event. Last night, this abstract idea that I had held as fact, came crashing down around me. On a rooftop that overlooked most of downtown DC, two blocks from the Verizon center. I was having beers and bullshiting with the low-end political aids that scurry around the real administrators in the Old Executive Office Building, though most would just say they work at the White House. The irony was absolutely complete when my phone rang during a heated conversation of how much it would cost to build more F-22 or fund a new infantry battalion. How is anyone supposed to be prepared when the real cost is measured and paid.

My roommate called and my phone started up the annoying Gnarls Barkley song. Answering, I immediately started to tell him what the plan was for the next couple hours. When I was done speaking there was an awkward pause, nothing more, followed by “Polo is dead,” two breaths, “he was killed by an IED.”

The world stopped moving, people stopped talking, all actions and senses ceased. No more words were exchanged on the phone, just silence. The phone was still open and on when I stood up and walked away from the party on the rooftop. No one looked at me, no one noticed. The shock wears off much quicker than you want. In fact, I found myself trying to hold onto the void that shock can create; knowing that this is so much better than what comes next. My pace picks up as I move faster and faster across the roof and down a hallway of wooden fences towards a door. I do not know why I am headed this way but I need to leave. The anger builds with the pace and I am not sure why pain and anger come together but I do know that both demand that every part of my body feel the same pain in proportion to the rest. So I strike out at the wall, punching and punching. I kick in a portion of the wooden fence and slam the beer bottle that was still in my hands to the ground. Now I can feel the pain in my hand, the throb of the forming bruise, the emotional fury subsides and I regain composure now that I can feel the physical pain. As if the physical can and should overshadow the emotional screams that rushed through me.

I returned to the party, only partially aware at the stairs of confusion as I reached for ice to sooth my hand. My friend asked “what happened to your hand?” and in the only way I know how to deal with the absurdity of the situation, “It picked a fight that it couldn’t win with a brick wall, stupid eh?” As I wrapped the ice around my hand I went and found another beer, and rejoined the group, forcing myself into some pattern of normalcy before I could break away and be alone, as I wanted.

Polo, there can be no lasting tribute for you. A man, a child, a friend, an atheist Chaplin of the highest order. How do I write of a man that knew more about life than I do. How do I say some words that he would have accepted as just and honest, how do I make reconciliation with a man who was my better. There are no words, nor diction that can tell you of this boy-man. Life is meant to be tasted and enjoyed the invigoration of the living, this will be Polo’s testament, he truly drank from the well of life, where I, and most are but merely spectators of this cosmic play. The verse he added was much too short. The streets of paradise are lined with his friends, whom all remember the smile and charity of Polo.

May you rest in peace, we are coming, please wait for us, we will be along shortly, my friend.

The Class Room

Yesterday I sat in class and watched my hand start to shake… it has been almost a year since the last time I displayed any visible signs...

Had Dr. Hanle known that I might have issues with the class, he probably would have warned me of the content. Yet as strange as it was, I listened to the start of the class discussion and I could see where we were going, yet it was still the same as a surprise on my system when the nature of killing was being discussed in a room of people that had never done it.

“Men like to kill, violence is gratifying and empowering, murderers intoxicated by their deeds…”

Slides go by on the wall, a PowerPoint gallery of children and terrorists. The depiction of change that would bring a pee-wee soccer kid into the ranks of suicide bombers. Others in the class raise their hands and through out comments that I do not hear. The discussion is not wrong, it is merely academic, and the Doctors points are sound psychology. All I can do is hide my hand under my desk so that others wont notice, or more accurately so that I don’t have to notice. I do not have issues with what I have done. I have put to rest any of my concerns and regrets about situations that have occurred in my life. And the class moves on.

“As men draw… near it becomes extremely difficult to deny their humanity. Looking into a man’s face, seeing his eyes and his fear, eliminate denial. At this range the interpersonal nature of the killing has shifted. Instead of shooting at a uniform and killing a generalized enemy, now the killer must shoot at a person and kill a specific individual. Most simply cannot or will not do it.”

The visions and the memories come back to me. Oh the irony of the last sentence on this slide. The look of disgust on a Marine officers face when she hears the statistics of soldiers willing to fire their weapons at an enemy. Then the failure to understand the very nature of the training that has managed to raise those statistics from WWII levels of less than half to today at near 90%. The Air Force logisticians scoffing comments when he asks why wont they kill an enemy that they know is trying to kill you. I have never wanted to raise my voice more in my life and ask, had they ever looked into the eyes of a dying man… if the answer is no then sit down.

“With very few exceptions, everyone associated with killing in combat reaps a bitter harvest of guilt.”

Now this slide brings many more questions than I would have thought possible. My hand is shaking in the perfect understanding of what this slide means, and others are questioning the validity of the very statement. Anger rises to the surface and the only noticeable sign of my displeasure is that my hand has stopped shaking completely. Anger to calm the nerves, followed by some notes hastily scribbled on the handouts. Notes about my reaction to the statements on each slide, within minutes blacked out with marker, for fear that some other might read them and judge me.

I guess it is the judgment of others that keeps us quiet. Or is it the judgment that we have already passed on ourselves. You know that the actions that you have done in your life are wrong. And that their acceptability is based on circumstances alone. Years of second-guessing and reworking an incident until you can put it to rest. The real fear is that someone else might have a different assessment than the one you have chosen to live with.

Without measurement (January 2005)

I thought that I was tough. I knew that I was strong. There was nothing that could stop me, yet now I sit here in full kit with loaded weapon writing these words knowing that at any moment tears will come to my eyes, if only for a second, but I know that they are there. Every day passes I wait for the point in the day that someone will let me know that another friend, comrade in arms, brother will have died. I will see the death in my mind a thousand times before it becomes my death, then and only then do I become weak. So, the strength of the individual is a perpetual test of courage and resiliency that has no measurement. I do not know how this reaction is reflected to my peers and brothers. They say that I have changed the least. Well I can tell them that I have changed more than they will ever know, yet that can only mean that they too are experiencing the pain that floats through the air waiting for you to breath it in, hell some choke on it. We have sent people home now for suicide attempts, is that the loosing side, are those the weak ones. Where do I fall on this scale that cannot be measured. I read a story today about my hero, not Patton nor Eisenhower, rather Jimmy Buffet and his adventures. There is a man in pure paradise I would like to learn that it is not true and that it is only a myth because I have missed the boat. I am twenty-four and I have yet to taste the true love of another held in my arms, yet I have, only to watch him die from loss of blood. It is true, there are great tests for all men but being great is not something that is limited to a few. I have found now that plenty are great, plenty are strong, plenty are heroes, but it is the moment and the circumstances that will give them their greatness. I am a rich man, a hero, a leader, and great warrior, yet at the same time you must say that I am dead. For every time that I take myself outside the wire I am killing another part of myself. I am living on borrowed time. Roll the dice and find out today weather it is you or your friend. Well if the wheel was fixed I think I would still take the chance, if you are treading on thin ice I know that I have danced.

Letter to the Legislature

To the Honorable Senators and Congressmen of the United States of America,

Our founding fathers struggle in the misbegotten event that has transform the world is now on the precipice that will either enter in the American slow decline and fall from preeminence; or the rise, not of the last super power, but, of the rightful leader of the free world. Any status quo will bind us to the first no different that standing on Hadrian’s Wall, we will have failed, the price of our power measured and filled.

Unfortunately for us, our forefathers in all of their wisdom never wished or dreamt of a world where the United States would be hailed as the “great savior,” nor as the “great Satan.” Let alone the title of the executive becoming “the leader of the free world.” Never would the possibility of competing with France or England as a hegemony, let alone dominating over Europe in the world community have crossed their minds.

Well for 50 years we have grasped these titles as they have been handed to us. The lessons of both Great Wars constantly echoing in our psyche, proving the fallacy of isolationism, have ensured our involvement in the world. So freely, and with such hope, we joined the world; in no small fashion we led it. We reshaped the world, rebuilt the European landscape and added one hundred more democracies to the stage. We altered the world with a healthy mix of altruistic interest based needs and a general benevolent good will. Our intentions grand, the desire to share our inalienable rights that life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness were universal.

As our great enemy crumbled into mediocrity, plagued by every diseases of a crippled empire, transforming into a democracy. We have seemed to have a relapse in thought. The peace dividend has become the sale of our very soul. And we have shirked away from our worldly responsibilities under some false pretense that American interests can be affected only at home and that the world has a different set of unalienable rights, this is a fare cry from the Cold War slogan of democracy for everyone.

Why would I give this simplified narrative of American influence and responsibility? Well because I see the door we are crossing through, I see the interconnected globalized world, I see offshoring and energy issues, I see Africa sucking in its last breath, and the Middle East floundering and incapable of stability and market, I see the quiet rise of china buying real-estate from the Caribbean to the central African states. I see the painful struggle of Russia to regain a foothold of influence, I see the need for a great American leader to once again push the world forward.

Leadership is not pandering or committee it is the forceful will over the begrudging complaints of the led. It is both inspiring and insightful, but at the same time acts without hesitation and carries people forward with a stick if need be.

Ask any high school football coach what he does when the player don’t want to play because it is tough or wet and cold. America needs to stand up and tell congress what they want from their leadership. Then elect the man or woman best capable of carrying it out, then shut up. I am not talking strategy or operations, and definitely not tactics… but grand strategy. Decide how much influence we want to have in the world, and then allow the experts to execute. The American people should have no say in staying or leaving Iraq, they should have all the say in the world over whether they would like a president that will lead the international community or let it go, as long as they know the cost of both. Either lead the world forward into globalization and the future, forever securing our interests abroad and at home or let slip the control of destiny and enjoy the slow acquiescence of our preeminence and let go of whatever control we may have of our interests abroad and focus on the home front, dooming us to decline. Either way we must allow our leaders to lead. The first choice will force the future leaders of America to fundamentally change the way our legislative, executive and judicial branches interact with each other. Or we will just maintain the status quo.

Allow our leaders to do their job… now show me a leader. Show me a man willing to take the steps necessary to achieve a future that is better than today. Now is the time and opportunity for the next George C. Marshall, now is the time for the next Franklin Roosevelt. Now is the time for great leaders to immerge and create the future that they envision

I beg of you, our nations elected officials who have at least gained the vote of the people, do what is right. Either engage the world in a unified voice of commitment or leave the world alone, because we are doing more harm than good with what the rest of the world sees as complete incompetence. As I breath air right now, I am not concerned about anything more than 100 hears because I know that even if we choose not to lead the world into the future my grand children will still live a life that is relatively superior to anywhere else on the earth, however if I cared about the future of the world and humanity and if life everywhere is to improve then it will require a leader from the only country left on the earth capable of carrying out the works that we currently perform every day.

Where have all the leaders gone, all that I see on TV is the petty politics that have constituted only the notion of winning. Maybe they do get it and their problem is that they can’t sell it to the American people. The politics of the day is to do two things, making you afraid of it and telling you who's to blame for it. “That, ladies and gentlemen, is how you win elections. You gather a group of middle-aged, middle-class, middle-income voters who remember with longing an easier time, and you talk to them about family and American values and character.” Or in the case of today you tell them that their children are dying for a cause that is someone else’s fault. Their share of the blame is prefaced with the quote “if… I knew then what I know now.” As an Infantry officer I would have been fired a dozen times, not for the mistakes of my past but for the excuses of the present.

This is my concern, this is my fear, and this is my anger. This is the fallacy of a system that even when our leaders want to do what’s right they cannot. That even if they see a better answer, if it is not absolutely perfect it will not stand up to the fight for the status quo. Working with the notion that you must use the system to change it; so they grow good at getting what they want and never achieve the dominance required to fix anything. They are trapped in the pre war Europe balance of power struggle that ended in ultimate failure.

I want to look at a leader and be inspired. I want to hear the voice of reason, I want to hear the voice of someone who can sell me a future worth fighting for and then execute it. I want governance that does not pander to the mob but dictates to the mob from some position of educated wisdom and enlightenment. Show me a warrior statesman, show me a philosopher businessman, and give me someone with experience and capability and a mind. Some one that is not afraid to go against the grain and not get elected, and I would make him king.

Thank you for your time

In the service of the United States of America.

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.