The Chains Are Rusting Through

There's a lot to cover.

A lot.


It's going to take time, and I can almost guarantee that I'm not going to touch on all of it.  Hell, this might be a turnaround point, it might be more of my usual flash-in-the-pan temporary crap and hollow promises.

I'm not sure where to start, and that's ok.  So I'll start now.  I'm currently still in the army, but not for much longer.  The army was good for a time, it served my needs, but the army has changed.  With the financial draw-down, we junior enlisted are being sacrificed to the higher beings that are in charge of who keeps their jobs.  Senior enlisted have the ability to cut us down and kick us out.  It's not right, so I'm not staying.


I'm trying for a welding apprenticeship, which, if I get into it, will secure a job for at least 5 years, being a union program.  I hope it works out.  I miss Utah.

At least I tried.

If I don't type this up, I'll forget. Here's the dream:
I'm on a base somewhere in Afghanistan, I think. Might have been here in the states. Anyway. Everything's fine and normal, everyone just talking, or filing, or eating, or whatever. Suddenly and silently, there are a small group of intruders in the base. I don't know why, but all weapons are in a room adjacent to the one I am in, and stored in unlocked weapon racks. They are all locked and loaded and ready to go. So me and a couple other soldiers decide to get to that room.
I only have to make it about 25 feet, and I have a little cover to crawl behind. So I decide to get a look at my enemy. There are somewhere between 3-5 girls. YOUNG girls. Like 15, or so. Russian, I think. They were laughing and joking around. In the dream, no one was taking them seriously. I high-crawled to the arms room alone.
They had seen me, and were suddenly trying to come through the door, which didn't have a lock. (Come on! Really? It's an ARMS ROOM. Stupid dream...) So I just held my body against the door until they went away. Then I started searching the racks for 206, my assigned rifle at the time. After locating it, I found that my sling was caught in the rack, so I lost time trying to free it. Shots began firing. Once I finally got it untangled and switched the lever to semi, I moved to the door. I thought I was being sneaky by peering through the hinge-side of the now open door, but they saw me immediately, and began firing at me. So I put my barrel through that crack in the door and rested it on one of the hinges, and took up a good position. In my dream I actually was looking down the barrel, and I centered my sights on one of the girls.
And then I was killed. As this wasn't an actual arms room, just a temporary one, it wasn't reinforced. Metal doors of this sort can't stop most military rounds. A bullet came through the door and got me. Not sure where. Then I woke up, very slowly, and feeling very washed-warm. It was peaceful in a strange way.
I'm not sure the dream has any meaning, or is in any way prophetic, or anything. I just wanted to put it out there, and get your thoughts before I forgot it.

Fighting For It

First and foremost, if you have not read Wisp's latest, do so now. Do it. Go on, I'll wait here for you. *looks at watch* .....Done? Ok. Then let's proceed, shall we?

The house that we moved into is SO what I needed. I never understood just how much a place can make you feel...valid. We're finally in a place that Wisp deserves. Every other place we've lived in made me feel so cramped, irritated, and like everything was temporary. Here, though, I finally feel grown-up, you know? Like life can finally make that ever-so-treacherous transition into...dare I speak it....permanence. Like I can finally REALLY unpack.

I know it may be kind of a dumb thing, but the first night we moved in, I realized that I know people that have never been without this comfort. They have never lived in a sketchy, questionable, and unstable life. They went from their parent's house to their own house. Not apartment....HOUSE. I have no respect for these people, as they fail to know true hardship. I respect those who have fought hard for what they have. Those of you who lead an entitled life...you know who you are.

Anyway, this is why I wouldn't change my past for anything. It made me strong, honest, and proud. Kanye West is a moron, but I live by one on his lines: Everything I'm not made me everything I am.

Bottles? No, these are aircraft controls.

Another good gap between my last post and this one. I know why, now. I've always tried too hard to make each post meaningful, important, and heartfelt. While a worthy standard, this made it so that I didn't want to post without having a full cart of subject matter, made heavy with an excessive amount of callous sobriety.
That said, what the hell happened to the fun me, that was more spontaneous, irreverent, and off-the-cuff? I lost track of him in West Virginia. Something about "quiet dignity", or some crap. Anyway, now that I'm back on the east coast, it seems I've bumped into him again. He's been doing pretty well, but he was lonely. So I invited him back. Now we're tearing it up, like we used to, but keeping a handle on it. Still a pretty responsible guy, but I like to break out and have fun, too. I dance in the car, with people watching. And I don't care, even if they ARE fellow soldiers. They need to loosen up, anyway. And they will, once I get my paws on a 4-pack of Red Bull and some aviator goggles...

Where I Stand

This one is for my family. I realize that if you have kept up with Wisp's musings at all, you are probably wondering "where the hell was his family during all of that?" Well, let me put it right here, in bold undeniable words: They were not absent. They were there for me, as much as they could be, as much as I let them be, and somewhere in between.

My brother spent much of his time among his friends, but once in a while would come to Salt Lake City, where my mother and I lived at the time, and rescue me in a way only he could. Once, a Jazz-Nuggets game. (The one where Mutumbo was shoved from behind mid-dunk and slammed his head into the rim.) Another time, four-wheeling with him and his buddies. Because of him, I grew very comfortable in places such as cold auto-shops, around the scents of gasoline, burnt oil, and fresh rubber. Yet, our relationship remained that of a big brother-little brother. He would visit mainly out of necessity, family gatherings, and other such obligations. But a true relationship stirred like the air before a storm.

My eldest sister, whom I absolutely adore and cherish, was a huge support. She had so much of her own life to look after, though. Her daughter was still an infant, and that took a great deal of her time. Who could fault her for trying to be a good and devoted mother? She had a family. But even so, she did her best to make time for me, as she always has. We have so many great memories that I still replay in my head, always trying to keep the colors vivid. She made little things so special.

My youngest sister, still 5 years older than me, has proven a special sort of test for my family. She is fiercely intelligent, sensationally quick minded, powerful...well...she was. She had a weakness for "the Man in her life", whoever it was at the time. She tossed her potential out the window to pursue a delusion. Sound harsh? Let me tell you, it's been a long time coming. This was a sibling who was very...what's a good word? Ah. Apathetic. She would strive and struggle with no goal to meet, and would hand herself over, lock and key, to the next guy that would give her any attention at all. The whole time surviving in a decidedly parasitic fashion off of her family. A family that seems to have finally had enough of it.

There was a sister in between these two, but alas, there is no record. Because I choose for there not to be. I love her, and she was supportive while she was there, but she has become like an appendage which has been amputated. Sure, I could keep that arm, but why? A pointless nostalgic, I am not. Thus, I choose to let it go. Maybe that limb can be useful is some way, to someone. But I don't want to know about it.

My mother. Oh, my mother. The reader. The learner. The student of anyone claiming to have the smallest shard of truth. I pitied her, in those years. I kept all the darkness from her. What good would it have done to tell her? I was already undergoing counseling, I was already struggling in school. She had my siblings to deal with, some of which operated with rather Machiavellian agendas, a series of jobs, none of which she was actually qualified for but somehow learned them anyway, various incarnations of debt, a car to maintain, my school fees, etc. I felt I was a horrible burden at the time. Somehow, she still found time to be a friend to me. Not a mother so much, anymore. She was far to tired and stressed for that. I wanted to go for a walk at 3am in the city alone on a schoolnight? Go ahead. That's what it was like. I lost myself to music, videogames, any escape I could find. God bless her, though. We had escapes in common. We would escape together. Music, Sunday drives to nowhere in particular, sharing a cigarette on the front porch, we somehow survived. She saw the effects of the darkness, and it scared her. But she didn't hassle me too much about it. She seems happy now. I can only pray she finds what she's looking for.

Which leaves my father. He left when I was 9 or 10, somewhere around there. I hated him for it. I didn't understand why he left, and he didn't bother to explain. Back then, I always thought my father perceived me as an embarrassment, a failure, a thing you hide in the basement when company comes over. My ADD at the time seemed to bother him. I had a...bladder control issue that I know drove him nuts, but he never really addressed it. I wanted so much to live up to his expectations. Problem is, I never knew what those expectations were.
I know why now. My father left me behind out of absolute necessity. He had to trust that I would be alright. I like to think that perhaps he thought of me as he drove away, and knew that I had it in me. Because I did. I've turned out to be resilient as a weed. Not the gorgeous flowers you see around you in the springtime, true, but this plant had to make it without the water, fertilizer, sunlight and care that the flowers got. You had to know, Dad, that I'd be ok. That I'd learn why, eventually.

I was a nurtured wolf, released into the wild. It sucked. But because of it, I am more than a common dog. I do not live a sheltered life. I fight hard and strong for what is mine.

Thank you for leaving, Dad. I needed it more than you know. Thank you then, for being my enemy. Thank you now, for being my friend. It is an honor to be your son. Thank you for making me strong. For making me real. Thank you for letting me go.

I love you all.

Well, as I'm sure everyone expected the delay between posts, I won't say anything more about it. Now then: Christine, Miles, The Army....these are the big factors in my life, currently. My life is beautifully streamlined, and I like it that way. Sort of filling your own glass first, you know? I neglected my own glass for far too long. But it seemed like everyone else drank theirs, or dumped it out so fast, I tried to keep up, but couldn't. I'm finally in a position to get my ducks in a row. (They keep wandering off! They must have ADD. You know, since everyone does, these days.)

Anyway, I've been on Funeral Detail for the last little while, and I enjoy it. It gives me a sense of reverence for those who have lost their lives in pursuit of something larger than themselves. I can only hope that when it's my turn to kick it, I kick it HARD. I want that bucket to ricochet off the moon into the sun and burn up in a brilliant flash......don't I? Upon further speculation, maybe I'm ok with a quiet and dignified exit. To be the one that is ready for the show to end, and is prepared for it. I'll have to give it some thought. Not like I can choose when, where, and how, obviously, but it'll help me with how I choose to conduct the rest of this trip.

For the record: I'm happy.

Where does a soldier go to cry?

I'm not one to cry, honestly. I don't like doing it. It hurts. Every time I do, someone usually asks me, "doesn't that feel better?" ......no. It doesn't. Not to me. Crying hurts. Something to do with the fights when I was younger, my head got all jacked up somehow. Crying used to be a lot worse than it is now, though. My wonderful wife has made crying bearable. Only with her does it ever feel better. She's just that way, you know; she makes time stop, and she takes away the pain, so I can let it all out. Here's the rub:

I'm across the country, and if you have kept up on her blog, then you know that the current situation has been all but desirable. I spent every available hour trying to get things done: leave arranged, housing, transportation, travel, each one requiring five more pieces of paper that someone else needs to sign.

Now, I like to think I'm a pretty robust individual. I am a soldier, after all. But I have a limit. It's a distant limit, to be sure, but I found it, all the same. I can deal with losing our nice house, having to accept a rather significant downgrade. I can deal with miles of B.S., red tape, hoops and signatures. I can do that. I can deal with time being decidedly against me. (Thanks to DHL for that one.) But if it affects my wife...I lose it. I can't handle that.  Call me weak if you like, but if she feels the stress and the pain, she let's me know.  If I'm feeling it, I rarely say a thing. 

Except that this time, I broke down.  There were about 10 other soldiers in the next room, all of which could hear me crying, and I didn't care.  Finally, a good soldier I had befriended decided to come and check on me.  He recommended going to see the chaplain.  I needed to do something, so on that lunch break, I peeked in the chaplain's office, and knocked timidly.  He turned around and asked what he could do for me.  I didn't say anything, I just started to well up on the spot.  He lovingly said, "shut the door behind you, and have a seat.  I know what you need."  I shut the door, sat down, and lost control.  I cried so hard my lungs charlie-horsed.  My lips went dry and cracked, there was a wavy line from each eye to each side of my jaw that chapped.  I cried so hard my blood sounded it's protest loudly in my ears.  And this rough-looking, yet gentle soldier cried with me.  "It's not easy being a soldier, is it?"  It wasn't a question.  I simply nodded through my tears.  It was after I calmed down that I told him that I simply needed a place to cry.  He told me his door is always open.  And will always close, should I require it.  I'm grateful to those that understand what it means to truly be a soldier, to put the lives of others first, to place yourself between the enemy and those that refuse to admit that there is an enemy.  People that, when the attack comes, they scream for protection, defense, and swift, brutal, justice.  And then, when we give the people what they want, they hate us for it, or they will not accept responsibilty for the nearly unanimous outcry for bloodshed.  And we, the soldiers, take it.  We will be the bridge this country may tread on for safety.  I give you all full permission to shove me in harms way, so that you may raise your children "in peace." 

Sorry for the tangent.  We're going to be ok.  All good things come with sacrifice.  I'll sacrifice it all to be with her again.