Immortal

It could’ve been me. Hell, the cowboys we were, at times it should’ve been. But fate chose to give me continuing life, while yours were relegated to internment within our collective memories.

You were leaders of men, lifters of spirits, a shoulder to cry on, an ear perpetually lent, friends, peers, honest and brave, our brothers, Soldiers.

You were a smile when, damn it, there was no reason to. You were skilled, patient, and just. You were someone to laugh with, often while simultaneously being laughed at. You were loved.

You still are, and so shall it remain.

Farao Letafuga, we didn’t know each other long, but the short amount of time we had was spent with laughter, the best of our friends. I wasn’t there when the roof from which you were protecting your buddies collapsed. I was told that you died without pain. I still choose to believe that. You are the only Uce I’ve had the pleasure to know in the Army. You were a fierce friend. I, among so many others, miss you.

Morgan Kennon, I hated the fact that your arrival marked a transference of my authority in the Charlie Rock Headquarters Platoon. Then I met you. You were ever the Company confidant and I had the distinct pleasure of working not just for, but with you. Somehow, despite your having grown up in a city of despair, anger, and frustration, you never learned to exhibit those traits. You dropped Tony and I off at the airfield in Mosul for us to return to the states. We said that we’d see you soon. We didn’t know that it’d be in a casket before all of Memphis stood by to watch your precession from the church to the grave site, a result of an RPG strike during an ambush. They loved you, as we do still. You were a fierce friend. I, among so many others, miss you.

Billy Zapf, you taught me a great deal about one of the premier tools of the Infantryman’s trade: Sarcasm. Few have mastered the art as you did. You were an expert at a job you didn’t want to do. Selflessness was inherent in your being, and not one of us could talk shit with such affection. No one will ever know how your pain lead to your death, but perhaps it was another gift you gave to us. Now we will be forever loathe to allow such action to be undertaken again. Your death has, and will continue to lead to lives saved. You were a fierce friend. I, among so many others, miss you.

Chris Cooper, the Marine turned Soldier. As your Platoon Sergeant, I was able to watch you mature into a fine young Leader. Our Soldiers respected your expertise and often sought you out for advice, not just on the job, but in life. You too called Oceanside home, a fact that many Servicemembers can claim, but few Soldiers. It wasn’t until two years after you took your own life that I learned of it. All of your obituaries explain how you died “of injuries sustained from a non-combat related incident,” a statement that could not be further from the truth. How selfish of me to believe that I may have been able to prevent it, had I known and been there. Not unlike Billy, may we take away something from your tragedy. You were a fierce friend. I, among so many others, miss you.

Dae Han Park, you weren't my personal Team or Squad Leader, but we were all your Soldiers. It was no surprise to learn that you had earned that Long Tab. If someone so dedicated and skilled as you could attain the ultimate sacrifice, how do any of us still remain? Your mentorship no doubt resulted in countless lives saved and deserving enemies ended. Your death by the indiscriminate blast of an Improvised Explosive Device in Afghanistan has torn holes in far more than your truck. You too were a fierce friend. I, among so many others, miss you.

My fate may yet be yours, but the opportunity to associate daily with men of your caliber leaves little room to doubt such plight. I remember you today, as I do everyday. My life is a testament to yours, and my daughter has a better father for having known you. Your far too short lives have served the greatest of purpose; Others.

Trust

That conversation didn’t go down very smoothly. Maybe it was the shot of tequila that I had brought myself to couple with it. Don’t worry, I’m not a drunk, I only drink socially. Or while writing, though I have been writing a lot more recently. No, I’m not a drunk. I’m a wordsmith!

If anything, I’m an insomniac, confused, a father and a husband, restless, a Soldier. No cause to addle for the culmination of the antecedent however, neither you nor I must worry. Worry? Who? Me? You can keep it. Only please to leave me with remnant enough to stave off the worst of decisions: Indetermination.

I still know how to swim. Hell, I’m a veritable fish, thus my rationale to not cannibalize, sans taste of course. Those who actually know me will understand. They also continue to make me, and for this gift I presume to ooze gratitude. It can be done!

It’s good, the distraction from the kick rocks attitude I’ve been projecting of late. Much as if the feeling were a lap dance just ended. We paid before and so we pay after. Yet the true travesty is acceptance. And perhaps not riding my motorcycle nearly enough either. Amongst others, of this I am certain. 

Vague

The sanguineness dissipates quickly with ever encroaching pessimism, but fortune has allowed for its presence to thus become so dissolved. I’d like to allow it to remain. I quite enjoy the air of relief from my partially reticent state of disingenuous verisimilitude.

My obscure rationale may not be as such. Is it possible to emote paradox? Should I express chaste; untoward suffering alone amongst those who too suffer? So long as I fail to engender mine strife, I remain hopeful to assume. A failure which I will allow to impart pride.

I can only but allude to the ambiguity which gives opportunity for unfettered access to my bed. I could lust for nothing more than the ability to surrender my espousal of this pencil for the sleeping embrace of my bride. But these words would then give cause to further discomfort. We are estranged bedfellows, the three of us.

To whom do I owe compassion? The dues I have paid appear to have been assessed as insufficient, though I have taken great care to review my account. Strange this life and how we live. Realize that life means nothing when nothing is all we give.

Hark

I may yet be young, but life has been quite full for me. Not too full, I hope, for much living remains to be done. Much more if I can pull it together to quit smoking and drinking, put on some damn sunscreen every now and again, and learn to enjoy myself. But no battles can be won sans strife, and history does little to commemorate the bland.

I can recall a time when an unanswered phone call simply meant that you weren’t home, as opposed to dead or disfigured by some horrendous accident that has rendered you incapable of immediate response.

When I was a kid wars were Cold, lasted only one-hundred hours, were left unfinished, or were called a police action. My participation was limited to collecting Topps trading cards on the subject, not throwing spades using playing cards emblazoned with the portraits of the very enemies I’d been tasked to kill. Or capture.

My parent’s home used to be something that my parents paid for. Tijuana used to be a safe place for high school students to get fucked up. Pluto was a planet, for god’s sake! I didn’t have to buy it, but I’m certain that corn was cheap because it was consumed in stomachs, not gas tanks.

MP3 was two letters and a number. Terrorists were Irish, not Islamic. Cough Syrup employed codeine as an ingredient, and you used it for…coughs. Marriage was. Never mind, it was a failing institution then as well. You relished in the possession of any sum of money, where now we resent it.

Antiquity. I guess this could go on for another thirty years. But by then I’ll likely be writing about how cool it was when everyone didn’t possess matching tattoos on our foreheads. So long as cigarettes aren’t abolished, I’ll get by. And booze. And love.

And writing.

Fuck sunscreen.

Rant (20110412)

So…I’m drinking slowly, slowly only because I’ve yet to get drunk, a $4.00 1.5 liter bottle of some of California’s finest Pinot Grigio with an intriguing palate consuming finish of slightly overcooked mild Johnsonville Italian sausage. And I’m reminiscing…

I’m alone, yet still I realize that I look ridiculous wearing a beat up, acquired field jacket liner that a moment earlier sat atop my pile of Army  remnants which each, in turn, silently await the day  that they may be useful yet again. Field Jacket Liner, your peers stand jealous this night.

It’s worn because its chilly in the garage when the side door remains perpetually open to allow the Camel Blue cigarette smoke to escape into the brisk Southern California April air, while I scribble away amongst the scattered remnants of my latest unfinished project, which sits upon my latest finished project; the pride inducing work bench that I conceived and built. Nothing extravagant, but pride inducing, nonetheless.

The cigarette supply is running low, much like the booze supply, hence the choice of drink for the evening. This combined with only two matches remaining in the complimentary Circle K matchbook deepens the sadness which brought me to the garage and to the pencil and legal pad. I enjoy matches, yet will settle for the grill lighter to allow me to consume the remainder of my nicotine crutch.

I did say that I was reminiscing, right? We’ll just chock this up to ambiance and continue, shall we?

I say WE, as if you’re a participant. Fuck you, you don’t know me. I still barely know myself. And guess what? Most of you who say you know who you are; you’re the worst breed of liars: those who lie to themselves.

Anyway…

I’ve seen people die, and not like “Stand by Me” where the protagonists find someone already dead. I’ve watched men die, some by my own hand. You can’t purge memories like that. Like tonight, I sometimes turn to the bottle to lose myself. But the fuckin’ bottle must’ve been there with me, because, shit, it keep telling me the stories that I long to forget.

Not that they didn’t deserve to die, but who gets to determine that? I guess yours truly, in this instance. Better you than me, I suppose. And definitely better you than my men.

Music, save me again! My phone acts as my musical redeemer, as many devices have in the past. Sure, I’ll skip the ‘Surfin’ Bird’ track that I merely downloaded to annoy my wife after she voiced her displeasure during a “Family Guy” episode. But the title track from the chick flick that I secretly downloaded, likely illegally, from a film we watched at home together, it gets to stay. In fact, I’m going to play it again, maybe twice. She doesn’t know that I walked into the kitchen that night to hide my tears. Guess she’ll find out when she reads this.

Shit, I’m starting to sound like an old Country song. Guess it’s a good thing that I learned to enjoy Country Music after I left California for the first time. Does In ‘N Out have anything on Waffle House? Whenever I partake of one I lament for the other. Yet, has either of the purveyors of the paper hats indulged in a basket of Pommes mitt Ketchup und Mayo after leaving the discotheque? Or the savior of freshly baked ‘samone’ bread after an endless diet of Mr. E’s in Iraq?

My mother will likely be homeless after this week. [long pause] Maybe it’s my fault. She’s addicted to pain killers. She capitulated to them long ago. I love her, endlessly. I sacrificed time, space, habitat, and ridiculously hard earned dollars for her welfare, often at the expense of my wonderful wife and daughter. Then, I passed her responsibility onto my fiscally strapped and indentured to the system brother, who I love like no other and am so very proud of.

But it’s my fuckin’ fault that she made horrible decisions that I knew at sixteen were wrong. That I left her house, so very young, because even now I realize, upon retrospect, that the floor of my friends bedroom was better than spiraling down with her endless necessity for anyone to care for her. Even a shitbag welfare ridden single parent of two, whose wife left him for another woman would do. So long as he gave her a daughter, right?

I’m not bitter. Not at all.

I only feel that I’ve worked damned hard for MY beautiful daughter to have not only everything that she needs, but most everything that she wants, Same for my beautiful wife. Even at the cost of my continuous strife. Because, really isn’t that what life is all about?

The wine glass is nearly empty. Wouldn’t be so bad except that it’s a Tuesday and even if you have learned how to handle your liquor after a decade of service to your country, a liter and a half of shitty wine will get you drunk, yet still won’t allow you to sleep.

A demon that I suppose I’m willing to live with. You wondered about reminiscing? Read back ‘shueya,’ ein bisschen, a little bit. Perhaps I’m bitching. Got it. This is a rant; do with it as you will.

I love being a Soldier. This life is difficult, but I chose it. No one forced it upon me, as it hasn’t been done since 1973, when compulsory service in the U.S. ended. It is hard, as every martial service is. My life is my own, as well is yours. But when the shitty wine is gone, it’s time to go to bed. Here’s to dreams of no bitching, sympathy to those less fortunate than ourselves, courage to figure ourselves out, identifying right from wrong, love for our families (regardless of the cost), and forgetting our transgressions. Only remember that in the end, these are dreams.

Reflection (20110424)

There exists a thin sheet of reflective laminate that for its protection has paired itself with a pane of clear glass. Every morning, promptly after I arise, I encounter the contraption in the bathroom on my way to piss away the restlessness that had imposed its will upon those hours where I should have been sleeping.

I leave the light off as I conduct my business; no need to risk awakening my peaceful family. Myself leers after me in the dark, casting shadows and angles with intentions of drawing me more near to its truth. Eventually I will tangle with you again Mirror. For the fleeting moment I will escape you in the darkness.

But now the twilight ruins my serenity as it encroaches through the frosted veil of the privacy enabling window, bringing me eye to eye with the very person I’ve been trying to avoid. My reflected eyes are grey, because the crystal blue eyes that all the girls used to compliment when they still held the ignorant optimistic sparkle are still masked by intentionally low ambiance.

I spit out some toothpaste and look right back and straight ahead. No denying me anymore this day.

We won’t speak. Don’t need to when the other can hear thoughts. Besides, the look in those eyes tell me enough already.

He’s the man I want to be: Proud, successful, indifferent. I offer up my blatant insecurity.

I hate staring into those blue eyes that define me. We stare not knowing what to say, telepathically of course. I always feel as if he has a message for me. “Be you today!” Too bad he never informs me of whom the fuck I’m supposed to be.

We embrace…

I walk away with more questions and with fewer answers. Guess I’m going to have to pretend again today. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll be able to look across the mirror and tell myself that I know who I am. But he owns me, yet does nothing to improve his plight either.

We suffer together, the two sides of the one, in the easing darkness.

Blank (20110430)

Were I able to dislodge the torrent of thoughts from within the protective layer of bone that sits upon my shoulders directly to this paper, it would be black with full pencil strokes, overlapping to the point of futility. All available space would be consumed by graphite, choking the yellow that is the legal pad, rendering it unrecognizable, and imbuing the appearance of old school carbon paper, likely with functional traits as such, as well.

I must write to expel the thoughts whose ultimate goal seems to be to chase the normal from my psyche. There remains so much to be said. But the thoughts fight against the pencil, much like I fought against Iraqis, and much as I continue to fight amongst myself. How can I persist to be at such a loss for words, when words exact their punishment on me indefinitely, rendering me incapable of the respite of sleep even?

I consider quitting, but I didn’t give up my thirst for alcohol when I discovered that my refrigerator was void of the substance earlier. I somehow found the motivation to rectify that injustice. Yet, as I sit well prepared with the tools of the writer; Music, solitude, booze, and ample subject, my pencil continues to act as a magnet, fascinating the child me with its invisible repulsion from its equal, which always was its opposite.

I can’t help but reminisce about the words that come so easily to me throughout the course of my daily conversation. They manage to drip with my particular brand of humor and sarcasm that inform their recipient that I am who they’ve always known me to be, honest and rich. Still they remain a distraction to their brethren which remain so imprisoned behind my tongue, while their superficial peers escape the confine of ambiguity.

Should this prose be about words, it has yet to satisfy its requirement. Despite an abundance of language, nothing has been said. The many points eager to be shared have found no solace in their audience. And my pencil will continue to await the opportunity to represent its owner with truth once again.

Affliction (20110509)

Jealousy is a disease. ‘Tis brought upon a loss of appreciation for the self. A lonely attitude manifested through actions determined to distance from relationships guarded by trust, enabled through the lack of empathy toward the unknown, or worse still, a complicit ignorance, tamed by none but the bondservant to its guile.

It infects the careless by proximity and often lies benign until paired with its constituent bacterium, Doubt. Often resistant to treatment through love, with resiliency brought by the unqualified assumption of scorn, leading to an abundance of the same, no longer merely a perception.

Repugnant akin to syphilis, unwittingly causing irreversible destruction to the cerebellum until its ultimate triumph over the carrier’s humanity. A sad, yet justifiable death thus beheld by those who are endemic to the cure.

Be wary of the Jealous, as the uneducated are to the Leper, but with cause. Their words habitually long for integrity, all the while forgoing its definition. Dissatisfaction follows its acquaintance, and time spent malcontented cannot be reclaimed. We’ve better consort with whom to ally.

Entendre (20110515)

I’m angry at myself for being angry. Can I be considered to be rational when I know I’m being irrational? Fuck optimism. Look where that’s gotten me. Lost.

Tired, oh so. I’ve succeeded at so many things, yet I can’t but realize my failure to understand. There was to be more to that sentence, but I think the period was placed quite sufficiently.

Such an asshole. I disappoint myself. Fuck it. I’ll pretend some more. I deserve these feelings for feeling like this. Why. Why? Why! I can punctuate with punctuation. Yeah, me!

god, I wanna cry. Lowercase g, if you didn’t notice. Not deserving of a proper noun right now. Finally I can admit to my indoctrination and rid myself from that bullshit. Take that, childhood.

Who am I writing this for? I guess myself since few will read it. And those who do, do so out of some sense of obligation. Thanks, superficiality!

Who am I to criticize? I guess by now I can consider myself to be a subject matter expert at being critical. That’s who I am, I assume. Emerson, help me! I need some self reliance. But he’s dead. Maybe I am too. Or maybe I should be.

The drugs don’t work. That’s what Ben Harper sang. I agree with him. I’m so weak, deserving of my circumstance. Not for lack of trying. I try too hard. Perhaps my focus is in the wrong areas.

Can you tell me who I am? That’s okay, neither can I. I won’t hold that against you. Or maybe I will, I don’t know. It’s confusing. Kinda like my life, at least as I see it.

Sleep, come to me. I need you, now more than ever! I can find many a lost thing, but you elude me still. Fuck you. You’re supposed to be my friend. So are my friends.

Don’t judge me. I judge myself enough.