This one is going to be a short one, but Kennan has been way to busy on this thing, and I won't lose a blog war without a fight.
July is steadily coming to a close, and although there is a new month about to go up on my calendar, one thing has remained constant. If it's not one thing then it's the other. Something can and will always be messed up here. Not just with Iraq itself and the problems that is has, or even the war that is going on here. The other side of the equation, is our living condition, and well, if it's not one thing, it most certainly will be the other.
We got our breakfast meal back a few days ago, and our showers were finally filled with water, and our AC's have finally been fixed, and the standard of living is seemingly on the up and up. But no matter how good things are going, we always have something wrong. In this case, we have been told to maintain our 'disposable' flatware, and that we are to use the same three pieces with every meal. We are going to have to do this until our next CLP arrives with a resupply, and based on past performances we are looking at close to month.
OIF my life
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
A Real Rockin' Rolla
Conditions here at the COP continue to decline seemingly a direct correlation to this war. The showers were out of water again, which made the afternoon organized pt session not very rewarding when all was said on done. I'm still sweating from it, and can still feel the dust in the pit of my throat. I've tried to cough it up with no luck. On the same hand of course as the showers being out of water, our breakfast chow has been cancelled until further notice. Leaving us down to one hot meal a day. I don't want to imagine things getting any worse, I'm not even sure that I really could if I wanted too.
Along with the already numbing effects no showers, lack of food, and mandatory physical exercise, the plot thickens as our First Sergeant closed down the gym to us just like breakfast had been, until further notice. This is absolutely demoralizing in so many words. The internet and phones along with the gym and chow is about the only things we have to look forward too. So when they all disappear, what will we have then? I feel as if sometimes I'm on a cruel reality tv show, and hope that maybe Chris Hanson will walk around the corner with a film crew and a pizza.
I weighed 185 lbs the day I returned from leave here at 763. That was June 8th. Today is July 26th, just over and a half down the road, and I'm at a staggering 172 lbs. There is only one other time in my life that I have lost that amount of weight in such a small amount of time. That was two years ago during Special Forces Selection and Assessment, where in 24 days of grueling physical and mental labor and exhaustion I shed 18 lbs under the August sun in North Carolina. Selection was hard, and very challenging but it's comparison to here is unequivocal.
As I woke up from a short afternoon nap, I first realized that maybe my insomnia is finally passing, and then realized I was in an emotional state that I have never been in. My hole platoon is in it. Depression. I don't think that it's enough that they have taken all of this stuff away from us, leaving us constantly hungry, unmotivated entirely, and sick of the constant bull shit that's being fed to us. The worst part of all, is everyone knows how bad it is from the top to the bottom and back up. Even in that case though nothing is done. Our battalion is all about screwing the lower guys and looking good while doing it. Our commanders from Company to Battalion really don't care about me, or your son. Because if they did, they wouldn't allow such atrocities to happen. Morale in Delta Company has never been this low. It's not even been this low after losing a friend, colleague, and distinguished and loved non commissioned officer.
Allow me to digress. I really didn't want to get into this, as my previous couple of blog posts I was trying to display something different than the constant gripe and complaint that this one is. Perhaps it's the lack of air conditioning that has me in somewhat of rut, or perhaps it's just the fact that I've never been sick to my stomach with the feeling of being failed by others. I'm a go-getter guy that likes to improve my own situation when I'm not at least content with it, so a situation like this one, that is entirely out of my hands, and has left me and my comrades suffering it's really hard.
I barely get enough food to keep me going from the Chow Hall, and am thankful that my loved ones have sent me packages containing tuna and other essential foods that have allowed me to keep going, and not entirely wither away. But even that has been threatened. Our one meal a day consists of rationed half portions of a terribly cooked and burnt meal. That wouldn't be too bad, considering everyone has basically gotten on the send me food in care packages band wagon. There's only two problems now with that set-up. The first is that we get mail seemingly, once a month. Last time we got it here was sometime before the 10th, so that's already at least 16 days ago. The second problem is that we don't own China sets, and don't have the necessary items like plates or silverware that goes along with the preparation of making your own food. This shouldn't be a problem, considering the chow hall has an ample supply of cardboard plates an silverware. It is a problem however in the fact that when it's not 'chow hours' the two from 7-9 everyday, these items are not out, because too many people were using them during non-chow hours. Of course we are douche bag, we're hungry.
Our A/C's have been broken for close to a month, the chow hall continues to hoard food from us, while prosecuting us for trying to eat so I'm hungry. I haven't showered, even after a grueling session of organized platoon exercise, which we stand close enough to each other for one rocket to wipe out our entire platoon, and I don't have weight lifting to look forward too, which would help to alleviate some of my frustration. That leaves me wondering what I do have to look forward too, and that's a hopeful 'possibility.' A number of moves have been made between different decisions that would suggest an early departure from this place. And by this place, I mean country. It doesn't appear it will as drastic as two months, or even tomorrow, but a few weeks early might be all any of us need to keep our sanity. C'mon late October, Karma at this point should be on our side.
look, a buffalo
Along with the already numbing effects no showers, lack of food, and mandatory physical exercise, the plot thickens as our First Sergeant closed down the gym to us just like breakfast had been, until further notice. This is absolutely demoralizing in so many words. The internet and phones along with the gym and chow is about the only things we have to look forward too. So when they all disappear, what will we have then? I feel as if sometimes I'm on a cruel reality tv show, and hope that maybe Chris Hanson will walk around the corner with a film crew and a pizza.
I weighed 185 lbs the day I returned from leave here at 763. That was June 8th. Today is July 26th, just over and a half down the road, and I'm at a staggering 172 lbs. There is only one other time in my life that I have lost that amount of weight in such a small amount of time. That was two years ago during Special Forces Selection and Assessment, where in 24 days of grueling physical and mental labor and exhaustion I shed 18 lbs under the August sun in North Carolina. Selection was hard, and very challenging but it's comparison to here is unequivocal.
As I woke up from a short afternoon nap, I first realized that maybe my insomnia is finally passing, and then realized I was in an emotional state that I have never been in. My hole platoon is in it. Depression. I don't think that it's enough that they have taken all of this stuff away from us, leaving us constantly hungry, unmotivated entirely, and sick of the constant bull shit that's being fed to us. The worst part of all, is everyone knows how bad it is from the top to the bottom and back up. Even in that case though nothing is done. Our battalion is all about screwing the lower guys and looking good while doing it. Our commanders from Company to Battalion really don't care about me, or your son. Because if they did, they wouldn't allow such atrocities to happen. Morale in Delta Company has never been this low. It's not even been this low after losing a friend, colleague, and distinguished and loved non commissioned officer.
Allow me to digress. I really didn't want to get into this, as my previous couple of blog posts I was trying to display something different than the constant gripe and complaint that this one is. Perhaps it's the lack of air conditioning that has me in somewhat of rut, or perhaps it's just the fact that I've never been sick to my stomach with the feeling of being failed by others. I'm a go-getter guy that likes to improve my own situation when I'm not at least content with it, so a situation like this one, that is entirely out of my hands, and has left me and my comrades suffering it's really hard.
I barely get enough food to keep me going from the Chow Hall, and am thankful that my loved ones have sent me packages containing tuna and other essential foods that have allowed me to keep going, and not entirely wither away. But even that has been threatened. Our one meal a day consists of rationed half portions of a terribly cooked and burnt meal. That wouldn't be too bad, considering everyone has basically gotten on the send me food in care packages band wagon. There's only two problems now with that set-up. The first is that we get mail seemingly, once a month. Last time we got it here was sometime before the 10th, so that's already at least 16 days ago. The second problem is that we don't own China sets, and don't have the necessary items like plates or silverware that goes along with the preparation of making your own food. This shouldn't be a problem, considering the chow hall has an ample supply of cardboard plates an silverware. It is a problem however in the fact that when it's not 'chow hours' the two from 7-9 everyday, these items are not out, because too many people were using them during non-chow hours. Of course we are douche bag, we're hungry.
Our A/C's have been broken for close to a month, the chow hall continues to hoard food from us, while prosecuting us for trying to eat so I'm hungry. I haven't showered, even after a grueling session of organized platoon exercise, which we stand close enough to each other for one rocket to wipe out our entire platoon, and I don't have weight lifting to look forward too, which would help to alleviate some of my frustration. That leaves me wondering what I do have to look forward too, and that's a hopeful 'possibility.' A number of moves have been made between different decisions that would suggest an early departure from this place. And by this place, I mean country. It doesn't appear it will as drastic as two months, or even tomorrow, but a few weeks early might be all any of us need to keep our sanity. C'mon late October, Karma at this point should be on our side.
look, a buffalo
Saturday, July 25, 2009
No Internet, No Breakfast, but Some Excitment
We here on the outskirts of Baghdad already with a lack of things that generally occupy our time, had the most basic and biggest morale boosting vessel we have, technology. The internet and phones were shut off for about two days. The disheartening thing is the reason they were turned off. Tragic really, but again another cost of war, and a year long deployment being a suicide in our sister battalion. The commo blackout is so that if we knew the guy, or knew his family, we would not leak the information to them before the proper authorities did. The other reason why it's disheartening though, is because it cuts us, everyone here off from there loved ones, family, and the outside world.
With the commo blackout, we are understanding. Despite it being an isolated incident at another base, it's not the first time we've come across it in our eight months here. We know that the internet will be down awhile, and you just have to endure and find something else to fill your time in. I have an idea, let's get rocketed. Last night, while I was still on force pro, our base was nearly hit, by two rockets. We've been mortared before, and they are somewhat similar. There is loud explosions, and the percussion from wherever you are could make you think that perhaps you heard someone slamming the door angrily, or to check and make sure you still have your head on right.
The rockets came in, the first one landed short of us, and startled me slightly as I was unable to discern what it was. I was in the ECP (entry control point) truck and heard the explosion and percussion to my rear, which upon first thoughts I jumped to the conclusion that it could've been a roadside bomb at some close proximity, or even worse that someone had lobbed a grenade in our direction. As I asked my gunner what that was and where it was, before he could answer, he was nearly in my lap getting defilade. I thought it might of been him getting down quickly, but in fact it was the second rocket passing overhead that shook the truck left and right. He said he had heard it whiz by. I saw the sparks come up over the concrete wall in front of me, and could tell that it was quite a bit aways. It had narrowly missed one of our guard towers on the roof, and had nearly shaken the gun off it's mount.
Needless to say, none of them impacted on the base, and no one was hurt. Actually, for the first deployment guys, our adrenaline was pumping pretty good, so good we couldn't even go to sleep after we got off. Of course, it's four in the morning and I'm not sleeping today either. Even the guy that had it go about five feet over his head was in good spirits and all smiles. That level of adrenaline I don't think you can find anywhere else in the world. Which perhaps is why some of us do it, or keep doing it.
Though we were in a state of excitement after we got off, we cooled our nerves with a couple of movies that we watched on our big screen. We stayed up till breakfast, or as it's turning out dinner, and all fell asleep after. We woke up for dinner, which just so happens to be our new breakfast. After getting some work done, in a midnight madness form, we were told that breakfast, will no longer be served to us. Actual breakfast, not ours. There will be MRE's available to eat, but they won't cook eggs or bacon anymore. So that reduces us to one hot meal a day. Good thing the internet isn't out.
The only good thing that I guess has happened in the past two days, was that we got, 'The Big Blonde American' back in our platoon leader, Lieutenant Dan. Welcome back to the suck sir, and you won't have to worry about that beer weight you put on, with one meal a day (proper meal) you should be back to skinny in no time.
"what's next, do we have to sign out waters?"
With the commo blackout, we are understanding. Despite it being an isolated incident at another base, it's not the first time we've come across it in our eight months here. We know that the internet will be down awhile, and you just have to endure and find something else to fill your time in. I have an idea, let's get rocketed. Last night, while I was still on force pro, our base was nearly hit, by two rockets. We've been mortared before, and they are somewhat similar. There is loud explosions, and the percussion from wherever you are could make you think that perhaps you heard someone slamming the door angrily, or to check and make sure you still have your head on right.
The rockets came in, the first one landed short of us, and startled me slightly as I was unable to discern what it was. I was in the ECP (entry control point) truck and heard the explosion and percussion to my rear, which upon first thoughts I jumped to the conclusion that it could've been a roadside bomb at some close proximity, or even worse that someone had lobbed a grenade in our direction. As I asked my gunner what that was and where it was, before he could answer, he was nearly in my lap getting defilade. I thought it might of been him getting down quickly, but in fact it was the second rocket passing overhead that shook the truck left and right. He said he had heard it whiz by. I saw the sparks come up over the concrete wall in front of me, and could tell that it was quite a bit aways. It had narrowly missed one of our guard towers on the roof, and had nearly shaken the gun off it's mount.
Needless to say, none of them impacted on the base, and no one was hurt. Actually, for the first deployment guys, our adrenaline was pumping pretty good, so good we couldn't even go to sleep after we got off. Of course, it's four in the morning and I'm not sleeping today either. Even the guy that had it go about five feet over his head was in good spirits and all smiles. That level of adrenaline I don't think you can find anywhere else in the world. Which perhaps is why some of us do it, or keep doing it.
Though we were in a state of excitement after we got off, we cooled our nerves with a couple of movies that we watched on our big screen. We stayed up till breakfast, or as it's turning out dinner, and all fell asleep after. We woke up for dinner, which just so happens to be our new breakfast. After getting some work done, in a midnight madness form, we were told that breakfast, will no longer be served to us. Actual breakfast, not ours. There will be MRE's available to eat, but they won't cook eggs or bacon anymore. So that reduces us to one hot meal a day. Good thing the internet isn't out.
The only good thing that I guess has happened in the past two days, was that we got, 'The Big Blonde American' back in our platoon leader, Lieutenant Dan. Welcome back to the suck sir, and you won't have to worry about that beer weight you put on, with one meal a day (proper meal) you should be back to skinny in no time.
"what's next, do we have to sign out waters?"
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Balling Like Beckham
While getting into the tip top fighting shape that all of us Army personnel are supposed to stay in, I was down in our 'Junk House Gym' working out. As I finished my weight lifting and core workout, I picked up the proverbial 'rock' and started to shoot the basketball around. The Junk House Gym Basketball court is in our vehicle maintenance bay on the bottom floor. As I shot the ball around, the Iraqi prisoners who are locked up down there were out of there cell on a smoke or food break.
The ball rolls off the rim, and uncomfortably ends up at the feet of three of the convicts who are standing at the edge of, or seemingly the edge of our impromptu court. So now I have a two on two, maybe. This country, I'm not sure has ever seen basketball, and so awkwardly I'm trying to coach these jailbirds on how to shoot a basketball. The language barrier is hard enough, considering I can say about three words in arabic, and they can say the same three words in english. I can tell soccer has definitely been the influence. These men are wearing Chelsea or United Adidas or Nike apparel, and I'm guessing it's not the jail clothes they've been issued, but then I think they probably haven't been issued jump suits, but then I further think that perhaps the National Police hand out Futbol team apparel for inmate clothing.
None the less, these three individuals are shooting the ball much like you would throw a ball in from out of bounds in a soccer match. The ball gripped evenly with both hands, started with the elbows bent and ball nearly resting against the base of the neck and spine. They launch it, and of course they're seemingly uncoordinated and don't judge distance very well.
I keep calling them names like Jordan, Kobe and Bird. Kareem Abdul Jabaar, which they try and explain is their cousin. The names fall on the deftly, but they seeing my new white sneakers, are calling me Michael Jackson. I tell them he's dead by saying his name, and running my finger across the throat. They seemed very upset and unbelieving, but eventually I convinced them, after that the mood was solace.
After about twenty minutes of dealing with Mohammed, Ferras, and Steve, only one of them really grasps the concept, and I'm somewhat happy when the warden ushers them back into their cell. I finally get some US counterparts and we pick up a game of twenty-one, I win handily, and since I am not very good at basketball, I guess I should thank the Haji's for the practice.
don't ever get in an argument with an idiot, because they will bring you down to there level and beat you with experience
The ball rolls off the rim, and uncomfortably ends up at the feet of three of the convicts who are standing at the edge of, or seemingly the edge of our impromptu court. So now I have a two on two, maybe. This country, I'm not sure has ever seen basketball, and so awkwardly I'm trying to coach these jailbirds on how to shoot a basketball. The language barrier is hard enough, considering I can say about three words in arabic, and they can say the same three words in english. I can tell soccer has definitely been the influence. These men are wearing Chelsea or United Adidas or Nike apparel, and I'm guessing it's not the jail clothes they've been issued, but then I think they probably haven't been issued jump suits, but then I further think that perhaps the National Police hand out Futbol team apparel for inmate clothing.
None the less, these three individuals are shooting the ball much like you would throw a ball in from out of bounds in a soccer match. The ball gripped evenly with both hands, started with the elbows bent and ball nearly resting against the base of the neck and spine. They launch it, and of course they're seemingly uncoordinated and don't judge distance very well.
I keep calling them names like Jordan, Kobe and Bird. Kareem Abdul Jabaar, which they try and explain is their cousin. The names fall on the deftly, but they seeing my new white sneakers, are calling me Michael Jackson. I tell them he's dead by saying his name, and running my finger across the throat. They seemed very upset and unbelieving, but eventually I convinced them, after that the mood was solace.
After about twenty minutes of dealing with Mohammed, Ferras, and Steve, only one of them really grasps the concept, and I'm somewhat happy when the warden ushers them back into their cell. I finally get some US counterparts and we pick up a game of twenty-one, I win handily, and since I am not very good at basketball, I guess I should thank the Haji's for the practice.
don't ever get in an argument with an idiot, because they will bring you down to there level and beat you with experience
It seems to me that we have opened up a portal to creeps and stalkers everywhere. But the term stalker, in the last five years has even gone through its own kind of portal, it's changed. It's not just the creepy guy that follows you home, or calls you every minute of the day. A stalker is more normal now, transcending from the outcasts of society to the middle of a revolution. We, you and I, are stalkers.
It recently occurred to me while talking to an old friend on a 'Facebook Chat' that I could learn everything about them, well at least everything that they wanted to tell me. This is something that years back was thought of as something sick, to know so much personal information about someone generally was not warranted by the constructs of our society. But now we pass the information, photos, videos and souls of ourselves for others to see. I understand the concept that you allow only what you want known about you onto your page, and even if that information is just for 'friends' there's no telling who could actually be looking, or learning that information.
Even though I do know that you can put up information that you want to share publicly, I think the peer pressure to put up more revealing information has had a large effect on the majority of the populace, and this information probably should be guarded. Even the idea of putting up simple information, birthday, jobs, things you support become something you want to do, just so that you don't have to answer the gibber jabber questions of small talk when talking to a fellow stalker. This alleviates the much hated 'small talk' that our society seems to shun like the plague.
I am typing on a public computer. If I close this web browser in a hurry, it signs out of none of my online public domains, so the next user would just have to open the web browser and go back to the same site, which Myspace or Facebook are quite popular. That means, the people here in this room that are not me, could be writing this, or looking at you.
It's kind of a scary thought, the risks you run. That you could have someone knowing tons of information about you, your friends, your loved ones. But you have to remember, we are all stalkers now, not only because we look up old friends and even new people, but we've allowed the simple possibility of being stalked. I can't really understand why, but then again who isn't flattered to have a stalker? If not 263. But aren't we all stalkers.
i.e. Lorne- @ work till 3/wanna go to the gym/can't wait till saturday
Forget the Craiglist killer, he worked to hard. This is the problem, guarded information is now spread so publicly. This wasn't even one of my friends! So be careful Lorne.
cookies, the end of political ambition
It recently occurred to me while talking to an old friend on a 'Facebook Chat' that I could learn everything about them, well at least everything that they wanted to tell me. This is something that years back was thought of as something sick, to know so much personal information about someone generally was not warranted by the constructs of our society. But now we pass the information, photos, videos and souls of ourselves for others to see. I understand the concept that you allow only what you want known about you onto your page, and even if that information is just for 'friends' there's no telling who could actually be looking, or learning that information.
Even though I do know that you can put up information that you want to share publicly, I think the peer pressure to put up more revealing information has had a large effect on the majority of the populace, and this information probably should be guarded. Even the idea of putting up simple information, birthday, jobs, things you support become something you want to do, just so that you don't have to answer the gibber jabber questions of small talk when talking to a fellow stalker. This alleviates the much hated 'small talk' that our society seems to shun like the plague.
I am typing on a public computer. If I close this web browser in a hurry, it signs out of none of my online public domains, so the next user would just have to open the web browser and go back to the same site, which Myspace or Facebook are quite popular. That means, the people here in this room that are not me, could be writing this, or looking at you.
It's kind of a scary thought, the risks you run. That you could have someone knowing tons of information about you, your friends, your loved ones. But you have to remember, we are all stalkers now, not only because we look up old friends and even new people, but we've allowed the simple possibility of being stalked. I can't really understand why, but then again who isn't flattered to have a stalker? If not 263. But aren't we all stalkers.
i.e. Lorne- @ work till 3/wanna go to the gym/can't wait till saturday
Forget the Craiglist killer, he worked to hard. This is the problem, guarded information is now spread so publicly. This wasn't even one of my friends! So be careful Lorne.
cookies, the end of political ambition
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Above and Beyond
Our job here in the last few weeks, has been something less than busy. It in fact has been almost a complete bore. We've left our wire to go on pointless patrols a total of three times over the last 23 days. January through June, we probably would've gone out a total of 40-50 times in that same amount of days. We are definitely not going above or beyond the call of our duty. Or maybe, because of this, we are.
Some people would view this as us in fact not going above and beyond. But what does that really mean? Our battle focus, yea putting battle on the front of another word just makes it sound so much more military, is to engage and destroy the enemy of the United States at whatever cost. We have not been allowed to do that, but have been handcuffed by the laws of the tired war regime that is now realizing their first mistake of trying to bring democracy to a people who don't deserve it, who probably don't even want it. Perhaps we aren't going above and beyond the limits of our duty, I would venture it would be more the the side rather than above.
I really don't want to get into the semantics of this situation, other than it sucks. Not just for us, but for our loved ones. They now feel the pain of us being able to do nothing, and not being able to be with us. They can't even really say that they are proud for us fighting for democracy or freedom, because we quite frankly are not. We are sitting, starving and sweating for freedom. The perspiring is not just from our pores, but from the hope of being home soon.
My family, my girlfriend, the loved ones of platoon mates are the ones at this stage in the deployment that have now been forced to go 'Above and Beyond' the call of their normal duty. When we had patrols everyday and were quote unquote busy, they were there to help support us. They sent us care packages, and listened to our griping on the phone, but we were not in the same spirits as now. The care packages for the most part have been cut off to us due to our remote situation. Our mindset is entirely different. We have no sense of purpose anymore, and therefore for most have a new need, a new support that was not needed before. It is now most certainly needed.
This new above and beyond support, I know at least my family and loved ones have met. They might not even know that they have, or maybe they know that they made the time, or did the deed that was in no way convenient for them, but in all the ways they did or did not know, they have helped me tremendously. All I, all the rest of us can do, is thank you. Thanks for you hard work and dedication to us over here, for renewing your commitment in anyway shape or form, and proving to me, to us that we can always count on you.
"i want a rich young dumb nymphomaniac, to drive me around in her cadillac..."
Some people would view this as us in fact not going above and beyond. But what does that really mean? Our battle focus, yea putting battle on the front of another word just makes it sound so much more military, is to engage and destroy the enemy of the United States at whatever cost. We have not been allowed to do that, but have been handcuffed by the laws of the tired war regime that is now realizing their first mistake of trying to bring democracy to a people who don't deserve it, who probably don't even want it. Perhaps we aren't going above and beyond the limits of our duty, I would venture it would be more the the side rather than above.
I really don't want to get into the semantics of this situation, other than it sucks. Not just for us, but for our loved ones. They now feel the pain of us being able to do nothing, and not being able to be with us. They can't even really say that they are proud for us fighting for democracy or freedom, because we quite frankly are not. We are sitting, starving and sweating for freedom. The perspiring is not just from our pores, but from the hope of being home soon.
My family, my girlfriend, the loved ones of platoon mates are the ones at this stage in the deployment that have now been forced to go 'Above and Beyond' the call of their normal duty. When we had patrols everyday and were quote unquote busy, they were there to help support us. They sent us care packages, and listened to our griping on the phone, but we were not in the same spirits as now. The care packages for the most part have been cut off to us due to our remote situation. Our mindset is entirely different. We have no sense of purpose anymore, and therefore for most have a new need, a new support that was not needed before. It is now most certainly needed.
This new above and beyond support, I know at least my family and loved ones have met. They might not even know that they have, or maybe they know that they made the time, or did the deed that was in no way convenient for them, but in all the ways they did or did not know, they have helped me tremendously. All I, all the rest of us can do, is thank you. Thanks for you hard work and dedication to us over here, for renewing your commitment in anyway shape or form, and proving to me, to us that we can always count on you.
"i want a rich young dumb nymphomaniac, to drive me around in her cadillac..."
Double Digits, Almost
I'm not counting, so don't quote me.
Today, this morning actually, after a long and mainly bogus force pro guard shift, in which a positive being I finished the book that I started earlier in the day, No Way To Treat A First Lady by Christopher Buckley, I found an odd buzz around the company breakfast table. It wasn't that they were at all impressed at me finishing a 287 page book in the course of only a few hours reading, or the fact that we were about to indulge in a breakfast that reminded of us a Saved By The Bell episode, re-ran and dated. It was indeed the fact that we are well over two thirds done with this deployment. Not only that we are on the verge of being in Double Digits.
None of us are statitioner's, rocket surgeon's, or smart, so the actual figuring out of the 'exact' number of days we have left in country, could not be ascertained. Although we did assign three individuals the task in which they now have 4 hours to figure it out, but we aren't holding our breath, because a) we're infantrymen and b) holding your breath for four hours, you would most certainly die. All evidence would lead to approximately 100 days left here though. Which that number in itself is something, magical.
One Hundred. Just the sound of it is so, wholesome, so powerful, so wonderful sounding that it's no reason we've thrown it into everything we are about in the United States. One Dollar is made of One Hundred Cents. Children's rhymes so epically reach one hundred with a one two skip a few. Pitchers in baseball try and reach 100 miles per hour. It's a punishment as well as a blessing, as it's 100 standards of this. In truth the whole idea of ONE HUNDRED, if not sensationally hip, is somewhat majestic and all powerful.
That leaves us hating it. Why can't it be ninety-nine already? Wayne Gretzky wore 99, and he was the 'Great One' so for one hundred, I detest. Where did you get off being so great, such a family value? Double Digits, is the romance period for us here, and for today, one hundred has ruined that. Not taken it away, but is seemingly delaying movement of time to allow that two digit number to come, to leave us feeling, smelling Ft. Bragg, Sylmar, Heaven. That's one hundred bad, repeat breakfasts left here. The idea of such a thing is almost disgusting, that the number 100 could be so selfish to want to continue on this day.
The buzz is still strong, the countdown towards ecstasy. If we can make it through today, we that's just 99 left, more doable than 100. 99 bottles of beer on the wall...
"the Great One is denied"
Today, this morning actually, after a long and mainly bogus force pro guard shift, in which a positive being I finished the book that I started earlier in the day, No Way To Treat A First Lady by Christopher Buckley, I found an odd buzz around the company breakfast table. It wasn't that they were at all impressed at me finishing a 287 page book in the course of only a few hours reading, or the fact that we were about to indulge in a breakfast that reminded of us a Saved By The Bell episode, re-ran and dated. It was indeed the fact that we are well over two thirds done with this deployment. Not only that we are on the verge of being in Double Digits.
None of us are statitioner's, rocket surgeon's, or smart, so the actual figuring out of the 'exact' number of days we have left in country, could not be ascertained. Although we did assign three individuals the task in which they now have 4 hours to figure it out, but we aren't holding our breath, because a) we're infantrymen and b) holding your breath for four hours, you would most certainly die. All evidence would lead to approximately 100 days left here though. Which that number in itself is something, magical.
One Hundred. Just the sound of it is so, wholesome, so powerful, so wonderful sounding that it's no reason we've thrown it into everything we are about in the United States. One Dollar is made of One Hundred Cents. Children's rhymes so epically reach one hundred with a one two skip a few. Pitchers in baseball try and reach 100 miles per hour. It's a punishment as well as a blessing, as it's 100 standards of this. In truth the whole idea of ONE HUNDRED, if not sensationally hip, is somewhat majestic and all powerful.
That leaves us hating it. Why can't it be ninety-nine already? Wayne Gretzky wore 99, and he was the 'Great One' so for one hundred, I detest. Where did you get off being so great, such a family value? Double Digits, is the romance period for us here, and for today, one hundred has ruined that. Not taken it away, but is seemingly delaying movement of time to allow that two digit number to come, to leave us feeling, smelling Ft. Bragg, Sylmar, Heaven. That's one hundred bad, repeat breakfasts left here. The idea of such a thing is almost disgusting, that the number 100 could be so selfish to want to continue on this day.
The buzz is still strong, the countdown towards ecstasy. If we can make it through today, we that's just 99 left, more doable than 100. 99 bottles of beer on the wall...
"the Great One is denied"
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
This Place is, Damned Sleep
Last night, after a near 48 hours of no sleep, I found myself drowning in a pool of tiredness and unable to swim. I went to bed at ten. Laid there, motionless but not asleep till about eleven thirty when sleep finally felt pity for me and allowed me rest. I wake up almost shocked at the sound. I turn to the direction and in my haze am suddenly relieved to see that it's only a movie playing a little too loudly on our platoons television. I would ask for the new X-files movie to be turned down, and as rudely as watching a movie loudly at one in the morning is, but realized it was our platoon sergeant and the powerless speech of my voice failed me. I wasn't the only awakened by the sounds now annoyingly dragging me into plot, as my bunk mate looked up at me, "isn't this bullshit." he said without detection.
It wasn't for a long while, till the movie ended and considering I had woken up in the middle, probably closer to two thirty. This all with the help of some kind of sleeping pills the new found second attempt at sleep wouldn't and didn't last. Middle of the witching hour I'm abruptly woken up. An essential food, water, and office supply truck has arrived, and it's our duty to download the truck and put things in their respective places. Groggy and very tired the company completes the task within an hour, and I'm back attempting sleep sweating, pills worn off.
I don't find sleep again till sometime after six, and then it's a spot check at the top of the hour every hour as my eye lids part and I peer at my watch. After that I lay in bed all morning praying, hoping and wishing for sleep. Why can't it be long or unbroken? Perhaps had I not been interrupted throughout the night, it would have.
I get up and ready for the day, see the Dodgers won, and grab some food. I get ready and assume my force pro shift, and it's as fun as they always are. I'm allowed to keep my attention else where during it, and I read a wonderfully written book called No Way To Treat A First Lady, which is by the same guy who wrote Thank You For Smoking, Christopher Buckley. Other than the book, which is a terribly fun read, I was consumed with flies who were constantly attacking me. I killed a few, and though I only ever saw one flying around at a time, they kept on coming relentless. My mind started to wander, and I thought maybe this was a Zombie fly and I had to take it's head off. I quickly searched for carcasses of flies I had killed, and was relieved to see them. I dismissed the ridiculous idea of a house fly Zombie apocalypse simply as a condition of insomnia and cabin fever.
I work twelve hours today, six are already down and another five till I start the second shift. I've killed a few flies and read 151 pages of book, and completed 72% of a crossword. These have been regular days over the last 21 or so. For three weeks off in war, I guess I can't complain.
ooooooh my gosh your nuts no one said anything about rain in it
It wasn't for a long while, till the movie ended and considering I had woken up in the middle, probably closer to two thirty. This all with the help of some kind of sleeping pills the new found second attempt at sleep wouldn't and didn't last. Middle of the witching hour I'm abruptly woken up. An essential food, water, and office supply truck has arrived, and it's our duty to download the truck and put things in their respective places. Groggy and very tired the company completes the task within an hour, and I'm back attempting sleep sweating, pills worn off.
I don't find sleep again till sometime after six, and then it's a spot check at the top of the hour every hour as my eye lids part and I peer at my watch. After that I lay in bed all morning praying, hoping and wishing for sleep. Why can't it be long or unbroken? Perhaps had I not been interrupted throughout the night, it would have.
I get up and ready for the day, see the Dodgers won, and grab some food. I get ready and assume my force pro shift, and it's as fun as they always are. I'm allowed to keep my attention else where during it, and I read a wonderfully written book called No Way To Treat A First Lady, which is by the same guy who wrote Thank You For Smoking, Christopher Buckley. Other than the book, which is a terribly fun read, I was consumed with flies who were constantly attacking me. I killed a few, and though I only ever saw one flying around at a time, they kept on coming relentless. My mind started to wander, and I thought maybe this was a Zombie fly and I had to take it's head off. I quickly searched for carcasses of flies I had killed, and was relieved to see them. I dismissed the ridiculous idea of a house fly Zombie apocalypse simply as a condition of insomnia and cabin fever.
I work twelve hours today, six are already down and another five till I start the second shift. I've killed a few flies and read 151 pages of book, and completed 72% of a crossword. These have been regular days over the last 21 or so. For three weeks off in war, I guess I can't complain.
ooooooh my gosh your nuts no one said anything about rain in it
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Changing Days, Hopefully
I looked in the mirror today after a refreshingly cold shower. I've lost weight, I don't doubt that. It's been over a month point five since I've returned to this place, the life at 763. Most of my bags are still packed since moving here from our bigger and most luxurious base that we spent our first 6 months at. There's an order to my locker that has been strategically set up to allow a quick and feverish swipe and pull-grab of everything to allow it easy access into a duffel bag.
We know that this possibly could be our permanent home for the remaining 3 and a half months, but we keep our things, ourselves, in a constant state of readiness. If we do leave here, I tried to think about what would be different, what was different for us before. The food would most certainly increase. The rooms, more private. The air conditioner, stronger. The force protection responsibility we pull here would definitely, most likely, be dropped.
That's probably the biggest one. The force protection. Over the last two months it has most likely been the pain in our sides. We don't do anything on any other day, and so force pro has become our only mission. Our only achievable objective, and easy as it is, we'd rather be doing more challenging but rewarding work. Not to mention the biggest problem with having to pull force pro, the haunting.
Being a grown man, loaded with 60 pounds of combat gear including a weapon and 210 copper headed buddies, you would think a fictitious, an aberration would not be scary. Hell the idea that we'd rather face a Allah Akbar yelling terrorist spraying an AK-47 than look out of the OP's door and possibly seeing a ghost. I've been fortunate enough to be down on our ECP lately, and haven't had to endure the pitch black walk through the top of the building where many have seen shapes, and heard unexplainable sounds. It never really scared me, but I kind of always wanted it to.
I continue to shrink, lose size and sleep. The two meals a day, and strange sleeping cycle has been hard to get accustomed to. Nothing happens, and I guess for worried hearts at home that's a good thing. We don't have much time left here as it is, hopefully we can have even less. We can at least pray for a change of scenery, or maybe we shouldn't. But at least one thing is perfectly clear if we do leave this place, I'll probably gain some wait.
"babe its like you are in concentration camps"
We know that this possibly could be our permanent home for the remaining 3 and a half months, but we keep our things, ourselves, in a constant state of readiness. If we do leave here, I tried to think about what would be different, what was different for us before. The food would most certainly increase. The rooms, more private. The air conditioner, stronger. The force protection responsibility we pull here would definitely, most likely, be dropped.
That's probably the biggest one. The force protection. Over the last two months it has most likely been the pain in our sides. We don't do anything on any other day, and so force pro has become our only mission. Our only achievable objective, and easy as it is, we'd rather be doing more challenging but rewarding work. Not to mention the biggest problem with having to pull force pro, the haunting.
Being a grown man, loaded with 60 pounds of combat gear including a weapon and 210 copper headed buddies, you would think a fictitious, an aberration would not be scary. Hell the idea that we'd rather face a Allah Akbar yelling terrorist spraying an AK-47 than look out of the OP's door and possibly seeing a ghost. I've been fortunate enough to be down on our ECP lately, and haven't had to endure the pitch black walk through the top of the building where many have seen shapes, and heard unexplainable sounds. It never really scared me, but I kind of always wanted it to.
I continue to shrink, lose size and sleep. The two meals a day, and strange sleeping cycle has been hard to get accustomed to. Nothing happens, and I guess for worried hearts at home that's a good thing. We don't have much time left here as it is, hopefully we can have even less. We can at least pray for a change of scenery, or maybe we shouldn't. But at least one thing is perfectly clear if we do leave this place, I'll probably gain some wait.
"babe its like you are in concentration camps"
The Next Dave Attell
Everything seems to be going backwards. The lights even in the somewhat dimly lit MWR are making my head spin. Last night, after I got off force pro at the top of the witching hour, I found myself tired, but not ready to sleep. I laid down again in the dark of the room, and tried my hardest to get comfortable.
3.45
I imagined riding across a bridge into a castle, in my shining armor and sword oiled and ready for battle. I tried in my mind, to kill the creature, dragon of sleep. He was powerful, and continually beat me. Killing me in different ways each time I ran the dream back through my head. It felt like and eternity that I forced my eyes to keep closed. I was imagining I was somewhere else. A beach, a Vegas Hotel, a baseball game, and anything else that I thought would help me to relax. The green hue of light from the exit sign in our room is the only light that I can still feel on me. I've been trying hard to keep my eyes closed and not realize it. My mind is willing my eyes to stay shut, closed and primed for sleep to take me into a world of unconsciousness. I'm so tired. Finally my mind starts racing, telling me that I've already been asleep, maybe. The curiousness starts to stab it's knife into my gut of doubt, and as it twists and turns, I open my eyes. The light is still illuminating from the green sign at the door.
4.13
I realize again, for another night, close to a week now, that I am not going to sleep. Not right now, not in the next ten minutes, maybe not ever. I reach down and pull my laptop up and hope maybe the strain of the eyes will wear them out even more than they already are. I mess around on my computer for more time than I thought I would, and when I close it and put it back in it's place, I'm still wide awake.
5.34
As I try and get comfortable again, I'm suddenly cold and sweating. I toss around on top of my bed, and then finally decide to put at least my legs under the sheets. I twist and turn in the spiderwebs of my bed, and can never find a position that keeps me comfortable for more than a few minutes of time. I start to think of all the times, my entire life, that I've been able to find sleep easily. The flashes of memory run through my head until it starts to hurt from the thought. How long has it been? How long have I had my eyes closed is running rampid and unchecked through my thoughts again. I try to squelch it with a bucket of water onto the fire, but it's hotter now and climbing for the floors of my mind up the wall and reaching the ceiling. Again, I falter and give in, opening my eyes.
6.52
A long enough time has passed in between the time I closed my eyes, to now, that I think I might have gotten some sleep, and my pride increases slightly at the small victory. I still feel defeated. I don't decide to give myself any kind of break or rest from what feels like an over exerted effort to sleep, and so I counter attack quickly, and close my eyes again. The strategy seems to work, and the next time I open my eyes, I'm pleasantly surprised, but still in a state of confusion and depression.
10.26
I pass in and out of consciousness, turning over and over, always seeing that green light casting its judging eyes on me, mocking me at it's constancy and my inability to be strong in front of it. Time rolls off the clock, and I no longer care or have the energy to check my watch whenever my eyes open. I switch position again, and find my back has grown sore and stiff from the constant battle I've been fighting. Maybe it's the armor.
12.37
I finally lay there, so tired and worn out, that sleep doesn't seem like it should even be a battle or option for me, perhaps death is my only option now. My eyes stay cracked open, the green light still judging me, challenging. I lay there, and see people moving about within the dark room. Just figures getting dressed, and going about their normal routine. I don't move and hope that I will find that wonderful bliss of deep heavenly sleep. It never happens.
3.01
The lights come on the room, and it's time to get up and start working. I've been off of my shift for twelve hours, and would've had to take one over a minute ago, and confusingly I remember we're no longer on force pro. I push myself up to a sitting, and feel a wave of dizziness and fatigue set in all over my body. I can barely keep my eyes open, and continue to rub them forcing into submission of being awake. I try and stretch my back after that, but it's already a battle I've give up on.
I can't remember the last time I slept well, it was close to a week ago. Then again I'm not sure I even know when a week ago was.
my insomnia is so bad, I'm not sure I could even sleep at work
3.45
I imagined riding across a bridge into a castle, in my shining armor and sword oiled and ready for battle. I tried in my mind, to kill the creature, dragon of sleep. He was powerful, and continually beat me. Killing me in different ways each time I ran the dream back through my head. It felt like and eternity that I forced my eyes to keep closed. I was imagining I was somewhere else. A beach, a Vegas Hotel, a baseball game, and anything else that I thought would help me to relax. The green hue of light from the exit sign in our room is the only light that I can still feel on me. I've been trying hard to keep my eyes closed and not realize it. My mind is willing my eyes to stay shut, closed and primed for sleep to take me into a world of unconsciousness. I'm so tired. Finally my mind starts racing, telling me that I've already been asleep, maybe. The curiousness starts to stab it's knife into my gut of doubt, and as it twists and turns, I open my eyes. The light is still illuminating from the green sign at the door.
4.13
I realize again, for another night, close to a week now, that I am not going to sleep. Not right now, not in the next ten minutes, maybe not ever. I reach down and pull my laptop up and hope maybe the strain of the eyes will wear them out even more than they already are. I mess around on my computer for more time than I thought I would, and when I close it and put it back in it's place, I'm still wide awake.
5.34
As I try and get comfortable again, I'm suddenly cold and sweating. I toss around on top of my bed, and then finally decide to put at least my legs under the sheets. I twist and turn in the spiderwebs of my bed, and can never find a position that keeps me comfortable for more than a few minutes of time. I start to think of all the times, my entire life, that I've been able to find sleep easily. The flashes of memory run through my head until it starts to hurt from the thought. How long has it been? How long have I had my eyes closed is running rampid and unchecked through my thoughts again. I try to squelch it with a bucket of water onto the fire, but it's hotter now and climbing for the floors of my mind up the wall and reaching the ceiling. Again, I falter and give in, opening my eyes.
6.52
A long enough time has passed in between the time I closed my eyes, to now, that I think I might have gotten some sleep, and my pride increases slightly at the small victory. I still feel defeated. I don't decide to give myself any kind of break or rest from what feels like an over exerted effort to sleep, and so I counter attack quickly, and close my eyes again. The strategy seems to work, and the next time I open my eyes, I'm pleasantly surprised, but still in a state of confusion and depression.
10.26
I pass in and out of consciousness, turning over and over, always seeing that green light casting its judging eyes on me, mocking me at it's constancy and my inability to be strong in front of it. Time rolls off the clock, and I no longer care or have the energy to check my watch whenever my eyes open. I switch position again, and find my back has grown sore and stiff from the constant battle I've been fighting. Maybe it's the armor.
12.37
I finally lay there, so tired and worn out, that sleep doesn't seem like it should even be a battle or option for me, perhaps death is my only option now. My eyes stay cracked open, the green light still judging me, challenging. I lay there, and see people moving about within the dark room. Just figures getting dressed, and going about their normal routine. I don't move and hope that I will find that wonderful bliss of deep heavenly sleep. It never happens.
3.01
The lights come on the room, and it's time to get up and start working. I've been off of my shift for twelve hours, and would've had to take one over a minute ago, and confusingly I remember we're no longer on force pro. I push myself up to a sitting, and feel a wave of dizziness and fatigue set in all over my body. I can barely keep my eyes open, and continue to rub them forcing into submission of being awake. I try and stretch my back after that, but it's already a battle I've give up on.
I can't remember the last time I slept well, it was close to a week ago. Then again I'm not sure I even know when a week ago was.
my insomnia is so bad, I'm not sure I could even sleep at work
Saturday, July 18, 2009
I'm As Right As The Mail
My spotty insomnia continued last night, which was sad, and very unnerving considering I had a 6 hour guard duty shift this morning. I tried to crawl into bed at not too late an hour, but I had woken up, or at least gotten out of bed at 1 in the afternoon, so only 10 hours later I still found myself somewhat, or fully, wide awake. The lights off in the room, and half the room sounding like a cave full of bears, or half full of bears, I popped in a movie that mi madre sent to me. It's always been a favorite since I saw it, I believe if I'm not mistaken, at the El Capitan theater in Hollywood. I I don't even think I was in elementary school at the time. I can't even believe I remember that much about it, but I guess that's the power that Tombstone had on me. (my parents let me see that?)
In the same amount of time that you got ready for your Friday night, and perhaps even by the time you were on your second drink at the bar, club, disco, my Friday night film had ended. It was sometime close to one in the morning. I was still very restless. I had taken the last of the four tylenol pm's I had acquired from another cat within the platoon the night previous, which got me a good solid four hours of much needed, and thankful sleep. I messed around with Hrudey, my MacLaptop for fifteen minutes and realised I still wasn't going to find sleep anytime soon. And no, he's not Irish.
I stirred out of bed not too loudly, but did happen to knock all of the metal objects that were precariously placed on the top of my wall locker onto the floor. I hoped the clutter didn't wake anyone up, but I couldn't sleep so I didn't really care. I left the room, and headed down the jungle sweat making hall to the computer room and phones. Where I sit now. I called a familiar number, and name, and did something I haven't been able to have the luxury of doing in a long time. Talk with one person for hours, on a variety of different topics which were all close to the heart or very far from it. I really, really enjoyed doing it. I felt a connection with home, with humanity, that I thought I had lost.
After the phone conversation ended, though I really didn't want it to, I reminded myself all good things come to an end and do, and walked back to my room. Something old and somewhat forgotten and yet still unexplainable was in my step. I got back into the cold dark room, a stunning contrast from the exhaust-hot-bright hallway. I laid down, and still felt sleep not dragging it's slow hand of death to my eyes. I tried to get comfortable in every position, but no matter my effort, could not seem to find one. I laid there, uncomfortable for an inordinate amount of time and finally pulled my ipod out, plugged it in, and tried to relax. Soft piano and violin batted at the ear drums. I looked at my watch, 5:45, two hours of sleep. I pray. The music kept it's tempo soft and sweet. The Nocturne coerced me nicely to sleep. A Nocturne, you know, Frederick Fucking Chopin.
It appears hypocrisy knows no bounds
In the same amount of time that you got ready for your Friday night, and perhaps even by the time you were on your second drink at the bar, club, disco, my Friday night film had ended. It was sometime close to one in the morning. I was still very restless. I had taken the last of the four tylenol pm's I had acquired from another cat within the platoon the night previous, which got me a good solid four hours of much needed, and thankful sleep. I messed around with Hrudey, my MacLaptop for fifteen minutes and realised I still wasn't going to find sleep anytime soon. And no, he's not Irish.
I stirred out of bed not too loudly, but did happen to knock all of the metal objects that were precariously placed on the top of my wall locker onto the floor. I hoped the clutter didn't wake anyone up, but I couldn't sleep so I didn't really care. I left the room, and headed down the jungle sweat making hall to the computer room and phones. Where I sit now. I called a familiar number, and name, and did something I haven't been able to have the luxury of doing in a long time. Talk with one person for hours, on a variety of different topics which were all close to the heart or very far from it. I really, really enjoyed doing it. I felt a connection with home, with humanity, that I thought I had lost.
After the phone conversation ended, though I really didn't want it to, I reminded myself all good things come to an end and do, and walked back to my room. Something old and somewhat forgotten and yet still unexplainable was in my step. I got back into the cold dark room, a stunning contrast from the exhaust-hot-bright hallway. I laid down, and still felt sleep not dragging it's slow hand of death to my eyes. I tried to get comfortable in every position, but no matter my effort, could not seem to find one. I laid there, uncomfortable for an inordinate amount of time and finally pulled my ipod out, plugged it in, and tried to relax. Soft piano and violin batted at the ear drums. I looked at my watch, 5:45, two hours of sleep. I pray. The music kept it's tempo soft and sweet. The Nocturne coerced me nicely to sleep. A Nocturne, you know, Frederick Fucking Chopin.
It appears hypocrisy knows no bounds
Friday, July 17, 2009
Kind-of-Sort-of Home
Sometimes, I have to remind myself, that this isn't what a steak tastes like. I have remind myself that there is air conditioning that is cold. That there is toilet paper that is, comfortable. All of these things, it's a lot harder to do than I thought it would be. There are times you sit, and think, and think, and think, what is it like?
The other night, laying down, sweating profusely, I tried to remind myself of summers back home. Laying in a room with my brother, the sound of the pool filter humming endlessly in the night, I would sweat there too, not as bad, but I would still roll over and then back to a wet spot on the bed, usually making me question whether or not I had feeling in my bladder anymore. And here, I close my eyes, listen to the industrial fan, chopping and spinning, almost humming, almost like home as teenager, with sweat collecting in a small pool in the middle of my chest. Those are on nights that we wouldn't play Clue, or Risk and throw cheese snacks at each other into the early hours of the morning, forcing my mom to come out, and tell us kids, and cousins to go to bed.
At chow, I take a bite of... steak? I'm to sure what cut it is, but the only thing I hope is that there is no gristle in this bite, the meat itself is tough enough. It doesn't remind me any of home, my mom's cooking was always to splendid to taste anything like this. My chewing becomes rehearsed, and soon over rehearsed and I swallow to large a piece and it has a fencing duel inside of my throat as it goes down. Even the cereal, pre-packaged from America, it doesn't taste the same. Not with the Aladdin milk company of Kuwait's milk on it. I wasn't sure milk had a shelf life of 2 years, but when in Rome, drink milk that is utterly old and quite possibly disgusting.
The sweat pours down your face more rapidly than you thought possible, and your shirt is more soaked that if you had pulled it freshly from a finished cycle in your washing machine. It's hard to understand you've only been inside the port-o-shitter for a minute. But with the 120 degree heat outside, and the plastic walls that now seem like the boundaries of hell, you sweat and sweat and sweat. A sauna, but more, the fumes not refreshing. The John Wayne toilet paper sits next to you, and you're not even sure that picking it up with your wet hand you will even be able to pull tissue off the role without ruining it, turning it into mush. I guess John Wayne toilet paper, rough tough and doesn't take shit off anyone has it's kryptonite too. Thank god for wet wipes.
Who would've thought that porcelain could every be such a luxury.
It's in these conditions that I remember that I'm, much like I was when I was a kid, trapped. I have to sleep in this bed, which stabs me with springs throughout the night. I have endure the sweating, because our house doesn't have AC. I have to eat this food, this steak, this meatloaf, because it's all our cooks have, or it's all my mom spent an hour on making. You don't get to choose things in life, not all the time. Sometimes you have to take what you're given, you know that whole make lemonade out of lemons thing. I usually think that's a bullshit cop out, that you do actually have a choice. But today, for now, tomorrow, I do not.
Mmmm mother effin' lemonade.
So the gym doesn't have air conditioning and the hallway through our living area is definitely not ventilated, and so standing outside of the 2 by 2 foot box in front of any of the mostly broken air conditioning units, you're asking for it, to sweat. The food is the same, mainly, served over and over again. Maybe it's just griping or complaining that has me on this little tangent, but it's something more. It's the humming of the pool filter outside my bedroom window, it's the sweating that summers filled with games of monopoly and fish cracker fights are. It's home. It's not the best, it's not the worst, and years from now, much like now from then, I'm sure I might miss this too.
The other night, laying down, sweating profusely, I tried to remind myself of summers back home. Laying in a room with my brother, the sound of the pool filter humming endlessly in the night, I would sweat there too, not as bad, but I would still roll over and then back to a wet spot on the bed, usually making me question whether or not I had feeling in my bladder anymore. And here, I close my eyes, listen to the industrial fan, chopping and spinning, almost humming, almost like home as teenager, with sweat collecting in a small pool in the middle of my chest. Those are on nights that we wouldn't play Clue, or Risk and throw cheese snacks at each other into the early hours of the morning, forcing my mom to come out, and tell us kids, and cousins to go to bed.
At chow, I take a bite of... steak? I'm to sure what cut it is, but the only thing I hope is that there is no gristle in this bite, the meat itself is tough enough. It doesn't remind me any of home, my mom's cooking was always to splendid to taste anything like this. My chewing becomes rehearsed, and soon over rehearsed and I swallow to large a piece and it has a fencing duel inside of my throat as it goes down. Even the cereal, pre-packaged from America, it doesn't taste the same. Not with the Aladdin milk company of Kuwait's milk on it. I wasn't sure milk had a shelf life of 2 years, but when in Rome, drink milk that is utterly old and quite possibly disgusting.
The sweat pours down your face more rapidly than you thought possible, and your shirt is more soaked that if you had pulled it freshly from a finished cycle in your washing machine. It's hard to understand you've only been inside the port-o-shitter for a minute. But with the 120 degree heat outside, and the plastic walls that now seem like the boundaries of hell, you sweat and sweat and sweat. A sauna, but more, the fumes not refreshing. The John Wayne toilet paper sits next to you, and you're not even sure that picking it up with your wet hand you will even be able to pull tissue off the role without ruining it, turning it into mush. I guess John Wayne toilet paper, rough tough and doesn't take shit off anyone has it's kryptonite too. Thank god for wet wipes.
Who would've thought that porcelain could every be such a luxury.
It's in these conditions that I remember that I'm, much like I was when I was a kid, trapped. I have to sleep in this bed, which stabs me with springs throughout the night. I have endure the sweating, because our house doesn't have AC. I have to eat this food, this steak, this meatloaf, because it's all our cooks have, or it's all my mom spent an hour on making. You don't get to choose things in life, not all the time. Sometimes you have to take what you're given, you know that whole make lemonade out of lemons thing. I usually think that's a bullshit cop out, that you do actually have a choice. But today, for now, tomorrow, I do not.
Mmmm mother effin' lemonade.
So the gym doesn't have air conditioning and the hallway through our living area is definitely not ventilated, and so standing outside of the 2 by 2 foot box in front of any of the mostly broken air conditioning units, you're asking for it, to sweat. The food is the same, mainly, served over and over again. Maybe it's just griping or complaining that has me on this little tangent, but it's something more. It's the humming of the pool filter outside my bedroom window, it's the sweating that summers filled with games of monopoly and fish cracker fights are. It's home. It's not the best, it's not the worst, and years from now, much like now from then, I'm sure I might miss this too.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Easton, Part I
If you are in my group of friends, you already celebrate the movie American Psycho. The movie is a very hilarious, and ominous satire about an 80's Wall Street Yuppie, who is just trying to 'fit in.' I was introduced to the movie, which stars Christian Bale as Patrick Bateman, and was immediately hooked. The catchy lines in it are somewhat offensive, and in the overall scheme of things, is really not a movie for everyone. I think that it takes a certain personality, a certain sense of humor to even understand the film.
After being somewhat obsessed with, now one of my favorite movies of all time, I decided after learning the majority of the lines and working on my best impression of Patrick Bateman, and even leaving dinner reservations under names like Clint Huxtable, and Marcus Halberstram, that I would read the book. I started and finished the book when I was still just growing hair on my chin, and couldn't get any on my chest. Generally books that are made into movies, the correlation between the two, is usually not recognizable, and the intent of the author and the screenplay writer are very different. Having seen the movie first, and then reading the book, by the wonderful Bret Easton Ellis, I was neither disappointed with the somewhat long reading, nor was I disappointed at the job that was done of the movie. Parts of the book were disgusting, and evening sickening or morose, but the entire book was so well written that even the most gut curdling parts were somewhat of a pleasure to read. Sick, I know.
I had almost forgotten how great and ingenious a writer like Ellis was, and when my sister offered up an Amazon purchase on her, I was stumped at what to read, and so asked for another book by Bret, that also had been made into a movie, which I only caught about the last 25 minutes of when my roommate, at the time, Charlie was watching it. It looked interesting, and I didn't fully understand it, but it had the cute guy from Dawson's Creek, as well as the lovely Jessica Biel, and quite possibly even lovelier Rosario Dawson, who the creek was not named after, but definitely could've been without any opposition.
The movie, which I caught just enough to now ruin my image of every character within the book, is called Rules of Attraction, and much like American Psycho, the screenwriter didn't find any reason to change the name of the movie from the book. I received the book, as somewhat of a surprise, because I had forgotten what book my sister was sending me, and even more of a surprise when I was told I had a package here waiting for me at our secluded base. I immediately picked up this book with a soft cover, and flipped quickly through the book that wasn't going to give any encyclopedia competition in girth, and yet still wouldn't even out one side of your coffee table if you needed it too. I read the first, um, chapter isn't the right word, but I'll use it anyways. The book really doesn't have a good place to stop. There are no chapters, just a name in all Capitals after a break in the page of maybe three enters, and then their little sliver of the story.
I'm halfway through the book on the first day that I've started to read it. The setting is again in the mid 80's and the main character, or at least I think the main character, is named Sean Bateman, and through certain clues, very few and far between, not to mention some clues in the already read American Psycho, it's not hard to surmise that Sean is Patrick Bateman's brother. The book however is not a perspective from a single narrators point of view like Ellis wrote in American Psycho, but in many different perspectives of these college individuals at Camden University, (in New Hampshire) and it's plot has been winding itself into a seemingly deeper and deeper love triangle, or octagon if you will.
Parts of the book, so far as I am only halfway through, have been as squeamish to me to read as parts in American Psycho, but the entire idea of different perspectives is so intriguing, and so intertwined that I haven't been able to put the book down since picking it up. Ellis has a real, realistic way of telling stories through every ones eyes. It's almost to real in some points. Everything that one person sees and perceives and says, is perceived entirely differently and said entirely differently by the next person, which is generally perceived based on the individuals own motives, and really brings to light the whole, hear what you want to hear point.
Though I am not complete with the book, based on my ideas already about Bret, I would suggest to anyone reading this, just to give it a try. It's very entertaining, and I know he has some kind of morale or ethical point, that will probably soon be revealed to me. Ellis' ideas are so fresh and new, and I'm not sure I've read any other writer that has the cockiness to start a book off with in the middle of a horribly well written sentence and, and... Also who throws in perspective from a french roommate of the main character, all in French? I'm sure there was something quizzical in what he was saying, but I don't speak, or read for that matter, that filthy pig latin.
When I'm done with this one, I will try and comment further.
Reading like I have a satyriasis for books
After being somewhat obsessed with, now one of my favorite movies of all time, I decided after learning the majority of the lines and working on my best impression of Patrick Bateman, and even leaving dinner reservations under names like Clint Huxtable, and Marcus Halberstram, that I would read the book. I started and finished the book when I was still just growing hair on my chin, and couldn't get any on my chest. Generally books that are made into movies, the correlation between the two, is usually not recognizable, and the intent of the author and the screenplay writer are very different. Having seen the movie first, and then reading the book, by the wonderful Bret Easton Ellis, I was neither disappointed with the somewhat long reading, nor was I disappointed at the job that was done of the movie. Parts of the book were disgusting, and evening sickening or morose, but the entire book was so well written that even the most gut curdling parts were somewhat of a pleasure to read. Sick, I know.
I had almost forgotten how great and ingenious a writer like Ellis was, and when my sister offered up an Amazon purchase on her, I was stumped at what to read, and so asked for another book by Bret, that also had been made into a movie, which I only caught about the last 25 minutes of when my roommate, at the time, Charlie was watching it. It looked interesting, and I didn't fully understand it, but it had the cute guy from Dawson's Creek, as well as the lovely Jessica Biel, and quite possibly even lovelier Rosario Dawson, who the creek was not named after, but definitely could've been without any opposition.
The movie, which I caught just enough to now ruin my image of every character within the book, is called Rules of Attraction, and much like American Psycho, the screenwriter didn't find any reason to change the name of the movie from the book. I received the book, as somewhat of a surprise, because I had forgotten what book my sister was sending me, and even more of a surprise when I was told I had a package here waiting for me at our secluded base. I immediately picked up this book with a soft cover, and flipped quickly through the book that wasn't going to give any encyclopedia competition in girth, and yet still wouldn't even out one side of your coffee table if you needed it too. I read the first, um, chapter isn't the right word, but I'll use it anyways. The book really doesn't have a good place to stop. There are no chapters, just a name in all Capitals after a break in the page of maybe three enters, and then their little sliver of the story.
I'm halfway through the book on the first day that I've started to read it. The setting is again in the mid 80's and the main character, or at least I think the main character, is named Sean Bateman, and through certain clues, very few and far between, not to mention some clues in the already read American Psycho, it's not hard to surmise that Sean is Patrick Bateman's brother. The book however is not a perspective from a single narrators point of view like Ellis wrote in American Psycho, but in many different perspectives of these college individuals at Camden University, (in New Hampshire) and it's plot has been winding itself into a seemingly deeper and deeper love triangle, or octagon if you will.
Parts of the book, so far as I am only halfway through, have been as squeamish to me to read as parts in American Psycho, but the entire idea of different perspectives is so intriguing, and so intertwined that I haven't been able to put the book down since picking it up. Ellis has a real, realistic way of telling stories through every ones eyes. It's almost to real in some points. Everything that one person sees and perceives and says, is perceived entirely differently and said entirely differently by the next person, which is generally perceived based on the individuals own motives, and really brings to light the whole, hear what you want to hear point.
Though I am not complete with the book, based on my ideas already about Bret, I would suggest to anyone reading this, just to give it a try. It's very entertaining, and I know he has some kind of morale or ethical point, that will probably soon be revealed to me. Ellis' ideas are so fresh and new, and I'm not sure I've read any other writer that has the cockiness to start a book off with in the middle of a horribly well written sentence and, and... Also who throws in perspective from a french roommate of the main character, all in French? I'm sure there was something quizzical in what he was saying, but I don't speak, or read for that matter, that filthy pig latin.
When I'm done with this one, I will try and comment further.
Reading like I have a satyriasis for books
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Dance of The Dead
July has been a very strange month here in Iraq. Quite possibly the strangest that the US and coalition forces have ever encountered. Movement and the well being of troops has been put to a stand still. The papers had announced that nearly all American troops are out of the major cities, and especially Baghdad. The Security Agreement that one of our Generals and Iraqi Government agreed on, was such action. Allowing the US to leave just enough troops within the city as advisers and as a quick reactionary force that could help the National and Iraqi Police out in the case of catastrophe. The other reserve troops would push outside of the cities and still stand by in case of even more chaos.
Other parts of the security agreement outlined that no combat troops were to remain within the cities, and any movement from coalition forces is to be conducted in non peak hours. The same such hours that you would only find yourself on grave shift. And yet another part of the agreement was to allow Iraqi law to govern over our own US military laws. They really have us by the balls at this point.
The morning that VI Day happened, (Victory in Iraq) I found myself downstairs with decorated Iraqi trucks and National Police dancing around. These individuals who we had been conducting joint patrols with over the last few months, had thought that we had left, or were leaving. They were a little bit disappointed. From an on the ground perspective, we figured, based on the viewing of the individuals we were working alongside; the National Police were in no way ready to assume control of this town. They seemed, unorganized, unmotivated, and in a huge part lazy. I mean these are people who don't even know where to dump their own trash and sewage. We weren't expecting a lot out of them.
We haven't done a lot of patrols since July 1st. Well he have barely done any. Two times, we have left our base since that day, which considering the 6 and a half months never having a day off, it seemed things were a wonderful shock. To be able to sleep in through the day, and not do really anything. Although the two times we did go out, twice, those brief missions that we ran, the slight glimpse of change that two weeks with no Americans sticking our nose in these peoples business, was simply unbelievable. The Iraqi's have not only beefed up the amount that they run patrols, but they have beefed up over all security. Checkpoints every 100 meters, and like some Roman legion, they have individuals standing every 10 feet as some kind of sentry. Simply amazing that the National Police have responded like this.
The National Police commanders are begging for us to leave. They feel insulted that we are here over looking their job. Those brief few glimpses of change that I saw in these last two weeks, has made one thing evidently clear. We do not need to be here. Not only are things so bad among morale, because cabin fever has most definitely set in, but we are restricted so much in movement now, that it makes it nearly impossible to resupply. One of our missions was to go and pick up mail from a larger base, that's still within the city, because we hadn't gotten any for three weeks. On top of that, the toiletries of most individuals were nearly out.
We can't blame everything necessarily on failure of the military to move out of the cities though. Places like FOB Loyalty, the nearest, big base to us, has failed to shut down due to the civilian contractors that are there. Because companies like KBR have signed contracts to stay at those bases until 2011, they are in disputes with out government trying to get just pay for the time that they were promised, and is now getting taken away from them. It's one big gaggle.
So where does all of this leave the boys of AT-4? the new Misfits? It leaves us bored. Extremely bored, fed up, and with a complete since of unimportance. We will go to whatever ends necessary to find something to entertain ourselves despite all of this. Our emotions run high, and we are mostly all of us are Alpha Males, which turns into us not getting along half the time. But since we have been around each other long enough, it's more or less like a brother-brother relationship than any real animosity towards each other.
But to really understand the Infantryman's mentality, I'm not even sure a scholar who hasn't been in the shoes could understand or explain. The aggression, and anxiety we have built up with the lack of ability to release it, leaves us in the dark in a lot of areas. The only thing that we've been able to do, is fight one another. Of course we are careful, and landing a few punches into each others face is quite exhilarating and fun. The Infantryman is a man that enjoys when the blood rushes hot up the back of your neck. Whenever there is a close call. We are somewhat of adrenaline junkies. We all jump out of airplanes at least. The only way I can really sum it up, is based on our sense of humor. As Danny would say, "I hope an EFP blows my head off, and is angled in such a way, that my teeth blow into Nelson's balls and bite them off." If you don't see the humor in that, well then you're probably not an Infantryman. And if you do, well then you understand our plight.
I'm Marty McDoogal, Signing Off
Other parts of the security agreement outlined that no combat troops were to remain within the cities, and any movement from coalition forces is to be conducted in non peak hours. The same such hours that you would only find yourself on grave shift. And yet another part of the agreement was to allow Iraqi law to govern over our own US military laws. They really have us by the balls at this point.
The morning that VI Day happened, (Victory in Iraq) I found myself downstairs with decorated Iraqi trucks and National Police dancing around. These individuals who we had been conducting joint patrols with over the last few months, had thought that we had left, or were leaving. They were a little bit disappointed. From an on the ground perspective, we figured, based on the viewing of the individuals we were working alongside; the National Police were in no way ready to assume control of this town. They seemed, unorganized, unmotivated, and in a huge part lazy. I mean these are people who don't even know where to dump their own trash and sewage. We weren't expecting a lot out of them.
We haven't done a lot of patrols since July 1st. Well he have barely done any. Two times, we have left our base since that day, which considering the 6 and a half months never having a day off, it seemed things were a wonderful shock. To be able to sleep in through the day, and not do really anything. Although the two times we did go out, twice, those brief missions that we ran, the slight glimpse of change that two weeks with no Americans sticking our nose in these peoples business, was simply unbelievable. The Iraqi's have not only beefed up the amount that they run patrols, but they have beefed up over all security. Checkpoints every 100 meters, and like some Roman legion, they have individuals standing every 10 feet as some kind of sentry. Simply amazing that the National Police have responded like this.
The National Police commanders are begging for us to leave. They feel insulted that we are here over looking their job. Those brief few glimpses of change that I saw in these last two weeks, has made one thing evidently clear. We do not need to be here. Not only are things so bad among morale, because cabin fever has most definitely set in, but we are restricted so much in movement now, that it makes it nearly impossible to resupply. One of our missions was to go and pick up mail from a larger base, that's still within the city, because we hadn't gotten any for three weeks. On top of that, the toiletries of most individuals were nearly out.
We can't blame everything necessarily on failure of the military to move out of the cities though. Places like FOB Loyalty, the nearest, big base to us, has failed to shut down due to the civilian contractors that are there. Because companies like KBR have signed contracts to stay at those bases until 2011, they are in disputes with out government trying to get just pay for the time that they were promised, and is now getting taken away from them. It's one big gaggle.
So where does all of this leave the boys of AT-4? the new Misfits? It leaves us bored. Extremely bored, fed up, and with a complete since of unimportance. We will go to whatever ends necessary to find something to entertain ourselves despite all of this. Our emotions run high, and we are mostly all of us are Alpha Males, which turns into us not getting along half the time. But since we have been around each other long enough, it's more or less like a brother-brother relationship than any real animosity towards each other.
But to really understand the Infantryman's mentality, I'm not even sure a scholar who hasn't been in the shoes could understand or explain. The aggression, and anxiety we have built up with the lack of ability to release it, leaves us in the dark in a lot of areas. The only thing that we've been able to do, is fight one another. Of course we are careful, and landing a few punches into each others face is quite exhilarating and fun. The Infantryman is a man that enjoys when the blood rushes hot up the back of your neck. Whenever there is a close call. We are somewhat of adrenaline junkies. We all jump out of airplanes at least. The only way I can really sum it up, is based on our sense of humor. As Danny would say, "I hope an EFP blows my head off, and is angled in such a way, that my teeth blow into Nelson's balls and bite them off." If you don't see the humor in that, well then you're probably not an Infantryman. And if you do, well then you understand our plight.
I'm Marty McDoogal, Signing Off
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Bored Days in Kamaliyah; Introduction: New Writer
I've allowed a new writer, who refuses to be identified, but goes by the surname Auvandril Broadsword, to give his creative genius a try on my blog post. I'm sure he hasn't quite completed high school, or even grammar school for that matter, so please do not be too harsh on his work. Enjoy. -Benson J Wright
Kamaliyah, some would argue that it's arabic root meaning is Flawless, others would argue that, that meaning is a lot deeper. Deeper in the since that it means Stronghold of Whores. Whatever the meaning actually is, I'm sure only philosophers of philanthropists or psychiatrists know. What it really means to us, is hell. Hell on earth.
It's not that the hot 'blonde' which we look at from just over a 2 iron away isn't a happy spot in our most boring guard shifts, or the fact that we patrol with lunatics who are just as bad as any of the criminals we go after. None of those things help or hurt our situation here. It's the constant attack of badgers and other small furry rodents, or in our case large ones that keep us awake at night. They test the perimeter of your fighting position without rest or fail. It's these bastards which scurry around that have the power to give you night terrors.
Occasionally, you find yourself dozing off while protecting the indigenous forces of the base, and you're near a perfect, peaceful slumber, when they attack. They are ballsy sons of bitches. Not even the Duke himself, or Chuck Norris could stand toe to toe with the courage that these shiesty little bastards have. Not only are the brave, but they are sneaky too. They take the bait right off of the over sized, undersized, and right sized traps that we lay for them. I once even wasted three magazines of ammunition and 2 grenades trying to kill one. Relentless these real enemies of AT 4 are.
You set down your beef jerky, or soft drink, and though you don't hear a sound, or even hear the distracting sound of one crawling above your head, playing his rap music and break dancing, the second you reach into your bag, you feel nothing. They've already gotten to it. Some elaborate mission impossible rats bastards. You go to take a sip of your sweet nectar of Mountain Dew, and behold, a surprise super ninja rat leaps at your face! The flamethrower and C4 is barely enough to get the S O B to let go of your face.
Some are worried about Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Devices. Some are scared that a rocket or mortar will hit them where they lay. Or a radical Muslim terrorist will run at them with a suicide vest, or possibly blasting an AK-47 or RPG. I'm not worried. That would be a blessing. A freedom away from the rat creatures that lurk on the fourth floor. I mean, they've even started to issue diapers for force pro up there, that's scary shit. I knew a guy who went face to face with one of these over sized muroidea. Before he took a vow of silence to work in a monastery, I think the same one Jet Li studied at, he told me when the reddish eyes rose from ground level to eye level with him, he knew his Scottish Claymore and Battle Axe were mere toys for this beast to bat away with its giant claws, and talons. Yes, these rats even have talons. Super hip and fly rats with talons and ninja type abilities. If you plan on coming to Iraq, hope you only run into terrorists, America.
-Auvandril Broadsword
Kamaliyah, some would argue that it's arabic root meaning is Flawless, others would argue that, that meaning is a lot deeper. Deeper in the since that it means Stronghold of Whores. Whatever the meaning actually is, I'm sure only philosophers of philanthropists or psychiatrists know. What it really means to us, is hell. Hell on earth.
It's not that the hot 'blonde' which we look at from just over a 2 iron away isn't a happy spot in our most boring guard shifts, or the fact that we patrol with lunatics who are just as bad as any of the criminals we go after. None of those things help or hurt our situation here. It's the constant attack of badgers and other small furry rodents, or in our case large ones that keep us awake at night. They test the perimeter of your fighting position without rest or fail. It's these bastards which scurry around that have the power to give you night terrors.
Occasionally, you find yourself dozing off while protecting the indigenous forces of the base, and you're near a perfect, peaceful slumber, when they attack. They are ballsy sons of bitches. Not even the Duke himself, or Chuck Norris could stand toe to toe with the courage that these shiesty little bastards have. Not only are the brave, but they are sneaky too. They take the bait right off of the over sized, undersized, and right sized traps that we lay for them. I once even wasted three magazines of ammunition and 2 grenades trying to kill one. Relentless these real enemies of AT 4 are.
You set down your beef jerky, or soft drink, and though you don't hear a sound, or even hear the distracting sound of one crawling above your head, playing his rap music and break dancing, the second you reach into your bag, you feel nothing. They've already gotten to it. Some elaborate mission impossible rats bastards. You go to take a sip of your sweet nectar of Mountain Dew, and behold, a surprise super ninja rat leaps at your face! The flamethrower and C4 is barely enough to get the S O B to let go of your face.
Some are worried about Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Devices. Some are scared that a rocket or mortar will hit them where they lay. Or a radical Muslim terrorist will run at them with a suicide vest, or possibly blasting an AK-47 or RPG. I'm not worried. That would be a blessing. A freedom away from the rat creatures that lurk on the fourth floor. I mean, they've even started to issue diapers for force pro up there, that's scary shit. I knew a guy who went face to face with one of these over sized muroidea. Before he took a vow of silence to work in a monastery, I think the same one Jet Li studied at, he told me when the reddish eyes rose from ground level to eye level with him, he knew his Scottish Claymore and Battle Axe were mere toys for this beast to bat away with its giant claws, and talons. Yes, these rats even have talons. Super hip and fly rats with talons and ninja type abilities. If you plan on coming to Iraq, hope you only run into terrorists, America.
-Auvandril Broadsword
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)