I have four pairs of jeans, but only ever wear two. I always try and relax with something smooth and jazzy, but end up playing the same soundtrack over and over to fall asleep. The chemical corp. lied to you all, or most likely just me. I make love to the long necked golden brown woman, and she helps me forget. She lays me down.
I try not to depend on her always for the help, but she comes in so many dresses, it's hard to resist my nightly temptress. All my friends love her, and she loves them too. The song repeats, or it all runs together and I'm not sure if I feel it anymore. With my mind she runs, and maybe I don't feel. It's consumed me, or I it, and it speaks for me, and with me. Another kiss on the lips and I'm closer to Valhalla, but with a little more peace.
I'll miss a week, or the next two from the caress. My mind will wander and wake, create and destroy. My fingers not working alone, but assist all together. Not striking or stroking the right keys. The wrong place for them to work, but all the right reasons to. I miss her during sleepless nights, but know she awaits, cold and pure. Her texture like sun.
Throughout the night, there's no need to fight. I've never had a frown with Ms. golden brown.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Royal Thoughts
I've thought of a million and one ways to write this blog. I still haven't found the right way, and perhaps that's due to being a little rusty. My first blog in a long time, and certainly not only warranted, but desperately needed. I have no outlet right now. My girlfriend I wish could understand what I would like to tell her, and close friends I who can relate... well sometimes it's to be understood and get the nod of "I know how you feel."- however this is for me.
You don't have to read this, and if you do my pride, my ego, my care is all gone. Taken, sucked out over the last three years of my life. I sit here, drinking a whiskey and 7up, hoping that it can help to numb the numb. Pain is gone and I hope it to return. I sit here in my cell block crossing more and more off of the list of happiness and freedoms that I look forward to, and realizing that I'm not me, and you're not you. I thought that being back for almost half a year I would still be in good spirits. Instead, I'm lying to myself, and to you all. I'm not happy, especially with who I am.
I try and blame it on myself and get a rise of motivation to change, but more and more that becomes impossible. I sit and think, and drink and realize more and more that it's not me. It's not me who's made my life extremely miserable. It's not me who's taken all the fun out of anything and everything I do. It's the constant crash of the Army wave on my shore, never allowing a re gripping of my soil and washing me further and further out into the sea. The sea of despair and utter hopelessness. I try and stay optimistic, but optimism turns quickly and unconsciously towards ignorance.
How long has it been since I've truly been happy? Not with relationships that have nothing to do with work, or in the so called 'honey-moon' of redeployment? A year of bullshit looking back had one thing going for it above this half a year in garrison. The prospect of dying. I know that sounds a little odd, but it gave you something worth living for. Life. With all the bullshit and the politics and the stupidity in Iraq at least we had our lives to look forward to. But this place, Fort Bragg, in the time and now, no threat of roadside bombs or snipers. What does it hold? What promise does it have? What wind can it blow into my sails and the other thousand miserable folks who endeavor the insufferable loins of this place? It holds nothing.
Firstly, the time taken away is constant. Enough time is devoted to work, that even if it were given to the highest maintenance wife, she would be sick of it. Early calls, and late nights only to be interrupted by the two precious days that are supposed to be called a weekend. Training and training and even more late work, and 24 hour duties and 3 am wake up calls, and last minute Saturday training or work, and this and that, and everything under your hat. It gets to a point that you get back to your 8x16 room and wonder if prison wouldn't be better- or at least as good as this.
The beer and the booze of Friday and Saturday nights doesn't seem to put a dent into the gut wrenching feelings that Sunday morning hangovers bring as you realize that it's your last day. Last day before the work week. Monday mornings are even worse and they come with anxiety attacks and sometimes vomit. You look around at everyone else coming in at the grueling morning hours, and they aren't just tired, they're miserable too. You try and just tell yourself that you're projecting, but you get to talking and no one is happy. No one wants to be here. No one wants to jump into the grinder everyday to get turned up and chucked out with not so much as even a thanks at the end of the day. We just get to hear the "I Love Me" speeches and the word Nigger inappropriately stated once or twice at 7pm on Friday evenings and then are expected not to drive drunk, or jump out of a fourth story window. Don't say I told you so when the next big shooting in America happens in a little place called 2 P.
I sit, drink and think-therapeutic. There was a time in my life that even though the work week was tough, even though it wasn't exactly what I wanted to do, I had hope. Something to look forward to. I had time away from this place. I had people I looked forward to seeing, even at work. I had pride in what I did, and certainly what those around me did. I could play the game, and get through a work day, drink a beer and have some laughs. I haven't laughed in a long time. Smiling is even more beyond reach. Pleasure has evaporated under the Army heat lamp. I'm not the only one affected. Not the only one burned out and hung up to dry. Am I more miserable than anyone else? Probably not. Has it put undue strain on my relationships inside and outside of work? Of course. The problem isn't recognizing their is a problem. The problem isn't even being able to recognize a solution-there is one. The problem is.... I'm writing to you
You don't have to read this, and if you do my pride, my ego, my care is all gone. Taken, sucked out over the last three years of my life. I sit here, drinking a whiskey and 7up, hoping that it can help to numb the numb. Pain is gone and I hope it to return. I sit here in my cell block crossing more and more off of the list of happiness and freedoms that I look forward to, and realizing that I'm not me, and you're not you. I thought that being back for almost half a year I would still be in good spirits. Instead, I'm lying to myself, and to you all. I'm not happy, especially with who I am.
I try and blame it on myself and get a rise of motivation to change, but more and more that becomes impossible. I sit and think, and drink and realize more and more that it's not me. It's not me who's made my life extremely miserable. It's not me who's taken all the fun out of anything and everything I do. It's the constant crash of the Army wave on my shore, never allowing a re gripping of my soil and washing me further and further out into the sea. The sea of despair and utter hopelessness. I try and stay optimistic, but optimism turns quickly and unconsciously towards ignorance.
How long has it been since I've truly been happy? Not with relationships that have nothing to do with work, or in the so called 'honey-moon' of redeployment? A year of bullshit looking back had one thing going for it above this half a year in garrison. The prospect of dying. I know that sounds a little odd, but it gave you something worth living for. Life. With all the bullshit and the politics and the stupidity in Iraq at least we had our lives to look forward to. But this place, Fort Bragg, in the time and now, no threat of roadside bombs or snipers. What does it hold? What promise does it have? What wind can it blow into my sails and the other thousand miserable folks who endeavor the insufferable loins of this place? It holds nothing.
Firstly, the time taken away is constant. Enough time is devoted to work, that even if it were given to the highest maintenance wife, she would be sick of it. Early calls, and late nights only to be interrupted by the two precious days that are supposed to be called a weekend. Training and training and even more late work, and 24 hour duties and 3 am wake up calls, and last minute Saturday training or work, and this and that, and everything under your hat. It gets to a point that you get back to your 8x16 room and wonder if prison wouldn't be better- or at least as good as this.
The beer and the booze of Friday and Saturday nights doesn't seem to put a dent into the gut wrenching feelings that Sunday morning hangovers bring as you realize that it's your last day. Last day before the work week. Monday mornings are even worse and they come with anxiety attacks and sometimes vomit. You look around at everyone else coming in at the grueling morning hours, and they aren't just tired, they're miserable too. You try and just tell yourself that you're projecting, but you get to talking and no one is happy. No one wants to be here. No one wants to jump into the grinder everyday to get turned up and chucked out with not so much as even a thanks at the end of the day. We just get to hear the "I Love Me" speeches and the word Nigger inappropriately stated once or twice at 7pm on Friday evenings and then are expected not to drive drunk, or jump out of a fourth story window. Don't say I told you so when the next big shooting in America happens in a little place called 2 P.
I sit, drink and think-therapeutic. There was a time in my life that even though the work week was tough, even though it wasn't exactly what I wanted to do, I had hope. Something to look forward to. I had time away from this place. I had people I looked forward to seeing, even at work. I had pride in what I did, and certainly what those around me did. I could play the game, and get through a work day, drink a beer and have some laughs. I haven't laughed in a long time. Smiling is even more beyond reach. Pleasure has evaporated under the Army heat lamp. I'm not the only one affected. Not the only one burned out and hung up to dry. Am I more miserable than anyone else? Probably not. Has it put undue strain on my relationships inside and outside of work? Of course. The problem isn't recognizing their is a problem. The problem isn't even being able to recognize a solution-there is one. The problem is.... I'm writing to you
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Back On The Warpath...
I wake up and go to work before 6 am every morning. Though I don't need to be there till 6:30 and even that is debatable. I live with those I work with, and the 2 minute walk is good on the gas tank. I run, do sit-ups, push-ups and pull-ups everyday, rain or shine, hot or cold. We play the 'game' of tough guy, and dawn the t-shirts and shorts in freezing weather. We get the mental torture that might be faced in any other job, but only slightly worse and for a long period of time. We do a lot for the little pay we make, and even that is stolen away from us with everyone pocket picking government program. We jump from planes, stand in formation, clean the already cleaned, and wait for the word endlessly. We complain, but for good measure. We always have the weekends to look forward to. We look forward to the promises. Made to be broken in most cases. Strike that, all cases.
Yet another day rolls along here in 2 Panther, the worlds greatest battalion of paratroopers. It might have been this way long ago. When words like honor and integrity still meant something. Now it's an institute of the selfish and the greedy. Pimps and politicians with nothing more than to gambit the mental psychy of those who 'have to' follow them. The wicked men who show hope to those already suffering under their whips. They shade the light of hope whenever it seems to be brightest. And without remorse.
Saturday there is going to be a memorial service for our fallen comrades in Iraq. A day, time, I would without question give up. They are owed it. Especially from those who are responsible. Z. War is full of hardships, and death is one of them. Harder to digest when it shouldn't have happened, or didn't have to happen. But I don't think I could point to a war exempt from this small factotum. We owe Bauer and Davis this time. I will give it to them. But the manner in which I'm being 'asked' or 'told' to go on with the days, the money donations, and the possible thievery, leads me to think SCAM.
It seems everyday there is a something you can buy to help make a donation to this wonderful cause. Even though no one will tell you that buying such things will be a donation, we came to learn a few weeks after having all of these items shoved down our throats, that the proceeds were supposedly going to a good cause. The families of the lost 2 Panther brethren. It only came up, after a battalion wide meeting, where the Z-man informed us that people had been calling the Inspector General about him (100 plus calls). He told us, in a seeming last ditch effort that the profits were going to the Gold Star families, as well as cutting down the costs of our ticket to the Battalion Ball. A non-mandatory function that is being made mandatory. Not everyone is so enthralled with the cohesion within this unit, and hopefully the stink about going was a bright enough sign to those above.
The $15 dollar t-shirt, $35 dollar deployment poster, $20 dollar ball ticket, and the many small donation-raffle-tickets made mandatory or else no one gets off work were all bought up, and if I could genuinely believe that the man at the top who I've come to known so well as a liar actually cared at all for these people this money is supposedly going to help; I could feel better about spending the dough. But I can't, and no one else can. He's the same empty promiser that we've had the last two years. Self absorbed and even more selfish than before. His preaches about pushing rocks with blocking and tackling, and leading from the front we've all seen as the propaganda that any good prom queen would use. He continues to out do himself even as his term comes to close with this place.
Like I said before, I have no problem with giving up my time to say one last goodbye to a friend, a brother and a hell of a non-commissioned officer. I don't even have a problem with it being on a Saturday. And if I had believed from the get-go that I still was going to come into work on Monday, I would've been fine with that too. But here's where the lying, the shimmer of hope, and the quenching of the fire all comes into play. But in the 'put that on your youtube' speech that was supposed to the minds of the anti-ballers, a promise was made. That because our 'off' time is valuable- Monday would be a day off. Half a week later, and this Z-guy has broken yet another promise. Something I definitely would like to put on youtube.
What if during the span of your life, at work, or at home, the second you got happy. The second a smile ripped across your face, and you could laugh not just because of the irony; What if there was someone there to pull your hair and kick you in the nuts. Tell you your dog died. Someone who was there to make you feel like shit, and force regret into your life. Knock you on your knees and force you to submit.
Some call that hell... We just call it the eighty-deuce
Yet another day rolls along here in 2 Panther, the worlds greatest battalion of paratroopers. It might have been this way long ago. When words like honor and integrity still meant something. Now it's an institute of the selfish and the greedy. Pimps and politicians with nothing more than to gambit the mental psychy of those who 'have to' follow them. The wicked men who show hope to those already suffering under their whips. They shade the light of hope whenever it seems to be brightest. And without remorse.
Saturday there is going to be a memorial service for our fallen comrades in Iraq. A day, time, I would without question give up. They are owed it. Especially from those who are responsible. Z. War is full of hardships, and death is one of them. Harder to digest when it shouldn't have happened, or didn't have to happen. But I don't think I could point to a war exempt from this small factotum. We owe Bauer and Davis this time. I will give it to them. But the manner in which I'm being 'asked' or 'told' to go on with the days, the money donations, and the possible thievery, leads me to think SCAM.
It seems everyday there is a something you can buy to help make a donation to this wonderful cause. Even though no one will tell you that buying such things will be a donation, we came to learn a few weeks after having all of these items shoved down our throats, that the proceeds were supposedly going to a good cause. The families of the lost 2 Panther brethren. It only came up, after a battalion wide meeting, where the Z-man informed us that people had been calling the Inspector General about him (100 plus calls). He told us, in a seeming last ditch effort that the profits were going to the Gold Star families, as well as cutting down the costs of our ticket to the Battalion Ball. A non-mandatory function that is being made mandatory. Not everyone is so enthralled with the cohesion within this unit, and hopefully the stink about going was a bright enough sign to those above.
The $15 dollar t-shirt, $35 dollar deployment poster, $20 dollar ball ticket, and the many small donation-raffle-tickets made mandatory or else no one gets off work were all bought up, and if I could genuinely believe that the man at the top who I've come to known so well as a liar actually cared at all for these people this money is supposedly going to help; I could feel better about spending the dough. But I can't, and no one else can. He's the same empty promiser that we've had the last two years. Self absorbed and even more selfish than before. His preaches about pushing rocks with blocking and tackling, and leading from the front we've all seen as the propaganda that any good prom queen would use. He continues to out do himself even as his term comes to close with this place.
Like I said before, I have no problem with giving up my time to say one last goodbye to a friend, a brother and a hell of a non-commissioned officer. I don't even have a problem with it being on a Saturday. And if I had believed from the get-go that I still was going to come into work on Monday, I would've been fine with that too. But here's where the lying, the shimmer of hope, and the quenching of the fire all comes into play. But in the 'put that on your youtube' speech that was supposed to the minds of the anti-ballers, a promise was made. That because our 'off' time is valuable- Monday would be a day off. Half a week later, and this Z-guy has broken yet another promise. Something I definitely would like to put on youtube.
What if during the span of your life, at work, or at home, the second you got happy. The second a smile ripped across your face, and you could laugh not just because of the irony; What if there was someone there to pull your hair and kick you in the nuts. Tell you your dog died. Someone who was there to make you feel like shit, and force regret into your life. Knock you on your knees and force you to submit.
Some call that hell... We just call it the eighty-deuce
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