On the way north

Weather said we’d have some snow. None showed, but the winds were here. The clouds and storm whisked their way north, pushing through the capital.

The clouds were low, very low. It was distracting while driving. They seemed to skim the tops of the trees, swirling.

They held just enough menace—just enough darkness that they leeched the light from the day. Above us were daubs of gray, haloed by whiter gray. The sun shone through in abrupt, small columns as the broken clouds swirled and mixed.

It seemed at any moment the sky would lay siege to our city and begin the snow. It never came. Only the winds.

In our apartment the winds buffet the tower with incredible force. Things billow so strongly, that our plate-glass windows bow and creak with each gust. At night, seeing the reflection compress and expand is very interesting. I’m waiting for one particularly strong iteration to just snap and shatter the thing. Hopefully I’m not typing on my computer as that happens. Shards of glass sailing through my face isn’t the most amazing and exciting thing, I’d imagine.

###

Tuesday Bible studies

Trippy, man.

There are two lunchtime get-togethers that the chaplain at my school holds for staff and students–Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Chaplains in the military, while clergy, serve more of a counselor role. While said Bible studies do revolve around, well, the Christian Bible, since there is a very diverse and varied crowd at the school (and in all of the military, for that matter), things aren’t so much out-and-out Christian as they are contemplative and spiritual.

Which is fine by me. I’m in an, lets say “interesting,” phase with regards to organized religion. I remember a study that Uber peep Santino used during the early days of Flannel, the film company I was with ages ago. The study was from The Barna Group, a very respected research group that focuses on a lot of religious statistical data. Anyway, the statement that became our rallying cry was:

By the year 2010, more than 100 million Americans will look elsewhere than church for spiritual direction.

Thus, Nooma was born as a way to reach those fleeing the church scene.

So, fast forward seven years, and here we are. Every Tuesday, the chaplain shows a Nooma to the attendees at a military school in Maryland. The things are everywhere, actually. I ran into them a bit in Iraq as well. Crazy, how things grow, eh?

Regardless, seeing them highlighted at the school definitely caught my attention. I had gone to the studies off and on before. There was always pizza and soda and the conversations were usually amicable and thought provoking. I liked ‘em.

What’s trippy, though, is seeing people watch these movies and then talk about them afterwards.

I imagine authors go through the same experience when they hear other people discussing their books. “What the author meant during this passage was…” And I’m just experiencing the oddity by proxy, as the current Flannel staff actually has direct creative links to the products–I’m just observing.

People derive some strange conclusions about things! It’s usually all harmless critique and speculation. I sit and sip my soda most days. Every once in a while I clear up something–whether someone misunderstands the topic, Rob (the speaker), or was unclear why the filmmakers did such-n-such.

And who the heck am I to do that, even? How do I know exactly what was meant?

The whole things just weirds me out. Luckily, all the various interpretations–what is meant by certain facts, symbols, scenes, whatever–typically is spun in a kindly God way (just have faith, just love, etc.), but it makes me wonder…

…just how much would Paul and some of the believed authors of the Christian Letters think about some of the interpretations of Scripture? Especially as the political and cultural contexts of the texts are largely ignored.

And it takes me back to some of my training during Bible college. Do authors determine the meaning of a text (what did the person writing mean)? Do readers (what do people glean from it)? Or does the text itself become sanitized and, somehow, transcend human influence (general knowledge, a symbol, devoid of context)?

Regardless. Tuesday Bible studies. Trippy.

###

Snapshots of three days

Misspent youth. Misspent time. Misspent love.

There are no shortages of laments and confessions, half muttered to ourselves and to God, labeling a period of misspent time as such, on the hopes of somehow reclaiming it.

More video games? Are you serious?

***

Friday was briefing day. A chance for staff to get in required training. Like all military organization days, this event was to A) instill esprit de corps, and B) prime the sexual pumps.

You saw it in the suits, skirts, and sweaters. You smelled it in the cologne and perfume. Civilian clothes were authorized. Hair down. Hats off.

You and me, babe–how ’bout it?

I sported a huge, puffy turtleneck. I felt that the four-inch thick wool would add a hedge of protection against the ogling. No avail. I got three “Ooooh, muscles!” as the day progressed. The sweater had inadvertently added heft to my torso. Blast!

Go chew on some ice!

***

Friday night was the annual holiday party. Up at the Hilton–snazzy. Good food. Open bar. I went DD.

“Seriously?” one of the party organizers asked in an email, after putting out a message asking to know who wasn’t going to drink.

“Yes, I need a DD badge for the night.”

“No, wait–seriously?” she said, with three question marks. I was expected to perform, I gather.

“Yes, thanks,” I replied, with one period.

I went to a Christian college, full of rules. There were several prohibitive stipulations about alcohol. From those came this strange series of social pastimes involving some cats going to parties with alcohol on purpose, just to “watch the drunk people.” And laugh, they’d add. “Let’s go laugh at the drunk people!”

I never understood the attraction to that, particularly. At best, it’s slapstick. At worst, it’s derisive.

So, no, I didn’t DD for that. Roommate Adrian and Roommate Girlfriend Sarah wanted to tank out, and I, my years of ‘morning afters’ far in the past, was happy to oblige.

Through the evening, the air grew thick with drunk talk like accumulating smoke above a poker table. Drunk breath too, there was, and less of personal space as men leaned in to speak.

“Suit. Shoes. Where?”

“Sale.” “Internet.” “Mall.”

“I love you, man!”

“You’re the bestest eva!”

DDs got free soda after the open bar closed–a reward for practicing Utilitarianists. Mmmm, yes, I liked.

“Diet coke, please.” No flavor needed. I was numb from protocol. Caffeine was what I needed to nurse me through.

“That will be–” the bartender began to list a price, but stopped as I pulled up my sleeve to reveal the rainbow-colored bracelet that marked me as a DD. Not, however, to identify me as homosexual, as you might have originally guessed after the mention of rainbows. I know, such are the times.

“Oh, honey! That’s great,” the bartender said. “Here you go!”

My diet coke was delivered with a smile and a napkin. Unfortunately it was also delivered with only three fluid ounces. Paris, please tell your dad to let them give me more coke. (*hint* Hilton hotel, for those reading this post among office distractions)

Returning to my table, I took two sips of the briny artificially sugared chemical and set down the empty glass.

No Virginia, there was no Santa Claus. Only me, stone sober. Merry Christmas.

***

Shitake mushrooms have a lot of body. You chew through them like you do through beef. And they have a sort of acidic musk. Earthy, biting. Useful in small quantities, but a little domineering in larger amounts.

The recipe called for six of the jokers. I’m not a huge fungus fan. Anything that can grow on sh*t in the dark and drops “spores” is not high on my list of things to eat.

Still, Shitake is a taste not easily removed from a meal’s particular pantheon, so I bought ‘em.

Yep, there was that smell. I wrenched the stems from the caps after soaking. It was on my fingers, in my nose, seeping into my brain.

The dish turned out fine, but I still can’t shake the lingering aroma of those blasted mushrooms. I had to give most of mine to Adrian. They were alright, but, again, very meaty. I’ll stick with meat for that.

###

Broke ground

I broke ground on the book.

It’s official. I’m still learning the ins and outs of the software I’m using, so it may take me some more dabbling, but the walk has begun.

Insha’Allah I’ll have the drive to stick with it until the end.

It’s fiction, and not without some lofty goals–poignant, timely, accessible and not preachy. It will reek of “first novel” like all the rest, but it will be mine.

If anything, regardless of the quality of the harvest, I’ll learn a thing or two about writing during the process. It should be fun. In my quest to sample as many bits of life as I can, “Yeah, I wrote a book once,” will be one I keep close, partly because of the time it will take to earn said bit, and partly because most people never try to write past page one.

###

Teddy bears = evil

I read the news every day. It’s part of my gig–teaching journalism. So, one follows the other.

Normally I steer clear of political blog entanglements. There are thousands of alternative blogs that argue far more persuasive cases than I can usually muster. Still, there can come a story that stabs my ire enough to respond.

Are you following this whole Sudanese Teddy bear scandal?

In case not, a woman recently moved from her home in the UK to Sudan, so that she could teach and help children. As a teaching tool, she decided to bring in a Teddy bear to teach the children about animals, their habits and their habitats. The idea was that the children could take turns taking the bear home and writing down his activities in a little journal.

Kind of cute; kind of fun.

She decided the bear should have a name, and she asked the children to name the bear.

The children picked Muhammad.

Why? We don’t know, it’s what the children wanted. We can perhaps surmise why due to the fact that it is argued to be the most popular name in the world, when including its 14 different spellings. It’s so prevalent in Muslim countries that men are referred to as “Muhammad” when their real names aren’t known–sort of like a general “that guy” reference. Thus, it probably was on the children’s minds. And why not?

The teacher went with it, put the bear’s name on a little journal that the children would take home, and continued teaching.

Some Sudanese parents saw the journal, reported her, and she was arrested and convicted of blasphemy and inciting hatred. A sentence for crimes of that caliber can carry with it a year’s prison term and 40 lashes, though after cooler heads started to intervene, the more serious “inciting hatred” charge was dropped, and the sentence whittled down to 15 days.

The big poke in the eye, apparently, is that it is a serious offense to name something unworthy after the Prophet. Okay, I understand that. I can see how, in Western countries, if people started naming their kids or dogs or cars “God” or “the Christ”, it could create a few raised eyebrows.

The schism from rational thought, however, is in the fact that these Western countries wouldn’t throw people in jail or lash them in public.

The response from some reported 1,000 Sudanese people who came running out of Mosques after Friday’s prayers, (where none of that “inciting hatred” was taking place, I’m sure) was for men to wave swords and sticks, chanting that “By soul, by blood, I will fight for the Prophet Muhammad.” Moreover, some began calling for the teacher’s execution, claiming that she was polluting the children’s minds and that she was an “infidel.”

Really? Kill her? Burn the world to the ground? A Teddy bear is cause for jihad?

Now, Danish political cartoons that insult the Prophet (remember that?)? I can understand why millions need to be slaughtered for that (editor’s note: sarcasm). But, really, the Teddy bear?

If memory serves, the children named the thing. Why aren’t they on trial for blasphemy? Why aren’t their heads being carved off and paraded around? They’re Muslims, they need to be aware at how world-ending this decision of theirs was.

The whole thing just blows my damn mind. I hope and pray officials can get this woman out of Sudan before mobs dismember the 54-year old and bathe in her blood to avenge the monumental insult.

How about we get another Teddy bear and name it “Jesus Christ”? I promise I won’t organize a movement to murder any Sudanese. In fact, I’ll buy the bear and embroider the name on it myself if it would save lives.

Yikes, forgive much?

###

lull before closing

There’s a specific chill that I dig. It follows show’s high point. People start to leave. Couples take the coats from off the back of chairs. There’s a low, stated reminder to tip the barkeepers. The artists are still on stage—the set’s not done. And there isn’t some big encore planned—not like some special prize for those who stick it out. Things trail off, musically. Low notes lilt softer into the cooling air like the final sparks thrown from a smoldering fire.

It’s in the moment before the end that I think the real in people shows up. You know? The show is pretty much over. The energy has been spent. Fans have either been made or people have checked out. There’s nothing to be gained from a flashy finish. Things are wrapping up.

It’s a comfortable time.

I liken it to the ride back from a dinner out with someone. There’s not much to be said. And that’s okay. If someone sticks it out in the quiet, they’re there for sure. There’s a friend, I’d say—a partner. They’re not looking to be impressed. They’re not expecting to be entertained.

The comfortable lull’s arrival can’t be rushed. It’s really just a genuine moment that blossoms out of all the noise. And it’s a nice change, I think.

###

Hard to shake loose

I was uploading some pictures of Iraq for some students in class. I started hashing through them all, putting captions up on some of them.

I stopped part way through, mostly because it was taking a damn long time, but also because I started remembering being there. Not that it was the typical nightmarish, post traumatic stress sort of thing, but I remembered walking down the paths between our buildings. I could see myself there.

I remember how the ground felt on certain nights…how the weather was on some missions.

Pretty freaky, actually. It’s weird how well we remember some things—even distant things, isn’t it?

I mean, I can look back at growing up and recall aspects of my time in Maryland with crystal clarity; but then go forward to my senior year of high school, in a new town, and only have fuzzy recollections.

Iraq for me was nearly two years ago, but I can bring it back to mind in a second. Shouldn’t I be moving past all that? Strange stuff.

The grit in between the sidewalk tiles. The alien smell of grass around the chapel (contrasting the typical chalky mud aroma of Iraq). The cables propping up the communication antenna. The shells of buildings.  It’s all there, like it was a few weeks ago.

###

Happy T-day

Happy Thanksgiving!

I’m with some of Roommate Adrian’s family up in Philly. We’re about to chow down and I thought I’d pipe in and give a wave to the blogosphere.

Be good!

###

Completely powerless

I went to a funeral this weekend.

A coworker’s wife passed died. She had been struggling with a kidney condition for years. I’d see this friend of mine go in and out of work when there’d be a spell of illness.

She passed a few days ago and the ceremony was this weekend. A few of us from work attended the service.

I just sat there.

In moments like that I really have no idea what to say. And I think that’s alright. Any of us are hardly expected to “fix” the grief with a cutesy saying or religious cliche.

I’m someone who enjoys laughter—who enjoys making people laugh. In situations with loss, I’m completely out of my element. I just stop. Time just stops. Everything stops. And there it is—a feeling of stillness, where all of life’s static slows and fades and what’s left is a genuine moment of vulnerability.

A man lost his wife. Children lost their mother.

Even in the receiving line afterwards, when I came face to face with this woman’s children, tears filling their eyes, I almost felt ashamed that I didn’t know more about her. I think I managed to choke out a well meant “God be with you,” but I still felt like I was intruding. It’s so strange how funerals seem to be less for the grieving family and more to help attendees feel better—like if I just put in my time at the service, say my phrase about God and his will, then I can go joke about something else in the parking lot.

Things like funerals hit me to the core. I know it’s unhealthy to dwell on someone’s pain. The world is full of it. There’d never be time for anything else. But at the same time, even with a friend and coworker, I wish I could have done more than just attend a service.

I’m still thinking about it. I’ll pray.

###

When the time comes…

In day-to-day conversation, the topic of staying in or getting out of the military often comes up.

Usually, military guys chat about places they’ve been, experiences they’ve had, etc. The memories can be good or bad, which lets loose a venting of enthusiasm or criticism, depending on the person, and the culminating apologetic thrust, highlighting the reason why a person is staying or leaving the military.

For me? I’m out, 100 percent. Of the Army, at least. When this point is reached, it often draws raised eyebrows.

“Really? But you…” and then come the few usual responses. And I’m very thankful and appreciative of those who think I do a good job, that I’m a good soldier, whatever. I’d never think to poo-poo on someone’s compliment.

“Yeah, but it’s just not for me,” is usually how I wrap things up. I talk about how I’m a restless soul–how I need change in my life, and how it’s almost time to move past the military chapter of my life.

Truth is, the Army has leeched out every last whiff of enthusiasm from me, and has taken a good chunk of patriotism as well.

I don’t mean that in any bitter sense. And I don’t want to be someone who starts wailing on and on. But I’ve seen a lot of unfortunate circumstances. I see a lot more colors than red, white and blue now. I know people who could tell you some crazy stories about mismanagement, corruption, whatever. It all piles up in a heaping tower of crap that rains down on occasion and makes me cynically shrug my shoulders and say “Yeah…figures” whenever something crazy, disheartening or outright criminal makes the news in regard to national policy, military goings on, or theaters of operation.

The whole thing makes me shake my head and furrow my brow. And I’ve been doing that for so long that I add an eyes-roll in now and then, for emphasis.

So, when the time comes, when the Army finally lets me go (barring any additional stop-loss games), I’ll be looking for work.

One idea was to continue in the governmental vein with something like the State Department, working as a foreign service officer. Roommate Adrian got me turned on to that and it did seem neat. But the recent firestorm concerning U.S. diplomats who pitched a fit over the possibility of serving in Iraq makes me do the head shake/brow furrow thing again.

For those not following…diplomats are needed in Iraq. Normally, the State Department asks for volunteers, offering generous incentives for those willing to go. However, no one is volunteering, so the State Department is looking at ordering some to go.

Naturally, the diplomats went snake sh*t and many applauded concerns raised by Jack Croddy, a senior foreign service officer, that sending the diplomats was a “potential death sentence.” They griped that many of them had children, and that it was beyond the pale for a country to ask men and women to serve in areas where they might have to sacrifice time away from family.

“It’s one thing if someone believes in what’s going on over there and volunteers, but it’s another thing to send someone over there on a forced assignment,” Croddy said. “I’m sorry, but basically that’s a potential death sentence and you know it. Who will raise our children if we are dead or seriously wounded?”

Indeed, Mr. Croddy.

I don’t even want to get in to a response, there are plenty of others doing that.

What this gentleman did point out to me, was that I was naive and stupid to think much of the corruption, selfishness, mediocraty and blind ambition that soured my enthusiasm for military service would never also be present in other aspects of government.

And, please, give me credit. It wasn’t just Mr. Croddy that drove me to such extremes. I’ve heard a great deal of stories from a great deal of people in and out of government all throughout my life, with candid conversations about ridiculous situations.

Maybe civil service is not for me at all. I strongly wish to serve–I’m fourth generation enlisted for God’s sake; but, more and more, I’m not so sure about sticking around.

“Good riddance,” some will say when I leave, I’m sure. And that’s fine. I pray for them the best.

###

The autumn woodline

Running with a huff huff huff. Pat pat pat as my feet touch the path I have in the evenings.

As my routine persists, the seasons change. Now there’s scarcely sun in my time about.

There’s a field I pass, usually alight with sun and breeze, yet is a tad more somber lately.

The evening has come to the woods in my time, running. The sun withdraws as I make my rounds.

I’ve noticed the night is a tide that seems to seep from the earth. Daylight dims, leaving naught but the darkness to rule over the forest. The shadow starts at the base of the trees and spreads. Evening is like a vertical tide that slides up the lines of the wood’s edge, slowly saturating the entire forest in shadow. So too does the evening leech out from the forrest’s interior. It grows while the sun hangs low and joins the slow march of night as time tarries.

There’s a largely serious timbre to the woods in autumn twilight. There are no cheerful birdsongs. No buzzing of insects, even. It is as if the whole of the woods holds its breath for the return of the sun–the last measure of comfort in the colder atmosphere.

And yet, as winter approaches, the sun continues to spend less time in the path of the woods.

It’s too bad, but the forest knows the cycle–winter has come this way before. So I don’t make any apologies for the season. I’ll continue to watch the evening’s approach during my runs.

###

Today that was

Today happened.

It happened as it did. We all acted as we were to have. Now we wait until tomorrow to begin again.

There’s a terrible finality to reality, isn’t there? As moments approach and are upon us, there is just one chance to act—whether nobly or ignobly, and mold the shape of the day.

As acts and events transpire, they are forever.

Once the day is over, that’s it. No amount of wishing can change it. No amount of praying can alter how every one of us reacted through the day.

Though we do wonder if things could have been different, don’t we? I’m not just speaking of woolgathering, but of a careful, contemplative examination of “ifs” that we might have visited. Through which would have emerged a grander reality, we surmise—a “better” day. Although we might not take on this review of history until long years hence, the idea is there—that one day, we might look back at this very moment and wish we had been doing something different.

The “what if” game gets tiresome, however. Today was. It was willed. It transpired. It is finished.

Michelangelo gave an interesting quote toward the whole notion of something that just “was.” The pope was visiting him as he sculpted his famous statue, “David.” The pope asked, “How do you know which bits to chip away?” Michelangelo replied, “I just take away the parts that don’t look like David.”

You see? He looked at a slab of marble and already saw David in there. He, in essence, was freeing the sculpture of David from the prison of the remaining stone. That slab of marble was destined to become David, through a willed and deliberate act of chiseling.

There’s a strange phenomenon in quantum physics called quantum decoherence. The idea goes, in so much as a non-scientist can put it, that certain particles won’t decide how to behave unless there is a conscious observer present. Without the observer watching, the particles don’t have a purpose. When the observer enters the system, the particles make up their minds as to how to act.

So, in other words, if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, there is no tree and there is no forest.

When people enter into the day—today, and even tomorrow if we’re lucky, the world comes into focus. People live out their lives and give purpose to creation. All of the randomness of “could haves” and “might bes” decohere into reality as each of us steps into the next second and notices the arrangement of matter and energy around us. We then make conscious action, willful manipulation of that matter and energy, to live and interact with the other eternal souls around us.

Haven’t you thought it strange that life is this constant flux? There is no static state. It is like a rushing river.

God, the first and ultimate observer, looked at what would become the universe. He, through conscious action, willed the order of things, taking the chaos and decohering it into its structure.

We act in similar ways on much smaller scales, but the finality of our actions are potent, nonetheless. Some things can’t be unseen. Some things can’t be unheard. There is a terrible power in the act of living, giving an ultimate end to every finite moment. The fact that we can spread love or hate is further witness to our inherited condition.

The Scriptures say to let every minute be a living sacrifice to God—that every moment has in it the potential for a finality involving goodness and grace; be it through small acts or large. Heaven is brought to earth in love and compassion. Contrariwise, Hell is ushered in through selfishness and hate.

Some Rabbis said that God’s name, YHWH, is the sound of breathing—inhaling and exhaling…and that in our very breath, we’re whispering the name of God as a reminder to our purpose.

Tomorrow’s almost here.

###

Salmons-flavored poetry

I found a very old notebook of mine (very old as in all of seven years). Some years are longer than others, as I often say, and those few have been nuts.

For example…seven years ago I was a college student at a private Christian University, full of ideals, ideas and a general sass. I was a communication major, having recently arrived from a junior college in Kentucky. I was actually exiting my poetic phase—having done the whole “teenage angst, set to prose” bit, and was about to begin the blackout years where I didn’t write much of anything.

So I was surprised when I noticed this raggedy, mashed thing. I figured, “Why not post a couple?”

I’ve included a couple about winter to mess with Uber peeps Adrian and Sarah. Haters. Hooray cold weather!

Ode to non-nature

I do not mix with nature
It does not take me in
I deplore its dusty trappings
And they gladly wash from me

At last, to autumn!

O autumn breeze, you are a wond’rous thing!
That men in hours long and hard
can find cool comfort in your arms.
And I, for one, enjoy the cold,
that your evening whispers hold.

Watching distant campus path lights

Small beads of light burn brightly there
They light the way and light the stair
They wink in turn when passers-by
walk from chapel’s steeple high

And one for winter

The lake holds its breath
in a crystal mirror of the land

The trees undress for winter
and drop notes for my attention

The wind reserves its sprints for brighter days
—warmer days

As now a mere whisper of the cold
draws out a curse

The branches sway in autumn
Are they ashamed? Standing naked?

Do they drift to sleep, their gowns released?
Free at last, to rest?

Ha! Funny stuff.

###

Beginning to stabilize

Ahhh, I’m finally starting to settle into a routine.

The apartment has been lived in for nearly two months. Morning rituals are set. I rise at nearly the same moment every day. Roommate Adrian’s cat does her “pounce on my feet” thing every morning once my radio sounds. Cute.

There’s a rhythm at work. Class in the morning, lunch, grading in the afternoon.

After arriving home in early evening, there’s the run/weight thing for an hour/hour thirty. Then more grading until 10-ish. Then the free time before bed.

For as hopelessly impulsive as I am, I find a lot of comfort in routine. Not that I’m a glutton for excessive work loads, but if there’s a general pattern of tasks and time, I grow at ease, knowing what to expect during the days. It’s how I got through Iraq with its seven-days-a-week schedule, and even how I got through Hood with the “we expect you here at night and weekends” approach. Getting a groove helps a lot.

When things like new mandatory PT hours at work come into play, I’m surprised at how frustrated I get, having been removed from my normal pattern. I never saw myself as one of those OCD types, but I might have more of that in my makeup than I’d originally thought.

I don’t sweat small, temporary changes, but I’m not a fan of larger mix-ups—things like moving, daylight savings time (make me run in the dark…thanks America), etc.

Also adding to my general serenity is my growing comfort with the paperwork side of work. I’m obviously not as quick as many of my coworkers, but I hope I’ll shave some time off of my evenings for the occasional weeknight out. I still haven’t experienced the full-bore blast of grading our “feature” assignments, where students turn in exceptionally long stories. I’m sure there will be some later nights, but I’ll get those times down too. Just practice, I’d imagine.

So maybe it’s the muscle relaxers talking (fyi, trying to “max” on a Nautilus machine just tears muscle), but I’m definitely feeling the calm, healing light of the universe and all that crap.

P.S. Here’s “the picture” that Roommate Adrian was kind enough to fire off to the entire office.

Why Salmons isn’t going to heaven

Hrmm…might have something to do with:

(1) A Halloween party
(2) Drinking beer with Jesus
(3) Being dressed as a trans-gender monk

Yes, well, there you have it. I haven’t the heart to say any more.

###

Seeing not red

The red vibe wasn’t doing it for me. Enjoy the switch!

###

Prepared conversations

Do you ever have conversations in your head?

As a kid I used to make up scenes and play them out all of the time. Sometimes they’d be centered around school, with me as the guy not being teased, or some other empowering bit. Sometimes they’d be fantastical, sci-fi or some such. Maybe they’d play off of a movie—so that it would end in the way I wanted it.

The routines could get quite lengthy. I’d keep myself up at night, working through a climactic bit. I wasn’t always necessarily the hero of the story, but I was there. It was fun to invent stories. I’d get carried away an exaggerate a lot as a kid.

Later, when I was working in a Maryland public library at 15, I’d spend whole days not talking. To keep my mind occupied, I began to author whole worlds in my head. The idea was to develop them into full-fledged stories later on.

The unhealthy part of the whole practice is inventing everyday conversations that don’t happen. I could see myself doing this more and more back when I was in Texas and didn’t have many people to talk to. It was sort of scary, actually. I worked and worked, retreating home for an hour or two before sleep, just to begin again. The drive home would be quiet. The apartment would be quiet. Meals would be quiet. Weekends would be quiet. I’d stay quiet all the time. Work was work, full of stress and things to keep the commander happy with. I’d just sit. A couple of years went by.

But in my mind whole episodes would unfold—not any sort of self-aggrandizing fantasies, but just normalcy. Just friendly bits, jokes, some back-and-forth banter.

I still do it. At work, during lessons or whatnot, I still invent parallel conversations. I haven’t found a use for them, so they just spin off into the rest of the day not remembered.

So I’ve gotten quite good at prepared conversations. I have a few saved up. Unfortunately the timid, scared white kid still holds back during moments of execution. I don’t know why that is. I have wonderful five-seconds-after perception of what to say, which causes a bit of lag in action—seen as, well, inaction. Eventually I’ll get out of the NCO business and just be a normal guy. I don’t think it will matter as much then.

Random? Yeah, a bit. Just another aspect of a dude, I suppose.

###

Alone with Salmons

My computer is broken. Partly. The part that takes my nights away is broken.

I have the habit of spending time with games. After the grading is done, when there’s no Netflix to watch, when the scant few hours before bed persist, and the pang of “should be doings” hang in the evening, I click away at some animated mass of gunfire and pulsing music.

Which leaves me quite engaged, if rather creatively unproductive.

Thus God did smite my machine in the twilight of yesterday and left the superfluous video-gaming portion inoperable. And that, in turn, brought me to you.

Uber peeps Adrian and Sarah are out, living it up. I was chained to the dining room for most of the evening, but have time, at last, to do something. What? That’s the question. I’m alone with Salmons, and there’s naught to do but read and learn, think and grow, write and sigh.

There is that bank situation. There is an ongoing project for work that could use some attention. There are a dozen books ready to be poured through. Ah, and “the book” itself to begin writing.

Looking at the wall of apartments across from our balcony, most windows are lit. There’s a small snapshot of a hundred lives, arranged like a set of flowers, each a blossom of character. I wonder what they’re doing.

I might leave the computer broken for now. I just need to learn to do more, I think. There might be a future in being productive. You never know.

Alright. Money thing first, then some reading. Oh! There’s still some preparation for class tomorrow. I guess that takes priority.

Glad that’s settled.

###

Liberation!

At last! Colder weather.

Tonight I stood on my balcony, eager to taste the recompense of my long-suffered summer. There I beamed a smile into the brisk sizzle of the evening rain. The wash of cold air tumbled in through the open windows.

It was beautiful.

I felt like a farmer, welcoming a conquering army. I was liberated.

The thousand-mile front of winter air slowly plodded into our town as like a slow, irresistible juggernaut. Push on, dear troops! Take hold of this land and fortify yourself with frost and mist. Strip bare the leaves and crunch them underfoot. Mask the sun and draw the sunset ever earlier in the warmth’s reproach. I will gladly wear the thicker threads that you demand, stomp my feet and rub my hands for warmth, feigning protest at the brisker bite of air.

I have felt my share of suns, perspired ten thousand hours in the deserts far from my home, felt the persistent musk of summer as it clung to the Texas winter. It is time, at last, to chill.

Come rain, come snow, come long, dreary gray. I am ready.

Might even break out the turtleneck if trends continue.

There’s just something about the rain and cooler air that I love. I’m spoiled in that I have heat to warm myself, I realize. But there this comfort in sitting, comfortable in heat and clothes, looking out into the wilds of unfriendly climes. Whether its rain or snow, wind or cold, I feel at ease. Even when I’m out in the stuff, camping or sitting, shivering in a humvee before a mission, there’s still this promise of warmth and that same relaxing feeling.

Compared with summer, where I’m constantly uncomfortable, clammy and unable to strip (damn the military and its “regulations”!).

So, call me strange, but I’m going to enjoy the season. More importantly, I’m going to enjoy it NOT being 80 degrees in October any longer. Whether you are for or against Al Gore and his philosophy, warmer weather year round is a bitch. No thanks!

I’d much rather put on another layer than sit, stewing in ones I can’t discard. Call me crazy. Oh, I have to put on a jacket? Darn. You mean I won’t sweat all day? Drat.

###

All your privacy are belong to us

Adrian, Adrian Girlfriend Sarah and I went to Olive Garden for lunch Saturday.

I remembered an article from Wired Magazine a few years ago where a technology was pioneered that could trap sound within the confines of laser beams, creating a sort of sound tunnel. The idea was that a sound wave could be directed to a human ear and no one else would be able to hear it. So, the article explained, something like a vending machine could call out to specific passersby with a personalized message, without broadcasting the tailored message to unintended listeners.

Don’t ask me why I remembered it at that particular moment–stuff just pops up.

I started talking about how something like that would be an amazing marketing tool, and, just like in “Minority Report,” a store could use an automated system to welcome a patron with a specific greeting.

Sarah wasn’t enthused. “I hate when people try to sell me things,” she said. “I think there’d be a lot of people who’d resist it.”

I wasn’t so sure. I tried to argue that the beginnings of this sort of invasive approach were already here, with spam and bulk mailings, and that the evolution of this micro-macro approach to broadcasting–where messages tailored to the individual could be sent out by the millions to greater effect, would eventually follow.

“Yeah, but spam can be deleted easily. People aren’t going to like stores being pushy,” Adrian said.

“But merchants could tailor recommendations based on your likes and dislikes. They’d know what you might want,” I said.

“People like their personal space. I don’t think you’ll see that sort of thing happen any time soon.”

We went on for a bit. Personally, I agreed with them. I thought it was sort of scary how invasive businesses might become, given the right approaches and technology.

However, if this country is going to stick with this capitalism thing, ever-increasing invasions of privacy to reach patrons with merchandise is inevitable.

Already stores like Kroger and Safeway use individual cards that offer discounts. What people don’t realize is that these cards track what you buy, when you buy it, and match it with your personal information to create a consumer profile. When this information is entered into a large database, merchants can tweak their business to maximize profit, tweaking supply and demand based on regional preference.

It’s commonplace. But why stop with just a profile that tells bulk mailers what to send you in the mail?

Why not use technology like the new Visa swipe card? Instead of scanning in a debit or credit card when paying for merchandise, a user just passes the card over a sensor strip. Bing! Done.

Why not put chips into those cards that can be read by store scanners when they enter the building? Poof, the store knows you’re there. The store knows what you’ve purchased, and what you might be in the market for. A personalized message is played on a screen, telling you that we have some new khakis that will go with that sweater you bought last week.

I, as a businessman, no longer need to rely on unmotivated teens to push my product. Hell, I don’t even need the teens. Automatic check-out stations and a security guard will do away with snooty mall teen workers.

Moreover, I could create a sort of preference profile for each user. A customer could interact with my business on my web site. I could do something like assign a color to that user, based on his or her basic set of consumer preferences (likes tweed or certain colors, for example). Then, as that card enters my store, a series of LEDs light up, highlighting the product that I think that customer might like, based on his or her past purchases (or what I want the customer to like, but that gets in the true origin of “cool” doesn’t it?). Those highlights, coupled with my personalized greeting, allows me to intimately connect with my customer, providing a relationship where the customer gets recommendations to make him or her look better, in exchange for store loyalty.

Hell, I could run with it and make it a little like MySpace. I’d put the men and women’s clothes together so the “Aqua” guys and “Aqua” girls could chat about how they like that type of clothing. I’d even beam conversation openers to that young man’s ear when I see him notice that cute girl.

Creepy? You watch. I’ll make it happen.

As we were leaving the Olive Garden, Adrian got a voice-mail from Optimus Prime. It was a prerecorded message, tailored to Adrian, talking about how his friend “Todd” was in danger of joining the Decepticons. One of the ways he could help fight the war was to purchase a copy of the movie “Transformers” on DVD, out this Tuesday.

“Isn’t that cool?” Adrian said.

I’m telling ya, people are going to want this sort of privacy invasion. All I have to do is entertain them a little and have them fork over the cash.

###

Merchants of death, featuring hot chicks

Aaah! the AUSA Convention—the place where companies converge in Washington, D.C., to rub shoulders with the generals and policy makers of the Army. New gadgets are showcased, hands are shaken, and deals are made.

Looking out across the floor at the hundreds of booths is quite a sight. Some companies have simple, straightforward setups; some incorporate videos and mockups of their wares; and some have elaborate structures with multiple floors and spinning logos overhead. Attractive young women are peppered throughout, who illicit the attention of the mostly male passersby.

The carpeted, plush motif of the floor and the cordial nature of the business-suited corporate representatives are beguiling. The din and atmosphere could be of any convention, but the huge combat vehicles and weapons arrayed throughout the floor clues the wanderer in that the business conducted here is a bit more severe than peddling toothbrushes.

“Thank you for your service,” says a smiling man, holding out a business card. I’m told this practically at every booth I pass.

Active-duty patrons are to wear their uniforms at this convention. Several higher-ups wear their fancier threads. I and roommate Adrian are in our ACUs.

These merchants know our ranks, probably, only one or two ask if they can send information regarding their products to our unit. Most probably realize we’re just there to ogle at the fancy gadgets and pocket free pens and posters. We’re not the high-rollers, the movers, the flag officers. We won’t have the authority to allocate a few million in tax dollars to buy products. Still, we’re treated well. They know we’ll go back to our units and rave about the new armor or acoustical gunfire sensors.

“Thanks for what you do,” says another, standing by an M109 Paladin Self Propelled Howitzer. “We’d like to invite you to an appreciation dinner, following the convention. It’s across the street.”

And we’re bribed with food and giveaways. Several of these parties rage after hours. I assume they serve as a forum for more intimate face time for the specific corporate hosts of the parties and the higher ups themselves.

Amid the catered food, the wine and endless stream of familiar “Didn’t I serve with you at such-and-such?” faces of military retirees, now corporate representatives, there is a lot of business to discuss. As for me and Adrian, we just grab food, nod and make small talk with the businessmen.

“Do you have a top-secret clearance?” one guy asks me.

“No, sir, just secret,” I say.

“Bah! I have four vacancies that need to be filled now! I would have taken you today.” Turns out he was a retired general, now a general manager for a firm.

This is what’s so freaky to me. There is a blurring of business and government. There is cross breeding between industry and the military. One feeds the other in an endless loop of conflict, innovation, invention, production and purchase. From a few of my “Didn’t I serve with you at…” contacts, I get the same reaction:

“The money is great! You should get out.”

I bet it is and, yes, I was planning on it.

Don’t get me wrong, a lot of technological progress comes out of war. The individual gear we have now in the Army is much more holistic, protective, and compact than was the stuff we had 10 years ago—thanks to the constant fighting in this infinite War on Terror.

The high-tech bandages and other medical innovations are amazing! All of it is from the chit-chatting between parties at mechanisms like these conventions. It’s hard to poo-poo these sorts of meetings when enjoying the benefits of the innovations that result from them.

Still, I feel unease at the whole thing. War is dirty business. It’s so strange to see all the “toys” of armed conflict. It’s weird to watch all of the networking, casual demonstrations of lethal instruments and casual flirting between the attendees and attractive representatives.

###