I-Rock, I hardly knew ye...

We part ways. I owe you, you owe me.

I once left you broken, uncertain. I now leave not as one whose days were not wasted.

Protected certain life, failed to protect others. Let us not speak of it. We'll call it a draw. Naw, fuck it, days were not wasted. I done what I could.

Men lived, men died, men succeeded together in the mission given. Take pride, Iron Knights of 1-66 Armor, or doom thyself to live without history, perpetually seeking the identity others claimed long ago for feats of daring-do you yourselves have dared-done. Take heed and take pride or take nothing with you.

Rest the souls of the casualties of this misguided of wars. Please, God, let us carry you forward.

Awaken, dear America, for the weary few return in anonymity. Awaken and acknowledge this unpleasantness turned political indifference, or doom yourself to repeat.

I hope everyone had a nice time.

I owe you, you owe me. Thanks for the great chow.

Unsure this evening. Reboot and try again on the morrow.

Why the hell won’t I sleep? Tomorrow is all but assured, the dangerous lifestyle of this place nearly past. Oh dear, are those second guesses I’m regurgitating or my Cinnamon Toast Crunch?

Jaysus, am I meant to Soldier the rest of my life? Seriously, mind, is that what’s eating you? Is that where I am meant to lead? Do I want this for myself? What do I want? Does that Matter? Can I live an existence minus discomfort, even the mild variety?

Why the fuck did I join the Army? I was weak then. I didn’t stand for anything but naivety…

….11th of Septemberm, 2001. I walked from Harbin Hall to the cafeteria at my Columbian Districtian University. I awoke early for once. Finally. I was gonna be a real good student. That pursuit would give me undeniable direction. Like High School, grades would delay a step into man-dom, never really forcing me to make a decision as to who I was or how I was…

…In 1994, Green Day was the shit. Basket Case. The “F” bomb. Teenage fuck-it-all awkward attitude. I played Dookie again and again and again until the assurances of Billy Joe Armstrong became my own. If I knew the words, then I was certain of something. If I was certain of something, then by definition, I was something. I wasn’t an athlete, my head was (still is) too large for my body, and gosh darn it, I just didn’t like myself. But I liked Green Day. It made awkward OK. Maybe even cool?

Then we grew up. And so did Green Day, I suppose. Good Riddance was really sad, right? Being sad is mature.


Then a Tuesday in September happened. America burned. I wept standing till the sun went down. The smoke of the pentagon was black and that confused me. I couldn’t see through it, so I wept. I wept for the loss of life. I wept awash in the first true tragedy I’d ever known.

Then Green Day got political and stuff.

“Wake me up when September ends”

…July 27th, 2008. I heard that Green Day song twice today. Once, while getting my haircut by an Iraqi national. Jams from all over the world play non-stop by a TV station that is a maddening imitation mixture of American and Arab pop-cultures. When Fergie played, the barber turned it up. When Green Day came on and got political, he turned it down and finished my cookie-cutter haircut. Maybe he liked Billy Joe better in 1994.

Later, I asked a fellow junior officer (recently committed to staying in the Army) what he was jammin to on his iPod as he plugged along through endless Powerpoint Presentations? “Why, Green Day, he stated, assuredly. My follow up of-course queried as to which era of these inescapable minstrels he listened. “Wake me up when September ends,” Said he confidently.

So tonight I lay wondering, confronting a lingering issue. How is it that I’m here? Oh, and pending your answer to the first question,“God-Judger”, where is it you plan to go from here? Looking back at the tripe that is these jumbled words, I am troubled. Good Lord, am I a jingoist? Worse yet,a true believer? Worser yet, do I still not know myself?

My peers say they can’t do it anymore, that the Army broke and fucked us all. The Army didn’t keep us, they say. It betrayed our delicate sensibilities; it betrayed the promise of inspirational competence and leadership.

If I was so wronged, why can’t I sleep easy tonight knowing a sure path to the future exists in a land that knows nor feels no war.

Why would I leave? So I can grow my hair out? I think I’m balding.

piece.

Iraqdom. Boredom. Fob Livin'. Peace on the outside. Angst within.

Dreams of walking through forest filled hills. Awake. Hit the gym. Hit the supplement. Hone the beach bod. KBR shower. KBR chow.

Intel update. Meeting about meetings. KBR Chow.

Call of Duty 4 networked to 23 computers tonight. The only combat we've seen in months. Trade pornographic materials. KBR Chow.

Intel. Mission. Out all night. Slumber. No dreams. A/c rumbles to death. Awake. Repeat.

oh, nose!

Out on a night patrol, Private T, Specialist A and I attempted to negotiate a highway median in our Mine Resistant Armor Protected Vehicle (MRAP). Suddenly, a sizeable crevice attacked our vehicle in a most passive manner, laying in inauspicious and obvious wait. Oh, no(se)! cried I. Our platoon mates ran quick to our aid to retrieve us from the grasp of a ditchly captor.

Only side stiches required upon our return to our FOB Kingdom where we feasted on a KBR banquet of Hoyas (Cheeseburger with 3 fried eggs and hot sauce).

Progress.

31 May, 2008.

daily quest for motivation.

The wall above my bed.

FOB Rustamiyah, Iraq.

pleasant patrol

Even Baghdad is balmy.  Today was such a nice day.  I think everybody put their qualms aside today.  Everyone likes balmy.  It doesn't incite. Inclement incites.

The kids were really happy in the streets. One boy holds his index and pinky fingers up in a "rock on" fashion every time we pass by.  I wonder where he learned that.

Then by a soccer game of teens of mixed athletic ability.  I saw a young man kick at and then miss the ball terribly.  I saw myself.  I longed to stop by vehicle, drop my costume, and play (and miss the ball terribly).

Then we passed a young man and his mother.  He wore a soccer jersey and a scowl, typical of an Iraqi youth left to find easy answers in the Shiite militias.  I imagine his mother begged him not to do something; something probably involving violence.  He refused and left her side.   I looked back to the mother.  She looked worried, but pressed on with the evening's groceries.

I hope they make up by Mother's Day.